The Path to the Lake

by Susan Sallis

  ‘Don’t you think that’s romantic, Maisie?’ she asked. ‘He was in love with her all those years, and at the end she fell in love with him, too.’

  ‘And then he died.’ Maisie took her mother’s hand. ‘I didn’t like Dad falling in love with Margaret, Mum. But it’s awful that David Venables died when he was in the middle of painting space. And now this story about John Jinks . . . such a funny name. I’d rather put up with the divorce so long as Daddy is still alive. Wouldn’t you?’

  Elisabeth looked at her, then tucked her into her shoulder. ‘Yes. Yes, I would, darling . . .’ Her eyes swivelled at Viv apologetically, but Viv spoke to Maisie with wonder.

  ‘Maisie . . . how marvellous that you can see what David was doing! Thank you. D’you know he used to say that everyone reckoned it was tricky to paint water, but it was a darned sight trickier to paint space.’

  Maisie looked up at her from the safety of her mother’s embrace and smiled a wobbly smile. ‘It’s beautiful. That’s how he did it. Painting beauty. And then those little pictures of people . . . so funny. You have to laugh.’

  Viv nodded. ‘You do, indeed.’

  Maisie said, ‘It’s like he knew that he must never get too heavy.’

  ‘He never did.’ Viv nodded and crossed her fingers beneath her paper napkin. He had ‘got heavy’ just once. Only that once.

  Tom and Elisabeth could not raise the money for the house, but during the school holidays they found a large garden flat in one of the Regency crescents, and spent the rest of the summer scraping off several layers of paper in every room. The three bedrooms were tucked away behind an enormous gloomy corridor, almost underground, windows at head height; the spacious kitchen/living room ran the width of the garden, with huge sash windows looking out on to a stone-flagged semi-circle scooped out of the garden. Later, the twins would be able to play there safely. Elegantly curved shallow steps led to a walled garden with an apple tree.

  Elisabeth gave Viv and the Hardys a guided tour as soon as the sale was confirmed.

  ‘This was where the cook and maid worked and lived.’ The original shallow sink was still in situ, a coal range on one wall. ‘I think we’ll have an Aga . . . or maybe one of those eye-level ovens and a separate hob. Not sure yet.’

  Hildie said nothing, Hardy grunted enthusiastically, Viv said, ‘That sounds perfect – especially as the twins will soon be walking. It’s beautiful. Simple, easy to keep going. What does Maisie think?’

  Elisabeth made a face. ‘Politely nice.’ She shrugged. ‘She’s used to a lot of room with her father and Margaret. And, of course, when she’s with me she’s really got the whole house to herself.’

  Still Hildie made no contribution. Hardy cleared his throat and said, ‘Reminds me of when Tom was at home. He always liked to do his work downstairs. Telly on, Hildie nattering, cooking.’

  Viv said, ‘I would have liked that, too. It’s proper family life, isn’t it? Going out of fashion now.’ She had Michael on her left hip; Hildie cradled Joy.

  Elisabeth nodded thoughtfully. ‘Certainly, Maisie hasn’t had that sort of family life. Perhaps that’s why . . .’

  Hardy said, ‘I could fix up her room. Make it into what they call a bed-sit. So she’s always got her – her—’

  Hildie furnished, ‘Own space. That’s what they say now, isn’t it? I must have my own space. As if they’re scared of sharing anything any more.’

  Viv and Hardy both reached out to touch her. Elisabeth nodded. ‘That would be great fun for her, Mick. If you’re sure you can spare the time.’

  He gave the impression of rolling up his sleeves then and there. ‘Get it stripped down. Walls cleared. I can burn off most of the old paint. The wainscoting is grand, so are the doors. You’ve got room to keep that sink – vegetable preparing and suchlike – and we can have a new kitchen starting from here . . . you’ll have a good time choosing that.’ He whipped out an extending measure and went towards the range. ‘We’ll have this out and in one of those Victorian auctions. Then I’ll get started. Maisie’s room first, and then this space.’ He looked around admiringly. ‘I’ll get Elgar to help out. He’s got an eye for old houses.’

  ‘Elgar?’ Elisabeth and Viv spoke together.

  ‘Named after the composer, yes.’ Hardy nodded. ‘He – the composer – came to the village, you know. Elgar Tompkins was named after him.’

