‘And then there’s the children,’ he went on.
‘All right,’ Louise said. ‘I’m convinced.’
Andrew glanced at the clock. ‘I have to go and see Rose, I promised I’d be on time.’
‘What’s she planning now? It’s not like her to run a tight schedule.’
Andrew smiled. ‘I wouldn’t know. She’s a law to herself.’
They went out into the yard and Louise held the gate open for the Land-Rover. Two weary policemen straightened up in their patrol car and fixed them with a suspicious stare. ‘I hope they don’t stop me,’ Andrew said. ‘There’s a thousand things wrong with this van.’
He drove with elaborate care down the lane towards Louise’s cottage. In the little wood on the right-hand side the foxgloves were showing purple tips on the proud spikes of green and the rhododendrons echoed the colour with their buds. Louise rested her hand on Andrew’s shoulder and knew herself to be content.
He turned into the drive and switched the engine off. He walked around to Louise’s side and freed her from the stuck door. They went together down the path to the little van. Rose’s tidying out had continued in their absence. All around the van were heaped boxes of papers and bright material. There was a thin sharp smell of petrol. There was no smoke showing from the chimney, the dog was tied to the steps in his usual place, but he did not sit up at the sound of their footsteps. His feathery tail stirred in the grass and daisies but his head drooped and his ears stayed down.
Andrew stepped out of his Wellington boots at the foot of the steps and tapped on the door. There was no reply. He made a sudden exclamation and stepped back and pulled out from under the van a red can of diesel. Then, without a word to Louise, he put his shoulder to the door and pushed it inwards. The van rocked as Andrew fell inside. Louise waited on the bottom step, looking in.
Rose was lying on her back in her little bunk bed, gloriously arrayed at last in the scarlet chiffon negligee. Her eyes were closed, her hair washed and brushed gleamed white and smooth on the meticulously clean embroidered pillow slip. Her face was serene, her mouth slightly smiling. She looked like a virtuous old woman deeply asleep after a day of good deeds. Only the extreme whiteness of her skin and the blueness around her mouth and eyelids showed that she was dead. On her pillow was an envelope addressed to Andrew.
The caravan was immaculate. Everything that could burn had been taken outside and soaked in diesel. Everything else had been thrown away during Rose’s great spring clean. Nothing was left inside the van at all except the little bunk bed, as small as a child’s bed, and the pure white linen sheets which Rose had been saving for this occasion.
Andrew took up the envelope, then he stepped forward and kissed both her cold cheeks. It seemed impossible that Rose, so infuriating, so vital, should lie so still and her skin should be icy cold. ‘Goodbye, Rose,’ Andrew said softly. ‘I’ll do it as you wanted.’
He turned and came to the doorway. Louise stepped back to let him out and he shut the door gently behind him.
‘Go up to the house,’ he said quietly to Louise. ‘I have things to do here.’
‘Is she dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was she really ill, then?’
‘Yes.’
Louise put her hand to her mouth. ‘I thought she was pretending. I was horrible to her. I accused her of faking it.’
Andrew shook his head. ‘She was an old rogue. Sometimes she was pretending, sometimes she was telling the truth. Sometimes she didn’t know herself where the lies began and truth ended. She didn’t think you were horrible. She had you picked out as a wife for me. She told me to court you. She thought she’d done a good job bringing us together and she was pleased with herself when you came to me. If she’d wanted anything from you she’d have told you; and if you’d refused her she would have taken it anyway. You don’t need to feel guilty.’
‘I’ll telephone for the doctor,’ Louise offered. ‘He’ll have to come out to write the death certificate.’
Andrew shook his head. ‘We’ll do this as she wanted,’ he said firmly. ‘You go into the house and fetch the things you wanted or make yourself a cup of coffee or something. Leave me with her.’
Louise put a hand on his arm. ‘I’m sorry. You loved her.’
‘Yes,’ Andrew said.
Louise went to the window of her study, where she had first seen Rose’s van just eleven days ago. Andrew was standing outside the van, his cap stuffed in his pocket, reading Rose’s letter. When he had read it through he folded it carefully and tucked it inside his jacket. He untied Rose’s dog and led him on the string to the Land-Rover and ordered him to jump into the open back. The dog, tail between his legs and head down, did as he was told.
