In a Good Light

by Clare Chambers

  ‘I know. That’s what attracted me.’

  ‘It needs a bit of work though. It’s not a great advertisement for your gardening skills in its present state.’

  ‘No,’ he laughed. ‘But it’s a blank canvas. That’s more fun than having to work round some existing feature that can’t be touched.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Knock down that shed and replace it with somewhere waterproof to keep all my tools and stuff. After that I don’t know. What do you reckon?’

  ‘The first thing you need is a rope swing with an old tyre on the end,’ I said. ‘And then maybe a nettle patch.’

  ‘I knew you’d be full of good ideas,’ Donovan replied, giving me a sideways grin.

  ‘Do you still go for your moonlight rambles?’ I asked, forgetting my own veto about reminiscing. ‘You used to be practically nocturnal.’

  ‘Yes, I do as a matter of fact, though not as much as I used to. I get these bouts of insomnia now and then, and one thing I can’t stand is lying in bed awake. I have to get up. So I go off and plod round the reservoir. I haven’t been here long enough to get bored with the route.’

  It was too cold to linger outdoors: a few downy snowflakes were falling and my face was starting to ache, so we retreated to the kitchen. As Donovan was closing the door, a fat tabby cat extruded itself through the gap, and made for the hearth, where it stood, pawing the rug as though flattening long grass.

  ‘Is he yours?’ I asked. ‘Or is he just a local?’

  ‘He’s mine – don’t go near him. He’s vicious. Aren’t you, Weazlewort? Ever since I took him to the vet in a chilly box because I didn’t have a proper cage.’ He looked at my expression. ‘There wasn’t an ice pack in it at the time,’ he said.

  ‘Weazlewort,’ I said, cogs grinding. ‘Where have I heard that name before?’

  ‘I don’t know where you heard it,’ said Donovan. ‘I know where I heard it. It’s the name of my dad’s solicitor. I always thought it was wasted on a human.’

  The cogs connected; the machinery began to turn. Yes, I thought, smiling to myself at the strangeness of it all: that’s where I heard it too. I was remembering something Alan once said to Mum: If there’s ever anything I can do for you. And he knew my parents well enough to realise that an anonymous gift was the only sort they wouldn’t be able to return. I wanted to say something, but I knew I couldn’t. Hadn’t I always been the guardian of the Fry family’s secrets?

  Donovan made coffee in a percolator on the hob. When he opened the fridge to get the milk I could see it was well stocked with proper food – another intimation of maturity that brought before me the practical, self-sufficient teenager he’d once been. From a tin on the slate countertop he produced a date and walnut cake, and cut off two fat slices.

  ‘Lovely,’ I said. ‘Just like a bought one.’

  We sat on opposite couches by the fire, which was still giving rather more colour than heat, and drank our coffee. It was so strong I could soon feel my heart galloping in my ribs. I told Donovan about Christian’s forthcoming marriage, assuming correctly that this wouldn’t have come up during their earlier conversation.

  ‘So things have moved on pretty quickly in the last week,’ he said.

  ‘Not half,’ I replied. ‘What a week.’ I found myself telling him about Geoff’s unexpected reappearance and fake claim to have left Mary, my unsuccessful attempt at flat-hunting, and Christian’s generous handout. ‘Anyway,’ I said, conscious that I had talked of nothing but myself, in greater detail than might have been interesting, ‘what have you been doing with yourself?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about you most of the time,’ he said evenly.

  I looked up from my coffee dregs to find Donovan studying me with those green granite eyes. Currents flowed between us as I held his gaze in the silence that followed. Before I could frame the perfect reply, the doorbell rang and we both started.

  Donovan stood up first, catching his knee on the table and making the plates rattle. He strode over to the window to get a glimpse of the caller, and I saw his expression collapse, from one of annoyance to one of utter defeat. ‘Oh, Jesus, no,’ he said, putting his hands to his head and seizing fistfuls of hair as though scalping himself might afford some relief. He opened the front door to admit a whirl of dry snowflakes and a figure swaddled in a moulting, floor-length coat, and a leather aviator’s cap with earflaps. Aunty Barbara.

  ‘Hello, Donovan,’ she said, patting his chest. ‘The roads are absolutely appalling, and your map was hopeless. I’m shattered. Get my bags in, will you?’ She handed him the keys and began to shed outer layers.

  ‘Mum, it was next weekend you were supposed to be coming,’ said Donovan, with more than a hint of impatience. ‘You’ve got the date wrong.’

  ‘Have I? No, we agreed the fourteenth.’

  ‘That is next weekend.’

  ‘Is it really? Oh, bugger. Then I’m going to miss the Proberts’ ruby wedding. Oh, well, it can’t be helped.’ She noticed me for the first time. ‘Hello, dear,’ she said, abstractedly, and then took a second look. ‘Esther!’ she pealed. I stood up and she bore down on me, and pressed her icy cheek to mine. Her hair, now that I could see it, was an attractive, variegated grey-white, though seriously mauled by the aviator’s cap. Under the shaggy coat she was dressed in black trousers, a long, embroidered shirt and a waistcoat that must have been made on a hand-loom. Her fingernails, and their immediate hinterland, were painted purple. I could feel them digging into my wrist. ‘Did you come especially to see me?’ she asked.

