by Rachel Malik
In the kitchen now was an old but effective oil stove; a leaved dining table they had ‘borrowed’ from Margaret, which couldn’t be opened because of the space; and two chairs. In the sitting room, the wireless had the place of honour on the little cupboard and a rug with a flaunting peacock lay in front of the uncomfortable sofa. It didn’t keep the draughts out – nothing seemed to do that – but it made a change from the flagging. Nib had colonized the window seat with its new green cushion, and on sunny mornings she curled into a fixture of carefully wound fur. By the fireplace was a smart set of fire irons that Rene had picked up at a house sale. The furnishings were sparse, but it was the way they preferred it. Upstairs, the second bedroom remained a box room, full of plans prospective and abandoned. In their bedroom, they now had a dwarf wardrobe to complement the skinny tallboy with its carefully allocated drawers. They had put a board under the bed to try and bolster the mattress, and Elsie had made a new cover and curtains for the window. Everything was kempt, clean, lived-in, though very little was comfortable. From the window of the bedroom, the fields stretched across to Rosenys and beyond.
Elsie didn’t seem to mind her age – she was now sixty-three; vigorous, healthy (Rene was troubled by her chest), Elsie looked good years younger, and not just to Rene’s eyes. It wasn’t getting older that worried Rene, it was THE FUTURE. When they were together, ‘next year’ was the acknowledged horizon, the point of reference for things that would be done differently or the same: we should get the holly from the wood a little later next year, let’s make another cake for Margaret next Easter. It was a comfortable measure belonging to Elsie first, but Rene had adopted it for her own. LET US GO FORWARD TOGETHER. But they were not always together, they couldn’t be, gaps could open up. Working away as she did, and with Elsie spending more of her time at the cottage, Rene was made aware of different currents. There was another future, and it wasn’t next year, a future of rockets and bombs, and everyone, everything, was in such a hurry to go faster and faster, running, driving, flying. Margaret Cuff’s Belinda wanted to be an air hostess; Jessie was working in London, living in London. Imagine. Now that was a future, and Rene hoped it would be a good one. Bertha’s letters were getting more frequent but it was all little details about this or that neighbour, and Ernest. Increasingly, it seemed, Bertha’s letters included rather a lot of Ernest. He was getting old, she said, as if she wasn’t, or perhaps as if she was seeing him in a new light. And when Rene’s mind started to run on in this way, her future and Elsie’s was not next year at all but a bad ending, inseparable from the new council houses, or the almshouses on the edge of Heathwater – so pleasing to the casual motorist. The old home was the most likely outcome: no privacy, separate bedrooms, meeting on the landing, on the stair. ONLY MARRIED PERSONS MAY SHARE A BEDROOM. Trying to save a place for each other at the lunch table: ambushed by others – some vague, some familiar – and hovering trays. All this so vivid, and still never a word to Elsie.
* * *
Rosenys was six miles from Helston, that was what the signs said, but Rene was certain it was further, especially when she was cycling home tired on a Friday night. From Helston, it was a slow, steady climb to a crossroads some way out of Rosenys. She always paused there because after that the incline got much sharper. It was a bleak spot, not a house in sight and the usual rumours of hangings and hauntings, but Rene wasn’t easily frightened. To the left was the stony track that snaked to Tregoran and the sea; to the right was a steep, sharp turn to Upper Rosenys. Ahead, up a steep, straight hill, lay Rosenys. She always took the hill with gusto, though it fought back against her knees and the fronts of her thighs; at the top she would pause again, a little puffed. High up now, the sound of the waves rushed out as if from nowhere, buoyed by the wind; and there, below, was Rosenys, a scant but distinctive pattern – part plough, part jug. A glorious slope followed, you could fairly fly down to the village if the wind was with you. But Rene always slowed down before she entered the village – she didn’t want to be spotted shooting through at top speed, it didn’t look friendly. ‘They’ll think you’re a harpy,’ Elsie had said, when she told her.
