Weldon, Fay - Novel 07 (10 page)

 
          
When Richard had gone
Liffey snuggled
back into the warm bed and half wondered and half wished that Tucker would come
knocking at the door, but he did not. Liffey did not lust after Richard. She
never had. They were too well suited, too polite for that. He could produce in
her, by kissing and loving, a delicate desire, but not the personal, angry
focusing of lust.

 
          
Liffey,
waking properly a second time, with the winter sun shining across white frosted
fields and the Tor raising its crystalline arm into a pale brilliant sky, felt
happy enough. But realising that despondency might soon set it, Liffey made
lists.

 
          
Get
telephone Learn to drive

           
Organise shopping Invite friends
Read gardening books

 
          
Presently
she added:

 
          
Writing
paper and stamps

 
          
And
then later:

 
          
Bicycle, to get to postbox.
Powered bicycle, perhaps? Later
she added:

 
          
Write
book

 
          
That
one frightened her. If there was time and opportunity she might actually have
to, and be judged. She would rather have it as a dream than a reality. She
crossed it out.

 
          
Afterwards
she wrote:

 
          
Make
friends

 
          
These
things, surely added up to contentment. Madge, in times of trouble, had written
lists and posted them up. Earn more money, spend less,
stop
Liffey picking her nose (or had it been worse? Liffey had a feeling that it was
something far more sinister she had to be saved from), find lover, buy brown
bread, not white. Messages from her good lively self to her depressed self.
Stop drinking, she’d even written, in the days when she did: when Liffey would
come home from school and find her mother asleep and snoring on her bed. Or had
Liffey herself written that one? She thought perhaps that she had. And Madge,
"as a result, had picked herself up and stopped drinking, and in so doing
had given Liffey the encouraging feeling that life was not a gradual descent
from good to bad, from youth to age, from health to decay, but rather flowed in
waves, good times turning to bad, bad turning to good again. Wait, be patient,
shuffle the cards.

 
 
          
Wait,
Liffey; use your time well. Shuffle the cards. Write lists. If you fear
loneliness, turn it into solitude and rejoice.

 
          
Cultivate
inner resources, wrote Liffey.

 
          
“There
is nothing to worry about,” Liffey told herself. “So long as you are healthy
and have money in the bank, there are no problems that cannot be solved.” She
believed it too.

 
          
Liffey
composed a reasonable letter in her head to Mory and Helen, and wrote it out on
a brown paper bag, having no writing paper, and then used it by mistake to
relight the Aga stove.

 
          
In
the afternoon Liffey walked a mile and a half across the fields to the
village
of
Poldyke
, where there was a shop, a garage and a
post office, and a doctor came over on Wednesday afternoons from the big
village
of
Crossley
. At Crossley there were schools and pubs, a
greengrocer and a chemist. To get to Crossley, five miles away, meant a walk up
the lane, past Cadbury Farm, and then along a stretch of main arterial road,
where it narrowed alarmingly, and the
lorries
passed
and did not like pedestrians.

 
          
Liffey
arrived at Poldyke one minute after the surgery was closed, in time to see the
doctor drive off in his big new car. He was a small, desperate-looking man,
with strained eyes in a dark monkey face, not so much older than Liffey. He
drove off past her, both gloved hands gripping the wheel, hunched into a
great-coat, sunk into rich upholstery.

 
          
In
the village shop Liffey cried out with delight over a rack of farm overalls,
and bought one.

 
          
“For your husband?
He’ll be working the land up there,
then?”

 
          
“No.
For me,” said Liffey before she could stop herself, and had to watch the look
of puzzlement appear on Mrs. Harris’ narrow face. Mrs. Harris worked the land
behind the shop. Once or twice a day the shop bell would sound, and Mrs. Harris
would dust off hands and boots and come in to serve.

 
          
“She
acts as if everything’s toys,” Mrs. Harris complained to Mabs’s mother later,
“not real things at all.”

