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Amenable Women

Page 25

by Mavis Cheek


  ‘Bearing up is the term for it, I think,’ she said, half relieved. ‘It’ll take a while. They were very close, her and Edward.’ ‘My darling daddy,’ said Flora with a touch more heightened arthritic acidity than she should.

  But he was shading his eyes and looking out at the paddock. ‘It’s a lovely spot here,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you didn’t sell up and move in with her.’ He said it innocently enough but there was every indication that he knew perfectly well what was going on.

  ‘I love it here far too much,’ she said. ‘And you must come and visit whenever you like.’ Which was as much as she dared say. She poured her glass of wine and put it on the table beside the teacup and saucer. It was nice to see two things set on the table again, comforting.

  While she stood in the kitchen dreamily waiting for the water to boil for his tea and thinking that if she tried very hard she could just about imagine what life might have been had she married someone like Ewan – that this coming together, this perfect harmony reached at the end of a beautiful day, might be a normal experience – he leaned against the doorway and watched the sun finally fading away to a pale pinkish purple glow and looked as much at ease as she felt. So she plucked up courage and said, ‘There’s an exhibition opening in London and the Louvre portrait of Anna of Cleves has come back to England – along with a lot of contemporary portraits – royal women in the sixteenth century – turbulent times – all that – some by the same painter who painted her, Hans Holbein. And it did cross my mind that we could go and see it . . . With her Hurcott connection and everything.’

  ‘You and Hilary?’ he said politely, still staring at the darkening sky. ‘That’ll be nice.’

  ‘No – well yes – I suppose – but she’s very busy at the moment and I thought you and I could go. If you were interested. I’ve done so much research on her and she is fascinating, quite fascinating . . . And I’d like it.’ Suddenly it sounded very lame . . . I’d like it. Hardly enticing. She found herself crossing her fingers and squeezing her eyes shut as she spoke. ‘Just a thought,’ she said. ‘You’ll be busy. But I just thought . . .’

  Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.

  ‘Good idea,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘I’ve always been interested in local history – partly what I do I suppose. But of course Edward being Edward really got stuck into it. He was tremendously dedicated to things like that. Ahead of his time, really. I never seemed to get interested in anything very much. Except golf. And fish.’

  Flora turned her back and added to the eyes tight shut her worst possible face-pulling – and that, she knew, was saying something. It helped her frustration a little as she slopped boiling water into the pot. Edward. Hrmph.

  Ewan, still lost in gazing at the deepening sky, went on. ‘And now, suddenly, people seem to have woken up to the fact their history is important. Everyone wants to find out about the past or their ancestors. As if by doing that it will help to make sense of the present.’

  ‘I think what’s remarkable is that it shows us that we’re all basically still just the same. I’ve always thought that was history’s real value.’

  ‘Have you?’ he said. He sounded slightly surprised. Maybe he, too, thought that Flora having an idea of her own was a rara avis.

  ‘Yes I have,’ she said, louder than she meant to sound, and began stirring the tea. She had used her prettiest Spode pot. Rara avis indeed. She’d show him. ‘I’ve been interested in history for years – and years.’ Even louder. ‘It was me who introduced Edward to it, really.’ She threw the teaspoon down with a clatter.

  Ewan blinked and looked a little nervous. ‘Well,’ he said gently, ‘that’s lucky then, Flora. No reason why all your hard work shouldn’t be enjoyed by the whole village. We can all get involved. It might be good for our collective soul. As you say – a reminder of just how small and inconsequential we are – Kings and Princes and labourers alike are but fleeting. All golden lads and lasses must like chimney sweepers come to dust.’

  ‘It’ll need time to brew,’ said Flora, mollified. ‘Nice pot,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘If I know anything about Edward,’ said Ewan, running his finger down the door lintel and scrutinising its paintwork, ‘it will be along the lines of Out of Chaos, Flora, you have brought forth Order . . . Get into a muddle, sometimes, those whacky geniuses.’ He looked at her and smiled with just enough collusion to make her forgive him.

