A New Map of Love

by Annie Murray

  ‘Have you ever been in love, George? Really in love?’

  He looked up into her eyes, shocked by the question. He loved Win, of course he did. But in a barely acknowledged, secret part of him, he knew what Maggie was asking. Have you been really in love: to the absolute depth of your soul? And was that real and possible or just something in stories? He hardly knew how to answer her because he hardly dared ask himself.

  ‘Well – in a funny way, yes,’ he decided to say. Maggie was settling again, up close to him, but her head popped up when he said, ‘I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about this.’ He laid a hand on her head and gently pressed her down.

  ‘I told you I was in supplies in the war. Remember Cassino?’

  He felt her nod. ‘Course. That monastery.’

  ‘February ’44 was when it happened. God, what a winter. Rain and more freezing rain, pouring down those mountains, great towering, jagged things. The Germans were dug in up there. All the roads were like swamps. You couldn’t drive a truck in anywhere near the front line. So they used mules. At the time a mule was more use than a tank. They went round the farms commandeering mules off the locals. They’re astonishing animals, tough as anything, noble . . .’

  ‘Anyway—’ He could feel a smile tugging at his cheeks. ‘For a few days up there, I was assigned to go with a Mule Company carrying supplies up to the front. Now, this wasn’t exactly music to my ears because I’ve never got along with horses. I didn’t have much experience of them and what I did have had put me off even more. Vicious buggers, all teeth and hooves, out to get you. Most of the handlers who looked after the mules were Indian lads – good fellers. They seemed to know what they were about, which was more than I did.’

  He heard an amused snort from the region of his armpit.

  ‘While we were loading up, I was talking to one of them, a lad called Rajesh – a thin chap, very cheerful. He was holding this mule by its halter. She was a splendid creature; mealy-coloured muzzle, great long ears. “She is called Clotilde,” the chap said. “But we call her Lottie. She is a very good mule.”

  ‘We were standing there in the drizzle, the mule just behind us, chatting about what needed doing. After a time I felt something fondling my backside . . .’

  ‘I told you you’ve got a nice backside,’ Maggie mumbled into his arm.

  ‘Yes, but then I felt teeth sinking into me. It didn’t hurt exactly because I had thick layers on, but I whipped round all right. Rajesh was looking at me, eyebrows up. “She bit me!” I said – I was quite put out. But d’you know, by the time I’d turned round, that animal had turned her head and was staring in the other direction as if she’d never been anywhere near my backside. Rajesh was grinning from ear to ear. “I think she is tricking you,” he said. “Lottie is a very naughty girl.”’

  Maggie raised her head again, her eyes full of merriment. ‘She bit your bum and then pretended she hadn’t?’

  ‘You’ve never seen an animal look more innocent. As I spent those couple of days with her I realized she was a marvellous character. You could chat to her – tell her your woes, sort of thing. She never bit me again. But she definitely had a sense of humour. If you were standing anywhere near her she’d stick her neck out and just breathe down your ear. Rather as if she was kissing you. And those mules are tough as anything: they brought the casualties down, a stretcher hanging each side. And the loads they carried up the mountains – astonishing.’

  He felt his chest tighten. Surely he wasn’t going to weep again – not after all this time?

  ‘It’s a daft thing, I know, but she made me feel safe. I stuck near her all the way. It was bloody frightening up there. The paths were incredibly narrow in places, wet, slippery. It was hell for the infantry, no other word for it. Lottie was – I don’t know – she was loving, she made you laugh – she was life. Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?’

  ‘No,’ Maggie said. ‘Animals are better than us, most of the time.’

  ‘We toiled uphill for hours, the rain pouring down. You could hear the guns. And with no warning there was the biggest explosion of all, right behind me – blew me over. I thought my heart was going to split out of the top of my head. And she’d gone—’

  ‘Lottie?’ Up Maggie came again.

  ‘Trod on a mine. De-bollockers, they called them. Bits of her all over . . . And . . .’ He stopped, not sure how his voice was going to come out.

  ‘Oh!’ Maggie held him, motherly all of a sudden, or how he imagined a mother might be. ‘How awful!’

  ‘Rajesh howled. Both of us, there on that mountainside, blubbing away like kids.’

