The Anniversary

by Ann Swinfen

'I will speak to her,' said Natasha decisively, giving Katya's hand a little squeeze. 'We will discuss it before the day is over. Now you must go to the village.'

  * * *

  When Spiro reached Oxford station a minute or two before half-past seven that morning, he was just in time to see the Worcester and Hereford train pulling out. He saw Anya leaning out of the open door, and then retreating as the guard slammed it shut. From the far end of the platform he had shouted and started to run, but she did not look round and the train pulled away imperviously.

  These British trains! When you were on time, they kept you hanging about for hours on their cold, windy platforms. When you were just a tiny minute late, of course that was the one occasion they would manage to run on time. He stamped off to the refreshment counter and bought a cup of disgusting watery coffee. He would just have to catch the next train. There was to be some sort of service of thanksgiving in the chapel of St Martins at half-past eleven. The train Anya had taken would get her to Hereford an hour and a half before that. Surely he could catch one that would make him no more than a few minutes late for the service?

  After a few sips he pushed away the coffee. He could not get used to this insipid English stuff. What he needed was a strong, reviving cup of real Greek coffee, black and sticky as pitch. It sent a surge of energy through you like an injection of adrenalin. Thinking of Greek coffee made him think again of his fight with Anya about the restaurant. He had managed that badly. He had so fallen in love with his idea that he'd blurted it all out, like a fool. He should have come at it crabwise, round about. He should simply have asked her to marry him, and then later broken the idea of the restaurant. He had no discretion with his feelings.

  He didn't want to lose Anya through his ineptitude. For several months now he had known how much he loved her, known that marriage to her was the most important goal in his life. Her cool competence soothed him and gave him a sense of security. And he knew that beneath it lurked all the passion he could desire, passion that had clearly surprised Anya herself. He must be diplomatic. And he certainly must not miss this celebration given by her great-grandmother. That would do him a lot of harm in Anya's eyes. Anyway, he was intrigued by the idea of St Martins.

  Standing in front of the train timetable posted on the wall of the station, he stared in horror. The next train did not leave till ten, and would not get him to Hereford until after one o'clock. He would still have to cover the distance between Hereford and St Martins, about twelve miles out into the country. By taxi, he supposed. It would be two in the afternoon before he could be there. He began to feel guilty about the extra minutes he had spent polishing his shoes, brushing his clothes. What a fool I am! he groaned to himself.

  There was nothing else for it, he would have to find some other way to get there. Rather than waste time going to enquire at the bus station, he decided to hitch a lift. In his pocket he carried a dog-eared miniature atlas of Britain, which he had used on his trips of exploration with Anya. He would take a city bus up to the northern ring road and see if he could get a lift from someone heading for Cheltenham or Gloucester.

  Spiro was luckier than he deserved. Up on the city bypass, the first car that stopped was driven by a middle-aged couple travelling to Brecon.

  'We'll drop you at the railway station in Hereford,' said the man helpfully. 'You'll be able to pick up a taxi easily. If the traffic isn't too bad we should be there by half-past ten.'

  * * *

  Frances took her preferred back road from Clunwardine Priors to Hereford. Everyone in the village always called it the 'back road', though she was not sure why. Both were B roads, winding around the ancient boundaries of fields, obeying the needs of an agricultural population which had made this landscape centuries ago. Both slowed briefly through villages before diving once more between the hedgerows. This road had always been her favourite because – as the car swooped around bends deep amongst blackthorn and cow-parsley – it offered sudden amphitheatres opening out towards Wales and its mountains. This combination of the pieced, careful, farming landscape and the jagged outline of the mountains seemed to her deeply satisfying, at a level beyond expression.

