Meadowland

by Alison Giles

  So we wandered back to the farmhouse and into the hopelessly untidy kitchen dominated by a huge old-fashioned range and an enormous oak table whose surface was pitted and cracked – and from the depths of whose cupboards Ginny unerringly unearthed what was needed. By the time we climbed back to the field, the baler was operational again and we sat in the sun for half an hour or so, watching its steady progress and lulled by its hum. We had both of us, while the boys followed behind it, lain back and closed our eyes. I came to to find Andrew standing over us. ‘Come on, lazybones,’ he said, sprinkling a handful of hay over each of us.

  I blinked up at his silhouette, then put a hand to my eyes to shield the sun.

  CHAPTER 14

  By the time of a fourth, or rather fifth, consecutive weekend visit, the car purred along seemingly on automatic pilot. Even the largely landmarkless stretches of motorway were assuming familiarity. I’d taken to going down on the Friday evening, and today I congratulated myself, as though the density or otherwise of the traffic was any of my doing, on clearing the massed exodus from London two or three miles earlier than usual. The sun, as I turned off the A road, was already an enormous orange ball dipping towards the horizon, and I had to screw up my eyes on westward-pointing twists of the road against its permeating glare.

  I glanced at my watch. It confirmed I had made good time; that the evenings were already starting to shorten. Learning and logic presented themselves: we were, after all, almost six weeks past the summer solstice, even if – vagaries of the English climate permitting – the best of the weather was yet to come. August next week. Oh, God. Mother’s birthday. I supposed I’d have to make a thing of it. Last year Father had taken us both to the theatre. I had found it a somewhat stilted occasion, though Mother had seemed as relaxed as she ever was. At the time, I had viewed his attempts to be jolly with cynicism. Doing his duty, I had assessed disparagingly. Now I was looking from a different standpoint. If he’d felt uncomfortable, maybe it was at the hypocrisy of it all, something which seemed to worry Mother not one jot. Indeed, she had taken her time getting into the car, making sure the neighbours had been given the opportunity to look up from their gardening or car-washing and take note of my father’s dinner jacket – she had insisted he wear it – and her own little couture number.

  I had reached the top of the hill now, and a sense of pleasurable anticipation filled me as I began the descent to Cotterly. It was almost, I thought idly, my mind hiving off towards more immediate matters, as though my mother had been more than happy with how things were.

  I hesitated at the junction, then decided to turn right and drop off straightaway the length of material Ginny had asked me to pick up from John Lewis’s.

  ‘Just as well,’ said Ginny when she realised I hadn’t already been round to Wood Edge. ‘Flora’s not back yet. She’s been over to see Donald. The Citroën’s on the blink so Andrew’s gone to pick her up from the station.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ I waved through the kitchen window to the boys who, defying the gathering dusk, were knocking a cricket ball around.

  ‘Said I’d do supper. Bunged a casserole in the oven. Hope that’s OK. Glass of wine?’

  ‘Great.’

  I stood sipping it in the open doorway as Ginny pottered at the stove. ‘I’d almost forgotten about Donald,’ I said. ‘Flora never mentions him.’

  ‘I think maybe she prefers not to.’

  ‘The one time she did,’ I said, ‘I got the impression they were very close as children.’

  Ginny heaved up the lid of the deep freeze and extracted a packet of peas. She grimaced. ‘Flora won’t approve of frozen, but she’ll have to put up with it.’ She emptied them into a pan. ‘Difficult to know what does go on inside Flora. I have an idea … just odd remarks she’s made … that she was a bit of a mother to him. Feels responsible in some way perhaps.’ She pulled a stool from under the table, picked up her own glass and sat down. ‘You know her parents virtually abandoned the pair of them?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. She only said she and Donald went to live with an aunt during the war. And then she looked after her later.’

  ‘Eccentric old duck, by the sound of it. One way and another, Flora’s been very much on her own. Case of sink or swim; Flora presumably decided to swim.’

  ‘I take it she was never married?’ Somehow I hadn’t found – or made – an opportunity to ask her.

  ‘If she was she’s never told anyone. Such a waste. Though maybe she’s just too independent.’ Ginny raised her head and looked me straight in the eye. ‘We all thought it was wonderful when your father came along.’

