by Alison Giles
I was staring up into the sky, still debating the point with myself, when I heard Flora calling.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, of course. Fine.’ And yes, come to think of it, I was. I hurried back into the house.
CHAPTER 8
The deck chairs strung out in front of the cricket pavilion next day glinted red, green or blue and white stripes in the bright sunlight, none the less so for the colours being, in most cases, faded.
‘You will be staying till tomorrow?’ Flora had said that morning as she lifted the lid of the freezer.
‘I …’
‘I’ll assume you will.’
Being taken over, I noted; having decisions – well, one anyway – made for me. But somehow, in this instance, it wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling. If anything, the opposite.
Without further discussion, Flora set me to the task of buttering sandwiches. ‘Ginny and I always do the teas for this match,’ she said.
I watched her surreptitiously as she worked, unhurriedly but efficiently, beside me. There was none of the fastidiousness of Mother’s methods, none of the pernickety tidying up as she went along. And yet, suddenly, everything was neatly packed, the debris of jars and chopping board and crumbs cleared away in one clean-sweep operation.
Around mid-morning, just as we finished, there was a rap on the window. Two fair heads peered in. ‘Mum sent us to see if you needed any help,’ said the taller boy.
Their likeness to Andrew left me in no doubt as to their identity. ‘You must be Tom and Justin,’ I said, as they wandered round into the kitchen. Flora had disappeared to fetch her sunhat, leaving me to introduce myself. ‘I’m Charissa.’
The older one held his hand out solemnly. ‘How do you do.’ Justin followed suit shyly.
‘Do you like cricket?’ It sounded as limp a conversational gambit as it was. They both nodded. I was relieved when Flora returned. She handed me one of the two elderly straw boaters she was carrying. ‘You’ll probably be glad of this.’ We set off, laden with baskets.
The cricket field lay behind the Horse and Dragon, which had already opened its doors. White flannels mingled with colourful cotton dresses. Non-players, in open-necked checked shirts, nursed pints. Small children danced round underfoot.
Ginny – it was indeed she I’d glimpsed last weekend – was already in the rickety pavilion laying out cups and plates.
‘Hello,’ she greeted me, extending a hand. ‘Andrew’s told me all about you.’ Her voice was warm and friendly. And she looked stunning in that casual way that no amount of grooming can emulate.
‘Is he here?’ It was no more than a polite enquiry, I assured myself.
‘I hope so. He’s opening.’ Ginny waved a teaspoon, seeking a missed saucer. ‘A spare one. I must have miscounted.’ She dropped it into a wooden box. ‘There, that’s done. Let’s go and grab somewhere to sit.’
The field was already assembled. To the side of the scoreboard, Tom sat importantly at a table, the record book open in front of him. Justin, beside him, hitched up his shorts and gravely checked the pile of numbered squares set out beneath the board.
To either side of me, Flora and Ginny started clapping. One beat behind everyone else, I joined in as the opening batsmen strolled out. Only once before had I attended a match, when Mark dragged me out into Berkshire to admire his performance as captain of the Old Boys’ side. It had been a very different crowd there, spooning strawberries and supping fruit cup in the lee of impressive old school buildings. Self-conscious girlfriends – occasionally a very new wife – drawled competitive anecdotes of Hunt Balls and holidays in Hawaii. I’d managed to keep my end up – just, and not a little uncomfortably.
Andrew took up his position. The umpire, hands in the pockets of his white coat, nodded to the bowler who steadied himself for his run up. I determined, if possible, to cover up my no-more-than-rudimentary knowledge of the game.
It turned out not to be too difficult. There was an easy assumption that I understood the rhetorical comment, the exclamations of delight or disappointment.
‘Who are they playing?’ The match had been underway for some time and I felt a need to demonstrate interest.
Ginny answered me. ‘Chadham. The next village along. This is the main match of the season – well, this and the August bank holiday one. We usually beat them; but that young spinner of theirs is a bit dangerous … oh, no!’
