Although it was still early, there was a queue in the refreshment tent. When it was her turn, Liberty bought a cup of tea from one of Nancy’s ladies who complimented Liberty on her outfit. Liberty said it was hot, especially the hat. She hovered over the slices of jam sponge and the fairy cakes, then bought one of each. She brought it all back to her stall and sat down on the grass. She ate every crumb of the jam sponge, although it was not nearly as nice as she imagined the winning chocolate sponge inside the produce tent would be. Munching on the pink-iced fairy cake, she gazed out across the field, idly counting the Friar Tucks. She made it eight: three very small ones, one very fat and appropriate and the remaining four pretty average. There was only one other jester, a child of about five who stared back at Liberty with startled recognition. Gazing out across the field crowded with people of all ages, Liberty quickly ate the last of the cakes. So she would get fat. The more unappetizing she became, the easier it would be for Oscar not to love her.
She had seen Oscar only twice since the night of Evelyn’s funeral. Resting on her elbows in the grass, bells jingling, she squirmed and felt her face go all flushed, partly from shame, but also from remembered pleasure. To tear the clothes off your lover’s back just after you had told him you were not going to see him again, to do that, and on the night of his aunt’s funeral too, was nothing to be proud of. Then again, she had never been made love to like that before and she probably never would again. She closed her eyes and pictured his face above hers, his lips pressing down on hers. She gave a little moan and then, confused, opened her eyes to find a large fox staring down at her. She sat up, pushing her hair behind her ears, adjusting her costume as if she had risen from her lover’s bed, not a piece of damp grass in the middle of the recreation ground.
‘Oh, hello Daddy,’ she said, blinking against the sunlight.
‘How did you know it was me?’ Hamish sounded annoyed, as he tore off the painted cardboard head.
‘La Fontaine’s Fables, last year’s staff Christmas entertainment, remember?’
‘Well I especially liked this costume,’ Hamish said, seating himself gingerly on the grass next to his daughter. ‘Great favourite with the boys.’ He paused, looking out at the field. ‘Only two more weeks until the end of term.’
Liberty clutched her knees, rocking gently back and forth as she looked sideways up at Hamish. ‘I know,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s good you can stay on in the flat a while, though.’
‘Saves you having to put up with the old man.’
‘That’s not how I meant it,’ Liberty said with the anger of someone found out. ‘And don’t keep referring to yourself as “the old man”, it bugs me. Life is short and ghastly enough without everyone carrying on about age. We all get older, we all of us lose our precious pink plumpness, none of us like it, but for the life of me I can’t understand why we all have to go on about it!’
A couple eating candy-floss stared at her as they passed. Liberty jingled her foot apologetically.
‘Tut tut,’ Hamish said, standing up and replacing his fox’s head.
‘I’m sorry,’ Liberty put her hand up and took his. ‘I’m not quite myself at the moment. And you know you can stay with me if you haven’t found a place by next term. I’ve got that young girl from Liverpool in July, and Johnny comes back soon, but there’ll be room, of course there will be.’
‘It’ll be good to see Johnny,’ Hamish said indistinctly through the cardboard head.
‘I know,’ Liberty nodded furiously making more noise than an ice-cream van. Then to her horror she started to cry.
‘Look, Mum, that clown is crying.’ A crew-cut boy of about eight tugged at his mother’s arm, pointing at Liberty, a look of dispassionate interest on his ice-cream-smeared face.
Smiling sweetly through her tears, Liberty beckoned the boy towards her. ‘I’m not a clown, little boy,’ she hissed, as he came up close, ‘and how would you like me to stuff my hat down your throat as far as it will go, bells and all.’ She sat back looking with satisfaction as the boy fled howling to his mother.
‘That was a little uncalled for don’t you think?’ Hamish said mildly.
Liberty dried her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘I suppose so,’ she sniffed, ‘but I’ve had a bad day.’
She could sense Hamish retreat behind the mask. ‘Isn’t that Pat Smedley?’ he trumpeted, ‘I must say hello to old Pat.’ He ambled off through the crowd and Liberty sat back up on the stool and began to paint again.
