by A. L. Barker
Having concluded her pantomime, Bettony left her seat and moved along the nave, flattening herself against the pew ends. Her precocious bosom made that difficult, her tongue shot out and curled over her upper lip: she was zealous in her determination to avoid treading on the memorial tablets.
Eashing rolled his chair after her. She came to a halt by the chancel steps, alongside a canopied table tomb. The recumbent marble figure was of a beak-nosed, tight-lipped woman, heavy-lidded eyes closed, hands clasped in prayer position.
‘A good example of sixteenth-century English burial furniture,’ said Eashing.
‘She’s in there? Dead?’
‘Less than dust by now.’ Eashing peered at the inscription. ‘It seems this was the local Lady Bountiful.’
‘Call me Aunty, she said. Aunty Viv. She wasn’t kin of ours.’
‘This lady died more than three hundred years ago.’
‘I’d never have come if I’d known she was here. She used to wop me with that.’ Bettony pointed to the crucifix between the effigy’s fingers. ‘She put my eye out, my grandad put it back. He used to be a vet.’
‘I assure you,’ Eashing said patiently, ‘this tomb is not of anyone you could ever have known. It is in the standard repertoire of funerary sculpture of that period: the features are conventional rather than distinctive. You may think there is some likeness—’
‘That’s her, with the mealy face. My mother doted on her. She led my mother into sin. They stole my grandad’s savings and ran away together.’
‘How very – inconsiderate.’ Eashing was at a loss for words.
‘I spit on her!’
Seeing Bettony approach the bier, lips pursed at the ready, he cried hastily, ‘Please don’t!’
‘I can’t look on that old lady. Let’s go.’
‘Not yet.’
‘I’m not staying with her!’
‘I came to see the church and there’s much to see.’
Bettony tipped her hat over her eyes and made off down the aisle.
*
The rood screen was composed of portions of another screen showing orthodox Biblical scenes and some older carvings of a more liberal nature. He made out a boar with hounds in pursuit, a bear embracing a man and a woman embracing a tree. There seemed something schematic about it but the message, if there was one, escaped him.
As he could not get up the steps unaided he manhandled his chair back along the nave. In so doing, he passed the Lady Bountiful, Bettony’s ‘Aunty Viv’. Her eyes, which had appeared closed, now appeared wide open; the marble lids had become the whites, blank and blind. The anomaly, of course, depended on how his brain translated the signal from his optic nerve, but Bettony’s influence could not be discounted.
How bad, or good for him would she be? In his affliction he tended to seize on trifles and blow them up out of all proportion. Was it unreasonable to hope that his last years would be as equable as possible?
Whichever way he looked at it the effigy was unremarkable. He had seen so many stone ladies in stomachers and ruffs, with the same patrician nose – a requisite of good looks then as a full head of hair is now. His own giving and receiving days were past, but he envied this lady, her giving complete, lying serene on her stone bed to which no dreams came.
He became aware of a movement in his chest, a murmur. He braced himself and was ready when it became a shriek, endured it stoically. There was no room in him for anything more. When the pain ceased and he was still alive, fear took over, the pure and simple fear of not being. During all his researches into funerary concepts he had never felt it so keenly. It seemed to have been provoked by Bettony’s identification of this effigy. Surely it was annihilation of the cruellest sort to attribute depravity to someone long dead and in life greatly loved?
Since Bettony had abandoned him – he groaned – he would have to help himself. He leaned forward, bearing strongly on the wheels of his chair, to set it moving. A decidedly uneven slab on the floor of the nave pitched him sideways. His weight did the rest. He toppled out of his chair, caught at the suppliant hands of the Lady Bountiful and contrived to support himself on his knees. More he could not do. After an unavailing effort to get on his feet he achieved only a closer scrutiny of the lettering on the plinth of the tomb: ‘A Lady of Beneficence, Piety and Gentilness of Spirit’ he read, before a wave of nausea overcame him and he blacked out.
He regained consciousness with the sun warm on his face. Bettony was stooping over him. Somehow she had managed to get him into his chair and wheel him out of the church.
