by Angela Huth
Mary hurried to the end of the garden and through the gate that led to the field. As she shut the gate – mossy wood beneath her hand, next job for Bill, perhaps – a swarm of Red Admiral butterflies dazzled out from the buddleia tree. She watched them till they were too high to see, small flames snuffed out like daytime fireworks, and wished Bill had been there to see them too. The buddleia was the first tree they had planted, to ensure the garden was always host to butterflies.
Once in the field, she could hear the saw, a minuscule whine drilling the silence. She would have found its buzzing all day an annoyance, but Bill did not seem to mind. Mary turned the corner and saw the various piles of logs, and Bill slumped bridge-like over the trunk of the tree, face down. She ran.
At first, she thought he was alive but unconscious. His shoulders, as she tried to pull him up, were very warm from the sun. But he was a deadweight. She could not move him. She tried to push her hand under his heart, but his chest was clamped to the tree, blocking her frantic fingers. She shouted his name over and over again, longing for silence, but the saw kept up its perpetual buzz and she did not know how to turn it off. As if from afar, she saw her own actions contained in a small crystal of immeasurable time – time that is judged by some as the conscious present. The last action, there by the tree, aflutter with hope, was to look at Bill’s face. To do this, she had to kneel and part the soft long grass which obscured his profile. Then she saw that it was he who had died first.
An hour later, Mr Yacksley, in gardening clothes and carrying an axe, saw Mrs Lutchins wave at him from the kitchen window. Something odd in the stiffness of her gesture, he thought. A moment later he was close enough to see the shocked white of her face, the fallen arch of her mouth.
‘Bill’s dead,’ she said.
‘God in heaven. Where?’
‘Tree.’
‘And I was coming up to lend a hand.’
‘Doctor’s on his way. Ambulance, I suppose.’
‘I’ll stay with you. You ought to sit down, Mrs Lutchins.’
‘I’m all right. But please go and be with him.’
Mr Yacksley took in the dullness smeared across her pretty eyes.
‘Very well,’ he said.
He propped up his axe and set out for the field. On his reluctant journey it occurred to him he now had a real job on his hands: finishing the tree and carting the wood to the house for the winter. It was the last thing he could do for his old friend. He had no doubt that what would please Bill Lutchins best, looking down from his place in heaven, would be to see another old man sawing the tree, so there would still be logs for the winter.
* * *
The funeral, a week later, was on a fine day. ‘Ruddy blue sky,’ as Mr Yacksley said to his wife that morning. She was not able to come with him, her arthritis had taken force over the last few weeks, making her almost immobile. But quite a gathering of parishioners and local friends turned up, and Mr Yacksley was able to report that floral tributes, some very grand, banked the entire length of the path to the church.
He and Mrs Lutchins – who to date had comported herself with amazing calm – worked hard on arranging the kind of funeral service Mr Lutchins would have liked best. They quashed all the vicar’s suggestions for modern alternatives, and insisted there should be no sermon: Mr Lutchins had always ridiculed the vicar’s mundane attempts at preaching. The vicar’s revenge was a deprived look on his way up the aisle. He read the magnificent old prayers in a pinched voice more suitable for a council agenda. But then he had never been a man who knew how to cope with fine words, and most of the congregation knew that he must be thinking how much easier life would be now that Mr Lutchins had gone to his rest.
Mrs Lutchins was very upright between her daughter and son-in-law, and did not shed a visible tear.
Now, in the graveyard, uncomfortably hot after the stone-cool of the church, friends and relations gathered round the newly dug hole in the ground into which an oak coffin had just been lowered. Mr Yacksley found himself between the two grandchildren. The young lad, in grey flannel trousers and a navy school blazer, tugged the postman’s sleeve.
‘Never knew Grandpa was so long, lying down,’ he said.
‘It can give you a turn, that’s right,’ Mr Yacksley whispered back. The little girl, on his right, was restless, shifting her weight from foot to foot. ‘Not long,’ he assured her.
