by Mavis Cheek
8
Anna Finds a Champion
The memory of Anna’s injustices at the hands of Miss Murdoch would not go away. In the days following her visit to the Louvre an enthusiastic Flora plundered the bookshops of Paris to find out more about the Queen from Cleves. The process of discovery, she thought, must be similar to the experience gardeners enjoy when they dig out the weeds – somewhere in the middle of everything she read was the rose, the simple, beautiful, unadorned rose of truth. So many different versions of what might or might not have happened when Anna arrived in England existed, both written as fiction and written as historical fact that Flora decided the way to make sense of it all was to try to get under Anna’s skin and inside her mind if she could. The portrait was a good starting point. The portrait, she felt, was the only truth she had so far, and it had told her quite a lot already. If she began with that, and the way the Princess looked out at her, with judicious research she hoped to find the rose.
On the Eurostar going home Flora considered the irony of the painted Anna returning to England to be celebrated as a masterpiece. Well, England owes her that at least. It was not hard for Flora to imagine how it felt for the tired young woman to be so far from home, so publicly rejected, so frightened. The Murdoch woman made it clear that Anna still needed a champion and Flora would be just that. She had no idea how but finding out all she could seemed the best way to start. That and the application of a bit of commonsense.
As the miles rolled on and she sipped her champagne she winced in embarrassment to remember her exchange with the Guide. It was entirely Miss Murdoch’s fault – if she hadn’t gone on and on about Anna and Flemish Mares and being ugly and whatnot and finding it all so amusing Flora might have left it alone. But she was goaded, goaded, into using that strangely outmoded language. Sister. She had never, in all her life, thought of herself as anybody’s sister except Rosie’s, and rather a poor one at that. The sisterhood, whatever its form in her growing-up years, was not a place she either knew much about or entered. But there was just something in the way Miss Murdoch spoke as if the failure of the marriage, the failure of her own womanhood, was all Anna’s, that made Flora seethe. It was such an old-fashioned attitude. Flora was a plain woman and as plain women go she had never been one to put her head very high above the parapet but she was glad that she had, despite the wincing, for she rather enjoyed the experience. There in the Louvre, the fanciful part of her thought, it was as if, somehow, the portrait was alive to her thoughts. The practical part of her put the sensation down to new widowhood, foreign food, over-tiredness and an unsettled brain rather than dark – or even light – forces.
Except, except . . . Was it not curious that there was the connection with Hurcott Ducis – and even with Flora’s own house? Her mind returned to that room and that portrait and the feeling that the picture spoke to her, pleaded with her even, to defend it. In the Louvre this seemed perfectly acceptable. Here on Eurostar it seemed foolish, arrogant and weird. But she would like to do something. Perhaps it would connect up with Edward’s history? Surprising comfort came in a phrase of her mother’s – applied to anything uncertain that had to be done – ‘Ah well – at least it gets you out of the house.’ Metaphorically speaking Flora probably did need getting out of the house. And it could be a two-way benefit – both in discovering Anna’s true history and giving Flora something that she genuinely wanted to do. A focus. Dangerously near to A Project but it couldn’t be helped. Good. It would focus the work. One of Edward’s problems was that he went for the widest-ranging attempt, the heroic, and found it unachievable – whereas Flora preferred to set herself a boundary and work within it. Anna of Cleves and the Hurcott connection was simple and perfect. Out of that might come a very satisfying piece of work.
She stared into the dark window. Hilary. It’s a shame that she can’t share the idea with Hilary. A braver mother would just say outright that she was going to focus on one offshoot of her father’s Last Great Work and pursue it because that was what interested her and that was what she felt capable of – but Flora was not a brave mother and Hilary was unlikely to be understanding. Edward was heroic, boundless in his brilliance, and Flora knew better than to try to say different. Hilary had little enough opinion of her intellectual powers at the best of times – so Flora must find a way of doing what she wanted to do and keeping Hilary happy. Just tweaking your father’s history here and there was suitable language. In other words, she must lie. If she did a good job Hilary might bend towards her a little and not notice that the scope of the work had changed. That, she thought, raising her glass to the reflection in the window, would be nice.