  She turned away from him and began pouring milk into the cup. ‘And you’d really like to go and see the portrait?’

  ‘I think it’s a great idea.’

  Released from gurning and eye-squeezing and finger crossing and feelings of frustration, Flora nearly fell over with pleasure. How extraordinarily nice, she thought. I have made a suggestion and he does not – like Edward – snort with derision. ‘So you’ll definitely come?’

  ‘Definitely. I think my artistic soul’s ready for an overhaul. You know what they say about lawyers.’ He laughed a little sadly and Flora longed to say that his soul didn’t need it at all.

  She poured his tea. Nice and dark. And returned the teapot to the bench. Then, absentmindedly she handed him the glass of red wine. Absentmindedly he took it. And sipped it. She picked up the teacup and said thoughtfully, ‘It just seems to me that Anna of Cleves was much maligned and if – through looking at the history of the village – we can do something about correcting that historical opinion, then we should.’

  He said, ‘We can all go on a visit to the exhibition and pay homage . . . United in something more important than wheelie bins for once.’

  Oh no – thought Flora – Oh no . . .

  She had a sudden, awful image of the whole community of Hurcott Ducis coming up to London on a charabanc and crowding her out in her moment of triumph. Foot would be yawning, the Reverend Arthur pontificating, Myra and Betty vying for statement space . . . She’d be lost in the opinionated stampede, for who would expect her, Flora, to have anything much to say?

  The brain can go woolly with shock, or it can sharpen. Desperation is a wonderful mentor, Flora discovered. ‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘what I’d really like to do?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  He was smelling the wine now, cradling the glass in his hand, rubbing the ball of his thumb on its curved underbelly.

  I’ll bet you don’t, she thought sadly, looking with longing at that caressing thumb.

  Out loud she said, ‘Well – before anyone else from Hurcott goes up to see the portrait, I’d like to go on my own – well – with you if you will – just to be able to see it quietly again. I’ve become so involved over these weeks that it feels as if I’ll be going to see a friend – and I wouldn’t want to overwhelm her.’ It was possibly the silliest speech she had ever made but it came from the heart. Ewan’s eyes glowed with sympathy and understanding. ‘Absolutely,’ he said, ‘and then we can tell the village all about the exhibition afterwards and they can organise it for themselves . . .’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Flora, her heart thumping near to a faint. ‘It’s on for ages, the show. I could give a little talk about it all beforehand – in the village hall. Tell them about the stone and everything to do with Anna.’

  Stop there, she told herself, as the words over and egging and pudding came to mind, stop there.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, sipping, smelling, savouring and letting his thumb rove where it would. ‘It would be good to do something here. We don’t do very much as a village any more – well I suppose we’re nearer the size of a small town – but this puts a bit of collective heart back into things.’ He laughed. ‘Sir Randolph will probably claim her as one of his ancestors and try to pinch the stone – or get Foot to dig it out. But we can make such a song and dance about group ownership that he wouldn’t dare touch it.’

  ‘Well – we’ll just have to emphasise what a survivor she was and how this stone represents that and must be kept where everyone can see it. A lesson for all our lives. Those were hard times t
o survive well in. The whole century was full of dissent and friction. All the Tudors were kept on their toes.’ Survivor, thought Flora, and a very little tinkling bell began a-tinkling.

  ‘I find the Hurcott connection with Anna really touching. She came here when things got more dangerous than usual in English politics – and all the religious struggles. She’d be made safe at Hurcott – out of the way, overlooked, could worship as she chose, dress as she liked, do whatever she wanted and no one would be there to rebuke her. The villagers would leave her alone and the gentry who came to visit would be the sensible, unambitious types, happy to be away from the court with nothing on their minds to cause her anxiety. She was liked, you know. People enjoyed being in her company. Even her stepdaughters, who were at daggers drawn between themselves, loved her and visited her together. Maybe even here. I can imagine everyone loving the peace and quiet and fun and simple pleasures of Anna’s household . . . She was famously a good cook and sport –’

  ‘Sounds like my kind of woman,’ said Ewan playfully. ‘And enjoyed her wines . . .’

