Mrs Fytton's Country Life

by Mavis Cheek

  jane austen to cassandra

  No, Angela Fytton, in her simple busyness, did not miss her children at all. Her children were like a bunch of temporarily mislaid keys, about which you can say comfortably to yourself, 'Well, I had them when I came in last night, so they must be somewhere and I'm sure they'll turn up eventually.'

  Much more pressing than her children's continuing huff was the end-of-summer activity beholden upon the owner of Church Ale House. The gathering of the apples for collection, the last of the garnering of vegetables for storing or bottling, the picking of fruit and the making of quince jam and jelly. The mulberries she abandoned to the birds, for she really did not care for the taste. The birds were more than happy to oblige and cleared the tree. As the first leaves began to fall she found herself avoiding the sight of that poor frontal stump and wondered, again, about Archie, who had caused it so much damage, and why. And why the sight of it affected her so much. Best get on. Didn't do to think.

  By now she had learned to pluck a still-warm egg from under a sharp-eyed layer without so much as a by your leave, and she had so many that she looked up Maria Brydges for the pickling of them. Maria Brydges was her customary firm self: 'Procure only the best white wine vinegar. This can be obtained by dealing with a respectable tradesman upon whom you can depend.' Angela got hers from Boots the Chemist in Taunton, which seemed a reasonable compromise. She spotted Wanda at the other end of the shop, but she flitted away before Angela had a chance to speak. Which was a pity, because Angela would have liked some advice. Wanda was checking out the opposition, she supposed, since she was down by the herbal remedy section.

  Lots to do, then, much to keep her busy. And when it was all done - when the winter set its seasonal seal on activity - she would give a party. At which she would finally get to know her neighbours really well and feel, at last, that she was good enough to become an established part of the place. Before she introduced her newly returned husband to them all.

  She had the occasional fantasy about remarrying in St Hilary's. Though she was not altogether sure how the Anglican church felt about divorcees remarrying each other. Now there was a nice theological problem. The church seemed to be full of them. All the fault of the patriarchs, Daphne said, for not letting women in. If women were the law-makers there would be a lot more pragmatism. So said Daphne. Angela was not so sure. Remembering her west London witch-hunters, she thought the female of the species might be even more likely to put a stone round your neck and throw you down a well, or join in heartily at the whipping post. Daphne said it was divide and rule. At which point Angela gave up. Keep busy, she told herself. That is all you need to do. And it was. The pleasure was sustained. And if she did not - if she took a moment out to enjoy the strangeness of her rural surroundings - well, that was always a pleasure, and interesting too.

  Craig Elliott, taking his customary stroll past her garden and up the hill, leaned over the gate, not for the first time, squeezed her hand and told her that she looked perfect in her garden - so fresh, so pretty, so inspirational in the light of this new opus of his with which he was having such trouble. He looked up at the hill and back at her, and his eyes were very friendly and kind. Then he squeezed her hand, smiled once more with his crinkling, periwinkle, friendly, handsome smile - with just a tinge of sadness around its edges, she detected - and said breathily, 'Inspirational.. ‘ and squeezed her hand once more. She was flattered and she blushed.

  He then wiped his hand across his brow and shook his head in despair. 'It does not get any easier,' he said. 'The Muse?'

  He looked at her sorrowfully. 'The au pair. She just does not fit into our lives.' He closed his eyes with the pain of it. 'She is a great, lumpen noisy thing to find on the stairs in the morning, and I must have quiet. And beauty, come to that.'

  'Poor Lucy.'

  'Poor both of us.'

  That saddish little smile again, before he strode off towards the hill. He turned, once, waved his hand and called, 'But you have cheered my day.'

  What a nice man, she thought. From a distance you could almost think his Wellingtons were a gentleman's riding boots. And she blushed again.

  'Perpendicular,' called Daphne Blunt from the top of her ladder, stretching her elegant Afghan neck and pointing with her long Afghan nose. 'The tower is anyway. Otherwise a good screen and very good bench ends.'

