Читать книгу Meadowland - Alison Giles - Страница 7

The alcohol calmed my shivering. Flora had switched on the lamps as she fetched it, and the glow they cast harmonised with the warmth spreading inside me. As I drained the tumbler, she stretched out a hand to the bottle and raised an eyebrow in query.

‘I’d better not,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to drive.’

‘There’s a spare bed made up if you’d prefer to wait and make the journey in daylight.’ There was nothing in her tone to persuade me one way or the other.

I didn’t need to turn my head to be aware of the blackness outside. I hesitated only momentarily; then nodded. ‘Thanks.’ I drowned the waves of unease at my decision in a second generous tot.

It was all becoming increasingly unreal somehow – and Flora’s down-to-earth practicality did nothing to dispel that feeling. It was as though I’d strayed into another world; one in which I was neither approved nor disapproved of – merely accepted; where I was neither guest nor intruder. My mind, hazed at least in part by alcohol, struggled with the problem of how to behave and gave up. It was simpler to sit back and let fate take over.

And it did seem to be something more ethereal than Flora to which I was relinquishing control. For a moment, I had a vision in my head of my father.

Flora placed both hands on the table and pushed herself to her feet. ‘I have things to do,’ she said. I was vaguely aware of her shrugging on shoes and coat; and then of the beam of a torch as she opened the back door and closed it again behind her.

I pressed the stopper back on the brandy, then rinsed my glass under the tap, staring out through the window as I did so. The night, I realised now that my back was to the lights in the room, was not as dark as I’d imagined. As my eyes accustomed themselves to the dimness, pinpricks of stars enlarged into dancing crystals. I started as a shadow streaked across my line of vision. A bat, maybe? Hardly. Not this early in the year.

But the thought had stirred an image; myself, cringing; and Father sweeping me up in his arms, laughing away my fears. ‘They’re only bats, silly,’ I heard him say, his voice deep and comfortable. When could that have been, I wondered.

Now I could discern branches stirring gently and, in the distance, the shimmer of headlights. I watched them approaching, turning into the lane and lighting it up with powerful beams. There was a squeal of brakes and the sound of tyres swerving on gravel as the vehicle swept round and up to the house. The lights were extinguished.

I retreated towards the table. A metallic bang was followed by heavy footsteps. A broad shape passed the window. Then, with no more than a token knock, the same man who had spoken to me earlier in the day from his Land Rover pushed open the door and stood in the entrance.

He gave a swift glance round the room before addressing me. ‘Flora in?’ Then he looked at me more closely. ‘Oh, it’s you. Nearly ran into your car out there.’ He shook his head tolerantly. ‘Do you always park in damn fool places?’

I clapped my hand to my mouth. ‘Oh, I’m sorry … no lights. I hadn’t thought …’

‘If you give me the keys, I’ll move it.’

I scrabbled in my bag and produced them. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

‘Self-interest. By the way, where’s Flora?’

I hesitated. ‘I’m not sure. I mean, she didn’t actually say.’

He gave me a bemused look. ‘Probably shutting up the hens.’ He jiggled the keys in his hand. ‘Right. I’ll just go and do this.’ He strode out.

Aware that my face was probably still showing traces of my recent outburst, I reached for my make-up. As I touched up, Flora returned.

‘I see Andrew’s here,’ she said from the lobby. She stepped into the kitchen. ‘Where is he?’

‘Moving my car.’ My words were accompanied by the sound of its engine starting up.

She nodded and went to the sink to wash her hands.

When he came back, she introduced us.

‘Not …?’ He hesitated and looked questioningly at Flora.

‘Yes. That’s right. Hugh’s daughter.’

His reaction on discovering my identity was totally different from Flora’s. His eyes lit up in greeting as he moved forward to grasp my hand. ‘Really?’

I responded gratefully.

Andrew turned to Flora. ‘You didn’t tell me …’

‘I didn’t know.’ Flora stood leaning against the cupboard, arms relaxed at her sides.

‘You mean … you just …?’ He swivelled his head from one to the other of us, seeking clarification.

‘My father asked me to return some books.’

Andrew’s face sobered. ‘We all miss him,’ he said. Then, as though realising the possible trickiness of his ground, ‘What I mean is …’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

So he obviously knew the situation. It occurred to me that Flora wasn’t the sort of person to try to hide it. Whatever else, there seemed a straightforwardness about her. I couldn’t help wondering if things would have been different if my mother had cared less about what the neighbours thought.

