‘To town, to find a cheese grater.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me you can cook, too. That’s disgusting. It just won’t do. Listen. Have you ever been to town before, as you put it?’
‘Not really. Well, once, for an afternoon, about ten years ago.’
‘Do you have a map? And while we’re on the subject, a fondness for one-way systems and standing in rush-hour traffic being overtaken by cyclists?’ It was not clear to me from his expression whether he was joking or serious. ‘There’s a fairly ill-equipped kitchen store in Summertown just a few shops down from the off-licence. Why don’t I take you there?’
I got into his Morris Minor. ‘So. How have they been treating you?’ he asked as we headed down the single-track road into Oxford.
‘Very considerately,’ I said. ‘If anything, too considerately.’
‘Well,’ he said. ‘You can see their point. They know full well that any sane person in your shoes would run a mile. I hear the birthday party yesterday was something of a disaster.’
‘Oh, that was my fault,’ I said.
He rolled his eyes. ‘You and about twenty other headcases – nineteen of whom I would say were certifiable. But it’s good riddance to some very ugly rubbish otherwise known as Wayne, if you ask me. Now, I know the gentry like to go slumming from time to time, but that little caper was bloody ridiculous. You’ve won over Aunty Dowager Bea, I hear.’
‘She’s been very helpful.’
‘“Meddling” is probably a more useful word. But she’s still your best bet if you’re looking for an ally. Whispering Pines has been in to clean, I take it?’
‘I suppose you mean Janet.’
‘She’s a good sort, Janet. But when the going gets tough, she has a way of entering into alarming conversations with the duster. Don’t worry, though. She’s a tower of strength compared with the rest of them. Have you had any run-ins with Twinkle-Toes?’ Catching my blank look, he added, ‘Otherwise known as Danny.’
‘Just for half an hour or so, before she took the children off for the night to visit some friends.’
‘Half an hour? That’s twenty-nine minutes too long. But she was all right, was she? Didn’t bring out the tarot cards or throw around any crystals?’
‘Mostly we talked about her work,’ I said cautiously.
‘If she worked half as long as she talks about her work, she’d have written The Remembrance of Things Past ten times over by now. Although this, I should warn you, is one subject you would best avoid. She and I have been rowing about it for years, and she still insists Proust wasn’t crazy. This despite the fact that he spent his last ten years in a room lined with cork. Another word to the wise: if you want to express your admiration for any aspect of Paris, Texas, and particularly for the acting achievement of Harry Dean Stanton, for God’s sake look over your shoulder first and make sure Danny’s out of earshot. I’ve had that argument so many times I could recite it to you sideways.’
‘You’re the Crawley who runs Beckfield Press,’ I said, as I remembered Max telling me about him.
‘For my venial sins, yes.’
‘And you also write poetry.’
‘Yes, for my mortal sins.’
‘Do you publish yourself?’
‘Not allowed, my dear. Too straightforward. Too boring. Not enough intrigue. No, I’m part of what you’ll soon discover was once the Hertford Five, but now is better known as the Eternal Triangle, along with two other poetry editors called Philip and Damian. I publish Philip and Max, and Philip publishes Damian, Damian publishes me, and Max makes sure we all get review space. It makes our enemies happier that way. To me, it’s just a job, and a bloody useless job, too. They have no idea how badly we triad members pay each other. By the way, did you bring any dosh? I note with interest that you haven’t a handbag. Don’t worry. A cheese grater won’t ruin me. And I’ll even advance you cash for some wine – unless you prefer to wander over to Aunty Bea’s like your freeloader boyfriend and sting her for a donation from her overstocked winecellar.’
I chose to borrow the money. As I told him on our return journey, I didn’t like to be beholden to people. By way of explanation, I began to tell him where I came from and what kind of life I had been living before the abrupt change of the previous week. The story sent him into an alarmed silence. As I was still in the middle of it when we reached the house, I asked him in to have a glass of wine with me while I started supper. While chopping up the bacon, I found myself telling my (edited) version of how Max and I had met.
