Strangers in a Garden

by Deanna Maclaren

  Yes, she would. Of course she would.

  ‘This Lutterworth thing’s tomorrow night,’ Hugo went on. ‘I could swing you a ticket.’

  ‘That’s very kind, but – I can’t leave mother.’ Can’t bear the thought of Adrian looking right through me.

  For the first time, the Lutterworth ceremony was to be televised. Would Patricia be with Adrian? Would the presenter say who was who? Laura had never met Patricia. All she knew, really was that she had reddish hair and wasn’t particularly pretty. So if Adrian turned up with some busty blonde…

  It wasn’t on until nine, by which time her mother had been in bed three hours. Please, prayed Laura, don’t let this be one of those nights when she gets up wailing, it’s morning, where’s the paper, we’re late!

  The ceremony was held in one of the great old Livery Halls in the City. Panelled walls adorned with historic emblems. The presenter, clearly awed at the ancient (if blokish) opulence of the setting, was speaking to the nation in the reverential tones of someone reporting on a state funeral.

  Laura was on the edge of her seat, waiting for a glimpse of Adrian. Oh, how must he be feeling! At last, the camera cut to the table where Adrian and, she assumed, the publisher, were finishing dinner.

  She could see he was jittered with nerves. Not too much booze, Adrian, Laura warned him. This is not the time to get rat-arsed. Not yet.

  He was wearing the dinner suit he’d had on for the May Ball. The night they split up. He was flanked by a woman, brunette, in serious glasses, and on his right, the presenter intoned,

  ‘We see John Gilpin himself, proudly independent Scottish publisher…’

  But who’s the woman, Laura screamed. Tell me who she is!

  At last, the portly chairman of the judges got to his feet. The master of ceremonies rapped for silence. The chairman’s announcement was formulaic. He was making the most of his moment.

  ‘Six novels, any of which, all the judges are agreed, would be a worthy winner of the Lutterworth prize. I intend to remind you of them, in alphabetical order…’

  Oh get on with it, groaned Laura. This isn’t bloody Miss World.

  ‘And next, Preferred Lies by Adrian Fry. A first novel and a remarkable achievement by a writer so young. Written while he was still at university and we have no idea what his tutor had to say about Mr Fry’s late attendance at tutorials…’ Pause for chortles. Camera on Adrian, laughing with THAT woman. Who the hell was she?

  ‘The tension,’ the presenter said, in deadening tones, ‘is electric.’

  For Laura it was. She wanted to run round the room, let off steam.

  ‘So without more ado, it is my pleasure and privilege to announce that the winner of the 1965 Lutterworth prize is – Adrian Fry.’

  Oh God, he’s done it! And there was Adrian smiling at the camera, at her, the same shyly delighted smile he’d had when she did interesting things to him in the porch at Roadnights.

  ‘And there he is, being congratulated by John Gilpin, his publisher. Oh, and there’s a kiss from –‘

  ‘Mum! Get out of the way!’

  Her mother was up, blocking Laura’s view of the television.

  ‘It’s Adrian. Adrian. You met him. He’s just won the Lutterworth.’

  ‘What?’

  Laura was so angry, she knocked her mother sideways. Kay fell on the sofa like a rag doll.

  ‘The John Gilpin table is going mad. And as Adrian Fry makes his way to the stage, you can tell from the applause that this is a very popular win. He’s not been on the literary scene for very long, but he’s certainly made his mark. And accompanying him to the award ceremony –’

  ‘Yes, who IS she?’ yelled Laura.

  ‘Gilpin’s editorial director, Ann Boyd.’

  ‘Tea,’ Kay was whining. ‘I got up for some tea.’

  Laura raced to put the kettle on and was back in time to hear an evidently calm Adrian, cheque in hand, saying,

  ‘…Wonderful team to work with and I hope we can do a lot more business together.’

  Thank you, Logan. Now is he going to thank bloody Patricia? Who, obviously, has not been invited. Still, she could be lurking in – what was it called – the hospitality room, the green room. (Why was it called that?)

  ‘But you know, I’m not the important person here. Neither, as a matter of fact, is the publisher. The important person is you. The reader. You’re the one who makes the journey to the shop, chooses mine, and pays money for it. I’ve had some fantastic letters and I promise I will get round to –‘

  The kettle was whistling. ‘The kettle!’ bleated Kay.

