Mad Joy (22 page)

The following morning the evacuees came running into the kitchen shouting.

‘There’s someone in the orchard nicking apples! We seen him!’ panted Donald. ‘I shouted at him and told him to dear off!’

‘No you didn’t!’ said his sister, looking at him incredulously. ‘You ran away.’

‘Well … I sort of …’

I was already heading for the orchard, running as fast as I could, potato peeler still in hand. The orchard was still swollen with leaves, every stubby tree puffed out in green and heavy with fruit. It made visibility difficult, but as I dodged between the low branches I heard a rustling up ahead at the far end near the fence.

‘Wait!’ I shouted. Tripping and skidding on windfalls, I soon spotted a small boy scrambling to his feet. ‘Wait a moment! Please!’

He turned tail and belted off towards the gate, and I made ground as he stumbled over it. I could almost have reached out my arm and touched him as I said, ‘Take whatever you need! It’s all right.’

At this the boy stopped and turned for a moment. His
pullover was comically bulging in all directions with a dozen or so apples and he held it in at the waist with both hands. His hair was scruffy, his knees grubby and scabbed, and his face no better, but for the briefest of moments his eyes looked so directly into mine that I froze like a hare. What did he see? He seemed to be assessing me, a mixture of wariness, curiosity and control. They were Nipper’s eyes. It was difficult to know which one of us was the more astonished.

‘Okay?’ I said, when I got my breath back. ‘Whatever you need.’

It was the briefest of nods, and he was off, tearing over the field like a deer – like his father before him. I watched him, but couldn’t see where he disappeared. They were back then, the gypsies, and still going strong. I allowed myself the faintest smile as I retraced my steps, but then had to deal with Mr Rollins and the children approaching with rakes and pitchforks.

Unaware of the weight of my own sense of guilt, I threw myself into the war effort and the household with even more gusto than before. That autumn I collected sackfuls of rose hips with the children (the Ministry of Health were offering two shillings for every fourteen pounds), stinging nettles and comfrey leaves.

Despite the damp and the cold and the dreariness, I used to love the surprises in my pockets. A bright red leaf maybe (placed there with the unreasonable expectation that it would remain flat), stones chosen for their smoothness or colour or some other special quality known only to my children, old conkers, teasels, whole dandelion heads, twigs in shapes which – for a few brief seconds – had seemed exceptional, all these spoils I would turn out at the end of the day. And although they were limp or torn or crushed or dried up and entirely forgotten by their hitherto earnest collectors, something of the first
childish pleasure on finding them remained in them, and I held them in my palms like tangible moments of joy.

Gracie had already found a new lease of life bottling fruit and making jam. She had become so keen in the WVS that she could now turn out perfect pies for England. Between us, we made every kind of jam and chutney possible with English fruits, and we held enormous jam-making sessions at the house with over twenty women sitting around the great kitchen table.

Howard had never seen anything like it. He was astonished and delighted at the new uses his home was being put to, and at the unexpected visitors that appeared busily working around every corner. But although necessity changed all our habits, he was bewildered, as the weather turned bitterly cold, when I took all the children out collecting cowpats for fuel.

I had grown very fond of Howard but, to be honest, every time I saw him I had to fight off a little frustration. I couldn’t understand why, after such a mutual explosion of attraction between himself and Gracie, he had managed to stay so aloof for so long. Although she never showed it, I knew it must hurt her deeply. I remembered the way she had patted her hair in front of the mirror that day we first came up to Buckleigh House together. What was he playing at? Was he so attached to tradition that he couldn’t divorce his loathsome wife and marry Gracie? Could he not allow himself a little flirtation? A kiss? A wink? He was civil enough to her; they were relaxed in each other’s company and smiled a lot. But I wondered how she could bear it.

That winter we had very little coal, and on Gracie’s
suggestion
I went down to her old house with the boys, Johnny and Donald, armed with a sack. There was only an inch or two of coal left in the coal-shed. It looked more but I saw that the few coals had been propped up by something else, making it look deeper than it was. After a bit of scrabbling around Johnny fished out a filthy bag and opened it. ‘Phwoar – some smelly
old rags.’ And I saw once again the cream silk dress and the green velvet one, along with the two others Celia had added.

