by Angela Huth
Then the answer came to him. It resounded through his head with the force of a shot, clearing all inebriation, inspiring the kind of courage that spurned the confusions of mere fog. Fate, acting in its devious way, had sent her. For some reasons Henry did not bother to work out, the Leopard, on one of her visits to the village, had been drawn to the woods on the hill, and alone on her walk was singing to herself with uninhibited joy. So near at last, all he had to do was to find her.
In frantic anticipation Henry began to move between the trees, too fast to make a way for himself between the branches, so that they scratched wildly at the skin of his face and hands. The voice eluded him in a tantalising way. One moment he felt he was almost upon it, then it seemed to shift direction and he plunged again into maddening obscurity. After stumbling about for a long time, Henry stood still, heart racing: there, in what he dimly saw to be the familiar clearing, he saw the indistinct shape of a small figure. It seemed to be wearing something yellowish, though in the poor light no identifying spots were visible.
‘Oh, my God, my Leopard,’ he said out loud, and found himself running.
Within a few yards he realised his mistake. This was not the Leopard, or anyone at all like her. It was Lark, Brenda’s friend, muffled in a yellow scarf, one hand at her throat, the other swiping vaguely at the fog in a helpless manner. As soon as she saw Henry she stopped singing. He realised he must have frightened her. He could see her hair was quite damp, as if she had been out in the rain, and her eyes were startled smudges in a white face.
‘Sorry if I interrupted you,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t think who it could be, up here in this weather.’ He gave a small bow, remembering that once, years ago, some girl had told him he could be quite gallant if he put his mind to it. Somehow he managed to charm Lark.
‘That’s all right, Mr Evans. I was just practising for the concert – you know, they’ve asked me to sing.’ She smiled. ‘It’s quite ghostly up here, isn’t it? I was beginning to think I’d never find my way back, and it’s coming down thicker, I think.’
Henry looked around. The spongey greyness of the air seemed to be closing about them. He wanted very much to spit, but Lark’s presence inhibited him. Instead he cleared his throat, and rubbed at his chest, where a gash of disappointment lacerated his skin.
‘It does indeed,’ he said, ‘but I know these parts pretty well. I can guide you back, if you like. You must be cold.’
Lark shivered.
‘I suppose I am,’ she said, ‘and I could eat a horse.’
‘You follow me, then, and come back to our place for tea. My wife would love to see you, you haven’t been over in a long while.’ Something about returning home with this waifish creature appealed to Henry: her presence would protect him from Rosie’s enquiring looks. He told her to follow him, and turned back into the trees.
In some incomprehensible way Henry’s instinct now acted like a laser beam through the fog: the path seemed clear to him as if it was a bright day, and in a short while they reached the gate that led to the field. From then on there were no problems. They descended the mild slope towards the garden of Wroughton House, which loomed in the mist, one lighted window upstairs, bleached to the colour of moonlight through the fog.
‘You sing very prettily,’ Henry said eventually. He had never thought of himself as a conversational man, but to pay a compliment was no bad thing, and it would give him a little practice for the day of the Leopard. ‘Just like a choirboy I once heard. You must be happy to sing like that.’
‘Oh, I am. Very.’
A few yards later Henry found himself overcome with indiscretion.
‘I’m going to Cambridge, as a matter of fact,’ he said. ‘In the spring. To see the Cam.’
‘That should be lovely. The daffodils.’
Something about her understanding increased his recklessness.
‘With a companion,’ he added. And the relief of having confided to one other human being in the world left him light-hearted as he had not been for weeks.
‘Well, that’s quite right,’ said Lark. ‘I mean, it would be a pity for anyone to have Cambridge in the spring all to themselves, wouldn’t it?’
Henry agreed with her most emphatically, but in his temporarily cheerful state he was too overcome to say so. Instead he took Lark’s arm and helped her climb the fence into the garden of Wroughton House where, in the new thickness of the fog, the one lighted window hung suspended, unsupported by walls, and casting an etiolated reflection into the waters of the pond.
