A Rival Creation

by Marika Cobbold

  She tried to tell him as gently as she could that Evelyn had drowned in her own stream, floating face down amongst the reeds, with her spectacles left folded on a tree stump at the edge of the water. ‘They’ve taken her to Basingstoke Hospital. I was going to follow the ambulance, but then I thought Victoria might want to come with you.’

  ‘I’d like you to be there,’ Oscar said.

  ‘I’ll come if Victoria doesn’t want to be there,’ she said tiredly. ‘But I can’t face her now, not just now. Death is bad enough.’ Then she had to apologize. That was no way to speak to a man in mourning, the man you loved. ‘Sorry darling. Sorry, sorry.’

  After she had put the phone down she wandered round the sitting-room, touching the chair where Evelyn had sat when she last saw her, folding the papers, stroking the dust off the little china hedgehog on the mantelpiece. How could one fail to be materialistic, she thought angrily, when things were so much more permanent than people?

  It was only when she got back home that she realized she had taken a walk through the village and discovered a dear friend drowned, all the time wearing a head full of pink curlers.

  There was an inquest, at which Liberty gave her account of how she had found Evelyn and what had followed immediately afterwards. She tried not to look at Oscar. Officially he belonged to Victoria. On high days and death days and public holidays, he still belonged to Victoria. She gave Oscar a pale smile as she stepped down from the witness box. Oscar was solemn and red-eyed, and now and then he blew his nose loudly in a brown-and-white check handkerchief. Victoria was dressed in just enough black to show she was a certified mourner.

  After the inquest was over and the judgement had been made that Evelyn’s death had been accidental, for only the evidence of the neatly folded spectacles suggested anything else, Victoria went over to Liberty and asked if she would come back with them to the Oast House. ‘We won’t take no for an answer,’ this mother of her lover’s child said to Liberty, taking her firmly by the arm.

  Liberty pulled an apologetic face at Oscar over Victoria’s shoulder as she allowed herself to be led out of the courtroom and into the car park. As she followed behind in her own car, Liberty found it difficult to concentrate on the driving. She kept seeing Oscar before her, his beautiful face and his body, strong, muscled, soft-skinned, with two greedy women pulling him apart: one whose greed was sanctioned by the courts, both earthly and divine; one whose desire was approved only by the devil, if there was such an unfashionable person. By the time she pulled up outside the Oast House, she was as exhausted as if her body was the battleground.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Oscar had time to whisper as they followed Victoria into the house. She could feel his eyes on her, but she did not dare to look back in case she threw herself into his arms kissing his lips, caressing his hair, whispering love, all while the balance of her mind was disturbed.

  ‘What about a stiff drink?’ Victoria said. ‘For you, that is, Liberty. I mustn’t now I’ve got Oscar Junior to think of.’

  Oscar Junior! Coming into the sitting-room behind Victoria, Liberty rolled her eyes to the heavens. It was either that or breaking down in awful sobs. She rolled her eyes again before noticing Victoria looking at her with a curious little smile. Feeling the heat rise in her cheeks, she took the tumbler of whisky from Victoria’s outstretched hand. The scar on her cheek was itching and she put her hand up to cover it.

  ‘Don’t worry about that scar,’ Victoria said, ‘we’re all friends here. I promise you, after a while one hardly notices it. Isn’t that right Oscar?’

  ‘No, no of course one doesn’t.’ He looked furious, but Victoria just smiled serenely.

  Liberty drank the whisky down in one, not really thinking about what she was doing in her miserable confusion. Then she burped.

  ‘I’m most awfully sorry,’ she said.

  Victoria made much of not hearing, but Oscar grinned at her and winked, making her feel a bit better.

  Serious once more, he asked her, ‘Do you think her death was an accident?’

  Liberty looked up at him and slowly shook her head.

  ‘Well I for one can’t understand why anyone would want to kill themselves over a garden, as you seem to suggest,’ Victoria said, sitting down on the sofa. ‘Can you Oscar?’

  Oscar looked into his drink before answering. ‘I think I can.’

  Victoria looked annoyed. ‘Well if you are right and she did kill herself, I think it was a very strange thing to do, don’t you Liberty?’