They were mildewed of course. Gracie laughed when I told her the story behind them, but insisted we should wash them. I wanted to throw them out, to get rid of all traces of Celia, and a time when I had betrayed my friends. They were all beyond repair, but the silk one had a few patches of good material in it which I offered to Gracie for her embroidery. I think Gracie could see how much poison I saw in those dresses with their grey rashes of mildew. She knew instinctively how to stop them hurting me.

‘You should make something out of it,’ she said.

So I did. I made a pair of silk cami-knickers for Mo and sent them to her billet. Gracie always had good ideas.

But that wasn’t the end of it. She unpicked a thread of gold – one I hadn’t seen – running through the mildewed border of a dress, and she embroidered a cushion with it. The cushion was stuffed with the shredded silk and embellished with rosebuds: the emerald buttons salvaged from the velvet dress. Then she had found a fine thread of crimson from the tartan pattern of another mouldy dress and used it to embroider the tips of emerging rose petals.

‘You have to look carefully for the good bits,’ she said. Anyone else would have thrown them all away.

As the evenings grew lighter, there was talk everywhere of the war ending soon. On clear nights I took Andrew and Jill with me to the paddock and lay with them snuggled together under blankets. The stars were never out, and we would find pictures in clouds: ducks, sheep, Mr Rollins, dragons, swans, a sad lady, an eagle, a big boot. Once Andrew saw a woman holding a child’s hand. It took a while for me to see it too, but it was observant of him, and I was proud. Then we watched as the breeze made the child’s arm longer and longer, and Andrew chuckled until they both melted into other shapes, and the impossibly long arm disintegrated at last into thin air.

Mrs Bubb and Gracie said they would catch a death of cold, but I wanted my children to know the earth I knew, and I wanted them with me. I wanted them with me until the blackbird sang his last fluted note and we were enveloped in the loamy smell of dew.

In the following spring, the May of 1945, most people were preoccupied with the end of the war. But our household had a different drama to deal with, one which would make me reassess everything we’d been fighting for.

I awoke very early one morning – before any of the children – to the sound of voices in the kitchen. I dressed and opened the curtains to see a strange car pulled up on the drive outside. It was open-roofed and flashy, and the moment I saw it I felt uneasy.

As I approached the kitchen I could hear Howard’s voice slightly raised and sounding agitated. The other voice was a woman’s. I recognized it straight away.

‘Celia …’

She was sitting in a chair at the huge table, with one arm hanging loosely over the back of it. She still had her hat on: an emerald green affair set forward on her head, so that she had to raise her chin slightly to see out. She wore a shapely suit in the same vibrant colour, except for a ginger fox fur which she fondled with her free hand.

‘Joy!’ The chin went up, and she seemed to be peering down her nose. ‘Well, look at you! As radiant as ever!’ She adjusted herself in the chair but did not get up, so I went over and sat at
the table with her, aware how I must look in my working corduroys and no make-up.

‘This is a surprise!’ I said, feeling at a sudden disadvantage, as I always did when Celia was around.

‘Isn’t it? I expect you thought you’d seen the back of me.’

She said it to the fox fur and to her own white bejewelled hand.

‘I was just going to say how lovely it is to see you.’ I tried to beam at her, but she wasn’t looking. ‘Have you eaten? What would you like?’

‘I’m doing her scrambled egg,’ said Howard from the stove. ‘Would you care to join us?’ He attempted a little chef’s flourish, and I was grateful to him.

‘Oh, yes! Yes, please. That’s so kind.’

‘I see you’ve certainly made some changes around here,’ said Celia, her eyes meeting mine at last, and with an undoubtable challenge in them. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen Howard
cooking
before.’

‘It’s the war, not Joy,’ said Howard, rescuing me again. ‘We’ve all had to muck in.’

