‘I like that you discuss these things seriously,’ Liberty said as she plumped herself down on the sofa. ‘Appearance probably influences people’s lives more than most things. I mean it’s so obvious, yet we’re all supposed to think it’s frivolous to worry about it. “You’ve just been selected the Most Beautiful Face of the Nineties, and will be paid four million dollars a year for sticking that face on our posters, but remember, it’s what’s on the inside that counts.” Sure thing.’ She knelt up beside him, putting her hands on his shoulders. ‘Smell me,’ she said. ‘Do I smell like your immaculate great aunt?’
‘Better,’ he said.
She stretched her arms up in the air and she felt the tips of his fingers hot against her naked back as he pulled her jumper over her head. Pushing her down against the cushions, he lowered himself down on top of her, kissing her. She opened her eyes and looked into his face. Some men, like opera singers performing their arias, contorted their faces when making love so that you got a fright if you looked up at them, but Oscar looked back at her with a half smile and hazy eyes, and just the faintest frown of concentration.
Later he said, ‘I don’t want to go,’ sounding like a child, pleading and truculent both at once. Normally it was he who was strong and Liberty who clung to him, thinking up new things to say to keep him with her a little bit longer.
This time it was she who got up first. He followed her reluctantly, standing in front of her. Then he clasped his hands behind her neck, and just stood there looking at her.
She smiled. ‘Oscar, is it possible that you are beginning to need me the way I need you?’
‘Well Liberty, it sure looks like it.’
They kissed again and it was another ten minutes before Liberty freed herself and whispered, ‘You must go now. Victoria will be worrying.’ She felt wicked as she said it, like when she was small and had watched Hamish pot the rabbits on the school lawn moments after she had admired them playing in the twilight. She shuddered, clutching him to her, trying to kiss away her thoughts.
After he had gone, before popping over to say goodnight to Evelyn, she went upstairs. She splashed her face with cold water and put on some lipstick, making sure she did not look like someone who had, only minutes earlier, cried out with ecstasy in her lover’s arms.
‘Can you believe it?’ Evelyn asked her the moment she opened the door. ‘It was that Sanderson woman who destroyed my garden.’
‘I know,’ Liberty said gently. ‘Remember I was here when you talked to Oscar.’
‘Yes, of course, so you were. Well don’t stand about in the hall, dear, come on in.’ Evelyn gesticulated aimlessly.
‘Have you eaten?’ Liberty asked.
‘Eaten, yes of course. I had fish fingers.’
‘You had fish fingers yesterday.’
‘Did I? Well maybe it was an egg I had. That’s right, an egg.’ Evelyn hurried, stiff-legged, ahead to the kitchen. ‘Have some coffee.’
In the sink Liberty could see at least two days’ worth of dirty dishes; Evelyn herself was still wearing the same shabby tweed skirt and moth-eaten green jumper that she had worn on her return home five days earlier.
‘Are you sleeping all right?’ Liberty asked.
‘Yes, of course I am, like a log,’ Evelyn said, but when they went into the sitting-room Liberty saw the blankets in the armchair and she said, ‘You weren’t going to sleep down here?’
Evelyn shrugged her shoulders. ‘I like it.’ She pushed the blankets onto the floor and sank down on the chair. ‘Did I tell you it was Nancy Sanderson who destroyed the garden?’
‘I know, you told me. You really should let us call the police, as Oscar said.’
‘She shovelled a couple of sackfuls of salt into the inlet to the pump and switched it on. Simple really. It killed the garden and destroyed the pump.’ Evelyn gave a hoarse laugh. ‘Organically too; the irony wasn’t lost on me.’
‘I’d like to kill her,’ Liberty said quietly. ‘Please let me contact the police.’
‘It won’t bring my garden back and I couldn’t stand the fuss, going to court, and who’s to say the Sandersons don’t just deny it all? There’s no proof. There could be counter claims: libel, defamation. They’ve got nothing to lose now; he blames me for his business going to the dogs. And I don’t want any talk from you either, you must promise me that.’ Her voice shook. ‘I’m too old, I’m tired, I just want to be left in peace.’
