by Joan Smith
Realizing she had been standing in the road for several minutes, Loretta stepped forward and lifted the knocker, an evil-looking brass sprite with one leg folded across the other. As she brought it down, the sound was completely drowned by the sudden roar of a plane passing low overhead. She stepped back and stared up into the sky, but it was gone. Loretta moved closer to the door and tried again. This time the sound echoed through the house, but she heard no evidence of occupation. Loretta looked at her watch, satisfied herself that she wasn’t early, and knocked a third time. Just as she was beginning to think no one was in, the door finally opened.
‘Sorry,’ said the young woman half-hidden behind it. ‘I was in the bath.’ As she opened the door wider, Loretta saw that the girl was wearing nothing but a large white bath towel which she had clutched to her chest; it made a rather fetching contrast to her thick chin-length black hair. ‘I hoped I’d have finished by the time you got here,’ she went on, stepping back so that Loretta could enter the hall.
It was light and spacious, with a colourful tiled floor, and Loretta’s first impression of the house as unwelcoming was immediately dispelled. She was facing a back door which led into a conservatory; to her right, a door stood open into the kitchen, and wide stairs rose to the upper floor. To her left, a long corridor stretched along the blank front wall of the house. The wallpaper, wild flowers on an off-white background, was dotted with a startling collection of water-colours, oriental prints and china plates.
‘I was absolutely filthy, everything’s in chaos today,’ the girl went on. ‘Clara’s still up at the peace camp, they’re trying to get enough tents up before it gets dark. She was going to ring you to let you know about Wayne but I expect she forgot. She’s been at the camp most of the day. Anyway, I’m sure we can sort something out. Why don’t you put the kettle on and I’ll be down in a minute. Through there,’ she said, indicating the kitchen door and heading for the stairs.
Loretta made to follow her, and realized she didn’t know the girl’s name, or who she was.
‘Wait a minute – you said something about Wayne – is there a problem?’ Her heart was sinking at the prospect of having to turn round and drive back to London.
‘Only that the little shit has decided not to move out till tomorrow,’ the girl called cheerfully from the top of the stairs. She stopped and leaned over the banister. ‘But Clara said not to worry, we’ll fix you up here and you can still meet the neighbours. Though God knows what they’re going to eat, I don’t think Clara’s thought about food. But I dare say she’ll manage, she always does. I’m Imogen, by the way, Clara’s my mother. You can call me Imo. I take it you’re Loretta? Bit silly if you weren’t.’
With this she disappeared, leaving Loretta to make her way to the kitchen. It was an L-shaped room, with one window giving on to the main road and another, which hadn’t been visible from the front, looking out on to the trees which overhung the side lane. It was a dark room, but not unpleasant; a deep red Edwardian wallpaper covered the walls and gave an impression of cosiness which was enhanced by the presence of an Aga. Suddenly aware of how weary she was – this damned illness, she thought – Loretta pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. She was very glad that she wouldn’t have to return to London that night, even though Imo’s promise of alternative accommodation had been a bit vague. She wondered if Imo, with her dark hair and white skin, resembled her mother. Bridget hadn’t mentioned Clara’s daughter, perhaps because the girl looked the sort of age at which she might be away at university or college. Maybe Imo was home for the weekend? And was the girl’s father about to appear? Loretta assumed all would become clear in the course of the weekend.
Remembering Imo’s suggestion that she put the kettle on, Loretta got up and looked for an electric kettle. It took her a couple of minutes to realize there wasn’t one. Instead, a heavy, old-fashioned whistling kettle of a type she hadn’t seen since childhood was standing half-full on the shelf above the Aga. Loretta lifted it down, added more water, and raised one of the two chrome lids which covered the hob. She had an idea that one end would turn out to be hotter than the other and was about to try the second when she was startled by a crash from the hall. Her first thought was that she was about to come face to face with a burglar, and she looked round wildly for anything that might serve as a weapon. At the same time she heard a sliding noise, as if a heavy object was being pushed or pulled laboriously across the floor. Next came a series of panted curses.
‘Bloody thing!’ she heard, then a noise like a kick and a muttered ‘ow’. This was followed by the same voice uttering, or rather bellowing, a single word: ‘Clara!’
Loretta unfroze and moved towards the door. Since the newcomer knew her hostess, it seemed unlikely that he was a burglar. But how had he got into the house? Loretta was sure she had closed the front door behind her.
‘Clara!’ The voice was even more impatient. ‘Oh God, where is the woman?’
Loretta opened the kitchen door and collided with the owner of the voice. As she fell back into the room she realized she was still clutching the pewter jug of dried flowers she had grasped a moment before in lieu of a weapon. She thrust it behind her, feeling for the edge of the table, meanwhile surveying the newcomer with as much equanimity as she could muster. He was looking at her oddly, and Loretta felt she couldn’t blame him in the circumstances.
‘Can I help?’ she asked brightly, crossing her arms in front of her as though she’d never been near the flowers, which were now back in place on the table.
‘I’m looking for Clara,’ the man said, still observing her warily. He was in his late thirties or early forties, thin and dark, with rather intense eyes.
