(11/20) Farther Afield Read online

  'I've taken the dirty clothes,' called Mrs Willet.

  'And I'll give the place a proper bottoming, cupboards and all, before you're back,' said Mrs Pringle, in a tone which sounded more like a threat than a promise.

  We moved off, waving like royalty, to the accompaniment of Tibby's yowling from a cat-basket borrowed from Mr Roberts.

  It is only about half an hour's run to Bent but I was mightily glad to arrive at Amy's house and to be ensconced in the spare room. Some wise person in the past had made sure that the window sills in the bedroom were low enough for the bed-ridden to admire the view, for winch I was truly grateful.

  Beyond Amy's immaculate garden, bright with lilies and roses, stretched rolling agricultural land. The crops were already ripening, and no doubt the combines would be out in the fields long before my beastly arm was fit to use. In the middle distance, a blue tractor trundled between the hedges on its way to the fields, and near at hand, on Amy's bird table, tits and starlings squabbled over food.

  There would be plenty here to amuse me. How good Amy was! She had made light of taking me on, useless as I was, but I knew how much extra work I should be making, and determined to get downstairs as soon as possible.

  Tibby, released from the hated basket, was roaming cautiously about the room, sniffing at Amy's rose and cream decor with the greatest suspicion and dislike. She had deigned to drink a little milk, but was clearly going to take some time to settle down.

  'You are an ungrateful cat,' I told her. 'You might well have been left behind with Mrs Pringle, and she would have bottomed you with the rest of the house.'

  Amy entered with the tea tray.

  'I imagine heaven's like this,' I said. 'Perfect surroundings, and angels wafting in with the tea.'

  'But this one's going to watch you spread your own jam this time,' she warned me.

  Later that evening, as the summer dusk fell and the scent of the lime flowers hung heavy on the air, Amy sat by the lamp and stitched away at her tapestry. A moth fluttered round the light, tapping a staccato tattoo on the shade, but Amy did not seem aware of it.

  It was very quiet in the room. It seemed to me that Amy was unusually pensive, and although she had enough to think of, in all conscience, with me on her hands, somehow I felt her thoughts were elsewhere.

  'Amy,' I began, 'you know I can't thank you enough for all you're doing, but won't I be even more of a burden when James comes home?'

  'It won't be for several days,' said Amy, snipping a thread. 'It may be even longer. There was some possibility of going straight on to Scotland, if he can arrange things with somebody at the office to attend to that end and save him coming back again.'

  There was something in Amy's tone which disquieted me. Despondency? Resignation? Hopelessness?

  I had never seen Amy in this mood, and wondered what was the cause.

  'I don't think I shall need a blue pill tonight,' I said, changing the subject. 'I can hardly keep awake as it is.'

  'I'm horribly sleepy too,' confessed Amy. She began to roll up her work, and glanced at the clock.

  'James usually rings about eight, but something must have stopped him. No doubt there will be a letter in the post in the morning. I shan't wait up any longer.'

  She rose, and came close to the bed.

  'Have you got all you need? I've left this little bell to ring if you need me in the night, and I shall prop my door ajar. Tibby's settled in the kitchen, so there's nothing for you to worry about.'

  She bent to give me a rare kiss on the forehead.

  'Sleep well. I'll see you in the morning.'

  After Amy had gone, I turned out the light and slid carefully down the bed. Tired though I was, I could not sleep.

  It grieved me to see Amy so unhappy. Something more than my problems was eating at her heart. I had not known Amy for over thirty years without being able to measure her moods.

  That James was at the bottom of it all, I had no doubt. Was the rapscallion more than usually entangled this time? Was their marriage seriously threatened by the present philanderings?

  It is at times like this that a spinster counts her blessings. Her troubles are of her own making, and can be tackled straightforwardly. She is independent, both monetarily and in spirit. Her life is wonderfully simple, compared with that of her married sister. And she cannot be hurt, quite so cruelly, as a woman can be by her husband.

