‘Scapa Flow,’ said Mrs Endicott wonderingly. ‘Every day one hears of places one never heard of before.’ She shuddered. ‘A gypsy once told me I would die in the arms of the sea. That’s why I could never join the navy.’
That, and the fact that the Royal Navy isn’t crying out for old ladies, thought Alec. ‘You a navy man, Frank?’
But the shopkeeper was gone. Sourcing something ‘out the back’ for Mrs Endicott.
Caroline barged in. She had the gait of a drunkard, careering along as if about to fall over, only to miraculously right herself just before her tipping point. ‘Bacon!’ she shouted.
‘It’s more usual to say hello,’ laughed Kitty, bringing up the rear. She was slightly out of breath. She was in green, like a shoot, and she rippled with life.
‘Here’s my best girlie.’ Mrs Endicott and Caroline had an intense friendship. ‘Who’s a pretty little thing?’
‘I am,’ said Caroline with great confidence. She was pudgy and grabbable, and Mrs Endicott bent creakily down to do just that.
Frank, back again, told Kitty he’d be with her soon. Alec offered his place in the queue. Mrs Endicott said she loved to see a proper gentleman.
‘I’ve been saving coupons.’ Kitty brandished them. ‘I’m frying up bacon and eggs today for a special treat.’
‘Ooh, lucky you,’ said Mrs Endicott to Caroline.
They’re for me, thought Alec. A bubble filled the inside of him. There was no room for anything else. He was made of happiness for a good, solid minute and a half.
With the ladies gone, Alec ran through his mundane needs and Frank brought him tobacco and shoe polish and a box of pencils.
There was a stock phrase to be used about each Ambridge resident. Kitty’s was, ‘What a misfortune, a lovely young woman like that being widowed’, and Frank used a variant of it now. When Alec nodded, he went further. ‘She’ll be snapped up soon enough, lovely-looking lass like that. Mind you, the kiddie…’ He sucked his teeth.
‘What about her?’
‘Well,’ said Frank, slightly uncomfortable, as if tackling a truth nobody liked to acknowledge, ‘taking on another man’s child, that’s bound to make any bloke think twice. It’d be easy to trap a chap, make him feel responsible for a lovely little tot like that. Two and six, please, Mr Pargetter.’ He repeated the amount. Mr Pargetter was staring at the floor.
* * *
When Sunday came, a reliable and pious full stop to the week, the vicar pontificated from the pulpit on the infamous poison-pen letters. They were, he said, adulterating the well.
Whether he noticed that Walter Gabriel was fast asleep, or that Gerald Pargetter was carving his initials in a pew, is not known. The vicar was keen to restore the status quo, a dubiously foreign phrase that meant nothing to many of his flock.
‘Weeks have passed since the second morbid little message. An end to worry! Why should we care about slander that some cowardly soul won’t even put their name to? Do we really believe the esteemed Alec Pargetter is unfaithful to his wife? We do not! Do we really believe that our dear sister Blanche Gilpin and our esteemed postman Whitey White commit the foul sin of adultery again and again and again? We do not!’
If looks could kill, Pamela’s expression would have raised Henry above the altar and detonated him, cassock and all, above the heads of the congregation.
Beside her, her husband tilted his inherited nose even higher, all the better not to catch the eye of Frances Bissett. Sympathy from the vicar’s beige little wife could not be endured. In his peripheral vision, Frances seemed to shimmer and blink; she wore a silvery blouse. Alec recognized the fabric, last seen in a bolt under Connie Horrobin’s arm. It seemed the rectory was not above a touch of black marketeering.
At the back of the church Agnes, most un-crow-like in red, noticed the discomfort and smiled into her hymnal.
Outside, in the mellow sunshine that Ambridge was daring to get used to, all talk was of the misjudged sermon. Until a Pargetter or a Jane drew near, and then the topic changed.
‘This war spoils all our fun,’ said Mrs Endicott, her arm through Dottie’s. It wasn’t clear who was leaning on whom, the eternally terminal old lady or the skittle-shaped pregnant woman. ‘Now I hear this year’s farm show has been cancelled.’
‘You lot, you villagers, your idea of fun,’ said Dottie, ‘is to look at, like, cows n’ that. I don’t get it. You can see a cow any old time. There’s one now.’ She pointed at a horse on a distant slope. ‘I’ll never understand country people. I mean, in the shop yesterday everybody was talking about drenching sheep.’
