A Rival Creation

by Marika Cobbold

  ‘Talk tomorrow?’ he said.

  ‘Talk tomorrow,’ she said, trying to smile again and failing.

  She went to bed soon afterwards, praying for sleep so that she could arrive at the next day with the minimum of pain.

  And she did sleep, waking only when her doorbell rang at eight o’clock. A woman she had never met before stood beaming on the threshold.

  ‘Sorry to ring your bell at this hour, but I’ve been keeping an eye on your house while you’ve been away.’ The woman put out her hand. ‘Beryl Morgan, I live just up the road. Neville, Neville Pyke that is, told me you were away and asked me to keep a weather eye open.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Liberty said, unwilling to let the woman in as she herself was still in her dressing-gown with her hair and her thoughts in a mess.

  ‘So when I saw the curtains left undrawn overnight, although you were meant to be back, I thought to myself, Beryl I thought, you be a caring neighbour and get yourself straight over there. She’ll thank you for it, that’s what Les, my husband said, that’s us, Les and Beryl.’

  As Liberty looked questioningly at her, she carried on, ‘I mean in case you want to send in a little mention. You know, caring neighbours.’ She winked. ‘Most Caring Village. Every little helps you know, that’s what Neville says.’

  Liberty’s face brightened. ‘Right, of course, thank you.’ She smiled at the woman and then closed the door before running round the whole ground floor drawing the curtains at every window. ‘Frankenstein’s monster,’ she mumbled, ‘that’s what. Frankenstein’s monster.’

  When Neville arrived at the Sandersons’ house, Andrew was just leaving.

  ‘Going out?’ Neville enquired politely. Andrew gave him a withering glance and marched off. As he had left the front door open, Neville took a step inside calling, ‘It’s only me – Neville.’

  ‘I’m in the drawing-room. Come on through!’ Nancy called back.

  Nancy was sitting in a chair by the window, knitting. She smiled at Neville who beamed back, thinking how much friendlier Nancy had become since her trip abroad.

  ‘I’ve come about the fête,’ he said as he fixed his watery eyes on the flashing knitting needles. He liked to see a woman knitting, or sewing too, for that matter. When he and Gladys were first married, her small soft hands were always occupied. She would sew the tiniest little stitches you ever did see, and he had not owned a jumper that she had not knitted. Neville’s mother used to say that their baby would be the best-dressed infant in Fulham. But no baby came; and it wasn’t for lack of trying either.

  ‘I’ve talked to the vicar,’ Nancy said, as she added yellow wool to the strand of white. ‘We agreed on the third of July as a good date. It’s a little early for some of the vegetable show entries, but we want to avoid clashing with Everton. They’ve got theirs scheduled for the tenth, and Abbotslea is on the seventeenth.’

  ‘That trophy displayed in the hall, that would be something, wouldn’t it?’ Neville said dreamily.

  ‘Trophy?’

  ‘Most Caring Village. You haven’t forgotten we’re in the running, Nancy, have you now? And if we triumph, there might be that American television show to follow. Mrs Pyke would be excited at that.’

  ‘That Havesham woman again! I’m sick and tired of hearing about her as if she was some kind of royalty, although to be fair,’ Nancy added, ‘there hasn’t been any scandal concerning her, not yet.’

  ‘What do you mean, not yet?’ Neville’s eyes bulged at her.

  Nancy looked up at him coolly. ‘I’ve had my suspicions for some time now that she’s been trying to get her manicured claws into Andrew. Nothing concrete you know, just a feeling. You develop an instinct over the years.’ She switched between the yellow and the white yarn, creating a pattern of little stars.

  Neville wriggled from a mix of embarrassment and excitement. ‘I’m sure. So you’ve met her then, I take it.’

  ‘No, no I haven’t. And I’m not sure that I’d care to now either.’ She paused with the needles in her hand, and her eyes lit up, making her quite a good-looking woman, Neville thought.

  ‘I’ve got other fish to fry,’ Nancy said, needles clicking once again.

  Neville badly wanted to know what those fish were, but he sensed it would be a mistake to ask. Nancy might have mellowed, but she could still turn a chap to stone with that magistrate’s look. ‘A theme fair,’ he said hastily, ‘and maybe a treasure hunt.’

