‘A little bird whispered to you too, eh?’ he winked at her from across the aisle.
‘Whispered what?’ Liberty asked.
‘You mean you don’t know?’ Neville hissed. ‘We’re on Songs of Praise! That lot in Everton with their lens-louse vicar will be eating their hearts out.’ Looking round, craning his thin neck on which his big head seemed a heavy burden, he carried on talking. ‘I wonder where they’ve hidden the equipment – cameras and lights and the like?’
Gladys, seated next to him, smart in her pistachio suit and cream blouse with pussycat bow, looked around too, her large eyes swivelling in their sockets, focusing on nothing for longer than a second.
‘Maybe they’re just scouting this week, making sure there’s a good congregation, that sort of thing,’ her husband soothed her.
‘I don’t think we should count on this being televised. It’s just nice to see so many people in church,’ Liberty said, a little anxiously. ‘By the way, I don’t think we’ve met, have we Mrs Pyke? Not properly. Your husband comes to my writing class.’
Gladys Pyke turned her gaze reluctantly on Liberty. ‘Oh yes. You’re the lady what can’t get her books done no more, so Neville tells me. I can’t say I’m surprised. What with the telly I don’t see the use for books myself. You should write for the telly, like that American woman.’
‘A lot of people prefer books,’ Liberty said, stung. ‘I mean, you can’t take a television to bed with you—’
‘Lots of people have a telly in their bedroom these days.’
‘—or sit with it under a flowering apple tree.’ Liberty glared at Gladys. ‘You can’t bring it with you on a picnic by the river or take it on holiday. A book is so much more than—’
‘Don’t need to. They’ve got that Sky in the airport lounges nowadays and on board plane. And then there’s your own set in the hotel room when you arrive.’ Gladys resumed her scanning of the church, leaving Liberty to ponder the truth of her words.
‘A book is quiet,’ she muttered, ‘and you can have your favourite bit any time. And it doesn’t have Terry Wogan in it.’
‘Terry Wogan!’ a woman sitting behind Liberty hissed, craning her neck. Liberty turned round and gave a regretful shake of her head.
‘False alarm,’ she whispered.
‘I like Terry Wogan,’ Neville said with a stubborn look to his round face.
‘So do I,’ Liberty hastened to assure him. ‘I was merely speaking of choice.’ Then the organ struck up.
Normally on a Sunday the small but regular congregation stood and sat, kneeled and bowed, with the timing and precision of a ballet, their singing modest and the muttered responses audible without being showy. But this Sunday Liberty thought, it was more like a class of five year olds on their first day at school; everyone looking sideways at their neighbour to see how it was done, nudging, whispering. Nevertheless the singing was lusty, particularly the chorus, and everyone, it seemed, managed to smile right through each hymn, even when their mouths were wide open in song. Ted Brain looked like someone who had been given a present he had dreamt of for so long that he was not sure anymore that he wanted it.
‘This isn’t Challenge Anneka is it?’ he greeted them to uneasy titters. The uneasiness grew as the service went on, until it covered the congregation like an itch. No-one seemed to be able to sit still, everyone was twisting and turning and rubbing against their pews. Embarrassed for them all, Liberty kept her eyes downcast.
In order not to turn up to church on Christmas Day feeling like a day-tripper, she usually increased her church-going in the run-up to Christmas. This autumn she went almost every Sunday. Church gave structure to her week-ends, now she was on her own. Tom might not have been the love of her life, but he had been her friend and her companion. She felt lonely when Friday afternoon came, but in church even strangers seemed glad to see you. And God did not have it all his own way either. His readership was falling away in ever increasing numbers too, and in some quarters He was even denied title to His creation.
The service was over. The members of the congregation hurried out into the dank morning air, like a dispersing lynch mob, eyes lowered, chatting nervously to each other about everything other than what they had just been up to. Evelyn waited for Liberty at the side gate. She, too, was a church-goer. As she said once to Liberty, ‘There’s a lot of it I don’t believe, but from time to time I feel the need to pay homage to the greatest naturalist of them all.’