He listened thoughtfully. Then he said, in a low and uncertain voice, ‘He deserves to be happy. No matter what anyone else says, remember that. But it will take some doing, my dear. How is he taking this latest crisis?’
‘The biography, you mean?’
He nodded.
‘I’m not sure,’ I said.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘You’ll know soon enough.’ He made to leave. ‘In the meantime, don’t hesitate to get in touch if the games they try to play with you get just a bit too puzzling. And enjoy your supper. It does my heart more good than you can imagine to walk into that poor excuse for a kitchen and see something that was once alive. Allegedly.’
This last remark threw me. I thought he was referring to me and so I failed to catch the other possible meaning.
Chapter Fourteen
As I continued with supper, I corrected the chant. This was not my house, I told myself. But it was my paring knife, my cheese grater, my breadboard. They were my accomplishments for the day. Tomorrow I would buy a Le Creuset pot, or two of them, or three, and a steamer, a colander and a wooden spoon. I would go to the bookstore and get some cookbooks. Buy a basil plant and some spices, and see about replacing the odd assortment of mismatched plates, cups, glasses and cutlery. Cheer the place up a bit, rearrange the cabinets, stake my claim on this house that was not my house. Make my contribution to this strange family that was now my family, and claim my niche.
I was setting the table – making the best of what I had – when Bea appeared. ‘Oh, how lovely!’ she said when she saw the table. ‘Are those flowers from the walled garden? How resourceful of you! But you looked rather tired. I hope you haven’t taken on too much. No, honestly, I shouldn’t,’ she said when I offered her the wine. ‘Well, I suppose I could risk half a glass. What a day I’ve had! A dreadful lunch with a dreadful woman who seems to think I’m the perfect person to do the text for a large photographic celebration of cold chicken. Goodness, what will they think of next? And now I’m off to the most appalling farmhouse in Northamptonshire for what promises to be a ghastly dinner party. You-know-who is meant to attend – Princess M’s great friend, the one who ran off with that man who OD’d on carrot juice. I shall let you know how events unfold.’ She picked her diary and her notebook out of her basket. ‘Then it’s Glyndebourne at the weekend, and after that I’m off to the health farm, so we must get you organised before then. You’ve sorted the car, I gather. I’ll get you to the bank tomorrow morning, and if you’re free perhaps we can have lunch together.’ She leaned forward. ‘Unless you’re working, of course. You mustn’t let us encroach on you.’
‘Actually,’ I said, ‘it doesn’t really matter at the moment. My book is not going particularly well. Although I plan to keep to my usual schedule as soon as I’ve caught my breath.’
‘Which is?’
‘A minimum of three hours’ desk time every morning.’
‘That sounds reasonable,’ Bea said. ‘Although we must put our minds to the question of a study. Are you one of those people who can work anywhere? Do you prefer a room without a telephone?’
‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I’m not sure how I feel about it, but Danny seems to expect me to use the one here.’ Bea looked up sharply. ‘You know,’ I said. ‘The one that’s been locked up. Rebecca’s study.’
Bea cocked her head to one side. ‘Did she? How very, very odd!’ She grimaced as she considered this unexpected news. Then
she said, ‘Well, I suppose it’s a good sign.’ Her voice gaining in confidence, she added, ‘If it had been up to me, I would have forced the issue years ago. It’s just not healthy.’
The ensuing silence went on a beat too long. ‘Must be off, I’m afraid,’ she said as she rose to her feet. Looking out the window, she added, ‘I shan’t have to leave you alone, in any case, for here he is now. What’s for supper? It smells delicious.’ But when she went into the kitchen, where the parsley and parmesan lay waiting in piles on the breadboard, and the egg sat waiting to be beaten in its cup, and the water stood ready in the pot, and the bacon was laid out in the frying pan, she screwed up her face and said, ‘Goodness! What a surprise!’
‘It’s nothing special. It’s for carbonara.’
‘Does he know you’re making carbonara?’
‘Yes, well, actually, I just said I’d throw together an easy pasta.’
She gave me a sharp and quizzical look. ‘Hasn’t he mentioned to you that he’s a vegetarian?’