  Angela ran her fingers over the low-relief of the pew carvings to her right - a boy holding a candle, two choristers with books, two curvaceous girls holding branches, an old man humping a sack, a woman with trailing cloak and flying curls carrying a flagon.

  'You've got Faith, Hope, Charity and Time, the Virgin and Child, and the Five Wise Virgins down the left hand side -'

  'And this one? On the right?'

  'Well, I think that's very local. The Blessing of the Ale. Although it might just be a harvest procession, but it looks like winter to me - cloaks and caps and things. I haven't done enough research on it yet. The woman with the flagon might be a saint or mythical woman, or she could be the ale-wife, and if it is then she lived where you do now. Fancy doing a spot of brewing? Church ale was very special. It was sold off to the locals to raise money for the church and its charity’

  Angela laughed. 'I've got enough to do, thanks’

  'I know what you mean’ said Daphne, looking at the half-cleaned wall. 'You can't get a machine to do restoration. Thank God.'

  'Amen’ said Angela automatically.

  She went over to the ladder and peered at the emergent wall-paintings. They were crudely drawn, in black and red outline, a jumble of disproportionate cartoon shapes - men in flowing, striated robes; weird creatures that were half devil or half snake or half dragon or peculiarly imagined lion or bird; decorative patterning; wild, leaping flames ... Heaven above, saved souls in the middle and hell below. 'Are they very old?'

  'Late fifteenth, I think. Difficult to tell. Whitewashed over in the name of the Puritans’ said Daphne. 'And I think -' she pointed around the tops of the arched walls of the nave - 'that on either side, below the clerestories, there were more paintings, of the Seven Corporal Works of Mercy and the Seven Spiritual Works of Mercy. It was fairly common to remind the congregation of the charitable and worthy things that got you into heaven. You can just see the shadow of one there, where I gave it a brushing.'

  Angela peered. She could see, faintly, a series of shapes. 'Only just’ she said.

  'Oh, they'd have been bright as a cartoon when they were first done. That's "To Clothe the Naked", I think. And then over there -' Daphne pointed - 'is "To Bear Wrongs Patiently". It's all an instruction manual for the way to do things properly.' She returned her Afghan profile to the work. ‘I think they might be in for a shock when I get round to that lot. Clothing the naked usually meant that you gave the clothes off your own back. We might yet see a Devereux patronness in the buff’ She laughed. 'And bearing wrongs patiently was not above showing a saintly wife being beaten and looking as if she was positively enjoying it.'

  Angela felt a shiver down her spine, though whether it was the chill in the church or the thought of such brutality she was not sure. 'What happened if they fought back?' she asked.

  'Best not ask,' said Daphne Blunt. 'Anyway, those won't get uncovered for a month or two. These are taking the time. Dorothea Tichborne's paying. She just might get a little bit more than she thought she was getting, that's all. She wants the glory of the family name restored in the shape of this place. Which her family built.' Daphne looked up sharply. 'Or rather put up the money for. It was the peasants and local craftsmen and masons who built it. Always makes me laugh the way they talk of this king or that queen having built something.' She pointed to the face of one of the devil figures emerging as she cleaned. 'Little people had their ways of getting back at big people. Look at this - it's a Devereux face. And the stonemason had a verybig grudge.' She pointed up at the roof. 'Have a look at some of the gargoyles outside and the carvings in these bosses.' She picked up her torch. '
Funnily enough,' she said, concentrating the beam on the hell section of the wall, 'the ones that have lasted the best are the devils.'

  Angela peered. It was so. Especially the devil spewing out the Host.

  Daphne's laugh rang round the church, making the pigeons on the roof outside flap their wings and coo irritably. 'Gave them an extra coating of whitewash,' she said joyfully, 'to be sure of getting rid of them, but it meant they were only protected all the more . . . That's some kind of metaphor, I suppose. The more you try to eradicate something, the harder people hold on to it. Nothing like having to fight for something in order to value it.'