  Conversely, she has no-one with whom to share her troubles and doubts. She must bear alone the consequences of all her actions and, coming down to brass tacks, she must be able to support herself financially, physically and emotionally.

  I know all this from first-hand experience. I know too that there are some people who view my life as narrow and self-centred. Some, even, find a middle-aged single woman pitiable, if not faintly ridiculous. This, I have always felt, is to rate the value of men too highly, although I recognise that a truly happy marriage is probably the highest state of contentment attainable by either partner.

  But how often something mars the partnership! Jealousy, indolence, illness, family difficulties, money troubles – so much can go wrong when two lives are joined.

  Outside, in the darkness, a screech owl gave its blood-curdling cry. A shadow crept over the moon, and turning my face into the comfort of a pillow – supplied by James – I decided that it was time for sleep.

  5 Recovery at Bent

  THE days passed very agreeably at Amy's. Time hangs heavily, some people say, when there is nothing to do, but I found, in my enforced idleness, that the hours flew by.

  The weather had changed from its earlier brilliance. The sky was overcast, the air was still. There was something curiously restful about these soft grey days. The air was mild and I sat in the garden a great deal, nursing my arm and propping my battered ankle on a foot-rest.

  Amy had a small pond with a tinkling fountain in her garden, and the sound of the splashing water was often the only noise to be heard. I felt stronger daily, and began to get very clever at using my left hand. I was more and more conscious how much I owed to Amy's generosity of spirit. Without her care and companionship these early days of progress would have been much slower.

  During these quiet days I had the opportunity of observing Amy as she went about her tasks. She dealt with her domestic routine with great efficiency, and I began to realise, at the end of a week, that without the method with which she approached each chore, I should have been alone far more often. As it was, she had time to sit and talk to me, or simply to sit beside me and read, or work at her tapestry. I think we grew closer together, in those few days, than we had ever been before.

  Very little mention was made of James, although Amy did say one evening that he had telephoned to say that he was in Scotland and would not be returning for a week or so. The determinedly gay manner in which she told me this, confirmed my fears that Amy herself was a very worried woman. It made her kindness to me doubly dear.

  One morning I was taking my cautious walk in the garden, leaning heavily upon a fine ebony stick of James's, when I was horrified to see the corpse of a hedgehog floating in the pond. Obviously, it had tried to reach the water, toppled in, and been unable to scramble out again. It was a pathetic sight, and I was wondering how I could get it out when Amy called from the house, and emerged with one of her friends, Gerard Baker.

  I had met him first at one of Amy's parties, and several times since then. He had been collecting material for a book about minor Victorian poets, and visited Fairacre once or twice to learn more about our one poet Aloysius Stone.

  We, in Fairacre, are rather proud of Aloysius, who lived in one of the cottages in Tyler's Row, and was somewhat of a trial at village concerts in the early part of the century. He loved the opportunity of reciting his poems, and was apt to go on for far longer than his allotted time, much to the consternation of the programme organisers and the outspokenness of his audience.

  'This is a great day,' said Amy after we had exchanged greetings, and Ger
ard had commiserated with me about my battered condition. She held up a book.

  'Not The Book?' I said.

  'The very same,' said Gerard. 'Came out last month.'

  'Well! And I didn't hear a thing.'

  'I'm. not surprised. I shouldn't think a book ever crept out into the world with as little notice as this one had.'

  'But surely it will be reviewed? After all your hard work you're bound to have some recognition.'

  'I doubt it. I'm not carping. There aren't exactly queues at the bookshop doors for any book, and one about Victorian poets won't set the Thames on fire. If it covers the costs I'll be content, and so will the publishers.'

  By this time, Amy had walked across to the pond, and was studying the floating corpse with some distaste.

  'Give me a rake,' said Gerard, approaching, 'and I'll fish the poor thing out for you.'

  We surveyed the pathetic body, the shiny black snout, the brindled prickles, the scaly black legs.

  Amy returned with the rake.

  'It's really dead, I suppose?' she asked, bending closer to examine the corpse.

