by Alison Giles
MEADOWLAND
Alison Giles
Copyright
Fourth Estate
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 1998 by Fourth Estate
Copyright © 1998 by Alison Giles
The right of Alison Giles to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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Source ISBN: 9781857026092
Ebook Edition © FEBRUARY 2016 ISBN: 9780007468898
Version: 2016-02-29
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
About the Author
About the Publisher
CHAPTER 1
I knew it was a mistake to go and see Flora; but nonetheless I went. Although it was the weekend, I dressed for the occasion in the tailored red suit with its fashionably short skirt which I normally reserved for the office. As a concession to my destination I settled on lowish heels.
The final miles of my journey, an hour and a half’s drive west of London, led me away from the drone of the motorway and into a valley. The road, a thin yellow line on my map, coiled itself loosely round the river across a series of what had once been packhorse bridges, now strengthened but rarely widened. February sunlight glinted on fallowed fields and on pastures churned up around the feeding troughs into waterlogged mires.
As I drove, I glanced at the pile of books perched sedately on the passenger seat. The bundle, secured with doubled string, had the air of some little old woman – not quite tall enough to peer through the windscreen; too polite to complain of the lack of view; occupying herself instead with scrutinising the dashboard. I half expected remonstration at my speed.
I eased off the accelerator. The whole thing was ridiculous, of course. I could have posted them back; I should have posted them. But to do so would have been to refuse my father’s last request.
He had waited until my mother left the ward to speak to the sister. Then, lacking the energy to lift his head from the starched pillow, he gestured me closer. ‘I want you to do something for me,’ he whispered. He described where to find the volumes. ‘Return them to Flora. Yourself. Please!’
My mother had tripped back before I had time to reply. But as we said our farewells that evening, his eyes pleaded with me; reluctantly, resentfully even, I nodded. He died that night at about the time my mother and I, hastily summoned, fretted at a red light at the bottom of the hill.
Now three weeks later here I was, deep into unknown countryside, propelled by a collection of dog-eared books towards the home of a woman whose existence I had for over twelve years dutifully ignored.
Rounding a corner, I found my way blocked by a tractor silhouetted against its cartload of hay. I slammed on the brakes. My God, this really was the back of beyond. I pulled over against the hedge and winced as I heard the scrape of branches along the Astra’s polished paintwork. To my right, the tractor teetered up on to the verge, avoiding tipping its trailer into the ditch by scarcely the width of a theatre ticket. The driver – round-faced under a tangle of curly hair – grinned down at me, mouthing his thanks. I nodded acknowledgement, forcing the corners of my mouth upwards against the downward thrust of lips clamped tight in irritation. The books – which had shot forward into the well – seemed to stare at me reproachfully.
Jerking at the gearstick, I revved the engine and the car leapt forward. The parcel shuddered, held its point of balance for a moment, then toppled sideways, leaving the page edges uppermost. They looked vulnerable, less powerful. That pleased me.
I relaxed a little, slowed to negotiate another narrow bend and began to ponder just what I would say to Flora when I came face to face with her. The road was beginning to climb now, up through an avenue of oaks and beeches merging on either side into gladed woodland. Through the trees to the west, a light airiness hung above the dip of the valley, the hills beyond curving the horizon. Despite all my misgivings, it was hard to resist the serenity.
Was it for such a sense of peace that my father had initially come; once in a while, and armed with fishing rods and a box of assorted flies? I remember – I must have been about ten at the time – his setting out the bright screws of fur and feather on the dining-room table and challenging me, with that great chortle of his, to recite their names. His favourite was his own design: the ‘Golden Retriever’, he called it. He swore he’d enticed more trout with that one fly than with any conventional nymph or dun.
In those days, he would return on a Sunday evening smelling of damp leaves and moss; bearing his pungent catch in an old wicker shopping basket scrounged from the cupboard under the stairs. Mother would squeal at him to ‘leave those filthy Wellingtons outside’, and wrinkle her nose as he plonked his booty on the draining board.
‘Come on, Carrie,’ he would say to me. ‘You wash and I’ll fillet.’ And so I would hold the slippery ovals under the cold tap and, with numb fingers, brush away the mud and grass; and watch as, wielding the brown-handled kitchen knife I was forbidden on pain of direst retribution to touch, he deftly cut away the fins and sliced along the belly of each scaly creature, stripping out the skeleton with practised ease.
Then my mother, having banished Father upstairs to ‘make yourself presentable for goodness sake, dear’, would arrange the speckled bodies in rows under the grill and whip up a delicate butter and herb sauce to pour over them.
The taste – once anticipated with so much relish – was now nothing but a soured memory.
To start with, I only noticed that Father was returning almost, and sometimes entirely, empty-handed from his increasingly frequent fishing weekends; and that my mother turned away, her expression curiously blank, when he apologised awkwardly for the poor catch. Perhaps, I thought, she had looked forward to our trout suppers more than she had ever given reason to suppose.
