Imaginative Experience

by Mary Wesley

  Labouring together, they had made the compost heap, a mountain of grass cuttings, weeds, newspaper, kitchen rubbish, tea leaves, autumn leaves, potato peelings, even old socks. Giles tested its degree of fermentation with a long metal stave, saying, ‘Next year, when this is properly rotted, we will spread it on the garden. It will be rich and friable. But this year she must buy dung.’ Clodagh had cavilled at the cost of farmyard manure and its pungent smell. Was that the time Giles had a row with Clodagh, a row which woke her in the night? Was it that row or another which, erupting again next day, caused Giles to say, ‘I could murder the old bitch and bury her in the compost heap’?

  She had laughed; one laughed easily when attracted to the person who made the joke. ‘When she is rotted,’ Giles had said, ‘mine will be the richest, most friable compost in the county,’ rolling the Rs in the word ‘friable’ so that for days they giggled at the mention of compost. (’Here, put this with the compost;’ hoots and toots of silly laughter.) Temporarily then they were united against Clodagh, not only by the irritation caused by her bossiness but by a joke shared. That was before Giles, catching her unaware on the day Clodagh had been taken to the hospital by Madge Brownlow to have her cast removed, had tripped her, forced her to the ground (by the compost heap) and raped her.

  Driving through the night in Mr Patel’s van, Julia shivered as she remembered the cold ground on her back and retched, her mouth filling with bitter saliva at the recollected taste of Giles’s blood when she bit the hand which stifled her screams.

  Madge Brownlow, returning with her mother released from plaster, had turned about and taken Giles to the hospital to have the wound stitched. ‘No, I would not recognize the bitch,’ Giles had said. ‘All I know is that it bit me for no reason.’ Clodagh said, ‘Make sure he has an anti-tetanus injection, Madge.’

  ‘I must be out of my mind to even dream of it,’ Julia said to the dog. ‘I can’t go back there, however good the compost.’ The dog sat up yawning and yowling and peered through the windscreen, for day was breaking; they had come a long way. ‘OK,’ Julia said. ‘You want to pee, I want to pee.’ She stopped the van, switched off the engine and, getting out, discovered that the rain had stopped and they were at the top of a hill by a wood in a stretch of country she had never seen, but which reminded her of some place she had fleetingly known a long time ago. And her mother had not been there.

  So who had she been with?

  A robin sang from the top of a bush, establishing its territory. They jumped a ditch and walked through trees still dripping with rain until they reached a clearing, where she stopped and listened. Far away a cock crowed; in a field by the wood a cow coughed and another tore at the grass with its long harsh tongue. In the wood a startled pheasant cack-cacked.

  ‘What’s that?’ she had asked.

  ‘Just a pheasant.’ He had held her hand. She had had to reach up, her head barely level with the man’s knee. ‘Come on,’ he had said, ‘not much further. We are nearly there.’

  ‘Where’s there?’ she had asked.

  And he had answered, ‘Home. My home. Your home, now.’

  ‘Goodness, what a funny thing to remember,’ Julia said to the dog. ‘That was my father! It was his home, or had been, but not mine for more than five minutes. Or five days, perhaps? He had run away with me,’ she told the dog. ‘It was lovely and exciting, frightening, too, but he got bored and sent me back.’

  The dog raised front paws against her thigh to stare up at her face. She stroked his head. ‘I can’t remember it properly,’ she said, ‘but I am hungry, let’s find somewhere to have breakfast.’ She turned and went back through the wood and presently, driving on, saw a sign that said: Bed and Breakfast. Turning in at a gate, she stopped at a farm where she asked whether she could have the breakfast without the bed? The woman was agreeable and sat her at a table by a window, the dog at her feet, to wait for bacon and eggs, mushroom, tomatoes, toast and coffee.

  The woman asked, ‘Would your dog like something?’

  Julia said he would and the woman said, ‘We give ours lights and biscuits, that do?’ Later, watching him eat, she said, ‘Nice dog, bit of a lurcher. My husband likes lurchers; you wouldn’t want to part?’

  And Julia exclaimed, ‘Oh, no!’ When they were alone she said to the dog, ‘So that’s what you are, a lurcher. I shall have to find you a name now I know what you are.’