  Liberty did not want to seem as if she was ganging up with her lover against his wife, but nor could she deny Evelyn her reason. ‘No, I don’t really think it was strange,’ she said.

  ‘Quite frankly I think you’re both being melodramatic,’ Victoria said. ‘Old people slip and fall all the time.’

  When it was time for Liberty to go, Oscar walked her out to the car, and as he held the door open for her, Victoria joined him in the soft drizzle, slipping her arm round his waist. He flinched and Liberty looked away as she started the engine. It was hard to leave Oscar with a woman like that.

  Thirty-five

  Oscar was not sure whether Evelyn’s request to have ‘An English Country Garden’ played at her funeral was a joke. But there it was in black-and-white in her will, so what could he do?

  ‘Play it,’ Liberty said as she helped him go through the boxes of papers in the attic. ‘If she meant it seriously, you’ve done what she wanted, if it was a joke, she would want us to fall for it.’

  So the organist played it with due solemnity at Evelyn’s funeral two days later. The church was almost full, as full as it had been when the parish thought it was featuring on Songs of Praise. Only a few pews at the back, on the right-hand side behind a pillar, were empty.

  Liberty did not go back to the Oast House for tea afterwards, but at seven o’clock Oscar came to her. She opened the door for him, in her dressing-gown, with a large mug of tea in her hand.

  ‘I’m sorry, were you in bed?’

  ‘No,’ Liberty shook her head, ‘working. Anyway you know I’d interrupt an audience with the Pope to see you.’ She stood aside to let him in, closing her eyes when he brushed against her. She shut the door and locked it. ‘I suppose you could say, big deal, she’s not even Catholic so of course—’

  He smiled and put his finger up to her lips. Then he said, ‘I’m not surprised you didn’t come back with us after church. Not after the other day and all that “Oscar Junior” stuff. I’m so sorry.’ Then he took his finger away and kissed her.

  They sat down in the kitchen. Within moments Liberty had got up again. ‘Tea, coffee, a drink?’

  Oscar shook his head and put his hand out for her to come and sit down on his lap. ‘I’m sure she suspects something,’ he said, putting his arm round her waist. Automatically Liberty straightened up, sucking in her stomach and she could feel, rather than see, Oscar’s quick smile.

  Still sitting upright, her back to him, she asked, ‘Have you got that job in the States?’

  ‘Yes, if I want it.’

  ‘If we go, you’ll hardly ever see the baby.’ She took a deep breath, then quickly as if it would all hurt less that way, she said, ‘I can’t split you from your own child. If someone had done that to me and Johnny, I would have ended up hating them.’ She twisted round and looked hard at him, forcing herself to carry on. ‘I’ve brought up a child without a father, remember. I’ve seen what it does to a little boy to have all his friends bring out theirs for matches and Speech Days. I’ve made the most of week-end outings and lonely Christmases when the whole world, other than me, seems to be part of a shopping, decorating, loving parenthood. Do you know that for three years running, the only thing Johnny put on his Christmas list was: A Daddy. Have you ever heard anything so pathetic? And how do you think I felt? Maybe now it’s quite easy for you to think of this baby as just an unwelcome appendage to a woman you don’t love.’ She framed his face with her hands, tilting it up towards her. ‘B
ut you see, when he comes along, you’ll love him. He’ll be tiny and helpless and yours and you’ll love him. You won’t be able to help yourself.’ Letting her hands drop she sighed. ‘Nor should you try.’

  She got up with her mug and poured herself some more tea. It was cold by now, but no matter, it was something to do with her hands while she destroyed her life.

  ‘He can come for holidays, lots of them. And I’ll visit him.’

  Liberty stayed by the Aga. ‘Babies don’t have holidays,’ she said. ‘They hang loose.’ She smiled suddenly at him. ‘And don’t you see, even if it’s a little girl who looks just like her mother, you’ll love her with a love that’s stronger than anything else in the world, or at least you ought to.’

  Oscar tipped himself back in the chair the way he had a long time ago when he had broken it. This time the wooden ribs held. ‘All right. So we stay here in England.’

  ‘And you’ll be a man who walked out on his own child, a visitor to that child who’ll grow up knowing you didn’t love him enough to stay. And think what you would miss. I can never have another baby, have you thought of that? You’d all hate me one day.’