‘She isn’t here, she’s at the peace camp.’ Loretta repeated the information Imo had given her, realizing as she did so that she knew nothing about the camp – its location, or Clara’s connection with it. She hadn’t even been aware that there was a peace camp anywhere in the vicinity of Flitwell.
‘Oh hell,’ the man said in a slow voice which expressed perplexity more than annoyance. He stepped back into the hall and Loretta followed. She found him staring at a large square box which was sitting in the middle of the hall floor. There were fingermarks all over its dusty mahogany surface and scuff marks on the tiled floor as though he had pushed it from the back door.
‘So what do I do with this?’ he asked, running a hand through his hair – the picture of puzzlement, Loretta thought. ‘Wait a minute, do you have a car?’ he asked, suddenly hopeful.
‘Yes, but–’
‘That’s it then. You’ll be going back there shortly, I suppose? I’ll load it up and you can take it with you.’
‘To the peace camp? But I don’t know where it is. Or what that is,’ she added, taking a second look at the object he’d delivered.
The stranger ignored the second part of her remark.
‘You’re not from the peace camp?’
Loretta admitted she wasn’t.
‘I thought –’ Her interlocutor began to laugh. ‘Sorry, it’s just that you had me puzzled,’ he explained. ‘When I saw you here I assumed you must be one of the peace women, but you didn’t look quite – right. You know what I mean.’ His gaze travelled down her fine grey wool jumper, her matching straight skirt, and hovered for a second at her grey suede high heels. Loretta took his meaning and bridled.
‘I’ve been to Greenham loads of times, as a matter of fact,’ she said stiffly.
‘Look, I didn’t mean –’
‘I was arrested at Christmas,’ she continued, ignoring his attempt at an apology. She decided against revealing that she had later been released without charge. Bridget, to whom this had happened twice before, had been most put out when they hadn’t been required to appear in court; Loretta had secretly been relieved. She realized that the stranger was waiting with amusement for her next remark and decided to change the subject.
‘I’m Clara’s new tenant, by the way. I was supposed to move i
nto the cottage today, but the chap who’s there at the moment isn’t going till tomorrow, apparently. So here I am.’
‘Oh, re-ally.’ He had a way of drawing out short words which invested them with a significance Loretta couldn’t fathom. ‘Another sin to add to the catalogue. Clara must be furious.’ He smiled absently, gazing into the middle distance. ‘It’s Great-aunt Idena’s commode. That thing.’ He gestured towards the wooden box. ‘Hasn’t been used for years. But it’s all there.’
Obviously proud of this fact, he lifted the hinged lid to reveal the white porcelain chamberpot inside. Loretta giggled, suddenly assailed by a vision of full-skirted Victorian ladies emerging from benders to form a sedate queue in the bushes.
‘They want that at the peace camp?’
‘So Clara says –’ He looked at her for a moment, puzzled, then joined in her laughter.
‘Robert?’ It was Imo’s voice, and a moment later she ran lightly down the stairs, dressed now in a denim mini-skirt. ‘What’s the joke?’ A smile hovered about her lips as she looked from Robert to Loretta, waiting for enlightenment.
‘It’s all your mother’s fault, as usual,’ Robert explained. ‘She rang this morning to ask if I still had Idena’s commode. I’ve spent half the afternoon crawling about in the loft looking for it. And now it’s here your mother isn’t. I don’t know what to do. I can’t take it up there, can I?’
‘Hardly,’ Imo agreed. ‘It’s women only,’ she added, turning to Loretta. ‘And even if it hadn’t been up to now, after last night...’ She trailed off.
‘Last night?’
‘Haven’t you heard? There was even something on the radio about this morning,’ Imo said. ‘It happened about three o’clock this morning. A bunch of men appeared out of nowhere and started smashing up the camp, they even tried to set fire to the caravan.’
‘Was anyone hurt?’ Loretta was horrified.
‘A couple of women had to go to hospital. Fortunately they ran off as soon as everyone started coming out of their tents. It’s amazing no one was badly hurt, really.’
‘But why do they want a commode?’ queried Loretta. ‘Haven’t they dug, er, trenches?’
‘Yes, but Clara thought it would be safer if they didn’t have to walk all the way to the trenches at night. She’s been ringing round all day trying to find people who’ve got those old things. With Robert’s we’ve got three. She’s a terrific organizer, my mother. Tell you what, Robert, why don’t you lend me your car and I’ll take it up there? I’ve passed my test, you know.’ Robert seemed to be hesitating. ‘Oh, go on, Robert. It’s not very far. And how else are you going to get it up there?’
Robert sighed. ‘All right. I suppose you want me to put it back in the car for you?’
‘Please. By the way, this is Loretta, she’s staying with us tonight. Robert’s one of our neighbours, he lives in Flitwell. He’s coming to dinner this evening, you’re not supposed to have met him yet.’
Robert was leaning over the commode, preparing to lift it. Loretta moved to help but he waved her away.
‘I can manage. See you later.’
