(11/20) Farther Afield (7 page)

I
WOKE
next morning in jubilant spirits. Through the bedroom window I could see two men examining the standing corn. No doubt the farmer was hoping to start cutting later in the day when the dew had vanished. I should not be there to see it, I thought happily.

The harvest fields of Bent would be far distant. I should be watching Mr Roberts, our local farmer, trundling the combine round our Fairacre fields. But that would be a week or so later, for our uplands are colder than the southward slopes of Amy's countryside, and all our crops are a little later.

Amy and I lingered over our coffee cups. I was looking hopefully among the newspaper columns for some crumb of cheer among the warfare, murders, rapes and attacks upon old men and women for any small change they might have had upon them, without – as usual – much success. Amy was busy with her letters.

She had left until last a bulky envelope addressed in James's unmistakable hand. She slit it open, her face grave, and gave the pages her close attention. I refilled her coffee cup and my own, in the silence, and turned to an absorbing account of a woman with nine children and a tenth on the way, who had struck her husband over the head with a handy frying pan, after some little difference about methods of birth control.

She was reported as saying that 'he didn't like interfering with. Nature,' and I was glad to see that her solicitor was putting up a spirited defence. I wished her luck. Really, marriage was no bed of roses for some women, I thought, congratulating myself, yet again, on my single state.

The rustling of paper brought me back to the present. Amy was stuffing the letter back into the envelope. Her mouth was set grimly, and I looked hastily at the newspaper again.

I was conscious that Amy was staring blindly across the cornfields. I finished my coffee and rose.

'If you'll excuse me,' I said, 'I'll go and finish packing.'

There was no reply from Amy. Still as a statue, she stared stonily before her, as I crept away.

An hour or so later, we packed up the car together. Amy seemed to have recovered her good humour, and we laughed about the amount of luggage I seemed to have accumulated.

Tibby's basket took up a goodly part of the back seat. An old mackintosh had been folded and placed strategically beneath it. We had had trouble before, and were determined to prevent Amy's lovely car 'smelling like a civet's paradise', to quote Mr Willet, referring to the poet Aloysius Stone's noisome house long ago.

Two cases, a pile of books, a bulky dressing gown and a basket of vegetables and flowers from Amy's garden, filled the rest of the back seat and the boot, and we still had a box of groceries to collect from Bent's village stores.

'Anyone would think we were off for a fortnight's holiday,' observed Amy, surveying the luggage.

'Well, you will be soon,' I said.

Amy's smile vanished, and I cursed myself for clumsiness.

'Let's hope so,' she said soberly.

I edged myself into the passenger seat while Amy returned to the house to lock up. How I wished I could help her! She had been so good to me, so completely selfless and welcoming, that it was doubly hard to see her unhappy.

But nothing could be done if she preferred to keep her troubles to herself. I respected her reticence. Too often I have been the unwilling recipient of confidences, knowing full well that, later, the impulsive babbler would regret her disclosures as much as I regretted hearing them. 'Least said, soonest mended', is an old adage which reflects much wisdom. I could only admire Amy's stoicism, and hope that one day, somehow, I should be able to help her.

We set off for Fairacre, stopping only once to pick up the groceries. Our pace was sedate, for the faster we went the shriller grew Tibby's wails of protest from the wicker basket. Even at thirty-five miles an hour the noise was ear-splitting.

'I meant to have told you,' shouted Amy above the racket, 'that I had a letter from Vanessa this morning. She's coming down for a day next week. She's on holiday, I gather.'

'Bring her over if she can spare the time,' I shouted back.

Amy nodded.

'Funny thing about Gerard, wasn't it?' she said at last. 'Do you smell a romance?'

'What? Between Gerard and Vanessa?'

'Yes. I thought he looked remarkably like a cat that has got at the cream when he spoke of her.'

I digested this unwillingly.

'No, I don't think so,' I said finally. 'He's years older.'

'A mature man,' began Amy, in what I recognised as her experienced-woman-of-the-world voice, 'is often
exactly
what a young thing like Vanessa
needs.
She probably knows this subconsciously. She's very intelligent really underneath all that dreadful clothing and flowing hair. I shall do my best to encourage it.'

