Meadowland

by Alison Giles

  A level glance met my furious one. ‘I realise it’s affected yours.’

  So she acknowledged it. Something snapped inside me. ‘Then what,’ I heard myself explode, ‘do you intend doing about it?’

  Throughout the exchange, Flora had scarcely moved a muscle. Now she slowly lifted Columbus from her lap and deposited him on the floor. Then she leaned forward, forearms on the table. The knitted cat nestled into the dip between her breasts.

  ‘So is that why you came?’

  Taken aback, I glared at her. ‘How do you mean? No, of course not. It was just –’ I shrugged – ‘a figure of speech.’

  ‘Was it?’ She sat back again, fixing me with eyes that seemed to bore deep inside me.

  ‘If anything –’ I cast around for a more acceptable explanation – ‘it was curiosity.’

  She nodded. ‘That, too, I can well believe.’

  The conversation was again becoming intolerable. I swallowed the last of the soup, stood up and moved over to the window. The sky had darkened and a deep crimson, interlaced with streaks of purple, had replaced the earlier, lighter colouring. There were no shadows; just shades of grey.

  I turned back, my hands grasping the edge of the sink behind me for support. Flora was still seated, immobile. In the subdued light, she no longer looked quite so formidable.

  ‘Have some more coffee.’ She rose to fetch it.

  I sat down at the table again, aware of fiddling with my bracelet. It was the gold one my parents had given me on my twelfth birthday.

  ‘Your father chose it,’ my mother had said. ‘I’m not sure it’s really suitable for someone your age.’

  Father had winked at me over her shoulder.

  ‘I’ll look after it,’ I’d promised.

  I had. Most of the time it sat in the brocade box I’d rather grandly, when I was younger, called my jewel case. It contained only a couple of other items of value. I seldom wore any of them. My decision today, to clasp Father’s gift – I always thought of it as his – around my wrist, had been an impulsive one.

  ‘Yes, I suppose possibly I was curious,’ I admitted.

  Flora had, I was sure, heard me, but she said nothing, merely returning with freshly filled mugs. Her chair scraped lightly on the tiled floor as she resumed her place. Then there was silence. As my ears accustomed themselves to it, I became aware of a clock ticking. I wasn’t sure whether the sound came from within the room or somewhere outside it. I didn’t care to raise my head to discover which.

  I ran my fingers over the hard circle on my arm – and began to remember.

  I remembered the taste of trout.

  I remembered the time, long before Father’s fishing days, when he used to joggle me around the garden piggyback style. I remembered visits to the zoo and clutching his hand as a lion raised its head and yawned, baring ferocious fangs; I saw him down on his hands and knees on wet sand enthusiastically constructing forts which he then pretended to defend from the incoming tide with Canute-like imperatives; I heard again his ostentatious applause when, having ignored my mother’s remonstrations, he’d urged me up on to the pantomime stage and I returned to my seat beside him, flushed with pleasure. I recalled … oh, I recalled so many little incidents – delicious moments of companionship and laughter when I revelled in the certainty that my father found me the most wonderful little girl in the world.

  ‘He did love me,’ I murmured.

  And he’d loved my mother, too. Or I’d thought he did. They used to sit side by side watching television, he with his arm draped over her shoulders as she knitted, or crocheted, or sewed. Sometimes I would try to squeeze in between them; then my father would lift me on to his lap and, as I snuggled against the warmth of his vast chest, his spare arm would slip back to rest around my mother.

  He was, altogether, a big man, my mother slim and neat. They made a handsome pair. And I was their princess.

  ‘But then everything changed.’ I realised I’d spoken aloud.

  Slowly, carefully, hesitating over my words, I began to slot the jigsaw pieces of my experience together.

  ‘It wasn’t as if he just upped and left us. I could have understood that. Not why, but at least the fact of it. But he hadn’t gone. Not physically anyway. Even when he was … away, his coat still hung in the hall; his razor stared at me from the bathroom shelf; his favourite biscuits were always there in the tin; Saturday’s post stood propped on the bureau all weekend.