  He did not flinch.

  ‘Quite similar to myself, in fact.’ Flora took the glass from his hand and sipped.

  Now, of course, was the other moment. Fate had sent two. Flora could not make it clearer than this – short of pointing to herself and saying Take Me. Just how long could a silence linger before it became pregnant? Ewan looked at the glass, and then at her. ‘Wasn’t this supposed to be yours?’ he said.

  She handed it back. ‘We can share it.’ She moved nearer. He looked at his watch. ‘Good Lord,’ he said, ‘is that the time? It’s nearly eight.’ He kept his head bent low over his wrist. But she saw that the tips of his ears were red. She took the glass and drank again and waited till their eyes met.

  ‘What’s the time now?’ she asked, laughing despite herself. Ewan was more scared than she was.

  He looked surprised and said, ‘About one minute past. And I must go.’

  ‘Must you?’ She poured a little more wine into the glass. ‘Solicitors and clients,’ he said, ‘very bad combination after dark.’

  ‘And friends?’

  ‘Perfectly acceptable,’ he said, smiling with relief.

  There were long shadows in the kitchen now and the walls were lit by that thick golden light of last sun before it sinks on the horizon. ‘And leaves the world to darkness, and to me . . .’ she said, slipping past him out into the garden again, and sitting on a chair. She looked towards the paddock and the wall and said, ‘Come and sit down and enjoy the last bit of the day. It’s a time I love. Edward would never sit down for long. Always active, always on the go.’

  She heard, rather than saw, him sit down next to her. Once she was sure he was settled she turned her chair to face him. He looked quite at home, quite comfortable. ‘Oh, I’ll sit and stare any time of the day or night,’ he said. ‘Especially on summer evenings like this. And with a glass of good Médoc in my hand.’

  ‘Is it?’ she said. ‘I just opened a bottle from the cellar at random.’

  ‘Château Briolet,’ he said, ‘and why not?’

  Why not indeed, she thought, but the game was – for the moment – over.

  He rolled another sip of wine over his tongue. ‘Go on about our German Queen who’s a bit like you.’

  ‘Well, from what I’ve read her life was not quite so good after Henry died. Well, it wasn’t for anyone, of course, unless they toed the Protestant line. We should remember, you know, that people really cared about their souls in those days. Whenever I go into an old church or cathedral and see how bashed about it is I have to remind myself that people did it believing it was God’s will . . . We’ve come a long way since then, perhaps too far . . . Anyway – maybe markers, stones, were important both to break down or build up – to the rigid they represented idolatry, to the free mind they represented continuity, strength of purpose. I think that stone is a marker of Anna’s qualities, her qualities that history decided were of no consequence and usefully forgotten. If I can find the connection between the late dating and the fact that the aged Elizabeth – who was her stepdaughter, then her step-niece, was on the throne – I’m sure it’s the key to it all.’ The bell had rung for those words and they surprised her. But it seemed the way forward.

  He was looking at the beautiful sky and nodded. ‘It’s all a mystery really. It would be so good to believe in a happy kingdom come . . . That the soul was in good order. I mean, why are we here?’ Flora wanted to say that she knew why she was, but managed not to interrupt him. ‘If we knew that then we could forgive ourselves a little more for what we do on earth now.’ He smiled at her.

  ‘Oh, you – you’re a good man. A very good man.’ He stood up. ‘Am I?’ he said.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘And you are a very good woman.’ She moved towards him.

  ‘And I must go,’ he said.

  ‘You see?’ she said. ‘You are a good man.’

  ‘Not really,’ he said, looking up at the sky again. ‘Not really good at all.’

  ‘Well – whatever you think. But I think that’s exactly why we look for ancient connections. To remind ourselves that our human goodness was always in us. As well as our human badness, of course. While the world was being torn apart, Anna came down here and lived among the villagers and life continued its proper course. Do you see? And somebody, many years after she died, thought her life was good enough and worth marking with a stone. A big, heavy, indestructible reminder that someone once lived and was good. Which she was. As we can all be if we want.’ Why, Flora, she thought, you sound quite intelligent, if a little soppy.

