He had said that the nearest shop was the garage on the main road, and that’s where Rufus and I headed, left at the end of the drive and down through the village. The air was dry and the day already parched: no dew, no sap, no pollen, only seedless pods and flowers withering on their stalks. Even the rooks above the churchyard sounded hoarse. EVERYTHING MUST GO said the empty window of the general stores, and everything had. But two other shops seemed to be in business: Auntie’s Antiques, which claimed to open daily from 11 to 4, and Two Wheels Good, which had old-fashioned bikes in the window, shiny and ready for hire. The pub, the Old Swan, didn’t look closed, either: out in front, a standing wooden sign — double-sided and held together with a rope, like the letter A — boasted a range of beers and snacks. I walked on, looking for life, but saw no one. Predictably, as we passed the best-kept verge in the village, in front of an Edwardian villa, Rufus hunkered down, arse just above the ground, in that hunched, embarrassed posture dogs adopt when they’re shitting. I’d not brought a pooper-scooper or a plastic bag. But nobody was around to see, so I pretended I hadn’t seen, either.
Beyond the primary school with its metal railings, we passed a cul-de-sac of pebble-dash semis from the fifties. A few cars were dotted about, Ford Escorts and Minis, but again there was no sign of life. Perhaps rural inhabitants are always like this, I thought, slow to rise and lackadaisical. Or perhaps the inertia was peculiar to Badingley. It seemed a little creepy, either way — as if the village were a ghost village, lost in the heat haze of its past.
At the junction with the main road, we reached the modern world. Cream caravans raced by, and Euro-juggernauts. I grabbed Rufus and put him on his lead. He’s normally obedient — I’m strict about punishing him if he misbehaves — but today he strained ahead, excited by the new habitat. ‘Heel,’ I said, reining him in until the road dipped before the garage (I could see the ESSO sign ahead), where he tugged so hard towards a blackthorn hedge that I let myself be taken, assuming he needed another dump. A couple of bluebottles were circling the source. Under clumps of cow parsley, an owl lay in a bed of its own feathers, freshly dead.
‘Sit, sit, sit, SIT,’ I urged Rufus, to stop him acting like the gun dog he was. Though the owl’s face was smashed in, and a trickle of blood tinged the flat beak, the feathers — pearl brown and lacy white — were unblemished. Male or female? If male owls are large, then male, but the whiteness seemed female, the shade of a wedding dress. If Rod had been there, he’d have dissected the owl with his penknife. Even I couldn’t resist slipping my hand into the feathers. The body wasn’t warm but it didn’t have the coldness of the grass. Had the owl died only an hour ago then, in the grey dawn mist? Whatever struck must have been moving at speed to hurl it so far. A high-sided van or lorry, perhaps. With the speed, and the weight, the windscreen must have shattered or cracked. Even if it hadn’t, the blow must have been terrific. Peering down at the corpse, like a surgeon in theatre, my faithful assistant trembling beside me, I could imagine it all: the huge white bird whirling out of the dawn, no time for evasive action, the driver instinctively ducking as it hit. Did he stop and walk back, or keep going? The heavy grass verge showed no sign of disturbance, nor was the road pitted with broken glass. He must have driven on, then. Well, why not? He would have known the owl was dead. Yet not to check and be sure … Owls were rare these days and this one might have young to feed. You couldn’t blame the driver for killing it but you could blame him for his indifference. Who can take a life, even by accident, and not feel a touch of remorse?
In the kind of books we give to our more advanced Year Sixes, a dead owl would be an omen of catastrophe. But I felt privileged to see one at such close quarters. Holding Rufus back with one hand, I uprooted a handful of ferns and cow parsley and covered the corpse as best I could.
As I paid for the milk and papers at the garage, I thought of telling the lad behind the counter. But what would he care? And how to explain my sense of excitement? The English countryside is tarred and feathered with roadkills. To someone who lived there, it wouldn’t be news.
