‘And she's lovely, Mum, isn't she? Really sweet. You'll love her when you get to know her properly.’
I smiled. ‘She is, and I will. I know I will.’
We linked arms and walked back towards Hector.
‘But, Mum…’ she hesitated. Stopped suddenly. ‘She's not like my other friends.’
‘What d'you mean?’
‘Well, she's not – you know – like Chloe and Poppy. Not…’ she struggled to explain; looked worried, as Ant had looked worried last night. About reality dawning. Not posh, was what she meant. Not Oxford High. Not flicky-haired and clued up and rally rally nice. So much the better. But in their initial rush of enthusiasm, in their desire to make it work, my family had forgotten these minor details – grief, different social background, lack of confidence, etc. – and were handing them to me now, no – dropping them at my feet, hoping I'd pick them up, as I'd picked up behind them all my life: scooping toys into the toy box, dirty socks into the linen basket, wet towels from the bathroom floor to rails.
‘Of course she's not like them, and that's very refreshing. And after all, the majority of students at Oxford don't actually come from a twenty-mile radius of here, or from public schools. And although she's coming to live with us, that's where she's going. To the university. She'll be in the majority there.’
‘I suppose,’ she said in some surprise, and I saw it cross her mind that if she, Anna, ever went there, she'd be in the minority.
‘We'll make it work, Anna, you'll see. Everything's going to be fine,’ I assured her, as women have assured children for years, and then, even if it killed them, made sure it was. We sat down on the ground together. As Anna pulled at the grass, she told me how we were going to redecorate the spare room for her – no – she sat up straight, eyes bright – she and Stacey would redecorate it together, paint it lilac, or apple green. I sat and listened and smiled.
‘Number one five two!’ sang out the nasal loudspeaker. ‘Number one five two to the collecting ring now, please.’
‘Ohmygod – that's me!’ She leaped up.
‘Go – go. Does that mean you're on?’ I got to my feet as she fled to untie Hector.
‘No, next but one. Quick, Mummy, my hat.’ I ran around picking things up. See? Scooping. A hat, a whip, her jacket – handing it all to her as she pulled her stirrups down and did up her girth.
‘Are you enjoying it?’ I asked as she turned round so I could tie her number on her back for her. ‘Hold still.’
‘It's OK, but there's so much standing around and so many bossy women telling me I'm not getting my tail bandaging right or my plaits straight. And hardly any boys do it, either.’
‘Right. Where are your cousins, then?’
‘Oh, Jack and Henry don't do this. They only hunt. Phoebe's around somewhere, but she's giving up Pony Club next year too. Did you know you don't have to be a member to go to the balls? I thought you did.’ She leaped into the saddle. ‘See you!’ she called as she trotted away.
‘See you,’ I echoed faintly.
‘Oh, by the way,’ she called, turning back. ‘My ears have gone septic!’
Excellent news. I made a mental note to get some witch hazel on the way home. To scoopeth some more.
I followed at a slower pace, and by the time I'd got to the ring, the last competitor had finished and Anna was cantering in. She set Hector at a fence of coloured poles, which he cleared easily, then another, and another, but then I think she missed one and had to go back and do it again, and then the last one she knocked flying. She cantered out, laughing.
‘Whoops!’ she yelled as she flew past me.
‘Well done, darling!’
‘Seven faults, for competitor number one five two,’ the loudspeaker informed us. ‘Seven faults.’
‘Abysmal!’ came an even louder voice to my left.
I turned to see Camilla, her face an arresting shade of pre-coronary purple, striding towards me, fists clenched. A small boy was trailing in her wake. ‘Seven faults! She didn't line him up at all.’
‘Oh, Anna won't mind,’ I assured her. ‘She's dead relaxed about that sort of thing.’
‘I mind!’ Camilla exploded. ‘That's my pony, and half of Orxfordshire are watching!’
I looked around. An awful lot of women with horse blankets round their shoulders by way of pashminas, and who looked as if they'd been standing in a wind tunnel half their lives, were, it has to be said, looking our way and talking behind their hands.
‘Yes, but it's only a bit of fun,’ I said nervously. ‘I mean, it doesn't matter. Better luck next time and all that.’