  Oscar put his hand out again. ‘Never. I could never hate you. I love you.’

  ‘Well I’d hate me. How will it look on my CV when I apply for a soul, eh? “1973, failed attempt at husband-stealing, resulting in much-loved, fatherless son. 1993, second and successful attempt at husband-stealing, resulting in someone else’s much-loved, fatherless child.”’ She took his outstretched hand pulling it up to her lips, kissing it, rubbing it against her eyes to wipe off the tears. ‘Will I never learn, never get better? I can’t write, I can’t do what’s right.’ She smashed his hand down against her hip, shouting, ‘What’s wrong with me, Oscar, that I can never do what’s right?’

  Oscar got to his feet and grabbed her by the shoulders, forcing her to look into his eyes. ‘To hell with your soul. What about me?’

  She could see in his eyes that he was frightened. It was almost more than she could bear. Had he been a soft and sobbing kind of man, a velour-clad, leisure-time man, it would have been easier. She freed herself gently and sat down, pulling him down back onto his chair next to her. She took his hands and pressed them to her chest.

  ‘Oscar, dearest, listen. We work hard, we write or paint, or build or garden, whatever, we try to carve out a life where we are in control and where what we do matters. Jesus, Oscar, don’t I know it? It was the ultimate control trip when I was writing. I looked around me at God’s creation and then sat down and rearranged it to my own satisfaction. Isn’t that what all endeavour is about? Evelyn must have felt she was creating her own slice of paradise in her garden. But see what happens, God gets the last laugh. Ultimately we have no control. No-one wanted my creations, and a menopausal magistrate destroyed Evelyn’s. So what’s left?’

  ‘Love,’ Oscar said simply.

  Liberty bent forward and kissed him lightly on the lips, her stomach knotting with desire. Pulling back, she shook her head slowly and said, ‘Trying with all your heart to do the right thing, that’s what’s left. It’s the only thing over which we have any control, any real say. We can’t chuck that away. If we do, we could as well be hyenas.’

  ‘What the hell have hyenas got to do with this? For Christ’s sake Liberty, come off your hobby horse and listen to me. I love you. Get that in to your thick skull and stop being so damn analytical.’

  She was so weak, she ended up begging him to make love to her.

  Village Diary

  Tollymead: As you will have seen already in the pages of this paper, Tollymead has been chosen as The Most Caring Village in the Tribune area. And before any jealous voices are raised in protest, the editor of the Tribune might live in Tollymead, but the newspaper’s owner is a resident of Abbotslea and the deputy editor lives in Everton.

  No, what matters is that Tollymead cares and what a tribute that is to all of us. The latest manifestation of this comes through the Revd Ted Brain’s scheme to give inner city children a country holiday. Ten families have already volunteered to put a child up, and Tollymead is looking forward to welcoming its guests on 16 July.

  A drink for those cool summer evenings when you are all alone and feel you can’t put the heating on because it’s the middle of the summer, is Anne Havesham’s Boston Comfort.

  Simply grate a bar of good plain chocolate, Belgian is lovely. Slowly melt it in half a pint of full cream milk. There’s no need for a bain marie if you keep the heat low. While the chocolate is melting, cut some marshmallows in little chunks. When the chocolate is dissolved, pour into a mug and top with whipped cream and a sprinkle of marshmallows.

  Thirty-six

  Liberty sat on a stool by her small stand, dressed like a jester with bells on the points of her soft, striped shoes and the three tips of her hat. High above her head, on top of the marquee, a chessboard-checked standard flapped in the breeze. It was two o’clock, and the visitors to the fête were only just beginning to arrive through the entrance to the recreation ground. Robin Hoods and Maid Marians manned stalls and sold ice-creams, while at the left-hand edge of the field a sturdy man in peagreen tights was preparing for the archery competition open to competitors over the age of ten.

  It had all been Neville Pyke’s idea. ‘Sherwood Forest,’ he said at the meeting of the newly formed Tollymead Summer Fête committee. ‘We should have a theme for the fête, with everyone dressing up. They did that over at Everton last year and it was a great success: Wild West. That was what they did, The Wild Frontier.’

  ‘Can you tell me why Davy Crockett had three ears?’ Liberty asked.