  I stared into my wine – the very palest of pale yellows. Its aroma drifted upwards, dry, bittersweet. Then I looked up. ‘I think I do too.’

  ‘She deserved him.’

  And he her, I thought. It was confirmation rather than revelation. Aloud I said, ‘I’m glad you liked him.’

  ‘Andrew knew him better.’ Ginny’s tone became matter-of-fact. ‘They’re very alike in so many ways, of course.’

  I nodded. Not so much in looks – though there was a similarity if one thought of Andrew as a slimmed-down version. No, more in terms of personality.

  ‘I couldn’t have two more different brothers,’ Ginny was chuckling. ‘Philip’s a real chip off the old block. Tough, practical, never says much …’

  I laughed. ‘I noticed,’ I said.

  ‘… whereas Andrew is more …’ She searched for the right adjective.

  ‘Sensitive?’ It was how Flora had described my father.

  ‘I guess so.’ She turned to me. ‘You like him, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, yes …’

  ‘Good.’

  The potato water, coming to the boil, spilled over and spluttered on the grids. Ginny swivelled and leaned across to turn down the gas. She glanced up at the clock on the wall. ‘They should be back any moment.’ She got up. ‘Call the boys in, would you?’

  I turned my attention to the two shadows chasing among the trees.

  If I’d been disconcerted by Ginny’s question, any residual self-consciousness dissipated amid the conviviality of supper-table conversation. Ginny hustled the boys off to bed as soon as we’d finished eating, and after a decent interval Flora and I excused ourselves as being, both of us, tired after our journeys.

  ‘How was Donald?’ I ventured, as we sat over a final cup of coffee.

  ‘Same as ever.’

  ‘If I’d realised, I could have suggested giving you a lift back.’

  ‘Thanks, but I prefer the train. Gives me time to unwind.’ It was a rare glimpse, despite the ever-increasing easiness in our relationship over the last few weeks, beneath Flora’s surface.

  I found myself covertly observing her as the weekend progressed: her stillness, her calm – as though she’d come to terms, or at least learned to cope, with whatever life had thrown at her; accepted the world – and people – for what it, they, were. I wished I had that same capacity.

  Not that she was any the less acerbic when occasion warranted it. Over a batch of washing-up, I passed some disparaging comment on Elspeth’s decision to go back to Perry.

  ‘And who are you to judge what’s best for her?’

  I inspected the handle of a jug I was drying. Eventually, I looked up and grinned. ‘Maybe I’m jealous.’ Flora’s training in taking little, least of all my own perceptions, at automatic face value, I observed wryly to myself, was beginning to tell.

  She rewarded me with a raised eyebrow and a small smile.

  When Andrew called round on the Saturday evening to suggest a drink at the Horse and Dragon, Flora cried off. ‘All I want to do,’ she said, padding around as so often in bare feet, ‘is curl up with a book.’ We left her to it.

  It was, it dawned on me as we wandered down the lane, the first time I’d been alone with him – for more than some incidental five or ten minutes – since the afternoon we’d had tea in his garden.

  ‘Ginny doing the mothering bit, I
suppose?’ I said.

  Andrew confirmed it. Our pairing this evening, it helped remind me, was only an accident of circumstance.

  But even if reality demanded I recognise we were just two friends thrown together for a drink, nonetheless it was hard to dismiss, as I walked beside him, the aura of a date. I struggled not to let the fantasy run away with me – but the urge to indulge it, silently, within myself, was stronger.

  Elspeth, as Flora had noted, had of course been right all along, I acknowledged. I recalled, in almost physical clarity, our drive back from the river at Putney, my smug insistence that my only interest in Andrew was sororial. But since then the situation had changed, or rather my understanding of it; yet still I’d been avoiding admitting just how much I fancied the man – damn him. Why? There was no reason at all, was there, why we shouldn’t …? Even Ginny, if I chose to interpret her comment that way, had given us her blessing.

  I slowed involuntarily. It gave the opportunity to view him as he strolled ahead – the easy, casual swing to his walk. It was hard to resist an image of him in bed, his arms around me, his legs entwined with mine.