  Gregor sat beside her, relaxed in the seat with his legs sprawled out and his hands loosely clasped in his lap. He was looking across her, also towards Wales. He had always had this capacity for stillness, from the time he had first come to St Martins, after experiences so terrible that she had known nothing of them in her childhood. It was only after her marriage that Natasha had told her the full story of Gregor's flight from Poland. His stillness came in part, perhaps, from that early childhood training, hidden in barns and cupboards, afraid even to breathe. She remembered him lurking on the edge of their play when she and Hugh had been young. Very quiet and still, not daring to intrude.

  Yet she felt now that this stillness came also from personality. Gregor was self-contained. A man who did not need other people. He had never married, and was totally absorbed in his work for most of his waking hours. Compared with Giles, he was profoundly restful. Giles fidgeted constantly, looking about him to see what impression he was making on other people. She had not been conscious of this habit when they first knew each other, blinded by her own awe at being singled out by him, but she knew now that her compliance, her early near worship of him, had been nourishment essential to his own ego. Nowadays, even though she knew that his tendency to put on a public performance in his private life arose from a deep uncertainty about his talent on stage, she was perpetually irritated by it. On the rare occasions when they had a meal in a restaurant, she found it humiliating – particularly of late, when people had at last begun to recognise him.

  With Gregor it was no more necessary to make conversation than it was with Hugh, and for the first few miles they drove in silence. Past the redundant church converted into a house, past the tiny black-and-white cottage where the old man stood with his border collie outside the front door, winter and summer, leaning on a wooden railing. Frances, as usual, raised her hand to him as she passed, and he, with dignity, returned the greeting.

  'Does he stand there for entertainment,' she mused aloud, 'or because his married daughter finds he is in her way and parks him out there? I've always wondered.'

  Gregor turned a humorous glance towards her. 'You could stop and ask. Why his married daughter, anyway?'

  'If he lived with his wife, she would make sure he sat by the fire in his slippers, at least in winter. He must be eighty-five.'

  'You're a romantic. His wife is probably a shrew and a scold, and he is wishing he had never married. He stands out there, eternally hopeful, waiting for something to turn up. Given the chance, he would be away from there, he and his dog, up to Lunnon and away from domestic bliss.'

  This was getting too close for Frances's entire comfort. She drove for a few minutes in silence, thinking about her own first escapes – as she had perceived them at the time – driving away from St Martins on these unchanging roads.

  'Remember your MG?' said Gregor, reading her thoughts. 'How I envied you! Wished I had a generous granny.'

  'It wasn't fair, was it? Not that she usually spoiled us. I think that was the only big present she ever gave me. She was so proud of my scholarship to Oxford. What she didn't realise was that the scholarship in itself was reward enough for me. I never expect to be rewarded for doing what I had set my own sights on.'

  'Still.'

  'Still, as you say. We had a lot of fun in that car, didn't we? You and I and Hugh.'

  * * *

  'You did what?'

  'Sold the car.'

  'Sold my car?'

  'We need the money, darling,' Giles nuzzled her ear, but she pulled away, furious.

  'It was mine. Natasha gave it to me. How shall I be able get about with Anya and Nick? Fetching all the shopping, with both of them under two years old? You never lift a finger to help.'

  'Other people manage. Plenty of buses in London, not like still living in country-bumpkin-land. I
have to go up to Edinburgh for an audition. Got to find the fare somehow. This could be something really good – a pre-West-End run.'

  'You could have borrowed the money from Peregrine. You have before.'

  Peregrine was Giles's agent, and had indeed loaned money before. Giles did not want to tell Frances that he was now £200 in hock to Peregrine, a terrifying amount in 1962. Also, since that episode of the weekend in Brighton, Peregrine had been asking awkward questions about what the money was for. Giles had managed to do a deal with a fellow actor who had had his eye on Frances's MG for some time. He had given Giles £375. Cash.

  'I got £200 for the car. Jolly good price. Look, here's £100 for you. I'll hang on to the rest for fares and hotel bills.'

  There were tears in her eyes as she looked down at the handful of grubby money, £1 and £5 notes. She had hardly seen a £5 note before. Her beautiful car, as dear as an intimate friend, reduced to this. The anger she felt was so strong she was speechless.