Liberty said nothing, but took Evelyn’s mug of coffee across to the drinks tray. She found the brandy bottle, sticky and covered in dust, and splashed a good couple of spoonfuls into the coffee. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘drink this.’ She watched as Evelyn gulped the drink down in noisy mouthfuls, then she picked up the blankets and spread them across Evelyn’s legs and waist, half expecting to be told not to fuss. Evelyn did not protest, allowing herself to be tucked in like a child.
Liberty stayed until Evelyn was asleep and snoring open-mouthed in the chair, then she tip-toed from the room, unlatched the front door and closed it softly behind her.
She slept in the next morning. When, swollen-eyed and heavy-headed, she ventured out to post a letter to Johnny, she was hailed from across the main street by Neville Pyke. Crossing the road just in front of a builder’s van that screeched to a halt inches away from him, Neville grabbed her by the elbow, panting, ‘It’s dreadful, really dreadful.’
‘I know, they drive round here as if it was the M25.’ Liberty smiled at him.
Neville looked uncomprehendingly at her for a moment. ‘Oh the van, I wasn’t thinking of that. No, I was referring to Miss Brooke’s garden.’
‘Yes, that is dreadful.’
‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised if this has all but ruined our chances. I hope whoever it was who did it, is thoroughly ashamed. I mean to say, that sort of thing is hardly likely to make us the most caring village in Hampshire, now, is it?’
‘I hadn’t actually thought of it in that light, but now you mention it, no, I suppose not. It’s broken Evelyn’s heart. It was a life-time’s creation, that garden, her passion. Life’s no good without a passion.’
Neville looked confused so she added briskly, ‘Well that’s how I feel anyway.’
Neville rubbed the tip of his nose with a forefinger. ‘I wonder if a special plea to Miss Havesham would do any good. I know she isn’t judging, but she is planning to base her new series on the winning village. So if she puts a word in, explains how this sort of thing is not at all like Tollymead…’
‘I agree there,’ Liberty said, feeling unkind, ‘it takes a certain amount of interest in your fellow man to poison his garden. Not like Tollymead at all.’
Neville looked confused, making Liberty feel guilty. ‘Have you met Miss Havesham then?’ she asked quickly.
‘I wouldn’t say I had exactly met her. But I’ve seen her a couple of times. Pretty young woman I thought. Tiny wee bit of a thing, with hair cut like a boy’s. I’ll catch her attention next time I see her.’ He was turning to leave when he stopped and added, ‘A very pretty lady she is, I must say.’ He crossed the road once more, looking as he went this time.
Liberty, deep in thought, wandered up to the mail box and giving Johnny’s letter a quick kiss for luck, popped it in.
Back home again, she opened the latest parcel of translation work. Could they, the publishers asked in their letter, have the translation into English by Easter? Liberty looked with distaste at the glossy proofs which accompanied the manuscript. On the front they sported a picture of the author who was young, female and theatrical-looking, with dark, square-cut hair and black-fringed, bedroom eyes. ‘Birgitta Jungman,’ the cover said on the back, ‘has, although still only twenty-three, written a novel of hypnotic power.’ Liberty glared at the photo and then, slamming the book down on the table, she hissed, ‘And what have the British public done to deserve you?’ After that she did what she always did when she had a new deadline: she emptied the wash-basket and did the ironing, then she cleaned
the kitchen, wiping down the back of the work surfaces and underneath the jars of coffee and tea. She polished the Aga lids, on top and on the inside, and finally she weeded the flower bed by the back door. Then at last, she sat down and began work. After a while she stopped to make herself a cup of coffee and as she returned to the desk, she asked herself for the hundredth time why it was that she, who could translate as well from English into Swedish as from Swedish into English, an unusual talent she had been told, she who gave chapter headings to every incident in her life and titles to her daydreams, why she could not write one acceptable novel? ‘Birgitta Jungman, how I hate you,’ she sighed, then she spent the next hour practising writing simultaneously in Swedish and English, a pencil in each hand.
