A Rival Creation

by Marika Cobbold

  Later that night Oscar found an old flag in a cupboard outside the bathroom. Liberty, who had been asleep, woke to find him outside in only his jeans, hoisting it. Naked, she leant out of the window and called softly, ‘You could get arrested for that. Flags come down at sunset,’ but she was grinning.

  Oscar just laughed and waved before securing the line. Liberty waved back, looking out at the floodlit façade of the fort and the blue-and-yellow flag stiff in the sea breeze.

  ‘You’ll be feeding the parrot next,’ she whispered before padding across the wooden floor and back into bed.

  Thirty-one

  When she woke the next morning Oscar was already gone. His side of the bed was straightened and his clothes were gone from the chair. She threw off the duvet, shivering in the morning air, put on her dressing-gown and closed the window. He had had a shower. She picked up his damp towel from the chair and covered her face with it, inhaling the smell of soapy skin. She walked down the steep wooden staircase and into the kitchen. No Oscar.

  She went back up to the bedroom to put on jeans and a big checked shirt under a ribbed fisherman’s sweater that had once belonged to her grandfather, then she ran out into the garden and up to the gate. A woman, dressed already in her pastel summer clothes and a pale blue cotton hat, walked past with her dachshund. Liberty nodded as she crossed their path on her way up the last bit of the hill to the fort. The woman nodded back, and the wind made the ears of the little dog rise like spinnakers.

  Liberty found Oscar sitting on a rock, looking out across the sea. As she sat down quietly by his side he turned with a small smile, putting his arm round her shoulders. The sky was blue, turquoise really. Liberty squinted up at the sky, watching the white clouds racing along, crossing the sun’s path, one after the other. It struck her how odd it was that she had once wanted to kill herself through despair, when it was so obvious that now was the time to die, now when she was happy. She closed her eyes and saw herself rising from Oscar’s side and running to the edge of the cliff. She jumped… and there: a happy ending.

  The wind dropped so it was warm enough to have breakfast outside on the wooden terrace. Liberty was pouring the tea when Oscar put his hand on her arm, making her put the teapot down.

  ‘We should get married,’ he said. ‘Being with you like this, I’ve realized I could never go back to how things were before.’ He pulled her down on his knee and murmured, ‘I knew that would happen. That’s why I almost chickened out of going.’ Clasping his hands round her waist he asked, ‘Could you consider leaving Tollymead and moving abroad with me? I think there’s a job for me in the States, on a weekly news magazine in Boston.’

  Liberty stared hard at the blue-and-white pattern of her cup, then she blew her nose noisily into her paper napkin.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered. She cleared her throat and said in her normal voice, ‘I’d love to. I’ll have to ask Johnny about his plans of course but… Oh my God, I’d love to.’

  Oscar handed her his paper napkin and she used that too. Giving her a look that was half amused, half concerned, he disappeared into the kitchen only to appear moments later with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. ‘I brought this with me,’ he lifted the bottle in the air, ‘just in case.’ The cork popped and flew across the table, and his face broke into a grin as he poured out the wine.

  Victoria kept a trunk filled with baby clothes in the attic of the Oast House. The little knitted jackets and smocked dresses had once been worn by Victoria and her sister, and ever since had been lovingly kept, safe from moths, in the camphor wood chest. Victoria smiled as she picked out the red-and-white dress she had worn for her first birthday. She held it up to the sunlight that filtered through the dusty attic window and marvelled at the hundreds of tiny stitches that criss-crossed the gingham checks. There was no yellowing of the white collar and cuffs; the dress could have been made yesterday.

  She placed it back amongst the tissue paper in the chest and closed the lid. Only two more days and Oscar would be back from his trip. Walking back downstairs she took extra care with the steep attic stairs. She made herself a cup of decaffeinated coffee and settled down on the sitting-room sofa, picking up a copy of Marie Claire. Leaning back against the cushions she sighed with contentment; she was getting everything she wanted.

