Liberty looked a little surprised at such a comparison from Evelyn. She was about to bend down to the flower herself when she spotted something hanging from the gatepost. ‘What’s that?’ She put her hand on Evelyn’s arm. ‘Look!’
Evelyn had straightened up and now she walked closer, treading carefully as if on a slippery surface. ‘Rabbits,’ she said finally. ‘Tied together and strung up like a brace of pheasants. Looks like myxi ones, too. No good for eating.’
Liberty followed behind, then she stopped again, staring at the little animals dangling upside down in a deathly embrace, their eyes pussed over and half closed bulging from their emaciated faces. She slapped her hand across her mouth and bent double.
‘Poor little mites,’ Evelyn was saying. ‘Lots of people around here can’t stand them, and that’s not just the farmers. Amateur gardeners are the worst. Say they eat things. Of course they do, but there’s plenty of other stuff you can grow besides roses and pinks.’
‘I think you should call the police.’
‘Why on earth should I do that? Someone probably shot them and dropped them on the road.’
‘So how did they end up strung up on your gate?’
Evelyn seemed unconcerned. ‘Don’t know. Postman probably thought they were mine. You fuss too much. Run along now, busy day ahead.’ She held the gate open and Liberty went through, her eyes fixed straight ahead, away from the bodies on the gate.
That evening, as on so many others, Oscar lingered in his small office at the Tribune. When the phone rang at eight, he knew it would be Victoria.
‘Supper’s ready and waiting,’ her voice coiled towards him like a silk lasso.
‘Sorry darling. Got held up. I’m on my way.’ He hung up, but instead of switching off the light and getting up from his desk, he sat back in the chair and began reading the article sent in by a freelance contributor, about a local surrogate mother. As he read, guilt at not leaving, at not hurrying home as promised, crept up like marching ants, making him angry. He finished the article and reached for the pile in his In-tray. He could see Victoria pacing back and forth between the kitchen and the hall window, and still he went through his post, getting the same, slow satisfaction he did as a boy, playing just out of sight, listening to his mother calling and calling him to come inside. He picked up the contributions to Village Diary. There was a piece from Tollymead most weeks now. Nice little entries about life in the village, coming right on time for the Friday edition. Like the entries from the other villages, the ones from Tollymead were not signed, but he was pretty sure they were sent in by the same person. Maybe it was old Neville Pyke who had finally decided to take matters into his own hands. The Tollymead entries were chattier than the pieces from the other villages; whoever it was writing seemed to know more about what went on than anyone else. He had put a reporter on to finding out more about this American television writer, but so far without success.
Oscar sat back in his chair and began to read the neatly typed page.
The Reverend Brain has asked if visits to the vicarage could be kept to ‘surgery hours’, 2.00 p.m.-4.00 p.m. and 6.00 p.m.-7.00 p.m. Monday to Friday, as he is especially busy at the moment. If this is not possible, could you please phone to make an appointment. ‘These are crucial times for all of us,’ the Reverend Brain told me outside church on Sunday, but I could not draw him further on the subject. So keep going to church and I’m sure all will be revealed, eventually.
Bonfire Night is approaching and as usual an uneven battle is fought to get there before the first Father Christmas of the year is sighted. Doesn’t the Bible tell us that for each thing there is a season?
In the meantime, following appeals from Sam and Gertie Cook, the owners of Tigger the prize-winning gun dog, Tollymead residents have agreed to fireworks being confined to the recreation ground.
Tigger, four, on a walk with his owner through the village during last year’s celebrations, was so traumatized when a squib exploded by his tail that he has not been able to work since.
Discussing the matter, Hester Scott OBE said, ‘Quite apart from the fact that Sam has lost a hunting companion, it’s the matter of Tigger’s professional pride.’ Remembering back to her days on stage, Miss Scott added that, in her experience, once you’d lost your nerve, it could take years to get it back.
Several residents then spoke up about the suffering caused to their pets by exploding rockets, and Agnes Coulson reminded us of the plight of wild animals who have not got a voice. ‘Just think if you’re a rabbit whilst all that is going on,’ she said.