‘Better luck…? That pony has been doing clear rounds all its life! Jumps out of his skin in the right hands, and now look at him. Ruined! And I think there's more to what went on at your sister-in-law's yard the other night than meets the eye.’ I quaked nervously under her gimlet gaze. ‘I don't think you've been bringing that pony in at all!’ Oh, that. ‘His ears are filthy!’
‘So are your son's.’
‘What?’ she gasped.
‘Just a hunch. And no, you're right, he hasn't been coming in. He's been frolicking in the fields, footloose and fancy-free.’
‘Oh! Just like you with that – that man!’ Ah. Spoke too soon. ‘Gypsy my foot. He's got that bookshop in Jericho, and I've seen him again today, hanging around, up to no good. Well, that's it, Hector's coming home. You're not to be trusted.’ With men, or horses? I wondered. ‘I shall be collecting him forthwith.’
‘You do that. And if Anna still wants a pony, which I'm not entirely sure she will, I'll buy her one, and we'll treat it with care, but like an animal. Your son needs a hanky, by the way.’
She glanced at the small boy beside her, thin and cold-looking, his nose streaming, who no doubt spent all his half-terms and holidays thus, trailing round after his mother and sisters.
‘And if that tack isn't cleaned to within an inch of its life I'll want to know why,’ she ranted on, ignoring me, and her son. ‘That breast plate is brand new. It's Dobson and Farrell!’
I leaned towards her. Put my nose close to hers. ‘You can stick your Dobson and Farrell breastplate where the sun don't shine, Camilla. You don't frighten me.’
And with that I sauntered off, sticking my hands in my pockets, wishing I could whistle. Me and Bob Geldof, eh? I'm sure his language would have been much more colourful. I must brush up on my abuse.
‘Evie.’
I stopped; realized in a flash what she'd meant about seeing that man again, which had momentarily thrown me. For here he was, saying my name, strolling towards me in jeans and a white T-shirt, looking so devastatingly handsome it fairly took my breath away; looking actually, just like the boy in the Levis ad. Boy. Yes, indeed. I was fairly sure I could resist him, but I kept my eyes firmly on the horse manure, just to be on the safe side.
‘Ludo.’
We kissed: a public, social exchange of pecks, one on each side. I stepped back smartly. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’
‘Stalking you. I knew your daughter would be here with her pony and I imagined you'd be watching, so I thought I'd lurk behind the horseboxes and spy on you. D'you find that creepy?’
I laughed. ‘I would if I believed it.’
He grinned. ‘I'm checking out the noise level for this afternoon's shindig.’ He jerked his head across the hedge to where Caro's pink and white stripy marquee was flapping in the breeze in the distance.
‘Oh! Is it today?’
‘Three o'clock. I was just casting a weather eye over the booze supply when I saw – heard, more like – this malarkey going on over the hedge. I'm not convinced loud-hailers and strident women yelling at their children is quite the ambience Alice had in mind, but I gather it finishes at three.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Some very forceful women in the secretaries' tent, one of whom I recognized from our encounter the other night, but all of whom could quite easily have led the Charge of the Light Brigade. I don't know what th
ey do to the enemy, but by God…’ He shuddered.
I giggled. ‘Camilla and cronies. She said you were here.’
‘She clearly couldn't quite place me until it was too late. Kept peering at me, head cocked, eyes narrowed, rather as she peers down the barrel of her shotgun, I imagine.’
I laughed. Then a silence prevailed. We both regarded the ground with interest.
‘Anyway,’ he went on briskly, his head coming up. ‘You're stalking me. You're working in my shop.’
I flushed. ‘It's the only place I can work, Ludo. But I know, I'm sorry. I'm working towards the end of the week, though.’
‘While I'm at the beginning, Malcolm said. So in fact, you're avoiding me.’
‘No,’ I said carefully, my toe scuffing the grass, ‘I just thought…’
‘Relax, Mrs Hamilton. I'm teasing you.’
I glanced up. Grinned. We smiled at one another, standing there in the hazy October sunshine.
‘You look different,’ he observed, at length.
‘I am different,’ I said in surprise. Then I remembered why. I sighed. Ploughed on. ‘Ant came back last night. Bella Edgeworth is dying, Ludo.’