  Giles, taking her silence for acquiescence, was pleased with himself. He would give Peregrine £100 to keep him quiet, get a lift up to Edinburgh with the friend who was going up for the same auditions, and keep the remaining £175.

  It was their first real quarrel. Shaken by the intensity of her feelings and her sense of loss, Frances side-stepped difficulties with Giles for a long time afterwards.

  * * *

  'Do you think Hugh will turn up for the celebration?' Gregor asked, leaning his elbow on the open window and turning towards her. 'I don't think Natasha will feel it is complete without him.'

  'Well, it won't be, will it? I just don't know. I haven't heard anything since Christmas. He was in India then. Just a postcard of a temple with a couple of sentences scribbled on the back. Usual thing.'

  'I liked his book about the Inuits in Alaska. I sat up all one night reading it, couldn't put it down. Do you suppose he'll ever decide he is too old for that sort of thing? Decide to settle down?'

  'Hugh!' Frances threw back her head and laughed. It was the first time he had seen her laugh that day. 'Can you imagine him settling down? Not like you. You were a bit of a wanderer for a while, but I always knew you would come back to St Martins. It's the right place for you.'

  'Unadventurous and boring, you mean?'

  She gave him a steady look. 'Not that at all. The still centre of your world. You do your exploring through your hands. Through your stone and clay.'

  * * *

  They face each other across the pile of logs in the outhouse. Frances is wearing a cherry-red scarf wrapped high round her ears, and matching mittens. Her breath steams in the frosty air.

  'You're so unadventurous and boring, Gregor. All you want to do is mess about here at St Martins, with your lumps of stone and your little clay models, like a child at nursery school.'

  What she is saying is unpardonable, and her knowledge of this has made her cheeks colour up, but her anger has overcome her. It is the Christmas of 1958, her second year at university, and she has brought Giles home to St Martins for his first visit. It has not gone quite as she planned, and she is ready to lash out at anyone.

  'Unadventurous and boring, is it? I suppose your Oxford friend is oh so exciting, daahling!' he affects a posh accent, angering her further.

  'If you want to succeed as an artist, you'll have to go to London. Get a studio. Get away from all the comfort and cosiness here, all the old people. We're moving to London as soon as we graduate.'

  'We?'

  'Giles and I. We're going to get married.'

  There is a sharp silence between them. Then Gregor draws a long breath, and reaches across the logs for her. He pulls her angrily towards him, so that she stumbles and falls with her knees on the logs.

  'Married, is it?' He kisses her violently. It is like a blow in the face. Furiously she fights free from him, and hits him across the cheek. Her mittened hand makes no impact. Then she runs back to the house, leaving him to collect the logs and follow her slowly – dragging his feet.

  * * *

  Natasha switched on the radio, to catch the 10 a.m. news and the weather forecast. After the overcast start to the day it was looking a little better as the morning went on, but she wanted reassurance. Yesterday evening she had asked Mr Dawlish whether it would stay fine for today. He had shaken his head and said, 'The clouds be too frivolous and clibberty.' He might have been right, but she hoped that it would be no more than one of the light showers he called 'gnats passing over'.

  The news was just finishing, with an item about the concluding D-Day events. For days now the news had been dominated by the 'celebrations' or 'commemorations' of the fiftieth anniversary, depending on one's position in the controversy. Natasha had been unable to take sides on the issue – whether it should be a celebration of the beginning of the end of war, or a memorial to all those who had died. Her own private feelings about that month of June, fifty years ago, were in the same painful state of confusion – happiness and grief blended.