‘Ah, but that means—’ began Dan, who had caught up with them among the headstones.
‘I do not care what it means,’ said Dottie.
‘Her ankles are at her,’ said Mrs Endicott. ‘Poor girl. I was advised never to bear children, you know. It would have—’
‘Killed you, yes, Mrs E, can we get a move on? I want me lunch.’ Dottie propelled her towards the gate.
The rat-a-tat-tat of make-believe gunfire rang out. Billy, in the kind of mismatched, some too long and some too short clothes that marked him as a Horrobin, staggered backwards, groaning and exclaiming, ‘Mein Gott!’
‘You got him, John,’ said Nance approvingly, her hand in Morgan’s. Now that they were ‘official’ such displays were possible, and it was clear that Nance delighted in her changed status. In her muted way.
‘One more German gunned down by our brave boys,’ laughed Morgan, as they sidestepped the histrionic casualty of play war. The doctor had put on weight. He was perky. Even if his other arm was held, trophy-style, by Magsy. He was the filling in a peculiar sandwich: Magsy wasn’t giving up her rights without a genteel fight.
Slowly, like a new bride, Doris exited the church with her mother. Lisa, so rarely seen in the wild, was lionized. An hour earlier, Lisa had been packing her suitcase and sobbing that she was going home to her parents.
For now, the old lady was calm. If she didn’t recognize the faces milling around her she didn’t say so, and kept to platitudes that didn’t give her away. She might have been colluding with her daughter; she might have been maintaining the courtesy that ran so strongly through her it outlasted her wits.
‘Not much wrong with those legs, Lisa, my old beauty!’ Walter Gabriel had woken up; the final blast of the organ for the recessional hymn always did the trick, propelling him out of the pew like a whippet. ‘I’ll race you round the gravestones!’ His father’s mound, proud of the grass still, had as yet no stone. Just a cross with Jonjo’s name and his vital dates. Walter brought a posy every Sunday, and now he veered off to lay it carefully down before heading for The Bull, his other place of worship.
Dan’s oh-so-casual comment that he might pop in to see Bob and have a quick pint irked Doris as she wrangled Lisa along the gravel path. There was so much to do, so many disparate strands of the farm to take up. She rattled off a hissed précis for him, ending with the chore allocated to her by the pageant committee. They needed an opulent cloak for Walter Raleigh to throw over a puddle for Good Queen Bess; Doris would sew it, of course.
‘You can knock that up sitting by the fire tonight, love. Don’t you panic. I’ll give you a hand with the dinner when I get back.’
‘A hand?’ Doris was talking to Dan’s back. She couldn’t envisage how Dan would help with a roast chicken and roast potatoes and gravy and carrots. If roasting a chicken stood between Dan and starvation, her husband would be discovered dead beside the stove.
‘Doris, and who’s this? Dear Lisa, too! We’re honoured.’ The vicar, fresh from his triumph in the pulpit, was in high spirits as he stood by the lychgate, glad-handing and holding up his parishioners from getting on with their day.
Doris managed a smile. Held on a little tighter to Lisa’s arm, as if she could contain her mother that way.
‘Good to see you.’ Henry bent and spoke slowly and clearly, his horsey teeth bared as he enunciated each word distinctly.
The vicar was gratified. He was proud of his ability to communicate with all, whether high-born or low-bred. He was proud of the many skills he didn’t possess. ‘You’re looking well. Our good Borsetshire air clearly agrees with you.’
Lisa lifted her skirt. High, right up to the thigh. She stuck out her leg, in its droopy lisle stocking. ‘Like what you see, sailor?’
‘I, um, oh.’ The vicar straightened up. ‘Doris?’
‘We should be getting back.’ Doris hurried her mother away as if she was arresting her.
For the men of Ambridge that Sunday, all roads led not to Rome, but to The Bull. Dan and Alec met each other and walked in companionable silence until Dan said, ‘Funny how Kitty Dibden-Rawles is never at church.’
Alec twitched. Why’s he mentioning it to me?
‘Ah, yes.’ Dan answered his own question. ‘She’s Irish, of course, she’ll be a calithumpian.’
* * *
‘They seem happy enough, don’t they?’
