by Robert Ward
“I like the hot sun, usually,” Bunty said. “But the last few days have been too hot even for me. I think it’s because, as you said earlier, we’re not used to it. It doesn’t seem right in our surroundings. If we were in Italy or Greece it wouldn’t be worth commenting on. I usually take my holidays in Italy or Greece, though last year I went to Turkey. It was interesting. I enjoyed it. This year I’m going to Rome, at the end of August.”
“Hmn, that sounds nice. I’ve never been to Rome. Have you been before?”
“Oh yes, several times. It’s one of my favourite places.”
“Do you go alone?”
“Yes. I always go alone.”
“I think I’d prefer to travel alone. You can please yourself then, and I’m sure you’d do more and see more than if you had company.”
“One meets people occasionally of course,” Bunty said. “And the staff at the little hotel I stay at in Rome are very friendly.”
“That’s one thing I’ve never done, not as much as I want to, travel. I’ve been abroad quite often, but never alone, and there’s never seemed to be enough time to see the places properly. I don’t mean I haven’t enjoyed holidays, but they’ve never been quite enough if you know what I mean? And there are so many places I’ve never been to and would love to go, like Rome, and Florence, and Venice, and Athens. And further afield as well. Exotic places.”
“You should go, to as many different places, and to loved places as often as you can. I find that it takes several visits to get to know a place at all.”
“Yes, I must. I seem to waste so much time. I’m so disorganised, you see. I just seem to live from moment to moment. Planning was never one of my strong points.”
Bunty’s vision became clouded for a moment, as she concentrated hard in wondering whether to ask Elizabeth if she would like to go to Rome with her. After a few seconds she decided not to. How could a beautiful young woman like Elizabeth possibly want to go on holiday with an ugly boring old frump like her? The conclusion saddened her, but even more so did the fact that she was too cowardly to ask. Elizabeth could only have said no, but Bunty comforted herself slightly with the knowledge that it would have made Elizabeth feel awkward and embarrassed, and that was maybe why she didn’t ask, rather than her own fear of being rejected.
They came to the end of the riverside path and noticed how, further on, into the distance, the banks were overgrown and in their natural state. The trees were more numerous also, covering the horizon, and no building could be seen. It looked timeless and beautiful, the rich greens of the flora beneath the pure blue of the sky. They stood for a moment, just looking.
“I’ve had a lovely day,” Bunty then said. “Thank you, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth looked across at her.
“Yes, it has been a lovely day. Thank you, Bunty.”
Bunty dropped Elizabeth off and then drove home. It was early evening and the time when she usually made herself something light to eat, but after her tea with Elizabeth she wasn’t hungry. Instead, she decided to sit out in her tiny garden and read. She chose the Paradiso, the unfinished translation by Dorothy Sayers, and before she knew it, the air was cool and the light fading. She put down her book on the little round patio table and sighed. In her mind she pictured Elizabeth for a moment, how lovely and graceful and at ease she was. She then sighed again and picked up her book and went inside.
Elizabeth had a shower as soon as she got in and then poured herself a large scotch. She drank it as she wandered about the flat in her dressing gown and then poured herself another. She put some music on and lay down on the settee in the sitting room, feeling a terrible sense of sameness and boredom, like she was locked in a room without any external stimulation. She wanted more than there was to have, it seemed.
Bunty was a nice old girl though, she thought. A bit odd maybe, but what did that matter? She thought she was going to ask her to go to Rome with her, and she would have gone but she didn’t ask, so that was that. It would have been nice to go to such an interesting place with someone who knew it, and was interesting themselves. Especially as there would be no pressure about love or romance or whatever. They would probably have had good fun together, as friends.
Bunty, what a ridiculous name, had asked if maybe they could go out together somewhere else another time and she had said yes. But why shouldn’t she? She liked her. It was the way she had asked though, almost shamefaced, as though she was asking for something she had no right to. Why did people always think that she didn’t want to be with them? Why did they think that she was never lonely and in need of some kind of friendship and human contact? What did these people want from her?
Her third large scotch stopped her from thinking too much, and she examined her fingernails and then her toenails as she raised her legs up from where they had been resting on the arm of the settee. She then ran her hands over her stomach and breasts under her robe and was satisfied that nothing had changed.
We’ve been here before, haven’t we, Elizabeth, she said to herself. But we can’t be here again, surely? There’s got to be something else. There must be something I’m missing out on. If only I knew what it was.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Richard and Miranda decided to buy the house. It was the fourth that they’d looked at and they still had several more to see, but this one, they knew, was right for them.
Not only did they like the house itself but it was perfectly situated, standing as it did on the edge of a large tract of woodland but only a couple of hundred yards from a quiet but good road. It was in fact, only three miles beyond the last straggling suburbs of the city, but those three miles made all the difference, and it was, really, a house in the country.
It was very expensive, but they had convinced themselves it was an investment, and besides, for once they were feeling rather affluent. Their film had done remarkably well at the box office and as they were on percentages, and both under contract, albeit on separate projects, at least for the immediate future, it seemed like a good time to buy. They knew that in a year or two they might both be completely forgotten and unemployed, but that was too far ahead to be considered. For the moment they were determined to enjoy their relative security and the luxury of not having to count every penny.