So this year, Tollymead is looking forward to a cruelty-free November Fifth. Such an event, I can’t help thinking, would have greatly pleased Guy Fawkes in the final hours of his life.
Seven
Oscar smiled to himself as he put the A4 page in his Out-tray. It did not sound much like Neville Pyke. No, the correspondent was a woman, probably elderly. Looking at his watch, it was eight-thirty, he made a mental note to ask Evelyn who this Hester Scott was. He got up from his desk. By now Victoria would be tearful, but bravely resigned to a ruined supper. No doubt several of her friends would have heard by now, about this latest manifestation of his callous disregard for her feelings. It was not that she would directly complain about him, but her voice would tremble as she called up for a ‘quick chat’, and when asked what the matter was, she would say it was nothing, she was probably silly worrying about Oscar…
He had heard her once or twice, across the table during a dinner party, or curled up on the bed with the phone.
‘It’s not his fault. He’s been a bachelor so long he just isn’t used to thinking of anyone’s feelings but his own. And something definitely happened in Colombia…’ As he grabbed his coat, Oscar winced at the thought of his private nightmares being tittle-tattled around her girlfriends.
With a sigh, he locked his office and walked outside, turning his collar up against the drizzle. So what was wrong with him? Sometimes he thought he was the only man he knew who was not in love with his wife. Like a rich man with the tastes of a Franciscan monk, he had what everyone envied and he alone could not treasure.
He had first met Victoria on his return from Colombia. He had arrived at his newspaper’s office, the returning hero with a briefcase full of explosive material for a projected series of articles. Victoria had just started as secretary to the political editor, and he found that looking at her was like having his eyes bathed in Optrex. Frank, Victoria’s boss, had put his hand on Oscar’s shoulder. ‘We’re all desperately sorry about Rachel. Dreadful thing to happen, dreadful.’
Oscar had blinked hard and looked away as Victoria’s face gave way to the picture of the jeep with Rachel’s body held upright against the back of the seat by the safety-belt still fastened across her chest. He was always telling her to fasten her seat-belt.
When he had looked up again, Frank’s beautiful secretary was still smiling at him, but asking no questions. She had not said much at any time during the afternoon, but whatever she did say sounded somehow special when uttered in that deep, sweet voice. No, he was a lucky man he thought, aiming a kick at the front tyre of his car, to be loved by a woman like Victoria.
Back home, those sloe eyes were brimming with tears as they gazed at him across the dried remains of the Ginger Chicken. She had laid the table as usual in the ‘dining hall’ as the estate agents had called the space that he would never have thought of putting a dining-table in, unless so helpfully shown the way. People knocked estate agents, Oscar thought sourly, but one had to admire their creativity.
‘You don’t need to go to so much trouble,’ he said now to Victoria. ‘You know I’m happy to eat in the kitchen.’ He looked at her across the table she had set in co-ordinated pinks and greens, with lighted candles and the arrangement of dried flowers, and felt like a nasty big brother gate-crashing a dolls’ tea party. ‘I’m sorry I was so late.’
‘It’s all right.’ Victoria’s smile was moist but brave. Then,
in one graceful movement she was out of the chair and walked across to his side, perching on the arm of his chair. ‘Did you have a rotten day?’
Now she’ll ruffle my hair. Oscar tensed, then he felt the long, cool fingers descending on his scalp like the rain outside.
‘Let’s have an early night.’ Victoria pressed her tear-drenched cheek against his. The phone rang. Oscar shot up from the chair, almost toppling Victoria.
He answered, and an anxious voice said, ‘It’s Liberty, Liberty Turner. I’m sorry to trouble you so late, but I’ve been worrying about your aunt. I didn’t know if she had told you. About the letter. And the rabbits?’
‘Letter? Rabbits? No she hasn’t.’
Liberty explained.
‘I expect it’s that farmer, Haville-Jones,’ Oscar said.