Doris had press-ganged the children into helping her check on one of the calves. Its dung was loose. It might be something or nothing, but farming had taught Doris to keep a close check on even simple matters. She’d lost a calf earlier in the week and it rankled. An animal’s death was costly and melancholy and a judgement on her care of it. The calf had fitted, his skinny legs kicking out and his eyes bewildered.
‘He’s lying a bit funny.’ Christine tugged her mother over to the corner of the barn. The weather was warm enough for the calves to sleep out, but prevention being nine-tenths of cure, the patient was inside.
‘You’re right.’ Doris knelt. The straw crackled beneath her. Sweet-smelling but liable to turn; no farmyard is ever truly sweet. ‘I can’t really see in this light…’
‘Come on, he’s fine.’ Philip kvetched from the door.
‘Here comes somebody,’ said Christine.
Across the yard a lantern swayed at head height.
Not you, thought Doris. Stay away. Help from Jez came at such a cost it wasn’t worth it.
‘Eugene!’ Christine clapped. ‘How’d you know we needed you?’
‘Just call me the farm fairy,’ said Eugene. He stood with the lantern over their heads while Doris checked over the patient and declared him sound. ‘I was on my way back from The Bull.’
He smelled strongly of ale.
Doris thanked Eugene and let him limp away, all the while feeling the awkwardness that so disabled her. She felt like she was asking the college boy for a favour if she gave him an order, and she was unequal to asking about his drinking. The relationship was off-kilter with these new men; she knew the rules with genuine labourers, but these press-ganged recruits flummoxed her. She recalled Dan’s face earlier when she snapped at him for telling her, all glee, that there was now a farm labour deferment in place. ‘And how is that good news, Dan Archer?’ she’d said. ‘Bit late for me, isn’t it?’ And all this while he was ‘helping’ with the roast.
All day, her husband had had that look on his face, the one that told her he wanted a serious chat. Doris would rather have stayed in the warm barn with the murmuring music of the cows’ breathing, but a velvet cloak lay expectantly on the mantel, alongside a pile of stupid glass jewels.
‘Come on, kids.’ They trooped across the yard.
‘Mum, I hate the new stuff Dad’s putting on the crops.’ Christine was indignant as only a precocious eight-year-old can be. ‘It’s not natural. It shouldn’t be allowed. The king should say something.’
Doris agreed. The war pushed them onwards into a bright technological future, but it suppressed beauty along the way. Normal, insignificant beauty that Doris took for granted. Columbine. Kingcup. The daisies that Glen wore when Christine wove him a chain.
Mother Cat stood sentry at the door. Yowled when she saw them. When Christine scooped her up, both girl and cat jumped at her father’s voice.
‘Bed!’
‘But it’s only—’
‘But me no buts. You too, Philip. Chop chop.’ Dan watched them stomp sullenly up to their chilly rooms. He turned to Doris. ‘Love… your mum. It’s time we had a talk.’
Doris wanted to run back out to the barn. Instead she put the kettle on. Felt Dan’s eyes on her as she battled the arthritic tap. ‘That needs looking at,’ she said. ‘Getting stiffer and stiffer.’
The closest of couples have their deceits. Doris and Dan had refused to name what was happening in their home. Now, Doris sensed there was no fending off the inevitable. Their own phony war was over.
‘Lisa’s senile, Doris. Sorry, but she is. There’s no other way to describe it. And she’s getting worse.’ The farmhouse walls were thick, but Dan whispered. ‘You have to face it, love.’
Doris faced ten things before breakfast. She was good at facing things; she had put in years of practice. ‘I know.’ She bit back the impulse to flare up. None of this was Dan’s fault. He was unafraid to do the right thing; she had always treasured him for that. ‘Yes,’ she said, in a whisper. Giving in.
Putting out the cups and saucers helped. Pouring the tea, bemoaning the empty sugar bowl, fetching the milk. But then they began to talk.
‘Her confusion lasts longer now, when it comes,’ said Dan. ‘She’ll know where she is, who she is, but suddenly…’ He pulled apart his hands, let out a little huff of air. ‘Suddenly she doesn’t. We used to rely on a few hours a day when she was just good old Lisa, but now…’
‘Her memory’s slippy. Mum knows she knows us but she can’t put her finger on our names.’
‘I just thank God she’s happy-go-lucky most of the time.’
Doris was in no mood to thank God. He wasn’t keeping his end of the bargain. She was holding him to account, for once, as opposed to the other way round. Blasphemy gets easier, she was finding.
