Читать книгу The Old Girls' Network - Judy Leigh - Страница 6

The late March wind blew around the corner so fiercely, Pauline almost tottered over as she carried her basket of washing. From this part of the garden, she could see the lane that weaved in front of her property. Beyond it was the new neighbours’ house. They’d moved in a few days ago – she’d seen the removal vans – and Pauline wondered if she should go over and introduce herself. But she decided she’d let them settle in first. She stared across the fields and there in the distance was Winsley Green, nestling between the woodlands and the hills: she could see the church spire, the cluster of houses and a few shops. She could walk there in twelve minutes but it was usually easier to drive, although the lanes were narrow and she was often forced to back up or to pull in for a large farm vehicle. Len from Bottom Farm would always let her through, but most people would glare at her and wait for her to edge back. Pauline hated reversing.

The clothesline that hung just out of reach above her head was fraying and the ancient wooden prop with its two-pronged end was splintered. But this was the best drying space in the garden; gusts funnelled around the corner, blasts of fierce air, and a duvet cover would fill like a sail and dry in an hour. Pauline struggled with the weight of the wet laundry, but she was used to dealing with strenuous chores by herself now, leaning into the buffeting wind to haul up two towels, a blouse, a pair of jeans, some white underwear and her bedding. The washing flapped in the air, a tall ship borne out to sea, as she hoisted the prop to its fullest height and balanced it upright. She put her hands on her hips and thought about the underwear. She probably ought to buy a new bra. A lacy one might be nice, rather than the two-in-a-pack old plain design. She giggled at the thought of herself in racy red underwear and stared across the farmer’s field. Spring was approaching and there were already ewes grazing, with their lambs huddled against them for warmth.

Pauline thought for a moment, then she turned her back to the wind as it blew her hair, wrenching silver strands from her hair clip and smothering her face with dancing threads. The breeze was so cold her skin tingled, and she paused for a moment to breathe the chill air, allowing it to fill her lungs.

‘An icy wind from the north. Change is in the air.’

She nodded like a wise country woman, although she didn’t think of herself as being particularly wise. She could smell the sweet scent of spring, and with it the promise of summer’s warmth, new beginnings.

‘Change is always good,’ she reassured herself.

Then her eyes caught a twitch in the grass: a black rump, a swishing tail, just a yard away. There was a flurry of paws and a swift lurching movement. Two green eyes met hers, narrowing. Between the cat’s claws something wriggled: the cat gripped the shrew in its mouth and faced Pauline defiantly; a thin tail and two feet dangled from one side and an immobile head with tiny ears on the other. Pauline muttered to herself.

‘That’s Derek, isn’t it? So, where’s the other one?’ She swivelled her head a few inches to the right and, as she had thought, there was the other cat, the brother, all black with white paws: Clive. Pauline chuckled and waved an arm. ‘Go on, you bad boys. Get out of here. Go home.’

Derek stared at her, just long enough to make the point that he had no respect for humans whatsoever. Then he sauntered forward, dropped the dead shrew at her feet and ambled away. Quick as an arrow, Clive bounced forward with slits for eyes, growled at Pauline, snatched the shrew in his mouth and bolted after his brother. Pauline smiled.

‘No wonder everyone round here calls them the Feral Peril. I’m sure Dulcie doesn’t know what they get up to when they come down here. She thinks they’re both little angels.’ She picked up her washing basket and headed towards the back door. She deserved a cup of tea and a homemade cupcake, the fudgy ones she’d made yesterday.

The kitchen was warm, the womb of the house, the air swelling with the rich scent of baking. Pauline settled the heavy kettle on the Aga and moved to the Welsh dresser, reaching for the tea caddy. It was in its usual place, next to the photo of her daughter Jessica with her horse. Jessica was in her late forties now; she and her partner were living in New Zealand. The photo of her smiling daughter was next to the urn inside its box: next to Douglas. She had not moved it for two years. She wasn’t really sure what to do with the contents. She could hardly scatter them on the floor of the local pub.

She touched the smooth surface of the box with her fingertips, thinking how she had seldom brushed his cheek with the same tenderness when he was alive. His name and dates were engraved on the metal. Douglas John Pye. 1938–2017. It had become a marriage of habit, a routine, but she’d loved him in her own way. His retirement had suited Douglas more than it had Pauline. He’d led his life the way he’d wanted: he was gregarious and sociable, and Pauline had been in the background. Douglas was always laughing, happiest when he was in the local inn, a whisky in his hand, chatting to other men. A man’s man.

She’d worked in an antiques shop before Jessica came along. She’d loved it but Douglas had wanted her to stay at home, so she’d been there with a fried breakfast and a full sandwich box in the morning, and a substantial supper when he’d strolled home at night. He’d worked in an office, filing insurance claims. A sedentary lifestyle was no good for a man.