  ‘Well you get on with that,’ Nancy said, ‘I’m doing White Elephant, Pat is books, and Joan’s doing Gourmet Cooking. The vicar is in charge of ice-creams. Oh, and before you go,’ she said to Neville who had had no intention of leaving, ‘here’s the Tribune, I’ve finished with it.’ She nodded at the open paper on the coffee table. ‘There’s a bit about the fête in the Diary. And the usual talk about people one’s never met.’

  Village Diary

  Tollymead: Mrs Smedley, The Old Smithy, Well Road, Tollymead, would like your old costume jewellery for her stall at the Summer Fête. It doesn’t have to be in mint condition, clasps in particular can be mended or changed, and beads can be cannibalized. If you think you’ve got anything, please bring it to the house, or if that’s difficult, give Mrs Smedley a ring and she’ll collect.

  Also on the subject of the fête, Miss Hester Scott went against her principles in a good cause the other night, and played for money at her weekly cards night. She has kindly donated her winnings to the fête committee, as she herself will be in the South of France at the time of the fête.

  Miss Scott will be back in August and she has already promised that if we ever do decide to form our own amateur dramatics society, she will tread the boards once again. Now the Everton Players have folded, there’s more reason than ever not to let the arts die in our area.

  We’re proud to announce that a resident of Tollymead, Oliver Bliss, has been invited to join the Anglo-French expedition to the Arctic Ocean, taking off next month. His wife Laura tells me that although she dreads the separation, she is proudest of all. We both agreed that at least she won’t have to worry about being lonely as the village is sure to rally round with visits and invitations.

  ‘Well this is excellent, excellent,’ Neville exclaimed as he finished reading. ‘I hope the powers that be at the Tribune take note of what’s before their eyes.’

  ‘None of these places are any too friendly once you look into it,’ Alistair Partridge complained to Oscar as they left the offices together. ‘It’s easier to find teenage thugs than good neighbours in most of the villages around here. It’s bad enough that I can’t let my daughter out after dark in Fairfield, now it seems the same sort of thing is beginning to happen all around. One old lady in Everton called in to nominate her village as the most caring for the sole reason that after her little cottage was knocked off three times, a neighbour installed an alarm for her at a twenty per cent discount. That’s the new morality for you.’

  Oscar’s laugh was hollow. ‘Morality,’ he mumbled. Aloud he said, ‘Well do what you can. This competition is your…’ he blinked, ‘… your baby now.’

  ‘Time for a beer?’ Alistair asked as they passed the pub on the way to the car park.

  ‘Thanks, no. I’d better get home.’

  ‘Well, give my best to your lovely wife.’

  Oscar smiled mechanically and gave him a quick wave before hurrying across to his car.

  Fifteen minutes later he pulled up in front of Liberty’s cottage.

  ‘I’m going to paint furniture at the fête,’ Liberty said almost the second he came through the door. She had green paint under her fingernails and a pale blue streak, like a bruise, across her forehead. ‘I’ll invite people to bring old wooden furniture and mirrors and stuff and I’ll paint flowers and children’s names on hairbrushes. Of course that will just be the beginning. Who knows? I might become a great painter.’ She began to cry.

  Oscar had stood watching her in silence, but now he took a step towards her and pulled he
r into his arms. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered. ‘Oh God I’m so sorry.’

  ‘You’re going to be a father and I can never have any more children, not yours, not anyone’s. It’s killing me, don’t you understand? I just can’t do anything right.’

  Oscar led Liberty into the kitchen and he sat her down by the table before going across to the sink and filling the kettle.

  ‘It isn’t as if the child won’t have a father,’ he said, his back turned. ‘Lots of children grow up perfectly well and happy with divorced parents. I mean, look at Johnny.’

  The kettle boiled and he warmed the pot with some of the water before putting in three pinches of tea and bringing it right up to the kettle, to fill.

  ‘You see how it is,’ Liberty tried to smile. ‘I find a man who is tall enough for me to have to stand on tip-toe to kiss him, a man who knows how to make a proper cup of tea, and then, then I lose him.’

