Snake in the Grass

by Dominic Luke

  Her heart sank.

  She pulled over, parked on the side of the road, squashed thoughts of escape: it was too late for that, he had seen her, she would have to face him now. If only she didn’t feel so drained, so empty. But it shouldn’t take too much of an effort to put Richard in his place.

  Getting out of her car, locking the door, she saw out of the corner of her eye a flicker of movement in the lit window of the house next door: Mr or Mrs Wetherby – or both – watching through the net curtains. Lydia turned, waved. The curtains billowed, then were still. But she realized she would have to take Richard inside. The last thing she wanted was to air her dirty laundry with the Wetherbys spying on her.

  ‘I thought you were at work at this time of day.’ She pushed Richard aside, unlocked the door.

  ‘I’m on earlies this week. I finished hours ago.’

  ‘Oh.’ She picked up the post. Bills and junk mail. Why did this make her feel under attack, as if someone was targeting her out of malice?

  Richard followed her into the kitchen, watched her circumspectly as she tossed the post aside, put the kettle on.

  ‘I sense hostility,’ he said at last.

  Oh good, not so thick-skinned after all. ‘Shall we talk about Sandra?’

  ‘Ah.’ Hovering in the doorway, Richard looked like he might be making his mind up whether to make a break for it or not.

  ‘Is that all you’ve got to say for yourself?’

  He rubbed his jaw, fiddled with something in his pocket. ‘You’re jealous. Is that it?’

  ‘You really are the most self-centred—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before.’

  ‘You’ll hear it all again.’

  ‘I tell you what, why don’t we just leave it? I could do without the aggro.’

  He was backing out of the door now, was definitely going to run. She lassoed him with, ‘You should have thought of that before you started anything.’

  ‘Me start it?’ He stopped, held his ground. ‘What about you, throwing yourself at me?’

  A whisper, like the faintest of echoes: trollop. ‘Stop avoiding the issue.’

  ‘What is the issue? You knew it was just a laugh, a bit of fun. You knew that.’

  Did I? ‘Not much of a laugh for Sandra. Not much fun for her.’

  ‘I can’t help that. She knows what I’m like. She’s got her eyes open. And I haven’t exactly …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Encouraged her.’

  ‘But you haven’t exactly told her the truth, am I right?’

  ‘Look—’ He took a step towards her and she flinched, backed away. She felt the work surface behind her, knew she was trapped. He seemed to loom over her, casting a menacing shadow.

  This was Richard, she told herself. She had nothing to fear from Richard. It was old habits dying hard that made her cringe and cower.

  But weren’t all men the same when it came down to it? Why should she let them get away with it?

  ‘Your bit of fun,’ she said, gripping the work surface behind her, steadying herself, ‘might cost you more than you bargained for.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, suspicious.

  ‘I’m pregnant. I’m going to have your baby.’

  That shut him up. That made him go pale. Very pale, in fact. Like he was about to pass out.

  It couldn’t be as much of a shock as all that, surely?

  ‘It’s not mine,’ he said at last, his voice rather unsteady. ‘You can’t pin that on me.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ A part of her was disappointed. He didn’t even have the guts to own up to his mistakes. The last of her illusions vanished into the February dusk. What had she ever seen in him? ‘I would have thought at your age you would know how babies are made.’ She said venomously, ‘They are not found under gooseberry bushes, you know.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. You haven’t a clue.’

  ‘Trying to wriggle out of your responsibilities?’

  ‘I’m not … you don’t….’ His voice rose, cracked. ‘Just … just fuck off! Fuck off!’

  He turned on his heel and fled. She heard the front door slam, heard his car cough into life. She wanted to chase after him, to make him face up to things, to rub his nose in it, and to hell with the Wetherbys. But suddenly she felt terribly weak, as if the stuffing had been knocked out of her. She sank down towards the kitchen floor, her legs folding underneath her. As she listened to his car backing precipitously up the drive, she was just glad he’d gone when he did, that he hadn’t been here to witness this collapse.

  As she sat there with her back against a cupboard door, she heard in the silence a faint but distinct sound: a contemptuous noise made in the back of the throat.