The dripping tap interrupted Pauline’s thoughts. She shuffled over to the sink and used all the brute force she had in both hands to turn the tap off. The drip persisted and Pauline shook her head. The tiles were cracked around the window, the wooden frame was rotten. There was so much to do. She poured her tea, carried it to the scrubbed oak table and sat down, reaching for the cake tin and fingering a chocolate cream fudge square. She sipped tea and munched her cake, deep in thought.

She and Douglas had moved here just over three years ago. She’d loved Winsley Green from the first moment she arrived, and they’d said it would be their last home, their most comfortable, the country idyll. The little three-bedroomed cottage was cosy, in need of some TLC, but it would be perfect when it was finished, like something from a glossy magazine about perfect rural lifestyles. Pauline remembered with a sigh. Douglas didn’t make it through the winter. He’d been in the pub, the Sheep Dip, drinking a single malt with the locals. By all accounts he was on his fourth when he fell down on the flagstones and died where he lay. His heart had stopped. A kind doctor had told her much later that Douglas had had a pulmonary embolism; he probably hadn’t felt a thing.

Pauline had felt alone and empty. Her elder sister Barbara had come over from Cambridge to stay for a week, but she hadn’t helped. Barbara had said that at least Douglas had died the way he’d have wanted to, with a glass of malt in his hand, and he hadn’t suffered. But Pauline was left behind, suffering. She was alone and the house was badly in need of renovation. It was all so sudden, and at first she’d no idea how to pick herself up, or where to start. She’d spent those days after his death sitting in stunned silence. Then, gradually, she started to occupy herself with small things: cleaning, tidying, trying to become independent. The locals were friendly, always offering a neighbourly word or a carton of free-range eggs, and two years had passed slowly, but she was coping. The house was cold.

Some days had been better than others; for the first few months, it had been too easy to retreat into herself and she’d been glad of the distraction from the local residents, who would call in whether she’d asked them to or not, and would help themselves to coffee or tea and fudgy cupcakes. She hadn’t seen Barbara for a while, though. Barbara had said that Winsley Green was a terrible place, either too remote and lonely or full of gossips and busybodies; she’d go out of her mind if she had to stay in such a backwater for long.

Pauline smiled. She was coping well now. She missed Douglas but she was made of strong stuff. Winsley Green was her home now; the community surrounded her like a warm blanket. She belonged; she’d become part of the fabric, part of the thick stone walls of the cottage, a small spoke in the hub of the community. The locals were lovely, like a second family.

Pauline wiped crumbs from the corner of her mouth and swiped the last morsels of cake from the wooden table into her hand, then into the bin. She picked up the empty teacup and took it to the sink, placing it below the dripping tap. At least the water wouldn’t go to waste. She leaned against the Belfast sink and wondered what to make for lunch. She’d treat herself to something nice and nutritious, like homemade soup and crusty rolls.

She picked up the radio and fiddled with the switch; she’d listen to Radio 4. A friendly voice in the room might lift her spirits, which had started to sag a little today. Pauline glanced at the silver urn again. The Sheep Dip would be open now, Oskar and Justina pulling pints and chatting to the customers. A log fire would be burning in the huge hearth and, if Douglas were still alive, it was likely that’s where he’d be. The dripping tap would still need fixing; the window frame would still be rotten.

Pauline was pulled from her thoughts by a resonant banging sound: someone was at the front door, heaving the huge horseshoe knocker. She wiped her fingers on a teacloth, dabbed a hand over her hair where the strands had come loose, and rushed down the hallway to open the heavy door. Len Chatfield filled the doorway, his square shoulders broad inside a tight jacket, the fabric torn and dirty. His blue eyes stared at her from beneath grey wavy hair. His face was ruddy, wind-ravaged, whiskers blooming from the lower part of his cheeks, and he looked anxious.

‘Pauline…’

‘Hello, Len.’ Pauline offered him a warm smile.

‘Brought logs,’ he muttered in his crackly accent, nodding behind him at the Land Rover. ‘I’ll put them in the woodshed for you, shall I?’

Pauline nodded. ‘That’s nice of you, Len. But spring’s well on the way. It’s late for logs. Still I suppose they’ll come in useful for next winter.’

‘No.’ Len’s face clouded with further anxiety, his curling eyebrows moving upwards. ‘Weather will turn next week. It’ll come cold again before summer is here proper – it’ll come icy, snow even, mark my words.’

Pauline met his eyes. Neither she nor Len spoke for a moment, then she said, ‘Thanks, that’s kind.’