Imo opened the back door, which was unlocked, and Robert trundled the commode out of it. Loretta returned to the kitchen where she was joined by Imo, who asked if she’d made some tea. Loretta explained she’d been interrupted by Robert’s arrival, and Imo placed the kettle on the hob.
‘I’ll just have a cup before I go back to the camp,’ she said. ‘Robert’s left me his keys.’
‘I had no idea there was a peace camp near here,’ Loretta said. ‘Where is it exactly?’
‘About a mile along the road. You must have heard of Dunstow, RAF Dunstow? Though it’s not really an RAF base at all, it’s American. Just like Greenham. Except they don’t have Cruise missiles here, they have F1-11s. Remember all the fuss last month when they bombed Libya? Well, some of the planes came from here. That’s when the peace camp was set up, the first women arrived the day after.’
‘I see, that’s why I hadn’t heard of it.’
‘Oh yes, the camp’s only been going about four weeks. But the fuss it’s caused – you wouldn’t believe it. When they first arrived, they put up tents outside the main gate. But the council evicted them – it turned out they’d passed some by-law ages ago in case a peace camp was set up here, and no one had noticed. Milk? Sugar?’
Loretta shook her head.
‘That’s when Clara got involved. She was so cross when the Americans attacked Libya – I rang her up that night and she was ... well, I’ve never heard her so angry. When the peace camp got evicted, she offered them a site on her land. She owns part of the wood along the side of the base, you see. And everyone’s furious with her. She’s been banned from the Green Man in Flitwell, and half the village isn’t speaking to her. Mind you, a lot of people are on her side – the vicar got up a petition and took it to the base, but the man in charge refused to meet him. So he’s written an absolute diatribe in the parish magazine. You can imagine the ructions that’s caused.’
‘But the attack last night – is this the first time it’s happened?’
‘More or less. I mean, it’s not the first time people have turned up at the camp and yelled abuse, that sort of thing. Some of the Americans from the base, they come down at night and throw the odd stone, apparently. You’ll have to ask Clara, this is the first time I’ve been home when anything’s happened. But last night was really vicious. They wore masks, the sort you get in joke shops. The women woke up and found these men with horrible faces trying to set fire to the caravan.’
‘What about the police?’ Loretta asked the question without much hope.
Imo shrugged. They say there’s nothing they can do.’ She leaned back against the Aga and sipped her tea. ‘I suppose they’re right. The women can’t identify anyone ‘cause of the masks. And they say they haven’t enough men to put a guard on the camp at night. Gosh, is that the time?’ A clock was chiming six somewhere in the house. ‘I hope Clara comes back soon.’
‘What time is everyone coming?’
‘Eight,’ said Imo. ‘I should have asked her what needed doing. But I expect she’ll manage. There’s bound to be something in the freezer.’ She pulled a face.
‘Shouldn’t I be doing something?’ Loretta was becoming anxious on Clara’s behalf. Her own dinner parties were always carefully planned to give her plenty of time to shop and cook. The idea that there were only two hours to go before the arrival of Clara’s guests appalled her. At that moment a door slammed and a woman’s voice sounded in the hall.
‘Imo? Are you there, darling?’
‘In here, Clara.’
The kitchen door opened and a striking figure strode in.
‘Is Robert here? I saw his car in the lane. Ah, you must be Loretta.’
Loretta stood up and took Clara’s extended hand, feeling much like a schoolgirl meeting her new headmistress.
‘Sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. I see Imo’s made some tea, good. I gather you’re supposed to be having complete rest. Where is Robert? Has he brought the commode?’
She moved across the kitchen to the sink and dried a mug on a rather scruffy tea-cloth. Imo explained that she was about to take the commode up to the peace camp in Robert’s car, and Loretta had time to study her hostess.
Clara Wolstonecroft was slightly above average height, and well built. Her most commanding feature was a matronly bosom whose prominence was not disguised by the loose flowered dress she was wearing. Her hair was an attractive iron-grey, cut, like Imo’s, to chin length so that it framed her strong face.
‘I’m sorry about the cottage,’ she said, joining Loretta at the kitchen table. The little rat swears he told me Sunday and I know he’s lying. He’s just changed his mind and didn’t have the manners to tell me. But he’ll be out tomorrow, no doubt about that. I told him – if you don’t shift your belongings by lunch time, my lad, I’ll move them myself.’ She bestowed a satisfied smile on Loretta. ‘You don’t
mind sleeping in my study tonight? It’s quite comfortable. I have a couch in there for when I’m working on a book – I tend to sleep odd hours.’
Loretta assured her that this arrangement suited her very well. Anything, she thought privately, rather than face the journey back to Islington. ‘Can I help with dinner?’ she asked, aware of the moments ticking past.
‘Certainly not.’ Clara was affronted. ‘You must be exhausted, driving all the way from London. I think the best thing is if I take you upstairs so you can have a nap before dinner.’ It was said in the tone of a matron packing off her charge to the sick bay. Suddenly suspecting that Bridget had greatly exaggerated the extent of her debility, Loretta summoned up the courage to defy her hostess.