  By the time Laura had made the tea, Adrian was gone. But he’d done it! He’d won. Laura felt as elated as if she’d won it herself. And what, she wondered, would Adrian spend all that money on?

  ‘So your boy won,’ Hugo said, as Laura was dressing. Laura regarded him grimly. Don’t patronise my Adrian.

  ‘Clever speech, I thought. Good for TV, pulling in ordinary people, ordinary readers, at home. Now’ he went on, ‘You getting your usual train?’

  ‘No. Airport. Glasgow. Girls’ reunion.’ She’d paid Suzie extra to look after Kay.

  ‘Christ. My wife does reunions. Crowd of screaming women in my sitting room downing my wine.’

  Laura doubted whether, on the steps, any alcoholic refreshment would be available. No briefcase today, just a straw basket with her overnight things in.

  She and Hugo left the room, and he pressed the button for the lift. They got in. It stopped on the third floor and a scrawny woman rushed in and said, ‘Hello, darling. What are you doing here?’

  ‘There’s a new gym,’ Hugo said. ‘Thought I’d check it out. What about you?’

  ‘Just meeting Boo for a mint tea.’

  A mint tea. Oh, be still my beating heart, Laura thought, assuming the appropriate expression people adopted when travelling with strangers in a lift. Slightly bored, no eye contact, wishing the thing would get a move on.

  Laura got out of the lift first, and left them to it.

  At the airport, she bought a gossipy magazine to read on the plane. There were pictures of Tom and Cressida. He, handsome in a dinner jacket, although he famously refused to wear a tie, Cressida, his countess, with flowers in her hair. Such a united couple. The darlings of London society. Laura felt like spitting.

  Thank heavens for the gang on the steps, who had no pretensions to a starry life.

  They were all there, except Fiona who was giving her stepsons their tea.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Miss Speddie,’ said Marje. ‘She says we can have Room Nine.’

  ‘Isn’t it lovely the way nothing changes here,’ enthused Dinkie. ‘You know, I got a lump in my throat when Miss Speddie opened the door.’

  Laura knew, from a postcard Dinkie had sent, that she had moved home to Campelltown and opened her own salon having, halleluja, finally gained her Revlon manicure certificate.

  She handed round cigarettes and when Lol took one, Dinkie shrieked. ‘You mustn’t! Your voice!’

  Lol shrugged and lit up. She was wearing a tangerine jungle print dress with white lipstick and her blonde hair, still short, still gamine, had that ‘always falling back into place look’ indicative of an expensive cut. Laura, in her sensible skirt, felt dowdy in comparison. Marje had on a lumpy jumper and Dinkie, bless her, had put on more weight.

  ‘Lol’s going to be famous,’ Marje said, in her matter-of-fact way. ‘She’s got a recording contract. She’s going to sing songs in Gaelic.’

  ‘Which no one will understand,’ gurgled Lol. ‘I could be really rude and no one would know.’

  ‘But how did all this happen?’ asked Laura.

  Lol threw her butt into the drive. ‘Cressida. She knows a lot of people in London. Barbara Hulanuki, Mary Quant and loads of showbiz of course. Oh’ she saw Laura’s puzzled expression, ‘I’ve been staying with Cress and Tom in Mayfair.’

  Laura felt she couldn’t bear this. What was she to say about her life?
Looking after her mother? She’d get the sympathy vote, but the Most Boring vote as well. Hugo? Absolutely not. Off limits conversationally, always.

  She burst out, ‘Wasn’t it great about Adrian?’

  ‘It was all in the Glasgow Herald,’ Marje said. And Laura had to explain to Dinkie that Adrian had won the most prestigious literary prize in the British Isles with a novel he’d written at university.

  ‘He’s got a second one coming out,’ Lol said. ‘I saw him in London. He stays with Tom and Cress when he’s in town.’ She laughed. ‘Remember that Sunday, we were here on the steps and Adrian stood up to Miss Speddie over the Bible?’

  Yes, Laura remembered. Adrian, handsome in his blazer. The girls doe-eyed with admiration.

  ‘The thing is,’ Lol went on, ‘I’m convinced Adrian has a dark secret.’