Harpy Hargreaves, thought Rene, nearly at the top of the hill, nearly giggling, a little out of breath and exhilarated by the wind that was boxing her from behind. It was only September but there was already a chill in the air, charging her up. She was looking forward to a smooth sail down, but she came to a stop too fast, too heavily. Earlier the bike had been sluggish but she hadn’t bothered to check the tyres; now she realized that the bike had a puncture and a bad one too. She climbed off to check – and sure enough she could feel the damage. There was no chance she’d be able to cycle home.
It was at least another two miles to Wheal Rock – not an emergency, but she didn’t fancy the walk in the wind with a dragging bike. She lit a cigarette, inhaled slowly and considered her position. If the bike had been hers, she would probably have left it where it was and gone back the following day – the chance of theft was pretty small – but to do this with somebody else’s bike seemed casual. She stood beside the bike, glad that the rain had finally stopped; but the wind was still strong, it took turns at circling and pushing her about. Noisy too, so she didn’t hear the engine till it was quite close, and even then she wasn’t sure where the sound was coming from. But then she saw the van come chugging up the hill. She dragged the bike further back from the road, but she had already been spotted; the van was already slowing to meet her. It came to a halt expertly a couple of feet in front of her. The driver’s window was wound down and she was face to face with a woman, a little younger than herself, with short fair hair.
‘You look like you need some help. Back door’s open. Shall I help you with the bike?’
Just moments later, it seemed, Rene was settled in the front of the van, the bike safely stowed.
‘Where are you headed?’ the woman asked.
Elsie worried when Rene was late in the evenings. In daylight, things took the time they took, but once it got dark, mantel clock and wireless took over with their relentless measures. In the new year, they were going to be connected to the telephone service, an innovation that left Elsie unmoved, except in this one respect. Tonight Rene really was late – it was already after seven. At first Elsie had plenty to distract herself with: she fed Nib and gave the puppy some milk, then she coaxed the fire and tried to settle to some sewing. She delayed putting out the tea things and tried to avoid going to the kitchen window too often. Sometimes when she was waiting, she caught a glimpse of Rene’s bike through the trees. Not tonight.
At half past seven she went out to feed the chickens and the rabbits (usually she waited till after they’d eaten). The rabbits were hunched, even more flat-eared than usual, quivering miserably from the rain. She fed them quickly, and the chickens, and built up a bank of straw around the meshing of the hutches to try and keep out the wet. The rain had come on again and she was soaked by the time she got back in. She hung her jacket carefully out over a chair, stuffed newspaper in her boots and made herself a pot of tea. More things to keep her busy. Quarter to eight.
She turned the wireless off – it was some light programme she didn’t find funny, and all it did was tell her it was late. Normally by now, she and Rene would be settled in the sitting room, or as settled as they could be on the sofa. They both savoured Friday nights. Eight o’clock. She went to the window again, knowing how little there was to see in the dark.
* * *
It was nearly half past eight by the time Rene got home, and Elsie had worked herself up into a fine old state. Switching ever more frequently between the kitchen table and the sitting-room sofa, her senses had quite taken flight. First, there were images, wonderings: Rene, wincing with a turned ankle, limping slowly towards home; or lying concussed in a ditch, knocked unconscious; or worse, in a mess of mangled metal under a bus. But then a story forced itself through the possibilities: a knock at the door; a policeman accompanied by Mrs Cuff to soften the blow
; Mrs Cuff going with her in the police car to the hospital, holding her hand; her first sight of Rene, varnished with the special stillness of the dead; Rene’s cold hand hanging down, unreachable.
It was all so clear that when she first heard the sound of the vehicle outside, she was sure it must be the police (how she hoped Margaret would be with them). She stood up and clasped the edge of the table for balance, her legs heavy as pond-wet clothes. Her heart thumped. Outside was the noise of doors opening and closing, and then she heard Rene’s voice – ordinary, light – a criss-cross of thank-yous and goodbyes. It was unmistakably her. Elsie sat back down, unsure of her legs, unable to adjust. Even when the door opened and she saw Rene standing there in the doorway. All there; alive; unhurt; her face just a little flushed.
‘Everything’s all right, nothing to fret about.’