  Thirty-two

  It was eight-thirty in the evening and dusk was settling as Oscar dropped Liberty off at Laburnum Terrace. She entered her house feeling like a bride, carried over the threshold, not by Oscar, not yet, but by the promise of a new life. She stood in the narrow hall, beaming as he followed her inside with her suitcase. He put the case down and put his arms round her, kissing her.

  Pulling free reluctantly, he said, ‘I must go. Really I must,’ he added more to himself than to Liberty. He took a step towards the door and as she stood there, still grinning, he laughed and shook his head before coming back for one more kiss.

  After he had gone, Liberty resisted going into the sitting-room to dream. She had work to do, another dead-line to meet. She went into the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea, taking it over to her desk and switching on the computer, telling herself she was lucky to get the work. In their accompanying letter the publishers wrote, ‘Maria Grip’s prose is of an especially sensitive and poetic nature, so we would ask that particular care is taken not to lose any of these qualities in the translation.’

  ‘Other people’s perfect prose.’ Liberty buried her head in her hands. ‘It’s a living,’ she mumbled to herself, ‘it’s a living.’ She stayed with her head in her hands bashing it slowly and rhythmically against her palms. What was wrong with her, her and Maria Grip, what was wrong with people, that they could not be content with God’s creation but insisted on trying to set up like rival stallholders, flogging their own? What was it with people?

  Her head began to hurt, so she sat up straight and began reading. ‘Den tysta sommar natten penetrerade min nakna kropp’. She sighed and shook her head; it sounded no better in English: ‘The silent summer night penetrated my naked body…’ filling me with hot air, she added in her mind. She scratched her head with the biro, itchy with boredom. She continued reading until late into the morning. She needed the money. She had no intention of coming to Oscar a pauper.

  Nancy was sitting up in bed in her newly decorated bedroom. By her side, on the little chest of drawers, stood a plate of chocolate Hobnobs and a mug of warm milk. As she bit into her biscuit and turned another page of the Tribune, she sighed at the thought of all those years sharing a bed with Andrew, of being told not to be a pig and eat in bed, being told not to rustle the pages of her magazine or newspaper, being ordered to switch off the light. She loved her new room. Her eyes slid contentedly across the page and fixed on the Village Diary.

  Tollymead: Laura and Oliver Bliss returned this week to their new home on the outskirts of the village after their surprise wedding at the British Embassy in Paris. It had rained in Paris on their wedding day, Laura told me, but the sight of the flowering chestnut trees flanking the broad avenues of the Champs Elysées, leading up to L’Arc de Triomphe lost nothing of its magic in the light mist of the afternoon.

  So that their friends would not feel sidelined, Laura and Oliver gave a party on their return and Laura looked beautiful in the pale pink linen dress and pink-and-white check jacket that she had worn on her wedding day. Our vicar, the Reverend Ted Brain, was also at the party, and there was talk of a service of blessing to be held at St Saviour’s church at a later date.

  It was a warm, starlit night and the party ended with dancing outside on the terrace as more people from around the village joined in, lured by the music and the light.

  ‘I’ll pinch all this for my series,’ Anne Havesham told me as we watched the scene together, ‘and I would just love to set it in Tollymead.’

  For once, Nancy could not care less about that Havesham woman being mentioned, but she did think, a little sadly, that maybe she and Andrew would still be sharing a be
droom if there had been dancing under the stars in Tollymead years ago.

  ‘I just had a call from the Reverend Brain,’ Alistair Partridge pottered in through Oscar’s open door at the Tribune offices. ‘He’s the Vicar of Tollymead,’ he added helpfully.

  Oscar looked up at him, red-eyed and wild-haired. ‘I know that Alistair. Christ I know that.’

  Alistair stroked his beard. ‘You don’t look as if you’ve had a holiday.’

  Oscar glared at him. ‘So what did the man want?’

  ‘He wondered who it was who was responsible for the Diary. Said he’d never even heard of an all-night do in Tollymead with dancing under the stars, and that he had most certainly not taken part in anything of that nature. Sounded like he’d been accused of being the life and soul of the local orgy.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’ Oscar asked tiredly.