  ‘Oh Georgy-Porgy,’ Maggie said.

  ‘That daft mule going like that – it was like the whole war, all of it; the bloody awful, cruel stupidity of all of it.’ He felt Maggie stroke his chest. ‘Is that love?’ He tried to give a laugh, wiping his eyes. ‘It felt like it. Dear old Lottie.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t it be love?’ Maggie said. ‘If it gets in your heart like that.’

  George took a deep breath, taking in the musky scent of Maggie beside him. The choking sensation started to recede. He felt limp, and once again, grateful. He laid his hand on the top of her legs.

  ‘Queer time, that,’ he said. ‘Everything lit up, very bright.’ After a moment he added, ‘I’ve never told anyone that before.’

  Maggie rolled onto her stomach, her hair tickling his chest. ‘No one?’

  ‘No one.’

  She pulled herself further up to press a kiss on his lips. ‘Thank you,’ she said in a tender voice. ‘For telling me.’

  Win grew sicker. He tried to be with her as much as possible. Every week, though, she became more withdrawn and in the days before she finally went into hospital, he found it harder and harder to approach her. Guiltily, he supposed she was angry with him. Was she pushing him away to prepare him for her absence – or did she sense some new physical satisfaction in him? To hurt her was the last thing he wanted. But was everyone in the know, in fact? He had seen Maggie so little that it was hard to believe anyone could have found out. He had never met a soul on the farm or on the way there or back. But women always seemed to know things, as if they had film recording machines everywhere you went. What about the Cronies, Rosemary and Pat, Eunice and the others? He became convinced that they knew.

  But was he really sorry? Win seemed to have long left him behind as she travelled on to a place where he could not follow. And Maggie had given him new aspects of himself as a man: joy in his body, unashamed and celebratory. He and Win could claim to have had an intimate life all right. She had always been game (that seemed the word which summed it up). But she always approached intimate relations as she might tackle a pile of ironing – see to it briskly and fold it away again, just the way, afterwards, she would tuck herself into a tightly belted floral dressing gown. She preferred him to be covered up as well. And none of it was ever to be talked about. He knew Win cared about him, as he did her – fondly and always, until now, loyally, over all these years. But somehow he had never felt free in this area of life, as if he must be endlessly polite and on his guard.

  Maggie, bless her, had sparked a revelation, shown him a new way he could be – one day, eventually. If he could just find someone to be it with.

  Four

  1.

  For the next few days, life in the shop went on as usual. George secreted slices of pie alternately into the dustbin and the dog at a convincing pace until it was all gone. Its effects on Monty, already a liquorice enthusiast, were not overly volcanic. The snow gave way to days of slush, so that most people who advanced on the front door did so perilously in wellington boots. After a tactful period had elapsed, the wellingtons that began to stride up the drive were those of the Cronies.

  They arrived at exquisitely paced intervals. George guessed there must have been a conflab among them to work out the ideal tincture of well-intentioned visits. Each was timed comfortably after closing at five thirty, when everyone else ha
d gone home and night was drawing in.

  Rosemary was the first. George was in the kitchen in his slippers, munching a cheese and pickle sandwich and wondering how his homebrewed ale was getting along. There was a sharp assault on the front-door knocker. The dog roared. George ushered him grumbling into the kitchen, where he barked furiously before giving up to sulk. George switched on the hall light. Opening up, he was met by a glistening black wall of umbrella – it had started to drizzle – from under which emerged Rosemary’s face, like that of an embarrassed tortoise.

  ‘Ah – Mr Baxter!’ she exclaimed, as if no one more surprising could be discovered on his own doorstep.

  Rosemary, a couple of years George’s senior, was wide-hipped and full-breasted with a scrubbed-looking complexion, faded hair permed into tight curls and bossy brown eyes. She had spent most of her life nursing – ‘I did my training at Barts, you know . . . I rose to Matron!’ – which explained the sense of impending enema George experienced in her presence. Win told him he was being ridiculous, but nevertheless. There had been a break in this career for a short period when Rosemary married. No one knew what had happened to her husband, other than that this episode involved the word ‘horrors’ and was swiftly over. You Don’t Ask, Win said, seeming rather amused despite herself.

