Meadowland

by Alison Giles

  It had been a curious feeling staring at the address – the words on the page somehow transforming the ethereal quality of Father’s ‘absence’ into the concrete reality of his presence elsewhere. Presumably Mother didn’t know the details of it, else why was the envelope there? Had she, bar in dire emergency, always preferred not to; been devoid even of curiosity?

  I copied it out, re-inserted the original into the envelope and stuck it down again as neatly as possible. I could only hope Mother wouldn’t notice the hint of tell-tale wrinkling, nor indeed the lack of dust which I’d wiped away to erase the smudges I’d made in it.

  She refused my suggestion, inspired at least in part by that concern, that she wait and let me help sort through Father’s things next time I could get down from London. ‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘I can manage. And anyway I’d rather get on with it.’

  I wondered what progress she’d made. Staring down now on the place where Father had spent so much of his time, I wasn’t sure whether I was grateful or not to be excused the somewhat ghoulish task. Wasn’t it all part of the last rites; of saying goodbye?

  A wind ruffled briefly across the ridge and for an instant a vision of my father, laughing with me, filled my mind. I sank down on a tree stump, careless this time of my clothing, and found myself rocking, head in hands. Tears welled up. For a moment I felt like a child again – confused, angry, helpless.

  I pulled myself together. This was ridiculous. I was, I reminded myself, twenty-five years old, owner – courtesy of a deposit I’d only briefly hesitated, damn it why not, to accept from Father – of a flat in Fulham, and a rising executive in a West End-based travel company. I hadn’t been close to my father for years. If either of us should feel his loss at all, it was my mother.

  And Flora. The thought took me by surprise. I pushed it away.

  I stood up, glanced once more at the innocuous-looking buildings below, and turned. As I retraced my steps, a Land Rover lurched along the path towards me. Moving over, I waited for it to pass.

  ‘Is that your car back there? Had a hell of a job squeezing past it!’ Early to mid-thirties; expensive but well-worn jersey over check shirt; land-owning accent. Not aggressive; not even irritated; just mildly reproving.

  He had driven on before I’d decided whether or not to apologise. I glared after him indignantly. Tough. It wasn’t my choice to be here.

  Back at the car, I jettisoned the already drooping primroses, cleaned off my shoes as best I could, and renewed my make-up. The books were still lying, dishevelled, on the floor. I heaved them back on to the seat, straightened their edges, and pulled on to the road. The car purred reassuringly and the sun, already on a downward path, reinstated itself in a patch of watery blue sky. I checked my watch as I started the descent. Well gone two already. If this one-horse place did have a pub, it would probably be closed by now. And I could have done with a sandwich at least – not to mention a drink.

  I passed a farmhouse, and then a pair of cottages. As the road levelled out, a T-junction loomed before me. ‘Cotterly ¼ mile’, declared the sign pointing left. So this was it. I took a deep breath and turned the wheel.

  CHAPTER 2

  A lemon-coloured Citroën, old and battered, was parked on the grass beyond a broken-down gate, along the top bar of which the inscription ‘Wood Edge’ was faded but legible.

  I had experienced no difficulty finding Flora’s house. Despite my pessimism, the doors of the pub, easily spotted at the side of a small green, had been open; but the clamour of male voices, raised in exhortation at the flickering figures of rugby players on the television screen within, decided me to try the shop next door instead.

  I waited impatiently while two small girls and a boy rummaged among the sweets on the counter, finally handing over precious ten-pence pieces. I purchased a bar of chocolate and made my enquiry.

  ‘Wood Edge?’ The short, middle-aged woman pushed to the drawer of the till, then, wiping her hands on her apron, ushered me to the door. She pointed along the road. ‘The lane up to the right, ‘bout a half mile along. Just past Manning’s barn.’

  I had devoured the last square of chocolate as I passed the huge corrugated-iron hay store and drew the car to a halt some fifty yards further on.

  Now I climbed out, flung my bag across my shoulder and hoisted the books into my arms. I crossed the lane and stood in the entrance.