 
          
Liffey
was now eight days into her new, somewhat irregular menstrual cycle—the fourth
since she had stopped taking the contraceptive
pill,
and her body was still recovering from a surfeit of hormones, as might a car
engine flooded by the use of too much choke and obliged to rest. She had not
been made pregnant by Tucker, though who was going to believe a thing like
that?
And had had no opportunity of becoming pregnant by
Richard.

 
          
“The thing about Liffey,”
said Bella to
Richard that evening, “is that she’s so gloriously positive. Of course it can
be a drawback. Well, look at you!
Swept away on the powerful
tides of Liffey’s whims!”

 
          
“She’s
so wonderfully young,” said Ray. “What a pity we all have to grow up.”

 
          
Richard
badly missed Liffey, sitting there without her at Ray and Bella’s table. He
thought of
himself
as a tree with its main branch
wrenched off, leaving a nasty open wound down the trunk, vulnerable to all
kinds of horrible infections.

 
          
There
were beans on toast and fish fingers for supper, prepared by Helga. Bella and
Ray dined excellently in public, but meagrely at home. The dishes for their
dinner parties were brought in by a deserted wife and mother of four who lived
down the road. She also tested the recipes in the many recipe books that Bella
and Ray devised together. Their specialty was fish dishes, but they knew a
thing or two about edible fungi. She looked after Tony and Tina, Bella’s
children, on Helga’s day off, but was now suffering from nervous exhaustion, so
that Helga seldom could have a day off. Helga came from
Austria
, and worked for her keep and pocket-money.

 
          
Ray
and Bella lived busy lives. They had Marxist leanings. They applied their
intellectual energies every now and then to the practical details of domestic
life, so that the home ran smoothly on machinery and the labour of others. Tony
and Tina picked up their own toys, lay their own places at table, washed up
their own plates and cutlery when they had finished with them, plus one saucepan
and mixing bowl each, and put their dirty clothes in the laundry basket and
collected them clean from the dryer. They were quiet children. Other parents
became quite disagreeable about them.

 
          
Richard
had sometimes wished in the past that Liffey was more like Bella and had a
capacity for money-making and public-speaking. But Liffey devoted all her
energies to the actual business of living, not doing, and that, he supposed,
was that. And Liffey was restful, and Bella wasn’t. And though Liffey, as Bella
had pointed out, might be an emotional challenge, she was certainly not an
intellectual one, and that was restful.

 
          
Richard
found himself vaguely mistrustful of Bella and Ray’s kindness in offering him
so readily the use of Bella’s sofa. He would have felt reassured had they
suggested he baby-sat, but they had not. He told himself, over tinned peaches
and custard, that he must not become paranoiac.
That Mory and
Helen’s perfidy must not blind him to the essential goodness of others, and
justness of the Universe.
Business, after all,
proceeded
by trust, and the world, so far as he could see, was given over to big
business.

 
          
Mory’s
“shitsville, man” had been a shock, no doubt of it. The aggressions and
hostilities that Richard had met in his thirty-two years had been of the muted,
civilised kind, confined to office memos or gentle, if confusing, parental
words. Richard, like Liffey, had learned early to placate, and smile, and turn
away anger, and mix with others of a like frame of mind. “If you didn’t read the
papers,” Liffey once said to Richard, “but only looked about you, you’d really
believe the world was a nice place.” And not recognising hate, spite or anger
in
themselves
, and so not understanding how these
things show their greater face in the dealings of management with labour,
governments with governed, and so forth, could only look to communism or
socialism, or fascism, or any other available ism, as the source of conflict.
Trouble, seen as coming from the outside and working its way in,
and not the other way about.

 
          
During
the rest of the week Richard developed a whole assortment of fears and
suspicions. He suspected that money was missing from his wallet, that
taxi-drivers were cheating him by going the long way
round,
that
his fellow employees were talking behind his back, that Miss Martin
was going to make amorous advances, and that Liffey had organised his absence
from her in order to be unfaithful. Such a thought as this latter had never
crossed his mind before. He murmured it to Bella, who only laughed and said,
“Projection, Richard,” which he did his best not to understand.