‘So what brings you, Andrew?’ It was Flora who spoke.

He jerked his attention back to her.

It turned out to be a matter of mild curiosity about rumours concerning the egg farm. They chatted about it, Flora meanwhile opening a tin of cat food and spooning it into a dish. Columbus, awoken by the sound of scraping, stirred himself and then bounded across the room to its source. When he’d licked the plate clean, Andrew bent down, scooped him up and carried him to the door where he unceremoniously shooed him out into the night. ‘Go catch some mice,’ he said.

For the first time, I saw Flora laugh. ‘What, with his stomach as full as that? At best he’ll only have the energy to sit and ogle Joe Manning’s tortoiseshell.’

Andrew’s eyes crinkled acknowledgement. ‘Mind if I help myself to a beer?’ He was clearly very much at home.

‘Go ahead.’

He poured himself one and came to sit beside me on the sofa, to which I’d retired while they were talking.

‘Flora’s bite’s not nearly as fierce as her bark,’ he informed me conversationally, grinning across the room to where she still stood. Her face was a mask.

He pulled out a packet of cigarettes, gestured it towards Flora who waved it away, then held the packet out to me.

I made to take one, then glanced at Flora. ‘If you don’t mind?’

‘Not at all.’

Gratefully I lit up.

‘So,’ Andrew said, ‘did you enjoy your walk this afternoon?’ He gave Flora a quick résumé of our earlier encounter.

We pursued the subject briefly. Then: ‘Didn’t Hugh do a painting of the view from up there?’ He looked enquiringly at Flora.

She nodded.

He turned to me. ‘Has Flora shown you your father’s watercolours?’

I hesitated, then opted for honesty. ‘I didn’t even know he painted.’

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, and then he said, ‘Well, you must see them.’ He looked at Flora for confirmation. ‘Mustn’t she?’

Flora went to fetch them, for the first time opening the door to the rest of the house. A rush of cooler air swept in, and on it the steady tick of what I guessed could only be a grandfather clock – the sound I’d been aware of earlier, no longer muffled by panelling.

I shivered involuntarily. Andrew grinned. ‘Now you know why Flora lives in the kitchen.’

She returned moments later bearing a dozen or so examples of my father’s work. As I studied them, one by one, I gasped. ‘But they’re amazing. Did he really do these?’ I found it hard to comprehend. The paintings were delicate and robust at one and the same time; mostly landscapes, but here and there focusing with finely sketched lines on an animal or, in one instance, a young woman. I stared at this last – one of the only two framed ones. The girl was seated amongst meadow grass, arms hugged round legs over which full skirts were drawn tight, eyes turned towards a background of tree-dotted hills. Cornflowers bent, as though pressed by the same gentle breeze as ruffled her hair.

Andrew studied it over my shoulder. I felt him turn to look again at me. ‘It’s you!’ he said.

I knew he was right.

Yet again those tears – those damn tears – started to well up.

Flora was the one who broke the tension.

‘Are you staying for supper, Andrew?’

‘I was hoping you’d ask me. Ginny’s taken the boys off to visit their grandparents. Don’t know where she gets her energy from, working all week and then rushing around at the weekend.’

I surreptitiously dried my eyes, then stacked the paintings. From the conversation I gathered Ginny taught music, wind instruments mostly and some singing, juggling her time between several different schools.

‘Mind you, I’m all for it,’ Andrew was saying. ‘No point women sitting at home all day, wasting their talents.’

‘I do.’ Flora challenged him with a look that might or might not have been serious.

‘Waste your talents?’

Flora allowed herself a small smile. ‘That’s for others to judge. I meant stay at home.’

Like my mother always had, I thought.

Andrew was laughing. ‘Ah, but you’re one on your own, Flora. You don’t need the world like the rest of us mere mortals.’

He had, I realised with a sudden start of recognition, the image of my mother receding rapidly, put his finger on something.

‘And what about you, Charissa?’ He turned to draw me back into the conversation. ‘Didn’t your father say …’ He stopped. ‘Don’t you work for a travel company?’

I nodded. ‘At their head office.’

He encouraged me to expound.

Recruited from university, I explained; stints in different sections. ‘I seem to have settled for the time being in the Complaints Department.’

His eyebrows shot up. ‘Whoops,’ he said, ‘that must make you pacifier in chief?’

‘Something like it,’ I laughed.

I could feel myself relaxing as he pressed me to recount the contents of some of the more bizarre mail that landed on my desk.