But Elsie couldn’t speak, she just went on looking at Rene.
‘Look, look, I’m all here, nothing missing.’
Elsie flinched and huddled into herself.
Rene wasn’t usually one for silly jokes, but nerves could make her foolish sometimes.
‘Elsie, I’m sorry, such a silly thing to say. Please don’t be upset.’
Elsie stood up slowly and went to the stove, put the pan on to the heat, looked around for the pepper, found Rene’s face again.
‘I shouldn’t have joked, I’m so sorry. I’m fine, really I am. I had a puncture (and of course I didn’t have the pump). I thought I’d have to walk home, all the way from the crossroads. Luckily a van came by and I got a lift.’
But it was after half past eight. There must be more to it than that.
Elsie busied herself unnecessarily with the soup, trying to avoid looking at Rene, trying to avoid thinking, but it was no good.
Rene took off her coat and smoothed her hands over her trousers, then she sat down and lit a cigarette, but she was fidgety and after a few moments she got up and went to the window. Dark, dark, dark; nothing could occupy her there. She sat down again, briefly settling her attention on the new puppy asleep in the basket, but soon her fingers were drumming and she was looking around for something to do. Elsie watched her all the while, she could tell that Rene was excited and trying to hide it, her eyes were very bright in the dull of the room.
‘Could you light the other lamp,’ Elsie asked, ‘and set the table? It’ll be ready in just a minute.’
Rene sprang to it, recognizing the request for the bridge that it was. She lit the lamp, got out bowls and spoons, cut some bread and laid the table. She rinsed out the cups; the carrot peelings were still in the sink and she rubbed the earth into the drain.
So they had their supper: after the soup they had cheese and some apples that Elsie had been saving, juicy and sharp; and finally a bit of talk found its way to the table, about the weather and the puppy and Nib’s latest antics. It was only then that Rene got up to make some tea.
‘Bert, are you all right?’
‘Yes.’
There were things Rene kept to herself alone, like the letters she slipped quietly into a pocket and never mentioned to Elsie. She had decided long ago that it was better like that, better for her and better for Elsie. But sometimes, when she closed the top drawer of the tallboy, she wished she could say something. There were things she had told Elsie that had left her feeling lonely. They were not the deep things – a funny turn of phrase she’d heard in a shop, a copse of white bluebells she came upon unexpectedly, near the big dairy farm where she worked – but Elsie did not seem very interested. Words brought back from Rene’s weeks away could light up the distances between them. Rene knew that what had happened to her tonight, her adventure, could easily be misunderstood.
Once her bike had been safely stored and she had got in the van with Kat – for Kat had volunteered her first name as she briskly shook Rene’s hand – they had reversed and then made the steep U-turn for Upper Rosenys.
‘I’m happy to drive you home,’ she said, ‘but I need to drop these crates off first. You don’t mind? It won’t take long.’
Kat pushed the van to surprising speeds along the narrow, winding lanes and the crates rattled merrily away behind them. Rene found it exhilarating, but her hand clutched the strap all the same. Kat didn’t notice, talking away, non-stop, but it was all very friendly, for all the smart southern vowels. There were no sidelong looks, no curious glances, and Rene felt – despite the speed – strangely at ease. Kat told her about the van – she was clearly proud of it – it was a Ford Thames 300E and only a couple of years old. It was just the thing they needed, she said. She begged a cigarette (‘Don’t tell Jude, she hates me smoking’) and got Rene to light it for her. Just moments later, she screeched to a halt to avoid a large animal in the road: a badger. She swore royally as it finally trotted away.
‘You’re not a local either, are you?’ Kat said.
‘Manchester,’ Rene said, ‘but that was a long time ago.’
And thankfully Kat asked nothing else and she was soon rattling on again. Rene listened quite rapt, only half understanding the family she conjured, ‘so stuffy’, and the school that had taught her nothing worth knowing. When Kat got to the war, things made a lot more sense. She’d been working in London and made some great friends – it had all been ‘fantastically exciting’. Soon after VE Day she’d come down to Cornwall for a holiday, Upper Rosenys of all the luck, and …
‘Is there someone waiting for you? You can use the phone in the pub if you want.’