  Thirty-four

  It was still early in the morning, just gone nine, when Ted called in at Laburnum Terrace with a request. ‘Kids,’ he said, standing on the doorstep, his face a little pinker even than usual.

  Liberty flinched. ‘Kids?’

  ‘I’ve talked with a friend of mine who’s a social worker in Liverpool, in my old parish. Can I come in?’

  ‘Yes, yes of course. Oh and sorry about these,’ she patted the pink curlers that clung to her hair like huge burdocks. ‘I was just taking them out. I’m trying to achieve the hippy look one more time before it’s too late. You know the kind of thing: straight hair parted down the middle, floaty dresses… I tried to make a garland of daisies earlier but the stems kept coming off.’ She fluttered around waving her arms a lot, guiding him into the kitchen that was hot from the Aga and the sun beating through the windows. She opened the back door to let in some air.

  ‘Don’t take them out on my account, please. My mother always wore curlers round the house.’ He smiled soothingly.

  Liberty thought that was probably all the more reason for her to take hers out, but she smiled back and said instead, ‘I’ll make us some coffee.’

  Ted sat down at the table. ‘I thought it would be great to bring some of the kids down here for a holiday. I never gave this place a proper chance, I’m the first to admit it, but things are happening, I can feel it.’ Ted turned pinker than ever. Excitement, rather than the heat from the Aga, Liberty thought.

  ‘You know,’ Ted said, ‘some of those kids have never been out of the city. So I thought of you.’

  ‘Of me?’ She felt a demand creeping towards her, and clutching her arms to her chest she just wanted to escape, hide her head under a pillow, like an ostrich. No, ostrich was wrong. Had she not heard Evelyn say that it was a myth, ostriches burying their heads in the sand to hide?

  Ted cleared his throat. ‘I have a list of young people here.’ He fished out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. ‘Keith, that’s my friend, and I drew it up together. There’s a girl here, Karen English, solvent abuser since she was ten; she’s fifteen now, one abortion. You could have Karen.’

  ‘I could have Karen?’

  ‘We thought two weeks at the beginning of the school holidays.’

  ‘You’d like me to have this girl here for two weeks?’

  ‘That’s it.’ Ted took the cup and saucer Liberty handed him. ‘Cheers.’

  Liberty sat down herself, with a heavy thud. Prodding her feelings carefully she said, ‘I don’t think I’m that nice really, Ted. I mean, do you think anyone in Tollymead is that nice. I know there’s been a lot of things written about Caring and Neighbourliness and stuff, but you shouldn’t believe everything you see in the paper. In fact I sometimes think you shouldn’t believe anything you see—’

  ‘You’d like Karen,’ Ted said.

  ‘You think so?’ Liberty looked doubtful. ‘It’s just that I’ve led rather a sheltered life in some ways. I’m not proud of it or anything, but the fact is, I’m more pony club than glue sniffing, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘I’m sure Karen would be too, if she had the choice,’ Ted said calmly.

  Liberty felt her cheeks turning pink like Ted’s. ‘Yes, yes of course. Silly of me. Who else are you going to ask?’

  ‘I talked to Nancy but she has some private reasons for not being able to help this time around. She suggested I ask this American woman, Anne Havesham. I’m ashamed to say I haven’t met her yet—’

  ‘Oh don’t be,’ Liberty said quickly. ‘I mean you can’t be everywhere. You think it’s a good idea asking her?’

  ‘Sure, why not?’

  ‘Well…’ Liberty took a deep breath. ‘No, why not?’

  ‘So you’ll have Karen?’ Ted drained his cup. Feeling trapped, Liberty wished childishly that she had given him a mug, a chipped mug, instead of that pretty rose-covered cup and saucer.

  She thought of all the times she had cruised past some drenched teenager hitch-hiking on a wet night and how she had driven on, with her three empty seats. Fear was a great enemy of good deeds. What, she wondered as she fiddled with her cup, running the tip of her finger round and round the smooth edge, what would a hyena do about Karen the substance abuser? Not a lot, was probably the answer, not unless she was a nice, toothsome corpse.

  ‘When do you want her to come? You see, Johnny’s back home at the end of July.’

  ‘I know Karen quite well. I’m sure they’ll become great friends.’

