Of course she was.
‘Oh, yes?’ says Tilly. ‘Were you telling him about the refugees?’
‘Cockneys,’ says Beatrice. ‘Ghastly. Used to scream when they saw a cow.’
‘I don’t suppose many of them had seen one before,’ I interject. ‘They’d come as a bit of a shock to most people if they didn’t know what they were.’
Beatrice waits two beats and says, pointedly, to the vicar: ‘I don’t suppose you’ve been introduced to my new nurse, Miss Kalamata.’ She lowers her voice, says in a stage whisper: ‘Awstralian, you know.’
The vicar clasps me into a clerical handshake: all trained warmth and practised distance. ‘I’m so sorry. I thought you were—’
‘I am.’
‘Ah. And how are you finding our little slice of England? Quite a contrast with what you’re used to, I should think.’
‘It’s … beautiful. Really beautiful.’
‘I don’t suppose,’ he’s got that fruity, pastoral voice, the sort that pauses for little lip-twitches every time he uses an adjective, as though they make him Oscar bloody Wilde or something. Useful for joshing with spinsters, I guess, ‘I should be saying this as a man of the cloth, but it’s as close to heaven on earth as one could come.’ He pauses for effect. ‘In my view.’
‘Simply heaven,’ says Tilly, and they all nod and murmur in agreement.
What is it with these people? Prenatal lobotomies?
Beatrice turns to me. ‘And will you be staying with us long?’
I give it another go. ‘I don’t know. I was hoping for the rest of my life. Depends how long Rufus will have me.’
‘I daren’t really think that …’ she begins. Then she stops, colours slightly, says: ‘Oh’ in a voice redolent with significance.
Then she hoists the chin and turns away, presenting a haughty profile like the queen on a stamp. ‘I wonder,’ she says vaguely to the room, ‘how long dinner will be.’
‘I think it’s all ready, Granny,’ says Tilly, ‘on the hotplates. We can go in when …’
Goody. More congealed stew, dried-out potatoes and limp vegetables that have been there since half-past five, when Mrs Roberts left. The food here makes hospital food look luxurious. Mary would rather put up with anything than have to turn her hand to domestics. I’d been hoping there might have been some sort of regime change for company, but it seems not.
Beatrice raises her voice. ‘Mary? Mary!’
Mary breaks away from Mrs Vicar, smiles her perfect smile. ‘Yes, Beatrice?’
‘I think it’s time we went through.’
‘I thought we’d have another drink, first. It’s only eight o’clock.’
‘No,’ says Beatrice firmly. ‘I want to go through now.’
Something’s up, obviously. I’ve put my clodhoppers in it again, but I’m not sure how.
Mary, surprisingly meekly, obeys her mother-in-law’s command. Calls the party to order and starts to usher them towards the dining-room door.
Still keeping her face turned away from me, Beatrice fishes about for her cane, which is propped up against the sofa arm. I try and make up for whatever it is I’ve done, leap to my feet.
‘Let me give you a hand, Beatrice,’ I offer.
Cane in hand, she stops, looks at me with gimlet eyes, the way a magistrate would look at a burglar. ‘I think not,’ she says.
And those are the last words she addresses to me all night.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Packing
‘What’s eating your nan?’
‘Oh, nothing. She’s just bonkers.’
‘Yeah. Even Blind Freddie could see that. What do you think I ought to take?’
‘As little as possible, if I were you. You know what the trains are like, and it’s not like you’re going to end up short of clothes, after all.’
‘True. What are you going to do without me all this time, you sad little man? A whole night?’
‘I don’t know. Drink a solitary bachelor whisky and cry into my pillow, I should think. Tell you what, though, I might bring Fifi in with me for a bit of company. Be good to have a beautiful face to wake up to for a change.’
I lob a shoe at him.
‘No,’ he says, ‘I thought I’d go and hang around with Roly, actually.’
‘Ah, charity work?’
‘Don’t be nasty about Roly, darling.’
‘Well, come on, babe. He’s a bit of a sad, isn’t he?’