Then one Friday evening, as he was about to set off and I went to shut the garage doors, I realised his rods were still leaning up against the wall at the back. I ran after him down the drive and, skipping sideways parallel with the moving car, banged on the w
indow. ‘You’ve forgotten your rods,’ I puffed. I teased him triumphantly: ‘You won’t get much fishing done without them.’
His smile, as he pulled the car to a halt, was strange; faraway. ‘Oh, of course!’ He fetched the bundle of canes and stowed them in the boot. He seemed to hesitate before going back to collect the battered red tin box in which he stored the rest of his tackle.
‘Happy now?’ he said. He patted me on the head before sliding his long legs under the steering wheel and driving off.
I knew then that something wasn’t right.
All my mother said, when she saw bewilderment written loud on my face, was, ‘Her name is Flora.’ We never spoke of her again.
There were times when I was crying out to do so, but somehow I knew that to ask for explanations would endanger some sort of balance that held my world precariously in place.
It wasn’t that I didn’t understand the meaning of Mother’s cryptic announcement; by the time of that revelationary Friday, I was already into my teens – just. In the early days, I spent long hours wondering. I found myself hoping Flora didn’t look like the bewigged and powdered Madame de Pompadour of my school history books; Nell Gwyn, I decided, presented a far more acceptable image of my father’s mistress. On the other hand, Flora must surely be some sort of witch, pointed hat and all, to have lured my father into her lair. I should have liked to speculate with my friends, but the taboo that hung over the subject at home extended to an unspoken prohibition on it being mentioned outside. My fantasies remained secret ones and, undernourished, eventually withered. And, with them, my curiosity.
About Flora herself, that is. My father’s betrayal and my mother’s acceptance of it continued to puzzle my pubescent mind. It was not the stuff of which the romantic novels, into which I escaped to revive my faith in the happy-ever-after, were made. But eventually even those queries succumbed to the practical routine of Father’s regular weekend absences.
For the benefit of the neighbours, he made a point of ostentatiously packing his fishing gear in the car each summer Friday, and on his return nodded comments over the fence about the state of the water. The close season was more problematic. But, each year, something was dreamed up. One winter, he was – Mother would explain as she nodded her way along the Avenue – ‘helping a friend do up a country cottage’; the next, he was ‘tutoring an OU course’. If the Mackenzies or our then neighbours, the Brandons or the Williamses, whispered cynicism among themselves, they were careful not to do so in my hearing.
For my part, I surmounted the difficulty by teasing my peers with the notion that his weekends were spent on top secret government assignments. ‘You mean he’s a spy,’ gasped Penny Kingsley, reliably gullible. Pouring scorn on my giggling claims distracted the others from probing the reality.
At home each Friday evening, after Mother and I had cleared away our supper for two, she would pick up her embroidery and dictate a shopping list for the following morning. Curled up in Father’s big Minty chair, I would, every now and again at Mother’s behest, disentangle my legs from its depths and scurry out to the kitchen to check the stock of some item. (As I grew older, such sorties took on a more self-consciously languid air – but the ritual was maintained right up to the time I went away to university.)
Next day in town and before embarking on the supermarket marathon – traditionally reserved for Saturdays, for unspecified reasons which it never occurred to me to query – we often treated ourselves to coffee in the department store in East Street; and afterwards, wandering back down the escalators, inevitably detoured into the Fashion section. My mother loved clothes and always dressed beautifully. But I was always more comfortable helping choose a skirt or an Hermès silk scarf for her than struggling to find a compromise between my penchant for tatty jeans and T-shirts and her desire to see me dressed in ‘something elegant for a change’.
Oddly enough, it was on these occasions, delving among the clothes rails, when the feminine alliance should have been closest, that I most missed my father’s presence. I found myself longing for his endorsement of my desire – my need, even – to make my choice independently. I could have done with his support as Mother picked out some excruciatingly dull jumper and held it up against me, murmuring how well the colour suited me. But then guilt at my ingratitude would roll in and I would squeeze her arm as she proffered a cheque at the till, thanking her profusely for the latest disappointing addition to my already overfull wardrobe.
They were cosy, though, those weekends, without Father’s ambiguous presence hanging over us. Increasingly, of course, I spent time on my own pursuits: the usual teenage things – discos, parties, or simply browsing the streets and record shops. Mother insisted that it wouldn’t be fair to expect me to stay in and keep her company.
‘I’ve got more than enough to keep me busy,’ she reassured me as she set about spring-cleaning each room in turn or, tying an apron round her waist, rolled up her sleeves to batchbake for the next charity function. ‘You go out and have fun!’