‘You gave me such a fright. I thought you’d died, then I thought mister’s praying to that witch – then I felt you breathing and I said, “Thank you, Aunty Viv.” ’Tis the only thing I ever had to thank her for.’ She stroked the damp hair off his forehead. ‘Rest easy, mister my dear, I shan’t never leave you again.’
*
Charlie was excited. He knew he hadn’t been going far enough. The old leap of the heart, the one that always told him when he had done well, told him now that with this sketch of Eashing he had stumbled on something that would take him far beyond adequacy. It would be a big production. At first the empty canvas yawned, the weave so coarse he thought he could never cover it. Then push became shove, and he worked the whole thing out on his sketch block.
It was quite an achievement to suggest colour relations with a stick of charcoal. He had introduced an ambience of emotional gloom: trees that hung, like a bad thunderstorm. He wouldn’t fancy walking under them.
Senga had brought Lumsden’s canvas. ‘You can have this back.’
He hoped for Lumsden’s sake it was none the worse for fending off the rain. ‘It’s not my work.’
‘You know I’m going back to London tomorrow.’
‘I’ll miss you.’ He was sincere, not devastated.
She said, ‘You’ll never do anything here.’
‘As a matter of fact, I’m on to something quite different. There are things lying doggo – accredited mysteries which I’ve never looked into because I’ve never worked in that bracket. But Blake must have; Dadd, Palmer, Bacon, Burra must have asked What, Who, Why? and got their answers. And I’ll get mine once I’ve rid myself of the old concepts and techniques.’
‘It’s time you got away. Come with me.’
‘Thanks, but I’m going to stay with Nina.’
His expectations had been boosted by a telephone call: ‘J.T.’s away at a golf tournament. Come and stay.’ It was as good as a promise, practically a guarantee. British Telecom could not damp the kindling in Nina’s voice nor stop him catching fire. He had allowed himself to speculate, went through a blissful programme, reviewing and ratifying past memories.
‘I’m hoping she’ll lend me enough to get my car out of hock.’
Senga’s face tightened sequentially, down from her hairline. She said, ‘You’re not breaking new ground.’
*
Owen went for a walk, his habit when there was a problem to solve. He needed time for this one. It had come about so quickly, unforeseen and unprovoked. He had always been happy with Elissa and she, he believed, reasonably so with him: they could qualify as prototypes for a successful marriage. Any reservations and disquiets he had felt in his youth had long ago been subsumed by his moderation. He had not expected a great deal and what he now had was enough. He could so easily lose it.
Elissa was fastidious rather than prudish. She disliked untidiness in morals as in anything else, might discipline herself to live with it but would not hold it against him. Her remark about never having been part of an eternal triangle was a veiled warning.
From the end of their lane he glimpsed the pile of old stones – remnant of some sort of castle – beyond the village. He had passed and repassed it in the car and now was minded to take a closer look. Half a mind was all he was prepared to give it; ruins had no fascination for him.
Children were playing in the last of the daylight on the green hill and he wondered
if Angela brought James here. He knew so little about their life, how they passed their days, what her hopes for the future were, and the child – what was he waiting for? The old times to return? A stand-in for the man who had fostered his baser instincts and turned his natural affection to enmity?
Boys were chasing a ball under the castle walls: it came bowling down the hill towards him. He stopped it and sent it back with a stylish kick. The boys cheered. He felt uncommonly pleased, exhilarated in fact. Football was good healthy fun, he saw himself introducing James to the game. Angela could not object to such a non-lethal sport and it would bring the child out of his obsession with the past.
He now believed at least part of his problem solved. The other part still weighed on him. He had not coped with his own discreditable feelings. They must be dealt with, suppressed – kiboshed – he told himself.
He had been greatly encouraged by Angela’s reaction to his love-making, reaffirmation of a faculty on the wane. Elissa had become tolerant of his failures, dismissive even, sighing, ‘Does it matter?’ and leaving him unwilling to ask her the same question because the answer was obvious to them both. Confirmation of his own continuing ability in that sphere was gratifying. On the other hand, and under the circumstances, how long would he be able to keep it up? No prudent adulterer living in a village would take as mistress the woman next door, especially if she had a difficult child, an adversary, at her apron-strings.