‘No,’ I said in a small voice. And then, in an even smaller voice, I added, ‘It never came up. What kind of vegetarian is he?’ I went on to ask lamely.
In a loud, bland voice, she said, ‘The kind that doesn’t eat meat.’
‘What should I do?’ I asked her as I saw Max approaching.
‘What would I do? Is that what you mean? The same as always, I’m afraid. Continue with Plan A.’ Before she could say anything more, he had entered the house.
He came straight into the kitchen, kissed me on the forehead, noticed the wine but not, as far as I could tell, the bacon. ‘Oh, you’ve made supper. How nice,’ he said lightly. ‘Where are the children?’
‘Gone with Danny to Stokely Park,’ Bea said.
‘Really?’ He looked surprised.
‘Portia’s party. I’m sorry. I thought you knew. It was arranged months ago.’
‘Oh, yes. Yes, of course.’ He looked disappointed.
Bea left. We sat down with our drinks. While my mind raced back over all the meals we had ever shared – why had I not noticed the absence of meat? – he told me about his day. At a formal lunch he had been seated next to a French woman who was convinced she was eating fox. His deputy (‘I’ll take you down one day so you can meet her’), whose fourth child was only two months old (‘poor dear’), had had to go into hospital following a problematic root canal. There had been a gruesome meeting with the editor, and a sacking of two staff members who were on holiday, and ‘rather too many calls from a well-known snoozepaper’.
‘If I were even half as interesting as they seem to think I am, you’d be a very lucky woman.’
As we sat later over my ill-conceived meal, what mattered most was what we did not discuss – the biography, Rebecca, the study, the children, how I felt to be there, how he felt to see me at this table. What to do with me, how I was ever going to make a life for myself in this cottage, in this foreign country where I did not have a single friend, with a man I had promised to marry without ever bothering to find out what he ate. Instead, we discussed the books he had brought home, how to spend the evening and which video to watch. ‘I’ve rented The Evil Dead, a rather dire horror movie, or Henry V, in case you don’t like horror movies.’
‘I’m too tired for quality,’ I said.
He let out a bleat.
‘Are you laughing?’ I asked. ‘Or are you crying? I can’t tell any more. It’s been a very confusing day. All I can tell you is that I didn’t mean to make you laugh or make you cry. I was just saying how I felt.’
He reached over and took my hand. Gave me a smile. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know.’
He took his hand away and returned to his food. ‘By the way,’ he said, in a gentle and faintly beseeching voice I was learning not to trust, ‘it’s been a very, very long time since anyone made me anything this delicious.’
Chapter Fifteen
And so the guided tour rolled on. The next day, Bea took me down to the bank and out to lunch as promised. The following day I had my first and last driving lesson. By Thursday she had reinforced my own misgivings enough to steer me away from Danny’s idea of my using Rebecca’s study.
The view’s lovely,’ she told me as she darted about the walled garden picking flowers, ‘but you might find it rather distracting, and you wouldn’t want to have to look at her dreary books, would you? And what odd titles they have, too. Foucault’s Penis, I ask you, it’s enough to put one off books for life! If you were using the room for yourself, you’d want to clear them out, wouldn’t you, darling, and that, I’m afraid, would raise the hackles of the faithful. It’s really more of a museum, don’t you agree, in spite of all that nonsense Danny is always spouting about the living spirit. Sometimes I wish that woman would just get on with it and give herself to the church. She could become a deacon, and go bustling around Wells Cathedral in one of those smart black robes, and leave us in peace!
‘No, I do not believe your work would thrive in the Rabbit Warren, or whatever Danny is calling it. Imagine raising your eyes in search of le mot juste and having to face that gloomy row of privates on parade. You know the ones I mean. Those overendowed figurines Danny insists on calling signifiers. They’re Cycladic, and rather valuable, I believe, and probably should be in a proper museum somewhere, but between you and me, darling, they’re rather depressing – though not perhaps quite as depressing as those atrocious shaggy dog slippers Danny has insisted on preserving for posterity. Of all the silly ways to commemorate a friend! I should leave her to it, my dear, and take over the spare bedroom instead. The window is stuck open, but I can send someone over to see to that as early as next week, if you’re agreeable. There’s nothing of sentimental value in there – we’ll have to check with Danny, of course, or else we’ll send her into another of her Heteroglossia fits. But so long as we follow the proper channels, we should be able to clear it out and decorate it properly. You’ll need a room of your own, my dear. Or should I say a door to lock? I don’t mean to do Danny down, but she is a lonely and desperate soul and, in more ways than not, still rather a child. You don’t want to put yourself in a position where you’d have to offend her.