  ‘Humph!’

  She curled up on the lino, trying to protect herself, but she had no defence when there weren’t even any words to block out.

  It had always been what her mother didn’t say that had hurt the most.

  SIXTEEN

  GWEN LET HERSELF out of the house with a sinking feeling. It was no good saying that she was just popping out for a breath of fresh air. She knew very well what she was up to, and she just couldn’t help herself.

  It was not as if she cared about the exhibition one way or the other, she said, checking in her bag to make sure she had her keys before pulling the door to. She had not wanted anything to do with it, had been more or less bamboozled into getting involved. But now that she was involved, she could not just let it lie. She wanted things to happen, she needed progress to be made. After all, time was getting on, February was almost over, Easter would be upon them before they knew it. She could simply not bear to think of the rush and mess and confusion that would ensue if everything was left to the last minute. She hated the way some people bumbled along, not planning ahead. It brought her out in a cold sweat even to think about it. Organization was the key. Why didn’t people realize?

  This was why she was going to visit Lydia Taylor. It had nothing to do with fresh air – although the air this morning was wonderfully fresh and had, if she was not mistaken, a hint of spring about it. Well, perhaps not spring as such, but on a day like today one really believed that spring would come again, that it wasn’t just a myth. The sun was shining, the thin clouds high and white, the patches of blue deep and vivid, and a blackbird was trilling, perched on a garden wall, watching her with a black beady eye as she turned right into Well Lane.

  As Gwen reached the top of Lydia’s drive, the Wetherbys were just getting into their car.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Collier.’

  ‘Hello. Lovely morning. Are you off somewhere nice?’ Why must I make small talk when I am busy, on a mission? A simple ‘good morning’ would have sufficed.

  ‘Going into town. Lunch,’ said Mr Wetherby. ‘Calling on her, are you?’ He nodded towards Lydia’s cottage. ‘You’ll find she’s already got a visitor.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘We always notice when people go up her drive.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose one would.’

  ‘Not that we snoop.’

  ‘No, of course, one wouldn’t—’

  ‘There’s a man in there.’ He leaned forward, confidential. ‘A man with a beard. She gets a lot of men visiting her just lately. Your son, for one, Richard—’

  ‘Stepson.’ Gwen bit her lip, annoyed. I am starting to sound like Basil, pedantic; or, worse, like Dean, disassociating myself. Let them call him my son if they want, it’s not as if I mind. ‘Richard has been helping with a painting, doing some modelling.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. She’s an artist, isn’t she?’ Mr Wetherby smiled, or grimaced (one could never tell which) and got into his car, slamming the door.

  Gwen watched as the car stuttered into life before shooting out into the road (There’s going to be an accident one day if he doesn’t start looking where he’s going). She felt rather soiled, not uncommon after an encounter with Mr Wetherby. It was not that he actually said anything
one could put one’s finger on; it was more his manner of speech, artist pronounced as if it was synonymous with strumpet; man with a beard suggesting that a beard was the mark of Cain. He was harmless to look at, Mr Wetherby, all bone and wrinkles: he must be eighty at least; but one could not help recoiling a little, as if he had bad breath. Which he didn’t, to be fair: he was far too fastidious for that.

  It was her own fault, Gwen reminded herself as she walked up Lydia’s drive. One needn’t do more than pass the time of day, one needn’t start a conversation. The problem was that good morning on its own was so cold: anyone could say good morning and not even mean it, whereas Gwen did mean it and wanted people to know that she meant it. It led her to overcompensate, rather. Basil derided this habit. It was wasting one’s time, he said. One should only ever do the absolute minimum or one squandered one’s resources (making it sound as if there were only a finite number of times one could say good morning, as if the well would run dry). It was patently impossible, Basil insisted, to get on with everyone.

  But if one didn’t try, if one didn’t even make the effort…. And whatever one thought of Donald Wetherby, he had not actually mentioned strumpets, the words mark of Cain had not passed his lips. Nor was it fair to tar his wife with the same brush, but if one didn’t say ‘good morning’ to Mr Wetherby, one was somehow slighting Mrs Wetherby too. And the poor woman always looked so distracted. She hardly ever got a word in edgeways, either. Imagine being trapped in a marriage like that.

