by Ann Swinfen
Natasha caresses the bent head, feeling helpless. What can she do for Frances, who is so hopelessly entangled in her own sense of obligation to other people, and has always, for years, put herself last?
* * *
'Yes,' said Frances, 'I remember that conversation very well. You said: Come anyway.'
'And you would not come.'
'No. And I still don't know whether I did the right thing or the wrong thing, but that's all in the past now. It's curious you should mention that time, because I've been thinking about it myself today, and wondering how different things might have been if I had left Giles then. I think the younger children might have been happier, growing up away from the tensions and constrictions of that horrible house in Reading.' She looked up at her grandmother. 'You cannot imagine how much I loathe it – it has become a prison for me.' She paused. 'And of course then, when I was only forty, I could have found a job, some sort of job, back in the eighties, when the whole country was beginning to flourish. I would have managed somehow while Katya was a baby, and Tony and Lisa could have finished their schooling in Hereford or Leominster. Why didn't I do it? Why was I so weak?'
'But you are not weak any longer. Is that what you are saying, doushenka?'
Frances nodded, looking out at the summer garden, so different from the delicately frosted one thirteen and a half years ago. She saw Giles, Alice and that man – what was he called? Simon Frobisher – walking across the lawn towards the terrace.
'I am leaving Giles.' She got up and crossed to the window, and pulled it closed. She turned and stood with her back to the window, facing Natasha. 'I haven't told him yet, but I think I will do so tonight. I don't think I could share a bed with him again. And the curious thing is that I feel nothing. I don't feel guilt, or sadness that everything went wrong, or even a sense of relief. I'm numb. But I've come to some point of crisis in my life. I don't feel I can go on living in a state of untruth.'
She came back to the stool and sat down again, taking Natasha's hand.
'The problem is, that I don't know how I shall be able to live. I'd find it difficult to get a job now. I suppose I would be able to claim the dole, but that would mean I wouldn't be able to contribute much to the trust, and I know how difficult things are at present. Possibly I could get some teaching locally, enough to keep me and Katya.' She sighed bitterly. 'All those vaulting ambitions I had – do you remember? I was going to be so famous, for something! And now I just want to be able to earn enough to put meals on a table for a woman and a girl.'
'You are forgetting,' said Natasha gently, 'that it was I who wanted to see you about something.'
'I don't want charity, Natasha.'
'But how could I be offering you charity, when you have only just told me this? No, I want to discuss with you something about St Martins.'
'Is it something to do with this £100,000 you have to find?'
'You know about that?'
'Both Nick and Peter have been talking to me about it.'
'Not Gregor?'
'No,' said Frances, looking down and pleating her skirt between her fingers. 'Not Gregor.'
'There is no reason he should. He is the only other person who knows. But I expect he did not want to worry you. He is always very protective of you – even now.'
Frances looked up swiftly. 'What do you mean, even now?'
'You know exactly what I mean,' said Natasha sweetly. 'Now, this money. It will not be easy to come by. But our so-generous neighbour, Mr Frobisher, has come up with a solution.'
Frances was watching Giles and Alice through the window. Giles was leading Alice away towards the shrubbery. Suddenly she felt nausea rising in her throat. Not again. Not here at St Martins. Not with Tony's girlfriend. She barely heard what Natasha was saying.
'Simon Frobisher?' she said vaguely. 'That dreadful man – the one you told me not to be too nice to?'
'Precisely.' Natasha drew a long breath. 'Not a dreadful man at all, of course,' she said ironically. 'The deus ex machina. The genie out of the bottle. He has offered to buy the meadow from me. For £100,000. So that he can build little box-like houses all over it, packed as closely together as he can get them.'
Frances stared, her attention fully caught now. 'Not the meadow! Not our precious meadow, which dates back to the Domesday Book! Natasha, you can't possibly.'
'No,' said Natasha. 'I can't possibly. Do not worry, doushenka, your beloved meadow is safe. I know how much you treasure it. No, I have another plan.'