‘Do you have any strong views on skylights? There is, after all, only the one window in that room. It might be worth asking Janet’s husband to give us an opinion. It’s also important, I should think, to make sure that the curtains and the furniture are in keeping with your belongings. Have you brought with you any photographs? Bric-à-brac? Ought we to look into bringing a few favourite sticks of this and that, or books and what have you, over to this side of the pond?’
I told her, as briefly as I could, the reasons why I could not reclaim them. I showed her the handful of photographs (‘Hmm. Charming!’) and my sumak carpet. ‘It’s not an antique,’ I said, in a too hasty attempt to save her from the necessity of praising it.
‘No, of course it isn’t,’ she said firmly. ‘But it’s a charming little thing nonetheless, and an excellent starting point. I should take it down with us this afternoon when we go to see Mrs Carter. She’s very good at what she does, but she has this ridiculous notion about colour-coordinated artwork.’ Here Bea went into an imitation of Mrs Carter standing with her samples of upholstery fabric, offering up one colour scheme as being ‘smashing in conjunction with darkish portraits of Victorian ladies and gentlemen’ and another as being ‘quite the ticket if your taste runs to modern photographers such as Henry Morgue’.
It was unnerving, after laughing at the imitation, to meet the original, and strangely moving to see in the eyes of the mimic a gentle concern for Mrs Carter’s feelings. Not at any cost were the little snobberies with which this woman decorated her small life to be jostled. When Mrs Carter asked me about the photography of Morgue, I saw Bea’s face freeze in alarm. It only relaxed when I played along, and said the photographs I liked the most were the ones of men and women.
‘You were brilliant, my dear, quite brilliant,’ Bea told me afterwards. By drin
ks time, the awkward collection of near embarrassments had turned into a polished amusement. ‘There was one horrible moment when I thought she was going to give the game away,’ she told the assembled guests. ‘It was when Mrs Carter was waxing poetic about the Roualt exhibition, which she called the Renault exhibition. I could see you were quite puzzled, my dear. But you kept your answers beautifully vague. And we found just the right colour scheme, didn’t we, to go with your little sumak.’
It was, of course, Bea who had found the right fabric for the curtains and the sofa, and Bea who knew which of the six or seven old desks in her attic would be perfect for my purposes. She knew before I knew that it would be best to have bookshelves custom-made. When I met Janet’s husband, Bea reminded me that we needed shelves of different heights. And it was Bea who found the perfect lamps, and who suggested a quick trip to the sales for a portable electric radiator. I was happy to follow her suggestions, because, as I readily admitted to her, I had no decorating ideas of my own.
‘No, of course not, darling. You’re like that. You live in the clouds. It’s just what Max needs – someone artless. Another designing woman at this stage would have been the finishing touch.’
There was a pause, which I was tempted to end with a question. But which question? There were so many. Why another designing woman? If another designing woman would have been the finishing touch, what had been the penultimate touch? What did she know about what happened between Max and Rebecca? Would she tell me if I asked, or would she remain loyal, and to whom?
What did she mean by calling me artless? Was it just another way of saying easily fooled? I longed to ask but didn’t dare, and so instead I said, ‘I don’t get the impression that Rebecca knew much about design either.’
‘Well, of course you’re right. She had her head in the clouds, too. But it was different, wasn’t it? As she herself admitted in that rather nice poem, I’m sure you know the one I mean. The one in Waiting for the Titanic about heavenly housekeeping. Didn’t she use that very term? I mean “designing woman”.’
The Other Rebecca Page 11