  He’d stopped and turned. ‘What’s up?’

  I bent and fiddled with my sandal; adjusted the strap. ‘Just a stone.’

  No reason at all – I reverted to my train of thought – except that Andrew had given no indication he had any interest in that direction. In one way it was a relief; the whole idea of involvement, now I was so much as considering it, was pretty unnerving …

  He waited while I caught up with him.

  The moon was a white semi-circle in a not yet darkened sky. I pointed it out. ‘Strange,’ I said. ‘You only expect to see it at night.’

  Andrew halted and put his hands – friendly ones – on my shoulders, bringing me to a standstill. ‘Now you see it,’ he said, ‘and –’ he swivelled me through 180 degrees – ‘now you don’t.’ He turned me back again and dropped his hold.

  ‘Very cryptic,’ I remarked. ‘What was that supposed to mean?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Oh, God. You’re as bad as Flora.’ I laughed, more for my own benefit than his. I wished he hadn’t done that.

  We reached the pub. Andrew exchanged greetings, joined in the banter, the discussions. There was little opportunity for any sort of personal chat. The place filled up – a hubbub of farming talk, dogs bounding underfoot …

  It was getting on towards closing time when we emerged.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Andrew, as we crossed the green. ‘Not much fun for you.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ I countered gamely. ‘All part of country life.’

  ‘You enjoy it then?’

  ‘I must do, or I wouldn’t keep coming down.’

  ‘True.’ But I sensed him looking sideways at me, studying me.

  Back at Wood Edge, only the light in Flora’s bedroom was on.

  ‘I could make us a cup of coffee,’ I offered.

  ‘Not a bad idea, if I’m to drive home.’

  We sat opposite each other at the kitchen table, cradling mugs. The warmth between my palms was reassuring.

  ‘Will you be down again next weekend?’ Andrew asked.

  It reminded me of Mother, and her wretched birthday. ‘Can’t,’ I said. I hesitated for a moment, then explained.

  ‘When’s your birthday?’

  ‘November,’ I said. ‘Why?’

  ‘No reason. Just wondered.’

  We sipped coffee in companionable but, for me, frustratingly undefined intimacy.

  ‘I was just thinking,’ Andrew spoke surprisingly diffidently, ‘I have to be up in town at the end of the week. Case coming up in court. If you were free on Thursday evening …’ He laughed. ‘Save me from staring into some hotel soupe du jour.’

  The extraordinary knotting sensation just inside the base of my rib cage seemed lifted straight from the pages of the romances I’d lapped up as a teenager. But: ‘Sure,’ I managed casually. ‘Why not?’

  I allowed the arrangement to drift into my conversation with Flora next morning. We’d just finished picking a bowl of raspberries and, collapsed in deck chairs, were dipping into them with our fingers.

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Non-committal as always.

  She leaned back and tilted her face up to the sun. ‘Where’s he taking you?’ she offered eventually.

  I licked juice from my palm, where it had run down. ‘I rather thought I might take him somewhere.’

  ‘Very modern.’

  ‘Well, I can afford to.’

  She turned an eye lazily towards me. ‘I’m not doubting it.’

  ‘Maybe we’ll go dutch,’ I conceded.

  ‘Uh, huh.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me something?’

  ‘My dear girl, I’m not trying to tell you anything. It’s your life. You’re the one who has to sort it out.’

  I wished I wasn’t.

  On the drive back, I made a mental list of things to do. First and foremost I had to contact my mother.

  ‘It’s your birthday next Sunday,’ I announced to her over the phone on the Monday evening. I tried to sound enthusiastic.

  ‘I was wondering whether you’d remember.’ There was more than a hint of reproof in her voice. I supposed I deserved it. ‘Will you be joining us?’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Leah and Harold didn’t want me to be alone. They’ve invited me over there for the weekend.’

  Oh, shit. I really was in the dog house.

  ‘I’m sure they’d be delighted if you came down for the day.’

  Guilt, guilt, guilt.

  ‘I’ll ring and arrange it with them, shall I?’ I said. ‘Look I really am sorry about this last month—’

  ‘My dear, you have your own life to lead.’ Similar words to Flora’s, only somehow the message was totally different.