  'Well, I can tell you flat,' said Gerard, casting his rake, 'that I'm not volunteering to give it the kiss of life! There are limits to the milk of human kindness.'

  He fished the body to the edge and lifted it out.

  'I think a distant patch of nettles, or some such rough cover, would be his best shroud. You aren't proposing burial? I'm no great shakes with a spade.'

  'Good heavens, no, Gerard dear!' exclaimed Amy. 'Follow me, and we'll put him over the hedge into the ditch in the cornfield, poor little sweet.'

  '"Sweet" ', said Gerard, his nose wrinkled, 'is not quite the word for it.'

  He followed Amy towards the end of the garden, balancing the dripping victim precariously on the rake. I watched the funeral cortege from my chair with some amusement. The more I saw of Gerard Baker, the more I liked him.

  He was clever but unaffected, sympathetic but not mawkish, and had a cheerful practical approach to problems – such as this present one – which I found wholly admirable. No wonder Amy welcomed him.

  'What about a restorative?' she said when they returned. 'Gin, sherry?'

  'Could it be coffee?' asked Gerard.

  'Of course.' She went into the house.

  'What a marvel she is!' exclaimed Gerard.

  'I'll endorse that,' I said, and told him how wonderfully she had coped with me.

  'Typical,' said Gerard. 'I was full of admiration for the way in which she coped with that lovelorn niece of hers, Vanessa.'

  'I believe we may see something of her before long,' I told him. 'Evidently she's quite got over that infatuation. You know she's in Scotland? Working in a hotel?'

  Gerard, to my surprise, looked somewhat embarrassed.

  'Yes, I did know. As a matter of fact, I happened to call at the hotel a week or two ago. She seemed in great spirits.'

  'Did you hear that, Amy?' I cried, as she put down the tray. 'Gerard has seen Vanessa, and she's very well,'

  Amy shot a lightning glance at Gerard's face, and looked away quickly. He was endeavouring to look nonchalant, and not succeeding very well.

  'I was in the district. I'm collecting material for a book about Scottish poets – a companion volume to the Victorian one, I hope, – and I remembered the name of the hotel.'

  'How nice! Is she flourishing?'

  'In very good spirits. She said something about a holiday soon, and I gather she may come and see you.'

  'That's right,' agreed Amy. She poured the coffee.

  'Any news of the young Scotsman who was being so attentive?' she asked. Her tone was polite, but I detected a hint of mischief in her face.

  Gerard had recovered his composure.

  'I didn't hear anything about him. No doubt there are a number of attentive young Scotsmen. Vanessa's looking very attractive these days. Quite a change of aspect from the time when she was mourning the Chilean.'

  'Bolivian!' said Amy and I together.

  We sipped our coffee, relaxed and happy. A red admiral butterfly flitted decoratively from flower to flower in the herbaceous border, and I remember the pale unhappy Vanessa whose passion for a four-times-married foreigner had blinded her to all summer delights on the first occasion of our meeting. She had spent a week with Amy then, and I don't think I had ever seen my normally resilient friend quite so exhausted.

  'And how's Fairacre?' enquired Gerard. 'What of my friend Mr Willet?'

  I gave him a brief account of village affairs to date, and conversation grew general. It was half-past eleven before he leapt to his feet, protesting that he must be off.

  'I've an aunt living not far from here, and I'm taking her out to lunch. She's eighty-five and a demon for exercise. Think of me at about two-thirty, walking my legs off along some cart track.'

  'Come again,' said Amy.

  'I will,' he promised. 'But no corpses next time, please.

  ***

  That afternoon I broached the subject of my return home to Amy. I had been with her for well over a week, looked after as never before, and felt that I really could not impose upon her much longer.

  'But I love to have you,' she assured me.

  'You're too kind. There are lots of things you must be neglecting, and surely there's a holiday cropping up soon?'

  I remember that she had discussed a visit to Crete earlier in the year. Nothing had been said about it while I had been staying at Bent, and it occurred to me that perhaps the plans had fallen through.

  'That's nearly a fortnight away,' said Amy.