Andrew, receiving a ball from him, had swiped it high into the air. All peripheral movement stilled as the entire field, players and spectators, watched the one fielder run backwards, then forward a few paces, to position himself beneath it. In slow motion, it seemed, the ball drifted down to earth – or almost. The waiting hands fumbled for a moment, but held it.
‘Oh, well,’ said Ginny, glancing over her shoulder to where her small son was busy rearranging the scoreboard, ‘he made sixteen. Could be worse. Come on then, Philip,’ she called as the next man strode out, nodding to Andrew as he passed him. Philip was shorter than his brother, but broader, his chin jutting, his walk determined. He took his place at the wicket and, having blocked the first ball, hit the second up and over the boundary.
‘A six. Oh, well done,’ enthused Ginny.
Andrew, having disposed of his pads, strolled up and stood behind Ginny’s chair.
‘Bad luck,’ said Flora.
Ginny tipped her head back and smiled up at him. ‘Idiot!’
‘Hi,’ said Andrew to me. ‘Enjoying country pastimes?’
When they broke for lunch, Philip was still in, his score just short of a half-century. ‘Big brother showing me up as usual,’ commented Andrew ruefully. ‘Right, then. Food.’ He loped off towards the pub in search of Ploughmans.
Ten minutes later he emerged, triumphant, with a trayload. Flora and Ginny excused themselves and wandered off, plates in one hand, drinks in the other, to chat elsewhere. I watched them go, Ginny’s hips swinging gently beneath a light skirt, Flora ambling comfortably.
‘Hope you like pickled onions,’ said Andrew, settling himself beside me. The cuffs of his soft cream shirt were folded back loosely, his trouser legs slightly rucked where the pads had been fastened.
I turned my eyes towards the platter on my lap. ‘Can’t say I’m mad keen,’ I admitted.
Andrew laughed. ‘Sorry, I should have asked. Here, tip them on to my plate.’ He scooped them up, then tucked in with relish. ‘Demonstrating my unsophisticated taste,’ he suggested through a mouthful.
‘What’s sophistication?’ I challenged.
‘Ah, now there you have it.’
He looked at me, amusement creasing his eyes, waiting for me to explore the subject further. Trouble was, I wasn’t sure I knew quite what I’d meant. Except that for an instant any definition I might have given the word seemed to have been stood on its head.
Andrew seemed to sense my dilemma. ‘Far too philosophical a topic for a lazy Sunday,’ he offered. ‘Tell me instead what’s going on in the great metropolis.’
I tore off a piece of French bread and cut into the cheese. ‘It’s hot,’ I said.
He laughed. ‘I can imagine.’
We chatted about inconsequential details. I almost wished, I realised after a while, that he wasn’t quite so easy to talk to – I wasn’t at all confident my tongue might not run away with me. I turned the conversation back to the cricket field.
‘Philip,’ I asked, latching on to him arbitrarily as a subject. ‘Does he have a wife?’ I looked around as though I might spot one among the crowd.
‘Not exactly.’ Andrew took a slurp from his glass then set it down on the ground beside him again. ‘He did have, but she upped and left him after only six months. Can’t say I blame her – he’s a bit dour at the best of times. Even so, it’s been hard on him. As far as I know, though, they haven’t done anything about a divorce.’
‘He’s not the confiding type, then?’
He shrugged. ‘Ginny gets on better with him that I do.�
� He looked across to where, amid a crowd of others, she was now in apparently amused conversation with his brother. ‘She seems to have the ability to get a smile out of anyone,’ he said. For a moment I wondered if he was implying she was something of a flirt; but his face, when I glanced at him, gave no such impression. Instead, the corners of his eyes and mouth twitched in self-deprecation.
I began to feel self-conscious, sitting on my own with him, and Flora’s reappearance, accompanied by Tom and Justin, was a relief. The boys badgered Andrew for money for ice-creams. He delved into his pocket and produced a 20p and some coppers. ‘Is that enough?’
‘Course not.’
‘Then go and ask Mummy.’ He grinned, and sent them scampering across the field.
‘First cricket match you’d been to, was it?’ said Flora over supper. Damn her, she didn’t miss a trick.