‘Yyeess. But there’s reasons for that.’
‘I’m sure there are.’
‘No, look. Seriously. He’s my oldest friend, and I know he can be a bit of a buffoon, but most things that could have gone wrong have gone wrong for him. Pretty much from the start. The poor chap’s frightfully lonely and doesn’t know any other way of dealing with it than bluffing it out. You know what people are like around here. Hardly anybody bothers with him.’
‘And none of that’s his fault, of course?’
‘Yes … I know. But the bullshitting … he can’t really help it, you know. He had a horrid time of it as a kid. Parents were bullshitters too, and they couldn’t be bothered with him. If he hadn’t had us to come and stay with, he’d have probably ended up under a bridge somewhere. He lives in a shitty little ex-council bungalow over at Kingham, and he’s done damn well to manage to scrape together enough for that, and every business he’s tried to set up has gone belly-up, and all the little madams around here laugh at him, and underneath it all he’s got this big, gentle, bruised heart and I’m not going to let him down like everyone else has.’
‘OK. OK. You’re a kind guy. I’ll back off.’
‘Yuh, I’d rather you did.’
He changes the subject. ‘Now. Got the key to the house?’
‘Mmmhmm.’
‘Remember the address?’
‘Yeah, yeah. Twelve Anderson Street, SW3. Off the Kings Road. Hilary knows I’m coming. Do I have to talk to him?’
‘Yes,’ he says firmly.
‘Oh, Rufus, pleeease.’
He lobs the shoe back.
‘Can’t I just borrow one of the cars and drive up and back inside the day? They must have parking in London? Surely you can spare a car for a day?’
‘Oh, darling, I’m sorry, but I haven’t got round to changing the insurance yet.’
‘Oh.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
‘So there are three cars out there and I can’t drive any of them?’
He shakes his head. ‘I’m really, really sorry. I’ve been snowed under since we got home, you know that. No-one’s done a thing since I left. It’s like they think the accounts fairy does everything.’
‘Well, you’d better do it quick-smart, mate. I haven’t been able to leave this place without asking someone to drive me. I’ll go insane.’
‘I know. It’s wrong of me.’
‘Tell you what, I’ll hire one.’
‘There’s no need.’
I’m annoyed; dig in my documents pocket, looking for my passport and driver’s licence, while I talk. ‘Well, there is, actually. I don’t mind playing the little woman now and again, but I’m not going to sit twiddling my thumbs in an unheated room while I wait for you to be finished with your important work. And come to that, how come you can’t give me some of it, if it’s such a bloody burden? I did run my own business back home, you know.’
‘That’s kind,’ he says, ‘and I’ll take you up on it once I’ve caught up on the backlog. But it would probably take longer to explain to you than it would to do it myself.’
‘Sorting a few receipts out would hardly be beyond me.’
‘It’s hardly a one-woman reflexology practice.’
‘Don’t be a patronising twat.’
‘It’s pronounced “twot”,’ he replies mildly.
‘There you go again. Where the hell are they?’
‘What?’
‘My passport and driver’s licence. They’re not in here.’
‘Are you sure you didn’t take them out and put them somewhere?’
‘No I bloody didn’t.’
‘Even when you dumped everything out on the floor the other night?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I don’t know, then.’
‘This is serious, Rufus. If I’ve lost my ID, I’m cactus.’
‘I’m sure it’ll turn up.’
‘Yes, but you know what? I want to go and get on the net and book myself a car right now.’
‘The net?’
‘Yes. You know. Global interweb? Worldwide watsername? Electronic interface with all the world’s businesses?’
‘We’re not on the web here.’
‘You’re not on the … what is this? Amish hour?’
‘The lines are so old they won’t support it, and we’re so isolated we’d have to pay to have them upgraded. And anyway, Mummy thinks it will flood the house with unsolicited pornography.’
‘God Almighty. You really are all obsessed with sex. Where the hell have they gone?’
‘You do lose things, Mel. I’m sure they’ll turn up.’
‘Do I? Like what?’