  ‘I can’t see Andrew in a pair of green tights,’ Nancy rolled her eyes.

  ‘He had his right ear, his left ear, and the wild frontiear,’ Liberty said.

  ‘Maybe we should go for something a bit more contemporary,’ Ted said.

  ‘Acid House maybe,’ Nancy said viciously. ‘Not really Tollymead, I don’t think.’

  Liberty had thought how she disliked everything about Nancy: her speckled hair that she wore too long, her tights that were the colour of milky coffee, her way of adding, ‘I don’t think’ to the end of a statement in an arch sort of way, her way of wrecking someone’s life.

  ‘No, not Acid House,’ Ted said patiently.

  ‘I like the idea of Sherwood Forest,’ Pat Smedley said.

  ‘We can have Robin Hood and Maid Marian and Friar Tuck.’ Neville had spoken with such longing that Liberty had been moved to support him. ‘We could be contemporary next year maybe,’ she had suggested. ‘And anyway, Robin Hood’s ideals are very Now, aren’t they?’

  In the end Ted had agreed with good grace and it was decided that all the helpers would dress up and that the posters would announce that there would be a prize for the best-dressed visitor.

  ‘The more Maid Marians the Merrier,’ Liberty suggested. ‘We could put that on the poster. You know – Maid Marian, merry men… merrier… no?’

  Liberty wished she had not dressed up like that now. Everyone, the children especially, expected her to jest, not paint cornflowers and daisies on the backs of Fenwright and Mason hairbrushes, but she had seen the outfit in the costumiers in Fairfield and she had kept going back to look at it. Her bells jingled as she shifted on her stool, uncomfortable in the heat. With a small sigh she picked up her paints and a small hand mirror she was finishing off.

  She got customers. ‘You want “Pamela”, circled with forget-me-nots?’ Liberty confirmed with the couple who stood gazing over her shoulder with their small daughter between them. They had brought across a pink nursery chair.

  ‘Look, Mum, there’s a pony ride.’ The child Pamela pulled at her mother’s arm. ‘C’mon Mum, I want a ride.’ All three of them disappeared off towards the Shetland pony carrying children round the perimeter of the playing field.

  Liberty picked up her brush once more. Now and then she looked up from her work, gazing across the field. The sun shone
and there was just a faint breeze. There could not be a better day for the fête unless, that was, one was decked out in a woollen jester’s suit. Behind her, from the marquee, she could hear the faint murmuring of voices and a steady buzzing of insects lured inside by the competition chocolate sponges. She squinted at the garland of forget-me-nots taking shape on the back of the tiny chair. Now and then people stopped to admire her work and Liberty smiled and mumbled her thanks. ‘All proceeds going to the Elderly Persons’ Minibus,’ she reminded them. It was not long before she had another customer, wanting names and a sprinkling of ladybirds painted on the backs of two of the small wooden-backed mirrors Liberty had bought in as stock.

  Deep in concentration, putting the finishing touches to the little pink chair, she was startled by a high pitched voice. ‘P.a.m.e.l.l.a. Pamella has two Ls. You’ve done it all wrong.’

  Liberty looked around and found the small owner of the chair standing at her shoulder, a dripping ice-cream in her hand and a sullen expression on her smudgy face.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Liberty looked around helplessly for the girl’s parents.

  ‘I told you,’ the voice grew louder and more complaining. ‘P.A.M.E.L.L…’

  ‘Quite,’ Liberty interrupted quickly, ‘quite so.’

  ‘What’s the problem poppet?’ the child’s father had appeared, an open can of Sprite in his hand. Liberty stared at his legs, wondering, not for the first time, what made overweight men so fond of wearing shiny little shorts cut high on their thighs. Even Neville Pyke in tights was a prettier sight.

  ‘Now that’s wrong,’ the father said. ‘I’m afraid you’ve got her name wrong. I’m sure we told you: P.A.M.E.L…’

  ‘Right!’ Liberty leapt from the deck chair, slamming the paintbrush down in the pot so that the white paint slopped over the edge, trickling down on to the grass. ‘I’ll see to it. I’ll have a cup of tea and then I’ll see to it.’ Marching off she heard the man’s voice: ‘Don’t look like no forget-me-nots to me.’