BADINGLEY, PLEASE DRIVE CAREFULLY the village sign said as we walked back, then underneath in smaller letters ‘Population —'. There’d been a figure once — 10? 100? 1,000? — till someone scratched it out. We passed the school, the village green, the thatched pottery, the church with its gangling spire — and saw no one. It was as though a space had been cleared specially for me. I’d a lot on my mind or should have had. But as I walked up the drive towards the farmhouse — the sun on my bare arms, dog rose in the hedges, Rufus’s fur burning gold — I felt sharp, bright, eager, refreshed, euphoric.
There was still no sign of life when I re-entered the house. I’d bought two papers to read, one tabloid, one broadsheet, a habit of Ollie’s at university which I thought he might enjoy seeing revived: ‘Important to see how the other half lives,’ he used to say, and though my chippy inner self objected to him saying it (I was that other half, the Sun had been my father’s daily paper), I kept my trap shut. Had I not gone to uni to better my prospects? And wasn’t a requirement of self-betterment learning to sneer at the culture I’d left behind? Nowadays I rarely bother with newspapers. But the prospect of reading snippets aloud to Ollie was oddly enjoyable — a deferral of the day when he would no longer be around.
That he wasn’t around even then — nine o’clock and the sun pouring in — confirmed the worst: he must be ill.
Reluctant to believe it, I walked round to the barn: perhaps he was tinkering with his car. My eyes adjusted to the dusty void. It was less a barn than a lean-to extension, which served both as a garage (with an inspection pit covered by wooden planks) and as a workshop. The two halves were divided by a partition made up of horizontal boards; the boards were nailed to upright posts, which rested on a low brick wall. A grey inflatable boat hung from the ceiling, an ancient hosepipe coiled round itself in a corner, and a couple of bikes leaned against the wooden boards. I stepped through a narrow opening into the workshop. According to Ollie, the building had once been a coffin-maker’s — easy to believe since all the posts were caked in candlewax (without candles, long working days and night-time vigils would not have been possible). The floor was bare earth and in one corner someone had chalked a downward arrow and the word ‘RATS'. The thin cobwebbed window at the end was draped with dead moths and butterflies, like a display of world flags. A wide workbench sat beneath it, and three shelves holding small tools. Larger tools hung from the wall: scythes, picks, shovels, sickles, forks, flails and other museum pieces. Ollie’s car was the newest object in the barn by about a century. As I left, I put my hand on the fly-frilled bonnet and radiator grille. Stone cold. The car hadn’t moved since last night and nor, it seemed, had Ollie.
Back in the house, I filled a bowl of water for Rufus, boiled the kettle and carried a tray upstairs. Em drinks Earl Grey, I prefer ordinary (English Breakfast as they now call it), but this morning we both had Assam, made in a pot, with real tea leaves.
‘Morning, love.’
She was wearing a white nightdress, with lacy frills, and the look and feel of it as I bent over to kiss her, along with her little nose and sleep-hooded eyes, made me think of the owl.
Em’s keen on nature but when I told her she reacted with indifference. It wasn’t the owl she wanted to talk about but Ollie.
‘However ill he is, it’s outrageous of him not to tell Daisy,’ she said.
I was beginning to regret having confided in her, especially when Ollie had asked me to tell no one. But Em wasn’t no one.
‘Maybe he wants to be certain before he does,’ I said, pouring the tea.
‘He told you.’
‘We go back a long way.’
‘So does Daisy. And they live together.’
I lay on the bed and cuddled up.
‘That could be another reason,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Because I’m less directly affected, he found it easier to tell me. Whereas he’s
afraid Daisy will go to pieces.’
‘What patronising crap. Daisy’s tough as nails.’
‘Or maybe he was using me as a guinea pig. To see the impact of coming out with it. As a trial run.’
‘If ever you get ill, I expect you to tell me at once.’
‘Of course. But you know Ollie. He likes to feel he can cope on his own.’
‘You can’t cope with cancer on your own. It affects the people around you. Sparing them isn’t protective, it’s disabling. If you don’t make him tell Daisy, then I’ll tell her.’
‘That’s blackmail.’
‘It’s one couple helping another couple. That’s what friends are for. And in return … Let that fly out, will you?’