‘Your address book, the other day. And when you just left your wedding ring in the fruit bowl …’
‘I didn’t. Seriously. You’ve got a poltergeist. I know I left it by the side of the basin in the downstairs washroom.’
‘Mmm,’ he says doubtfully.
‘You think I’d just forget about something like that?’
Rufus shrugs.
‘I’m not that forgetful, Rufus. And you saw yourself. I was looking for the address book in the knicker drawer. You saw me. And the next day – bingo, there it was again.’
‘There’s a thing called negative hallucination,’ he says.
‘There’s a thing called patronising the tits off people, too. Andrew used to do that. He was always on my back about being clumsy, and losing things, and in the end I got so tense it ended up being ten times worse.’
‘Don’t,’ he says, ‘compare me to Andrew. That’s not fair. I thought we agreed.’
‘Well, don’t behave like him, then.’
‘I’m not. I was just …’
I feel – got at. Slightly … I don’t know. I hate losing things, and I hate the way men always seem to turn you losing things into an excuse for giving you lectures in life-skills rather than just giving you a hand. And because it’s Rufus, not just any old guy, it suddenly makes me almost tearful.
‘Well, don’t! OK?’ I snap. ‘My vital documents have disappeared, and aside from the serious inconvenience, it’s really weird!’
‘Calm down, Mel. I’m sure they’ll turn up.’
‘And if they don’t?’
‘We’ll get them replaced.’
‘And in the meantime, I can’t hire a car, and you couldn’t put me on the insurance for the three bloody cars that are rotting away in the driveway even if you could be bothered to prioritise.’
I can feel myself getting worked up.
‘I’ll make sure,’ he says, ‘that someone will always take you about if that’s what you want.’
‘That’s not the point! It’s not the point!’
‘No. No, I can see that. Look, can I suggest something?’
‘Fire ahead.’
‘Why don’t you … just try and have a nice day tomorrow, and we’ll worry about it later?’
‘What, send the little lady shopping and it’ll all be all right?’
‘Mel … get a grip. I’m on your side.’
I’m about to explode. And then I remember who I’m talking to.
‘Yeah, you’re right. I was about to toss the dummy, wasn’t I?’
‘About to?’
‘Point taken.’
‘You’re a proper little firebrand, aren’t you?’
‘He said, twiddling his moustaches.’
‘Come here.’
‘Come and get me.’
‘That’s a very nice vest you’re wearing, Mrs W.’
‘Thank you. I stole it from my husband. It’s a bit big, of course.’
‘Could probably fit the both of us in it if we tried.’
‘You think?’
‘Want to try?’
‘We could give it a go. Just stick your head up here.’
‘Golly. I can see your bosoms.’
‘That’s where I keep ’em.’
‘Haven’t lost those, yet, then.’
‘Ha ha.’
The door opens. ‘Darling,’ says Mary, ‘I was just – oh.’
I slap Rufus about the head. He struggles back out from under my underwear, pink-faced and giggly. ‘Oh, hi, Ma. Mel just lost her … I was just looking …’
‘I’m sorry to interrupt. I was just going to offer you a hot-water bottle.’
‘Um … thanks. I don’t think we need one, do we, darling?’
I can’t hold back a giggle. ‘No. No, you’re all right, Mary. Thanks for the offer.’
She looks like she’s swallowed a plum stone. ‘Sorry for … disturbing you.’
‘That’s quite all right,’ I say nicely. ‘I’m sure it was more of a shock for you than it was for us.’
Mary retreats, quick-smart. Pulls the door to without a sound.
Once we’re sure she’s out of earshot, we look at each other and start to laugh.
‘You must’ve had a hell of an adolescence,’ I say.
‘Boarding school,’ he says. ‘You never get any privacy. So I suppose you don’t even think about it at home.’
‘God, I can just see all the furtive fumbling you guys got up to.’
Rufus shakes his head, starts to peel the vest off. It’s bloody freezing, despite the morose efforts of the two-bar electric fire. I shimmy round the side of him, dive into bed.