‘I don’t know. He absolutely denies it. And there’s Andrew Sanderson; she’s had quite a few goes at him. And that other farmer, Campbell; she stopped a delivery lorry from Sanderson’s Seeds coming into his farm. She opened the gate to the cattle field and shooed all the cows off into the yard. There was actually a very funny picture in your paper, before your time, though, of them all practically drowning in heifers.’ She paused for a moment before saying, ‘The thing is, there’re so many people who’d like to throttle Evelyn, and I don’t know half of them.’
‘She doesn’t let up does she? Has she called the police?’
‘She doesn’t want to. She says the rabbit thing is nothing, just someone leaving them there by mistake. Hardly likely in my view. I mean, “Sorry to bother you but did I leave two myxomatosis rabbits strung up on your gate by any chance, about fifteen inches long, scruffy fur, pussie eyes.” Anyway, she’s had the odd quarrel with the police too over the years.’
‘Well, I’m very grateful that you called,’ Oscar said, following Victoria with his eyes as she came past, blowing him a kiss on her way upstairs. Turning his attention back to the phone he said, his voice lightening, ‘Maybe I should go over and see how she is? Now I mean.’
‘There’s no need, really there isn’t. I’m only a few yards away. I shouldn’t really have bothered you, but I knew you’d want to know what was going on so you could keep an eye on her, too. I mean, I’d hate it if I was kept in the dark over my aunt, that is if I had an aunt, an authentic aunt I mean, not one that’s just married to an uncle… Sorry, I’m burbling…’
There was a goodbye to her voice and Oscar realized he did not want her to hang up. Above, on the first floor, Victoria was preparing for bed; flushing the loo, running the water for the basin and the bidet. Soon she’d be in bed, warm and smelling faintly of Lily of the Valley; waiting.
‘How’s your dog bite?’ he asked Liberty quickly.
‘Oh that. Fine. The scar has sort of puckered, so it’s pulling down the corner of my eye when I smile, but as I’m such a miserable bastard that’s not really a problem.’ There was a small pause before she went on, ‘I haven’t told my son anything about the accident. He’s away, working in Sweden and I wouldn’t want him to worry.’
The way she said that to him, all of a sudden over the phone, made Oscar think she wanted to tell her son very badly. ‘That’s noble of you,’ he said.
She sounded as if she was smiling when she answered. ‘Well you see, I used to nurture this dream of being a Good Writer, but one way or another, times being hard and all that, like so many people, I’ve had to cut down. So I’m left with just Good. It doesn’t come naturally to me, but you have to make the most of what you’ve got, so I’m practising. Helping old ladies across the street and such-like is child’s play, but anything more advanced, that’s where the hard work comes in.’
Oscar started to laugh. He leant against the doorway and he laughed out loud. Why, he did not really know, she was not that funny. He said, ‘Is Johnny an only child?’
‘Yes, and he’s so old now.’ Oscar could hear the groan in her voice. ‘It’s not exactly a secret that children grow up, but still, when it happens to yours, it seems to take you by surprise. One minute you’re the sun and star in their firmament. You only have to give a little of your time, build a Lego tower or bake a cake with them and it’s like you’re on stage being Dame Judi Dench and Madonna rolled into one. The next day you wake up and find you’re a lovable nuisance, a bit like the itchy sweaters your Aunt Jessie insists on giving you every Christmas. Are you thinking of having children?’
‘Oscar! Darling are you coming up?’ Victoria’s voice called, soft but insistent.
‘No, not at this precise moment.’ Oscar turned his face away from the receiver, ‘Coming!’
‘You must go,’ Liberty said. ‘Goodbye.’ And, just like that, she hung up, leaving him standing there with the receiver still to his ear.
Oscar remained by the phone for a couple of minutes. Finally, with a sigh, he turned the lights off and walked, lead-soled, up the stairs. Victoria lay waiting for him, naked amongst the froth of the oyster-coloured, lace-trimmed sheets, like a delectable chocolate in a presentation box. She did not ask who it had been on the phone, but just smiled and stretched her arms out towards him.
For Christ’s sake get excited, he told himself desperately, you owe her that much. Think about it; how many men do you know who wouldn’t swap places with you right now? He undressed slowly: shoes, socks, shirt, trousers, pants before going into the bathroom and showering; a hot shower. He brushed his teeth.