  It was Uncle Harold who answered my call. ‘Your aunt’s out,’ he told me.

  I explained why I was ringing.

  ‘Of course,’ he promised. ‘We’d love to see you.’

  ‘I feel terribly guilty. I didn’t mean to land you and Leah—’

  ‘Our pleasure. And listen …’ He hesitated a moment. ‘No need to feel so responsible for your mother. She’s well able to look after herself.’ He chuckled. ‘I should know. I’m married to her sister.’

  It was the first time I’d ever known him make any comment about her; or his wife for that matter. It startled me. But I could have hugged him. ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  That settled, there was nothing to stop anticipation mounting at the prospect of my assignation with Andrew. Even the excitement of a major new project in Scotland in which I was heavily involved failed to breach the nine-to-five barrier as, over both the following evenings, I concentrated on spring-cleaning the flat which had received little more than a cursory swipe with a duster since Elspeth’s departure. I paid particular attention to the bathroom, purchasing specially some new product that promised – somewhat over-zealously, I discovered – an instant gleam on the tiles.

  I checked the drinks cupboard, and got in the best coffee and a box of gourmet biscuits. In Boots, during a snatched lunch hour, I slid a pack of condoms discreetly alongside my other purchases before handing them to the assistant. Every girl, I reassured myself, should have some in her dressing-table drawer, just in case; it wasn’t as though I planned to carry them around in my handbag.

  On the Thursday, I made sure I left the office promptly. We’d arranged that Andrew pick me up at the flat, rather than direct from work. ‘There’s a rather chic little French place only two minutes’ walk away,’ I’d suggested when he phoned. ‘Would that do?’ More to the point, it gave me the chance to shower and change.

  And I’d chosen my outfit with care. Understated sophistication, I congratulated myself as I surveyed my image in the full-length mirror.

  Andrew was gratifyingly impressed. ‘And there was I thinking you might appreciate a pair of Wellingtons for Christmas!’

  ‘I
might too,’ I laughed. ‘I’m very adaptable.’ But my response came across as too jolly; too good-mates-together-ish. Too Cotterly.

  And thus the evening continued. Even though the food was excellent – we both settled for seafood followed by canard au poivre – there was no edge of flirtation to our conversation, nothing to distinguish it from the easy chat and innocent exchanges that had become the norm between us.

  At the end of the meal, Andrew flatly refused – did I appreciate it or not? – to let me pay my share. ‘My bit, anyway, can go down on expenses,’ he pointed out.

  He escorted me back to the flat.

  ‘Coffee? A drink …?’ I ventured as we climbed the stairs to my door.

  Andrew looked at his watch. ‘Better not. But thanks, it’s been a great evening.’ He waited while I turned the key in the lock. I hesitated, door half open.

  He leaned forward and dropped a kiss on my forehead. ‘Well, goodnight then. See you soon.’

  ‘Goodnight,’ I said. As an afterthought, as his head disappeared below the line of the banister rail, I called, ‘Good luck tomorrow. With your case.’ I didn’t know whether he’d heard me.

  Half an hour later, in my ultra-clean bathroom, I sponged my eyes and told myself not to be so stupid. But the sense of desolation after the buildup I’d allowed myself was hard to bear. Just as well for Flora that she chose not to be on the phone. The urge to ring and cry on her substantial shoulder would have been irresistible.

  Though whether I would have been doing so from disappointment or relief – or perhaps a mixture of both – I was none too sure.

  CHAPTER 15

  It’s amazing what a good night’s sleep can do. And against all the odds I was out for the count as soon as my head hit the pillow. Maybe the rather fine Chablis had something to do with it.

  Whatever, daylight brought perspective, and to add to it my morale was lifted sky-high during the morning when the MD himself – that elusive figure rarely glimpsed other than as a pair of pinstriped legs disappearing upwards in the open-plan lift – put his head round my door to congratulate me on my part in a recent coup.

  Pity I can’t handle my personal life as effectively, I reflected when he’d gone. But the thought couldn’t detract from the satisfaction of the praise I’d just had heaped on me.