‘Strengthened by a sense of duty and sublime sensation of self-righteousness, Cathy. Ready, my dear?’
The road ran through fields of young green hops climbing forests of poles, and corn now golden but in places still flattened by last week’s hail and heavy rain. The sun was warm without being hot and all the elders were in flower. The parish lay away from the marsh and the last stretch of road had originally been laid by the Romans along the crest of a wooded hill. The wood was still there, too. The overhanging branches cut out the sun and the light was cool and green as in the depths of the sea.
The fête was in the vicarage garden and two Special Constables were directing the traffic coming and going from the car park in the field opposite. One was Bert Mercer. ‘Back again are you, then?’
‘Bert, why are you supporting the rival firm? Peace been declared?’
He smiled slowly and mopped his broad face with a glaringly white handkerchief. Mrs Bert once worked in a laundry. ‘You’d not reckon that if you was along the Lamb, tonight. Still, they said did I mind? Well, it seemed right.’
The two villages had fought each other on Saturday nights and Bank Holidays for as long as anyone could remember. No one knew why. It had never prevented inter-marriages. The same surnames were listed on the war memorials in both churchyards.
‘The same names,’ mused Mr Desmond, ‘would’ve been listed after Agincourt and Crecy, had any man bothered to make such a list. And when not fighting the French, they’d still have belted the daylights out of each other.’ He surveyed the back lawn crowded with the inhabitants of both villages. ‘The English have a deep affection for their old tribal customs. But one aspect invariably puzzles me on these occasions. From whence do all these worthy ladies wearing coloured meringues on their heads come and to where do they disappear, between fêtes? I never see them in church.’
‘Oh, yes, Vicar! Think of Harvest Festival. They all come. There’s barely standing room.’
He smiled over his glasses. ‘Mea culpa. I have overlooked that most cherished old tribal ‒ or to be accurate pagan ‒ custom.’
The cake stall was under a chestnut bowed with white candles; the fancy goods, under an ash; the pick-the-right-card-and-win-a-bottle stall discreetly arranged by the hedge at the bottom of the garden. The hard-working tea ladies coping with the insatiable demand for nourishment from within two minutes of the official opening raced round their tent growing redder as their urns grew emptier and the butter in the bridge rolls turned to oil.
Mr Desmond savoured his. ‘Butter. From George Mercer’s herd.’
One of about fifteen Mercers sitting near overheard. He was a tall fair teenager who could have been Bert’s son, had Bert had sons and not only daughters. ‘That’s right, Vicar. Me dad sent it up. How’d you reckon?’
Mr Desmond nodded at a distant farmhouse just visible through the trees. ‘What’s that farm there called, lad?’ The boy looked superior and his elder relatives amused. ‘Martin’s, ’course. Didn’t you know that, then?’
‘Yes, and I should, seeing I was born there. Old Mr Martin, whom your grandad’ll remember, was my grandad. Your grandad was the best young stockman he ever had, and he taught me the taste of a good butter. Brigadier Bell bought the farm twenty years ago from the man who bought it after my grandad died.’
The clan chuckled appreciatively. ‘Walked into that one didn’t you, young Trev? He knows, does the Vicar.’ They eyed the host vicar, an incomer, much as the A.U. staff had Naomi Butler. ‘Makes a difference.’
The shooting gallery, an innovation to me, was tucked round the side of the front garden and doing the best business of the day. Brigadier Bell was loading the guns, his wife organizing the queues of men, boys and a few girls, with crisp firmness. The size of her pink linen hat was rivalled only by Mrs Desmond’s. They were old patients and friends of my parents. We exchanged glad cries as they were too busy for more.
‘The Established Church,’ observed Mr Desmond as we strolled on, ‘has always been gifted with a very practical sense of priorities.’
We had agreed to leave before the official entertainment began, but the middle of the lawn had been cleared and the little children started country dancing while he was still shaking the necessary hands. For years, the three Desmonds, my brother and I had danced on the Desmonds’ lawn. The parental bribery rate had risen as we approached nine, the maximum age. At eight, Ruth and I had collected two choc-ices from my father, two lollies from the vicar, half a pound of jelly babies from my mother, and a pound of apples to salvage our teeth from Mrs Desmond.