‘What about Mrs Bubb? She’s still here, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, and so are two evacuees, Mrs Bubb’s son, pigs, a cow, a horse … she can’t do it all for us.’

‘I see.’

Howard placed a plate of scrambled egg on toast in front of each of us, then sat down as well. ‘Joy cooks too, don’t you, Joy?’

‘Oh … very ordinary things … inedible mostly!’

‘Delicious mostly!’ said Howard, winking at me.

‘Delicious – of course!’ said Celia, with an edge of bitterness so slight I tried to pretend it hadn’t been there.

Already she was filling me with hurt and panic and a desperate desire to push my scrambled egg into her face. No, wait! This was Celia. She had been ill, and I hadn’t been
to see her. She was probably still unhappy. James would want me to be lenient.

‘Celia, you look quite lovely. How have you been?’

She finished chewing a morsel of toast and said, ‘Actually, I was just saying to Howard, I’ve not been well for years.’

‘I’m sorry—’

‘Only the usual thing. Anxiety and so on. So anyway, what I
also
told Howard was that I’ve booked myself into the local nuthouse for a few days for some treatment.’

‘Treatment? Nuthouse?’

Celia laughed. She showed all her teeth under her bright lipstick, and looked thoroughly pleased with herself. ‘Isn’t it a
hoot
? I might even have electric shock treatment or something, although I’m not terribly keen on that idea.’

‘Oh, Celia!’

‘It’s all voluntary. I’m not a registered loon or anything! I must say, it’s such fun being mad! You can do anything you like and get away with it!’ Her tone was unconvincing and slightly hysterical, and there was that hint of volatility that I realized had always made Celia so alluring. ‘I shall have to be careful, though,’ she said, delicately balancing some egg on the tip of her fork, ‘I don’t want to end up like that friend of yours … what’s-his-name? … Philip.’

‘How do you know Philip?’

‘My friend Beatrice worked at the same airfield as him in Sussex.’

‘Oh, I didn’t know. She wasn’t hurt, then?’

‘Hurt? No – in fact she’s left now – expecting her first.’

Howard was looking uneasy, and tried to talk about the delicious egg, but his uneasiness only made me more curious.

‘What do you mean, “end up” like him? He wasn’t mad, you know.’

‘Well, maybe not. But let’s face it, you’re not usually
totally
sane when you commit suicide, are you?’

I dropped a piece of toast and it fell raspberry-jam-side down on the table. I sat staring at it for a moment, with the strange feeling that it had hurled itself face down to hurt me. ‘He was killed in a bomb blast. She must’ve known some other Philip.’

‘Oh no, it
was
the one. I remember because James told me … Oh no! I wasn’t supposed to tell you, was I?’ She showed no contrition whatsoever, merely rolled her eyes and feigned a self-mocking half-smile. ‘Me and my big mouth!’

Howard sighed and closed his eyes. But she simply shrugged. ‘I’m sorry. He must’ve been a pretty close friend, then, if James and Howard thought it would upset you. An old flame, maybe?’

‘No. Not at all. We weren’t … close.’ I piled my used cutlery on to my plate along with my saucer, empty teacup and the wasted toast which left a sticky red mess between us on the table. ‘Well … do you want to stay here? It’s a bit of a squash at the moment. But you’re welcome as long as you like.’

She raised her eyebrows at me. ‘Are you inviting me to stay in my own house?’

‘Celia …’ Howard looked uncomfortable. ‘You’re always welcome here, you know that.’

‘Am I? Am I? Oh, I’m always welcome in my home – I’m so
glad
. I mean, I turn my back for one moment and suddenly you have a new daughter, a daughter who cooks, a daughter who gets
you
to cook, who transforms the grounds into a market garden, who turns the house into some sort of hotel for waifs and strays, a daughter who has two children – what are they?
Heirs
to the Buckleigh estate?’

‘Celia, please—’

‘Oh, stop it, Howard. You’re spoiling my breakfast.’

‘But you left of your own accord. I thought you’d got married to someone.’