‘Hope not. I’ve left my puppy in the car and she’ll be lonely. She’s a Cavalier King Charles spaniel,’ she added, and a sudden tear sped down her cheek. Whether caused by the thought of her imprisoned puppy, or her grandfather, Mr Yacksley could not be sure.
There was a strong smell of the sea. Also, the smells of warm daisied earth, and chemical gardenia. This last came, overpoweringly, from Rosie Cotterman. She, Ursula realised, glancing at her across the grave, was enjoying the part of mourner. She was dressed in a black velvet coat with a matching black velvet meringue of a hat, more suitable for a State funeral at St Paul’s Cathedral than this simple village affair. Always something of an actress – Ursula had heard she had had a short, undistinguished career on the stage before she turned to painting – she was now taking centre-stage as the strong friend and neighbour, mouth turned down but beautiful eyes quite dry. But perhaps that’s mean, Ursula then thought – perhaps I’m just clinging to any old thought that will blot out the picture of Father turned into an effigy in the coffin –
‘Derst to derst,’ intoned the vicar, and she winced.
Martin, feeling her anger and knowing its cause, took her arm. He looked across the grave at the children, and was proud of them. They had insisted on coming – providing she could bring the puppy, Sarah had said– and perhaps it was no bad thing to witness the mechanics of death when young. There had been copious tears at the news of their grandfather’s death, but spirits had soon been resumed. Now, Martin could tell, Sarah’s slight wriggling was due to some anxiety about her dog, while Ben’s fidgeting among sweets in his pocket indicated he was eager to get back to the house for tea. As for the old postman, gravely handsome in Sunday suit and black tie, he displayed all the discipline of an old soldier. He stood very upright, war medals twinkling on his jacket, clenched knuckles by his sides. A small tic in his cheek indicated the measure of control he was presently keeping, while a peak of white handkerchief pointing from his pocket showed the wisdom of precaution. Curiously, it was the sight of Mr Yacksley’s dignity, rather than the unbelievable view of the coffin, that brought tears to Martin’s own eyes.
Mary Lutchins saw none of these things. In a whorl of calm, eyes fixed on the ugly coffin, she could only think of the strangeness of Bill dying first. This, within moments of finding him, had given her great strength, which had not left her. She knew it never would. For the rest of her life she would be relieved of the worry that had tormented her for so many years. In the future she saw lightness, as well as the dark of loss – relief within her grieving.
She was glad it was such a fine, warm day. Bill would have liked that. He would have enjoyed Rosie Cotterman’s dramatic funeral clothes, and been infuriated as always by the vicar’s unfortunate pronunciation. But . . . silly, pointless thoughts. For the moment she must concentrate on the prayers, trying to blot out the voice: then she would allow herself to wonder if she had made enough cucumber sandwiches. (Oh, the luxury of such small worries.) Eighty mourners were invited back to the house for tea.
‘Lord have mercy upon us,’ simpered the vicar, pushing back the sleeve of his cassock for a surreptitious glance at his watch.
‘Christ have mercy upon us,’ Mary answered, with the rest, in a voice firm and strong.
* * *
When ten days had gone by and still Thomas received no reply to his postcard to Rosie Cotterman, his agitation became almost beyond control. He saw the summer stretching ahead, Rosie-less, and felt near panic. There were plans for the annual family holiday: an expensive villa in Portugal with the children and their impossible friends. Helen t
hreatened to bring her new boyfriend from Durham, apparently ‘into social sciences’. Last year, in Porto Ercole, she and her jazz drummer, when they weren’t complaining about the expensive heat, spent the day by the pool communicating in coded grunts about Milton – whom they were both into. This time-consuming occupation meant they were unable to be of any help to Rachel. She, uncomplaining, worked so hard that on return to England the doctor declared her suffering from exhaustion. Jeremy, as usual, had grumbled daily about the lack of beer, and kept his own inconvenient hours – up mid-afternoon, bed at dawn, so they saw little of him. This year, he announced he was bringing a girl called Aida, about whom Thomas knew nothing but could imagine all too well.