Dan said, ‘It happens, love. Old people, they get simple. Nobody knows why. Maybe they wear out, like cars. My old gran lived with us when I was a boy and she was, well, frightened the whole time. It was terrible to witness.’
‘Mum never runs away, nothing like that.’ It was something, Doris supposed. Still no thanking God, though. Not for such a crumb. ‘I don’t mind looking after her, Dan, you know I don’t. I’d do anything for Mum, it’s only fair, it’s just that she’s not Mum anymore.’ Doris gave herself permission to cry. There was no torrent. Just a couple of stinging tears that cost forty years of self-respect. She rubbed hard at her eyes, as if they’d let her down. ‘It’s not fair.’ She balled her fists. ‘It’s not fair!’
‘Easy, easy.’ Dan used that voice with the livestock. ‘All that frowning, you’ll give yourself wrinkles, girl.’ When he leaned over to smooth his wife’s forehead she batted his hand away. ‘Fairness doesn’t come into it, Doris. It’s the way of things.’
‘Easy for you to say, Dan Archer. She’s not your mum.’ Doris would have taken her hasty words back if she could. Dan had been only a boy when he lost his mother. In many ways he still was a bereaved boy, beneath the War Ag overcoat. Maybe, thought Doris, I’ve only been a nice person up to now because I had nothing to break me. The war showed her true colours. She was a woman who would maul her husband when he was trying to help.
The soft sluff-sluff of Lisa’s slippers announced her. ‘Ooh, I’ve had a lovely nap,’ she said.
They watched her carefully as she made for her rocking chair. They glanced gratefully at each other. This was one of the good hours. Lisa was herself.
Mother Cat leapt onto the old lady’s lap and was petted, not tormented. Lisa asked after the calves, and was appropriately scandalized by Eugene’s drinking. ‘He’ll have to watch himself, that boy,’ she said. She rocked gently, and fell back into a doze.
‘If our friends knew, they could help,’ said Dan.
‘Help? Gossip, you mean.’ Doris saw Dan’s expression flicker. He’s disgusted with m
e. ‘Nobody can help us. She’s our responsibility.’ And our shame. Doris was ashamed of the shame she felt; she would have felt only compassion for any other family in their position, and yet she didn’t feel able to accept that balm. She turned it on its head, and made it unwelcome. ‘We’re in this on our own.’ Doris put her finger to Dan’s lips. Lisa was waking up.
‘You there!’ she called to Dan. ‘You’re a cheeky one, aren’t you, Simon!’
Later, after they had inveigled her up the stairs, Dan asked, ‘Who’s this Simon I remind her of?’
Doris was unbuttoning her dress. It had an awful lot of buttons; it took time. ‘An old neighbour of ours when I was Chrissie’s age.’
‘I hope he was handsome.’
‘Not really. Dad used to say he had a face like a slapped arse.’
That was it. That set them off. Fits of laughter. Until Doris began to sob, and said against the haven of Dan’s chest, ‘Oh, Dan, my mum, my lovely mum.’
AMBRIDGE MIDSUMMER PAGEANT COMMITTEE MEETING MINUTES
Date: 22 May 1940
At: Noon Cottage
Chairwoman: Pamela Pargetter
Present: Frances Bissett, Margaret Furneaux, Emmaline Endicott, Doris Archer, Dorothy Cook, Kathleen Dibden-Rawles, Jane Gilpin
1. Kitty thanked everyone for coming to her house for the meeting and was glad that the committee had agreed to her suggestion that we take turns to host as ‘it is more democratic’.
2. Mrs Endicott asked if the window might possibly be closed as she was in a draught and that was as sure a way as any of dropkicking her into the grave.
3. Dottie suggested we sell kisses at the pageant. As Vicar’s wife I objected to the impropriety of such a thing and I did not appreciate Dottie’s implication that I can’t care much for our brave boys if I won’t even part with one measly kiss on their behalf. (Note to self: ask Henry to have a word with Dottie.)
4. Doris said ‘No the cloak is not finished yet’. Pamela reminded Doris that the pageant is less than two weeks away. Doris assured Pamela that she was perfectly aware of this thank you. Pamela said she hoped Doris wouldn’t let us down. Doris got up suddenly and knocked over poor dear Jane’s teacup and went to use the facilities.
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