She finished a circle of ladybirds on the back of a mirror. After a while she took her hat off and placed it on the grass by her stool. The wind through her hair felt good. An elderly woman pushing a buggy bought one of the hairbrushes and, after a moment’s hesitation, a mirror to match, and a young mother carried across a tiny bookcase that she wanted Liberty to paint ‘Mark’ on in red with a navy blue border. After half an hour she had finished the bookcase and sold two more brushes. Sitting back down on the grass for a rest she saw Neville Pyke hustling towards her, his feathered cap resting at an angle on his large head.
‘Well, well Mrs Turner, whoever would have thought it?’ Neville beamed at her, rubbing his creosote-stained hands together.
Liberty beamed back, but her head was beginning to ache from the heat and the smell of the paints that hung round her like a drape in the still air, and the incessant jingle of her bells was getting on her nerves.
‘No-one can say we haven’t had our little difficulties here,’ Neville went on, changing his smile to an expression of funeral dignity that sat badly, Liberty felt, with his green tights. Still who was she to talk? She gazed down at her own legs, one red, one yellow.
‘No indeed, no indeed,’ Neville said. ‘But we came through it stronger than ever. I doubt that the Everton Fête and Flower Show will be anything like this, really I do.’ He was beaming again, beads of sweat trickling down his forehead from under the brim of the tiny tricorn hat. ‘And now we’ve got the Award. I never thought I’d live to see the day.’ He nodded towards the wooden podium that had been erected in front of the Sports Pavilion.
‘Neither did I,’ Liberty agreed with complete honesty. ‘And of course some of us didn’t,’ she added, not really meaning to.
Again Neville’s face drooped into a suitable expression of sorrow. ‘You’re thinking of Miss Brooke, aren’t you? A very sorry affair I don’t mind telling you. But water is a dangerous thing, it can’t be said often enough.’ He cheered up. ‘You do look nice all dressed up like that. Really entered into the spirit of the day.’
‘There’s a Swedish limerick about that,’ Liberty said. ‘About water being dangerous. It goes something like this, “There once were two brothers Montgomery who only ever drank Pommery, and if you gave them water they said…” It doesn’t really work does it? Limericks never do translate. Goodness knows I’ve tried often enough.’
‘You don’t say, you don’t say.’ Neville rocked on his heels.
Over by the tea tent, Nancy Sanderson gave a wave and hurried across carrying a tiny white-painted toy chest. Liberty greeted her with the minimum politeness required and even then she felt a traitor. She wanted to give Nancy an icy stare and say, ‘We were just talking about Evelyn,’ but she lost her nerve and dithered about the weather instead.
‘I brought you this. To paint.’ Nancy plonked the tiny chest down by Liberty’s feet.
‘Grandchildren eh?’ Neville beamed at Nancy who gave him a glacial look back.
‘I’d like primroses,’ she said to Liberty. ‘I presume you’ve done this sort of thing before. It used to belong to my mother, so it’s rather precious.’ She grabbed one of the little mirrors that lay drying face down on the grass, inspecting the little ring of ladybirds. ‘Very pretty, Liberty, I must say. So primroses then. I’ll be back for it after the presentation.’
‘I don’t do primroses,’ Liberty said.
Nancy, who had already started to leave, swung round. ‘Really. Well I want something yellow, so w
hat can you do?’ She sounded impatient.
‘Nothing yellow,’ Liberty said.
Nancy looked hard at her. ‘Well do your ladybirds then. I don’t want pink or blue. The ladybirds will do.’
‘Run out of red,’ Liberty looked her straight in the eyes.
Nancy’s sallow cheeks coloured. ‘What can you do then Mrs Turner?’
‘Moths,’ Liberty said, ‘and vampires. Vampires are very fashionable at the moment.’
Neville looked uneasily from one to the other. ‘I don’t know that moths and vampires are so suitable for—’
‘I see,’ Nancy said slowly, ignoring Neville. ‘In that case I’ll take my custom elsewhere.’ She bent down with some difficulty, picking up the chest.
Liberty looked after her disappearing back, then closed her eyes and breathed in deep. When she opened her eyes she found Neville looking at her, puzzled.
‘What do you make the time?’ Liberty asked, not because she needed to know, she had just checked her watch, but to fend off any awkward questions.