He blanched in astonishment. Then he squinted, head jutting forward incredulously. ‘What?’
‘I know.’ I gave him another moment.
‘Shit.’ He ran a hand through his hair. Ruffled the back of his head in a dazed fashion. ‘Of what?’
‘Cancer.’
‘Oh.’ He blinked. ‘Right.’
‘And she wants us to bring up her daughter.’
‘Christ alive.’
I shrugged. ‘She's Ant's daughter, too.’
‘Yes, of course she is.’
‘And she's seventeen. Hardly a child.’
‘Right. Blimey. Still – heavy.’
‘Doesn't get much weightier.’
‘And you said?’
‘I said yes. We all said yes.’
A shadow crossed his face. ‘Right.’ He gave me a slightly rueful, lopsided smile. ‘Which gives me a no.’
It was my turn to blanch. Had he really…?
‘No, no,’ he went on quickly, seeing my face, ‘I don't mean that. You're quite right. I always knew it was a no. I shouldn't have said that.’
I didn't know what to say. He smiled, a proper smile this time. Took my hand.
‘I have a theory about you.’
‘Oh?’
‘Actually, it's more about me. Some men find women who pick badly, attractive. I've decided I'm the opposite.’
Pick badly. I didn't understand. Waited for him.
‘I find myself inconveniently drawn to women who pick well. Who love their husbands. Who are in a happy place. It's what I lost, you see.’ He looked at me searchingly, willing me to understand. I did. In an instant.
‘Yes, I do see.’
‘I'm quite aware that I could bag a single young girl, like the ones at Alice's party, but I want… someone who knows how to make a commitment.’
‘Not much of a commitment if I go off with you.’
He laughed shortly. ‘No. Not much of a commitment. But then, at one point, you thought you were losing him. And I'd lost my wife.’
I shook my head sadly. ‘It's too neat, Ludo. Promise me you won't go looking for young widows?’ I caught the tail end of a guilty look. ‘Oh God, don't tell me there's a website…’
‘No!’ He laughed. ‘Well, not that I know of.’
‘Because, it's not a good idea, I swear. Just wait. The right, gorgeous…’ I glanced up, searched the sky for words, ‘joyous – young girl, will come along, unattached and unencumbered, and will make you happy again. You'll see.’
He remained unconvinced. ‘It wasn't just the attachment kick.’ He frowned angrily at the ground and I braced myself for something heavy. His eyes came up full of mischief. ‘I also really fancy you.’
I laughed. Blushed a bit too. ‘Right.’
‘As I said in my note.’
‘What note?’
‘With the flowers.’
‘What flowers?’
‘You didn't get the flowers?’
I shrugged, at a loss.
‘I only sent them for a laugh. I was a bit pissed, actually; thought I'd try a different tack. A rather cheesy, obvious one. And only because I knew your husband wasn't at home.’
It dawned on us collectively.
‘Oh shit.’ He whipped out his phone. ‘Don't worry, I'll call them. They said they wouldn't deliver till this afternoon, anyway.’
I waited anxiously as he walked round in small circles, talking on his mobile. After a moment he snapped it shut. ‘They hadn't gone. They're still in the delivery van and they're ringing the driver to say hold fire.’
‘Oh, thank God.’
He smiled at my relief. ‘Why, what would he have done, punched me?’
‘No, of course not. Ant's a gentle man. But he's quite…’
‘Possessive?’
‘I suppose.’ It surprised me to say it.
‘I don't blame him.’
Still we didn't seem to have moved: a solitary couple facing each other in this teeming milieu of horses and children. He held out his arms and I walked into them.
‘Bye, Evie.’
‘I'll see you in the shop,’ I muttered into his neck.
‘I know. But you know what I mean.’
‘I do. Bye, Ludo.’
We squeezed each other and then, after a long moment, I pulled back. Eyes averted, I walked away. With a bit of a lump in my throat. As I went, I saw Anna tying up Hector again, watching me with her mouth open. It occurred to me to go and explain, and then it occurred to me not to. I put my sunglasses back on, thrust my hands in my pockets, and walked on to the car.
