Mrs Fytton's Country Life (30 page)

'Not the trip,' she snapped, in a way she had never snapped before. 'Moneypenny
’

By his first wedding anniversary, it occurred to Ian Fytton that the honeymoon was, indeed, all over.

1
8

November

Clothing was manufactured largely by female labour. Linen sheets, pillow covers, bed hangings, cushions, napkins and tablecloths represented the accumulated labour of generations of women, and, if handled carefully, could be passed on from one generation to another.

sara mendelsohn and patricia crawford,

Women in Early Modern

England Pray, good people, be civil. I am the
Protestant
whore.

nell gwynn, to a hostile crowd that mistook her for the catholic duchess of portland

It rained, as Sam Lee had predicted, for days. And Angela's back did not respond well in the dampness. How, wondered Angela, had Tess Durbeyfield dug for turnips all day long and not died of it? Then she remembered. Tess Durbeyfield more or less did. It occurred to her that she was not getting any younger and that these were the very dreadful givers-away of age . . .
twinges.
She copied out Maria Brydges's recipe, put on her waterproofs and went squelching over to ask Wanda about the lavender back-rub. Sammy might not approve of Wanda, for whatever reason, but she did.

She rapped at the knocker of Tally-Ho Cottage confidently. At least she had real business to attend to. Not time-wasting. And she would surely not be kept on the doorstep in this weather.

Wanda opened the door. Just a crack. 'Come on, Wanda,' she said, smiling gamely. 'Let me in. I know all about your secrets.' Wanda, she felt, was a woman not blessed with a profound sense of humour. Indeed, just for a moment she looked as if she might topple over with misery. Not one for badinage, then, thought Angela. She changed to a suitable gravitas and followed her into the kitchen of Tally-Ho Cottage very meekly, as if she was treading on holy ground. A loom, vats of colour, drying garments, the smell of cinnamon, assorted coloured candles in the making. A hive of decent industry, yet picturesque as a stage set.

She handed Wanda the recipe.

'I wondered if you could make this up for me?'

Wanda squeaked something about being very busy.

'I can see that,' said Angela, trying to look round her hostess, who seemed determined she should not. 'But I'd be really grateful. Next year, of course, I shall have my own herb beds, but in the meantime
...'

Wanda was staring at the paper. If she had looked in low spirits before, she was now looking seriously miserable.

Angela gave her another smile to buck her up. But Wanda did not buck up.

Why was this?

This was because Wanda was thinking, What the fuck is a drachm? And, I have no scruples
...

'It was all that digging that brought on the back. Still - no reward without effort . . .' Angela touched one of the garments hanging to dry. 'You are clever
’
she said. 'And it must feel
very
rewarding.'

Wanda continued to stand there looking miserably mesmerized. Angela had clearly disturbed her working day.

'Sorry
’
she said.
‘I’ll
be off.'

Wanda opened the door with, in Angela's opinion, unflattering alacrity. It reminded her of the worst of the west London women. She stood on the step, rebuttoning her waterproofs and looking out at the soggy, autumnal healer's garden. She had an idea.

'Can I count on you next spring for some thinnings from your garden and a root or two, and some strikes of this and that? I'm beginning to get the hang of herbs and decoctions and the whole process. Maybe we could work together
...'

She was astonished to see the normally quite flushed Wanda go pale.

'Why?'she asked.

'Well
’
said Angela, 'I'm learning fast.'

Wanda went even paler. Odd. Perhaps it was not done to drain the energy from another's source?

'You never know
’
said Angela cajolingly,
‘I
might even catch you up on the weaving.'

Pale was pale, but this was ridiculous. Wanc^a remained mute. Very white, very mute.

'I'll call back for the rub, shall I?' said Angela.

Wanda nodded. 'Just a minute
’
she said, a trifle shiftily. And she pointed at the recipe. 'Have you got any of this stuff in your garden? Mine's all gone.'

Drachm? thought Angela, later.
Drachm?

On the way back she saw the Rudges' gardener collecting up leaves and envied them having staff.

She waved at the vicar and Mrs Dorkin and her daughter, who were just going up the Tichbornes' path, probably to discuss the famous baptism.

She called to Daphne, who was just arriving at St Hilary's and who was so intent that she did not hear her.

She suggested to Craig Elliott, who panted to catch up with her, that
he
should choose the au pair himself next time.

And Sammy Lee came along the road with four very muddy pigs, which were, he said when she asked, going on their
holidays.

And she arrived home, soaked but happy, beginning to feel that she understood the place now and that she really belonged.

Eventually, after about a week, and late in the evening, the rain stopped for a while and a bright moon lit up the garden. Despite the chill, she put on her
Wellingtons
and went out for a breath of air. It had been a strange day - not least because of a telephone call from her children. The first unsolicited communication between them. Usually she rang and they were either out or monosyllabic. This conversation was quite different. It was just as if nothing had happened between them. Andrew was first.

'Have you got my Fila sweater?' was his first question. 'Can I have my allowance and backdated?' was the second.

No was the answer to both.

Then Claire came on. Asking the same.

'Why isn't your father paying it?' she asked.

'Because he's paying for us to go to Australia.'

Her heart turned over. 'When?'