  Edmund had ten days' leave at the end of that May, which he spent helping her move into St Martins and clearing out a corner to live in. They stowed all their furniture in the vast drawing room, arranging it in groups, saying to each other: 'This is the bedroom, and this is the dining room and this, with the fireplace, is the kitchen.' Edmund had propped up Natasha's canvases in one corner, announcing, 'This is the Long Gallery. Admission sixpence extra.' They had laughed a good deal, like excited children, planning how they would run the place as a communal home for creative artists of all kinds, and for refugees from war-torn Europe. Since the early thirties they had provided temporary shelter in their flat in Chelsea, but knew it could not be a permanent arrangement. Irina had arrived at St Martins the day after her father, with her children and some girl who had been bombed out. The children ran about shrieking with joy, but Irina was grim-faced, and her nostrils curled at the state of the house.

  * * *

  'I have been to the solicitor,' said Edmund, holding up a bundle of papers for her to see, and putting it in the central drawer of the big desk. 'I have made over ownership of the property to you, just in case, don't you know.'

  She made a sound of protest, pushing his words aside in the air with her hand.

  'It has to be thought of, my dear. The war isn't over yet, and the invasion will be bloody when it comes. I'm only doing what is practical.'

  'I cannot bear to think of it.'

  'I know. I know.' He stroked her hair. 'He has also drawn up the trust deeds for us. You will remain the outright owner of St Martins, able to live here, and your heirs, for ever. But the trust will pay you only a peppercorn rent. You will also receive the rent from the farm, so you will have a little to live on, but not much. You won't be rich. Are you sure you are happy with this?'

  'You know this, dousha moya. Such a place has been my dream since –'

  'Yes, don't think about it.'

  'And I need very little money. I am a very good maker of soup from the peelings of vegetables,' she said proudly.

  He laughed. 'The trust papers lay down that members of the community will pay rent to the trust according to their means, to be determined by the community committee. The trust will be responsible for maintenance of the property, and any improvements decided on. The regular bills, like rates, and electricity – if we ever get it – will be divided amongst the community in the same proportions as the rents.'

  'It is all very excellent and very English.'

  'Aren't you happy with it?' He looked at her anxiously.

  She was sorry at once. It all sounded so dull and formal, when her heart was bursting with joy, but Edmund was right. One must be sensible. These things cannot be left, casually, to chance and goodwill, or they deteriorate into the ill-natured squabbles she remembered from her days in shared appartements in Paris in 1918 and 1919. Then, whenever there was a bill to be paid, some people would simply disappear. Those left behind would fight, with all the intensity of those who have spent their last few
francs on wine and theatres instead of putting it aside for the rent. She remembered clearly the time she threw the frying pan full of hot onions at Jean-Claude. He had ducked, and they had all had to find some extra francs for a new pane of glass.

  * * *

  The trust came into effect on the 11 June, 1944. By then Edmund was gone, back to his regiment, and for the last few days they had all known why. The Allies had invaded Europe. The Germans were starting to be pushed back. D-Day. And Natasha demanded of the unloved and inscrutable Deity why Edmund should have so mistimed his birth that he should have to fight in two wars.

  They had launched the St Martins community with a party – Natasha with her family, her waifs and strays who had come with her from London, and the newly arrived Polish family, Count Baranowski with his wife and son. They hadn't had much food, but the farmer gave them some eggs and Natasha had baked two cakes. There were Spam sandwiches, and cucumber sandwiches (the farmer again), and a single bottle of wine Natasha had found in the cellar amongst the empty bottles of Edmund's uncle's long, well-wined life.

  It was just as they were thinking of getting the children off to bed that the telegram about Edmund had come.

  * * *

  Frances threaded her way past the cars turning into the Safeway car park for their Saturday shopping and drove the few extra yards to the station.

  'I've always liked it,' said Gregor. 'An honest, dignified, nineteenth-century building.'

  'Quite grand, really. I suppose Hereford was a wealthy provincial market town in those days. Yes, it has lovely proportions. Have you seen what they have done to Oxford station?'

  'Remember, I don't have the same feelings about that as you have.'

  Anya saw them standing together on the platform as the train pulled in to Hereford. They looked more at ease with each other than her mother ever did with Giles.