  Angela nodded. In the torch-beam she could indeed see a very strong resemblance to old Dr Tichborne's wife. 'She's a good woman’ she said.

  'She's pious’ said Daphne, 'which is different.' She laughed again. 'I love history for the jokes it plays. Nothing is ever what it seems. It's all conjecture and interpretation.' She turned back to the wall and continued cleaning.

  'Let me know if you come up with anything about the ale. I'd be interested’ said Angela. But Daphne, engrossed again, just nodded. 'Well’ said Angela, taking her cue, I've got to get back and start my digging.'

  'Digging?' The Afghan nose came up, sensing scent.

  'I'm putting in a couple of herb beds. With Sammy's approval’ she added wryly.

  'Where?'

  'Up at the back. Near the hedge.'

  'Let me know if you find anything interesting’ said Daphne. And then she added, as if striking a bargain, 'And I'll look out what I can about the ale ceremony.'

  Angela thanked her and walked back up the aisle. She stopped by the bench ends on her way out. If the woodcarver held any grudges they were not apparent. The virgins all looked as dainty and silly as medieval virgins were supposed to, while on the other side the woman with the flagon was a mature, full-bosomed beauty in a stylishly swirling cloak. She certainly did not look like a saint.

  Nevertheless, she was reminded of those seven corporal acts of mercy and decided, magnanimously, that she too would be charitable. Busy and charitable. As women have ever been known for their charity. Therefore, what she wished on Binnie was not death or pain or serious misadventure. It was just a very pleasant single-parenthood. That was all. Nothing wrong with that now, was there?

  But something along the lines of Faith, Hope and Charity made her uncomfortable. She resolved never to make the acquaintance of baby Tristan.

  No matter, she thought. Busy, busy, she thought. And put the irksome feeling to one side.

  From the lych gate she looked up at the gargoyles.

  Why that's outrageous, she said. Outrageous.

  Angela was standing in the Elliotts' kitchen, having found one of the children's toys in the lane. Lucy Elliott's eyes were pink-rimmed, with the customary shadows of pale lilac beneath them. 'You're in luck,' she said. "The oldest two have gone on the Sunday school outing with the au pair and the baby's asleep.'

  'How's the au pair?' asked Angela.

  'Large,' said Lucy Elliott happily. 'Very large’

  She handed Angela a cup of coffee and sat down as if she wanted to lie down.

  'Craig's working?'

  'Craig's working,' Lucy Elliott agreed, looking oddly suspicious.

  'He's very dedicated.' 'He is,' agreed his wife. 'He gets on with things.' 'He does.'

  'Creative types do, I suppose. I've just been in the church. Daphne Blunt's really getting on with things too.'

  'Hah!' said Lucy Elliott, the manner of which implied that getting on with things so far as she was concerned was as likely as the moon turning blue. She said wistfully, 'I used to play the piano in there sometimes. Before number three came along.' She gave Angela a despairing look. 'I was a professional musician, you know. Played all over the world. I used to find playing the piano very relaxing.'

  If ever woman was born who looked like she needed a bit of relaxing, this was she.

  'Don't you still?' asked Angela.

  'Oh no, not now. We don't even have a piano. The noise -' she lowered her voice and raised her eyes to the ceiling. Above which sat Craig Elliott, struggling, as he'd told Angela earlier, with his new novel.

  'You must borrow mine,' said Angela. 'It's quite a good one.'

  'No’ Lucy Elliott said firmly.

  So firmly that Angela was surprised. 'I could have it tuned for you’ she said, 'if that's the problem. I'd need to have it tuned anyway. You and Craig could come over...'

  'No’ said Lucy Elliott, even more firmly. 'Craig is extremely busy. When he's not in London.'

  'Come on your own. Please do.'

  'Perhaps’ said Lucy Elliott, in a voice that meant she never would. She really was being unnecessarily unfriendly.