She got up rather stiffly from the chair, and crossed to her bed, gathering the silk folds of her dressing gown around her protectively. She paused, and then reached out slowly and took down the icon of the Virgin.
'We also have this, of which Mr Simon Frobisher knows nothing. He thinks, of course, that he has me in a blind corner, unable to refuse his offer because I have nowhere else to turn. You notice that he offers me the exact amount that we believe we will need for the repairs. How does he know this? He is like Machiavelli's prince. He has informers carefully placed in the building trade, he spies out the position at St Martins himself. He has been here before, you understand, paying a visit of courtesy. I believe he has desired our meadow since he came to live in Clunwardine Priors, probably even before. If it were not absurd, I would believe that he arranged for the roof to deteriorate, the mortar to fall out and the wiring to fail. But he is not a black magician, just a ruthless and determined man.'
She came back to Frances, and placed the icon in her hands.
'I have made a few discreet enquiries, by telephone, of old friends. I believe my Virgin will be worth enough to save St Martins.'
Chapter 12
Spiro found Anya down by the pond. He was sure she had been avoiding him all day, and couldn't decide whether it was better to leave her alone, and wait for her to come to him, or whether he should make some move himself. They had barely exchanged a dozen words since he had arrived, and Anya seemed to be seeking the safety of other people's company, to avoid being alone with him. But when the members of the community and their guests began to gather again on the terrace for drinks before the play, and the Thespians had hurried off anxiously to change into their costumes, Anya was nowhere to be seen.
Finally Spiro approached Gregor, who was just coming out of his studio with a streak of clay on his cheek and an abstracted look in his eye.
'Have you any idea where Anya might be?' Spiro asked, judging that Gregor would not ply him with questions, or even pay much attention.
'She's always liked the corner down by the pond,' said Gregor at once. 'If she's gone off on her own somewhere, that's where I'd look if I were you.'
He pointed out the path down to the far end of the rough ground, and the clump of trees that hid the pond from where they were standing.
'I'd take heart,' said Gregor thoughtfully – who was not as abstracted as Spiro supposed – 'from the fact that she seems to have taken it so badly. If she didn't care, see, she'd be going briskly about in her usual way. I should go and have it out with her. Now.' He paused, and seemed to Spiro to be studying the barn door. 'It's much better to bring these things out into the open, not hold back through fear and delicacy. You're neither of you agonised adolescents, after all.'
He grinned and clapped Spiro lightly on the shoulder.
Spiro followed the path he had pointed out. Beyond the trees he caught a glimpse of water, and then of the embroidered cotton skirt Anya was wearing. She was standing at the edge of the pond, tearing a handful of wild flowers to bits and dropping the fragments into the water. A disapproving male mallard, who had hoped for something to eat, was cruising about in front of her. As Spiro watched, she threw out her hand, scattering the last of the petals.
Without saying anything, Spiro went up to her, and put his arms gently around her. She turned and buried her face against his chest.
'I'm sorry,' she said, her mouth muffled against his shirt. 'I've been horrible to you all day.'
'And I'm sor
ry I missed the train this morning,' he said, resting his chin on the top of her head. 'And I'm sorry about the way I rushed you the other day. I don't care whether we open a restaurant, or go to Athens, or stay in Oxford – or go and live like tramps on the beach and cook snails off the rocks over a driftwood fire. All that really matters to me is that we should be together.'
'Me too,' said Anya incoherently, crying into his shirt front.
'I would like to marry you.' He cleared his throat and tightened his arms around her. 'That is what I want for us – a life together until we are a bent old couple too deaf and blind to notice each other. But if you don't want to make that commitment . . . perhaps you would prefer to live together?'
'Let's talk about the options, Spiro,' said Anya, leaning back against the hard grip of his arm and grinning up at him damply. 'And as you've seen, I come from a very long-lived family, so you need to think very carefully before you put your head in the noose.'