  ‘I know,’ Laura said acidly. ‘Her name’s Patricia Souter.’

  But Lol was looking thoughtful, and Laura reminded herself that she was from Arran, where the women had a reputation for having mystic gifts.

  Lol said softly,’ Let’s face it, Laura. Adrian was the love of your life.’ No one needed to say the rest of it. ‘And you lost him.’

  Divert, Laura told herself. Get away from Adrian. From the memory of him crashing down these steps after she’d delivered that stinging blow to his face.

  ‘Isn’t London terrific now? The girls! Every time I get home I cut another three inches off my skirts.’

  ‘I’m not fucking standing for it, ‘ yelled Tempesta. ‘You shape up or you’re outta here. This apartment, this bed, this city. You are fucking OUT.’ She reached down and siezed his balls. Cruelly. ‘Are you receiving me, sweetie?’

  Laura was reading to her mother. Karinne’s idea. ‘They find it relaxing, being read to. And with your mother, she won’t need a vast stock of books. She won’t remember any of it…’

  Naturally, Laura had thought her mother would prefer a nice romantic novel. But no. What she relished was the rubbish Laura read on the Paddington train. She skipped reading out all the explicit sex and concentrated all her theatrical skills on the verbal exchanges.

  After a while, Kay James almost seemed capable of mouthing the dialogue along with Laura, which wasn’t surprising as the books were all the same. They had heroines called Avila, Emerald or Tempesta who strode through New York on a blast of green note perfume, mowing down all opposition and taking no shit from ANYONE, geddit? They didn’t have ill, difficult mothers. Their families were either dirt poor (providing an emotional springboard to a better life) or powerful and therefore useful. When family members died, it was either with considerate discretion, or fraught with drama, provoking decades of vendetta and revenge.

  But Tempesta and Co could handle it. They were feisty, decisive and long-legged. Just in case you missed this, they were fond of shouting at any passing stranger, or even the coffee pot, that no one, do you get me, no one was going to fuck them about.

  They made Laura feel tired. Guilty of being such a reactive person without a proper plan, a target, a goal. Most of her life she seemed to have just followed the flow.

  On the other hand, by not having her sights set firmly on a winning post, she’d been able to cherish all sorts of sights and pleasures along the way. She’d been able to act on impulse, meander, explore interesting side roads. Going with the flow had certainly led her into some promising pastures.

  She wondered what Tempesta would dream up to kickstart Hugo.

  Laura realised he needed something extra but she didn’t know what, and with her mother becoming increasingly frail, she didn’t have the time or energy for research into the realms of the erotic. After being up and down all night, waiting on her mother, worrying about her mother, getting her washed and to the loo, preparing meals she might or might not want, dealing with her increasingly frequent bouts of vicious temper, brought on, Karinne reminded her in her infuriatingly gentle fashion, by her dementia, when every other Wednesday came round Laura was so fraught she just wanted a good lunch, some sex and everything laid on for her.

  She was too exhausted to worry about Hugo’s problem. If he wanted something different, something more titillating, he was enough of a managerial type to find a way.

  ‘Spot of bother about the hotel,’ Hugo said, over the phone.

  Laura took another swig of gin. You could never tell with these public school types. ‘Spot of bother’ could mean the couple in the next room complaining about the noise, or a bomb going off.

  ‘My wife,‘ Hugo went on. ‘We ran into her, if you remember, in the lift.’

  Lightheaded, Laura’s mind raced. ‘Don’t tell me she’s been having it off in the same hotel, at the same time?’

  ‘Don’t be absurd, Laura. Fact is, she didn’t believe my yarn about the gym. She went back to the hotel and found the gym was closed for redecoration. Atmosphere now very chilly at home. So I think we’d better cool it for a while.’

  Well, thought Laura. So that’s that. She knew she was going to miss him. Miss her escape into a safe erotic world, the different restaurants, the sexual ritual, the unstinting admiration, so firmly leashed in public and directional when they were alone.

  Of course, there had never been any question of a weekend, even a night away. Apart from his conviction that it wasn’t safe, Laura couldn’t spare the time from her mother, and she just couldn’t imagine she and Hugo sitting cosily together over their breakfast poached eggs.

  It’s curious how, when one thing stops being the way it used to be, all sorts of other parts and people of your life also start behaving in an aberrant way.