Len brought his lips together, wiped his face with the back of his wrist. ‘Ah, yes, right. So, I’ll put them in your woodshed for you then, Pauline.’

She fingered the neck of her jumper. ‘Thanks, Len.’ Her eyes met his: a thought came to her. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘No.’ He shook his head fiercely, as if a bee was buzzing against his nose. ‘No. Best be off. Things to do. Lambs. Sheep. Tractor.’

Pauline nodded as if she understood. But she didn’t really understand how Len Chatfield managed to find time to bring her gifts. He was a busy man; he owned Bottom Farm and many other fields around the village, and of course he was always working, daytimes and even into the late evening. She wondered how they coped up at the big farmhouse on the hill, Len and his son Gary, who all the neighbours said should be married and gone now he was in his thirties. But perhaps he didn’t want to leave his father, in his seventies, a widower of some twenty years, or the farm where he had worked since he was a boy.

Pauline studied Len’s strong features and wondered how well he cooked for himself. Of course, he could easily kill a chicken with his bare hands but she had no idea how he managed with basic meals from day to day. Pauline reached out and patted his arm.

‘Thank you, Len.’

He grunted, his cheeks ruddier than ever, then he turned and ambled back to the Land Rover, lifting out two sacks filled with bulky logs. He heaved the sacks towards the wood shed, where he pushed the door open and deposited the logs on the floor. He strode back to a Land Rover parked by the gate without turning to look back. Pauline watched him go, noticing his square solid back in a thick checked shirt, the steadiness of his stride. He swung himself into the Land Rover. She waved as he drove away down the lane, but his eyes were firmly on the road. She was alone again. Pauline sighed.

A gust of wind swirled the grass of her front lawn and she saw Derek decapitating a sparrow. She closed the door with a clunk and wondered if Len was right, if the weather would change. It was almost midday. She’d hoover the lounge, lay a fire for later and perhaps she’d have a little snooze in the afternoon. The phone started to trill in the kitchen. Pauline disliked phone calls; it usually meant that she had to do something she didn’t want, or talk to someone she’d rather not. It might be the surgery reminding her about a routine appointment; double glazing salespeople; life insurance. And she’d heard stories about all these scammers. She breathed into the receiver.

‘Hello?’

Barbara’s voice boomed back. ‘I’m coming to visit, Pauline. The day after tomorrow. There’s nothing wrong with me but I’ve been in hospital and they’ve told me to take it easy so I’m coming to you for a rest.’

Pauline frowned. ‘Well I’m not sure you’d like…’

‘The train arrives on Thursday at one thirty. Of course, it doesn’t come as far as Winsley Green because you haven’t got a station there, so you’ll have to pick me up in Taunton. One thirty sharp.’

‘But how long will you stay? I’ll have to get the spare room ready and do some shopping. I haven’t got any vegetables in…’

‘Oh, never mind about that.’ Barbara’s tone was irritable. ‘Just be there. I’ve no idea how long I’ll be staying. The woman next door will keep an eye on my little place.’ There was a pause and when her voice returned to the earpiece, Barbara sounded strangely cheerful. ‘I’m actually looking forward to the break. Do you know, Pauline, we might even enjoy ourselves.’

Pauline pulled a face: she wasn’t sure. She could imagine Barbara in Douglas’ favourite chair in the lounge, her feet up, sipping the Christmas sherry while Pauline rushed around obeying orders.

‘Barbara—’

‘That’s settled then. Thursday, Taunton station. Don’t be late.’

Pauline wondered if her sister was pausing to smile or to clench her teeth, then she heard her add, ‘There’s a dear girl. Goodbye.’

Pauline put the phone back softly into its cradle and stood still for a moment. She wondered what the next few days would bring. Barbara was coming to stay, and she had no idea for how long. She breathed in, pushed back her shoulders and tried a smile. It might be nice seeing Barbara again; it would certainly be pleasant to have another person in the house, another voice. But Barbara could be quite difficult.

Pauline considered for a moment and resolved to be positive. They were sisters, after all, both in their seventies now: it was about time she tried again to close the gulf between them: Barbara couldn’t do it. She was by nature a little prickly and Pauline thought it might be the right thing to do, to try to connect. They were the only local family either of them had now, after all, Jessica being so far away.

The word family made Pauline frown thoughtfully. Most sisters usually had something in common; there was usually an opinion they shared, a hobby, a memory. But not Pauline and Barbara. They couldn’t be more different. It would be an interesting challenge though, to try to befriend her unfriendly sister.

Pauline moved to the sink and began to dry her teacup. She stared out of the window at the bleak grey sky. Len had been right – there would be ice, cold in the air, even a storm coming. Pauline expected the worst.