  'You'll probably need to go shopping.'

  'That doesn't mean that you've got to go back to Fairacre.'

  I pointed out that there were a number of matters to attend to at home. There were some school forms to be filled up, and a certain amount of organisation for next term. My domestic arrangements also needed some attention, though no doubt Mrs Pringle's bottoming would be almost finished.

  'I'm mobile now,' I said, stretching out my lumpy ankle. 'Why, I can even dress myself if I keep to button-down-the-front things, and remember to thread the bad arm through the sleeve first!'

  'You're getting above yourself,' Amy smiled. 'I really think you are getting better.'

  She surveyed me with her head on one side.

  'I can see you're really bent on going. Tell you what. Let's drive over tomorrow afternoon and get the place ready, and see if you can manage the stairs and so on. If so, I'll install you the day after.'

  And so it was agreed.

  Amy took up her tapestry and I turned the pages of a magazine.

  The thought of going home excited me. I should never cease to be grateful to my old friend, but I longed to potter about my own home, to get back to my books and my garden, to see the familiar birds on the bird table, and to smell the pinks in my border again. Tibby, too, would welcome the return.

  Beyond Amy's window the rain was falling. Grey veils drifted across the fields, blotting the distant hills from view. It made the drawing-room seem doubly snug.

  'I wonder how long it will be before I can do without this confounded sling,' I mused aloud. 'I can wriggle my fingers quite well. How long does a bone take to mend?'

  Amy looked at me thoughtfully.

  'Weeks at our age, I imagine.'

  'I'm not decrepit, and I don't feel old.'

  'I do now and again,' said Amy, with a vigour that belied her words. 'I find myself behaving like an old lady sometimes. You know, never walking up escalators, and not minding if young things like Vanessa stand up when I enter a room.'

  'I haven't got quite to that stage yet.'

  'But when I start pinning brooches on my hats,' said Amy, resuming her stitching, 'I shall know I'm really old.'

  There was a companionable silence for a while. Outside, the rain grew heavier, and began to patter at the windows.

  'Of course, I think about dying now and again,' I said.

  'Who doesn't?'

>   'What do you do about it?'

  'Well,' said Amy, snipping a thread, 'I make sure I'm wearing respectable corsets – not my comfortable ones with the elastic stretched and speckled with rubber bits – and I pay up outstanding bills and, frankly, there's not much else one can do, is there, dear?'

  'But hope,' I finished for her.

  'But hope,' she echoed.

  She turned her gaze upon the rain-swept view through the window. There had been a dying fall in those last two words.

  It was plain that it was the sadness of living, not of dying, which preoccupied my friend's thoughts.

  And my heart grieved for her.

  The next afternoon we drove from Bent to Fairacre. The rain had ceased, leaving everything fresh and fragrant. The sun shone, striking rainbows from the droplets on the hedge, and in its summer strength drawing steam from the damp roads. Sprays of wild roses arched towards the ground, weighted with the water which trembled in their shell-pink cups, and everywhere the scent of honeysuckle hung upon the air.

  In the lush fields the cattle steamed as they fed, and birds splashed joyously in their wayside baths. Everywhere one looked there was rejoicing in the sunshine after the rain, and my spirits rose accordingly.

  As Fairacre drew nearer I grew happier and happier, until I broke into singing.

  Amy began to laugh.

  'What an incorrigible home-bird you are! You remind me of Timmy Willie.'

  'When he was asked what he did when it rained in the country?' I enquired.

  '"When it rains",' quoted Amy, dodging a fat thrush in the road,'"I sit in my little sandy burrow and shell corn and seeds".'

  '"And when the sun comes out again," ' I finished for her, '"You should see my garden and the flowers – roses and pinks and pansies." '

  'I'm sorry for children who aren't brought up on Beatrix Potter,' said Amy. 'Look! There's St Patrick's spire ahead. You'll be back in your burrow in two shakes.'

  The lane to the school was empty, and we arrived unseen by the neighbours. It was very quiet, the village sunk in the somnolence of early afternoon.