 
          
Miss
Martin made call after call to Richard’s solicitors. He confided in her now,
and she in him. She seemed, marginally, in this new world of treachery, less dangerous
than Bella.

 
          
Miss
Martin was saving through a building society. In three years she would marry
her fiance; then they would own their own house from the beginning. No rented
accommodation for them! Richard marvelled at how well people of no ambition
could run their lives. Miss Martin’s boyfriend, Jeff, was finishing an
apprenticeship as an electrical engineer. He would call for her at the office
on occasion, and was a surprisingly handsome, tall and lively young man. Miss
Martin was a virgin. She told Richard so. She believed in saving herself for
marriage. She thought perhaps she was under-sexed, and hoped it didn’t matter.
There were more important things in life. Miss Martin was very capable. She
never forgot things. She plodded around the office, thick-ankled and
knowledgeable. The danger that she might turn into a seductress evaporated.

 
          
Liffey
was more educated, more cultured and sophisticated than Miss Martin, but Miss
Martin would never have misread a timetable.

 
          
And
Miss Martin would never expect her Jeff to drive six hours a day just so that
she could live in the cottage of her dreams. On the contrary, Miss Martin let
herself be guided by JefFs will in everything other than in sexual matters,
where her will prevailed.

 
          
Lonely nights without Liffey.

 
          
Brave
Liffey.

 
          
Richard
had quite a lot to drink one night. Richard rang through to Cadbury Farm.

 
          
“Take
a message to Liffey,” he said. “Tell her I love her.”

 
          
Mabs and Tucker
thought Richard was
daft, wasting good money on such a call. There was a wistful look in Mabs’s eye
all the same.

 
          
“Don’t
you start sticking pins in her,” said Tucker.

 
          
“Now
why should I want to do that?” asked Mabs virtuously.

 
          
“I
don’t know why women do anything,” said Tucker.

 
          
Once
Mabs had made a model out of candle-wax to represent a farmer who had wronged
Tucker and stuck a pin through its leg and shut it in a drawer, and the farmer
had developed thrombosis in his leg and gone to hospital. Just as well the pin
had not been driven through the chest: Mabs had desisted from that obvious
course because the farmer’s daughter had once done her a good turn.

 
          
But
Liffey was a different and difficult matter. It was Mabs’s experience, and her
mother’s before her, that spells worked only upon angry and disagreeable
people, and Liffey was neither. Moreover, if the spellbinder herself or
himself was angry, then the spell could turn back like a boomerang. That was
why a third party was so useful, to curse or spite for payment—in the same way as
a psychoanalyst is paid to receive spite and curses on behalf of others,
sopping up the wrath turned away from cruel mothers and neglectful fathers and
unfeeling spouses. The witch or spellbinder did more, and passed the evil on.

 
          
Mabs’s
mother, along with everyone else, said that spells were a lot of rubbish and
she’d rather watch television any day; if you wanted to do anyone a bad turn
these days, all you had to do was ring up the Income Tax Inspector, or now,
even better, the VAT man.

 
          
All
the same, when Mabs and Carol had been little they’d once nailed their mother’s
footprint to the ground—one damp day when she’d been hanging out the
washing—and sure enough she’d developed a limp. That was a sure test of a
witch.

           
“It’s not magic,” their mother would
say, limping, as she mixed her powders and potions, “
it’s
medicine.
Natural, herbal medicine.”
And Carol and
Mabs would listen, not knowing what to believe. She’d cured old Uncle Bob
Fletcher of cancer. Everyone knew that. He’d gone on to ninety-nine, fit as a
fiddle, and left her five hundred pounds and three acres in his will.
Dirty old man.
Some said Carol was his daughter; Carol and
Mabs couldn’t have come out of the same bag.
One so small,
the other so large.