‘Oscar,’ the honeyed voice beckoned him and, with a doleful look at his limp penis, he came out of the bathroom. Her eyes, fixed on him the moment he stepped through the door, were reproachful and expectant all at once, and he attempted a loving smile, feeling his dry lips stretch across his teeth. Once in bed, he made much of setting the alarm clock and choosing a book, a big hard-back, pretending not to notice the wounded glances and restless little sighs. Finally, she turned noisily right away from him and he felt her hurt, and hated himself. He turned pages without caring what he read and then he put the book away and folded his glasses. Switching off the light, he leant across and kissed her cheek.
‘Goodnight, sleep tight.’ What a bloody stupid thing to say. He lay in the dark, listening to her stifled sobs until he could stand it no longer. Sitting up, he pulled her over into his arms.
‘There, there my little love. It’s all right now. It’s not you, you know that, don’t you? You’re beautiful and sweet. Much more so than I deserve, and I’m just a washed-up old wreck who doesn’t know how to appreciate you.’ He kept on holding her and whispering to her in the dark until the sobbing had turned into little snuffles and then stopped altogether. At last she was asleep, her breath coming light and even from her lips, blowing little puffs against his shoulder as he lay, eyes wide open, in the dark room.
‘Why can’t I love you? Why the hell can’t I love you?’ Restless, he turned on his stomach, then back on his side. Each night it was the same: he would fight the sleep he needed so badly, terrified of his own dreams. As he drifted off Rachel would come to him, her eyes staring out at him in death from a face still pink and so soft he wanted to put out his hand and caress it. The next moment that same face would be grinning, decomposed with dried eyeballs and dissolving lips. He groaned and pressed his face down hard against the pillow.
‘I can’t even fuck myself senseless,’ he whispered, teeth clenched. ‘I’m lying in bed next to a beautiful young woman who wants me, and I can’t even do that.’ He grabbed the frilled sides of the pillow, smothering his face with its softness.
It was late the next day and Liberty had finished the translation into Swedish of a guide to English country houses. She switched off the computer and brought out the leather writing case which had been a present from her grandfather. She began her letter to Johnny, wondering if it was right to miss an adult child as much as she missed him. She had thought of joining him in Australia over Christmas, but there just was not the money. With the last of her books out of print, there were no royalty cheques coming in and the money from her
translation work and the teaching was only just enough to pay Johnny a small allowance and to keep herself in modest comfort.
‘The great thing is that one can live cheaply in the country,’ she wrote to him now, ‘mainly because, as you know, there’s so little to tempt you. It’s a challenge, living on just enough and no more, baking my own bread, preserving fruit, pickling the odd horse you come across in the hedgerow. I look forward to the spring, when I can make nettle soup; I never have quite believed it doesn’t sting your mouth and now I’ll find out.’
She finished the letter, having tried to achieve just the right balance of missing him, while still being happy for him to be away having a good time. Leaning back in the kitchen chair, she looked out across the sodden lawns and the empty flower beds. She shuddered: they looked just like fresh graves.
Until recently, Liberty had felt barely a twinge of interest in gardening. She wished she could be more enthusiastic. Just look at Evelyn, greeting each day like a child running towards the entrance to Disney World. That, of course, was how she herself had felt when she was writing. But now it was as if her life had been taken away, to be filleted by a trainee waiter and returned to her a shapeless, spineless helping of years.
Maybe she could work herself into a passion for her garden? After all, constant exposure made addicts. It worked with soap operas and radio presenters and Kit-Kats with your mid-morning coffee, so why not with gardening? Drip, drip, growing and weeding, mucking and mulching, picking and pickling, and bingo! She would be hooked. Contented, serene, she would spend her days within the coloured, scented world that was every bit as much her own creation as her stories, and probably a good deal more lasting.
She got up and rooted out one of her stash of small black notebooks she had bought from an artist’s shop in Paris, on a side street close to the Bastille. The pages were edged in red, and crackled as if they had been soaked in water before drying out again.
A Rival Creation Page 9