'They're serving drinks now on the terrace, but I think we do not need to join them yet,' said Spiro. 'Not until the play starts. We have half an hour. Why don't you show me the stream – the Ludbrook, is it called? We can walk there and talk quietly for a little.'
* * *
'You are not going to sell the Virgin,' said Frances emphatically. She was pacing about Natasha's room, to prevent herself from shouting. 'I know how much it means to you. It is the only thing you have left of your family.'
'My darling Frances, I am surrounded by my family.'
'Your Russian family. Your past. We all need a past, each one of us. Without a past one is rootless, like a tree that has been torn away from the ground.'
'I carry my past inside my head. I have my memories. I do not need the Virgin. I love her, but I do not need her. As you grow old you find that you need less and less. For me St Martins is far more important than the Virgin. It has been my life's work, that and my painting. St Martins must be saved, for the future of the community and for the family.'
'We could sell the meadow to Simon Frobisher instead,' said Frances hesitantly.
'No. If the meadow is turned into a housing estate, that too would ruin St Martins. The whole purpose has always been to offer a quiet place for work and creative growth. I do not think this could continue if the whole place is turned into a – a suburb. And that is quite apart from the value of the meadow itself as a place of such history and interest.'
'There must be a way,' said Frances. Her stomach was clenched tight with this new problem. Natasha had asked her to handle the sale of the icon, since she had better contacts in London nowadays than her grandmother, and had the physical strength to travel and negotiate. Frances felt as though she had been asked to commit an act of betrayal.
'There must be another way. I know it wouldn't be as straightforward as selling the meadow or the icon for the whole of the money needed, but – this television programme, that will bring in some money. And Peter was talking about the concerts you held when you restored the old electricity generator back in the fifties. Concerts. And exhibitions – why not exhibitions? We could get all the former members of the community to rally round. Perhaps Keith could organise a benefit concert – something really big – he'd know how to go about that. And an exhibition – if we could time an exhibition to coincide with the television programme Nigel Laker wants to make. . . I wonder whether there might be a chance in the future of hiring parts of St Martins to be used as the occasional setting for television drama? I think they pay quite reasonably for that. It would mean disruption for a few days, but not for long.'
Natasha looked at her with fond amusement. 'You see, already here is a job for you – you who thought it was too late for you.'
'Anyone could do this. And we must do it, Natasha. Look, I would be very happy to be your lieutenant, if you like – your chief dogsbody. Would that help? I could do all the running around – we could work together on this.'
Natasha looked down at the face of the Virgin. The icon was now resting on her lap, and Mary smiled up at her, like a fellow conspirator.
'Very well, we are agreed. When you have told Giles, you and Katya will come to live here in St Martins, and we will work together to raise the money. Katya will be so happy.'
'I know, I know. She is miserable in Reading. She has always belonged here at St Martins – from the day she decided to be born here.'
'There are three things more I would like to ask you, Frances.'
'Yes?'
'First, will you tell Simon Frobisher that our answer is no? I feel a little tired to cope with him this evening. Tell him before he leaves, and make it quite clear that it is no use his trying to persuade or threaten any further. Will you do that?'
'Yes, of course. And . . .?'
'I think it would be best too if you spoke to Nigel Laker. You understand the world of the theatre and television. You will know better than I how to handle this matter of the programme he wishes to make.'
'Yes, I'm quite happy to do that. I'm not an expert, of course, but I know people within that world whose advice I can ask.'
'Good. And I will talk to Peter and Keith about concerts, and to Gregor and Sally, and one or two others about a possible exhibition.'
'I think we'll make an excellent team,' said Frances vigorously, and she dropped a kiss on Natasha's cheek. 'You said there were three things?'
Just then there was a brisk knock on the door. It opened and Mabel bustled in.
'Come along, you two. Everyone has gathered for drinks on the terrace, and they're asking where on earth you both are. Do hurry. The play's due to start in fifteen minutes, once Sally's put Sarah to bed. People are starting to panic, and Theseus's ruff has just fallen apart.'