In the car, I said, ‘We’d eaten the lot before you’d announced who got the most points bowling for the turkey. We weren’t sick, but I can’t think why not.’
He smiled. ‘Your father used to say about the only thing a healthy child’s stomach can’t digest is cast-iron.’ He paused, shortly. ‘I still miss him, sadly, Cathy, as of course you do. He was a good man who did much good with his life. And he was my friend. God willing, we shall meet again.’ He glanced sideways and answered my thoughts. ‘Yes. I do, though perhaps not at your age. Youth has so much faith in itself, that it often seems to feel the need of no other. Once youth’s brief glory has burnt out, if one has the blessed good fortune to be given the gift of Faith, one does not underestimate its necessity. Ah ‒ Tom’s van waiting!’ He slowed to a stop and gave me his front door key. ‘Leave it on the latch. You’ll be all right on your own?’
‘Fine, thank you. And for the outing.’
His older, thinner, more aesthetic face, smiled Joss’s smile. ‘Thanks to your pleasant companionship I enjoyed it much more than I anticipated, and many would add, deserved. With you shortly!’
I looked at our old house as I let myself in. It did not hurt as much as I expected, but the empty vicarage hurt much more. I could see Joss standing in the study on that other Saturday night and myself drifting round all the next day, like some naive teenager in a fantasy world where Love was Real and nothing to do with sex. Sex was something the biology mistress shoved down one’s throat in those constant ‘straight from the shoulder’ chats that embarrassed her as much as it bored the class. I remembered Ruth and myself moaning, ‘Sex, again! Oh, God ‒ that drag!’
I found a rug and cushions and went out into the garden. Just beyond the pond, between the willows and the apple trees, there was a patch of rough grass that under one of the unwritten laws children observe amongst themselves had been ‘the girls’ patch’. It was invisible from both houses and had the new advantage of being free of associations with Joss.
I kicked off my shoes, watched the sky filtering through the apple leaves and thought about the fête. That was a mistake, as Mr Desmond’s behaviour reminded me of Joss’s at Ruth’s reception. I switched to the A.U. and wondered how Miss Kenton was getting on. She had come in yesterday for a few hours to get into the routine. She was a tall, rather striking girl in her mid-twenties with very dark hair and the slightly hearty, slightly insensitive air of a good head girl. ‘Right,’ she’d said, ‘what’s to do? You name it, m’dear. You’re boss!’
The ’flu epidemic was beginning to subside, but the senior registrars were still down to one day and one night off, instead of their alternate free weekends. On paper this was Joss’s. Mr Roth’s deputy, Mr Carr, was standing in for him tomorrow. One of the registrar anaesthetists was taking over for Peter today. Peter had wanted me to go home with him to soothe his mother as she thought it was time he married. When he didn’t bring a girl home, she always produced some daughter of one of her friends.
A moorhen rustled across the pond. A blackbird in the nearest apple tree was singing like a nightingale. One summer evening in my first year I had got home for the evening before my days off to find Joss with my father in the garden. Joss had looked in to say goodbye before going back to Benedict’s after a holiday. A patient had arrived, Joss and I had stayed in the garden and counted seven nightingales singing in chorus.
I had had a surfe
it. I closed my eyes to shut out thought and was asleep almost immediately. I woke when someone gently touched my face. I smiled, stretched out my arms and blinked, expecting to see Mrs Desmond. Joss’s face was a few inches from mine.
For about five seconds I wasn’t sure if I was awake or asleep. We stared at each other with an equal kind of incredulity. I had to touch him to be certain and put my hands on his shoulder. ‘It’s you?’
He kissed me so wonderfully that at first I was incapable of coherent thought. Then I got my face free. ‘If you’re that hungry, go and make yourself a meal!’
He raised himself a little and his colour altered. ‘If you don’t want it, don’t set it up!’
‘I did not! I thought you were your mother!’ I pushed him off without difficulty as he was standing up. ‘You should be in the A.U.! Why aren’t you?’
He had propped himself against an apple tree and was now equally angry, though he controlled it better.
‘Worked out easier for John Carr to take over this afternoon and tomorrow morning.’
‘How was I supposed to know that?’ I slung the rug over my shoulder and glared at him. ‘Your parents didn’t say you were coming.’