As the church clock struck four-thirty Rosie opened the door to look out for Henry. She had resisted doing this for some time, but worry had finally overcome her. To her relief she saw him coming up the road, very hazy in the fog, but apparently quite steady on his feet. By his side was the small shape of a girl, muffled in a scarf, features impossible to recognise.
Rosie clapped her hand to her mouth to stifle a scream. Of course! That was it. In a flash she blamed herself for not having understood before. It was another woman who had been causing all this trouble, and here he was, coming to explain at last. Coming to have it out. Well, at least the truth you know . . .
Fighting tears, Rosie realised there was no time to work out what her reaction should be. The two of them were almost upon her. A lifetime of self-control came to her rescue. She stood up very straight, braced herself with understanding, quickly calculated that they should drink tea from the best china. She would not have Henry accuse her of indignity or lack of hospitality, even in such a crisis. Automatically she arranged her smile. She was determined their first view of her should be a brave and smiling one, full of the kind of welcome that Henry would expect of her in any circumstances.
Much later that night Rosie was rewarded for her stoicism. Bustling about with plates of dumpling stew, having enjoyed entertaining Lark to a huge tea, she felt bold enough to admit to Henry the foolishness of her earlier supposition.
‘You know for one minute, silly old me, I really thought you were bringing in a fancy lady,’ she said. ‘I said to myself, why, after all these years, Henry Evans has found himself a girl, and has come to tell me.’
For the first time in more weeks than Rosie could remember, Henry laughed.
‘You women, daft notions you do have,’ he said, before falling back into his customary silence. But the lightness of his tone was enough for Rosie. She went happily to the larder, unable to resist a spoonful of the cold baked custard she had made for lunch, sweet in its congealed sauce of golden caramel.
The house was on fire. Flames sprouted from the roof and every window, lighting the night sky. Their flickering was doubled in the water of the pond. Augusta, trapped in the branches of the weeping willow, struggled to get near the house. Her help was essential. Buckets of water. Alone she would put out the flames because there was no one else there. But the branches of the tree held her back. The more wildly she struggled, the more firmly they entangled her.
She screamed, waking herself. The house burning down had become a recurring nightmare. She was sweating, as she always was when she woke, very cold. Through the blinds she could see the beginnings of light.
Augusta got out of bed and went to the window. She raised one of the blinds. Mists of a winter dawn disguised the shapes of the garden, but the intensity of yesterday’s fog had gone. The willow was a faint imprint, grey tracing against paler grey. Augusta looked to see herself fighting against its branches, but they were quite still. The pair of swans stood on the bank of the pond, heads tucked into puffed-up breasts. After a while, with one accord, they lifted their heads, stretched their long necks. Luminous white in the mist, they raised their wings, testing sleepy feathers. Then, grotesque ballet dancers, they launched themselves into the air. In a moment they were high above the garden, moving in the direction of the brickworks. Augusta, listening to the creak of their wings, watched them flying side by side till they vanished in the distance. Then she remembered that in a few hours’ time a lorry woul
d be arriving full of packing cases, and it was her job to start to fill them.
On the evening of the old people’s party it began to snow. Not thickly, but enough to crust the ground with translucent white. Augusta prepared for her solitary return. She put four mince pies in a low oven and piled logs on the hall fire. She also lit the Christmas tree, which she had decorated that afternoon. Its firefly lights cast starry shadows on the ceiling and flagstone floor, and made tiny flames in the multicoloured glass balls. Augusta left it with reluctance. Her feet crunched over the cobbles of the back drive, and the cold made her clutch her arms under her breasts. It was a pale night for December, clear stars.
In the village hall all was merriment and light. Augusta slipped in unnoticed. She stood looking around at the bustle of elderly people, listening.
‘There were five or six of them up here all day, doing it.’
‘They’ve made the crackers nice.’