  The house, like most of the others in the village, was of yellowish grey stone, mellowed with age. The garden sloped up towards it, unkempt grass lush with the first thrust of spring. Purple crocuses dotted banks supporting a path beneath the windows. Here and there, clumps of tight daffodil buds promised a golden flowering.

  A robin hopped across the driveway in front of me as I crunched towards the front door, then darted to the branch of a straggling buddleia where it bounced round to face me, twittering. Sparrows rustled in the bushes and overhead a pair of wood pigeons flapped lazily towards some unknown destination. There was no other sound or sight of movement. For the first time, the possibility occurred to me that Flora might not be at home.

  The front door, approached by three stone steps built into the abrupt rise, was firmly shut. There was no bell; just an old and tarnished brass knocker. I lifted it and banged twice. The sound echoed. I waited, then knocked again, this time with greater force. As the reverberations faded, there was silence.

  I retreated down the steps and surveyed the frontage. One of the upstairs casements was ajar. In the country that probably didn’t mean anything. What now? Presumably I could find somewhere to leave the books. A note through the door … I struggled with a sense of anticlimax.

  Then: ‘Come on, Columbus. We have a visitor.’ The voice floated from somewhere along the side of the house. Footsteps sounded.

  From under the ivy-clad overhang at the corner, a tallish and solidly built figure, in what I’d guess were her late fifties, appeared. She strolled towards me along the upper path, a somnolent cat, knitted into the design of her heavy jumper, undulating across her bosom as though rocked on a gently rolling sea. At her feet padded a ginger tom, tail erect, rubbing confidently against the green of her scuffed cords. This presumably was the companion I had heard her addressing; but addressing in a tone startlingly softer than the one she now directed at me.

  ‘Yes?’ Short; to the point; unsmiling.

  The cat turned slit eyes towards me and stared. Flora’s own were wide and brown and framed by waves of greyed hair among which glints of auburn provided curious contrast. In one hand she held an ancient trug, half-filled with mud-smeared potatoes and knobbly shapes that might have been swedes; in the other a garden fork. Wooden sabots hugged her feet which she planted firmly on the top of the bank.

  I looked up at her; never in all my childhood imaginings had I visualised her thus.

  I resisted an instinctive step backwards. ‘You’re …’ I hesitated over the informality ‘… Flora?’

  ‘Yes.’ The same clipped neutrality.

  I took a deep breath. ‘I’m Charissa,’ I said, glad of the extra stature I felt my full, and somewhat distinctive, name gave me. Then, as her eyes roved over me, ‘I came to return these.’ I held the bundle of books out towards her.

  There was a pause, while she continued to size me up. ‘So you are. Spitting image of your father of course.’ The merest hesitation before, just a shade less abruptly: ‘You’d better come in.’

  Ignoring the proffered parcel, she turned on her heel and started round the house, Columbus falling into step behind her. ‘Never use the front door,’ she announced, leaving me to catch the words as they floated back on the air. It seemed I had no alternative but to follow.

  In Indian file, the three of us made our way to a paint-chipped door. It gave access to a lobby cluttered with gardening paraphernalia. Flora deposited trug and fork, kicked off her shoes and pushed the kitchen door wide. A wave of warmth billowed to greet me.

  Moving straight to the Aga at the far side, she lifted one of
the heavy circular lids and slid the kettle across on to the hotplate beneath. Columbus bounded on to an elderly chesterfield and took possession.

  Flora turned, leaning against the rail over which teatowels were drying, and looked at me, arms folded.

  ‘Well, come in then.’

  I took a step across the threshold. The room, unlike the exterior of the house, had a cared-for look; that is to say, not clinically scrubbed as my mother always kept her kitchen, but comfortably clean and ordered. And, yes, cheerful. A first glance took in an antique Welsh dresser hung with good quality china, a large oak kitchen table, the near end of which was home to a pile of shuffled papers, and a set of cupboards and work surfaces along the length of the window wall. Dotted here and there, but always looking as though they belonged, were the bits and pieces that gave the room its lived-in feel – table lamps, a busy Lizzie draped from the window sill, a magazine lying open.