They had been invited to lunch by Victoria and Oscar and, as they were early, they decided to walk the mile or so to the house. Oscar opened the door; his smile was as strained as the fit of his new-looking jeans. Liberty imagined he’d put it on that morning, together with the trousers and the pale blue sweater, and told not to change any of it.
Victoria would not be long, he told them as he showed them in, she was in the kitchen putting the finishing touches to lunch. He offered them a seat, he got their drinks, whisky on the rocks for Evelyn and Stone’s ginger wine for Liberty, but he moved around the room like a visitor who’d been asked to make himself at home, bumping into the vast, frilled sofas and peering inside cupboards for glasses and bottles. Handing Liberty the wine he said again, ‘She won’t be long,’ and sat down in a worn, high-backed armchair that looked as if it had gone underground while the rest of the furniture was being done over. ‘His’ chair, Liberty thought. What was it with men that they seemed to need a special chair? Maybe it was a big boy’s equivalent of a security blanket.
Victoria emerged from the kitchen. Her dark hair shone, framing her pale face, and her simple cream wool dress hugged the elongated elegance of her body, stopping short just above her knees. Those knees, Liberty thought, so round and smooth under the sheer tights. Liberty’s knees were like her grandfather’s, and he had been a great athlete, not a great beauty. She looked from Victoria’s legs to Oscar’s face, waiting for his eyes to light up with pride and sheer pleasure that such delights were his; but Oscar was not looking at his wife.
‘Now Evelyn,’ he said after a while, ‘you’ve had another letter.’
Liberty looked at her. ‘You never told me.’
‘Seeing you made such an appalling fuss last time, I didn’t want to worry you any further.’
‘But I’m your friend.’ Liberty was upset. ‘I’m supposed to be a person to whom you turn for support.’
‘But you’re not family,’ Victoria said. ‘In times of crisis one tends to turn to one’s family.’
People, Liberty thought, who went about giving their honest opinion were very difficult to live with as they goose-stepped all over the moral high ground. It was especially disconcerting to be flattened by someone so young. In the silence that followed Victoria stood up with a warm smile. ‘Lunch everybody.’
They all admired the table, set in blue and white, with a parade of tiny vases along the centre, each filled with heather and dried lavender.
‘I believe in making every aspect of my life special,’ Victoria said.
Had Evelyn and Liberty been visiting judges of the Best Wife competition, Victoria could not have tried harder. All through the delicious meal of lamb noisettes and crisp, glazed carrots, she shot adoring looks across the table at Oscar, asking his opinion on every topic, about everything on which he could possibly have an opinion, and when she passed his chair she would touch him with her shoulder or plant a little kiss on his cheek or the top of his fair head. He was not allowed to help either, other than with the wine. When he stood up to clear the plates, she told him to stay right there. Liberty had always asked Tom to help with the chores. Through it all, Oscar behaved with an uneasy friendliness, which was puzzling.
‘I’m looking forward to class on Wednesday,’ Victoria said, as she brought in the pudding. ‘Peach Roulade,’ she placed the dish on the table. ‘Oscar loves his gooey puds, don’t you darling?’
‘Yes, yes I do,’ darling said, while Liberty noticed a tiny frown appearing between his eyebrows.
‘I’ve written a little piece that I’d like to read out.’ Victoria paused on her way to the sideboard. ‘Quite a serious piece actually. I really wanted to say something with my writing this time. It’s about this woman giving up her career for her family and how it changes everything. I’ve got this moving scene at the end when Cosima … Actually,’ she picked up a jug of cream and returned to the table, ‘I think I’ll make you wait till Wednesday. It won’t have the same impact if you already know the story. I know Romance is easier to get published, but this story just begged me to get written. Actually, have you tried Romance, Liberty?’
‘Romance!’ Evelyn scoffed, taking her plate.
But Liberty nodded. ‘Oh yes, I have, but I wasn’t any good at that either. I always seemed to feel too much or too little. It was all either totally embarrassing or plain cold. And my heroines were bullies.’
Oscar, who had leapt up to get the bottle of wine, began to laugh.