Andrew walked slowly back through the orchard to Rose’s van, and took up the red can of diesel fuel. He went up the steps and into the van. Louise watched it rock as he moved around the inside, and then saw him come out, the fuel spilling in a smooth stream from the spout on to the floor. Slowly he walked around the van, soaking the boxes with the clear liquid. Louise put a hand to her cheek. She still thought that the doctor should be called, and an ambulance, and perhaps the police in a case of sudden death. But she knew also that Rose had a right to order this final chapter of her life as she wished, that she had spent her whole life living as she pleased and that it would be wrong if Louise’s conventional sense of good behaviour spoiled things for Rose at the very end. Besides, Andrew had given Rose a promise, and would accept no interference.
When the can was empty he stepped well back from the van and checked the overhead boughs of the apple trees and the prevailing light southerly wind. Then he went to the Land-Rover and fetched matches from the cab. Carefully and without haste he lit and tossed half a dozen matches into the nearest two boxes. They ignited with a soft explosive blast which shot flames up into the air, blistering the old blue paint of the van at once. Within moments the other boxes had caught and Louise could not see the van at all for the dancing bright flames and the heat haze which turned it all into a shimmering wall of fire.
A thick cloud of black smoke billowed and seeped through the branches of the apple trees. Louise could hear cracking noises as the metal expanded suddenly in the heat. Andrew stepped back from the fierceness of the blaze, shielding his eyes. There was a hot acrid smell of burning and then a sudden roar as something inside the van went up. The first blast of flames lasted only a few moments but then the van was solidly alight, burning steadily. As Louise watched, the roof which had been patched and repaired with filler and plasterboard collapsed inward in a shower of sparks and a bright plume of flame spurted upwards.
Louise thought of Rose in her hard-won red chiffon gown going heroically into the afterlife like a Viking chieftain on a burning boat and she felt suddenly freed from anxiety and triumphant. The flames were like a beacon: they showed that a woman could be born into any society at any time and still carve out her own path. She could choose her life and her death. All that was needed was a remorseless individualist determination to run her own life and defy the conventions and the sly damaging punishments that the conventional world can devise. Louise found she was laughing with a wild delight at the thought of the intractable old lady and how the manner of her going – illegal, inconvenient, and joyfully dramatic – suited her life. She opened the study door and walked down the garden path to where Andrew was standing leaning against the gate. She put her hand on his and when he turned to her his eyes were wet; but he too was smiling.
‘Quite a blaze,’ he said. ‘She would have been pleased.’
They stood hand in hand, watching the van burn. The first bright heat of the flames was dying away but the structure of the metal glowed bright red and the inside of the van was burning steadily and hot.
From the lane came the whine of sirens. Andrew sighed at the prospect of imminent trouble. ‘She wrote a note to me,’ he said. ‘She wanted you to have Lloyd George.’
‘Lloyd George?�
��
‘The dog.’
‘Oh. Did she burn all her papers?’
Andrew nodded. ‘That was her right,’ he said gently.
‘I suppose so,’ Louise said regretfully.
‘It was her that stole Toby’s money, you know.’
‘What?’
‘She pickpocketed his cash card and memorised the number. She watched him tap it in when they were shopping. She said she didn’t understand how it worked, that she was just taking it from the bank. But she took out all the money until it was empty.’
Louise could feel her laughter rising. ‘Oh, she was dreadful! She was a wonderfully dreadful woman!’
‘She had three hundred pounds of it left. She’s sent it to Miriam.’
‘To Miriam?’
‘In her letter she says for Miriam to buy a mountain bike and go.’
A police car turned in to Louise’s gate, followed by another.
‘And she left her share of the cottage to the two of us on conditions,’ Andrew said.
‘I thought you were her heir?’
‘She’s very determined we should marry. I’ll show you the letter tonight. The cottage is left to the two of us on condition we marry.’
Louise nodded. ‘She was an awfully bossy old lady.’
