The Pull of the Moon (5 page)

It’s a first-class stamp this time. Same notepaper, same slightly unsteady hand. Tone noticeably different. The first missive was no more than a polite request. This is a command –
with a threat thrown in. It is blackmail, pure and simple, this phrase
neither of us would wish you to leave it too late.

How long is too late? How fast is as soon as possible? Nor can I put out feelers on the phone, because the damn woman’s deaf, apparently.

I sit staring at the letter. Only one sheet this time. Not wasting words. Logic says she can’t really know anything at all. Then again, when was life ever logical? And there is always
Factor X. The one thing you haven’t allowed for, which creeps up from nowhere and catches you unawares. I don’t even bother considering an extension of the Garden Shed Protocol. The
letter reads
don’t mess with me
in every syllable. Loud and clear –
Get yourself here, or you are going to regret it.
Message received and understood.

Unfortunately ‘here’ is an address in Sedgefield, which happens to be a couple of hundred miles away. When Mr Ivanisovic retired, they moved north to be near her family. That’s
where she’s from, Mrs Ivanisovic – not some distant Eastern European shore. She’s a farmer’s daughter from County Durham. It must have been a shock to the system when she
became Mrs Ivanisovic. Long before the great Goran made his mark at Wimbledon, she must have had to spell it out for people a thousand times.

They were an oddly matched couple, the Ivanisovics. She was quiet, reserved, raised no doubt in expectation of marrying into good local stock. Danny’s father was the opposite – dark
where she was fair, excitable and slightly exotic – a wild Balkan transplanted into English soil, who arrived here in the thirties on an engineering scholarship, joined forces with us to
fight the Germans, found peacetime employment in the Midlands and never went home, having fallen for a Durham lass somewhere along the way. Oddly it was he, not she, whose accent occasionally
betrayed their northern connections. Mrs Ivanisovic had perfect BBC diction.

Danny took after his father in looks. He also flirted with his father’s Roman Catholicism, preferring the sensual feast of the Catholic Mass to the earnest Protestant persuasion of his
mother – for here too the Ivanisovics stood poles apart: he the bells and smells of Father McMahon’s Roman enclave, she the jam and Jerusalem of the red-brick edifice on the opposite
side of the road. Devoted to one another despite their differences, they also doted on their only child. His loss haemorrhaged the happiness from their lives faster than blood from a severed
artery.

From a note in one of her Christmas cards I learned that Mr Ivanisovic had died not very long after the move to Sedgefield. I could imagine her, dignified in widowhood, not giving way to a
public display of emotion. I am surprised to find that I cannot picture her clearly any more. She was younger than him, I think – possibly by some margin. I was a bit in awe of her, although
she was always very nice to me. This second letter seems wrong somehow: out of character. But if anyone was going to remember Trudie and start asking about her, it would be Danny’s mother.
She knew Trudie was staying in the house and must have belatedly begun to wonder what had happened to her – which is still a long way from guessing the truth.

Then in a flash I
do
remember Mrs Ivanisovic’s face. I can see her sitting in Simon’s uncle’s drawing room, perched on the edge of a sofa, balancing a cup and saucer. I
recall her expression, somewhere between bemusement and exasperation, as Trudie announced, ‘They picked me up on the beach – like a sea shell – and brought me home.’

This was typical of Trudie – a charming falsehood, delivered in such a way as to have you half smiling, half believing it. If truth be told it had been Trudie who latched on to us, and we
certainly never intended to bring her home; but by the time the puncture was fixed it had become obvious we wouldn’t get back to the house until nearly midnight. Rural England and Wales
closed down at half past ten, and as we drove through darkened villages it became clear there was nothing for it but to offer Trudie a bed for the night.

We were all shattered by the time we got back to the house. I began to shiver as soon as we climbed out of the warm car interior, crossing my arms and rubbing them. Danny noticed and cuddled me
close while we waited for Simon to unlock the front door. The house felt particularly empty and unwelcoming. My flip-flops slapped against the stone floor of the hall and our voices echoed,
unnaturally loud. I watched Trudie’s face as she looked around, trying to gauge what she made of it. Simon said she could have the room with the brass bedstead, so I showed her the big
cupboard where the sheets were kept, then left her to it.