So I did; although I felt obliged – embarrassing though it sometimes was – to be home at whatever time, according to my age, she considered ‘late enough for a young girl to be out, even on a Saturday’. Once, only once, she sighed: ‘It would be different if your father were here to pick you up.’ I stifled my own sigh – of exasperation – at her adamant refusal to drive after dark.
‘Maybe,’ I took the occasion to venture, ‘Clare’s father would give me a lift. They pass the end of the road anyway.’
My mother’s lips pursed. ‘No.’
She was like that; refusing to ask for or accept any sort of help from anyone. Unsanitary gurglings one Sunday morning advised that the drains were blocked.
‘Wait till Daddy gets home,’ I suggested.
Mother wouldn’t hear of it. ‘What do you expect me to do?’ she demanded. ‘Keep my legs crossed all day?’
I laughed. Then hastily straightened my face.
Unearthing some ancient sailing trousers and an anorak and reaching for the Marigold gloves, she covered herself from head to foot in waterproofing. Then, heaving aside the manhole cover outside the back door, she prodded the murky sewage with a broken branch. ‘I think there are some rods in the shed,’ she instructed.
I sought them out. Meticulously, she assembled them one by one, pushing the gradually increasing length down and along the underground pipe. I was despatched to lift off the drain cover further down the garden.
Mother raised her head. ‘Anything coming through?’
Suddenly there was a sploosh, echoing and rumbling towards me, and a welter of thick brown porridge surged across the hole at my feet.
‘You’ve done it!’ I shrieked.
‘Yes?’ For an instant, something like pleasure crossed my mother’s face as she stared enquiringly at me.
Much hosing later, with disinfected rods stacked neatly in their place again and scrubbed waterproofs hanging over the line, Mother emerged from the shower, smelling of soap and shampoo, her hair wrapped in a towel. ‘There,’ she said with a look of brave acceptance. ‘One can always manage if one has to.’
If Father felt reproached when he returned that evening, he gave no sign of it. Mildly he remarked, ‘You should have left it to me.’
I was about to say, ‘That’s what I said.’ But Mother shushed me with a look.
I shifted restlessly in my seat as she served up spaghetti Bolognese, chattering about Mrs Duckworth’s roses. Father commented on the traffic jams on the bypass. I wanted my mother to be angry, my father to acknowledge guilt. But as always, if they felt those emotions – or any others for that matter – they never showed them.
A motorbike swooped past me as I approached the brow of the hill. ‘Bloody idiot!’ I yelled, surprising myself at my vehemence. By the time I levelled off on to the narrow plateau, the bike was a blur disappearing down the other side.
I slowed. From my earlier study of the map, I guessed that the road ahead plunged strai
ght into Cotterly; that I was less than a mile or so from my destination.
I pulled on to the entrance to a wheel-marked track into the wood and turned off the engine. I reached for my bag, found a cigarette and lit it. Stupid habit, I acknowledged, but one I’d taken up after the Mark episode. Mother didn’t approve, of course. I tried not to smoke when I visited her. In any case, I usually restricted myself to two or three, just in the evenings. But today was different.
I inhaled deeply and wound down the window to allow the smoke to escape. The air that flooded into the car had a tang to it. On impulse, I pulled the key from the ignition and climbed out. My shoes sank into the soft ground. I leaned against the warm bonnet while I finished my cigarette, savouring the freshness of the air on my face. Then I threw the stub on to the ground and watched it extinguish as I shrugged my arms into my coat and hugged it round me. A walk would help clear my mind.
By keeping to the hump in the middle of the track, I was able to circumvent the worst of the mud. Ditches on either side were filled with composting autumn leaves. On their slopes, and in among the trees too, occasional clusters of primroses winked pale yellow eyes. I picked my way across the ruts and crouching down, coat-skirt tucked carefully behind my knees to prevent it trailing on the ground, gathered a small bunch. I held them up as a nosegay, breathing in the fragrance.
A cloud crossed the sun which, weak though it was, had been shining comfortingly on my back. I stood up, shivered, and marched on. I could see that the trees petered out a hundred yards or so further along and had an idea that maybe I would be able to look down on the village.
I was right. A huge muddied grass field fell away in front of me revealing a hotchpotch of dwellings in the distance. Which one of them, I wondered, was Wood Edge? I would have to ask directions.
I wondered suddenly if my mother was aware that the sealed envelope, inscribed so seemingly mundanely in my father’s handwriting ‘Weekend address’, had been tampered with. Two weeks ago, a few days after Father’s funeral, I had located it, discreetly tucked away at the back of the top right-hand drawer of the bureau where Father had whispered to me from his hospital bed I would find it, and steamed it open while Mother was having tea at the vicarage. I’d been invited along too but had pleaded a headache. Mother had nodded understandingly: ‘But I feel I have to go – so kind of them to invite me.’