  And that is supposed to make me feel better. Liberty took a huge gulp of coffee, swallowing it down the wrong way. ‘OK. I’ll have her,’ she said. ‘Give me her address and I’ll write to her.’

  Ted stood up, looking so relieved she felt ashamed. Walking him round to the gate, she said, ‘It’s a very good idea, Ted. I hope lots of people will end up helping.’ She bent down, sniffing a deep, red rose. ‘She’ll like the garden, don’t you think, if she’s from the city? It’s messy and all that, but it’s peaceful.’

  ‘She’ll love it,’ Ted beamed at her. ‘I knew I could count on you.’

  After Ted had left, Liberty was so worried by her promise that the only thing she could do was take a long walk. It was hot and the birds were singing, one of the best sounds. She walked fast. She might as well do herself some good whilst she fretted.

  Would not the girl be bored in Tollymead? At fifteen she most probably would not like the steam railway that ran between Alton and Alresford. Jane Austen’s house too, was far from a safe bet. Did children read Jane Austen in schools these days? She did not think Johnny had, but if they did, were they impressed enough to want to see her house? Karen and she could read Pride and Prejudice together and then they could go and see the house.

  Liberty marched on down River Lane, out of breath, fists pounding the air. Of course, Jane Austen’s concerns would seem miles away from an inner city child of fifteen, they seemed miles away from most people’s concerns, but that was part of the point of books, to give you a helping of other lives to enrich the staple diet of your own.

  She was walking so fast that she was beginning to sweat and her heart was thumping. She slowed down as a car passed and she noticed the driver, a woman, grinning at her. Liberty grinned back. By the church she met a man with a retriever. The man, too, grinned. The birds were still singing. She hoped many people would agree to take in Ted’s children. If Tollymead was really changing it meant it was possible to turn the clock back and make a smash-and-grab raid on the virtues of the past, instead of just hanging round dinner parties bemoaning their demise. Who knows, Liberty thought, emboldened by the hooting of the horn by another grinning driver, we might even be able to begin leaving the church unlocked again. She waved to the car.

  On her way back she decided to call in on Evelyn. The back door of Glebe House stood open. Liberty paused on the doorstep, calling Evelyn’s name. When there was no answer she stepped inside. She paused in the doorway to the sitting-room. A newspaper lay open on the sofa and several unwashed mugs stood on the small tables amongst the dust-cov
ered seed catalogues. The french windows stood open, and Liberty stepped back into the sunshine. There was still no sign of Evelyn, so Liberty walked across the lawn towards the stream, which glittered like crumpled foil in the sun. The lawn was green once more and the first flowers were appearing on the clematis and the roses that Oscar had planted against the south-facing wall. A few yards from the edge of the water, she stopped. She knelt down, peering at the tangle of weeds. Sinking back on her heels she slapped her hand across her eyes. Then she forced herself to look at Evelyn, who floated face down against the small sluice, her grey hair tangling with the reeds. With a moan of distress Liberty jumped into the stream and with the water reaching up to her chest, half walked, half swam across to her friend, turning her on her back. Not stopping to look at her face, she gripped her under the arms and pulled her back and out of the stream. She tried to expel the water from Evelyn’s lungs and all the while she called out, ‘Help! Anyone help! Come quick!’

  The murky river water dribbled from Evelyn’s mouth, but her eyes were wide open and her breath had gone. Liberty bent low, exhaling into Evelyn’s mouth. There was no response and with a whimper, Liberty scrambled to her feet and ran back to the house to telephone for an ambulance. Assured it was on its way, she chucked the telephone down and ran back to Evelyn. Throwing herself down on the ground by her side, she continued to apply every half-baked idea on resuscitation she had ever absorbed. She carried on until the ambulance men came to lift Evelyn on to the stretcher, then she got up and scrambled ahead of the men, opening each door to let them through.

  Evelyn was carried through the front door and into the ambulance, leaving Liberty weeping by the door, thinking: is that all there is to it? Evelyn has left this house and this life, and still the birds carry on singing, the sun still shines, and today’s newspaper lies open on the sofa. She watched the ambulance drive off towards the cross-roads and then she walked back into the house and called Oscar.