 
          
Mabs
went up to Honeycomb Cottage with Richard’s message. Liffey was out walking,
so Mabs left a little note and a bag of home-made sweets which Liffey didn’t
eat. She thought they tasted bitter.

 
          
Liffey,
on the Thursday of that week, organised a taxi to take her in and out of Crossley
two days a week. She bought a new motorised bicycle at Poldyke garage, and on
Friday a brand- new Rotovator at Crossley. On Saturday she returned the
bicycle. The engine was faulty. The village counted the cost of it all and
marvelled.

 
          
Liffey’s
grandfather, Madge’s father, had left Liffey a large sum of money, by-passing
his daughter. What is the use, he asked her bitterly, of handing wealth on to
those who despise it? To those who would rather eat cheese sandwiches than
steak au poivre? Madge had made nonsense of her father’s life. She was as like
as not to give away an inheritance to something she believed in—nuclear
disarmament one year, save the whale or women’s liberation the next. No, Liffey
would have to have it. Liffey at least enjoyed spending money, and acted as
most people did, on whim rather than principle. Liffey did not open bank
statements. She put them straight into a drawer. Thus Richard’s face was saved
and the illusion that they were living off his money preserved. Liffey would
from time to time offer money to Madge, but Madge always refused it. Madge
lived in a tiny cottage in a Norfolk county town, taught at the local school
and ate school dinners, and now she had given up drinking whisky, was able to
save most of her salary. Madge wanted nothing that Liffey could give. Never
had, thought Liffey sadly.

           
Not smiles or gaiety or prettiness
or money, which was all
Liffey
had to offer.
Nothing of solid worth.
Just what she
was
—nothing she had achieved.

 
          
At
seven
o’clock
that evening
Tucker came up to see if he could help Liffey with the Rotovator. Liffey’s
breath came short and sharp as she opened the door—but the tension between them
had evaporated, and she was alarmed to see how ordinary he looked, and
unattractive, and not in the least worthy of her. He stood in her kitchen,
knowing more about her business than she cared to acknowledge, but no cause at
all for erotic excitement. Grimy nails were just grimy nails and not black
talons of lust and excitement.

 
          
“I
can manage,” said Liffey. “I have the manual and am quite good mechanically.”

 
          
That
was his cue to say she was quite good at other things too, but he didn’t, so
she knew it was over for him too, and was, when it came to it, relieved.

 
          
“My
husband’s coming back soon,” she said boldly. “Stay and meet him properly,”
which Tucker did, settling down in front of the Aga, easing off his working
boots.

 
          
“Rotovator’s
no good for virgin land,” said Tucker. “You’d need a tractor, your side of the
stream. Bad soil too. You’d be lucky to grow an onion. All right for cows but
that’s about all.”

 
          
Liffey
was making mayonnaise. She squeezed in garlic.

 
          
“Strong
stuff for eggs,” commented Tucker. “Eggs are delicate.”

 
          
It
had not all been rough and powerful—no. His fingers had been hard and
calloused, but his mouth had been soft and his tongue gentle.

 
          
No, Liffey, no.
Enough.

 
          
Oh,
lonely nights without Richard.

 
          
Richard
arrived at seven minutes past eight, looking forward to his weekend. He was
loving, cheerful and eager, and loaded with good things. Ray and Bella lived
around the corner from the Camden Town street market, and Richard had bought
aubergines and peppers, celeriac and chicory, and olives from the Greek shop,
green and black both, and feta cheese and pita bread, and whisky and a new kind
of aperitif and good claret, and a joint of the best available lamb in all
London.

           
Richard had resolved not to tell
Liffey about the film he had seen the previous night with Bella and Ray, and
how they had all gone off to a new fish restaurant afterwards, on expenses, for
Bella and Ray were writing the place up for the column, or about the fun they
had had choosing the most expensive dishes on the menu, finding fault, and
sending them back to the kitchen. The management had not seen it as fun, and
Richard had wanted Liffey to be there so he could discuss the whole thing
afterwards, but where was Liffey? At the end of a muddy lane, a hundred and
more miles away, which she loved more than she loved
him.