Flora intervened to allot tasks in the preparation of the evening meal. As I peeled potatoes and Andrew chopped vegetables beside me, he whispered, while Flora was briefly out of the room, ‘Don’t judge Flora on first acquaintance. There’s a heart of gold under that dour exterior.’

I didn’t answer but concentrated on swishing the mud off the last potato.

‘I hadn’t intended to stay more than half an hour,’ I eventually said. Let him make what he would of that for a response.

‘Oh? I’m not sure that I quite …’

‘You haven’t told me what you do.’ My tone was artificially bright. ‘Do you farm?’

He accepted the change of subject. ‘Only at weekends – and even then only because I’m dragooned into it. No, no. I’m the second son. It was the army or the law for me. I opted for the latter.’

‘You’re a solicitor?’

‘Small practice in town. Mostly land disputes; a few matrimonials. Not so dissimilar from what you do, I suppose, except it’s fists rather than letters that thump on to my desk.’

I laughed, picking up the saucepan and turning.

‘Goodness. You are like …’ Andrew was staring at me.

‘My father?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘Do you know,’ I said slowly, ‘until today, no-one’s ever suggested that to me.’ I passed the saucepan to Flora, who had returned to her place at the stove and was standing there, holding out a hand.

I recollected the scene, back in Fulham the following afternoon. Remembering Flora’s Aga, the flat seemed dispiritingly chilly, despite my having turned up the central heating. I had a sudden urge to wrap my hands round a mug of cocoa. Rummaging in the back of the cupboard, I found an ancient tin.

It tasted good. I curled up in an armchair and switched on the television. A 1940s’ black and white film was nearing its climax. I tried to concentrate, to pick up the threads of the story, but found it impossible to focus my attention. The turmoil of the last thirty-six hours was too immediate.

Throughout supper, which we’d eaten at the kitchen table, Andrew had kept up a stream of light conversation. The children, I discovered, were Tom and Justin, aged eleven and nine and ‘noisy little terrors’. I blinked. Andrew must either have started young or be older than he seemed. Still, he was saying, it was good to see them enjoying life; and Ginny, he had to hand it to her, was a first-rate mother.

I learned that old Mr and Mrs Partridge had been on holiday to ‘Oh, somewhere in the Balearics’ and – he turned to me: ‘This will sound familiar’ – hadn’t stopped moaning since they got back about not being able to tune in out there to the British weather forecast. ‘Seems their only interest was in comparing hours of sunshine and making sure they were getting their money’s worth.’ Mrs Tuckett – ‘Why couldn’t she have chosen anywhere but here to retire to!’ – had managed to get herself elected on to the village hall committee and had been so rude to Commander Lancaster that now there was some doubt that he’d allow his paddock to be used for the summer fête. More seriously, had Flora heard that there was a brucellosis scare at Upper Farm? Philip – his brother, I deduced – was only too thankful he’d switched over to arable.

It was all village talk and I was torn between disdain and reluctant fascination. Whichever, I was more comfortable sitting on the sidelines listening.

Andrew left at about ten, gripping my hand and hoping he’d see me again soon.

I helped clear away the dishes and wash up.

‘Andrew’s nice,’ said Flora, as she dried her hands. ‘Parents left everything but the old Dower House to Philip, of course. Andrew and Ginny …’ She lapsed into silence. I shrugged mentally; it was no concern of mine. It was what I was gleaning about my father that tantalised me. Over a cup of coffee before bed, I brought up the subject of his paintings again.

‘I really had no idea,’ I said.

‘I expect you’d like to have the one of you.’

‘May I?’

‘Of course.’

I expressed my gratitude. I wished I could make her out.

Flora was glancing at her watch. ‘I’ll show you your room. You’ll need a hot water bottle.’ She fished one out from a cupboard and filled it from the kettle simmering on the hotplate.

I was glad of it; the bedroom was icy. Flora produced a nightdress and toothbrush. ‘Come down when you’re ready in the morning,’ she said.

Despite everything, or perhaps because of it, I must have fallen asleep straightaway. I woke to the sound of hooves clopping along the lane. It took me a moment or two to orientate myself.

I got out of bed and, wrapping the eiderdown round me, pulled back the curtains. The room was on the opposite side to the kitchen, facing east. Frost glittered on the ground, and a faint glow behind the trees indicated mat the sun would soon dispel the greyness.