Village Diary
Tollymead: What a sight! Daffodils, everywhere daffodils; along the river and up the path to the recreation ground, in the hedgerows and on road verges. Residents of the village must have followed Agnes Coulson’s advice and popped their spare bulbs into the ground all across Tollymead. The main street, hitherto immune to any attempts to make it picturesque, looks as different and as pretty as a woman in one of those Before and After make-overs. Better probably because, have you noticed, half the time these women looked better before all those professionals got to them.
Love, too, must be in the air, judging by the ‘No Canoodling’ that has been added to the ‘Dogs Not Allowed’ sign on the playingfield.
Miss Hester Scott’s weekly card nights are a great success with young and old alike. ‘I told the vicar that I don’t believe God would object one little bit to us playing cards on Sunday,’ Miss Scott told me, ‘and it gives a nice family feeling to the day: church in the morning, a family game of cards in the evening.’
Vanishing Whist and Racing Demon are current favourites. ‘The children love playing with their parents,’ Miss Scott tells me. ‘It makes such a nice change from watching television or playing computers all alone in your bedroom.’
Twenty-seven
It was warm for early April. Liberty was outside on the road, white-washing her gate. Now and then she paused, turning away from the paint and breathing in the mellow air.
‘It’s a grand sight, isn’t it?’ She felt a heavy hand on her shoulder. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen a display like it, not since Mrs Pyke and I went to the very home of the bulb, Holland that is.’
‘Oh, Mr Pyke,’ she turned round. ‘You mean the daffodils? Yes, they’re gorgeous.’
‘Yes, Mrs Pyke and I were quite the travellers in our day, but as I say, this is in a class of its own. Very good idea of hers, this Miss Coulson, that is. There’s a bit there you’ve missed, I think.’
‘Right, absolutely.’ Liberty smiled, hoping the words covered everything.
‘There’s a piece about it in this week’s Diary,’ Neville stopped to pull out a crumpled paper from the large pocket of his tweed jacket. ‘Here.’
‘Yes I’ve seen it, thanks,’ Liberty kept smiling as she painted round the black wrought iron handle.
‘I just hope those judges see it too, better still, make their way over here. That’s the thing with them, you just don’t know when they’re here, just like those Egon—’
‘Ronays,’ Liberty could not help filling in.
‘That’s it, that’s it. I don’t know that I like this bit about the carrying on, though.’ Neville pointed a paint-stained finger at the column. ‘I’ve been up there just now, you know. I was going to rub it away, but the sign was as clean as a whistle. Mind, I’ve noticed before that the Diary isn’t always very accurate. In fact,’ he looked around him as if he was half expecting the writer to be lurking behind a hedge somewhere, ‘nice as the entries are, and useful too, I sometimes feel as if I’m reading about another village altogether.’
Liberty nodded. ‘I know what you mean,’ she said. ‘I know exactly what you mean.’
‘Well,’ Neville said, ‘I must hurry. I’m on my way over to mow the little that’s left of old Miss Brooke’s lawn.’ Neville’s pop eyes shone with satisfaction at the thought of his good deed. ‘I know for the rest of us the garden isn’t of such importance, but what right have we to say what’s worth grieving over and what isn’t?’ He nodded goodbye and left Liberty at her gate. A few yards down the road he turned and called, ‘See you in class this afternoon.’
‘“Old Miss Brooke”,’ Liberty repeated sadly to herself. It was true though. It was no longer splendidly ‘Bloody Evelyn’, or ‘that menace’, let alone, ‘the owner of that wonderful garden’. No, it was ‘old Miss Brooke’, and that, Liberty thought, was truly the end.
Her melancholy mood did not improve when she greeted her class later in the day. Have I no more soul than a hyena after all? she asked herself. No wonder I fail to thrill and move readers. Loving a man and teaching his wife to write romantic stories, were those the actions of a being with a soul?
‘Theme versus plot,’ she said hastily, noticing the expectant faces turned towards her. ‘Any thoughts on the subject?’ Blank looks. ‘Think of a life,’ Liberty said. ‘Is parenthood the theme of yours? Then the fun and the slog of bringing those children up, the pitfalls and the high points, that’s your plot. Maybe you’re dedicated to good works in a selfish world, or single-mindedly pursuing fame or material wealth? Sometimes you might think your life’s theme is one thing but as the plot unfolds you realize you’re out of control, the plot has run away with your life, and your theme is destroyed. Then, in life as in a novel, you’ve got problems. Now, for next week, I would like you to write down a theme you would like for a story, in no more than five words.’
