Stalking Tender Prey

by Constantine, Storm

  Louis surveyed the garden and leaned down painfully, putting his weight on his stick, to pluck a thin weed from the flower bed at his feet. Verity’s last words to him as he’d limped in anger from the drawing room had been, ‘And you spend too much time bending and stretching out there. Hire a gardener. It’s time you faced your limitations.’ He knew she was right. There was more pain than pleasure involved in caring for his private domain. Still, he had a peevish urge to defy her. Sometimes, she was too much the fount of all knowledge — perhaps a legacy of her university education — which he found irritating and humiliating. Sometimes, he wept alone at night, with only a bottle of whisky for company, the lights burning low in his study. He wept for Janine, his lost light, and for his ruined body. Sometimes he thought, I’d do anything, anything, to be fit again. But there was never any angel or devil listening, who could manifest before him and name a price.

  The Crantons had lived in Low Mede since the spring of the year before, moving in in the wake of an army of interior decorators, who had restored the six bedroomed building to its original splendour: wood stripped of a century of paint, dried flowers gouting from ornate vases, glossy floors spread with sumptuous Persian rugs. Louis had been out of hospital four months then, and had been able to walk small distances, aided by two sticks. Now, he only needed one stick, but a stroll anywhere further than down to one of the two village pubs both exhausted and agonised him. Age conspired with his injured bones and muscles to prevent a full recovery.

  At least he could look forward to one of his little pleasures this evening: the writer’s circle held upstairs at The White House, in Barbara Eager’s living room. Now that he had the time, Louis wrote reams of poetry — bad poetry, he knew — but because there was so little he could do physically, it no longer seemed like a waste of time. Poetry, no matter how clumsy, had been his one solace during the dreadful grieving time following Janine’s death and his own slow recuperation. The countryside around Little Moor inspired him; he wrote mawkishly of the seasons, the land, lost youth and love, time’s passing. Once a month, he enjoyed the indulgence of reading his work aloud to a receptive audience; their criticism was gentle, and in return, he held his tongue concerning their own efforts. Barbara Eager had collected what she considered to be the group’s best work and had published it herself. It was sold in the local post office and also on the front counter at the tiny, part-time library near The Black Dog. Most copies had been bought by the writers themselves to give to friends and relatives back in the real world, part of the lives they had left behind. Verity had never seen her father’s poetry; Louis could not have stood it if she had. She would only recognise its badness, and consequently praise him in a patronising manner.

  A noise from the house advised him of the arrival of his patroness. On Fridays, Barbara Eager drove in her Land Rover to Ellbrook, a small town, seven miles west that boasted a large supermarket on its outskirts. Without actually saying so, she made it plain she didn’t think Louis got out enough, and had briskly offered to take him with her on her excursions. He sat in the cafe attached to the shop, while she marched round behind a shopping trolley, and later, after drinking coffee together, she would drive them home the ‘picturesque’ way. This took them beneath the canopy of an ancient forest, known locally as Herman’s Wood, through which the road cut east. The forest spread right to the edge of Little Moor. When the weather was fine, Barbara would say ‘How about getting back to nature, then?’ and would wrench the steering wheel around, so that the Land Rover bounced off the lane and up one of the off-road tracks. After a short, bone-jolting ride, she would stop the vehicle with a screech of the handbrake. Then, she would help Louis down from the passenger seat and take his arm, leading him a short way into the trees. They would talk about poetry, and writers, and complain about television programs they’d both seen. Then, Barbara Eager would look at her watch, make a groaning sound and hurry Louis back to the Land Rover. She had to be back at The White House to help her husband, Barney, open up for the evening. Once a week, Louis went to the Eagers’ for dinner. Barney would play him marching band CDs on his hi-fi system and break open exquisite brandies. Louis liked the Eagers. He was grateful for the way in which they enhanced his diminished life.

  Barbara Eager breezed into Low Mede without knocking on the door or ringing the bell. The front door was always ajar in warm weather until evening. She called out a bright greeting, which invoked Verity from the dining room. Barbara couldn’t repress the slight shudder that always accompanied a first sighting of the girl. She was somehow sinister, with her lean, rigid stance and expressionless face. Barbara had never seen Verity wearing dark clothes — most of her dresses were long and of a discreet floral print — but she still managed to give the impression that she dressed in black. Barbara knew Verity had little time for her, yet always attempted to be friendly with the girl for Louis’ sake. Secretly, Barbara felt Verity to be a cold, selfish creature, someone who needed a good talking to, bringing down a peg. How different she was to Audrey, with her busy life, her ambitions and skills.