As they rattled through Ashford Flora thought about Ewan – with his little bald patch and his tender bit of rounded belly – and his kind eyes – and his irritating penchant for being married. She daydreamed as the last miles clattered along. It seemed so silly – Ewan wasn’t happy and she was nearer unhappy than not – you’d have thought Fate would step in and see the sense of it and do something. Dilly could hardly mind. Dilly never showed the slightest interest in her husband of an affectionate nature. In the light of her own experience Flora wondered if Dilly and Ewan still shared a bed. And then found herself blushing at the very idea of wondering such a thing. But she did wonder. In fact, she thought about it very seriously and decided that, alongside her research into Anna of Cleves, she would do a bit of research into the Davieses’ sleeping arrangements. If they did share a bed, then perhaps there was no more to be said – but if they slept alone – well then . . . It might be a kindness all round. Quite where this sudden boldness of thought came from, Flora wasn’t sure – something to do with finally daring to put her head above the parapet perhaps, something also to do with Anna’s story reminding her that attraction for a mate is never a given and that when you were blessed with it you might as well push on and try. And then there was Paris. The apartment felt illicit, Paris felt illicit, and look where Rosie was now. Too much conscience was not good for a woman.
Men were like cars – they were absolutely lovely until they went wrong. And no doubt the same was true for women. Dilly had obviously gone very wrong. Flora had not even gone wrong once. She was a well-behaved woman and maybe it was time to change that a bit. Let others worry about the morals of the situation. She might have stood a chance if Edward the Maserati had kindly informed her about his own little affair – she might have made a bit of headway herself – seen a bit of the seamy side at the very least, though Ewan was more of a Ford Fiesta. Nevertheless the feeling of resentment was useful as it made her feel justified. I deserve it, thought Flora crossly as the train pulled into Waterloo and she gathered together her luggage. I deserve it.
In the Terminal her confidence drained with the hissing of the brakes. The image of the pink-lipped Pike swam, gills rippling, into her mind. She was not much looking forward to living in Hurcott if word got out. No one would believe that she was quite amenable to the idea but a little cross at being left out of the loop. She could hear the tongues wagging. ‘Well, Flora Chapman would say that, wouldn’t she? Poor thing.’
In the train travelling back to Hurcott she wondered whether she would have had the courage to proposition Ewan if she had known about Edward’s little dalliance? Unlikely. He might have said yes. Also unlikely. But she might. And so might he. Edward and the Pink Pike had taken away her chance of illicit happiness by remaining illicit. Perhaps. It was hard to imagine Ewan behaving like Edward if she had cavorted au naturelle in front of him in the middle of the pond. But he just might. Flora would never know. The sadness of the missed opportunity overtook her. At least Anna of Cleves made that thrilling journey even if she suffered a spectacular rejection at the end of it. At least she had tasted excitement and glamour and had been shaken up to make a new pattern of herself. All those terrible, terrible things said of her, all that cruelty in such a cruel age. And she came through. That chin of hers in the portrait said something about that. At least Anna had ventured. N
othing ventured, thought Flora ruefully, nothing ventured . . . that’s me.
To the rhythm of her feet as she marched along the platform, past the Wally Binder Little Flowerbed of Horrors, pulling her suitcase behind her, she hummed ‘Greensleeves’. To think that Henry VIII was capable of writing such a beautiful song and could then chop the head off its object . . . Really Anna was saved much misery by not remaining married to such a monster. But Flora also wondered, and not entirely idly, what, if anything, Anna had put in her marriage’s place. What was her life after Henry? After the first weeks and months in England how did it all change? Flora wanted to know everything, everything. What was it Flaubert said of Emma? Bovary, c’est moi. Well, she thought, and Anna is me. She gave up her ticket in a fog of anticipation.