  ‘I apologized and all that. Said we’d check our facts extra carefully next time.’

  ‘I think it’s about time we found out whoever it is writing in. Have you run that ad?’

  ‘It’ll be in Friday.’

  ‘Good. We might or might not be able to use her, but either way, we need to ask her to get right back to basics with the Diary entries.’

  ‘Might be a bloke.’

  ‘Don’t think so somehow,’ Oscar said. ‘Anyway, have you thought of someone for the new column?’

  Alistair shook his head. ‘I had a chat with young Robert, but he’s not keen. He rather fancies himself as the hard-nosed reporter. Sally and David are stretched as it is, and we shed most of our outside contributors when we reorganized.’

  Oscar nodded. ‘I think what we want is something entirely fictional, but in a diary style. It’s been done before, but not here, and it’s always popular. Anchor it in a fictional village too, a sort of mix of the ones around here. Call it “Miss X’s Country Diary”, that sort of thing. We’ll talk to whoever it is doing the Tollymead contribution and take it from there. Oh, and the entries for the Most Caring Village competition will be judged soon. Get Robert and Sally to go out and interview locals from the different villages, and keep running the ad for nominations for kind neighbours. And get everything verified.’

  When Alistair had gone Oscar continued going through the stack of mail in front of him, although half the time he was not noticing what he was reading. Almost at the bottom of the pile he found the letter with a US postmark. The job on the east coast weekly was his if he wanted it. There it was: a new start. Sighing, he put his head in his hands. After a moment, trying out his voice to make sure it was steady, he lifted the phone and dialled Liberty’s number. When she answered she sounded in a hurry but she slowed down with pleasure as she said, ‘Oh it’s you.’

  ‘Going out?’

  ‘Just across to Evelyn.’

  ‘I need to talk to you. Can I pop over tonight, on my way from work?’

  ‘Of course. Can’t you tell me now?’

  ‘I’d rather not. See you tonight then.’

  Liberty put the phone down, feeling curious and a little annoyed at Oscar hanging up so quickly. She shrugged off her unease and, picking up the small water-colour of the island she had brought for Evelyn, she hurried across to Glebe House and knocked on the door. She waited a couple of minutes then knocked again. Again she waited until finally she heard the rattling of keys and muttered swearing. At last the door opened and Evelyn blinked at her in the morning light.

  ‘It’s me,’ Liberty said unnecessarily.

  ‘Hello dear.’ Evelyn stood aside to let her in. ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t had time to dress this morning.’ She was wearing her tartan dressing-gown and her hair was a mess. ‘I’ve been very busy,’ she gesticulated aimlessly.

  ‘You’ve started back on the garden?’

  ‘No, not really. Correspondence, that sort of thing.’

  Liberty felt suddenly furious. ‘You should sue that woman.’

  ‘What woman?’

  ‘Nancy bloody Sanderson of course.’ Evelyn did not move from the hall so Liberty moved towards the kitchen, hoping Evelyn would follow. ‘She’s back you know, from wherever it was she’s been, looking fat and contented. Maybe she is a vampire. That ghastly Andrew seems to have halved in size. He’s all pale too; I saw him in Fairfield the other day.’

  ‘I’m getting some money.’ Evelyn came into the kitchen with her, plumping herself down on a battered oak chair. ‘I’ve got the letter somewhere. I told Oscar I didn’t want any fuss. I’m too old for all this fuss.’

  Liberty’s heart gave a jolt. Evelyn was always talking about her age now. She never had before. It had been the least interesting subject in the world. Evelyn had taught her that it was not being old that made you pitiful, only talking about wanting to be younger, as if that was all you wanted to be in life. No, the trick was to behave as if you were completely at ease with your age, and everyone else would be too. But Evelyn of course did not even want to be young.

  Liberty looked away from Evelyn’s defeated face, down to the floor where balls of dust sat like mice in the corners under the cupboards. She was about to say the money would help to get the garden re-stocked but, looking across at Evelyn’s hunched figure on the chair, she changed her mind. Evelyn was right; it was too late. She made polite small talk instead about her trip and then, unable to keep down her own happiness any longer she said, ‘Don’t tell anyone, but Oscar and I are getting married.’