‘And Ellen had a stroke this morning. Did you hear? I popped round. Doubt if she’ll get over it.’
‘She was looking forward to it so much, too. She’d had her hair done, and all.’
There had been so much effort. A flurry of cottonwool snowflakes on every window, much thicker than the real stuff outside. Crackers stuck at sword angles on the walls. Streamers and balloons. Long trestle tables set with white cloths and primrose china, a funny hat at each place. Poinsettias on the stage.
She was welcomed by Lily Beal and Mr Roper, the chairman of the club, golden wedding a few days behind him. They were apologetic when they realised she must have been standing there awhile unnoticed. They led her to the place of honour at the top table beneath the stage. She sat between Mr Roper on her right, and a fat lady in a beige jersey dress and jacket, intricate piping on collar and cuffs. Augusta, judging by her expensive handbag, guessed she must be someone with benevolent interest in the village, who would no doubt replace Hugh as President when the Brownes finally left.
There was a sit-down hot meal for 75P a head. This had been provided by an up-and-coming caterer who chafed at the back of the hall, casting a bossy eye on his team of waiters. His moustache was the same shape as his bow-tie, wide at the edges, thin in the middle, and he smiled without rest. Mr Roper informed Augusta he was new to the area and at this, his debut, he naturally wanted to make a good impression. There was no doubt the members of the Darby and Joan Club were much delighted by his efforts: tomato soup, turkey, package-fresh balls of stuffing, peas, potatoes boiled and roast, tinned fruit salad with a puff of cream, cheese and coffee, candelabras and paper napkins thrown in. Augusta did her best to eat, but had little appetite. She noticed the ratio of women to men was ten to one, and wondered when it came to the aloneness of old age which it was least desirable to be, man or woman. The old ladies had paid a lot of attention to their party clothes and hair. There was a preponderance of pink diamanté brooches, sometimes a whole collection on one bosom, and crystal beads clustered in withered dewlaps. There was much laughter and the few old gentlemen, scattered with great fairness among the tables, were subjected to an abundance of nudges from their lucky companions. It seemed to be going, as Mr Roper pointed out, with quite a swing.
Supper finished, he tried to stand up. But his chair was too near the stage. It cut into the backs of his knees, causing him to topple over the table. Regaining his balance, with infirm voice he drew attention to the small brown envelopes by each place. He asked that everyone should give a big hand to the kind lady who had provided them – 25 pence in each one. Perhaps she might like to say a few words?
The good lady in matching beige tried to rise, a little flushed now her gesture had been exposed. She, too, had trouble with her chair and the stage, but she had learnt from Mr Roper. She gripped the chair’s back rail with one hand, so that it should not butt her from behind, and clutched the table, screwing up the cloth, with the other.
‘I’d just like to say thank you all very much,’ she said, ‘and as for the little envelopes – well, they come from the heart.’ She sat down again, to applause. ‘I’ve never spoken in public before,’ she whispered to Augusta. She was shaking.
Augusta’s own speech was brief. She read a telegram from Hugh, and said how sorry they were to be leaving the village. They would miss everybody, and remember all the good times. But soon she would come back and visit them. That was the only lie. By the time she felt capable of returning to the village, most of them would be dead.
As the hall was cleared the old ladies scraped back their chairs and pulled their cardigans more tightly over their party dresses. One old man, knees apart, pulled a bowler hat down over his ears. He got a big, pent-up laugh. Encouraged by his success, he waved a walking stick in the air and sang the first line of My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean. Several of the old people talked round Augusta, and reassured themselves.
‘You like our new stage curtains? We got them from the WI for £5.’
‘That was a lovely meal.’
‘They say a professional compere’s coming.’
‘And professional dancers.’
‘And professional singers.’
‘My.’
‘Anyone know if the milk for the tea is in the gents?’