The note in the hall read, ‘Many thanks for the jumper. Please give me a ring as soon as you return. Love Ewan.’
Cor, she thought, as she dumped her bag and tottered down towards the kitchen and the telephone, this could be it – you go away for a few days and . . . He wrote the word love. He had certainly never used that word with her before. It was, she was sure, wonderfully significant.
By the time Flora made her telephone call to Ewan the story of ‘The scandalous double life of Edward Chapman, distinguished local countryman, and the Brownie Leader who fell in love with him and now mourns in secret . . .’ was splashed all over pages 1, 2 and 3 of the local paper. With photographs. Not that Flora knew anything of it, of course. But Ewan – if in no other capacity than that of her solicitor of long standing – felt something diplomatic was called for. At least the nationals hadn’t taken the story. There were quite enough scandals of higher profile to thrill the buying public. He had done his best. Talked to the most prurient of the villagers, asked for discretion where he could. Putting the word Love on Flora’s note was a way of expressing friendly solidarity. A hard word to write, he found.
The conversation between her solicitor and Flora was somewhat stilted as Ewan was in his office when he took the call and his secretary was sitting opposite him waiting for further instructions on the day’s work. The secretary, Cora Prout, had very wide eyes and very wide ears. Ewan was therefore economical. The fewer people who knew about Flora’s business, the better. Flora, who knew nothing of the secretary’s ocular or aural propensities, was hurt by his off-handedness. The word Love gave her courage. To her warmly intimate ‘How lovely to get your note when I got home, he merely replied, ‘Ah – yes – good of you to reply. However, I am rather busy at the moment. May I telephone you later? Will you be at home or are you going out?’
To which Flora, stung, embarrassed and near to tears, said stiffly that she was not sure if she would be in (and was tempted to say that she probably would be out abseiling or visiting the over-seventies fetish club). She apologised for disturbing him and ended the conversation crisply. ‘Well, Ewan – obviously it was not urgent so – goodbye . . .’ Which had the unexpected effect, when she put the phone down, of making her think she was even closer to Anna than she previously knew. One minute they were saying things like ‘Love or Nurturing Love’ and the next . . . you never knew where you were, she thought crossly, even with a dull, old, slightly balding, slightly pot-bellied solicitor.
Back in his office, on putting down the phone and seeing his secretary’s enquiringly bright eyes staring into his, Ewan found himself thinking much the same – except for the gender. He had not expected her to be quite that icy. After all, they were friends of a sort and he was only being protective. He was not looking forward to announcing Edward’s misdemeanour to her. From the way she spoke to him just then she might think he had colluded. Well – there was nothing else for it – someone had to tell her – he would leave the office as early as he could. The information must be given face to face and not ducked. It would probably be shoot the messenger, he thought gloomily, and she would probably want her nice handknitted jumper back.
Badly done-by women down the centuries may as well stick together, thought Flora. With the surge of empathy for Anna of Cleves still hot in her veins she decided to follow it through at once. No nonsense, no shilly-shallying. Accordingly, without even unpacking her used underwear, and feeling quite proud of the fact that she had left it unwashed (for it suggested the creatively committed) she set off for the village library which, though small and sporadically open, was useful and efficient. But to her ‘Morning, Myra,’ which was usually greeted by a broad smile and a few wayward wisps of grey hair as the Myra in question bobbed up, or looked down, from a bookshelf, Flora received a sad little smile, a touch of her hand as it came to rest on the desk, and a whispered ‘Hallo, dear.’ She re-composed her face into its brave little widow-woman mask, and bore it. She had hoped the village would have eased off the condolences by now. She put in her request and got the sad little smile once more.