  Everyone laughed. The twins shrieked their joy. Elisabeth was visibly reassured. She confessed that she had thought they might disapprove of her and Tom buying a flat. ‘We wouldn’t have got this one,’ she said. ‘Except the owners insisted on vetting would-be buyers, and they were hoping for a family.’ She said musingly, ‘So, three children, a doctor on call during the night, and a nurse – well, it seemed it was what they were looking for!’ She laughed. ‘They came here in 1953 – Coronation year – and had a family of four, and they never wanted to leave. But the basement was broken into twice last year, and they were scared. It was quite a business getting the deeds split, but anyway, they did it eventually.’ She paused and looked around. ‘I’m so glad you like it. Tom fell for it like a ton of bricks, but when Maisie was so cool I did wonder whether we were doing the right thing.’

  ‘Do you like the old couple upstairs?’ Hildie said bluntly as she re-settled Joy on her shoulder.

  ‘Oh yes. They’re both in their late seventies, but they still play tennis.’ She pointed to the apple tree through the wide windows. ‘Montpellier Gardens are just across the road, and they use the tennis courts there. And they swim. One of the daughters still lives in Cheltenham. We’ve met her – she was one of the vetting committee – and she’s really nice. She’s often here with her husband. The grandchildren go to Maisie’s new school . . . that’s another reason Maisie is a bit quiet these days. She’s nervous.’

  Hildie said, ‘She’ll be less nervous with this kind of family background.’ She smiled, coming to life at last. ‘Just think of being able to boast a brother and sister who are twins!’ She walked through the living area and into the corridor. ‘You know, this is what interests me. It’s so big.’

  Elisabeth said, ‘Apparently it’s the space between the two load-bearing walls. Plenty of room for trolleys . . . see, there’s still the dumb waiter down here.’ She opened a small door in the far wall to reveal a tiny lift. ‘It had to be all boxed in for security reasons, but it would have taken food and so forth into the upstairs dining room.’

  Viv said, ‘It’s fascinating, Elisabeth. Maisie will love all this.’

  Hildie said, ‘When you showed us the bedrooms, first of all I thought how good this big corridor was to take you away from the living quarters. Then I thought . . .’ She paused for effect and on her shoulder Joy chuckled. ‘I thought, table tennis!’

  Hardy guffawed a loud laugh, and the twins stiffened, startled. He said, ‘Hildie was champion at table tennis. She won a cup.’ He looked around. ‘She’s right, there’s room for two tables here . . . snooker? We need decent lighting . . .’

  Viv loved the way he kept saying what ‘we’ needed.

  Elisabeth breathed, ‘Hildie . . . you’re wonderful. There’s nothing you can really do with this space. Like you, I thought it would be useful to separate sleeping from living space. But a play area . . . oh, Hildie.’

  Hildie grinned. ‘Tell Maisie I’ll take her on.’

  They all laughed. The twins yelled their delight.

  As Hardy said as he got into the nearside lane of the motorway, ‘I think it’s going to be all right.’

  Hildie agreed. ‘Long way to go, but they’ve got something really good to work towards.’

  Nineteen

  THE SUMMER WENT all too quickly. Viv continued to look after the children most weekdays. When Michael learned to crawl, Joy was just three days behind him. Viv completely cleared the long hall in her bungalow and let them skitter up and down unimpeded. Once in the living room they began to pull themselves up by the chairs. She could imagine how they would
love the enormous living area at the flat in Cheltenham. This small single-storeyed dwelling, clinging precariously to the cliff, would become what it had been before. Isolated.

  Elisabeth brought Maisie down again to get to know her new grandparents, and when a shopping trip to Bristol was planned, Maisie asked whether she could stay with Viv. Elisabeth brought her up, the twins sitting in their car-seats.

  ‘It will only be for a few hours, Viv,’ Elisabeth said, standing by the passenger door to let Michael and Joy know they were not being unloaded yet. ‘Hildie wants to look at carpets. Mick is working up in Cheltenham at the flat . . . Tom is at a conference . . .’

  Viv beamed at Maisie, wondering what on earth one did with an eleven-year-old whose life was being turned upside down, and who at this moment was looking anxious.