I began to feel alarmed for both innocent parties. Amy, on match-making bent, has a flinty ruthlessness, as I know to my cost. On this occasion, however, I decided to keep silent.

An ominous pattering sound, as of water upon newspaper, distracted our attention from Vanessa and Gerard, and directed it upon Tibby.

'Thank God for the mackintosh!' exclaimed Amy, accelerating slightly.

We drew up with a flourish at the school house, and let the cat escape into the kitchen, where she stalked about, sniffing at the unusual cleanliness with much the same expression of amazement which Amy and I had worn.

We unpacked, and Amy insisted on putting a hot water bottle into my bed, despite the bright sunshine. We made coffee, and I asked Amy to stay to lunch.

'Scrambled egg,' I said. 'I can whip up eggs with my left hand beautifully.'

'I mustn't, my dear,' she said rising. 'James comes home tonight, and there's a lot to do.'

'Then I won't keep you,' I said, and went on to try and thank her once again for all she had done. She brushed my efforts aside.

'It was good to have company,' she said.

'Well, you'll have James now.'

'Only for a day or so. We've a lot to discuss before the holiday. Some of it, I fear, not very agreeable.'

She climbed into the car and waved goodbye, leaving me to savour her last sentence.

It was, I discovered later, the biggest understatement of Amy's life.

During the afternoon, Mrs Pringle called.

I invited her in, and thanked her from my heart for all she had done.

'The house,' I told her, 'is absolutely transfigured. You must have spent hours here.'

A rare smile curved Mrs Pringle's lips. Her mouth normally turns down, giving her a somewhat reptilian look. Turned upwards, it had the strange effect as if a frog had smiled.

'Well, it needed it,' said Mrs Pringle. 'What I found in them chair covers when I pulled them out is nobody's business. Pencils, knitting needles, nuts, bits of paper, and there was even a boiled sweet.'

'No!' I cried. 'What, all sticky?'

Slattern though I am, I could not believe that a sucked sweet would turn up in the debris.

'Luckily it was wrapped in a bit of cellophane,' conceded Mrs Pringle. 'But it is not what anyone'd have found when Mrs Hope was here.'

'Have a cup of tea?' I asked, changing the subject abruptly. Mrs Hope's example leads to dangerous ground. Over the tea cups, Mrs Pringle brought me up to date with village news. The Scouts were having a mammoth jumble sale. (All our village jumble sales are 'mammoth'). The Caxley bus was now an hour earlier on market day, and a dratted nuisance everybody found it. The new people at Tyler's Row had bought a puppy, and Mr Mawne had seen a pair of waxworks in the garden.

I must admit that this last snippet of news took me aback, until I remembered that Henry Mawne's hobby is ornithology and Mrs Pringle was probably referring to waxwings.

'I thought they came in the winter,' I hazarded.

'Maybe they do,' agreed Mrs Pringle. 'But that garden of the Mawnes is always perishing cold. It may have confused the waxworks.'

Privately, I thought that they were not the only ones to be confused, and we let the matter drop.

'While your arm's mending,' said Mrs Pringle, 'I'll be in each morning for an hour.' I thanked her.

She rose to go, looking with pride at the tidiness around her.

'Don't want to see this slide back into the usual mess,' she said, echoing Amy, and departed.

The next two or three days passed pleasurably, and I gloried in my growing accomplishments. I found that I could lift my right arm, if I held it at exactly the correct angle, and even began to comb the hair on my
occiput
with my right hand. I became quite nimble at mounting and descending the stairs, and each small triumph cheered me greatly.

One morning Amy rang me.

'Vanessa is with me. May we come over?'

I expressed my delight.

'And another thing,' said Amy, and stopped.

'Yes?'

'Perhaps I should wait until I see you.'

It was most unlike Amy to shilly-shally like this.

'What's it about?'

'Crete.'

'Crete? I don't know a thing about it! Do you want to borrow a map or something?'

'No. I want you to consider visiting it with me, as my guest, of course.'

I was struck dumb.

'Are you still there?'

'Partially.'

'Well, think about it. James can't come, but wants me to go ahead with the holiday. We'll talk about it later.'

There was a click and the line went dead.