Richard would be able to work at home of course, but Miranda was due to start filming in Ireland in six weeks time and so they wanted to move in and get settled as soon as possible. It was the middle of November and winter was just beginning to make itself felt, with cold winds and rain and the lengthening of the dark nights.
“We’ll have to do something about the garden in the spring,” Miranda said standing in the doorway of the kitchen, wearing a denim boiler suit and brandishing a bunch of keys in her hand. “I could hardly get down to the outhouse or the brick shed or whatever it is, for the undergrowth. It’s like the forest is reclaiming its own. The locks are so rusted that we’ll have to get them changed. I could hardly turn the key in the padlock. There’s nothing in there by the way, just a few old spades and forks and hoes and the like. We’ll have to get new ones.”
“Yes, they never tell you about the extra several million you’re going to have to spend on things like that when you buy a place, do they?”
Don’t be such an old skinflint, Shylock. I know you’re still a slum-boy at heart but do you have to make it so obvious? And yes, there is hot and cold running water and a bath. Though no doubt you’ll want to keep coal in it.”
“Ha, bloody ha,” Richard said as he handed her a mug of coffee.
“There’s a lot needs doing,” Miranda said. “But it’ll be fun. We can make it… ours, you know? Do I sound terribly trite? Is trite the right word? But you know what I mean. This could be our place, forever.”
Richard gave her a hug.
“I know what you mean,” he said. “I’m not completely insensitive to these things you know?”
“You mean you’re actually happy?”
“Yes, I am,” he said
, meaning it and kissing and squeezing her.
“There are ten rooms,” she said.
“Nine.”
“Ten. You didn’t count the bathroom.”
“The bathroom doesn’t count.”
“Yes it does. There are ten.”
“Nine.”
“Ten.”
“One of the bedrooms is only half a room anyway,” he said. “So it’s only eight and a half.”
“It’s quite big enough. And it is a proper room, and the bathroom does count, so there are ten. Parlour, drawing room, dining room, study, kitchen, four bedrooms, and bathroom. Ten.”
“Okay, okay, ten,” he said.
“And we haven’t got nearly enough stuff to fill even one room. What a sad indictment that is of our lives. And we’ll have to replace nearly all of the furniture that’s here as well, for when we’re on that programme on the telly, you know, where they have to guess whose house it is.”
“Just a minute. What’s the difference between a drawing room and a parlour? Shouldn’t one of them be a living room, or a lounge?”
“They’re strange names, aren’t they? Like a room in which one lives, or lounges. It makes you think there should be some kind of life-support machine in one and silken scented eastern exotic couches in the other. I don’t know, in answer to your question. I think parlour and drawing room sound nicer though.”
“You’re right of course, as ever,” he said, letting go of her and reaching for his own mug of coffee which he had left on the narrow pine table that stood in the middle of the kitchen and which they both had decided must be changed. “Let’s have a rest from exploration and planning, shall we?”
“What do you mean? You haven’t done anything, except make the coffee.”
They went into the drawing room and looked out through the big french windows that opened onto the overgrown garden that led to the woodland. They switched the lights out and watched the darkness and listened to the crashing quiet. They both felt the lovely warm feeling of being at home, and Miranda lay down next to Richard on the long settee and he put his arm around her, and with their heads next to each other they didn’t speak, but continued to watch and listen.
“Oh look,” Miranda said suddenly, sitting up. “Look it’s a badger, isn’t it? Look.”
They went to the windows and Richard quietly slid them open and looked out. In the light cast by the outside wall lamp they had left on, they saw for just a moment the black and white markings of a badger before it turned and went back into the woods.
“Oh, Richard. Isn’t that lovely,” she said.
“Yes, lovely,” he said, taking hold of her hand and pulling her close to him.
Richard got the study more or less the way he wanted it, though he did need to put more shelves up to accommodate all of his books. Some of them were still in piles on the floor just inside the door and it was impossible to get to the desk without stepping around them.
It was a little after one in the afternoon and he had just had a sandwich and coffee for his lunch. He was sitting at his desk and not feeling particularly guilty about not doing any work when he took out the letter pad from the top right hand drawer.
Liz,
I’m sitting in the study just like a proper writer, except I can’t think of anything to write. The laptop stares at me in mute condemnation. They have definite personalities you know, mine is called, Wally. It seems to suit it, sorry, him. In fact, I don’t suppose I’ll write anything at all today, I can feel it in my water. Indolence, that is.
The house is fine. It has a benevolent atmosphere. I don’t think any lovers were separated here, with one of them being bricked up behind the walls. There’s quite a decent pub not too far, as well. It’s in the tiny village, hamlet really, where our road meets the main road going into town. There’s the pub, a post office-cum-general store (it reminds me of my roots) and a phone box and that’s about it. Oh, there’s a garage a bit further on, and there are some houses, ye olde types, but you never seem to see anyone going in or out of them. The pub is quite full sometimes though. It’s called the Hare and Hounds. I’ll take you there when you come. When you come!