  ‘Push Columbus over,’ Flora instructed, noting my hesitation. ‘Oh, and …’ she nodded towards the bundle I was still carrying ‘… put those down somewhere. By the bookcase will do.’

  It stood against the wall immediately to the right of the doorway, out of vision until I entered and moved towards the sofa.

  On its top shelf, and flanked by a rosebowl on one side and a pair of silver candlesticks on the other, stood a large framed photograph of my father. It brought me up short.

  ‘Tea or coffee?’

  I looked across at Flora. Her face was expressionless. ‘Coffee, please. Black.’

  Turning back, I stared at the picture again. It had been taken in the garden, presumably at the rear of the house; and, as was clear from the fit of my father’s familiar brown tweed jacket, long before his illness began to take hold. He was standing beneath the branches of an apple tree in full fruit, laughing. That sparkle in his eyes … I hadn’t seen it since …

  I bit my lip. Flora – I glanced in her direction – was spooning coffee. I placed the books on the floor as directed and squeezed a place for myself beside the already slumbering ball of ginger fur.

  The photograph drew my gaze inexorably. I forced myself to lower it and study instead the contents of the shelves. They held an eclectic collection, bundled in together with the familiarity of use.

  Books of poetry rubbed shoulders with a Dickens or two, some Nevil Shute, tomes on subjects ranging from philosophy to the peoples of the Pacific, the odd cookery book, one on pruning roses. All interspersed with a range of current paperbacks. The equally varied selection I’d returned would slip back in comfortably.

  I raised my eyes to my father’s picture again. What was it, I wondered – at that moment more perplexed than resentful – that had not only drawn him here, but brought such a look of relaxed contentment to his face?

  ‘It’s a good likeness.’ Flora had glided across the room in her stockinged feet and was standing over me, a mug in each hand. She passed me one, then swivelled a dining chair and sat down.

  I nodded agreement, and waited for her to initiate further conversation. She didn’t.

  ‘Nice part of the country, here,’ I offered eventually. ‘Very peaceful.’ I forced a light laugh. ‘Makes a pleasant change to get away from London traffic.’

  She inclined her head.

  ‘Had quite a good run down,’ I suggested. I prattled on about the time it had taken me, the weather …

  I tried a different tack. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘About my father’s death, I mean.’

  This time she did comment. ‘So I should imagine.’

  I stared at her. ‘What I meant was …’

  ‘Yes?’

  Confusion stoked animosity. ‘I meant you must miss him.’ It came out angrily, attempts at civility swept aside.

  There was a flicker of something indefinable at the corners of her mouth. Eventually she said, as though having considered the matter, ‘Yes, I miss him.’

  ‘I suppose –’ I managed to soften again as the thought struck me – ‘I suppose we might have invited you to the funeral.’

  ‘I came anyway.’

  I felt my eyebrows shoot up. But then I hadn’t really been aware of anyone but family among the congregation, and I wouldn’t have known who half of them were anyway. I could hardly have been expected to notice a stranger – Flora – in their midst. And maybe, in any case, she’d slipped out before we turned to leave. Must have done, or surely she’d have recognised me more quickly when I arrived.

  ‘Tell me –’ Flora changed the subject abruptly – ‘why have you come?’

  It wasn’t a question I was expecting. I twisted my mind back. ‘My father asked me to.’ I nodded towards the books. Then defensively, pushed into elaboration by a lack of response, ‘One doesn’t refuse a dying wish.’

  ‘Oh, no. One doesn’t, does one.’ Flora’s tone was bland. She leaned back, that considering look on her face again. Then: ‘Was that the only reason?’ The question, though mildly put, felt nonetheless to prise into me.

  The hurt of years surged suddenly in a wave of hatred. How dare she interrogate me! With great control, I rose from my seat, placed the coffee cup carefully beside the photograph of my father and looked her squarely in the eye. ‘Of course. What other reason could there be? Thank you for the coffee. I must be on my way.’ It was, I prided myself, a dignified little speech. I reached for my bag.