*
‘Where are you going?’
‘To read James a bedtime story.’
‘Supper’s nearly ready.’
‘I promised him.’
‘Is this going to be a regular commitment?’
‘Of course not. I was coerced. The poor kid was distressed, wanted me to stay last night and read him to sleep. In order to get away I had to promise to go back this evening. He’ll be waiting for me.’
Elissa pursed her lips and went on laying the table. ‘I’ll put your supper in the oven. Don’t blame me if it’s dried up when you get it.’
Angela opened the door to him with, ‘It’s been so long.’
‘Two days?’ Owen adopted a teasing tone. He looked round for James. ‘Are we alone?’
‘He’s in bed. I packed him off early.’
‘I said I’d read to him.’
‘I’ve waited, thought of us every minute. I’ve dreamed – it’s easy to be happy in dreams.’
‘My dear—’
‘You’ll stay – afterwards?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t. Elissa will have supper on the table.’
She made a sound in her throat. An acknowledgement? A dry laugh? ‘Mealtimes are quite a ritual with Elissa, she sets the clock by them. In a court of law she’d swear to the time because it was when we sit down to supper.’ It was marginally true. Elissa liked the meals she prepared to be eaten at their best.
‘Hadn’t you better go right away? I’d hate to upset your timetable.’
She managed to sound blithe, but the light in her eyes had gone and he wished he hadn’t seen it go: it had been special to himself.
‘I promised James. One shouldn’t break a promise to a child.’
*
James said, ‘What’s she want you to stay for?’
‘You’ve been eavesdropping.’
‘What for?’
‘Just to talk.’
‘About me?’
‘I daresay we’ll find something more interesting.’ Owen ruffled his hair, but James ducked and pulled the blanket up to his chin. His face was stony.
‘Talk to me.’
‘Don’t you want to hear about Batman?’
‘He’s a silly bugger.’
‘Who taught you that word?’
‘I made it up.’
Owen thought the child couldn’t be aware of the sexual affiliation: he must have heard and liked the guttural sound and claimed it as his own.
‘Look, old chap, don’t mind my saying so, but that word isn’t altogether your invention. It’s been around a long time and it’s not a nice word. In fact, it’s offensive and anyone you apply it to is entitled to be offensive in return.’
James made a rosebud of his mouth and put up his face. ‘Hoo!’
Owen treated it as a question. ‘Whoever you apply it to. Now, I’ll read you a story about a girl who trod on a loaf and had to marry a frog.’
‘Hoo!’ James was delighted and disgusted.
‘He turned out to be a prince.’ Owen said firmly.
He left James unsleeping but tucked in with an iron hand. Angela was nowhere to be seen. He called softly so as not to alert the boy. Floorboards creaked as he moved about: his reflection in a mirror showed a big man tiptoeing and looking sheepish.
He tapped on her bedroom door, spoke softly. ‘Angela, I’m going.’
Suddenly she was behind him: she had come from the bathroom, holding a bathrobe round her. By accident or design the robe fell open when she made a hasty movement. For a split second they gazed, he at her nakedness, she at his face as it suffused with colour. Then she snatched the robe together, turned her back.
He said, ‘I’m sorry—’
‘Don’t apologise, it’s humiliating.’
‘It’s my fault – not being organised.’
‘Organised?’ She uttered that dry sound in her throat again.
‘An affair of this sort – and this more than most, because we’re such near neighbours – requires careful planning – orchestrating.’
‘Affair?’
‘Clandestine.’
‘Is that how you see it? I’m to be your little bit on the side?’
Owen protested, ‘Is that how it seems?’
‘Don’t worry, I shan’t harass you. Greville’s coming back.’
Owen said, ‘Good. You’ve sorted things out between you?’
‘Not quite everything.’ She was plaiting her hair as she spoke. ‘I’m going to stay with my mother in Friern Barnet.’