 
          
Richard
unloaded the good things on to the table, kissed Liffey, and was glad to see
Tucker sitting there, since the presence of a stranger made the lie in his
heart less likely to show in his eye.

 
          
How
quickly Liffey makes friends, thought Richard. At least he would not have to
worry in case she were lonely, stuck away here by herself.

 
          
“Tucker
and Mabs have been so helpful,” said Liffey.

 
          
“Until
we get her driving, and get a telephone put in,” said Richard to Tucker, “we’re
going to be dependent on your good services, I’m afraid. Sorry about the call
the other night.
Too much to drink.”

 
          
“That’s
what neighbours are for,” said Tucker.

 
          
Liffey
had the uncomfortable feeling that Richard was in some way shelving his
responsibility towards her and handing it over to Tucker and Mabs.

 
          
Tucker
suggested they both go over to Mabs for a meal, and Richard accepted with what
Liffey saw as unseemly alacrity. “But I’ve got supper waiting—” she began, but
didn’t finish. She moved the meat from the fast to the slow oven. They could
eat it tomorrow.

 
          
Mabs
saw the lights in the kitchen go out and knew they were on their way up, and
determined that Liffey should have an uncomfortable weekend. She could in no
way see that Liffey deserved Richard’s love as well as Tucker’s attentions.
Those who must be up and doing, as was Mabs, have little time for
those who are content just to
be,
as
was Liffey.
And the need to be pleasant to her for the sake of a pound
here and fifty pence there and an acre of free grazing no longer seemed of
pressing importance.

           
Mabs served a lamb stew from an
enormous pot on the cooker. Liffey was given the gristly bits.

 
          
“Wonderful
flavour!” marvelled Richard.

 
          
“It’s
because they’re home-grown,” said Liffey. “Everything here tastes wonderful.”

 
          
“No
time to grow vegetables,” said Tucker. “We do manage a drop or two of cider;
come November you’d best be bringing your apples over for the pressing. You get
quite a nice little crop off of some of your trees. No good for eating, mind.
Not if you’ve got a sweet tooth.” And he grinned at Liffey, and Liffey wished
he wouldn’t.

 
          
Liffey
was well into her menstrual cycle. Some twenty-five or so follicles ripened
nicely in her ovaries, one ahead of the others. In a couple of days it would
reach maturity, and drop, and put an end to the generative energies of the
rest. Nature works by waste.

 
          
There
was apple pie and real cream for pudding, and afterwards Mabs handed round
home-made Turkish
Delight
. She pressed the
mint-flavoured piece on Liffey. Liffey didn’t think it was very nice.

 
          
Liffey
and Richard walked home down the lane. The night was crisp and clear. The moon
had a chunk out of it.

 
          
“Wonderful
people,” said Richard.
“Real people, country people.”

 
          
“Those
are my lines,” said Liffey.

 
          
“With
none of the false romanticism about the country you get from townfolk.”

 
          
“Those
are Bella’s lines,” said Liffey.

 
          
They
were too.

 
          
Liffey
was getting grumbling pains in her stomach. Her hand clenched Richard’s.

 
          
“What’s
the matter?”

 
          
“Pains.”

 
          
“Ovulation
pains?” asked Richard, knowledgeable.

 
          
“No, not like that.”

 
          
“What
like, then?” He used the childish vocabulary that was their habit, and heard
himself
, and despised himself.

           
“Indigestion.
Perhaps it was the stew.”

 
          
“Delicious stew.
Why don’t you make stews, Liffey?”

 
          
“Perhaps
I will, now I’m in the country.”

 
          
“We’re
still going to have our baby, aren’t we?”

 
          
“Of course!”