  ‘He’s in the garden,’ Verity said, without returning a greeting. ‘I’ll call him for you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Barbara answered shortly. She sensed the atmosphere immediately. There had been a disagreement. When Verity and Louis were on good terms, Verity would say hello to Barbara, and then direct her to wherever Louis was in the house. On bad days Barbara was kept waiting in the dark, highly polished hallway, while Verity behaved like a chatelaine, jealously keeping the keys of the house, and seemingly the keys to the lives of those who lived there.

  Barbara’s heart contracted when Louis came out of the drawing room. He looked fragile. She wanted to rush forward and hug him, but of course that would be entirely inappropriate, and Verity was lurking behind him in the doorway, her eyes like flints. Barbara experienced a spasm of anger that Verity could do this to Louis. The girl did not seem to appreciate (or simply did not care) how delicate he was, how the storms of her moods buffeted his waning strengths.

  ‘Louis, you’re having dinner with us tonight!’ Barbara announced impulsively. ‘Come back to The White House with me after we’ve been to Ellbrook.’

  Louis visibly brightened. ‘Oh, that’s very...’

  ‘Dad, you should come home first for your massage,’ Verity interrupted. She addressed Barbara. ‘I give him aromatherapy on Friday evenings. He needs it before going down to the pub.’

  Barbara acknowledged a slight censure in Verity’s tone. She wanted to say, ‘Well, give me the oils, and I’ll do it’. She’d done a short course on therapeutic massage at her women’s group before she’d moved to Little Moor, and certainly felt she had the expertise. But because of the way she felt about Louis, albeit repressed, she couldn’t bring herself to suggest it.

  In the event, Louis himself intervened. ‘I’ll have it tomorrow, Vez. It won’t make that much difference.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Verity answered, ‘but don’t complain to me about aches and pains.’

  Louis directed a crooked smile at Barbara, which Verity could not see. He rolled his eyes. It was tragic what life had done to him. Barbara could see a ghost of his former self in his smile. He was still a very handsome man, with his stooped, lean form and thick, greying hair. She wanted to cure all of Louis’ aches, but their friendship was polite and restrained. She could barely voice her sympathy for him.

  ‘Have you got your list?’ Verity said.

  Louis nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, don’t forget to bring the shopping home with you tonight.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  She speaks to him as if she’s his wife, Barbara thought with distaste, or his mother.

  ‘I’ll give him a lift back tonight,’ she said, and realised she was conspiring in Verity’s game. You didn’t let children walk the streets alone at night. They had to be escorted.

  After her father had left the house, Verity Cranton stood alone in the hallway, closed her eyes and
allowed herself a few moments to soak up the atmosphere she adored. Her hand reached out to touch the glossy sphere on top of the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. She could hear the grandmother clock ticking precisely in the dining room, the hum of the fridge/freezer coming from the kitchen. Everything was perfectly still. It was blissful when Daniel and her father were both out, a time when she could walk the rooms of the house to experience the satisfaction of everything being in its place, the perfect symmetry of the furniture and paintings and ornaments, which drew her eyes sensuously like a well-composed picture. In this house, Verity felt completely at home, which was more than an appreciation of her possessions being around her, the spaciousness of the building, the expensive decor. The house seemed to hug her closely. She needed nothing more than the simple life Little Moor provided for her. If she dreamed of romance, she was cynical and experienced enough to realise that dreams were often preferable to reality. She liked her own company, and on the occasions she needed outside stimuli, the gentle friendship of the few women she’d become acquainted with was more than adequate to satisfy her.

  The cross words she’d had with her father a short time before had left an unpleasant resonance behind them. Verity walked slowly into the drawing room, with the intention of cleansing the atmosphere there. Like Daniel, she was a very sensitive person, although she chose to hide and repress her more psychic aspects, and had always done so. She suspected that Louis wanted to get rid of her, that he didn’t particularly like her as a person, and resented her presence. She had never been close to either of her parents, and the loss of her mother had made barely an impact on her life. She remembered when the news had come to her, in the final year of her studies at university, the phone call from her maternal grandmother at her digs. Verity was very similar to her grandmother — they had always understood one another, even when Verity had been a prim and undemonstrative child.

  ‘Vez, I have something very unpleasant to tell you,’ her grandmother had said. ‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident. Janine is dead.’

  ‘Oh,’ Verity had answered. She could think of nothing else to say. No tide of emotion had crashed over her head, no horrified incredulity, panic or grief. In fact, she recalled a premonition earlier in the day which she’d impatiently ignored.

  There had been a brief silence and then her grandmother had asked, ‘Are you upset?’

  The question, under the circumstances, should have seemed bizarre, but despite the distance and the impersonality of the instrument in her hand, Verity knew instinctively that on the other end of the line a remote soul reverberated completely in tune with her own. Neither of them felt upset.