  In the silence that followed this thought, a small voice spoke up at the back of Gwen’s mind: ‘Well, actually, if you think about it—’

  Gwen pressed Lydia’s front door bell firmly. The small voice was extinguished.

  Mr Wetherby had been right about the bearded visitor. Gwen gave him a little smile, didn’t squander her resources by actually greeting him, sat down on the edge of the chair nearest the door. The bearded man was sitting on the sofa, sharing it with a spread-out newspaper. He was perhaps in his mid-forties, Gwen guessed. Slightly shabby: from which one deduced that he had no wife to check him over before allowing him out. He looked, she thought, like a teacher. Perhaps a colleague of Lydia’s from the college?

  Gwen averted her eyes, not wanting to be caught staring. She looked round the room, waiting for Lydia to come back (she had gone to make tea). It was a pleasant room, Gwen decided. Could even be called cosy. And yet … and yet …

  She wrinkled her nose, trying to put her finger on it. The room was clean enough, if not exactly tidy, but there was something ad hoc about it, as if Lydia’s personality had not been stamped on it, as if it was a work in progress. There were rugs on the floor, no carpet. The walls were bare. Lydia’s canvases were stacked backs outward under the side window. The sofa was higgledy-piggledy in the middle of the room, not squared neatly against a wall. And that cabinet: rather chipped, rather worn. One had heard it said that Lydia bought her clothes from charity shops. Might her furniture be second hand too?

  Lydia came in with a tray.

  ‘Lydia, I …’ Gwen half got up. ‘I didn’t realize you had visitors. I don’t want to interrupt. I could always come back later.’

  ‘It’s only Terry. He won’t mind. And I’ve made the tea now.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure …’ Gwen sat back down. (Only Terry? Who was Terry, exactly, and what was he doing here? Gwen had a vague idea that she’d seen him somewhere before.)

  Lydia put the tray on the floor. (No useful little side tables, thought Gwen: one noticed these things.) Kneeling, Lydia began to pour tea.

  ‘What was it you wanted, Gwen?’ Lydia hauled herself up, handed a mug to Gwen. (No cups and saucers. Just mugs. One would never dream … with visitors … but each to their own.) ‘Help yourself to sugar.’

  ‘It’s nothing really, just the exhibition.’ Gwen decided against sugar. The sugar basin was down on the tray and one could hardly go crawling on the rug with one’s bottom in the air – not in front of Terry, anyway.

  ‘We’re organizing an exhibition of village art.’ Lydia annotated for Terry’s benefit as she handed him his tea.

  ‘Ah.’

  Gwen experienced a flicker of irritation as she blew surreptitiously on her tea (there was not nearly enough milk in it, but one didn’t like to fuss). Why did men do that? Why, when one informed them of some interesting fact – for instance, that one was organizing an art exhibition: why could they not simply say ‘Are you really?’ or ‘That’s nice’. Why did they have to say ‘Ah’ in that slightly condescending way, as if to suggest that one didn’t know what one was talking about? Basil did it all the time. One sometimes wished that one had the nerve to point it out to him.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about the exhibition,’ said Lydia as she took her place on the sofa, sitting on top of the newspaper, cradling her mug. (Why not move the newspaper first, before one sat down?) ‘I wondered if it should have a theme.’

  ‘Do we really need a theme?’ Gwen was anxious. She had come here to get things clear in her head, to organize a timetable and get the ball rolling, not to add further layers of complication.

  ‘A theme could be useful,’ Lydia insisted. ‘It would give structure to the exhibition.’

  ‘Always good to have structure.’ Terry nodded wisely.

  Gwen glanced at him irritably; was taken aback to see him recoil from her look.

  He added hurriedly, ‘Of course, I don’t know anything about art. I’m more on the science side of things.’