  ‘Sit down.’ Again quietly said; but, given the discomposing effect she was having on me, she might as well have delivered a karate chop to the back of my knees.

  I sank back on to the cushions.

  Taking her time, she asked casually, ‘Do you always run away from the truth?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  She repeated the query.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Then maybe –’ there was the faintest lift of an eyebrow – ‘you have a thing or two to learn.’

  ‘But not from you!’ The retort, satisfyingly, seemed to fire itself without any conscious effort on my part.

  Flora’s expression didn’t change, and my momentary sense of triumph evaporated as I felt caught up in a childhood game of ‘stare as stare can’. I yielded and looked away.

  ‘I really must go.’ But the words sounded petulant.

  Flora, unperturbed, got up. ‘I expect you’d like something to eat first. I take it you’re going back to London? How about some soup?’ Her tone was matter of fact.

  A sick feeling in my stomach identified itself at least partly as hunger. To my astonishment, I found myself accepting.

  Unhurriedly, Flora set about the preparations. ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘if you want to wash your hands there’s one the other side of the lobby, or the bathroom’s upstairs.’

  I opted for the lobby. On my return, I wandered over to the window and stared out. Beyond the bushes and bare-branched trees bounding the garden, the top of the haybarn I’d passed earlier was outlined against the pink-tinged clouds of early evening. ‘Shepherd’s delight,’ I murmured automatically.

  ‘We’ll have a beautiful sunset.’ The observation floated from behind me.

  I turned. Flora was stirring a pan.

  Grabbing for the relief of small talk, I said, ‘I was admiring your crocuses.’

  ‘None of my doing.’ Abruptness had returned to her voice. She poured the soup into a bowl and transferred it to the table, indicating to me to seat myself.

  This time, I decided, I would be the one to ignore a comment. I picked up the spoon. The soup smelled good. I tasted it. It was thick with fresh vegetables, just peppery enough to bring out their flavour. Flora placed a farmhouse loaf and the butter dish before me. ‘Help yourself.’ She took the chair opposite. Columbus, wakened by the activity, descended from his bed and sauntered, yawning and stretching, towards the table. He raised his front paws on to Flora’s knee and leapt up. She fondled his ears.

  I saw an opportunity for conversation again. Nodding towards the cat, I asked, ‘How did he get his name?’

/>   ‘Your father gave it to him. We found him down by the river, soaking wet. He said he looked as though he’d swum the Atlantic.’

  ‘So he was a stray?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Her monosyllabic response left me scant scope.

  ‘Was my father fond of cats?’ I regretted the question as soon as it was uttered.

  ‘He loved animals. Didn’t you know?’

  I took a mouthful of soup to delay replying. Columbus purred complacently.

  I decided to go on the offensive. ‘The fact that I didn’t know him as well as I should,’ I said carefully, ‘is hardly my fault.’ I stressed the ‘my’.

  ‘Does anyone say it is?’

  She had missed the point. Or had she? Flora didn’t strike me as unintelligent. Far from it. All right, then; if she wanted me to spell it out …

  ‘Don’t bother,’ she forestalled me. Her eyes were glinting with something. Not anger – I could have coped with that; more an amused, or perhaps merely patient, tolerance.

  I put my spoon down. ‘Look,’ I tried. ‘I’ve come all this way …’

  ‘And I’m supposed to be correspondingly grateful?’ She paused. ‘I can’t think why. You could have consigned the delivery to the Post Office.’ Again, that indecipherable expression. I heaved a sigh; this was getting us nowhere.

  ‘I take it,’ Flora continued consideringly, ‘that I’m not reacting in whatever way you’ve decided would be appropriate to the … er … circumstances. Which, I would remind you –’ she fixed me with one of her unwavering looks – ‘you have created.’

  ‘I have created?’

  ‘You chose to come.’

  Her calm only fuelled my indignation.

  ‘And what about the circumstances you’ve created!’ I thumped the table and the tingle ran up my arm and into my shoulder. ‘Don’t you have any feelings about what you’ve done to us? Don’t you realise how our lives have been devastated by your relationship with my father?’