'Just after Christmas. He wanted us to go before but we're not budging. Have you got my green Wonderbra?'

'No' said Angela, putting aside the strange picture of herself wandering the lanes of Somerset in a laddish sporty jumper beneath which up-thrust a mighty girlish pair of tits. 'Will you two come down and see me for Christmas?'

'Can't,' said Claire. 'We might get snowed in and miss the flight.'

'You're being silly,' said Angela.

'I'm not,' said Claire laconically. 'That's what Binnie says. We're not to budge until we're on that plane.'

'Then I'll have to come up and see you. When I get back from Buenos Aires.'

'We're really broke,' said Andrew, as unswerving as if she had said back from Bognor. 'Why?'

He mumbled. She heard the words 'party' and 'Binnie' and 'bit of a mess'. And she knew. Good, she thought.
Good.

So - a little evening air to cool the brain. She closed in the hens and then slithered up to the old orchard, where the bare trees huddled. Goodbye and keep cold, as the poet said. It could equally apply to her children. If they went to sunny Australia then her plan would fail.

Damn, damn, damn. Well, it was out of her hands. She would just have to hope for a miracle.

After a quick visit to the hives to check they had not gone the way of Noah, she told the bees. Maybe they could do something. Then she visited the two bare, dug-over circles. Spaces waiting for the artist's brush, she thought. At least if her plan failed she had all this. It was a comfort. Though nothing quite comforted the bruised spot that reminded her, now and then, that her husband resided elsewhere. If her plan failed she did not know what she would do. Take comfort, she supposed. Take comfort.

The windows of the kitchen glowed warm, the mulberry tree, which had fed the birds so well, soughed and tapped and waved its sexy arms, the hens slept, and indoors the hops dried. She was very,
very
happy here. Odd under the circumstances. It seemed that just the sight of her labours cheered her quite remarkably. She clucked an irritated cluck, not unlike her hens, and bent down to pick up that same wrapper that had whirled away so elusively over the Tichborne garden all those days ago. She read: 'Harvest Grain Baps. With added bran. The way you like 'em.' Curling her lip, she tutted once more. It must have come from those Travellers. Honestly, she thought, people just did not deserve the freedom of the countryside. Harvest Grain Baps were the sort of soft-food item they might buy. Whereas everyone else around here who knew what was what used Dave the Bread.

She took one more critical look at the bare soil and noticed a large lump. How had a lump appeared when she had dug it to the texture of Christmas pud? She went over to kick it in with her heel, but it was hard. She bent down. The earth was wet and cold and the lump slithered in her fingers. It was less of a lump, more a long lumpish rectangle. She picked it up gingerly - it did not feel like a dead rat, but it could be. It was uneven and rough to her touch, surrounded by some kind of material, as if someone had wrapped something up in newspaper. She carried it in and put it under the tap. As the water ran, some of the outer wrapping fell away. Sacking or hessian of some kind. Oily to the touch. She dried it with kitchen towel and took it back to the table. Very gradually she peeled away the covering. And the lump revealed itself to not be a lump at all but a long, thin, angular object, much rusted.

As the last piece of wrapping fell away what looked like three rusty knitting needles fell out. The rest of the find was shaped like a pair of giant tweezers or small tongs. The rust clung to the surfaces but the shape was well defined: three pronged legs - or, if inverted, arms - and a scissor-like top. About ten inches long. Whatever all of these objects were, they had been carefully wrapped before being thrown away.

Odd. She stared at them. Incomprehensible.

Through the window she could see the dim light of the church. If she found these pieces incomprehensible, there was someone who would not. She went back out into the night. This, she felt, might be an important find. Perhaps some ritual object. Maybe even Roman. She ran towards St Hilary's.

Daphne's Afghan nose went up.
‘I’ll
be there as soon as I've put this lot away.'

Good, she said excitedly.
Good.
And, running back, she could only think, Mrs Fytton, draped becomingly across her Celtic well, holds her important Roman discoveries in her hand
...

She waited at the table, touching the finds, feeling the sense of a thousand years beneath her fingertips.

'Well?' she asked, as the Afghan nose came twitching round the door. 'Is it Roman?'

'Roman?' Daphne smiled as she scrutinized the angular object carefully. 'Oh, nothing like that old - a hundred years, maybe two hundred, somewhere in between probably. It's difficult to date because they were still used at the turn of this century. Maybe even later. Where did you find them?'

Angela told her.

Daphne nodded and touched the discarded outer wrappings.

'They've been very well preserved. This was probably oiled hemp they were wrapped in. And these are interesting too.' She held up the rusty knitting needles.

Angela felt disappointed. Deeply disappointed.
‘I
thought it might be important
’
she said.

Daphne looked indignant. 'Important? Of course it's important. It's a bit of history. Women's history.'

Angela looked at it. A terrible feeling of faintness came over her and the muscles of her feminine parts shrank. 'It's not to do with childbirth, is it?'

Daphne laughed. 'God, no. This is a rush-light holder. In poorer homes people made their candles from rushes dipped in mutton fat. Women and children gathered the rushes, which were stripped to their pith, then dipped, allowed to harden and dipped again and again. They were held in holders like this and lit.' She balanced it on its tripod legs. 'Only the well off could afford proper candles.'