The three of us had already been in residence for a couple of weeks by then, but the programme of work in the garden had been slow to get under way. Free from the constraints of home and
studies, we could squander whole days in bed or cruise around the countryside in Simon’s car. We talked and laughed for hours on end, familiarity not yet having exhausted our interest in one
another’s opinions. Life was suddenly full of exciting new opportunities, like swimming naked in the reservoir, or getting drunk on too many vodka and limes. Although nothing like so
sheltered as I had been, Simon and Danny were equally infused with this sense of freedom. Like kids let out to play, we were full of ideas – without our parents to hold us back there was
nothing we might not do. There was much talk of visiting local beauty spots, ancient abbeys and ruined castles: plans which mostly failed to materialize, falling victim to late nights and a general
reluctance to rise before noon. Danny had already begun to think up bigger and better plans. ‘Next year we could go to Italy,’ he said. ‘See Rome and Florence – maybe
Venice.’

‘Yesterday you wanted to see Spain,’ I protested.

‘We could go there too. How about driving down through Europe? We could take a tent, spend the summer on the road?’

His enthusiasm was infectious. Practicalities didn’t come into it. Next summer’s Grand Tour of Europe became a frequent topic of conversation in those early days. It went without
saying that Simon was included in these plans – apart from anything else, he was the only one of us who could drive.

In the meantime, although the lawn had been tamed and some desultory weeding undertaken, the landscaping was still no more than a series of sketches and a heap of good intentions. Nor had I
become successfully established in my domestic role. I occasionally undertook a little dusting, which I didn’t mind because it entailed handling and examining the large collection of objects
which littered the downstairs rooms – many of which I guessed were antiques and perhaps quite valuable. But my efforts never extended much beyond the first distraction to present itself,
whether that be one of the musty books I discovered, or some fresh diversion dreamed up by Simon and Danny. My suntan improved with every day that passed, but this progress was not matched in the
kitchen, where my lamentable culinary skills condemned us to a diet limited to anything which came with instructions on the packet: a repertoire of Vesta curries and fish fingers, about which in
these early days there were only occasional complaints.

The large kitchen where these meals were prepared and consumed occupied one corner of the ground floor. It was grimly old-fashioned, painted in hospital green and cream with a quarry-tiled floor
which was cold underfoot whatever the temperature elsewhere. Since our arrival it had become habitually untidy in spite of my sporadic efforts to keep abreast of the washing-up. There were always
dirty cups and plates lying about, and a precariously balanced pyramid of kitchenware on the drainer – much of which never saw the inside of a cupboard at all, being recalled into use before
anyone got round to putting it away.

On the morning after our trip to the coast, Danny and I followed our usual practice of lying in bed until the middle of the morning. When I finally got out of bed and wandered down to the
kitchen, I was surprised – and I have to admit somewhat piqued – to find Trudie standing at the sink. She had looped her hair out of the way and was busily rinsing suds from a mixing
bowl, which she placed on the draining board while I watched. The crockery mountain had vanished, replaced by a couple of recently used utensils and the bowl. There was a lidded saucepan simmering
on the stove, and a distinct smell of baking emanated from the oven.

She must have heard my approach, because she turned to smile at me. ‘I hope it’s all right. I’m making lunch for everyone. Home-made soup and fruit cake. I found what I needed
in the pantry. It’s to say thank you for letting me stay the night.’

I was about to mumble something ungracious, but the moment was transformed by Simon’s arrival; he entered the room, sniffing like a dog who’s been denied food too long, drawn no
doubt by the unaccustomed smell of proper cooking.

We didn’t normally dignify our midday snacking with the name of lunch, but that day we sat at the big kitchen table, eating like civilized human beings. Towards the end of the meal, Simon
announced that he was driving into town for some shopping.

‘Great,’ said Danny. ‘If you cash in all the empties, it’ll probably pay for next week’s food.’