  ‘The certainty of history mixed with the unshakeable goodness of the human spirit ruled by a benign God?’ He looked into his nearly empty glass. She took it. And drained it and said, ‘I’m not giving you any more, you know.’

  ‘I should hope not.’

  I’d give you Edward’s entire cellar if you asked, she thought. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘the past just shows up the thinness of the way we live now. You see every aspect of the black heart of wickedness in the buying and selling of property and the making and ending of marriage, believe me. It’s more than thinness, it’s degeneracy. And it sets up a terrible expectation – as if you can buy goodness with plastic surgery – give yourself the face of an angel but keep the soul of a devil inside.’

  ‘Goodness,’ she said, and touched her face. He reached out and touched her cheek.

  ‘At least you’ve never even considered plastic surgery – and you certainly could have.’

  ‘Why sir, your compliments have a very cruel back hand . . .’ He quickly took his hand away. ‘I didn’t mean –’

  ‘I know,’ she said. And went back indoors. She put the glass in the sink and switched on the lights. The magical hour was over. She had lost. The pretty Spode teapot sat there disapprovingly. She picked it up.

  ‘To be beautiful and rich is not something either of us have to worry about, Flora,’ he said. ‘That’s not an insult, it’s a compliment. If you have both then you are afraid that time will remove one or the other.’

  ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Of course you are. At least we don’t have to worry on either score.’

  Just for a moment their eyes met across the teapot. Hers defiant and his – well – affectionate certainly – but also surprised. ‘A blessing to be plain and ordinary,’ she said, and laughed and just for that moment she thought she probably meant it.

  Then Flora decided to do some small thing for Anna. She raised a finger at him. ‘No more calling my Queen Anna the Flanders Mare then.’

  ‘No more Flanders Mare, I promise.’

  ‘You know,’ she said, ‘for all the fuss and bother they caused, Anna only ever referred to her looks once in all the mentions of her throughout her years in England. And that was after Henry had chopped off the head of her replacement, Catherine Howard. It was rumoured he would take Anna back but he didn’t, and he chose a widow called K
atherine Parr instead of Anna. Anna went slightly hoity-toity over it – showed surprise at his choice – and remarked that she was the more beautiful – a fact to which several contemporary sources attested – but whether she said it out of huff at not being made Queen afterwards, or whether she said it in a moment of triumph for all the unfair things said in the past, we’ll never – quite – know. But I just think it makes her seem much more human. I know I’d do the same as her – if it were true.’

  If she hoped that Ewan would change his mind and immediately do a Sir Galahad and say that Flora was, indeed, beautiful he did not. Instead he leaned his bottom on the edge of the Aga and said, ‘I’m looking forward to seeing this paragon. We must go soon.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, feeling foolishly thrilled.

  ‘But now –’ He pushed himself away from the stove’s comforting warmth – even on a summer’s night it was seductive to the bottoms of men – less flesh on them Flora supposed – and said, ‘Now I really must go –’ He checked his watch, sucked in his breath, looked suitably regretful and that, at least, was a comfort. When the door closed behind him she stood in the hall for a moment and hugged herself. ‘I have a date,’ she said. ‘A date. And the Pink Pike’s head has rolled.’

  Flora then leapt into the sitting room and watched his shadowy progress as he toddled off down the road, past the wheelie bins and into the distance along by the pond – the misty semi-moonlight shining on his little bald patch, his hand tapping the side of his leg. She felt that comforting tenderness for him all over again. He was the antithesis of Edward. How unfair it was that nice, kind Ewan was so enviably loyal to a wife who drank and mounted horses the wrong way round and went around being rude to people, while intolerant, brilliant, unkind Edward had a wife who never caused him a moment of serious grief in his life and he could barely praise her mashed potato. Self-pity was a very dreadful thing, she knew, but really, who better was there to feel sorry for you than yourself?

 

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