‘I don’t agree with that,’ Victoria said.
‘Sorry, with what?’
‘This theme business. You’re too focused. I think it kills the spark. Sort of imprisons you.’ Encouraged by approving nods from some of the other students, she went on, ‘You should allow things to develop, it should be more organic, you know what I mean? I think that’s right for life as well. I like to live for the moment,’ she added as if no-one had ever said it before.
‘Oh well…’ Liberty said wondering why that was all she ever found to say to Victoria’s statements. Making an effort she added, ‘That’s very interesting.’
Victoria looked as if that went without saying, leaving Liberty to ponder another dilemma: which was worse, deceiving a woman you liked or disliking the woman you were already deceiving? Looking at Victoria’s smug beauty she felt she did not really have much choice in the matter.
Later that day Oscar rang the doorbell at Laburnum Terrace. As Liberty opened the door he almost fell into her arms. ‘I had to see you for a couple of minutes,’ he whispered holding on to her tight, moving her along with him into the sitting-room and down onto the sofa, where he kissed her as if he needed her breath inside him to go on living.
‘Oi, what’s going on here?’ Liberty said softly when finally he let her go.
He pushed his glasses up on his forehead and rubbed his eyes so hard she half expected they’d come off on his knuckles. ‘I don’t know any more. I’m almost afraid to see you, because I hate leaving you so much. I don’t love Victoria, I love you.’
Liberty felt her face contorting the way it did sometimes when she heard a particularly beautiful piece of music and she blinked away a tear.
‘Whoa there, what did I say?’ Oscar asked.
‘Well the exact truth is that your words were like music to my ears, but that’s an awful cliché of course so—’
‘Don’t burble my love.’
She smiled weakly. ‘You can’t bring yourself to tell Victoria, can you?’
‘No, no I can’t. It’s not her fault that I don’t love her. She hasn’t changed. Two years ago I promised before God and a congregation to love and cherish her for the rest of my life. How can I just abandon her? In fact,’ he threw himself back against the cushions, ‘I’m an all-round rat.’
‘It’s all right, rat,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about me.’ She twi
sted round, smiling at him. ‘This is new. How long have we known each other? A few months, that’s all. You can’t just walk away from your marriage. There’s too much walking away in this world. We need time to think.’ She stroked his cheek, then, pulling his glasses off and putting them on the table, she kissed him lightly on the lips. But I can’t leave you either, not yet. I love you.’
He straightened up and held her at arm’s length, then with a little groan he pulled her down again. She felt him searching for the buttons of her shirt and like a mirror image she unbuttoned his, bending her head to kiss every part of him she uncovered and stopping only for a second to undo the buttons and zip on his trousers.
It was half an hour later that Oscar looked at his watch. ‘I must go.’ He got up, searching for his clothes that Liberty had deliberately chucked as far away from the sofa as she could throw them. She watched as he moved round the room picking up his clothes, slipping them on. He pulled his pants and trousers on and, reaching for his shirt, he turned suddenly. ‘I feel so damn shabby, coming here like some sneak thief, taking what I need before slinking off. I don’t want to treat you like that.’
Liberty walked up to him, unconcerned for once by her nakedness. Standing on tip-toe she framed his face with her hands, looking deep into his eyes. ‘You’re my love and my heart’s delight,’ she whispered with a small smile. ‘Now go home to your wife.’ She gave him a little push towards the door.
Victoria greeted Oscar with silence and cottage pie. He ate his way through the huge helping that Victoria had insisted on giving him, in the conviction that it was his favourite food. His marriage, he could not help thinking, was founded on just such misunderstandings sustained by lazy little lies. Victoria had once said that she just knew he was the sort of man who liked good plain home cooking, and he had felt it churlish to contradict. After that, each time she placed another plate heaped with faggots or bangers and mash in front of him, he put on a pleased expression and he rubbed his hands together with false glee, ‘Cottage pie; lovely,’ he’d say, or ‘Sausages; just the job.’
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