  Evelyn turned tired eyes on her. ‘My dear child, Oscar’s already got a wife.’

  Liberty looked away, blushing. ‘I’m sorry. That sounded awful.’ Dutifully she added, ‘Poor Victoria.’ Her face brightened again. ‘But you know he doesn’t love her. The whole marriage was a mistake.’

  ‘He made a lot of promises in church. I know, I was there.’

  ‘Well I love him,’ Liberty muttered.

  Neville sat writing at the desk that he had been allowed to purchase at a very good price from British Rail when he had retired.

  Dear Sir,

  I’m writing in response to your request for readers to send in nominations for Most Caring Village. To me Tollymead is the obvious choice for the coveted award. Quite apart from countless instances of neighbourliness chronicled in your own pages through the Village Diary, some of which I cannot, of course, personally vouch for, I can relate to you many other incidents …

  Neville Pyke wrote in his small, neat hand that made the most of every inch of the paper. He paused and thought, turning round and looking hopefully at his wife for inspiration. Gladys was watching A Country Practice and offered none. Neville scratched his bald head with the top of the roller ball pen. Then his face brightened.

  For one, folk from the village banded together to re-decorate the vicarage as a surprise for their vicar. And after the accidental… [here Neville underlined accidental]… fire at Miss Evelyn Brooke’s farmhouse, countless residents of our village turned out to help her restore her possessions to order…

  Fifteen minutes later he had finished his letter and sealed it inside a neatly addressed envelope. On his way to post it, he was happy to be able to offer a stranded motorist the use of his telephone and, once the call was over, a cup of tea while they waited for the AA. The motorist thanked Neville profusely as he left and Neville waved and called out, ‘Just remember to tell your friends what a caring place this is.’

  At seven-thirty Oscar rang Liberty’s doorbell. Liberty, who had been sitting reading through the manuscript she was translating, making notes, hurried to the door and flung it open.

  ‘I’m nominating your kindness in making love to a poor divorced woman, as a typically caring Tollymead act!’ she called out.

  Oscar did not smile back. He looked tired.

  ‘Sorry,’ Liberty took his hand, ‘was that tacky? It was tacky wasn’t it?’

  ‘What? No, no of course not.’ Oscar went straight into the sitting-room and threw himself down into the armchair by the window.

  ‘I love you, you know that, don
’t you?’ He looked up at her in an agony of frustration.

  She knelt down in front of him, resting her hands on his knees. ‘Yes. Yes I do know.’

  Oscar looked away, bashing his fist against the arm-rest of the chair. ‘Victoria is pregnant. She told me last night.’

  For one insane moment Liberty wanted to congratulate him, after all, congratulate was what one did when someone was about to become a father. Instead she just stared. She could feel her mouth falling open and she clamped it shut, still staring at him.

  Oscar gave a helpless shrug of the shoulder. ‘It only happened once since you and I – got together. Just once.’

  Thirty-three

  ‘It will be a beautiful baby,’ Liberty said to Oscar, her eyes open wide with her effort not to cry.

  ‘Oh God,’ Oscar groaned.

  ‘Are you fond of babies? Had you planned to have children before you met me?’

  ‘No, well yes. In the beginning Victoria kept saying she wasn’t ready. After a while I was relieved. I could kick myself, just assuming that she was looking after that side of things. Anyway,’ he shook his head, ‘I should never have slept with her after you and I became lovers.’

  Still facing him, she pulled herself up and clasped her arms round his neck. With a snuffle she said, ‘There’s no point carrying on like that. Lovemaking happens even in the best regulated families. You don’t owe me an explanation, the woman is your wife, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘Yes I do.’ He loosened her grip and slid down from the chair so that he too was kneeling. He put his hands on her shoulders. ‘I won’t give you up.’

  She couldn’t help smiling. ‘You say that now because you don’t know the baby.’

  Oscar let his arms fall to his side. After a moment he got up, easing her gently up with him.