  Always, her sister in law had been in the habit of phoning Spring Cottage at around midday on Sunday. So when the phone went just after eight pm on Saturday, Laura’s heart raced, imagining something had happened to Richard or the children.

  ‘No, no panic,’ Penny said. ‘I’ve just got a quiet evening. Richard’s taken the girls off to a party, so I thought I’d give you a call. What are you doing?’

  They were trying to do what they always did on Saturday nights. Watch the soccer results. Their entire evening was built round it. Laura usually made fish pie in the afternoon while her mother had a nap. Then, coupons at the ready, they had the fish pie and cups of tea while they fantasised about how they’d spend their millions.

  Mrs James didn’t have a favourite team, she was too busy flirting with the announcer. Laura liked the Scottish teams. Queen of the South. How on earth did a gutsy football team get a name like that?

  As a result of Penny’s call, Laura missed most of the results. Kay had written them down but she was never reliable, so as it was a sunny morning Laura took the opportunity on Sunday to walk into the village for the paper. Coming back, she checked the results and of course, they hadn’t won.

  She had a drink at the pub and ambled back, thinking, we can have the rest of the fish pie for lunch. One advantage of her mother’s dementia was that she could never remember what she’d eaten five minutes ago, let alone yesterday.

  As Laura walked into the cottage, she was startled to hear Hugo booming at her. Laura had left the television on for Kay. As usual, she’d got in a muddle with the controls and the sound was at teenage decibels.

  ‘Thrilled and delighted,’ Hugo was shouting. Laura turned him down a bit. ‘Thrilled, of course, like anyone would be, to have won. Especially as I didn’t even know I did the pools!’

  Now the camera was on Dinah, gazing at him with loving indulgence. So that’s all right then, Laura thought.

  ‘Hugo’s mother does the pools entry for all of us,’ said Dinah.

  Hugo had his arm around her. She gazed adoringly up at him. Laura giggled, remembering the time she’d had to stop him coming by tying one of his shoelaces round his cock. Another trick the builder had taught her.

  The presenter of the magazine programme gave them a sympathetic smile. ‘But the real winners today are not the Monteith family. Correct, Hugo?’

  Hugo nodded, serio
us now. ‘Winning the pools is, of course, every family’s dream come true. And of course Dinah and I want to provide for the security of our elderly relatives, and our son. But as many of you know, tragically, we lost our only daughter to meningitis. She was five years old. So Dinah and I have decided that the bulk of this win will be given to the Meningitis Research organisation, the president of which is with us today.’

  Diddley Om stretched out her hand and brought into camera range the president of Meningitis Research. Hugo drew a cheque from his jacket pocket. There was a bit of jocular business because Hugo hadn’t actually had the cheque from Vernons yet so his cheque to the meningitis people had to be post dated and he assumed Vernons had his ‘in the post’ har har.

  He rang on Tuesday evening. ‘I can meet you tomorrow.’

  No are you free? Have you met someone else?

  ‘You looked terrific on TV,’ Laura said, as she finished the champagne. ‘And it was a magnificent gesture, Hugo, giving all that money away.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t want to,’ he said robustly. ‘I did it for Dinah. If I keep my nose clean I’ll get a knighthood in a few years. All the charity committees I chair.’

  Lady Dinah, Laura thought. Well, well.

  A month later, Hugo rang early on Sunday morning. ‘Have they been on to you?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Press. The game’s up, Laura. She’s found out. I refused to tell her anything about you, but she spent a week ferreting about and now she’s done a big interview with that harpy who writes in the Express.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’

  ‘I only knew myself half an hour ago. All the past week she’s been pretending to be the loyal wife. You know, I promise never again and she promises to keep her mouth shut and we’re both on a promise to be Sir Hugo and Lady Monteith. But now she’s changed her mind.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. The main thing is, is there anywhere you can go, out of the public eye? Just till the fuss dies down.’

  Laura rang Susie and then Vi to see if they would come in and supervise mother. Then she bolted, in a complex series of coach trips, to Littlehampton on the south coast. She chose it because the family used to go on day trips there when she and Richard were bucket-and-spade age. Nothing much happens in Littlehampton, she recalled. You sit on the beach. You have a fish and chip supper with sliced white bread and cups of tea. That’s it, really.