  Back in the van, feeling a need to tramp across country, she headed west towards Dartmoor humped heavy on the skyline, its sombre autumn colours presaging winter but still streaked orange and rust by dying bracken. Climbing the slopes up narrow twisting lanes she stopped at a high point, parked the van in a disused quarry and, with the dog beside her, set off walking. At first it was enough to breathe the air, watch a cloud’s shadow racing along the side of the hills, spot buzzards wheeling, note clumps of gorse in flower, catch the eye of shaggy ponies who looked up snorting as she passed and black-faced sheep who stood their ground to stamp their feet at the dog, and listen to the roar of a river in spate charging towards the pewter-coloured sea in the distance. But watching the dog bouncing and leaping in the bracken, whose colours complemented its coat, she was reminded as she had been earlier in the wood of that half-forgotten incident in her childhood. There had been a dog, a springer spaniel. The man who was her father had said, ‘Look how lively he leaps,’ as he tried to distract her attention, for she whimpered with fatigue. He had said, too, ‘We are nearly there. Oh, do shut up. It won’t be long now.’

  ‘Where was “there”?’ Julia murmured, racking her brain, until suddenly, watching the lurcher leap, memory clicked into place.

  Her father had carried her across a sweep of lawn to a long, low house with a veranda stretching its whole length. Spaced along it were earthenware pots of lilies, whose scent was overpowering in the hot summer air. From the house came an old woman who, although she embraced her father, was not glad to see him. Drawing them into a cool hall, she said, ‘What on earth possessed you? You can’t possibly manage—it is not fair on the child. You know what you are like. You will never keep it up,’ and, ‘I, with your father as he is, cannot—’ and, ‘It is not possible even if I—’ and, ‘The child looks done in. Give her to Emily who will do what’s needed, bath, food, and bed,’ and, ‘It is not possible, dearest. This is totally idiotic, unthought out, and it puts you in the wrong.’

  But the man who was her father used his loud angry voice. ‘Rubbish, of course I can manage. I have made up my mind; I’ve got her, I shall keep her,’ and, ‘It’s not as though that bloody cow wants her, she does not even pretend to like the child.’

  And the old woman said, ‘Don’t use expressions like that, Daniel,’ and, ‘You should have thought of all this years ago before you—’

  And he, shouting now, ‘Even if you won’t help us, I’ve made up my fucking mind, I shall keep her, I—’

  The woman said, ‘Darling, this is all bluster,’ and, ‘And I can’t see you managing.’

  He said, ‘I am keeping her and that’s that,’ and then, ‘I need a drink, where’s the whisky?’

  ‘The decanter is where it always is, and I would prefer it if you did not get drunk with your father so ill; dying, actually.’

  Another woman had appeared and taken her from him, carried her upstairs; she remembered it now standing high upon the moor, the wind chilling her neck. A day later? A week? Weeks? Certainly there had been time to get to know the house, the walled garden, sleepy cats, delicious-smelling kitchen, stable, garage, cobbled yard. Her father had carried her about (he became irritated matching his pace to hers), shown her things, talked to her. But then he talked less, brushed her off when she climbed on his knee. ‘Why don’t you run to Emily?’ The old man dying upstairs was taking his time. They said, ‘Don’t make so much noise. He must not be disturbed.’

  Out loud, Julia said, ‘Why have I never realized? Grandparents? I blotted them out, blotted it all out. Especially I blotted out the day he p
ut me in that car with a strange man and woman, who took me back to Clodagh.’ Standing in the icy wind Julia Piper remembered the expression of relief her father could not hide when they parted. He had waved as the car started, waved and walked back to the house.

  A pair of buzzards wheeled and shrieked above her, circling on a thermal. ‘What a clay-footed world.’ Julia addressed the dog, who had ceased his leaping and stood beside her. ‘But you are only a lurcher dog, your paws are not made of clay.’ And, remembering that last sight of the man who had been her father, she thought, Poor man, he did not have the bottle to hang onto me any more than Giles to disentangle himself from Clodagh. It was impossible, she thought with wry amusement, to call one’s husband’s mistress ‘Mother’. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘Enough of that. Let us walk and run,’ she said to the dog, ‘leap joyfully. Oh!’ she said. ‘Joyful, that’s a good name. What’s it like to have a name and be a lurcher? Come on, Joyful, run.’