‘They didn’t know till I turned up. Didn’t know myself till lunch. The parents don’t expect a warning. This happens to be their ‒ and my ‒ home.’
‘Where I thought vicar’s lad’s Union Rules obtained. Oh, sure, I know ‒ what are old pals for but to help out? Tell you what, Joss ‒ I’ll buy you your very own teddy bear.’
He flushed. ‘You’ve made your point, duckie.’
‘So I should hope!’ I was shaking with rage. ‘Providing you with a therapeutic release doesn’t give me one single frisson!’
He looked me over. ‘Snap, darling.’
‘Children, there you are!’ Mrs Desmond joined us, beaming. ‘Isn’t this a lovely surprise, Cathy? Such a pity Joss has to go back tonight, but as he’s promised, of course, he must and he can give you a lift ‒’
‘I’ve got a cheap day return ‒’
‘A bit of a waste, darling, but so much nicer to drive back on this lovely evening. Such a long drive alone. He’ll love to take you. Won’t you, Joss?’
He looked at me. ‘Always happy to help out an old pal.’
‘That’s settled! Come along. Supper’s ready!’
‘Supper?’ I looked at my watch. It was seven. ‘I’ve slept hours! I’m so sorry, Mrs Desmond ‒’
‘Now, why? You needed the rest. Joss and his father had a nice quiet tea, then Joss fetched me. Gervase said you were still sleeping when we got back, but we had to wake you now as Joss has to be back by ten.’
I asked, ‘Not on call tonight, Joss?’
‘No, but I’ve got a heavy date.’
At supper, after the P.M. on the fête, the subject was Naomi Butler. Mr Desmond was glad to hear that nice young woman was progressing well. ‘How much longer should she be warded, Joss?’
‘Week or so. Then a very long sick leave.’
‘Malta?’ Mrs Desmond turned to me. ‘Did you know Naomi’s parents have retired out there? Such a beautiful island, I believe. Joss was out there for his last summer’s holiday.’
‘How nice,’ I said.
‘It was,’ said Joss. ‘Naomi and I did our best to miss the return flight. Mum, I hate to rush off, but as we’ve got over fifty miles …’
Mrs Desmond saw us off as someone had called to see her husband. ‘Don’t forget, Joss, if Naomi would like a quiet week with us before she flies off, we’ll love to have her.’
‘Thanks, Mum, I’ll tell her.’ He kissed her and got into his car.
Mrs Desmond kissed me. ‘You’ll let me know?’ she whispered.
‘Soon as it’s fixed,’ I answered as quietly. ‘Don’t worry too much. He’s a very nice and quite brilliant man. I’d take my heart across the world to him. You’ll like him.’ She kissed me again. ‘Come back soon.’
Joss had the engine on and was fiddling with his safety-belt. He could not have overheard us, but he watched his mother very thoughtfully in the driving mirror as he drove off. ‘She’s looking much too tired. You notice?’
‘Yes. Missing Ruth.’
‘Typical! Typical trained nurse’s reaction! Fatigue must have a psychosomatic origin! No question of the cause being organic, or very possibly just physiological, occurs to your clever little mind!’
‘Cause such as glandular fever?’
‘Not in this case, though it’s a diagnosis I’ve heard dismissed as bloody-mindedness by the bloody-minded.’
‘And one I’ve known even high-powered and conscientious physicians find difficult to diagnose in the early stages.’ I thought Mrs Desmond’s secrecy unnecessary, but having promised to maintain it, took refuge in platitudes. ‘No matter how pleasing, the marriage of one’s only daughter can be a traumatic experience, Australia’s a long way off, and commonest things are the most common.’
‘And the menopause is a difficult time for women and I’ve an Oedipus! What’s your other little problem?’
I didn’t answer. We drove out of the village and along the first of the many side lanes that were a short-cut to the motorway in a blazing silence. Being on edge I played with the nearest buckle, a habit my mother said had started in my pram. Suddenly, he drew up in a passing place.
‘Why’ve we stopped?’ I demanded more sharply than I could have wished.