‘You’ve really got to get a lock for that door,’ I tell him.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Clompy Shoes
So it’s not long into the day – half-past breakfast to be exact – that I get my reminder of just how much of a prisoner I am at Bourton. Because just as I’m about to get into the car for my lift to the station, the phone goes and it’s the Customs and Excise, and Rufus has to go and take the call because he’s the only person in the entire household who knows anything about it, everyone else just wanting to live off the proceeds without having to dirty their hands with commerce. So I’m left hanging about, watching the precious time tick away. I decide to go and hang about in the front courtyard and wait for him.
The rain’s stopped, anyway. I suppose one should be grateful for small mercies, especially in a climate like this. I pause on the threshold, listen to the drip-drip-drip of the drainpipes, sniff the sweet damp air. You can almost smell the cleanness. God, it could be heaven, this place: it’s just amazing how people can make a hell. Folding my arms, I crunch my way across the gravel. I’ve got no idea where I’m going, but I’m not hanging around here for anybody’s money.
Halfway across the yard, I begin to pick up a distinct whiff of nicotine. I can’t see where it’s coming from. But it’s a smell that’s seriously attractive. There’s a low murmur of voices somewhere: two female voices. A giggle, a returning laugh, and someone says: ‘I think the worst thing, on top of all the other humiliations, is having to wear these clompy bloody shoes. I never knew how much I loved my kitten heels till I started falling off the things. I mean, how can anybody feel sexy in rubber-soled moccasins?’
‘You’re right there,’ replies the other voice, which, to my interest, is Australian. ‘But at least you’re not condemned to them for bloody life like I am. Anyway: I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’ve got a basketball stuck up your skirt.’
‘Thanks for the reminder,’ says the first voice wryly. ‘And there was me having managed to forget about it.’
They laugh again. It’s the sort of relaxed, easy exchange that I’ve so far failed to register in my brief time at Bourton Allhallows. Mildly curious, I head towar
ds the gate, because I assume that the voices must be coming from the other side of the wall. And just as I get there, the Aussie voice, raised for my benefit, suddenly says, from the depths of one of those foul variegated evergreen bushes with the shiny leaves that look as though they have been extruded in a plastics factory: ‘And talk of the devil. How’s it going down at the Fight Club, then?’
I take a couple of steps closer, peer in among the foliage. The bush, massively overgrown because it has the space to be so, has created, in straining towards the distant sunlight from its north-facing position, a perfect little outdoor room between itself and the wall, maybe two metres across. And standing inside it, in the process of passing a cigarette from one pair of extended fingers to another, are my sister-in-law, Tilly, and a woman, around my age, whose practical mouse-coloured bob is lifted by streaky golden highlights, and who sports the navy-blue polyester-and-wool uniform of a private nurse above brown boat shoes. She grins: a toothy, open faced grin that goes all the way up to the eyes.
‘G’day,’ she says. ‘Just topping up our dopamines.’
‘For God’s sake, don’t lurk,’ says Tilly. ‘If Mary catches us, there’ll be hell to pay.’
I push my way through the thinner leaf cover by the wall, land up in their damp, composty hideout. The ground is littered with butts. They obviously come here on a regular basis.
‘Hi,’ I say.
‘Hi,’ says Tilly. ‘Please don’t tell anyone. I don’t do it very often. I was just a bit wound up this morning, and—’
‘Not my place to judge,’ I tell her. ‘There are quite enough people turning pregnant women’s bodies into guilt factories without me putting my oar in.’
She looks relieved. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve met Nessa yet, have you?’
The nurse and I shake hands. I’ve caught the odd glimpse of her wheeling Beatrice about the place, but to be honest, I’ve tended to wheel myself off in the opposite direction when I have. ‘Glad to meet you,’ she says. ‘Nessa O’Neill. Welcome to the house of fun.’
Tilly bursts into a peal of half-tearful laughter. ‘God, Nessa,’ she says, ‘I don’t know how I’d get through the day if it wasn’t for you.’
‘Steady on,’ says Nessa cheerfully. ‘There’s always methadone.’
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