‘Second,’ I was pleased to be able to correct her. ‘This one was fun,’ I said, and meant it. I’d enjoyed helping with the teas, too. Flora had simply introduced me, here and there, by my first name. Only an elderly colonel had acknowledged making the connection with my father. ‘Liked him,’ he growled. ‘Sorry to hear …’
‘Everyone’s very friendly,’ I commented now.
Flora smiled. ‘There speaks a townie,’ she said. ‘Village politics hum under the surface. But real ill-will is rare. It’s pettiness for the most part.
‘For which you have no time?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘Andrew,’ I said, my mind turning over the comment she’d just made. ‘He and Philip don’t seem to get on too well?’
‘They rub along all right I think. Philip’s a bit puritanical – doesn’t smoke and never drinks anything stronger than the occasional beer. Takes life seriously.’ She smiled. ‘Regards Andrew’s easygoing attitudes as verging on the profligate, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘You prefer Andrew and Ginny, don’t you?’ I ventured.
‘I certainly don’t have anything against Philip. But he tends to keep himself to himself. Busy, though – and he’s not afraid of hard work. Physical hard work.’
I thought of Andrew lounging in his garden; and nonchalantly chewing a blade of grass out on the boundary that afternoon. Not that he hadn’t moved fast enough to scoop up any ball heading his way. ‘You mean Andrew is?’
‘No, I wouldn’t say that. He helps Philip out a lot at weekends. But he’s more of a thinker. Probably why he and your father got on so well.’
‘They did?’ Out of nowhere, as I considered the statement, the recently remembered image of Father and Grandpa together loomed in my mind.
Flora reached across for my plate. I was only half aware of her moving around, substituting a fruit bowl for empty vegetable dishes.
I peeled an orange. Flora bit into an apple.
‘When did Father start painting?’ I asked.
‘Oh, I don’t know. About ten years ago, I should think. Why?’
I wiped juice from my fingers. ‘Andrew seemed to think I needed to talk to you about him – but I’m not at all sure why or what good it can do.’
Flora leaned back.
‘All it does, whenever he’s mentioned, is hurt.’ Something inside me seemed to be twisting up. I stretched my shoulders to relieve the sensation. ‘Everyone,’ I said, hearing my voice rising, ‘– well, you and Andrew anyway – close to my father. But not me. I only ever knew a shadow. Yet he feels so real here – almost as though I could reach out and touch him. But I can’t. It’s too late.’
‘Maybe not entirely.’
‘Of course it …’ I slumped in my seat. ‘Is that why –’ I spoke thoughtfully now – ‘he wanted me to come here? But why this double life? One person at home, quite a different one here.’
‘I’d have thought he was essentially the same person wherever he was.’
I rearranged the peel on my plate. ‘Just showed a different side, you mean? According to the place and the people?’
I wasn’t sure whether Flora nodded. I lapsed into silence and found myself staring across the room at his relaxed and smiling photo. What was going on behind those eyes? Why – and I had to acknowledge it was that way round – had he stayed with my mother, not cut the ties entirely? On the other hand, why couldn’t he have been happy at home? What was it Flora offered that my mother, or my mother and I, lacked? I began to feel sick.
I excused myself and, to avoid disturbing Arabella I said, went upstairs to the bathroom. In the mirror I contemplated myself, recognising his eyes, his nose, the slightly square shape of his chin. I reached out a hand to touch the glass. When I stepped back, the mist of damp fingerprints stayed for a while, then contracted and vanished.
Angrily, I reached out again, clawing opaque streaks down the glass. My whole body quivered with the rage overtaking me. I turned away, clasping my arms around myself, hunching myself in; trying to contain a force that felt as though it must explode. Sinking down on the edge of the bath, I clung to control, commanding myself to take deep breaths. Gradually, gasping at first, then gulping, I steadied my intake to regular lungfuls.
There was a knock on the door. ‘May I come in?’
I pushed myself to my feet, tidied my hair as I glanced in the mirror, and pulled back the latch. Unsteadily, I grasped at the bath again, and lowered myself back on to its side.
Flora took the few steps towards me. I stared, unfocusing, in the direction of her ankles. ‘At this rate,’ I heard her say, ‘I’m going to have to get in a whole case of brandy.’