  ‘I’d love that. How do you feel about it, Maisie? It’s quite warm. I’ve looked out a couple of David’s sketch blocks. We could sit in the garden and – and – have a go at painting space.’

  Before she could offer the alternative of a walk over Becket’s Hill or a matinee at the cinema, Maisie’s face opened wide with delight. Viv remembered how she had been Maisie’s age when she had learned how to look for danger, run, close herself in. That was why she had forgotten so much after the accident; that was why she had started running again. She had gone back into that closed-in state.

  Michael was beginning to protest; Joy looked at him and puckered her forehead and mouth in preparation. Viv said, ‘You’d better go. They’ll be fine once the car starts. Give my love to Hildie. Hope she finds something she likes.’

  She and Maisie waved them off, and turned in unison. Their movements matched in other ways, too: they paced each other down the hall and into the kitchen, Viv filled the kettle and Maisie plugged it in. It made Maisie feel comfortable.

  ‘It’s so nice here. You have proper tea like Mum. Margaret and Dad have green tea. It’s OK but ordinary tea is homely.’

  Viv smiled, remembering what Elisabeth had said about nannying. They took vacuum mugs of tea outside and walked down the garden and then back up again, pausing to frame different aspects.

  ‘The thing is, your husband, like, painted everything. There’s a single leaf at the bottom of the picture in the dining room. It looks a bit like one of those leaves.’ She pointed to the fig tree.

  Viv nodded. ‘Everything. Yet nothing.’ She sat on one of the steps leading to the house, and patted a space next to her. ‘He sat here sometimes. Other times he had a chair just outside the window. Then he might go down to the bottom wall and look over to the sea.’

  ‘You mean he changed places for one painting?’

  ‘Yes. And do call him David.’ Viv stared down at the fig tree. ‘Do you see, Maisie? It makes sense of his cartoons, too. Everything and nothing.’

  But unexpectedly Maisie shook her head. ‘Not quite nothing. If he painted that—’ She stretched out an arm to sky and sea. ‘It was everything. But that leaves us. And we’re not really nothing. David . . .’ She said the name shyly, and glanced at Viv. ‘. . . painted us as funny. My art teacher said, “Don’t forget human beings don’t always look like they look in advertisements. They often look quite odd, but that’s because they’re real.”’

  ‘Oh, my God.’ Viv stared at the small oval face by her side. ‘That’s exactly it. I don’t know whether David realized . . . he never explained his stuff. Reckoned if you had to explain something you created, then it wasn’t right. But you’ve put your finger on it, Maisie!’ She stared for a moment longer, then looked away. ‘Sorry. I don’t know what to say.’ For a moment she longed to tell Maisie about the time above the dark hole where the lake had been emptied, where she had become part of the flow of everything and nothing. She swallowed.

  Maisie was embarrassed but pleased. ‘It wasn’t actually me. It was my art teacher. And she also said that if you sketched each day you made a sort of diary. And I do that. I’ve done every room at home . . . the house where I was born. And Mum thinks I should start on the flat, but I haven’t. Not yet, anyway.’

  Viv breathed carefully, and brought herself back to the world of this girl who was about to lose her home and move into a flat with three extra people.

  She said, ‘Are you nervous about moving, Maisie? Would it help if you did a cartoon of yourself? Looking a bit nervous, then a bit more . . .’ She laughed to show it was funny.

  Maisie laughed, too. ‘Mum’s having to move, too – she keeps reminding me of that. And I can always spend time with Dad and Margaret.’ She shook her head. ‘I just don’t know what it will be like actually, do I? The twins are great. So is Tom. I think I’m probably much more nervous about starting at St Bede’s. It specializes in the arts, but maybe not the sort of art Mrs Morrison teaches.’ She shook herself all over like a puppy. ‘I don’t know! That’s why I wanted to come and look at – at – David’s paintings again. Because they make everything seem ordinary.’ She opened her eyes wide, and looked imploringly at Viv. ‘Gosh! I didn’t mean that like it sounds. I’m really sorry.’

  Viv laughed. ‘I know exactly what you meant, Maisie. Listen. Shall I fetch one of David’s sketch books and you can have a go out here while I cut sandwiches and stuff for tea?’

  Maisie nodded enthusiastically.