29
I walked across the fields feeling slightly choked; slightly sad for the loss of something I'd never even had. But I felt implausibly calm too, as if things were finally slotting into place. Clunk, clunk, clunk. I was squaring away, as my dad would have said, and even though I was pretty sure I'd never be able to square Ludo away entirely – was pretty sure my heart would always falter when he walked into a room and then rattle on at an unsettling pace – well, hey, that wasn't too terrible, was it? Wasn't too shameful? And if, too, I really had been the anti-freeze his atrophied heart had needed after Estelle, the catalyst for kicking on again, then I was glad. And proud. And very flattered. It was not an unpleasant feeling. One that would stay with me a while. For many years, I'd hazard. What was that Yeats poem Ant liked? When you are old and grey and full of sleep… dream of the soft look your eyes had once… de dum de dum. Something like that. And something about the love of a good woman, too. Or was that another poem? I smiled. A secret smile, down at my shoes. But as my path took me, for the second time that day, past the little brick and flint cottage with the pointed Hansel and Gretel roof, and my eyes leaked through the leaded windows, not to the dun-coloured walls of my childhood, but to a much brighter, more modern room, a gilt-framed mirror where once the sentimental print had hung, my smile faded and I became less pleased with myself. Less proud.
I got into my car and sat there a moment. Don't kid yourself, Evie. Or, if you must, then at least attempt to match up. To be that good woman. Square away some more. Clean up completely. I started the car, turned it round in the yard and, leaving a cloud of dust hanging suspended behind me, headed off down the lanes and back towards Oxford, in the direction of the Banbury Road, and ultimately, Summertown.
Summertown was as breezy and bustling as ever, its wide pavements ensuring it lived up to its name, as, on a pleasant day like today, the cafés and bars spilled onto them. Most of the roads leading off the main drag were leafy and affluent, but not the one I was looking for. I took the one I had a hunch about and cruised down: past the Launderette, the fish-and-chip shop, the 7-Eleven, but after some shabby Edwardian houses broke out in a rash around the corner, the road finally committed suicide at a dead end. Damn. I turned round, sped
back to the main road and tried another. Ah. This looked more promising. Another chip shop, another row of dismal houses, one or two sprayed with Arabic graffiti, and then, right at the end, a double-fronted cream house with peeling green windows, which also claimed to be St Michael's Hospice.
I parked, walked through the front garden, such as it was – a tangle of weeds and plastic dustbins – and rang the bell. After a moment light footsteps came down the hall and a tired, fragile-looking woman in a white housecoat opened the door. I explained who I'd come to see and she stood back wordlessly to let me in. She asked me to sign the visitors' book, then led me down a corridor, pointed to a door, and disappeared.
It was unbearably hot and the soles of my shoes clung to the plastic tiles underfoot. The cloying smell of unaired beds and institutional food left to moulder in stainless steel was oppressive. I breathed through my mouth and pushed on through the swing doors the woman had indicated. Six beds, three down each side, were occupied by wraithlike women, mostly catheterized, and all in various catatonic states: one or two were asleep, but the ones who were awake gazed straight ahead with dead eyes, their heads not moving as I came in.
Maroulla was in the bed at the far end on the left, eyes shut, mouth open. Her once-brown face was faded and peppered with pigmentation spots, her eye sockets hollow. I stood a moment at the end of her bed before moving to sit on the grey plastic chair beside her. A tiny trickle of saliva dribbled from the corner of her crimped mouth. I gazed at this once energetic, noisy woman, who'd chased Tim and me around the garden with a stick, threatening to beat us if we didn't come in for tea – ‘You come! You come now!’ – whilst Tim and I escaped and crouched giggling in the tree house.
‘Maroulla.’ I lifted her limp hand off the bedclothes: a clutch of twigs wrapped in translucent brown paper. Her eyelids flickered, her mouth juddered, and she slowly turned her head on her pillow. All of which took some time. Then her once dark, but now yellowing eyes focused on my face. As recognition dawned, a weak smile materialized.
‘Evie?’
‘I'm sorry I haven't been before.’ I really was. She gazed at me, her eyes not wavering from my face. ‘I should have done. I don't know why I haven't.’
The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton Page 35