  ‘But he had gone. Once he knew that I knew – what little I did know – he never quite seemed to meet my eye again. Oh, he tried to behave normally during those weekday evenings. Sometimes he helped me with my homework, occasionally we even played a game of chess or draughts. But he never … we were never … close again; never did things together any more, not in the way we used to. It was as though he’d handed me over to my mother.

  ‘She was marvellous, so brave about it all. She never complained. Just got on with the business of running the house and looking after me.’

  I paused. Columbus materialised as if from nowhere, and sprang on to my knee. I stroked his fur and he snuggled down.

  ‘It was as though my father had died, yet I couldn’t tell anyone, talk to anyone about it; I had to go on pretending he was still there. But he wasn’t. Not my real father. The man who called himself my father was a weekday lodger, a stranger.’

  Columbus was kneading my thigh with his paws in a slow, steady rhythm. I sat there, allowing my thoughts to tumble over one another.

  ‘And now he really is gone.’ The words seemed to float towards me across the table. They were spoken so quietly that if there had been any other sound I might not have heard them.

  My control shattered. Great sobs, starting way down in the pit of my stomach, forced their way up through my chest, constricted as though by a steel band, and exploded outwards. My elbows involuntarily moved forward on to the table to support my head as it fell forward into my hands. I was vaguely aware of a scrabbling in my lap as Columbus, alarmed, leapt down.

  ‘There, there. It’s all right.’ I neither knew nor cared whether it was me or the cat Flora was reassuring.

  Eventually as the racking subsided, I raised my head. The room was in virtual darkness. Flora’s shape loomed upwards. ‘You need a brandy,’ she said.

  CHAPTER 3

  The alcohol calmed my shivering. Flora had switched on the lamps as she fetched it, and the glow they cast harmonised with the warmth spreading inside me. As I drained the tumbler, she stretched out a hand to the bottle and raised an eyebrow in query.

  ‘I’d better not,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to drive.’

  ‘There’s a spare bed made up if you’d prefer to wait and make the journey in daylight.’ There was nothing in her tone to persuade me one way or the other.

  I didn’t need to turn my head to be aware of the blackness outside. I hesitated only momentarily; then nodded. ‘Thanks.’ I drowned the waves of unease at my decision in a second generous tot.

  It was all becoming increasingly unreal somehow – and Flora’s down-to-earth practicality did nothing to dispel that feeling. It was as though I’d strayed into another world; one in which I was neither approved nor disapproved of – merely accepted; where I was neither guest nor intruder. My mind, hazed at least in part by alcohol, struggled with the problem of how to behave and gave up. It was simpler to sit back and let fate take over.

  And it did seem to be something more ethereal than Flora to which I was relinquishing control. For a moment, I had a vision in my head of my father.

  Flora placed both hands on the table and pushed herself to her feet. ‘I have things to do,’ she said. I was vaguely aware of her shrugging on shoes and coat; and then of the beam of a torch as she opened the back door and closed it again behind her.

  I pressed the stopper back on the brandy, then rinsed my glass under the tap, staring out through the window as I did so. The night, I realised now that my back was to the lights in the room, was not as dark as
I’d imagined. As my eyes accustomed themselves to the dimness, pinpricks of stars enlarged into dancing crystals. I started as a shadow streaked across my line of vision. A bat, maybe? Hardly. Not this early in the year.

  But the thought had stirred an image; myself, cringing; and Father sweeping me up in his arms, laughing away my fears. ‘They’re only bats, silly,’ I heard him say, his voice deep and comfortable. When could that have been, I wondered.

  Now I could discern branches stirring gently and, in the distance, the shimmer of headlights. I watched them approaching, turning into the lane and lighting it up with powerful beams. There was a squeal of brakes and the sound of tyres swerving on gravel as the vehicle swept round and up to the house. The lights were extinguished.

  I retreated towards the table. A metallic bang was followed by heavy footsteps. A broad shape passed the window. Then, with no more than a token knock, the same man who had spoken to me earlier in the day from his Land Rover pushed open the door and stood in the entrance.