  It was that evening when she thought about her time with Maisie . . . that was when she knew she had to turn herself inside out in an effort to . . . what was the word Maisie had used? Detox. Get rid of the poison in her own system.

  They had eaten the sandwiches in the garden. It was August but overcast – ideal weather for sketching – and Maisie had been unwilling to leave her sketch book. So they had munched their way through cucumber sandwiches and chocolate biscuits and another thermos mug of tea, and Maisie mentioned a special picture she was painting.

  Viv asked casually about it. Maisie pursed her full mouth.

  ‘I can’t say much yet, because I don’t know how it will work out. I tried to paint – like David. But I’m not good enough to – to – like – sort of – join it up properly.’

  ‘OK. Wait and see if it works. David threw away loads of stuff to get through to what he was seeing in his head. But he didn’t give up easily.’

  ‘No. I sort of guessed that.’ She removed a slice of cucumber from two slices of bread and nibbled it. Then she said tentatively, ‘Viv . . . Mum hasn’t really had time to make friends. I think because Dad fell in love with Margaret she has always felt sort of . . . not rubbish, exactly. Second best. And she says you haven’t made friends because you gave everything to David. She’d like it if you could be her friend. What do you think?’

  Viv smiled instantly. ‘I think it’s already happened.’

  Maisie smiled too, happy, relieved. ‘Oh good.’ She bit into her sandwich with relish and spoke through it. ‘And another thing. Is it all right for me to be a friend, too? Tom said that as you are the nearest thing to a sister for him, maybe I could think of you as an aunt. Which is fine. But I’d like a friend, really. Friends talk to each other like we talk, don’t they? They don’t go on and on about what to wear, and doing homework, and trying not to be shy. They talk about important things. Like what goes on in here.’ She tapped between her eyes with a sandwich crust. ‘Mum calls it a detox. You get rid of things you didn’t even know you needed to get rid of!’

  Viv laughed, and nodded vigorously. ‘I’d love to have a friend like you, Maisie. Hildie started all this. She was my first friend. I remember we laughed together because she was Hildie Hardy and I am Viv Venables. You can join that particular club, can’t you? With a name like yours, you’re so obviously going to succeed.’

  ‘Maisie Mason? Oh Viv! I just hate it. It sounds made-up and silly.’

  ‘It’s a name people won’t forget. And that’s important in the art world.’

  ‘Is it? Is it really? I hadn’t thought . . . I mean it sounds, like, so bimbo-ish.’

  Viv rocked back, laughing. ‘David said that his name so
unded pompous. He was never pompous. And you’ll never be bimbo-ish.’

  Maisie smiled hopefully, diffidently. She finished her sandwich and listened while Viv told her the story of Thomas à Becket’s assassins, and how they had come here in search of sanctuary.

  She breathed, ‘I see. Becket’s Hill. Of course.’ She looked at Viv. ‘I’ve been trying to copy David. But I can’t paint everything. I have to paint . . . something.’ She looked past the fig tree. ‘Becket’s Hill is left out of my everything. But it’s there.’ She looked at Viv excitedly. ‘If I block it in now, I can mix that green when I get home and just . . . get it.’

  It had been a moment of pure epiphany for Maisie, and as Viv lay in bed that night she knew it had come to her, too, through Maisie. She began to cry, slow hot tears of sheer dread. She did not want to do this. But if she was to ‘detox’, it was the only way. She could not run from it any longer. She could not draw it in a series of cartoons. She had loved David, he had been her best friend, but she had never really told him . . . and she had married him because he was impotent.

  She got out of bed and fetched the case.

  Twenty

  Vivian’s story

  I HAVE DECIDED to do it. How far I can get I have no idea, but I am going to start off in the third person so that I can be an objective observer. Externalize. Or as Maisie might put it, ‘Like . . . stay cool.’

  I looked through the small case where I keep my papers last night and saw that I had not only reported the times that David . . . what? Made himself known to me? I had done more than that. I could have started the report down at the lake when he – apparently – pushed me in; and then listed the other times. I clearly felt bound to interpret these times – firstly so that I would find the door knob and recognize it when he brought it to me. And then so that I would know something very obvious . . . love is all you need, and everything else is unnecessary, melts away, even forgiveness.