  ‘Ah,’ George said. ‘Hello Mrs, er, Miss . . .’ What the devil was her surname? ‘Rosemary,’ he resorted to. He clutched at his pipe in his jacket pocket.

  ‘I thought I’d call,’ Rosemary announced. Later, when the others started turning up, he realized she had probably volunteered to Go First. As a Professional.

  ‘Come in?’ He stood back.

  ‘Oh no; no need . . .’

  ‘But it’s a rotten night.’

  She relented with a girlish laugh which took him aback and a moment later they were standing in the hall, the point of her umbrella dripping onto the tiles. She was in fact wearing a pair of huge black galoshes. Only now George also made out that she was holding something bulky-looking under her left arm. Above the hefty footwear was a camel coat from under which peeped a hint of box-pleats.

  ‘Do come through . . .’ He waved a hand towards the back of the house. ‘Have a drink – cup of tea, perhaps?’

  ‘Oh no. Really.’

  ‘Well – or coffee?’ What was the right thing? Cocoa? Gin?

  ‘No, I won’t stay.’

  George thought he made out a blotchy effusion of colour making its way upwards from beneath the woman’s collar. He was not sure what to make of this. She was undeniably flustered. With Win she had never been flustered. She might toss a ‘good morning’ to him, as if he were a passing acquaintance who she vaguely remembered. But flustered, no.

  ‘I thought I’d better see if you needed any help,’ she said, standing her ground in the hall. ‘I know Vera’s marvellous, but she has plenty to do with her own little brood and sometimes, well . . . A professional eye – I’m sure you understand . . .’

  ‘Ah?’ He played for time. He hadn’t the least idea what the woman was on about. She really seemed rather odd. He was also suddenly aware that his breath smelled of pickled onions, which didn’t seem to set the right tone.

  ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you. I know Vera’s taking very good care of you.’

  ‘Oh she is,’ George said, thinking guiltily of the remains of the pie hidden in a bag at the bottom of the dustbin. There were limits to how much even Monty should be eating.

  ‘What I really mean in the way of help . . .’ Rosemary stepped towards him slightly, appearing to steel herself. ‘Was with Win – with Mrs Baxter’s – things. I thought you might need a female eye on such, well, intimate tasks.’ She was blushing furiously now.

  ‘Yes indeed, thank you . . . I haven’t quite got to that yet . . .’

  ‘No of course not – one mustn’t rush these things. All in due season. But if and when . . . Well, must be off! Oh!’ she exclaimed, seeming to have forgotten the chunky object she was clutching. ‘I thought you might like this. So important to keep oneself properly fed . . .’

  George found himself holding a large tin. ‘Oh – thank you! How kind.’

  There was a fumbling moment as both of them made a move for the door and ended up jammed so close together with the tin between them that there was scarcely room to manoeuvre.

  ‘Oh dear me!’ George leapt into reverse as Rosemary exclaimed, ‘Oh heavens – sorry!’ and hurtled back as if the door handle had given her an electric shock. They were now back where they started but in an even more awkward state.

  ‘After you,’ George said, giving an exaggerated stage bow and feeling a complete fool.

  At last, between them, they managed to get Rosemary out on to the step, where she put her umbrella up again. But she still didn’t move.

  ‘We, er . . .’ she sputtered. George waited. What on earth now? ‘We are all very . . . well, so upset. Win and so on . . .’

  For a few seconds the memory came to him of them all round Win’s bed, the Cronies. All her loyal female friends whom, he assumed, she felt loved her better than he did.

  ‘And you being left alone,’ Rosemary was saying. ‘You know, not right really, a man and so on. Very sorry. You know where I am – any time . . .’

  ‘Oh thank you!’ George said for what felt like the umpteenth time. ‘Very good of you.’

  He watched her stumping off into the darkness of the slushy drive, slightly bent forward under the umbrella, and realized that contrary to the impression given, he had only the vaguest idea where she lived. Somewhere near the church, he thought.

  ‘Funny woman.’

  Determinedly he put all of it out of his mind and went to the cellar to fetch one of his crocks of mild. He left the woman’s gift on the side in the kitchen and did not give it a thought until the next morning when Vera arrived. She stopped, coming in through the kitchen door.

  ‘What’s that?’ she said, eyeing the foreign item on the counter. It was a square Huntley & Palmers tin, ‘Cocktail Assorted’ biscuits.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ George said. ‘Rosemary . . . You know, Rosemary, brought it round last night.’

  ‘Abbott,’ Vera looked quite put out. ‘Did she now? She’s a proper bossy boots, that one.’ She put her bag down and picked the thing up for a moment, weighing it suspiciously. As she lifted the lid, George went to look. Squeezed diagonally across the square tin was a fat Swiss roll, seeping jam at each end.

  ‘Gracious,’ Vera said, staring at this offering. The way she said it seemed freighted with significance, though George couldn’t make out for the life of him what the significance might be.

  To his astonishment he saw a grin spread across Vera’s face. ‘What kind of roll is she after, I wonder?’ She started giggling, a hand over her mouth.

  George recalled that odd flush moving up from Rosemary Abbott’s neck. A small, terrifying chink of light began to dawn on him.

  ‘Good Lord – no? Vera, really – you’re having me on.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’ Vera restored the lid to the cake tin and went to the sink. Chuckles kept breaking out of her. ‘Dear oh dear, we’re going to have to look out for you, Mr B.’

  2.

  Pat Nesbitt, Win’s best friend, arrived two days later with her brown and white springer spaniels. George was caught unawares, with the front door open. The first he knew of the visitation was that Monty, who did not approve of other dogs appearing in his front garden, launched himself out into the gloom in a frenzy of rage.

  Pat and her husband lived in a clematis-festooned cottage at the heart of the village. Pat, blue-eyed, with just about still blonde curls and a toothy smile, was an ex WAAF. Husband Bill, ex RAF, was something at Harwell (this was how Win always attempted to explain it). Something not on the scientific side. And she described the Nesbitts’ marriage as one in which they ‘rubbed along’. And against? George always wanted to ask, but knew better than to. Pat always seemed cheerful enough, whatever kinds of rubbing she was
experiencing. This despite their one daughter having moved so far away. Since the girl married her Yorkshireman, Pat and Bill had given themselves up to weekend golf with what George considered to be immoderate enthusiasm.

  ‘Monty!’ George roared, leaping out into the crazed confusion of barking and dogs’ tails. He seized Monty’s collar, his hands immediately bespattered with slobber and hauled on it, but only seemed to proceed with Monty attached to the other two dogs in a snarling mass.

  ‘Oh dear!’ Pat exclaimed cheerily. ‘What a commotion!’

  Pat was one of those Englishwomen who accompany most statements, however doom-laden, with horsey eruptions of laughter. ‘Looking very bad, isn’t it?’ Nya-ha-ha! ‘Backs against the wall – fancy that, we’re really up against it now!’ Aha-ha-ha-ha!

  ‘I think Lulu might be coming on heat!’ she shrilled across the sea of heaving fur.

  ‘Ah! – Oh!’ George yelled. Why the hell had the silly woman brought her here then? This all made even the most basic social intercourse impossible, except for Pat’s insistent thrusting of a jar of marmalade into his hand.

  ‘Thick cut!’ she shrieked. Hauling on the spaniels, she let out other snatches of noise. ‘Made last year . . . Seville oranges . . . Hope you’re coping . . . Vera – marvellous . . .’

  Having managed to fit the marmalade in his jacket pocket, George yanked a lathered-up Monty off one of the springers’ backs. He was towing him over to the house when Monty ground to a halt and slipped his collar. Pat and the spaniels were receding towards the gate. ‘So sorry! Back another time!’

  It took Monty’s slow-chugging brain several seconds to realize that freedom was his and he turned and started off again after the juicy spaniel.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Monty!’ George flung himself after the dog. Tripping over into something that became a rugby tackle, he landed half on top of Monty, hands wrapped round the animal’s neck. Both of them grunted, winded. Something stabbed into the right side of George’s ribs. He realized he was lying prone on top of not only a large basset hound but also a jar of thick-cut marmalade. Struggling to get up and hold on to the frantic animal at the same time, he let out several emphatic army expletives. No sign of broken glass. The marmalade had survived.