He dreaded the three weeks in Portugal profoundly. The thought of being physically so far away from Rosie, and having no notion of her feelings, was making him ill. He felt a dull sickness all the time, and ate little. To keep himself going he returned to his old habit of drinking at lunchtime and consuming a whole bottle of wine every evening.
Pride, he supposed it was, kept him from writing a second postcard, or telephoning Rosie. He was determined to stick to his intention of acting slowly this time: none of the disastrous haste of the past. Ravaged by the canker of impatience, he suffered for ten days. Then he could endure no more. He decided simply to go to her, surprise her.
His second journey brought him peace mixed with excited anticipation. Whatever happened, he would buy more pictures, and have a few hours in Rosie’s company. Gently, he would make some suggestion for the future that might appeal to her: a trip to Aldeburgh, perhaps, in the autumn – nothing that would alarm her, but something that would furnish him with an event to look forward to while suffering in Portugal. Above all, he ached for time with her.
Thomas had dressed more suitably this time. In open-necked shirt and corduroy trousers, he was warm and comfortable in the Mercedes, zooming along the motorway in the enclosed capsule of his thoughts. Dismay was caused only when he glanced down at his stomach. He kept his eyes on the road.
He arrived, as before, at about noon. He let himself in and found the place empty. Nothing had changed. The confusion of objects and paints and pictures was wonderfully familiar – again, the sensation of being home, in the place he was born to be, was almost overwhelming. More boldly this time, he picked his way through the furniture to the window, and stood looking out at the unblemished sky and expanses of feather-headed reeds of the marsh. Any moment, he imagined, she would come pottering down the path in her yellowhammer oilskin, see him, and look surprised and pleased again. But half-an-hour went by and there was no sign of her. Perhaps she had taken sandwiches for lunch, Thomas thought with regret. He would have to wait until the light began to fail. Ah well, no matter. Surrounded by her things, he was happy to wait for her all day.
He began to examine new pictures, some pinned carelessly to the wall, a stack of them piled on the table. One in particular he knew he must have – he would pay any price for it: the merest swoop of pale colour indicated the beach, while a single curve of deliquescent blue made the sky. Just sea and sky: no distant figure, no promontory, nor ship nor dune to disturb the awe of emptiness. Rosie Cotterman understands, he thought, the essence of aloneness.
Thomas returned the picture to the pile and felt the kind of shiver down his spine that precedes a major decision. And then it came to him. He, Thomas Arkwright, Sunday painter of no talent, would never try again.
The pleasure of trying, or aspiring, was a thin pleasure without the aid of talent. His own attempts were pathetic, always had been. Dry, frizzled, pernickety, spiritless things. What had he been doing, frustrating himself all these years, wasting his time? His motive, of course, had been escape. But while hours in his studio had afforded him one kind of escape, it had also produced another kind of prison – his own limitations. There is no escape from those.
Such truths, sweeping relentlessly upon the confused Thomas that fine Norfolk morning, caused him a profound sense of melancholy. The happiness of only moments ago, anticipating Rosie’s arrival, seemed to have drained away. His private decision, of no interest to anyone else on earth, left him feeling physically clumsy, cold. He sat heavily in the largest chair, and listened to the silence.
After a while, he picked up the bottle of red wine from the table and studied its impressive label. He had been waiting almost two hours, now, and needed a drink. Rosie, he felt sure, would not mind if he helped himself. He filled Rosie’s unwashed glass with the dark wine. He sniffed, swished, sipped appreciatively. But he was hungry, too. Almost faint. The fridge, he found, was empty but for a small corner of wizened Camembert on a saucer. This he nibbled slowly, alternating the nasty taste with swigs of the wine. After a second glass – the bottle was almost empty now, he made a mental note to replace it – the familiar strands of indigestion began to lace through his chest. Thomas groaned out loud, tipped back his head and shut his eyes. Soon he fell asleep.
He was woken mid-afternoon by the noise of the front door. Confused, he saw the glass of wine in his hand and was aware of the pungency of his own sweat. He quickly returned the glass to its place, and turned. A woman in black stood looking at him.