I went to the window but it was open already. The fly hung there against the glass, swaddled in spider threads, rocking backwards and forwards. No point trying to rescue it.
‘In return what?’ I said.
‘Ollie can advise you how to handle the disciplinary hearing.’ ‘I told you in the car. I don’t want to discuss it. Anyway, he’s got enough on his plate.’
‘It’s the kind of thing Ollie loves to get his head round.’ ‘It’s not my job to provide him with mental stimulation.’ ‘You’re happy enough providing him with physical.’ ‘I knew you’d be cross about that.’
‘What do I care if you want to play silly games? Provided there’s no money riding on it.’ ‘Of course not.’
She sat up and looked me in the eye.
‘Sure? You know what you’re like with betting.’
‘That’s all over with,’ I said.
She kept her eyes on me a few more seconds then relaxed. ‘I wondered why you’d spent the summer getting fit,’ she said, ruffling my hair.
‘I had to do something while you were working.’
‘You went to the gym every day.’
‘It’s a good place to hang out.’
‘And you cycled round half the Midlands.’
‘You had the car.’
‘Not to mention all the hours at the driving range.’ ‘Smacking golf balls is good therapy.’
‘Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me,’ she said. ‘As long as you promise to talk Ollie into telling Daisy.’
‘Why don’t you talk to him? The two of you seemed pretty friendly last night.’ ‘Sorry?’
‘Coming home in the car. Anybody would think you fancied him.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. What are you on about?’ Her indignation disarmed me. What was I on about? I’d been half drunk and they’d only been talking.
‘I don’t know, I just —’
‘Are you feeling unloved, Ian? That’s stupid. Would you like to pull those curtains and get into bed.’
When I opened the curtains twenty minutes later, the fly was neatly mummified and bubble-wrapped, ready for ingestion.
Em was exaggerating my fitness regime. It’s true I’d been exercising through the summer. But the purpose of it was to be healthier rather than to win a contest that might never take place.
It also took my mind off the business at school. Each day I’d choose a route of thirty to forty miles and set off on my bike as Em left for work. Or I’d go to the driving range and whack balls off the rubber mats — long drives that sang towards the far wire fence or neat little chips into the ring of tyres at fifty metres. Either way, cycling or golf, I’d be at the gym by mid-afternoon. ‘Gym’s so boring,’ people say. But I loved pushing myself while the television screens stacked above brought news of far-off catastrophes. And I loved watching the metres clock up, whether I rowed, pedalled or ran them. The calorie counter, too, and the knowledge (or illusion) of pounds falling off. I tried every variation on the cross-trainer: Random, Quick Start, Hill Climb, Sprint, Endurance. The black metal weights rose higher in their stacks. Not a day passed without some new personal best, on whichever apparatus. I pumped iron, straddled bars, balanced on medicine balls, saw off rival boat crews, powered over 1-in-3 hills, vibrated on the power-plate till my teeth chattered. My skin glowed. My muscles hardened. A different man stared back from the mirror, sweat seeping like blood from his prickly scalp. I felt reborn, godlike.
By the time we arrived in Badingley, I was fitter than I’d been for years. But that’s not saying much. And you can take my word for it that I’m not particularly competitive. All I wanted was to keep my end up with Ollie — to lose with dignity rather than be trounced.
From the moment he arrived, I could see that Daisy’s interest in Milo was more than professional. Most men are like me: we resent women finding other men attractive. But with Milo the attractiveness couldn’t be denied. He had sandy curls, a pink boyish face, broad shoulders and oversized feet. His trousers (cut off just below the knee) and his light blue polo shirt made him look like a model from the fashion pages promoting smart-but-casual summer wear. And he was tall, with a leanness that (unlike Ollie’s) suggested purposeful languor, not angst. Above all, there was his gentleness with his daughters, who — shy at having to meet a bunch of strangers — each took refuge in an upper thigh, Bethany bagging his left and Natalie his right. Milo stroked their hair and (between greetings to us) whispered reassurances until they gradually unclasped. I can’t imagine anyone making a better first impression. I hated him on sight.