Dancers first. The fluorescent bars of light went out and a blue spotlight shone on to the stage. A composed twelve-year-old fluttered out from behind the bargain curtains, her pubescent breasts flattened by a tight satin bodice. Scraped-back hair made her face very old. She danced to the thud of an upright piano played by the local music teacher. Sometimes her rhythm and the child’s movements were not synchronised, but their concern to please was quite in harmony. Then came two eight-year-olds in huge ears, long tails and pink noses, pulling behind them a large cardboard box. Their teacher, a pink flower pinned like a beacon to her vast bosom, followed them.
‘In case you didn’t realise,’ she said, ‘these are two mice with a piece of cheese.’
There were a number of acts throughout the evening, smoothed on their way by the professional compere, who was also a policeman. There were Italian teenage twins with long wavy Drene hair, like 1940 stars, who sang Puppet on a String, and a semi-retired conjurer who moved away from the exposure of the spotlight to pull tangerines unconvincingly out of thin air. Augusta, looking round at the audience, saw their bodies had become slack with appreciation: knees slung apart, hands resting upon them with palms turned upwards. Mouths hung open, some eyelids drooped a little. At the back of the hall, Augusta saw with surprise, stood Brenda and Evans, coats still on, collars turned up. She wondered why they had come. They had the air of people who don’t intend to stay a long time.
‘And now,’ said the compere, clashing his knuckles like cymbals, ‘and now, ladies and gentlemen, it is time for our star. And our star tonight is a little lady whose name may not be very familiar to your ears. But, believe me, ladies and gentlemen, she’s a very big singer with a very big future.’ He paused, pleased by his own sense of timing. ‘Her name? Well, her name is very simple. As she sings like a bird it is, appropriately enough, just Lark. Lark, ladies and gentlemen. I ask you to give her a big hand.’
They clapped quite hard as Lark came on to the stage. The compere went away, having squeezed her shoulders and banged his big hands right under her nose. She placed herself in the middle of the circle of blue light, let her hands fall to her sides. She wore Augusta’s Peaseblossom dress, its silvery folds limp against her bones, its jagged hem making shadows on her stick legs and silver shoes. She had painted her eyelids leaf green, to match her eyes: they shone with a strange light from out of the huge shadows beneath them, and the skin under her cheek bones was drawn back into angular hollows. Her hair had been washed and ruffled, and pinned with a Christmas-tree star. Lark swallowed and, just once, fluttered the scarlet nails of both hands on her skirt.
There was absolute silence in the hall. A sense of surprising awe. Lark’s aloneness reminded them. In that moment of quiet there was almost fear, Augusta thought: in rev
ealing the solitary nature of her own being, Lark might expose theirs, too. Then she smiled, to reassure them, and breathing could be heard again.
The pianist scratched a lump of suspender that was troubling her thigh, and began to play. She was an incompetent musician, but had the sense to remain pianissimo.
‘I’m just going to sing a few songs I’ve always liked,’ said Lark. ‘Nothing to do with Christmas, especially, but I hope you like them, too.’
She started with Linden Lea. One or two of the elderly people stifled gasps of admiration, as they might at beautiful music in church. For Lark’s voice was so pure, so sweet, so sad, as to clear the most confused mind with the beauty of truth. No larger than a child, unmoving, the notes that soared from her pierced to those dormant areas of regret, or love, or distant pleasure that are from time to time rekindled by the workings of art. She sang a Welsh folk song, Yesterday, and Silent Night. Finally the theme tune from The Threepenny Opera, most melancholy of all. There was no one who did not recognise her quality. They applauded as hard as they were able, but it was the applause of those who have been ungrounded, rather than the riotous clapping accorded to lesser talents. In between songs Lark bowed her head and barely smiled. When it was all over she came to the front of the stage, but looked beyond the audience, overwhelmed, not seeing them. She could not be more than six stone, Augusta thought. Her shoulder bones pierced sharply through her skin, her arms were skeletal. She gave three small bows, bringing the dress briefly to life, making it flutter in imitation of its vivacious days, when Augusta had danced in it all night for Hugh.