  'It would be good for the thing’ Angela persisted. 'Really it would. I was told that pianos, like pearls, should not be left untouched for any amount of time... They flatten and die.'

  At which, Angela was astonished to see, Lucy Elliott let two silent, gigantic tears go plop on to her chest. So it was the piano she missed.

  'Well, the offer is there any time you want to take it up’ she said.

  And a soft and friendly voice from above said, 'Do I hear our Church Ale neighbour down below?' 'Goodbye’ said Lucy Elliott hurriedly. Angela went.

  'When are those kids of yours coming down?' asked Dave the Bread, as he dropped off a lovely warm loaf and asked her to admire his tie-dyed shorts. Bright yellow. Saffron, he said.

  She had a vague feeling that you needed several acres of crocuses to colour a small pocket handkerchief, but when she said this to him he just smiled mysteriously and said that Wanda knew how to get the best out of even the smallest of things... And he winked with such startling wickedness that she immediately wondered about the contents of his saffron shorts.

  'When they're ready to come, I suppose’ she said. She told him about the herb gardens and the box of old medicine bottles. 'All shapes and sizes, and some of them probably as old as the century. I thought I might come over and get some advice from Wanda about the decocting side of things’ she said.

  'Ah well. Ah well’ said Dave, backing away oddly. 'She's very busy doing the pink muslins’ he said. 'Beetroots and secrets... You know Wanda. Better not disturb.'

  It was a similar situation to Lucy Elliott. Every time Angela made an overture of friendship, it was - though not unkindly - rebuffed. She'd been trying to have a cup of tea with Wanda for weeks. Angela often wondered if behind those closed doors and steamed-up windows, Wanda was really doing what she said. Was she dyeing muslins or making corn dollies and bog myrtle wreaths, or was her secretiveness because she was making a witch's brew or magicking up potions with incantations? Once or twice, cycling by the gate of Tally-Ho Cottage late in the evening, Angela distinctly heard the sound of cackling from within.

  And Wanda not only looked very mysterious; Wanda acted very mysteriously. The last time Angela had met her on her bicycle in the lane had been very disappointing. Feeling quite proud of her newly acquired country knowledge, she wished to try it out on the expert.

  'I've heard that yarrow, witch hazel and willow is a good tonic’ she began, all friendly-like. Wanda nodded furiously. 'Oh yes, it is, it is’ she said, and started pedalling away. 'Perhaps you could help me identify them...' But Wanda was too busy. 'Could you draw them for me, then?' she asked. 'So I can find them on my own.' But Wanda had a sore finger. 'Split a woody nightshade berry and bind it on’ Angela offered, remembering the additional information found in Maria Brydges's method of physick. 'They're very good for sore fingers, felonwort meaning whitlow or abscess healer -but I expect you know that.'

  It was then that Wanda looked at her most witch-like and shifty. As if she knew something that Angela didn't. Angela longed to enter into those ancient ways and mysteries. But she understood. A wise woman keeps her sources to herself.

  'Only a suggestion’ she said. 'Probably quite wrong. You'll know best.' And Wanda, nodding furiously again, began pe
dalling off. 'I'm not sure of the proportions’ called Angela. 'Of the yarrow, witch hazel and willow ...' In her billowing clouds of tie-dyed muslin, Wanda looked like a large concentration of vapour, speeding away. 'For the tonic?' said Angela. 'Thirds’ called Wanda over her shoulder. 'And take it in water three times a day.'

  Angela was surprised. Very surprised. According to Maria Brydges, it was supposed to be a health-giving rinse for the hair.

  Witchcraft was tempting. If she could only get into Tally-Ho Cottage for more than ten seconds, she would ask Wanda outright for a potion to dribble into Ian's tea. Or an amulet to slip beneath the pillow. Perhaps she'd ask Dave about it now. He'd know when it was the right time to call.

  'I've been trying to see Wanda for weeks now’ she said to the hovering Dave. 'I tried to catch her in Boots, and in the lane, but she always flying, isn't she?'