I dressed and crept downstairs. The grandfather clock, ticking away sonorously, registered a few minutes past seven. For a moment I considered sneaking out to the car and driving off before Flora appeared. After all, I’d completed my mission. But then the childishness of such an action dissuaded me. I would at least wait and bid her a civil farewell.

Warming myself by the Aga, I heated the kettle and brewed a pot of tea. To my surprise, it was the back door that opened. ‘Oh, there you are,’ said Flora. She deposited a handful of eggs beside the sink. ‘Breakfast?’

In the end, it was mid-morning before I left. Somehow Flora persuaded me to take a walk through the woods before I departed. ‘You should,’ she said. ‘Your father loved it.’ She didn’t suggest accompanying me.

The lane petered out to a track, horseshoe imprints fresh there in the damp earth. Between the shadows of branches meeting overhead, sunlight glinted, dappling tree trunks and ground. I stood and breathed in great lungfuls of sweet-tasting air, gasping at yet relishing its coldness. It seemed to reach right through me, scouring out restraint. I stared up at the sky and shook my head in wonder. Every sense tingled.

Then I heard it – the sound of running water. Twenty yards further on, I came across a broad stream meandering up to the edge of the path and away from it again. I hunched down beside it, watching the flow of ripples round stones. I looked for fish but couldn’t see any. Maybe it was too early in the year.

I’m not sure how long I stayed there. Eventually, cramp in my legs forced me to straighten up. Reluctantly I wandered back, pausing every now and again, as though I could capture and hold within me every whisper and scent.

When I got back to the house, Flora was in the garden picking daffodils. ‘I thought you might like to take a few with you,’ she said. ‘They’ll come out in a day or two.’

In the kitchen, the watercolour had been set aside from the others and lay ready on the table. Flora carried it out to the car and stood waiting as I took it from her and placed it carefully in the back. The daffodils I laid on the passenger seat.

‘Well, goodbye.’ I hesitated awkwardly beside the open car door.

Flora reached out and touched my arm. ‘Take care,’ she said.

The daffodils! I’d dumped them unceremoniously on the draining board when I first came in. I zapped off the television, jumped up and found a vase. Pity to let them die. I crushed the ends as my mother had taught me, and found myself wondering whether Flora would have done the same. I fingered the tight buds lightly. No hot-house blooms these; they smelled of the country and freedom. Impatiently, I brushed away something that was more than a physical sensation. I didn’t wish to be reminded of Cotterly.

I’d driven up the hill out of the village in a state of confusion. It wasn’t until I reached the motorway and was able, with my foot hard down on the accelerator, to put distance between myself and the source of my bewilderment, that I began to feel a sense of normality returning. Cars beat a steady rhythm along the uniform stretches of tarmac. This was the world I knew. As I crossed Hammersmith flyover, the buildings on either side enfolded me in the familiar again. Relieved to be home, I’d staggered up the stairs fully laden, balancing Father’s painting between raised knee and chin as I turned the key in the lock. I’d left it just inside the door.

Now I wondered what to do with it. I almost regretted having accepted it. It was disturbing somehow – my father imposing an image of me on the landscape he loved. Had he sent me down there simply to make a reality of the fantasy he’d painted? Just once? Or did he have some deeper intention? I’d assumed my visit was aimed at satisfying some need of Flora’s. Having met her, that hardly seemed likely. What was he up to?

Dammit. I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. I’d done what he asked. That was the end of it.

I carried the flowers through to the sitting room, changed my mind about placing them on the coffee table, and instead made space on top of the cupboard in the corner. I picked up the phone, trailed its lead across the room, and perched on the arm of a chair.

‘Clare? Are you in? Can I invite myself over? … Supper? Hadn’t thought about it. I could bring a tin of … Right. See you in ten minutes.’

I was my old resilient self again. I threw on a coat, grabbed my contribution to the feast, and clattered down to the street. I loved London, particularly at night. Lights everywhere; the buzz of traffic; bright, exuberant voices of passers-by; traffic lights alternating red, amber, green. I walked the three blocks, humming to myself.

It was eleven-thirty when I returned, pleasantly weary. My old schoolfriend, temporarily grass-widowed by her boyfriend’s attendance at a conference in Stockholm, had been a good choice of companion for the evening. She didn’t believe in moping – whether over a broken ornament or, as she assumed in my case, a bereavement. Instead, she kept up a bright bubble of chatter and encouraged me to help her drain a large bottle of Spanish red.

I fell into bed. My last thought before falling asleep was that I’d forgotten to ring my mother. Too late now. I’d do it tomorrow.