I’ve got to see you. How could we have let it be so long? There are no acceptable excuses now, you have to come. It’s easy enough to find, or I’ll even come and get you if you prefer. Come for Christmas, or New Year, or whenever. Bring anyone you like, or come alone, just come!
Miranda’s away working not long after New Year. It’s a costume do set in winter time, hence the timing, though it probably won’t snow and they’ll have to use machines anyway. There are a few big names in the cast and the director is “hot” at the moment. God, doesn’t that sound awful? Anyway, what do you expect now that I’ a famous Hollywood scriptwriter? Not that any scriptwriters are famous. Who ever reads the credits? And who ever says, let’s go and see this, because so-and-so wrote it? I’m sorry, I’m just being a bitter hack. And there’s no such thing as Hollywood any more, really. I think I’m fifty years too late. Still, remember when we used to go to the pictures? And who’d have thought eh? Enough trumpet blowing, though I’ve no one else to blow it see, Sister?
How are you doing? What news? How is a fellow’s best pal? Tell me when you write and tell me when you’re coming. Remember, no excuses, even if you’re twenty stone and bald. I got you something when I was in the States and you’ll only get it if you come.
I love you and miss you. Write soon and tell me when you’re coming. I mean it!
Rich.
In the evening, Richard and Miranda decided to walk to the Hare and Hounds, even though it was cold and dark and threatened to rain. It was only a quarter of a mile anyway and driving there seemed incredibly lazy even for them, despite the fact that they were unlikely to have an accident when driving such a short distance drunkenly back home.
The lane which led to the side road was sodden underfoot with a thick layer of fallen leaves and the wind blew into their faces as they stepped carefully along. Miranda wore boots and brown corduroy trousers with an oatmeal jacket over a thick red lumberjack-patterned shirt with a long green woollen scarf wrapped around her neck which dangled down to her waist. Richard, boldly wore just a navy blue cardigan over his shirt with jeans and trainers.
“You’ll freeze,” she said to him as they reached the road.
“It’s only five minutes away,” he said.
“On the way back it’ll be cold.”
“Hopefully, on the way back, we won’t feel a thing.”
With it being a Monday night, the Hare and Hounds was fairly empty, with only the locals having braved the night. The weekend passing trade on which they mostly relied, especially in summer, was absent of course, which pleased Richard and Miranda, though no doubt the landlord had a different view, they thought.
They sat on stools at the bar and ordered large scotches, Miranda taking a handful of peanuts from the bowl next to the charity bottle of coins. They were served by Arthur, the landlord, who although they were very recent arrivals, had already made it his business to find out exactly who they were.
“Nice to see you both,” Arthur said. “Not too bad outside I hope.”
“No, not at all. Just like a summer’s day,” Richard answered, and the three of them laughed. “I expect you miss the trade though, this time of year?” he added, just for something to say.
“What?” Arthur said. “You must be joking. Can’t stand it when the place is heaving. Much prefer it when you have time for a talk. That’s why I got the place. Thought it was going to be a nice quiet pub. Hate the buggers who come out for the day bringing their kids. Lunchtime’s the worst. Didn’t realise being so close to town would bring them out here so much. Makes them think they’ve really been to the country, you know?”
“But their business must be good for you?” Richard said.
“Yes. But I’m not bothered. I like it quiet. No head for business me, you see. That was all down to my wife. It was her idea you see, to g
et a pub, when I retired from the police. But she died only a year after we got it. Brain haemorrhage.”
He said this without the slightest request for sympathy and turned to the optics and gave them a double scotch each.
“Have these on me,” he said. “I know you’ve been in a few times but I haven’t had a chance to welcome you properly yet. Good health.”
Arthur then drained his glass.
The Hare and Hounds was quite a small pub, having only two public rooms, the lounge and the bar, both of which could be best described as cosy. The decor was dark and dull, with red cloth wall seats and chairs and stools, and red and green patterned carpeting, much worn, and walls with wood panels and dark green and gold paper. There were occasional nondescript paintings of rural scenes hanging at sometimes bizarre angles on the walls, and the stone fireplace was adorned with the obligatory horse brasses and brass ornaments. Apart from Richard and Miranda there were about a dozen other people in the lounge, sitting in two or three groups on seats away from the bar.
“It’s Christmas soon,” Miranda said when Arthur had gone to attend to something landlordly. “I thought we’d spend it alone together? You know, the first one in our new home? What do you think? We can put our families off. No doubt they’ll both invite us.”
“Yes. Whatever you like,” Richard said. “It would be nice, just the two of us. Let’s hope it snows.”
“What do you mean, whatever you like? Isn’t it what you want too?”
“Yes, of course it is. I’ve just said haven’t I?”
“Okay then. Alone it is. We should have a goose I think. It’s more traditional. I’ll order one from the butcher, or should it be the poulterer? Though now that we live in the countryside I suppose we should slaughter something ourselves. I’ve been wondering why this pub is called the Hare and Hounds, as well. Is there a local hunt do you think? If so we must protest and lie down in front of flared nostrilled stallions eager to carry their riders in pursuit of some terrified and defenceless beast.”