I’m sure that Ollie felt exactly the same. As Daisy’s partner, he was used to meeting artists and designers. And as Milo’s host, it was his duty to be polite. But I knew what he was thinking: you charlatan, you sycophant, you pseud.
‘You poor darlings, you look exhausted,’ Daisy said, in her worst, affected manner, as if Milo had just driven from the Outer Hebrides, not London.
‘It wasn’t too bad,’ he said, to his credit. With two children in the car, the journey couldn’t have been fun. But Em and I had come twice as far.
‘Let’s get you all a drink,’ Daisy said, like a Sister of Mercy.
She had been presenting Milo as a pitiful victim ever since the previous lunchtime — that is, from the moment she admitted that she had not been able to change his dates and that, if his daughters’ recent bout of flu didn’t prohibit it, he would probably turn up for Saturday lunch and even possibly stay over on Saturday night, after which he’d doubtless push off early on the Sunday, though there was always an outside chance that he would stay over that night too. I soon inferred that Milo would be staying the whole damn weekend. Why Daisy bothered to disguise it I don’t know. It was her right to invite Milo whenever (and for however long) she liked. Why should we care? But I could tell she felt awkward from the way she emphasised his deservingness: his wife Bianca had gone to America for a whole month and the poor guy was struggling to cope. Having seen through Daisy’s other stratagem, I made the mistake of falling for this one. I’d expected a deadbeat not a Greek god.
We sat on the terrace drinking coffee in the baking heat while Daisy and Em got lunch ready and Milo’s girls did the kind of inconsequential things that little girls do. Ollie made conversation as best he could but I knew he was exasperated. The plan had been for the two of us to play tennis from eleven till one. But, having been barred from doing so by Daisy, on the grounds that Milo was due at midday and that our absence would seem rude, we’d hung around after breakfast reading the papers — not a problem as far as I was concerned (in the stifling heat I’d no appetite for Round Two of our contest), but frustrating for Ollie, especially when Milo didn’t arrive till after one.
All of which made lunch predictably tense, though the day might still have passed off without incident, but for Archie.
None of us had seen him since the previous evening, and Daisy and Ollie seemed content for it to stay that way: the lunch table was laid for seven, not eight, and nothing was said about him joining us. But while drinks were served in the garden (much the same ritual as the previous day but with kids present to spoil it), Em slipped back inside to find him. ‘Where’s Em got to?’ Daisy asked more than once, before turning back to Milo, who was explainin
g to us that though his post as a creative director for one of the corporates left him less and less time to pursue his own work, his first love was the project he’d been working on in private since leaving art school. I couldn’t get my head round the thing but it seemed he had used a scalpel to scrape skin from different parts of his body, with a video camera trained on his face to record his physical reactions, and electrodes plugged to his head to record the effects on his brain. From this he’d created a work called Body Pain/Ecstasy, with magnified images of his veins and blood cells, and a soundtrack created by converting his brain movements into musical notes. Over the past few years, he told us, he’d created a dozen or more multimedia ‘Body Narratives’ but he didn’t yet feel ready to exhibit them. Thank God for that, I thought — may your sick, narcissistic shite remain unseen for ever. But Daisy kept saying how wonderful the project was (she’d evidently been to his studio) and how terribly important he chisel out time to complete it (even if, so it seemed to me, he’d then be diddling the company she had found him a well-paid job with). Daisy’s gushing made me want to puke and I was on the verge of disappearing into the house when Em reappeared with a sly little smile on her face.
Two minutes later Archie followed, wearing long shorts and a vest, and looking marginally less pallid than he had the day before. Daisy and Ollie both seemed apprehensive, as though he was bound to do something shameful or barbaric. And when Archie made straight for the champagne, knocking back a first glass in one swig before pouring himself a second, they became jumpier still. But Archie, smiling, seemed genuinely pleased to meet the new guests (all three of whom were closer in age to him than the rest of us were) and listened patiently as Milo went on about his gruesome artwork. Lunch was on the table but when Natalie and Bethany asked could they go into the field beyond the orchard to look at the straw bales, Daisy said that lunch could wait, and Archie delegated himself to escort them, along with Rufus.
The Last Weekend Page 10