Neville jerked his arm up, pushing at the sleeve of his sackcloth tunic, to get at his watch. ‘I make it half past three,’ he said finally.
‘That’s what I thought,’ Liberty smiled at him. ‘Thank you.’
Neville pottered off and Liberty continued with her painting. Half an hour, she thought, and Oscar would be presenting the award to Ted Brain. He had probably arrived already. Somewhere in the throng of people was Oscar. The thought made her heart flutter like the tail of the tombola goldfish being carried past in a polythene bag. She crossed and uncrossed her ankles and each time the bells on her soft slippers jingled, so she stopped. Someone she did not recognize waved to her from the crowd and Liberty waved back. The sun stung her eyes as she scanned the playing field. She felt suddenly elated. She would see him again, soon; maybe even touch him. It would be just a polite touch in passing as they said hello, but the thought of that moment grew until it filled her entire vision of the future.
Oh it was easy, she thought, to help old ladies load their shopping into the boots of their cars, or look after Penny’s children so that she and Michael could go away together. It was child’s play really, to agree to have Karen to stay, and she could even contemplate having Hamish coming to live for a couple of months. But letting Oscar go off with his wife and baby to America, now that was close to impossible.
She splashed the brush down in the old jam pot containing white spirit and picked up a wider one to paint over the first attempt at Pamella. She swept the paint across the letters, wondering if she would outlast the pain of losing him. Why was doing the right thing so hard? It was always the same, even with food. The more delicious it was, the more harm it did, but any baby knew that good food was hard to swallow. So it should not be a surprise to find that doing the right thing was as bitter and painful as a diet of cactus skin. But why did it have to be like that? She would not dream of giving advice to God, goodness no, but she would have done things the other way around. She looked up at the pale blue sky. Not that she expected an answer. As she straightened up she saw Oscar walking across the grass towards the wooden stand. She wanted to rush up to him but she stayed put.
‘An answer would be nice,’ she mumbled, gazing after him until he disappeared out of sight. She dashed off the rest of the letters on the little chair: M.E.L.L.A. ‘Don’t think an answer wouldn’t be nice,’ she whispered.
Thirty-seven
Ted Brain climbed up on the makeshift podium and picked up the microphone handed to him by the Tribune photographer.
‘Parishioners! Fellow villagers, this is a great occasion and one, I don’t mind telling you, that only a few months ago I would not have thought possible.’ A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd surrounding the podium. Neville Pyke, standing a few feet away from Liberty, trumpeted into his handkerchief.
‘Look at us, together like never before in my time as your vicar, young and old, home-owner and tenant, villager and commuter, all of us together, raising money for our community, enjoying a great day out at the Tollymead Fête and Flower Show. I’m proud of you.’ Ted smiled. ‘I’m even quite proud of myself. And to cap it all, we will today shortly receive the award for Most Caring Village from the Tribune’s…’
Oscar stood at the foot of the podium, Liberty could see him clearly now. She moved a couple of steps closer, just a couple. Victoria emerged from the throng, licking a large ice-cream with a chocolate flake. Liberty looked on as she nestled up to Oscar, putting her arm through his, offering up the ice-cream. It hurt her to watch, so Liberty turned her face away; but out of the corner of her eye she saw Oscar shaking his head impatiently before mounting the podium and taking the microphone handed to him by Ted. She blinked and sniffed and sniffed again, muttering about hay fever in case anyone was looking at her, but no-one was; all eyes were on Oscar.