'Later,' Natasha murmured, touching Frances's arm lightly as she got to her feet.
* * *
'Here you are, Natasha,' said Gregor, leading her to the carved Jacobean chair placed like a throne in the front row of seats facing the terrace. The table of drinks had been carried away by Richard and Nick, and the simple scenery set up. It consisted of nothing more than two chairs similar to Natasha's, indicating the throne room in the palace of Duke Theseus of Athens, together with some swags of rich but faded fabric draped around the outside of the french windows leading from the house. Olga had found some old curtains bundled away in the attics, and Sally had pieced them together so they gave an impression of luxurious damask from a few yards away. Outside the window of Natasha's bedroom Titania's grassy bank was represented by an old ottoman from the vicarage, covered with a sheet screen-printed by Eric to look like grass. To this Chrissie and Samira had pinned their clusters of wild flowers.
'I feel like Queen Elizabeth,' said Natasha, 'attending a performance at court.'
'That's who you're meant to be,' said Katya, curling up on the grass at her feet and leaning her back against the side of Natasha's chair. 'No one is allowed to laugh or applaud unless you do.'
'A fearsome responsibility.' Natasha smiled and stroked the curly dark head.
Katya affected to ignore this, and leaned across to talk to the Davies twins from the village.
'You don't know how lucky you are,' she said. 'There's always something interesting going on here in the village – open-air productions of plays, fêtes, bell-ringing competitions, ploughing matches, vintage car rallies. There's never anything like that in Reading.'
'Have you ever noticed,' said Natasha quietly to Gregor, who had taken the chair on her other side, 'that they always refer to "Reading"? None of them ever says "home". And yet I would say that Frances is a natural home-maker.'
Gregor grunted unintelligibly.
'I haven't been there for more than ten years,' she went on pensively, 'but it always seemed to me a mean little house, with pinched rooms and ungenerous windows.'
'I suppose it was all they could afford at the time,' he said, looking down at his hands, loosely clasped between his knees.
'Yes, it was. Poor Frances. Perhaps she never could make it fe
el like a home, especially when St Martins was exerting so powerful a tug in the opposite direction.'
Gregor lifted his chin and looked at her in surprise. 'What makes you think that?'
'Oh Gregor, for an intelligent man – who can catch human emotions so powerfully in your work – you can be very stupid sometimes! Frances has never really left St Martins any more than you did. You both need this place – it's where you belong. She won't be happy until she comes back.'
He eyed her warily. 'Do you think she might?'
Natasha pressed her lips together and glanced away to where Frances was standing on the very edge of the audience. Beyond her Tony's girlfriend – what was she called? – came sauntering out from behind the shrubbery with the easy, stalking pace of a female panther. She was followed by Giles, who could be seen, even at this distance, to be breathing fast, and who wore a look of barely controlled fury. She turned back to Gregor.
'It wouldn't surprise me. It would do us all good to have Frances here.'
Gregor noticed her stress on the word 'all' and had opened his mouth to say more, when Mr Peters, whose Scout tent had given so much trouble in the morning, stepped out of the french windows, resplendent in a herald's tabard, and blew a fanfare on a trumpet. The chattering amongst the audience died away. Bob, heavy-eyed after the excitements of the day, climbed up into Mabel's lap and settled there with his head resting on her arm.
Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour
Draws on apace: four happy days bring in
Another moon: but O, methinks how slow
This old moon wanes! she lingers my desires,
Like to a step-dame, or a dowager,
Long withering out a young man's revenue.
Theseus was played by Eddie Pembridge, who owned the Green Lion in the village. He was a big man, with great presence, and his bass voice, trained to carry across a crowded public bar, rang out over the garden. Even Giles paused and raised his head. Ena Pembridge, coming in on her husband's arm as Theseus's betrothed queen, Hippolyta, was as statuesque as he. Her voice had an undertone of provocative sexual banter:
