by Annie Murray
Two deep chocolate pools fixed on him with tragic attention.
‘Oh, you poor dear! Oh I do think it’s a terrible thing for a man. When we women lose our man – well, of course we’re so sad and defenceless on our own. But for a man! So dreadful for Adam to lose his Eve – isn’t it?’
‘Er, well, yes,’ George agreed, ablaze within. He had never met anyone like this before.
‘So we’re both alone,’ Sylvia Newsome said. Once again, her eyes looked deeply into his. ‘Well – fancy that! Perhaps this meeting is in our fates.’
At that moment there was a gentle thump as the bow of the boat steered itself into the bank again. Both of them laughed, startled. In the silence that followed the stilling boat, a silence that seemed to have become loaded with meaning, George said the only thing that came into his head, which was, ‘Would you care for a piece of pie?’
When they left the river, the low sun weaving light through the willows and slanting across the meadows beyond, he offered Sylvia a lift home.
‘Oh that is kind, George,’ she said. ‘It is a little walk away.’ He liked the way she used his name such a lot. George. Did he imagine the tone of caress in the way she said it?
‘It’s on my way,’ he assured her, though he only still had a vague idea of where she lived. He only knew that she worked in the office at Green’s, the town’s garage and mechanic.
‘I do feel rather tired,’ she said. ‘It must be all the fresh air.’ She cast a doubtful look at Monty, who George had been keeping away from her all afternoon.
‘Don’t worry.’ He looped Monty’s lead even more tightly round his hand. ‘I’ll put him in the back. He won’t bother you.’
‘So good of you.’ Sylvia laid a hand on her chest. ‘It’s not that I don’t like him – I’m just a bit frightened of dogs. Oh –’ she stopped, eyeing the stately grey curves of the parked Vanguard with approval. It looked especially large in this narrow street, George saw, with satisfaction. ‘Now that’s very nice.’ An added warmth suffused her tone. ‘Oh yes – very. But you don’t need to go all the way – just drop me off in St John’s Road. Oh, you are a nice man, George, giving me a lift.’
‘No trouble.’ With mesmerized pleasure he watched, holding the door, as she manoeuvred her curves into the front seat. He shooed Monty into the back and presented him with a couple of sweets.
‘Liquorice?’ Sylvia said. ‘Do dogs like that?’
‘This one does,’ George said as Monty gobbled. ‘It’s the way to his heart. And to distract him.’
As he drove, praying that the breeze was carrying away the stench of mud, he glanced at Sylvia as often as he dared. She sat looking attentively forwards. Tendrils of her dark hair curled in front of her ears and across her forehead, a striking contrast to her candle-pale skin. She looks like a woman in a painting, he thought. Renoir, perhaps?
He soon became aware of the movement of Sylvia’s hand, gripping the side of the seat close to the handbrake. Her thumb, with its coral-painted nail, kept stroking the leather. The movement was constant, in the corner of his vision. Otherwise, she sat quite still, her knees and feet placed neatly together. Long after he had dropped her off, after issuing his invitation for Friday and her accepting it; both waking and in his dreams, he kept seeing exciting images of hands with coral-tipped fingers.
Eight
1.
George steered the Morris pick-up off the road into the lush shelter of a gateway and switched off the engine. The atmosphere of the fields seemed to bulge in through the windows; breeze and birdsong, the scent of barley and hawthorn blossom from the hedge. He was not far from Dorchester and the gateway afforded him a view of Wittenham Clumps, two rounded, copse-topped hills side by side.
‘There you go, Monty – you go and have a wander.’ He leaned across his snoozy dog to open the door. Monty half jumped, half lolloped out, sniffed his way to the field gate and disappeared with a slither underneath it. George smiled. It was good to have Monty’s company on his Monday buying jaunts.
He reached into his old army knapsack for the brown paper bag that had ridden in there since Henley. Inside were two rosy Italian peaches, the first of the season. Taking one out he squeezed it. Still a bit hard, but no matter. He was just about to sink his teeth into it when he heard Win’s voice: ‘Have you washed that, George? You don’t know where it’s been . . .’ He rubbed the peach up and down his trouser leg as a gesture and took a bite.
‘Oh lovely – bellissimo!’
The peach was riper than he had feared, the flesh pale, blood red around the stone. He closed his eyes as the taste transported him back to the south of Italy. Dirt poor and war-torn it may have been, but it was a country he had taken to his heart. Another bite sent juice dribbling down his chin.
‘Molto bene,’ he murmured, through juicy lips.
It had been a busy morning. First Henley, where as well as peaches, he had bought a tallboy which he and the dealer had just managed to wedge in the back of the pick-up. He considered going on to Marlow, more as a kindness to Maud ‘EH?’ Roberts than for any serious buying. But having Monty aboard and at the thought of Maud’s tiny, crammed house, he abandoned that idea. Instead, he braced himself and drove to Twyford.
He would gladly have abandoned his visits to Lewis Barker, that bumptious know-it-all who kept two sets of accounts: the official ledger and the biscuit-tin version. Lewis employed no Clarence or Alan to tend to the pieces he bought – he just had a storeroom, acting shabbily as a shop. Everything about Lewis, from his sweaty, ham-coloured face to his treatment of beautiful things grated on George. But over the years he had bought many a good piece from Lewis, so he tried to keep in with him. He was a well-known dealer, and there was no avoiding him, either in the local area or at British Antique Dealers’ Association shows or meetings. Lewis certainly knew how to put himself about. George saw his role as rescuing antique invalids from Lewis and nursing them back to health, as well as turning a better profit than Lewis for his efforts.
Lewis’s storeroom was next to his house, on the fringes of Twyford. As George braked in the drive. Lewis appeared, a cigarette jammed to the left side of his mouth, jacket swinging open to exhibit scarlet braces and a fuzz of chest hair in the neck of his shirt.
‘Morning, George!’ Lewis tweaked the fag out of his mouth. ‘I see you’ve got that old mutt of yours with you! More trouble than he’s worth, isn’t he? Worse than a woman!’ His florid face appeared at the driver’s window along with the stink of sweat and stale smoke.
‘All right if I let him wander?’ George said. ‘He won’t go far.’
Without waiting for an answer, he opened the passenger door.
‘I’ll open up.’ Lewis ground the cigarette butt under his heel and lumbered off towards the storeroom.
Monty sniffed his way to the patch of grass and dandelions edging the entrance to the drive. Knowing the dog would follow in his general direction, George crossed the drive, littered with old cigarette butts, to the inelegant breeze-block storeroom. Its few grimy windows were veiled with cobwebs. It was a bloody disgrace, George thought, already feeling oppressed. Stepping inside felt like entering a sub-standard orphanage. Whispers of ‘Help us, please,’ seemed to emanate from the chaotic assemblage of wood, never-dusted glass, upholstery and dull brass fittings.
Lewis, thumbs in braces, trailed round after him, prattling on: ‘Saw old so-and-so the other day. He’s a silly old fool. Paid well over the odds for . . .’ George struggled to ignore him. As fast as he could decently manage he picked out a couple of pieces: a stylish French sofa, its rosewood frame decorated with intricate marquetry, poked away in a dark recess with an oak corner cupboard dumped on top of it. This had its keyhole half hanging off and its base was badly denting the seat of the sofa. George bought the cupboard as well, guessing he could squeeze the two into the remaining space in the van.
As he was writing out a cheque on the cluttered table that served Lewis as a desk, Lewis, with a smug exp
ression, said, ‘Have you sold that bureau you bought the other week yet?’ He sucked breath in through his yellow teeth, shaking his head regretfully. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve managed much of a mark-up after the amount you forked out for it, George?’
‘Ah!’ George straightened up briskly, handing Lewis the cheque. ‘Thanks for the reminder – I’ve something to show you, Lewis. Knew you’d be interested, you having such a fine eye for craftsmanship.’
‘Ah, well . . .’ Lewis acknowledged this compliment as his due. He stashed the cheque away in a tatty black cash box. George drew the yellowed piece of paper from his breast pocket.
‘Here we are, look.’
Lewis, doing his best to appear unimpressed, took it from him.
George watched as Lewis read, ‘Jan de Vroom, Nijmegen . . .’
‘Old Clarence found it in a hidden drawer in that bureau – must have been there since it left the makers. In Holland.’
Lewis handed the note back with a dismissive laugh. ‘There we are – Dutch. Said I thought it might be, didn’t I? You’re not going to shift that in a hurry, old lad – no one wants Dutch furniture these days, do they? Much better off with English.’
Sitting in the Morris, the taste of peach still on his tongue, he entertained himself with beguiling visions of Lewis Barker being mown down by an express train, or perhaps tipped purposefully off a cliff. These musings kept him quite happy for a few minutes until the overriding thought that constantly interrupted any other these days came nudging into his mind: Sylvia Newsome.
2.
George was strolling across to the rosebud-swathed house the next morning, having unlocked the barn, when he heard Vera’s heels approaching fast across the gravel. Since the weekend he’d been almost permanently immersed in reveries involving Sylvia Newsome, but now he hauled his thoughts into the present.
As usual Vera was carrying her basket over her arm. What was not usual was her sharp-lined dark green suit which he could not recall seeing before and her hair, which was now clipped short round her ears and arranged in neat, bouffant layers. She was walking head down and with busy steps so that he had no more than seconds to take in this transformation before they coincided at the front door.
‘Mr Baxter,’ she looked up at him and announced, with no preamble. ‘I’ve come to a decision.’
‘Oh?’
Vera squinted up at him. She looked younger, rather stunning in fact. Her cheeks seemed firmer, eyes bluer. The upturned tip of her nose was pink. She must have caught the sun in the garden of The Bungalow yesterday. Her expression was solemn. He had a pang of unease. ‘Nothing too dangerous, I hope?’
‘I feel,’ Vera announced, standing tall in her court shoes, ‘overburdened.’
‘Oh.’ George thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘Oh dear. But –’ He frowned. ‘You made a pie.’ This was symbolic in his eyes for having enough time for things.
‘That’s just it,’ Vera said. ‘I made a pie. One. We had to share it – a piece for you and the rest for us.’
‘But that’s—’
‘It’s terrible, I know. You see up till now I’ve kept up, but I had to drown Alan’s in custard every time to make it last the weekend. Alan gets quite difficult with me if he doesn’t get his pie.’
This was an aspect of Vera and Alan Day’s marriage of which George had had no previous inkling. Granted, Alan had seemed sullen lately, but he was a silent man in any case so it was hard to tell.
‘You shouldn’t have given me any if you were so short,’ he told her, adding heroically, ‘I can get by without pie.’ He recalled guiltily that Sylvia Newsome had tucked into a good portion of the picnic pie and Monty had polished off the thick edge bit of the crust.
‘The point I’m making, Mr Baxter’ – Vera’s tone became suddenly imperious – ‘is that I need help. I did warn you I might. I want to take on a char.’
‘Oh yes, of course – that.’ This came as a relief. He had begun to worry that the conversation was about to become intensely tricky, the way it so often seemed to with women. One minute you were paddling in the shallows, the next you had stepped into an unexpected chasm in the seabed to find the waters of competence closing abruptly over your head. But this was a straightforward enough request and the funds would certainly run to it. ‘That’s perfectly all right with me, Vera,’ he said warmly. ‘You go ahead.’
‘I’ve asked Sharon Jenkins,’ Vera steamed on. ‘She’s after some work.’ Seeing George look blank she shifted her basket to the other arm and added with slight impatience, ‘You know – Brenda Jenkins’s daughter.’
‘Brenda Jen—?’
‘Barmaid. The Barley Mow.’
Cogs clanked. Brenda. Barmaid. Terrifying.
‘Oh, that Brenda! Does she have a daughter? I never knew she was married.’
‘Well I presume she must’ve been once,’ Vera said, turning to go inside the house. ‘Or not. Anyway – Sharon.’
‘Yes, yes, Sharon. You do exactly what you think best, Vera,’ he said to her back. ‘By the way . . . You look very nice today.’
She turned, smiling with radiant suddenness, as if surprised by her success. ‘Thanks, Mr B.’
‘Er, Vera . . .’
She was on the step, looking down into his eyes now.
‘Would it be . . . I mean, I think I’ve done something a bit rash.’ Vera waited with a neutral expression. George eyed his brown brogues. ‘I’ve, er, asked a lady to come and have some . . . Well, to come and . . . I thought I’d take her to the Bridge Hotel.’
‘Have you, Mr B?’ Vera’s tone was so hard to read that he looked up into her eyes to determine whether she was scandalized or just interested and pleased for him. Neither of these emotions seemed to the fore. Instead, what he read in her eyes was intensely curious.
‘D’you think it’s all right?’ he asked. ‘Does it seem a bit soon?’
Vera folded her arms, the basket crooked in her left elbow. ‘Only you can really decide that,’ she said carefully.
They stood a moment longer before, almost deafened by the unspoken questions broadcasting from Vera’s expression, he felt compelled to spill all.
‘Her name’s Sylvia Newsome. Met her on Sunday, on the river, sort of thing. She’s a widow. Thought I’d take her to the, as I say . . . Friday.’
Vera raised her eyebrows. Gradually her lips followed into a slow smile. ‘Newsome,’ she echoed, in the manner of someone trying to recall a half-remembered song. ‘Newsome . . . Hmm . . .’ She turned away. ‘Well, that’s nice. I hope you have a lovely time.’
3.
As the week passed after his mention of Sylvia to Vera on Tuesday morning, George became aware of a sort of vibration growing around him. At first Vera had blatantly fished for information.
‘Newsome,’ she mused again, moments after this disclosure as she returned, temporarily, to her rubber gloves in the kitchen – the new char was to start any day. ‘Is that by any chance the Newsome of James, Son & Newsome?’
‘I imagine there might be a connection,’ George said, laying his eggy breakfast plate in the sink.
He felt a sudden desire to obfuscate. Why had he told Vera anything so soon? Why had he given anyone else even the slightest access to information about Sylvia Newsome when, in his new, unproven state, his own mind was so unstably hooked on her? She had become like a constant electric current in his head, sparking pictures of her – of him and her together – of her carrying his child . . . How wondrous she would look! Might all the desires shouldering in him like yokels at a hiring fair, be met in her, this glorious, fecund-looking woman?
‘She must’ve been the one who was married to Newsome,’ Vera was saying. ‘He died some time back, didn’t he?’
‘I believe so,’ George said vaguely.
Vera moved her washing-up cloth over the plates in a silence that George found even more unnerving because for once she had not switched on the radio. He turned away with an air of being preoccupied by some
thing of intense commercial importance.
‘Now – must just go and . . .’ He escaped the kitchen before any more questions could follow.
After closing time the following day, he was walking Monty round the village when on the narrow path around the church, he came upon two of the Cronies, Eunice MacLean and Pat Nesbitt with her dogs, blocking the path. The women were in intent conversation, close to the two rose-decked alms-houses on the corner. George thought for a split second about turning round and creeping back the other way. But Pat’s dogs of course noticed him immediately and started heaving on their leads. The two women swivelled round and he was in their sights.
‘Ah, Mr Baxter!’ Pat called, leaning back like a water-skier to restrain the spaniels. ‘How lovely to see you!’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Baxter,’ Eunice MacLean called to him. Of the Cronies he found her by far the most bearable, but even she had a gimlet-eyed look of curiosity this afternoon. Thank God Rosemary Abbott wasn’t there as well. Her attitude to him seemed always to be one of reproach for something he was not especially aware of having done, other than not wanting her to appear beside his sickbed. Had he not thanked her ardently enough for that jam Swiss roll? Surely he had? At least he never seemed to run into her these days.
‘Lovely afternoon,’ he called. Monty, his ally on this occasion, started barking at a volume that drowned out almost everything else.
‘I’ll, er – go back the other way,’ he shouted.
‘No – do come past!’ Pat protested. ‘We were rather hoping for a word . . . We hear you’ve got some news . . .’
‘Quite all right – no trouble . . .’ He backed away, pretending not to have heard her last comment. He was convinced that when he appeared, they had already been talking about him. ‘Come on, Monty.’ He dragged him away.
What could they possibly want to speak to him about? Not Sylvia, surely? But it wasn’t as if he had any other ‘news’ he might want to discuss. How could they possibly know about her already? He entertained a moment’s dark thoughts about Vera. He had only mentioned it to her yesterday. How the hell did news get transmitted so quickly?