Andrew smiled reflectively. ‘She was,’ he agreed. ‘I’m glad to have known her.’ He turned towards the police cars. ‘This may take me some time. You sort your things out here and go back to the farm. You can make sure that the ravers get off all right. If there’s no damage to the fences or gates or anything you can give them their deposit cheque back, it’s in the right-hand drawer of the desk in the farm office. If anyone wants to stay on it’s eight pounds a night and they can stay till next weekend, but that’s all. If I’m in real trouble with the police, I’ll phone you. My solicitor’s telephone number is in the back of the diary on my desk. You’d better give him a ring anyway, and tell him what has happened.’
Louise clutched hold of Andrew’s sleeve. ‘Will they charge you with something?’
Andrew grinned and shrugged. ‘Well, I’m not their favourite responsible citizen at the moment. But it’s not a hanging offence.’
He gave Louise a quick kiss and a hug and then turned and walked up towards the police cars, pulling on his cap as he went. Behind him the fire burned dully as the last remnants of Rose’s treasures went up in a defiant plume of grey smoke with her.
At the farm Miriam was eating lunch in the kitchen when Louise returned with a despondent dog on the end of a piece of string. ‘Mrs Shaw left the most wonderful salad,’ she said, then she stopped as she saw Louise’s face. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Rose is dead,’ Louise replied. She sat down at the table. Lloyd George immediately sat under the table and rested his warm chin on her feet. ‘She died overnight. She had asked Andrew to go down there at midday today. She knew she would be dead. She left him a letter telling him to burn her body and her van. She left me her dog. She left you three hundred pounds to buy a mountain bike.’
A slow smile spread across Miriam’s astounded face. ‘She was a wonderful woman,’ she said. ‘And I’ll damn well do it too. It was her who put the idea of running away in my mind in the first place. She told me to change myself before I tried to change other people. I wonder where she got three hundred pounds from?’
‘I don’t know,’ Louise said, suddenly cowardly. ‘But it’s yours now.’
‘Where’s Andrew?’
‘The police took him off. I think it’s all probably dreadfully illegal. He told me to phone his solicitor and tell him what’s happening.’
‘But the rave organisers are leaving, they need their cheque back and they wanted to see him.’
‘I’ll deal with them,’ Louise said, unconscious of her quiet confidence. ‘I’ll just go and phone Andrew’s lawyer. I don’t want him clapped up in irons all day.’
Miriam blinked in surprise as this new, assertive Louise went through to the farm office, made herself comfortable at the desk, and telephoned Andrew’s lawyer with a succinct account of Rose’s death and funeral pyre. Then she went out into the field with Steve and checked the fences and the gates and the absence of any litter and damage, and returned him his cheque. ‘I wanted to see the boss, to make a booking for next year, if he’s agreeable,’ Steve said.
Louise nodded. ‘You can deal with me. We’d be happy to see you back here again. About the same time of year, when we’ve cut the hay crop. We’ll call it a provisional booking, I’ll confirm with you in writing later.’
‘OK. Same money?’
Louise shook her head. ‘There’ll be a fifteen per cent surcharge next year,’ she said firmly. ‘If we’re going to make it an annual event then it has to go up in price annually. The pigs need feeding, you know.’
Steve put out his hand. ‘Done.’
‘Twenty per cent deposit to pay when you confirm the booking,’ Louise said.
Steve grinned at her. ‘So you’re the new business manager.’
Louise smiled. ‘Yes,’ she said simply.
Steve waved the big stage truck out of the farm gate and into the lane, and then got behind the wheel of his BMW. ‘See you next year,’ he said. ‘It was a great party.’
‘We enjoyed it too!’ Louise called. ‘Next year.’
The little convoy turned out of the field into the lane followed by a couple of the ramshackle vans. No-one had stayed behind and only the stamped-down grass of the dancing area showed that they had been there at all. Louise looked across the hayfield to the field near the common where the Charolais cows were grazing, and to the fields next door where the sheep were safe. Andrew’s tractor was where he had left it in the hayfield. Louise strolled down the meadow towards it. She felt like trying a spot of haymaking.