There followed a very strange series of non sequiturs which had Flora feeling that she might, after all, have become a little mad. Paris and talking portraits and now this. For Myra said, ‘It is all absolutely ghastly for you. And we on the Parish Council feel something of blame.’ Flora did not quite know how to take this statement. Tiresome. She wanted to put Edward’s death behind her and get on with life. She sighed. ‘Well,’ she said carefully, trying to strike a midway note, ‘I’m recovering slowly. Of course it came as a shock but one must accept that everyone is mortal – even dear Edward.’
‘Well, we of the Parish Council do not accept that,’ said an indignant Myra.
Frankly, Flora thought, the Parish Council might see themselves as a godlike body, but coming between a man and his death seemed to be pushing it . . . She smiled, vaguely, and said, ‘Well, Myra, I have accepted it, and so, I think, must you.’
‘Well, we of the Parish Council, Flora, say that it never ought to have happened and we are looking into it. It’s our responsibility.’
‘Is it?’ By now Flora was confused and slightly offended – Ye gods, was even her own state of widowhood to be wrested from her? – ‘I don’t think you can really say that, Myra. After all – he chose to do it, nobody forced him. It was Edward’s decision alone.’
‘Oh no –’ said Myra, the grey wisps falling thick and fast now, ‘it takes two to tango, you know.’
Flora was momentarily speechless. Tango? They both stared at each other – rather nervously now.
Eventually Flora said, kindly though cautiously, ‘He was inexperienced. And it was his choice.’ Myra’s eyes grew irritatingly wide. ‘There is no one else to blame. Pauline filmed the whole thing though I haven’t as yet been able to bring myself to watch the video.’
There was almost nothing left to be seen of Myra’s face as the rest of her hair descended. ‘Filmed it?’ she whispered, pale with shock. ‘Filmed it? But that’s absolutely scandalous.’
Flora said, ‘Well, I think Edward asked her to.’
Myra sank down on to the desk, her large tracksuited haunch spreading out behind her. She put her head in her hands thus shedding the last of the bobby pins. ‘And to think,’ she said in a voice soft with the horror of it, ‘and to think that we let her loose on our children. We shall all probably be sued. Sued.’
Flora looked at her watch and braced herself. ‘I’ve only got a few minutes,’ she said firmly. ‘Can I –’ and she produced her list. Myra regretfully shed her role of commiseration with a brave little woman, patted Flora’s hand, and became a librarian once more. Except she had never been quite like this with Flora . . . with Edward, yes, she had hurled herself rapturously into any tasks he set her, but not for Flora.
Now it was all for Flora as if she were performing a task for royalty. Myra shinned up a shelf, made out all the requests for orders from the main library immediately – and hunted for anything vaguely linked to the old Manor. Nothing was too much trouble. Flora must sit and wait, no point, no point at all in both of them rushing about. If it was not there, Myra could get it – yea, even from the ends of the earth and verily. Eventually a some
what dazed Flora took away two dusty novels of fifties vintage both with approximations of the fourth wife of Henry VIII illustrated on their front covers, both of whom seemed to sport fifties perms and a fondness for Hartnell’s frocks.
As she walked on towards the High Street and the post office, feeling unnerved by the sudden kindness, she met with many a strange and sympathetic stare. Callous as it might seem she longed to say to everyone that she had moved on – a bit – and so must they. But the sympathy of passers-by is not easy to deal with. If Flora grabbed someone by the shoulder and delivered a little speech about happiness and reasonable solvency she would look even madder. Why, Myra might come and snatch these very books from her hands. So she bore it. And went on down the road towards the stores and post office still as the brave little widow-woman.
Betty Gregg, a pale and rather bloodless woman who really could have been anywhere between thirty-five and fifty with a soft spot for Animal Rights, came from behind the counter and removed her spectacles and squeezed Flora’s arm with surprising enthusiasm (she was usually a bit of a tartar and would ration sets of commemorative stamps at will) and said, ‘We want you to know that we are on your side in this. A terrible thing to happen. Terrible.’
Déjà vu, thought Flora, weakly. ‘Well – that was Edward all over,’ she said brightly. ‘Forever trying out new things and paying the price.’