I smiled weakly and raised my head.
‘Come on downstairs,’ she said, and held out a hand to help me up.
She steered me into the sitting room and settled me in one of the large Victorian chairs I’d previously only glimpsed through the doorway. From behind solid wooden doors at the base of a glass-fronted bookcase, she took out brandy goblets and a crystal decanter which she carried across to the coffee table. The measures she poured were generous. ‘Here. Have a good slug of this.’ She seated herself opposite and raised her own glass.
I took a sip and leaned back, cradling the bowl in my hands. The lamp at my elbow – the bulb a concentrated orange glow in the dimming evening light – flickered a spectrum of violets and reds across the facets. Another sip, larger this time, and I felt the tension in my muscles easing. I heard myself giggle. ‘Sorry,’ I murmured. I risked a glance at Flora. That same steady gaze was turned in my direction, attentive but undemanding. I snuggled against the cushions. The overwhelming emotion I’d been experiencing just a short time ago seemed far away.
I said so. ‘I can’t think what came over me,’ I apologised.
Flora nodded.
I glanced around the room. The mellow furniture, the likes of some of which I’d only previously seen in bow-windowed antique shops, rested as comfortably beneath the low ceiling as a cat on a hearthrug. I wondered what my mother would make of it. I wondered what she’d make of me. The realisation dawned that I didn’t care. Guiltily I twitched my gaze back to Flora, and for a stark second experienced myself considering what it would be like if she were my mother. I jerked myself away from the fantasy, then slumped. ‘I’m just so tired of having to be strong,’ I heard myself say.
Flora’s eyes widened the merest fraction, expressing interest rather than surprise.
I blushed nonetheless. ‘I can’t think why I said that.’ I inspected my glass; then ran my finger round the rim. The surface of the brandy swayed slightly.
‘Perhaps I can.’
I looked up, startled. Her eyes, warm and brown, held mine. I turned my head and stared out of the window. Gentle puffballs of cloud, scarcely discernible in the greying sky, drifted peacefully. A moth fluttered against a pane. Somewhere a tap dripped on concrete. Inside the room the sharp smell from my glass mingled with the slight mustiness of elderly upholstery.
I fought the lump in my throat, took a swig of brandy, and choked on it. When I’d recovered I forced a laugh about it. ‘That’s what you
get for being sorry for yourself.’
‘Nonsense.’ She was smiling.
‘I was being sorry for myself. And that’s ridiculous. I mean, what about you?’ I was aware that the alcohol was getting to me, but I was determined to put into words the thoughts strumming through my mind. ‘You cope. You’ve lost Father too. Not that I’m saying I approve of … but, it’s a fact … and Mother …’ I tailed off. ‘It’s all a muddle …’
‘Isn’t it just.’
I checked her, suspiciously.
‘Why are you being so nice to me?’ I demanded, my mood swinging abruptly. ‘You know I resent you. You know I’m so angry I could …’ I leaned forward, reached for the decanter and topped up my glass. Settling back, I glared defiantly over it.
The corners of Flora’s mouth quirked. ‘Have some more brandy.’
‘Now you’re making fun of me.’
Her face straightened. ‘That I most certainly am not.’
I took refuge in silence. It probably looked like a sulk. It probably was a sulk. I was a child again, and I didn’t know how to respond.
Flora made no attempt to rescue me. After a few minutes, she heaved herself to her feet. ‘I think I’ll go and tackle the washing-up.’
I sat there for a while, twiddling my glass. In my head I debated whether to bury myself in a copy of the National Geographic lying nearby; but my hands, occupied in their repetitive rotational task, seemed divorced from any instruction my brain might be sending.
Eventually I managed to force a connection, and the act of setting the glass on the coffee table jerked me out of my stupor.
I scrambled up and went through to the kitchen. Flora’s ample back was towards me, dimples exposed in the plump flesh of her elbows as she busied herself at the sink. I collected a teatowel as I passed the Aga, and picked up a handful of dripping silver. Flora acknowledged my presence with a small sideways smile.
