Mrs Fytton's Country Life (43 page)

The word FIRE on the side of the bucket seemed even more inappropriate.

The shivering Dorkin girl rediscovered her lungs. And gave a yell of righteousness that would not have disgraced St Catherine on her wheel. But unlike that good and pious lady, the Dorkin girl looked every bit the fantasy made flesh of any garage mechanic's dream. Fine old linen has a way with wetness in that, when soaked, it will display all its fineness of weave in a clinging transparency.

'Raquel, eat your heart out
’
Mrs Dorkin was heard to mutter, forgetting in the excitement of the visual success that discretion was the better part of mother.

Yes, indeed. Beneath her pink plush Mrs Dorkin stared in satisfaction. At first. But the satisfaction rapidly gave way to an altogether different emotion. Possibly closer to rage. Little about the Dorkin girl's body was left to the imagination and it was a fair guess, from the way the fabric clung like a second skin to her generous contours, that she was not only a very bonny girl in her own right, but that she was a very bonny girl who had been fructiferous in her own right too. Probably around nutting time.

The vicar stared, having lost his voice and his memory regarding where he was, who he was and what his duty. But even he knew a fructiferous female when he saw one. And a vague memory stirred - along with several other parts of his anatomy - that he had seen it all before. But
how?

Mrs Dorkin continued to stare. Old Dr Tichborne did not stare. Exclamations of horror abounded. But no one moved. Angela, in her first act of charity as godmother, picked up the curtain, threw it round the shivering girl's shoulders and led her very quickly indoors.

Behind her a babble of voices indicated there were strong arguments for the ceremonial to conclude. Mrs Dorkin, in particular, was of the view that it should conclude with the girl actually being sent
down
the well and preferably with a bucket tied round her neck.

The vicar opposed (a very relieved vicar opposed, it must be said, for even if what his memory hinted at was true, and even if miracles still happened, the beautiful curves of that belly before him were more than twenty-four hours old), saying that they would conduct a proper ceremony on the morrow, in the church, with the Dimplex radiators on, and all were welcome. 'For your daughter cannot be married in the church
’
he said, 'if she has not been baptized first.'

'But who will she marry, vicar?' asked Mrs Dorkin, all forlorn, fully aware that Old Dr Tichborne might be a bit senile but had attended enough women in an interesting condition to know what was what. The point here was, who was who? And that was that.

The biker boys slipped away into the silence of the shadows and ran on the soft heels of their trainers all the way home. Everybody else, in need of warmth and sustenance, trooped back through the garden into the welcome of Angela Fytton's kitchen, where already the Dorkin girl was sipping a hot ale and eating a ham roll with pickled cabbage and wearing one of Wanda's more Arctic-orientated creations while seated on a chair by the Aga.

Angela looked up and smiled a welcome as they came in. Frankly, if no one else was going to react to the shocking occurrence, she wasn't. The Dorkin girl herself seemed to have a very forgiving nature. Beside her the large candle still burned. She had grabbed it on the way, her new light of innocence, hers by right.

'I told you I wasn't sure what was going to happen, Mrs Perry,' she said. 'But I am glad that you came.'

And then Sammy Lee sidled over, almost shyly, and smiled at Gwen Perry, and Angela was surprised to see that he now sported teeth. He must keep them in his pocket. His voice was oddly tender too. More tender than she had ever heard him, even when addressing his pigs. 'Didn't see your other half in church,' he said to Gwen Perry, and touched her hand.

'You don't see everything, Sam Lee,' she said. But her eyes looked very tender too, Angela observed.

'No Archie?' said Sammy, looking all around him.

'No Archie,' agreed Gwen Perry. Her voice, with its Somerset burr, was soft as old velvet.

Ale was poured. The dark fluid gushed and foamed into the glasses and each - no matter what their other concerns -raised their drink and gave a toast: To the ale and to the coming of spring.' Which, according to Daphne Blunt, was more or less the correct thing to say. Then Dr Tichborne looked into the vicar's eyes and the vicar looked into the Dorkin girl's eyes, and Mrs Dorkin looked into the eyes of all three of them until she nearly went giddy, hoping to instil a sense of propriety or, as she put it to herself, doing right by my Sandra.

Craig Elliott looked into Lucy Elliott's eyes and Lucy Elliott managed to make her eyes look slightly cloudy, as if tinged with a little death. Anja had long since taken the children home. Lucy Elliott thought about Angela Fytton's piano and flexed her fingers. She might even play a little later, if encouraged.

Dave the Bread looked into Wanda's eyes with admiration and she looked into his with admiration, and if they could have done a dive under the kitchen table and given immediate and physical vent to their silent tryst, they certainly would have done so.

Daphne Blunt looked up and around at the curves and lines of the ancient kitchen and she thought, and would have said though nobody asked her, If these walls could speak
...

Angela went over to the answerphone, which was winking. It was the Rudges' message to say they had just broken down and they would not, sadly, be able to make the party after all. At which no one was at all surprised.

'Fill your plates and fill your glasses,' said Angela Fytton. And they did, over and over again. The ham was eaten, with Dave's good bread. And Angela's pickled beetroots and shallots - the ones she had drooled and cooed over as little miracles back in the summer, sweet, dear things - were most savagely devoured. Her preserves were complimented and the pickled eggs, strange things, were pronounced exquisite and who-would-have-thought-it, and also began to disappear. That's nature for you, thought Angela Fytton again, but this time with satisfaction, red in tooth and claw. And as she surveyed her Great Success, she wondered, with a little frisson, how Ian would fit into all this now
...
And she thought, but only for the fleeting glance of a shadow of a mote of a glimmer of a glimpse, that he might not. But
she
did. She looked around her again and smiled with happiness, she did, she did, she did
...