Simon grinned. The amount of drink we were getting through had become a standing joke. ‘I’ve got to go to the off-licence anyway – can’t have the beer running
low.’

At this point Trudie said she would have to gather her things ready for a lift into town, and Simon surprised us all by suddenly asking Trudie if she wouldn’t like to stick around for a
few days.

Trudie jumped at the chance. ‘You guys are great,’ she said. ‘And this house – the garden is fab. I feel like I could stay here for ever.’

‘You could help Katy with the cooking and stuff,’ Simon said.

I was half cross and half relieved to have my role as sole cook and bottle washer unexpectedly usurped. I didn’t really expect Simon to solicit my views on the subject before inviting
Trudie to chip in. I wasn’t used to consultation: at home my parents called the shots – here it was Simon or Danny.

So when Trudie accompanied Simon on the trip into Kington that afternoon, she left her tapestry holdall behind. At the time it didn’t particularly trouble me that, although Trudie
chattered a lot, we still knew almost nothing about her. I was far more concerned about whether she had lost interest in Danny and latched on to Simon. I was certainly happy to interpret
Simon’s invitation as a sign that something might be developing between them.

Left to ourselves, Danny and I went out to lie on the grass. It was too hot to do anything else. Apart from a solitary aeroplane trail, the sky was a sheet of uninterrupted blue. I had just
started to wonder what it was that Trudie saw in the house and garden, when Danny interrupted my train of thought.

‘I wonder how much longer this weather’s going to last,’ he mused.

‘You’d better hope it doesn’t break before you get started,’ I said. ‘It’ll be horrible if you have to dig in the rain.’

‘There’s still masses of time.’

‘I know. Almost another three months before Simon’s uncle is due back.’

‘I bet it isn’t this hot in the Limousine,’ said Danny.

‘I hope Cecile remembers to post those cards,’ I said.

Cecile was the buddy from college with whom I had supposedly travelled to France, to spend the summer picking fruit at her grandpa’s farm. I had given her a pack of lettercards to post
back to my parents at suitable intervals, pre-written with innocuous messages to the effect that I was having fun, the work was quite tiring, the weather good, Cecile’s family kind to me and
similar bland nonsense: all of which would help convince them that I was safely occupied overseas, under the chaperonage of my friend’s family, rather than fucking my boyfriend in rural
Herefordshire. It wasn’t done, you see, respectable single girls shacking up with their boyfriends for the summer – not in my family anyway.

When Simon and Trudie returned that afternoon, she had a carrier bag full of fruit and veg. That night we feasted on sausages, jacket potatoes and fresh greens. As I helped myself to more gravy,
I found I was warming to Trudie by the minute. It was the first decent meal we’d eaten in a fortnight.

Simon seemed to think that Trudie completed our team – with her to help me, he said, he and Danny could concentrate on the garden (not that I had noticed the cooking and housework
distracting them overmuch). He proposed they commence the pond excavation the following day, even making some corny remark like ‘full steam ahead’, to which Danny raised a half-drunk
bottle of Newcastle Brown in salute.

It was nice, I thought, for Simon to have someone – because that surely must be the way the wind was blowing. And not just anyone either; because there could be no denying that Trudie was
beautiful. I suppose I hadn’t taken proper notice of her the day before, but I could see it now. She had well-proportioned features, dark brown eyes, and lips which could have been used in
cosmetic ads. Moreover the loose-fitting smock and maxi skirt she’d been wearing on the beach had concealed her figure, which today’s cut-down denim shorts and white cotton shirt,
rolled up under her bust, made very obvious. Trudie was positively stunning. No wonder Simon wanted her to stay.

All this made Trudie dangerously memorable. Mrs Ivanisovic only met her once – but it must have been enough.

I don’t want to face up to the letter, but what choice do I have?

SIX

Work began on the pond the day after Trudie joined our ménage. By the end of the morning the true magnitude of the task had become clear. Simon had delineated the
proposed outline with a long piece of string, held down by a series of stones. Two hours of digging had produced a small uneven hole in the centre of this area, the greater portion of which was
still unbroken ground.