‘I
have
. I
have
married someone: Larry Ravenhill.’

‘Oh, what’s he like?’ I tried to seem interested, but I could
hear how silly and eager I sounded to her. Of course I didn’t need her to tell me what he was like. I could picture him quite clearly with his hundred-acre estate, his party-going,
horse-gambling
, gin-swilling friends called Miles and Giles, an
eccentric
mother with small dogs named after Greek gods, endless sisters named after Greek goddesses, a younger brother called Ravenhill Two, and a manner of speaking without moving his lips.

‘He’s absolutely
loaded
.’ She waggled her fingers to display the rocks. ‘Larry. Two houses, one swimming pool and a prize-winning racehorse
and
his father has a handy little villa in
Juan-les
-Pins when the war is over.’

I thought she was going to tell me the entirety of his material possessions. ‘Any children?’

‘No.’ She pursed her lips. Then she smiled unconvincingly. ‘What would I do with children? Tell me about yours. I suppose you have boys.’

‘A boy – Andrew, and a girl, Jill.’

‘A boy
and
a girl!’ She affected an overly pleased-on-
my-behalf
tone. ‘And how old are
Andrew
and
Jill
?’ She said it as if they were names so plebeian she hardly knew how to
pronounce
them.

‘Andrew’s four and Jill’s one. She’ll be two in September.’

‘Aha! So Andrew is the son and heir! Does Jill mind?’ She put her fork down with a clatter. ‘Eldest sons! They have it all, don’t they? I expect he’s very special, isn’t he?
Andrew
.’

I didn’t want to speak any more. I looked back at her and willed her to look me in the eye. But Howard intervened.

‘Celia, I don’t know what all this is about. I thought you
wanted
to live away. You said you’d married someone wealthy, that you never wanted to come back.’

‘That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’

‘I want you to be happy.’ She leaned back in her chair, but Howard wasn’t giving up. ‘And what’s all this son-and-heir
business? I’ve never cut you out of my will. Half of everything I have is yours.’

‘And the other half goes to the ragamuffin boy!’

‘It’ll be divided equally between you and James.’

‘Why does he get
anything
? You
adopted
him.’

‘Like I adopted you.’

There was a silence. Howard swallowed hard. Celia flared her nostrils and her mouth started to wobble and look very fragile.

‘But it’s James and …
her
who get the house, isn’t it?’ She gestured to me with a flap of her hand. ‘They’re the ones who get to live here like Lord and Lady Muck with their son-
and-heir
! And then,
he
’
ll
get the house, this little …
Andrew
person, and anyway …’ Her voice was faltering now. ‘And we all know why
she
’
s
so special, don’t we!’ The wrist did its little flap towards me again, and I couldn’t help remembering having held it once, when she’d hissed at me to hurt her. Harder. Harder.
Hurt
me
!

I leaned over to take her hand again, but she pushed it away. Howard was already on his feet, trying to put an arm around her, but she stood up brusquely. The chair made a sound that echoed like gunshot on the flagstones.

‘Please don’t leave like this, Celia!’

‘No! No! I’m sorry I came. I’ve behaved dreadfully – as usual! Please don’t see me out.’ She wiped her eyes and walked towards the back door, putting on her gloves. ‘I’ll just have a look round, if I may, then I’ll be on my way. Please don’t see me out.’

‘Let me give you a guided tour,’ I tried, thinking of all the changes there had been since she had last seen it.

She turned on me from the door, a contemptuous figure in green from head to toe. ‘Please. I don’t need to be guided around Buckleigh House.’

And then she was gone, and the kitchen fell silent except for Mrs Bubb who was shuffling about by the sink with some freshly cut flowers.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Howard, sinking back into a chair. ‘I haven’t cut her out of the will. She said a few years ago she never wanted to see me or this house again.’

‘Doesn’t know
what
she wants, that one,’ said Mrs Bubb, stuffing the flowers into a yellow vase. ‘Never did.’

And for the first time I could see that it wasn’t Buckleigh House – or any other house – that Celia wanted at all.