‘He never laughs at my jokes.’ Victoria’s eyes were accusing.
‘But I wasn’t joking,’ Liberty smiled at her. ‘If it’s any comfort, people only laugh at me when I’m serious, my jokes, on the other hand, tend to fall flat.’
Oscar refilled their glasses before sitting down again. ‘I don’t think we should publish your article,’ he said to Evelyn. ‘Not until we’ve found out who this nutcase is.’
‘The question of harmful pesticides is bigger than all of us,’ Evelyn replied pompously, but she looked old and a little frightened.
‘Please Evelyn,’ Liberty said, reaching across the table and putting her hand across Evelyn’s permanently grubby, liver-spotted one. ‘There are a lot of crazy people out there, each satisfying every low grade whim as if it was their democratic right. It’s as well to be careful.’
‘I have to keep on with my work,’ Evelyn said. ‘It’s what keeps me sane.’
‘Oh, you’re just saying that. We all have to retire some time,’ Victoria’s voice was coaxing. ‘You deserve a rest.’
‘I deserve a rest like I deserve being skinned and popped into a vat of boiling oil,’ Evelyn said coldly. ‘To me, life is work, contributing. I know because once I was stuck like a growth to my chair for months, convalescing after a very nasty case of hepatitis – oysters by the way, not sex. In the end I didn’t know who I was. I remember feeling like being a permanent guest, controlling nothing, contributing nothing, achieving nothing. I’d rather be dead than spend the rest of my days like that.’
Liberty nodded. ‘That’s just how I feel, now I’m not writing; like a permanent guest in someone else’s creation.’
‘Cream with your roulade?’ Victoria asked brightly. ‘I have to warn you, it’s double double.’
They all had some. When Victoria passed Oscar his plate, she put her long fingers on his head, ruffling his blond hair. Oscar put his hand up to take hers, giving it a little squeeze. Looking at them made Liberty feel lonelier than ever. Then she saw the look in Oscar’s eyes, a resigned look, as if Victoria had just marched into the room with curlers in her hair and a fag-end hanging from the corner of her mouth and slammed down a plate of baked beans on the table.
After their guests had left, Oscar cleared the table and put the glasses and plates in the dishwasher. Victoria washed the silver by hand. All those shiny knives and forks and spoons had been presents to her from her grandmother, one piece each Christmas and birthday. Seeing Victoria caress the cutlery with the tea towel, Oscar thought of how she’d told him that even as a young child she had appreciated the gift, never, like her sister, pushing it aside with a disappointed little shove because it was not a Sindy Doll or shiny pointed shoes. Victoria, even then, had relished the thought of the precious possessions accruing in the strong box in the cellar.
They had sandwiches made with the left-over lamb, and the rest of the Peach Roulade, for supper. They ate in front of the television. They were watching Poirot, but Victoria said she’d much rather watch the documentary on Jackson Pollock.
‘Watch it,’ Oscar said. ‘I really don’t mind.’
Victoria, curled up in the sofa, said, ‘No, it’s all right. I know you like this sort of thing.’ After a moment she added, ‘I know who did it. Don’t ask me to tell you, but I know who did it.’
As the credits rolled she switched off with the remote control. ‘I hate these cheating endings.’
‘You were wrong were you?’ Oscar smiled at her.
‘Well you didn’t guess either.’
‘Didn’t have to. I read the book.’ He reached for the Sunday paper.
With a sideways glance at him, Victoria yawned loudly, stretching her arms high over her head. Oscar put the paper down and, folding away his spectacles, pushed himself out of the chair.
‘Hi there,’ he said. He took her by the hand and led her upstairs. As he pushed her gently down on the bed, Victoria wriggled out of the dress, lying back, waiting for him to release her from the silk knickers and lace-tipped bra.
I should say how beautiful she is, Oscar thought. There isn’t a man alive who wouldn’t gasp in admiration. He opened his mouth to speak, but before all that unblemished beauty laid out like the Peach Roulade, he felt only sated. Victoria looked up at him, her eyes full of expectation and, closing his eyes, he let himself sink down on top of her. As she sighed and rubbed against him he desperately conjured up pictures in his mind of every actress he had ever thought attractive, of strip joints in Bangkok and past loves, anything to stop his tenuous erection from fading. An image altogether different appeared unasked, long green eyes in a doll-like face with an ugly scar breaking the white skin, and with a rush of confused excitement he made love to his wife.