  About midday, returning to the van, she drove down into a valley, stopped at a pub and ate steak-and-kidney pudding washed down with lager. The helping was so substantial she shared it with Joyful. Not since Christy’s birth had she had the chance to tramp across country; while mourning his death and stretching her tired legs, she appreciated this freedom rather guiltily. ‘Short legs shackle.’ Her father was back; the train of thought begun that morning was not quite over. He was dead, she knew, had been dead for years. She remembered the solicitors’ letter for Clodagh, his next of kin. He had not remarried, but alone in some seaside resort—Margate, Frinton, Weston-super-Mare?—he had died intestate, leaving a trail of debts.

  To rid herself of memories that were becoming intrusive, Julia tried to think whether there was anything else she should remember before putting him out of her mind once and for all, as she hoped sooner or later to do with Giles. Sitting in the warm pub comfortably replete with steak-and-kidney pudding, memory surprisingly obliged. Two men were playing darts and one let out a whistle which matched the first note of a song her father had sung to her during those first days when he kidnapped her and was not yet finding the situation tedious: You’re the cream of my coffee, You’re the lace of my shoe, You will always be My necessity, I’d be lost without you. She had loved the song, believed it, believed him. Then he became bored. Giles had the same charm, she had believed him also; for a while.

  At the bar she asked for her bill. As she paid it, she enquired whether there was a garden centre hereabouts and was told of one at Widdicombe and that St Bridgit’s at Exeter had most things if she was heading back that way. By the time she had visited both the van was packed with delights and she drove up the motorway considering where, at what angle, in which corner she would plant the rosemary, lavender and sweet-scented box. Against which wall she would put the roses, clematis, jasmines and vine. How she would fill the beds with iris, pansies, pinks, mediterranean daisies; where to fit in the primroses, auriculas, stocks, sweet violets and wild strawberry. Which corner would be best filled with lily bulbs, dwarf narcissi, daffodil, crocus and tulips? Where between the flagstones should she cram in cushions of thyme? But first of all, she thought gleefully, she would trench into the sparse and pitiful London soil the contents of the plastic bags stuffed tight with splendid odoriferous horseshit and equally useful but less pungent mushroom compost.

  When all was unloaded she would wash the Patels’ van inside and out. ‘God knows,’ she said out loud to the dog, ‘when you and I will crawl into bed, but it’s been worth it, even if tomorrow I can hardly keep my eyes open when I am back to Real Life cleaning that journalist’s flat.’

  Hours later she climbed the stairs to her flat and, stripping off her clothes, got into bed; she was too exhausted to appreciate that somewhere on the hills of Devon she had shed at least part of her grief. And when she was practically asleep, the telephone pealed. Stretching out an arm and taking the receiver, she said, ‘Stuff it,’ then, turning on her side, slept.

  It was only on the following day, when she was filling the journalist’s washing-machine with drip-dry bed linen and dirty knickers, that it occurred to her that whoever had disturbed her in the night and been given a rough reception could not be Giles.

  EIGHTEEN

  IN HIS HOTEL IN Los Angeles Sylvester waited for his partner’s call from London. As he waited he sifted through letters which had been addressed to him in New York, where business had gone well. He had met old friends, been to parties, shopped for shirts, socks and underpants at Brooks Brothers, before driving up to Vermont to see ‘the Colour’ and meet an author whose manuscript disappointed (as did ‘the Colour’; over when he arrived). Leaving before his mail could catch up with him, he had flown to Los Angeles for a week’s work before ten days’ holiday in Colorado where the snow was late, the skiing poor and he tired of his own company. Back in Los Angeles, his flight booked for London, bags packed and expecting to be in his office within thirty-six hours, he imagined these much-travelled letters would be of little interest.

  Two were from his solicitor detailing the course of his divorce which, according to a fax received that morning, was now a fait accompli. Next, a gossipy missive from a colleague noted for irritating sexual and lavatorial jokes: Rebecca, lovelorn, telephones to enquire about your progress but in reality to ensure that we should not miss the finalizing—what a mirth-provoking expression—of your marital split and to find out whether you have fallen for some randy super American girl or can she still cherish a mite of hope? We in the office all hope for a super sex girl, it would be good for your health. There was more in similar vein. Sylvester dropped the letter into the trash basket.