‘This is both a happy and a sad occasion for me,’ he paused and smiled out at the crowd. ‘In a couple of weeks’ time my wife and I will be leaving Tollymead and moving overseas. It gives me special pleasure, therefore, to present to Tollymead the award for Most Caring Village in the Tribune area. Our three judges, Mrs Milton-Brown, Chairwoman of the Fairfield branch of the WI, the Reverend Blyth, Rector of All Saints Fairfield, and Tim Huggit, Chairman of the Tribune Group, discussed the merits of the different entries at some length, but in the end their decision to name Tollymead as Most Caring Village in the Tribune area was unanimous. On their many visits, they were impressed by the general helpfulness and kindness of the residents. To take just one example, when Mr Blyth pretended to have broken down in his car…’
As she stood in the crowd just some ten yards away from Oscar, Liberty knew your heart really could ache. There definitely was a dull pain on the left side of her chest that no amount of the pastel-coloured tablets Hamish was always sucking could relieve. Behind her a woman in a flower-sprigged summer frock was complaining to her husband about the tombola prizes and a baby was crying. A Friar Tuck put his elbow in Liberty’s stomach and apologized profusely. Oscar spoke on and Liberty noticed the lightness and warmth of his voice more than his words. She wondered if having a soul really was all it was cracked up to be. It was rather like one of those ‘pay-now-receive-later, you’ve been seen-off’ deals that people were always writing about to That’s Life.
‘Dear Esther, I bought this soul with every last bit of goodness and happiness I possessed, thinking I would do good on earth and be rewarded in heaven, but now as I stand at death’s door (I’m eighty-nine today and not as well as I was), I am told there’s real doubt that I’ll ever get my reward, or even that this heaven exists at all. So Esther, what shall I do, and is there any chance I’ll get my investment back?’
Maybe there were no rules and no order. Maybe right and wrong was just a passing fad in the overwhelming chaos of existence. Then she would feel jolly silly.
‘Most of all, the judges were impressed with the vicar’s scheme of inviting a group of young people from his last parish in Liverpool to come down here for a couple of weeks’ holiday in the country,’ Oscar went on. ‘So, in a society that seems increasingly to have forgotten the concept of collective responsibility, where individuals seem ever more intent on self-gratification regardless of the cost to anybody else, and the Gospel According to the Lout is spreading through every section of society, it is good to have a Tollymead.’ Oscar took a step forward. ‘If the Reverend Brain would be so good as to step back up here, it’s my great pleasure…’
In the distance came the sound of heavy vehicles grumbling across the ground and Liberty, ignoring it at first and keeping her eyes fixed on Oscar, eventually turned to look. A lorry, followed by a large multi-coloured caravan, came over the brow of the hill across the field that ran alongside the recreation ground. There were another couple of lorries and then an old bus, covered in huge rust spots like some notifiable disease, rumbled into view.
The children who had hovered, bored, on the edge of th
e crowd, whooped and ran towards the field and soon some of the adults followed. Oscar, after a quick glance, finished his speech and handed the trophy, a handsome silver rose bowl, to Ted. The applause was drowned by the rumbling of the lorries. As the crowd around him thinned, Oscar spotted Liberty. Taking a long step off the platform, he came towards her. Liberty turned her back on the commotion and looked at him with such longing, she thought her face had to be an embarrassment. Then Victoria caught up with him, taking him by the elbow, and he paused, bending down to hear what she was saying. Liberty stayed where she was, eyes wide open and itchy with held-back tears. She saw him give Victoria a little smile and she was stabbed by jealousy. She had told him to go off and spend the rest of his life with Victoria, but did he have to stand there and smile at the woman? She was about to turn round and walk off, when Oscar freed himself from Victoria’s grip. He looked up, straight at Liberty, and he too looked as if he was about to start crying. Her face contorting, she clenched her fists so that her nails dug deep into the fleshy part of her palms to stop herself from reaching out and touching his cheek. She had felt as bad once before, when Johnny had been only eight and playing in his first rugby match, he had been tackled hard ending up crying in pain on the ground. She had made to run onto the field to pick him up and hold him, when she had felt the sports master’s hand on her arm and his voice saying, ‘We don’t want Mum on the field embarrassing him in front of his friends, do we now?’ So she had stayed back and never stopped hating the master or the game.
With a jingle of bells she turned on her heels and hurried away to the edge of the recreation ground to join the crowd that had gathered to see the trailers and lorries and brightly coloured buses drive on to the field, drawing to a halt, one after the other, at its centre.
‘That will be those New Age Travellers,’ an old man next to Liberty said. Pleased at the expressions of horror on everybody’s face he continued, ‘Saw about them on the telly only the other night. They’ll wreck the place all right. You just can’t shift them. No, we’re in for a right old time now.’
A Rival Creation Page 29