Village Diary
Tollymead: With the help of our two local schools, Tollymead Church of England Primary School and Tollymead Manor, a successful Bonfire Night seems assured this year. The bonfire will be lit on the recreation ground at 6.30 p.m. and everyone is welcome, especially our neighbours in Everton who won’t, I hear, be putting on a display of their own this year.
There has been a last-minute appeal to refrain from burning the Guy, posted on the parish notice-board. Explaining the reasons for the appeal, the author of the notice, Mr Terry Pearson of the Fairfield Branch of ‘Action For Penal Reform’, said, ‘The cause for more humane treatment of offenders is not advanced by encouraging our kids to burn effigies of past victims of a brutal penal system.’
There does not seem to be much sympathy for his views in Tollymead, however. Walking past the notice with her three pugs, Larry, John and Ralph, Miss Hester Scott exclaimed, ‘I’ve had it up to here with these do-gooder types – there, darling, you lift your leg up and show that silly man what we think of him – and if it was up to me it would be one of these bleeding heart liberals placed on the bonfire, sandals, beard and all.’
Oliver Bliss, lecturer at Southampton University’s renowned department of Marine Biology, sat sketching a few yards away and as I stopped to admire his work we agreed that few things caused as much belligerence as the preaching of non violence.
Finally, with Thanksgiving coming up, the Diary called on our American resident, Anne Havesham, for her special recipe for Sweet Potato Bake.
2lb sweet potatoes
½ a cup of light brown sugar
2 tbsp of butter
⅔ of a cup of milk
a pinch each of cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg and salt
Cook the sweet potatoes in simmering water until soft. Peel and mash. Stir in all the remaining ingredients except for 2 tsp of the sugar. Turn mixture into a generously sized casserole dish and sprinkle with the remaining sugar. Bake at 400°F for approximately thirty minutes.
Delicious served with roast turkey!
Ten
When Nancy Sanderson returned home from the magistrate’s court the day before Bonfire Night, the sight of a small group of children huddled in a ditch outside the entrance to Campbell’s Farm made her brake sharply. Winding down the window she asked, ‘Every
thing all right?’
The children, five of them, looked up for a moment but said nothing. Hoping I’ll go away and mind my own business, Nancy smiled grimly as she tightened the handbrake and got out. ‘Now what’s going on children?’ She leant over the muddy ditch and peered down at them. ‘And what have we got here? Fireworks … and matches … Do you children realize that you are less than five yards from an open barn full of dry hay?’ Nancy used her magistrate’s voice.
‘So what if we are?’ A fat boy, older than the others, with a single strand of hair like a limp snake hanging down his back, stared back at her.
‘Yeah, so what if we are?’ the others chorused, but their voices were uncertain and they kept their eyes to the ground.
‘If that barn catches fire, which it easily could, through your irresponsible games, you and your parents would have to pay Mr Campbell many thousands of pounds; that’s “so what”. Now give me those fireworks and the matches, and I might not tell Mr Campbell.’
‘They’re ours,’ the fat boy said.
Nancy felt her face redden. She took a step down into the ditch, her new Ecco lace-ups sinking into the mud. ‘Give them to me now, or I will alert the police, and Mr Campbell’s three rottweilers.’ She held out her hand.
‘Cow,’ the fat boy hissed. ‘Stupid old cow.’ Then without warning he picked up the rockets and the box of matches and threw them at her before scrambling out of the ditch and running off. The other children followed and when at a safe distance one of them, a small girl with bruised-looking eyes in a pale face, turned and repeated in a shrill voice, ‘Stupid old cow!’
Nancy stood staring after them, surprised at the intense dislike she felt for those small, unkempt people. With a sigh she bent down and picked up the rockets before climbing up back onto the road and into the car.
A Rival Creation Page 11