'Getting the hang of it now,' Mrs Perry said to Dave, of his bread. Dave looked slyly at Wanda, who was busy - between bites of her pickled egg - chafing the Dorkin girl's wrists and ankles and backs of knees with her ginger and cinnamon oil.

'Now,' said Wanda, 'you can do this whenever you feel the chill and it's perfectly harmless. And if you feel sick I can make you some ginger pills, which will help. But on no account,
no account -
she wagged her finger at the girl - 'must you take wild yam during your pregnancy.'

The Dorkin girl gave a passing fair impression of one who was willing to be persuaded against.

'Nor vervain, nor wood betony, nor excessive amounts of thyme
...'

The Dorkin girl nodded in wide-eyed accord as her fourth pickled egg went down.

Mrs Dorkin felt obliged, somehow, to take up the duties of barmaid. It was one way of getting as much of the drink inside herself as she wished, without drawing attention to the fact. And she wished a great deal of the stuff to be inside her. She had been cheated of her victory. And she thought she might have known it. Her class would never rise. She looked around for the two spotty lads in their biker jackets. Which one was it, she wondered? She took another drink. It scarcely mattered. Sandra, she thought mournfully, was sunk.

Angela Fytton looked around the room and smiled. Yes, she thought, congratulating herself. Yes, I can stand alone. And she congratulated herself all over again, thinking, You wait until they see my grand finale.

30

Candlemas

I did not have
3
,000
pairs of shoes. I had
1,060
.

imelda marcos

In Claire and Andrew's opinion, one thing was sure. Living down south with parents had got to stop. What with their mother in some remote bit of the country keeping hens and going undeniably crazy and wanting them to go and live with her and go crazy too, and their father up in London acting like a gaoler while his new wife - who had once been sp nice -
also
seeming to have gone crazy, finding the slightest thing - the very slightest thing - they did upsetting. It was doing their heads in. What was a party, for Chrissake? What was a bit of spilt beer? When sweet little Tristan (whom they both agreed that they loved) made a mess, everyone smiled. When they made a mess, the roof blew off. What the bloody hell the solution was, neither of them knew, but they were of the opinion that never mind the parents going mad,
they
would be bananas by the time September came if they didn't do something about it. But what?

And then Claire, her mother's daughter, had an idea. And when she had an idea, no power on earth could stop her putting it into practice there and then, immediately, right away and - if her French GCSE was anything to go by -
tout suite.
Andrew booked the tickets and a hotel, since he had something left on his credit card. Which is why they were in the late train heading north and reading their university prospectuses. Their eyes gleamed. The life of a student looked even better in the reading matter than they had heard it was from their friends.

'Something will happen
’
said Claire firmly. And Andrew agreed. Meanwhile they would just have to sleep on somebody's floor.

The ale was slipping down a treat. Lucy Elliott was requested to play the piano for the assembly and she - after a glass or two - agreed. It was time, Angela Fytton observed, for them all to go into the parlour.

Mrs Dorkin, silently considering the possibility of having another go at the good doctor herself later and who had been very busy and generous in her barmaiding line, refilled everyone's glasses one more time and in they trooped.

'Don't switch on the lights
’
said Angela, as she turned the handle of the door and ushered them in.

All was darkness except for the bright flames from the fire. Craig settled his wife on the piano stool and stood by her side as if by being there he could protect her from all ills. Mrs Angela Fytton lit a taper and, very proudly, and with much ceremony, though she blinked frequently from seeing two of everything, managed to light one after the other of the rush lights pegged about and bedecking the room. The last one to be lit was on the mantelshelf, in the old rush-light holder which the Cleeve End blacksmith had repaired. 'So much for play-acting, Sam
’
she said smugly. Which came out as something like 'Shoshplacting, Sm.'

She blew out the taper, looked around her room very happily and said, 'History is reborn
’
even more smugly. Which came out as something like 'Sisterybor.' She gave Daphne Blunt a happy smile. A very happy smile. Daphne attempted to say something, but for the life of her she could not quite form the words. She did not, in fairness, look quite as happy as her friend.

'The celebration of the Virgin's Lustration
’
said Angela Fytton, slurring but game, and gesturing around the room at the little lights. 'From the pagans
...'
Somebody let out a delicate little belch and Dave the Bread hiccuped. Angela took this to be agreement. Fit in? Of course she did. She did, she
did
...
And Ian would too. Thus does well-brewed beer warm the mind.

Then Lucy Elliott began to play Chopin, very, very beautifully.

Old Dr Tichborne, seated in a padded velvet chair, smiled beatifically at the music and scarcely saw that his Crispin had, so to speak, crossed the floor. Who would have thought that little Lucy Elliott could play so handsomely? What did he, old as he was, care for guitars and hand-clapping when he could listen to such as this in his house for ever more and love and yearn from afar? A decision had been reached. He could play chess with the Reverend whenever he wanted (and without benefit of mulberry wine): a hand could be brushed against a hand, a smile smiled into eyes that would smile back - who needed more than this when all his life he had never had so much? No, he said to himself, looking out of the window and up at the moonlit Mump and its stark green curve. It wasn't everything by a long chalk. Whatever 'it' was. He thought, somewhat thankfully, that he would never know now. Best way really.