‘Think about it; don’t make up your mind on the spur of the moment.’
‘This moment has plenty of spur.’ She smiled wryly.
‘What about James?’
‘Greville agrees he must go away to school: it’s best we don’t try to share his upbringing.’ She drew the finished plait over her shoulder. ‘I still love my husband, you know.’
Owen, who hadn’t known, was glad. He had wanted to leave her with something. Hope could be recognised without being guaranteed.
*
He set a match to the heap in the garden. The stuff on top had dried: a thread of black smoke came up from the base which was still damp. There was no fragrant woodsmoke, which he understood was the reward of an autumn bonfire.
At this time of year the garden had little to commend it. The grass looked chewed, the broad-leaved trees had been stripped by the first of the winter winds and stood as a black scribble against the sky. Owen found himself hankering after pavements, well-defined stone slabs with Nature pinned underneath; felt something like nostalgia for a whiff of London traffic.
He went to the garage, fetched newspapers and oily rags and pushed them into the bottom of the heap. The paper burned fiercely. Then the flames died. He went back to the garage, gathered the wood shavings and offcuts left over from his spell of carpentry. A wicker chair, left by the previous tenant, promised results. He carried it all to the heap which was putting up a wisp of black steam. He kicked it and the heap fell open on a nucleus of sweating twigs and charred rags. He heard a long-drawn hollow cry. Alarmed, he took a stick and stirred the embers. The cry came again, louder. James was behind him, carrying a bulky parcel.
‘Hey, you gave me a fright. I thought, here’s a firebird dropped into my bonfire, hoping to rise up young again from the ashes. It’s an old Arabian custom.’
James giggled. Owen pushed the wood shavings into the heap and dropped the basket chair on top. He lit a match and held it to the shavings. They took at once: a ring of lusty flames spread and licked the old
wickerwork of the chair. It was ablaze in a moment. James shouted for joy.
Owen said, ‘What’s in the parcel?’
James let it fall to the ground. Crouching, he tore off the brown paper and stood with his arms full of reddish fur. ‘It’s his coat.’
‘Your father’s?’
‘The bear’s coat. I’ve killed the bear.’
Solemnly he raised his burden and released it to the flames.
*
Antony found Pam piling clothes into a suitcase. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I want to go home.’ Her lip trembled. Like a child’s, he thought, his temper rising. ‘I don’t like being here—’
‘You want to go home – I want to stay.’
‘I can’t go without you!’
‘You can. We’re not joined at the hip.’
‘Nanty, you’re not well, I know you’re not. This place is bad for you. In the boat – I thought you were dying—’
‘Disappointed, were you?’
‘Nanty – don’t!’
‘You’re the one that’s sick. You and your plastic tadpole!’
He stormed out, slamming the door, and drove away fast. Clear of the Falmouth traffic, he plunged through everlasting lanes, past constantly recurring road junctions, grassy islands with finger-posts which he did not read. It didn’t matter where he went, he needed to get away. If distance didn’t make the heart grow fonder, it might help sort his feelings. Unprepared as he had been – or, rather, prepared for it to be nothing at all – when he looked over the side of the boat and saw that sheet of plastic stamped ‘Blue Circle Cement Co.’ he could have howled. Would he ever be able to make love to her without it coming between them? Turned off by a cement bag!
He cornered too sharply and finished on a grass verge, front wheels just short of a ditch. He got out, locked the car and walked away, across a field.
The field had been left fallow. He found himself in a sea of wild flowers, buttercups, ox-eye daisies, dandelions, sheep’s bit, foxgloves, laughing jacks. He watched his shoes turn yellow with pollen. Then the blossoming tide petered out.
He looked up. He had come to the edge of a wood. On the threshold, as it were, he was looking into a concourse of great trees, elms and oaks rejoicing as their leaves raced in the wind. Sunlight and shadow rocked the ground under his feet; the roaring of the leaves gathered strength from somewhere in the heart of the wood and deepened to a sustained organ note which swelled in his eardrums. He began to feel weightless, like nothing.