Dazed by this thunderbolt, I wandered vaguely through the open French window, caught my poor arm on the latch and, cursing, returned to earth again.

The two arrived soon after lunch, and in the meantime I had turned over this truly wonderful invitation in my mind. Of course, I should love to go, and so much better was I, that my disabilities would not hold up proceedings in any way. We should be back several days before term began. Mrs Pringle, no doubt, would be only too glad to have charge of the house again, and the local kennels would look after Tibby—not, of course, to the cat's complete satisfaction—but perfectly well.

On the other hand, I had accepted so much from Amy already that I hardly liked to take an expensive holiday as well. My bank balance would certainly not stand the expense of paying my share, which would be the right tiling to do, and so I felt that I really should refuse, sad though it was.

It was good to see Vanessa again. She was dressed in a white trouser suit with a scarlet blouse, unbuttoned to the waist, under which she wore nothing. I was rather perplexed about this. Did she know that she was unbuttoned? Should she be told? I decided to say nothing, but felt rather relieved that no men were in the party.

On her feet were two bright red shoes, so clumsy and stubtoed that they might have been football boots, and in her hand was a minute bag of silver mesh of the kind that my grandmother carried at evening parties.

But her long hair was as lustrous as ever, and her looks much improved since the overthrow of the Bolivian Roderick who had so fascinated the poor child when last she was in Fairacre.

On her first visit to the school house she had said practically nothing. Today she rattled on, with much animation, about Scotland and her work at the hotel.

'And you saw Gerard?' I could not resist saying.

Her face lit up.

'Wasn't it lucky? He happened to be nearby. I can't tell you how lovely it was to see him again. We write sometimes, but it's not the same thing as meeting.'

She clapped a hand to her brow, and looked anxiously at Amy.

'The book! Did we bring it?'

'In the car,' said Amy. 'It's for Mr Willet,' she explained. 'Gerard asked Vanessa if she would deliver it as he knew we were coming to Fairacre.'

'I'll walk down,' said Vanessa, scrambling to her feet. She surveyed the red football boots proudly. 'These are real walking shoes, the girl in the shop told me. But, of course, I mustn't get them wet.'

'Why not?' I asked. 'Surely shoes are worn for the purpose of keeping the feet dry.'

'Not these days,' Vanessa assured me pityingly. 'That's a very old-fashioned idea. Today the shoes have a label on saying that they mustn't be used in the wet.'

She smiled upon me kindly, and went off for the book.

Now that we were alone, Amy turned directly to the subject which was uppermost in our minds.

'Well? What do you think? Would you like to see Crete?'

'I'd love to –,' I began.

'It won't be quite as lovely as it was when I first saw it one April. It's bound to be drier and hotter, but the air in the mountains is delicious, and there is plenty of shade at the hotel.'

'But, Amy,' I persisted. 'I really can't accept a holiday like this.'

'Why not, for heaven's sake? It's all paid for and arranged. You'd simply be taking over the plane seat and James's bed and board. Perfectly straightforward.'

'But I can't afford it, my dear.'

'No one wants you to afford it. I told you that, so put that out of your dear, upright, puritanical mind. I should be most grateful for your company. It would be a kindness from
you
to
me.
Not the other way round.'

'You've done so much already,' I said, weakening.

'Right,' said Amy briskly. 'Return the compliment, and help me out.'

She jumped up suddenly and went to the window. Her back towards me, she spoke quickly.

'Things are very rough between James and me at the moment. I'm quite used to seeing him make a minor ass of himself over a pretty face, now and again, but this time I'm frightened. He's deadly serious about some young thing about Vanessa's age. I've never seen him so determined, so ruthless -.'

Her voice broke, and I moved swiftly to comfort her. She shook her head violently.

'Don't be kind to me, or sympathise, or I shall sob my heart out, and have eyes like red gooseberries.'

She fought for control, and then continued.

'He wants me to give him a divorce. I've refused to consider such a step, until we've both had time to think things over. We shall stay apart for a few weeks, and he wants me to go to Crete as arranged and have a break. Apart from this terrifying singleness of purpose about the girl, he's as considerate as ever. It makes it all the more incredible.'