The police held Andrew long enough to irritate him but then released him without bringing any charges. Rose had explained her illness and her desire for a traditional Romany funeral in her letter. She had consulted the GP at Wistley’s weekly clinic and when the police inspector telephoned, he confirmed that she had cancer. She had refused all treatment but had accepted a large prescription for painkillers. In her letter to Andrew she said that she had been saving all her painkillers in recent months and had washed them down with a truly excellent bottle of port late on Saturday night. The police objected very strongly to Andrew running his own private crematorium, but the inspector decided that the charge of setting fire to a van and to the body of an old lady was too bizarre for the magistrates’ court to sort out. He warned Andrew that he must never never do it again and Andrew pointed out, rather ungraciously, that he was hardly likely to feel the need.
They released him at six o’clock that evening after taking two full statements in triplicate. Andrew telephoned Louise from the public call box outside the police station at Chichester.
‘I was starting to wonder if you were OK.’
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Can you come down and pick me up?’
‘I’ll take you out to dinner,’ Louise offered.
‘Done,’ he said. ‘Bring a clean shirt for me if you want to go anywhere in the least respectable. I smell like a cowpunching arsonist.’
‘Sexy beast,’ Louise said and rang off.
She went upstairs to their bedroom and took a clean blue cotton shirt from the wardrobe and held it for a moment against her cheek, looking down the valley of Wistley common. The sun was setting and the common was golden in the muted light. On her left a little rind of moon was rising, a pale gold. The fields were quiet, the cows on the distant field gathered in the far corner. The hay had been turned, the last three windrows hopelessly zig-zag from Louise’s unpractised steering. The sheep were lying down like little puffs of cotton wool in the twilight. The pigs were hypothetical as ever.
Louise looked at the landscape which over the next years would become as familiar and as dear as Andrew’s face, and knew herself to be deeply happy.
Then she ran d
own the stairs and out to the yard to fetch Andrew home.
Autumn
D.H. LAWRENCE, THE VIRGIN AND THE GYPSY, A RECONSIDERATION.
For too many years feminist criticism has focused on Lawrence’s obsession with male sexuality and his neglect of heroines who too often are mere mirrors for the dominant male ego. These represent genuine difficulties, especially for the feminist reader, but if we allow Lawrence this bias, we see that he has much to teach us about male-female relationships, especially at this stage of our development.
The demand by feminists for the so-called ‘New Man’ who should equal the woman in his caring and emotional nature has produced serious consequences. One of these is the backlash from men who cannot or will not conform to this new stereotype of behaviour, men who are inadequate or psychologically unfit. But there are also men, of a different sort, who cannot conform to the weakness and femininity of the ‘New Man’. These are men who prize their assertiveness, their right to protect and defend their family, who insist on their difference from women – not their sameness.
As feminists we should understand this. We have been insisting for years on the right to explore our femininity despite the stereotypical images of women in our patriarchal culture. Now men too are saying that the patriarchal culture imposes stereotypes on them and they have to explore their gender’s history and their personal psychology to find their true nature. What this true nature is likely to be it is still too early to say. But it will be neither the macho image of maleness that twentieth-century western culture promotes, nor the weak effeminacy of the worst of the ‘New Man’.
Men’s view of themselves is in a powerful and exciting period of change and, just as we have demanded their support in our experiments with taking our power, we owe them a reciprocal support as they explore their own genuine power, which is quite different from the exploitive and abusive power offered them by patriarchy. There are a very few men [Louise wrote smugly] who by virtue of circumstance and personal psychology have managed to be relatively untouched by the cruelty of unequal relationships between the sexes and can thus give themselves in a relationship with passion and with honesty, with sensitivity and with pride. When a woman is lucky enough to be loved by a man such as this – as the Virgin of the story is loved by the Gypsy, as Constance Chatterley is by Mellors – she knows that she has the foundation of a relationship which is not only deeply exciting, but which shows her the way forward and away from the battle between the sexes. The battle was always sited on false positions, posturing about stereotypes of behaviour. The reality is the wonderful erotic and romantic differences between genuinely enlightened men and women.
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