  Well, really, thought Gwen, what sort of man is he if he is intimidated by me? She looked down at her mug, balanced on the arm of the chair, wondered if it was making a mark. But did that matter, if the chair was second hand?

  She took a deep breath, getting her mind back on track. ‘We have the dates now,’ she summarized. ‘Easter week, starting on Good Friday. Imelda Darkley telephoned to confirm. And she will be delighted to attend the opening ceremony.’

  ‘It’s a great honour,’ Lydia explained to Terry, ‘being permitted to use the village hall. One has to go cap in hand to the local aristocracy.’

  ‘That’s not quite true,’ said Gwen.

  ‘I’m speaking metaphorically.’

  ‘At least you still have somewhere to mount an exhibition of that type,’ said Terry. ‘Our exhibition rooms were part of the museum.’

  ‘Didn’t I hear that the museum is closed now?’ said Lydia.

  ‘Demolished,’ said Terry.

  ‘Oh, of course, it was where the new shopping arcade now is – the one with all the empty shops.’

  ‘Wanton vandalism,’ said Terry. ‘Typical of the district council.’

  Gwen winced as she listened to Terry itemizing the Council’s crimes from demolishing the museum to bulldozing the outdoor pool – the pool which (Terry informed them) had been one of a dwindling number of lidos left in the entire country, of historical interest in addition to being locally popular, but which had now vanished without trace thanks to another act of wanton vandalism motivated by developer-led greed. Terry was not mumbling now, Gwen noted, but what he didn’t understand was that Basil liked things neat and tidy. Demolishing old buildings was his way of making the town look spic and span. In some ways, Gwen admitted, they were quite alike, her and Basil. After all, she had been known to throw away perfectly good kitchen utensils and quite decent crockery, merely because they didn’t fit into her neat system of hooks and racks and shelves and cupboards.

  Gwen finished her tea, put the mug on the floor (one wouldn’t normally be so untidy, but in this room it didn’t seem to matter). She was itching to get on, to get the details of the exhibition settled; it would have been easier if it had been just the two of them. But Lydia seemed in no hurry to interrupt Terry’s monologue, as if she was actually interested in all that council business. Perhaps she was. One had grown in recent weeks to think of Lydia as a friend, but what did one really know about her? I am apt, said Gwen, to misjudge my friendships. She remembered uncomfortably a survey
she had done once, a survey in a magazine where one had to rank one’s acquaintances on a scale of one to ten depending on how close a friend they were. Too often I work on the assumption that I’m at the eight or nine out of ten stage, when really we would only scrape to four or five. Was there anyone in the village, she wondered, with whom she had risen above five? Possibly – quite probably – not.

  But all this had nothing to do with anything. It was what happened when one sat idle for too long: one began to feel sorry for oneself.

  She was about to make her excuses and go when Terry got up and said it was about time he went. Gwen got to her feet too, smiled, said it was nice to have met him; she hung around in the main room while Lydia saw him out. If she could just get a few things settled with Lydia, then she wouldn’t feel that her visit had been a complete waste of time. A sense of urgency wouldn’t come amiss (February all but over, Easter drawing ever closer). If one could just impress on Lydia the need to get organized.

  But would that prove to be as easy as it sounded? Was there not something a little odd about Lydia today, something different? She seemed distant, distracted, out of sorts.

  Gwen, lost in her thoughts, suddenly realized that she had begun tidying up by instinct, collecting the mugs and putting them on the tray, straightening the rug, folding up the newspaper. Now she had got hold of Lydia’s canvases, was squaring them, stacking them neatly. She took a step back. She had one of the paintings in her hand. She turned it round to look at it.

  Richard as St George. It was rather good. Lydia had got Richard to a T – although he looked rather more heroic in the picture than he ever did in real life (Basil would have been astonished). If one wanted to pick holes one could have queried whether, in all honesty, St George would really have gone out to fight a dangerous-looking dragon without his shirt on, but with a painting one could do as one liked: that was the beauty of it.

  She looked at another canvas. My word, how odd. That boy in the middle looked almost like Dean, but why was he surrounded by all those cats – or lions, were they? What did it mean?