  He gave a swift glance round the room before addressing me. ‘Flora in?’ Then he looked at me more closely. ‘Oh, it’s you. Nearly ran into your car out there.’ He shook his head tolerantly. ‘Do you always park in damn fool places?’

  I clapped my hand to my mouth. ‘Oh, I’m sorry … no lights. I hadn’t thought …’

  ‘If you give me the keys, I’ll move it.’

  I scrabbled in my bag and produced them. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Self-interest. By the way, where’s Flora?’

  I hesitated. ‘I’m not sure. I mean, she didn’t actually say.’

  He gave me a bemused look. ‘Probably shutting up the hens.’ He jiggled the keys in his hand. ‘Right. I’ll just go and do this.’ He strode out.

  Aware that my face was probably still showing traces of my recent outburst, I reached for my make-up. As I touched up, Flora returned.

  ‘I see Andrew’s here,’ she said from the lobby. She stepped into the kitchen. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Moving my car.’ My words were accompanied by the sound of its engine starting up.

  She nodded and went to the sink to wash her hands.

  When he came back, she introduced us.

  ‘Not …?’ He hesitated and looked questioningly at Flora.

  ‘Yes. That’s right. Hugh’s daughter.’

  His reaction on discovering my identity was totally different from Flora’s. His eyes lit up in greeting as he moved forward to grasp my hand. ‘Really?’

  I responded gratefully.

  Andrew turned to Flora. ‘You didn’t tell me …’

  ‘I didn’t know.’ Flora stood leaning against the cupboard, arms relaxed at her sides.

  ‘You mean … you just …?’ He swivelled his head from one to the other of us, seeking clarification.

  ‘My father asked me to return some books.’

  Andrew’s face sobered. ‘We all miss him,’ he said. Then, as though realising the possible trickiness of his ground, ‘What I mean is …’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  So he obviously knew the situation. It occurred to me that Flora wasn’t the sort of person to try to hide it. Whatever else, there seemed a straightforwardness about her. I couldn’t help wondering if things would have been different if my mother had cared less about what the neighbours thought.

  ‘So what brings you, Andrew?’ It was Flora who spoke.

  He jerked his attention back to her.

  It turned out to be a matter of mild curiosity about rumours concerning the egg farm. They chatted about it, Flora meanwhile opening a tin of cat food and spooning it into a dish. Columbus, awoken by the sound of scraping, stirred himself and then bounded across the room to its source. When he’d licked the plate clean, Andrew bent down, scooped him up and carried him to the door where he unceremoniously shooed him out into the night. ‘Go catch some mice,’ he said.

  For the first time, I saw Flora laugh. ‘What, with his stomach as full as that? At best he’ll only have the energy to sit and ogle Joe Manning’s tortoiseshell.’

  Andrew’s eyes crinkled acknowledgement. ‘Mind if I help myself to a beer?’ He was clearly very much at home.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  He poured himself one and came to sit beside me on the sofa, to which I’d retired while they were talking.

  ‘Flora’s bite’s not nearly as fierce as her bark,’ he informed me conversationally, grinning across the room to where she still stood. Her face was a mask.

  He pulled out a packet of cigarettes, gestured it towards Flora who waved it away, then held the packet out to me.

  I made to take one, then glanced at Flora. ‘If you don’t mind?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Gratefully I lit up.

  ‘So,’ Andrew said, ‘did you enjoy your walk this afternoon?’ He gave Flora a quick résumé of our earlier encounter.

  We pursued the subject briefly. Then: ‘Didn’t Hugh do a painting of the view from up there?’ He looked enquiringly at Flora.

  She nodded.

  He turned to me. ‘Has Flora shown you your father’s watercolours?’

  I hesitated, then opted for honesty. ‘I didn’t even know he painted.’

  A flicker of surprise crossed his face, and then he said, ‘Well, you must see them.’ He looked at Flora for confirmation. ‘Mustn’t she?’

  Flora went to fetch them, for the first time opening the door to the rest of the house. A rush of cooler air swept in, and on it the steady tick of what I guessed could only be a grandfather clock – the sound I’d been aware of earlier, no longer muffled by panelling.