  The last missive in Rebecca’s strong hand began: Really, Sylvester, you were unwise not to leave your keys with me. Your cleaning woman, if that’s what she is, puts out rubbish which smells of horse. I suspect she has allowed squatters in. There was a horrid mongrel on your doorstep yesterday and a scruffy sort of man followed me from your street to the King’s Road. The police, of course, won’t lift a finger and your answerphone tells me you are ‘busy at the moment and will ring back if I leave a message’. I hesitate to worry you when you must be extra low with news of Celia marrying Andrew Battersby when your divorce comes through in January. She has not let the grass grow, has she? The office do not seem to know when you will be back but tell me you have made splendid deals, no surprise there. I hope you have not overworked, it will not assuage your grief. You should take a little holiday, try to forget this sad, sad news. Yours affectionately, Rebecca. PS I see in The Times that your aunt has passed away.

  Sylvester was laughing when the call came through from London. He said, ‘Hallo, John, see you Friday. My flight is tonight.’

  John said, ‘Glad I caught you. I want you to go and see Marvin Bratt.’

  ‘Who is Marvin Bratt?’

  ‘Was a Republican Senator. He has a manuscript we must go for. He is in Virginia, you can just pop—’

  Sylvester said, ‘Oh God! I am hankering for my own bed. I’ve been away too long—’

  John said, ‘Don’t be such an old woman. Now listen, here’s his number. It’s near Charlottesville, you’ll love it.’

  Sylvester said, ‘I won’t.’

  John went on, ‘He will ask you to stay. He has a smashing wife and always lays on super girls. You’ll love it, have fun. I always do.’

  Sylvester said, ‘Why don’t you go yourself?’

  ‘You’re on the spot. I am busy. It’s nearly Christmas and one of the children has a birthday.’

  Sylvester said, ‘What a bore. I shall have to cancel my flight.’

  ‘Weaker men than you have managed that.’

  ‘How long will it take? What’s the book about?’

  ‘Holocaust of American Indians. Hot stuff.’

  ‘Fashionable.’

  ‘We need that book, Sylvester.’

  ‘What’s he like, this Bratt?’

  ‘Genial man. Looks as if he has mumps, sort of chipmunk face like that gen
eral. His wife Elvira is smashing, you’ll love her. Have a go.’

  ‘At the wife?’

  ‘The book, you fool—’

  ‘How long will it take?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue, but pin him down.’

  ‘I shall have to send money to my cleaning lady. I have overstayed, she—’

  ‘Even that’s been managed before now, or shall I ask Rebecca to—’

  ‘God forbid. She pursues me with aunt-like adjurations—’

  ‘Does she? She used to do it to me, it’s menopausal.’

  ‘If that’s so, it’s the longest in history—’

  ‘Yeah, well. Have a good time. Fax me—’

  Sylvester said, ‘Don’t ring off. Can the man write?’

  ‘I’ve only read his speeches. Not bad. If he can’t write, we can tinker. It’s the subject matter, his angle—’

  ‘What’s he like, apart from mumps?’

  ‘Can’t think, really. Oh, he’s a health freak, so is Elvira, sex every night and twice at weekends. It’s like cleaning their teeth or jogging. You’ll have a good time—and by the way the booze flows. You’ll have to join in—’

  ‘Sexually?’

  ‘No, drinkwise. Sexually, too, if you want to, I imagine.’ John chortled.

  Sylvester said, ‘Thanks a lot. Just what I need.’

  John said, ‘Well, it is,’ and, ‘Fax me.’

  Sylvester said, ‘Goodbye,’ and, sick of snide innuendo, muttered, ‘and fuck the lot of you. Fax, my arse.’

  On the telephone Marvin Bratt boomed hospitably, ‘Come right away. We’ll talk business and then have fun. Elvira will have neighbours for dinner. My son and his wife may be here and Sal Schultz, a lovely girl, is our house guest, just divorced. You too, I believe? You’ll love Sal. She’s a real fun girl, pretty and healthy.’