For a moment, dazed, Thomas felt he was in the presence of an Edwardian ghost. The figure wore a droopy sort of coat, and a large, squashy velvet hat on whose brim meagre ostrich feathers lay exhausted. Then she smiled with one side of her mouth, and he knew it was no phantom.
‘Mr Arkwright?’
‘Thomas.’
‘Thomas, to be sure. I wasn’t expecting you, was I?’
‘No, I just came, I’m afraid.’
‘Ah. People do turn up here out of the blue. It’s how things are, I’ve noticed.’
‘I hope you don’t mind –’
‘Not at all, not at all. It’s good you’re here.’
‘I was impatient to buy more pictures.’
‘Were you, indeed?’ She took off the hat, punched its mushy crown. ‘I’ve just been to a funeral. Bill Lutchins. Old friend. Very old friend, as a matter of fact. We danced together.’ She paused to undo the huge mother-of-pearl buttons of the coat. ‘But he loved Mary more, and married her.’
‘Ah. I’m so sorry.’
‘Mary was the woman you met on the beach.’
‘I remember.’
‘Fascinated by the buyer from London, she was. Poor Mary.’
Thomas took the coat and laid it on a chair. He now saw that the top layer of clothes only had been in deference to the funeral. The coat had concealed an old blue T-shirt and black jeans.
‘I should have let you know I was coming,’ he said. ‘But it was a sudden decision.’
‘Never mind about that. Now, shall we be opening a bottle of wine?’
‘Why not?’ Thomas’s head was still unclear. Another drink might help. ‘Did you get my postcard?’
‘Your card? Why, I believe I did. I’m not much of a writer, myself.’
The thought of a one-sided correspondence with the woman he loved added a brick of gloom to the melancholy structure within him.
‘But you didn’t mind my writing?’ he asked.
‘Of course not! I like to hear from friends. You could write again, perhaps.’
In that case, thought Thomas, Portugal might be bearable after all.
He bought the picture he particularly wanted, and two others besides – and stayed for just over an hour. Rosie was friendly, sympathetic, warm, but distracted. Thomas assumed she was affected by the death of her friend. He cursed himself for having come on this of all days, and decided that, if he was to act with the unselfishness of true love, then he must leave her shortly. He had no wish to intrude on her grief.
‘Mary organised funeral meats,’ Rosie was saying, ‘but I couldn’t bear to go. I’m no good at parties. I’m not one for funeral wakes. I like to be alone when someone dies.’
Thomas stood up. ‘I’m on my way,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry today was . . .’
‘Oh
, think nothing of it.’ Rosie’s face, swept with relief, seemed to be dusted with invisible gold. Thomas dared not kiss her on the cheek for fear the touch would cause a conflagration he could not control. ‘Come again, and buy some more. How can I refuse so good a client?’
She laughed. Thomas tried to smile. Client to Rosie Cotter-man, then, was his position so far: by winter things would have changed. One way or another, he would make sure of that.
They shook hands. Thomas drove away. He told himself he had made some progress, but there was no conviction. The heaviness of waiting once again – how long, this time? – came upon him, and he fell to wondering about her friend who had died. What had they been to each other, she and this Bill Lutchins, in their youth? And how far had they danced?
* * *
Rachel woke slowly from a glorious afternoon’s sleep. The margins of sun round the drawn curtains told her it was late afternoon, and she did not care. Usually she was up by four-thirty, sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of peppermint tea and her book. But since the dinner in Oxford her energy had flagged, somehow. Her afternoons in bed, mostly asleep, had lengthened.
As the disappointment of that evening – a deeply private thing – began to wane, the humour of it appealed more strongly to Rachel. Sometimes, in bed, she found herself smiling at the absurdity of the whole catastrophe. Signalling her availability – the vanity of the idea! Still, she had learned sharply and quickly. There would be no more signals. No more humiliating availability. A return to the containing of self. Easier, that. It brought small rewards, sometimes. Nothing to do with men, or sex, or passion, but happinesses that, in love, are clouded by exhilaration. Out of love, they become more clear. They compensate. Rachel recognised this, and was grateful.