  I shivered involuntarily. Andrew grinned. ‘Now you know why Flora lives in the kitchen.’

  She returned moments later bearing a dozen or so examples of my father’s work. As I studied them, one by one, I gasped. ‘But they’re amazing. Did he really do these?’ I found it hard to comprehend. The paintings were delicate and robust at one and the same time; mostly landscapes, but here and there focusing with finely sketched lines on an animal or, in one instance, a young woman. I stared at this last – one of the only two framed ones. The girl was seated amongst meadow grass, arms hugged round legs over which full skirts were drawn tight, eyes turned towards a background of tree-dotted hills. Cornflowers bent, as though pressed by the same gentle breeze as ruffled her hair.

  Andrew studied it over my shoulder. I felt him turn to look again at me. ‘It’s you!’ he said.

  I knew he was right.

  Yet again those tears – those damn tears – started to well up.

  Flora was the one who broke the tension.

  ‘Are you staying for supper, Andrew?’

  ‘I was hoping you’d ask me. Ginny’s taken the boys off to visit their grandparents. Don’t know where she gets her energy from, working all week and then rushing around at the weekend.’

  I surreptitiously dried my eyes, then stacked the paintings. From the conversation I gathered Ginny taught music, wind instruments mostly and some singing, juggling her time between several different schools.

  ‘Mind you, I’m all for it,’ Andrew was saying. ‘No point women sitting at home all day, wasting their talents.’

  ‘I do.’ Flora challenged him with a look that might or might not have been serious.

  ‘Waste your talents?’

  Flora allowed herself a small smile. ‘That’s for others to judge. I meant stay at home.’

  Like my mother always had, I thought.

  Andrew was laughing. ‘Ah, but you’re one on your own, Flora. You don’t need the world like the rest of us mere mortals.’

  He had, I realised with a sudden start of recognition, the image of my mother receding rapidly, put his finger on something.

  ‘And what about you, Charissa?’ He turned to draw me back into the conversation. ‘Didn’t your father say …’ He stopped. ‘Don’t you work for a travel company?’

  I nodded. ‘At their head office.’

 
He encouraged me to expound.

  Recruited from university, I explained; stints in different sections. ‘I seem to have settled for the time being in the Complaints Department.’

  His eyebrows shot up. ‘Whoops,’ he said, ‘that must make you pacifier in chief?’

  ‘Something like it,’ I laughed.

  I could feel myself relaxing as he pressed me to recount the contents of some of the more bizarre mail that landed on my desk.

  Flora intervened to allot tasks in the preparation of the evening meal. As I peeled potatoes and Andrew chopped vegetables beside me, he whispered, while Flora was briefly out of the room, ‘Don’t judge Flora on first acquaintance. There’s a heart of gold under that dour exterior.’

  I didn’t answer but concentrated on swishing the mud off the last potato.

  ‘I hadn’t intended to stay more than half an hour,’ I eventually said. Let him make what he would of that for a response.

  ‘Oh? I’m not sure that I quite …’

  ‘You haven’t told me what you do.’ My tone was artificially bright. ‘Do you farm?’

  He accepted the change of subject. ‘Only at weekends – and even then only because I’m dragooned into it. No, no. I’m the second son. It was the army or the law for me. I opted for the latter.’

  ‘You’re a solicitor?’

  ‘Small practice in town. Mostly land disputes; a few matrimonials. Not so dissimilar from what you do, I suppose, except it’s fists rather than letters that thump on to my desk.’

  I laughed, picking up the saucepan and turning.

  ‘Goodness. You are like …’ Andrew was staring at me.

  ‘My father?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Do you know,’ I said slowly, ‘until today, no-one’s ever suggested that to me.’ I passed the saucepan to Flora, who had returned to her place at the stove and was standing there, holding out a hand.

  I recollected the scene, back in Fulham the following afternoon. Remembering Flora’s Aga, the flat seemed dispiritingly chilly, despite my having turned up the central heating. I had a sudden urge to wrap my hands round a mug of cocoa. Rummaging in the back of the cupboard, I found an ancient tin.