Rene didn’t like to say that she didn’t have a phone.
Upper Rosenys was tiny, smaller than ‘their’ Rosenys, though better lit.
‘It’s just one house deep,’ Kat said, having slowed to a crawl, ‘like a stage set. We don’t have a shop, or a post office, but we do have a pub and our very own recluse.’
‘Recluse?’
Rene didn’t think she’d ever heard that word.
‘Oh yes, but she’s harmless, quite friendly really. Ah, here we are. This is us.’
Kat swung the van into a small car park and came to a stop. They both got out and Rene looked up at the brightly lit sign: The Fox and Hound. A fox stood improbably on the branch of a tree, its tail twirling in the air. It was looking down at a hound that seemed to have lost its way.
‘I like the sign,’ Rene said.
‘Nice, isn’t it? A friend of ours did it. It’s a boring name but we didn’t like to change it – some people think it’s bad luck.’
Kat was already round at the back of the van, opening the doors. She pulled the bike out and rested it against the side of the van.
‘It’ll be fine here. I’ll get you that pump. You don’t mind helping with the crates, do you?’
They stacked most of the crates in a storeroom that was also an office; it was a mix of things, most of it bottled: beer, lemonade, ginger. There were another couple of boxes of what looked like household shopping. The first was all soup tins and biscuits; the other box was, to Rene’s eyes, decidedly fancy, for it included tins of olives and sardines and two bottles of red wine.
Once they’d finished in the storeroom, Kat picked up one of the crates.
‘Come on,’ she said, ‘come and meet Jude, she’ll get you a drink.’
Rene followed her to the bar but slowly: the bubble of noise ahead made her uncertain – she was a stranger after all, for all Kat’s friendly talk. Hovering in the doorway, she watched as Kat went up to the woman at the bar and touched her gently on the shoulder. She turned to Kat on the instant with no trace of surprise, the briefest of smiles. It was just a moment but it was slow motion in its clarity.
‘So here you are again,’ the woman said. She and Kat smiled at each other and Kat laughed.
‘Jude, this is Rene, she had an accident with her bike up at the crossroads.’
‘Hello,’ Rene said.
It was strange hearing her name like that from a stranger. She didn’t know what else to say.
‘Are you all right?’ Jude aske
d.
She reached forward and stretched out her hand. Like Kat she was friendly on the instant and interested.
‘I’m Jude. Pleased to meet you.’
‘Rene. Rene Hargreaves.’
Kat explained what had happened and Jude didn’t seem at all surprised, more amused, as if Kat often found stranded cyclists and brought them back to the pub. Rene found herself smiling too.
‘At least have a drink before Kat drives you back.’
It was awkward. She wanted to stay, but she was also thinking of Elsie.
‘Is there someone at home like me who’ll be wondering where you are?’
‘Yes, but …’
‘Would you like to use the phone?’
‘We’re not connected yet.’
‘Oh dear, well, you better drink up quickly then. Whisky?’
And they had all laughed and she was handed a big glass of whisky, no mention of water, and that had settled it. Jude and Kat fell into talking quietly, and Rene sipped at her drink and lit a cigarette. For all that she looked cautious, she was rather enjoying herself. It was so long since she’d stood on this side of the counter. It was a nice place, the usual country things on the walls, recently painted, spick and span. She looked out across the bar to the busy tables beyond; nearly a full house – a small place compared with the Blue Elephant. It was all so familiar, her elbows on the bar, the heavy ashtray beside her. She looked again at the tables, one by one, and then she looked again – in one way it wasn’t like the Blue Elephant at all.
It had all happened so quickly, Kat pulling up in her van, reversing, the drive to Upper Rosenys and then there she was, standing in the bar …
‘Rene? Rene? Are you all right?’
It was Elsie and she was back at home, at Wheal Rock.
‘Are you sure you’re all right? You look like you’re in a dream.’
‘Sorry. I was making tea, wasn’t I?’
‘I’ve done it. Are you sure you’re all right?’