  ‘I’m shocked,’ Verity had eventually responded in an even voice.

  ‘Yes. Your father is badly hurt. Perhaps you should come home.’

  Netty, the girl with whom Verity shared a house, reacted far more strongly when the news was broken to her. She wanted to hug Verity and weep with her. She ran to the off-licence to fetch a nepenthe of cheap vodka. Verity was glad that her icy stillness was interpreted as horrified numbness. She drank the vodka, wondering how this event would affect her life. Surely, she wouldn’t be expected to give up her studies at this crucial stage?

  After the funeral, which Louis was too ill to attend, everyone went back to Janine’s parents’ house. There, Verity had begun to weep. Her grandfather had hurried to console her, but she had shaken him off impatiently. She didn’t need his sentimental words.

  ‘Don’t you understand?’ she’d cried. ‘I’m crying because I cannot grieve! All these people, look at them, they all feel more for her than I ever did!’ She instantly became aware of the monstrousness of her words. Her grandfather had withdrawn as if scalded, and there was a weary recognition in his eyes. He had lived with a woman like Verity for many years. Janine had been his darling, his true daughter. Verity could tell he was sad that Janine had spawned another frozen monster like her mother. Yet Verity could not regret her outburst. It was the simple truth.

  That was the only time Verity had ever considered her passionlessness might be abnormal, or even disabling in some way. She had known a similar outburst would not happen again. Scant weeks after this event, her life had become catastrophic, as if she’d incurred a psychic backlash for her behaviour. It had ended in one man committing suicide and another man’s wife going insane. Louis knew nothing about this, and if Daniel had intuited it, he never mentioned it. In Little Moor, Verity could shut the door on the past. She believed she had thrown away the key.

  The argument with Louis had been about the usual topic: how she should get away and immerse herself in a suitable career, meet people, find a boyfriend. Verity never shouted back at Louis, no matter how frustrated he became, how loud his voice. He, after all, was ignorant of her reasons for choosing the life she lived. She was prepared to hang on doggedly until the house became hers; she would not let him push her out. Anyway, he needed her, no matter how he liked to deny it. Although he annoyed her at times, and she considered him a weak, emotional person, she did not dislike him. Often, she felt surprisingly protective towards him, in the same way that she looked after her belongings, kept them clean and in the correct place. As well as massaging what she hoped was energy into his damaged body, she bought his clothes for him to keep him spry, and had arranged for a local hairdresser to come to the house regularly to keep him well groomed. Similarly, because she was not a good cook, she had hired someone to prepare their meals, to make jam and pickled onions for them, bake pies using fruit from the small orchard at the bottom of the garden. The rest of the housekeeping duties she kept jealously to herself. The house was large, but she devoted herself to its care. When Louis had shown an interest in the garden — a hitherto unknown interest — she had grudgingly ordered a lawn-mower he could sit down in, and various tools adapted to his needs. He no longer went shooting, which had been his favourite recreation in the past, so she supposed the gardening was therapeutic for him. Verity now also kept the accounts, presenting neatly written cheques to Louis for him to sign. The attic had been converted into two rooms and a bathroom for Daniel, where he could live comfortably in an infuriating slobbiness that Verity could ignore. The door to the attic stairs was kept shut. Daniel would come in through the front door, rampage up the stairs and disappear into his lair. The only annoyance was the thump of the raucous music he liked to listen to, but even that was slight; the rooms had been soundproofed. Once a month, the cook’s two grand-daughters came and cleaned up there. Sometimes, Daniel would be around, and the sound of high-pitched flirty giggling would come down the attic stairs. Verity was forever slamming the door shut as she passed it, although she sensed Daniel abhorred the giggling as much as she did.

  Verity extended her honed senses into the drawing room, imagining she was pushing back a gritty, grey cloud. Presently, all residue of the argument had been expunged. She breathed deeply in satisfaction, felt better. A sound from the kitchen advised her Mrs Roan had come to begin dinner. It was always eaten early on a Friday, because it was Louis’ night at The White House. Now, Verity would eat alone. She doubted Daniel would put in an appearance, and would not appreciate it if he did. She herself favoured late meals, eaten in dim light with expensive cutlery and accompanied by acid wines. She felt more affection for the correct placement of tableware than she ever did for other people. She and Mrs Roan had a mutual respect for one another. Mrs Roan was pleased a young person in ‘this day and age’ had an appreciation of a well-kept house, while Verity admired Mrs Roan’s polite distance and tidy way of working. Verity was altogether approved of by the village women. Even those she visited could not claim to know her, but she could keep up an even stream of conversation and was knowledgeable about the subjects that interested them. The only thing she was not given to was gossip, but that was generally kept for more intimate friends anyway.