He switched off the engine. ‘If you haven’t seen enough sliced-off faces, I have. You’ve worked that something strap so slack, first jolt and you’ll be out of it and through the windscreen.’ He tilted my seat to release the length of strap I had somehow managed to jam underneath. ‘Try that for size ‒ and don’t be so bloody neurotic, woman!’ He brushed my hands aside, then reached forward and opened my door. ‘Or get out! Only five miles to Asden and you’ll be safer even if these lanes are lonely. Or have you forgotten the high percentage of accidents caused by the driver’s mental irritation?’
‘No.’
‘Then sit still and stop messing about with that bloody buckle! Touch it once more and you walk! And you can stop nerving yourself to repel boarders. All I want right now is to get us both back to London intact.’
I nearly got out, but my feet were hurting. I held my hands in my lap and looked at him. ‘This allowed?’
He slammed the door. It was over twenty miles before we spoke again, or far as I knew, looked at each other.
He had avoided the motorway and we were climbing the long, three-lane road running over the Downs. Pre-motorway it had been the main London road, and with the heavy traffic now siphoned off was nearly as quick as the motorway. Once anyone worked in an Accident Unit, fast driving lost its charm. If speed of itself is no killer, accidents at high speeds kill. Nastily.
That bit of road ran up the side of one of the highest hills in the county. It was edged by wide grass verges backed, on our right, by the hill. The far side of the left verge was fenced for its entire length by sturdy iron railings. A few yards from these, the hill fell sharply for hundreds of feet. The view was a local ‘must’ for tourists.
Spread out below and reaching to the horizon were miles of apple and cherry orchards, deep green hop gardens, acres of yellow corn. The black and white woodwork of the half-timbered farms and one-time yeomen’s houses took on a pristine freshness in the evening sun. The pink-fawn bricks of the houses glowed a soft orange and the cottages really did have roses growing round their doors. The cottage gardens were tiny, patchwork quilts, and the printed cones of the white oasts dotted the landscape like pepper-pots. It was the England of U.S. travel posters and the fact that it actually existed and belonged to me ‒ along with fifty-five million others ‒ suddenly gave me such unexpected and unashamedly possessive pleasure that I regretted our row still more. I wanted to share it with Joss and to tell him I had just belatedly understood something my father once said. In the last war he had been an RAF M.O. He had said that while convinced the outcome of
the Battle of Britain would have been the same had it been fought over any other part of the country, he had always thought the Germans had loaded the dice against themselves by attacking over one of the loveliest corners of England. ‘No man fights harder,’ he said, ‘than the man defending his own backyard. That summer the Garden of England was living up to its name.’
Joss’s urgent, ‘Christ! Watch it, mate!’ jerked me back to the present. I looked round and did a double-take.
A large silver car had come round the curve of the hill and was swaying drunkenly from one lane to another. ‘Driver had a blackout? Or steering gone, Joss?’
‘Seems to be trying to get it under control ‒’ he steered us onto the left verge and stopped. ‘He’s trying to get it into the hill ‒ oh God!’
The car had hit and reared up the side of the hill. Momentarily it had stayed poised on the two back wheels, then it did a complete backwards somersault. Now, on four wheels but facing uphill, it shot sideways right over the road and grass, then swivelled leftwards and bonnet first pitched into the rails.
I closed my eyes just before the ghastly clatter of metal on metal. ‘Joss, has it gone over?’
‘No.’ He drove on with his foot right down then braked so abruptly only our belts held us in our seats. ‘Three inside.’ He lunged into the back for his medical bag and ran for the wrecked car. I tore after him. I was dimly aware a white mini had drawn up behind us but on oath couldn’t have said who was in it.
The crumpled bonnet was jammed by bent but unbroken railings. The car roof was dented and crinkled as screwed up silver paper. Every inch of glass was opaque but apparently unsplintered. The engine was dead. The smell of leaking petrol was nauseating.
The right hand doors were either locked or jammed, and so was the left rear door. The front opened. Joss was lifting out a girl as I joined him. A youngish man was slumped over the wheel and an old man with white hair was in a heap on the floor at the back.
The girl’s eyes were open and had the glaze of acute shock, but otherwise she seemed unhurt. When Joss set her on her feet, she stood unaided. ‘She shouldn’t walk.’ muttered Joss, ‘but she’s got to get the hell out of here. Take her. I’ll get the others.’ He dried his hands on the seat of his pants and dived inside.
Ring O' Roses Page 9