  ‘I didn’t actually know you were going to be here,’ I admitted.

  ‘Neither of us did,’ Donovan reminded her.

  ‘Oh, no, of course not. Never mind.’ She sat down on the couch and pulled me down next to her with surprising strength. ‘While Donovan’s getting my stuff you can sit here and tell me how your poor brother is getting on.’ Donovan, thus dismissed, made throat-slitting gestures before disappearing out to the car.

  I provided Aunty Barbara with the briefest possible résumé of Christian’s physical and mental condition, ending with an account of his recent engagement.

  ‘It’s surprising how often you hear about men marrying the woman who nursed them,’ she mused. ‘But you don’t hear of women marrying their doctors so much. I wonder why.’

  ‘In my experience the doctor is usually already married to someone else,’ I replied tartly.

  ‘How old did you say Christian is now?’

  ‘Thirty-nine.’

  ‘Thirty-nine! There you are, Donovan, it’s not too late,’ she called in the direction of the open door. The phone rang. I took the liberty of picking it up, in case an answerphone cut in. It was Penny. ‘Oh, hi Esther,’ she said without a trace of surprise, before I’d identified myself.

  ‘I’ve just come to look at Donovan’s garden,’ I said, feeling that my presence required some explanation. ‘Aunty Barbara’s here, too,’ I added, for good measure. ‘Do you want to speak to Donovan?’

  ‘No, you can give him a message. He was going to come over tomorrow and dig up a tree root for me with his special chomper, but there’s no point now because there’s about four inches of snow outside. Have you got much down there?’

  I looked out of the window at the white lacework appearing on the roofs of the cars. ‘Not yet. It’s only just starting to settle.’

  ‘Well, don’t get stranded,’ she warned me. ‘Unless you want to, of course.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Just tell him to call me some time. Byeee.’ And she hung up, leaving me frowning at the receiver.

  Donovan came in from reparking Aunty Barbara’s car, which had been blocking the neighbour’s gate, and kicked the door shut behind him. He was carrying a Gladstone bag and a trolley suitcase, which he took straight up to the bedroom, his footsteps echoing on the wooden stairs. Aunty Barbara was poking around, opening cupboards. ‘So this is the new house,’ she said to no one in par
ticular. ‘Very nice, but a bit blokey. Needs a woman’s touch.’ I remembered Aunty Barbara’s ‘touch’: brimming ashtrays, pilfered cosmetics, and miniature vodka bottles under the bed.

  ‘Penny rang,’ I said, when Donovan rejoined us.

  ‘Oh?’ he said warily. ‘What did she want?’

  ‘She said not to bother about the tree stump tomorrow – they’ve got deep snow.’

  Donovan looked guilty. ‘That’s lucky. I’d completely forgotten.’ This admission cheered me greatly. You don’t love her, then, I thought.

  Aunty Barbara wanted a tour of the first floor, so while the kettle was boiling for tea we all trooped upstairs. It didn’t take long: a small, white bathroom, two double bedrooms with identical iron bedsteads, made up with blue and white checked covers – one neat, the other left as vacated. I averted my gaze: there’s something too intimate about an unmade bed. Both rooms had wooden wardrobes built into the eaves, and the larger of the two contained a desk, computer and filing cabinet, all covered with paper. The windows were so low off the floor that you would have to bend double to see what kind of day it was.

  Aunty Barbara sat down on the neat bed, beside which her cases stood, bouncing up and down to test the mattress, then she went next door and did the same. ‘Do you mind if we swap?’ she called. ‘This one’s harder. Better for my back.’

  ‘Whatever makes you happy,’ Donovan replied amiably, at the same time shooting me a matricidal glance.

  Over tea, Aunty Barbara – who had supplied her own teabag, which smelled of compost – cross-examined me about Mum and Dad, and I was forced to provide abridged biographies, all the while conscious that, having met Donovan only eight days ago, I was already repeating myself. At last, when I had brought her up to date, and couldn’t bear the sound of my own voice any more, I said, ‘I’m a bit worried about this weather. Penny said the snow was quite deep where she is. I don’t want to get stuck.’

  Donovan seized on this with elation. ‘You’re right,’ he said, standing up. ‘I’d better take you home. I would have said come for the ride, Mum, but it’s only a two-seater . . .’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Aunty Barbara. ‘I’ve been on the road all day. I’ll stay here and have a lovely bath.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Donovan replied, heading out into the back garden, returning a moment later with snowflakes in his hair, carrying a shovel. From one of the kitchen drawers he produced a torch. He slung both in the boot of the Audi and then patted it. ‘You beautiful car,’ he said meaningfully.

  It was only as we approached the M25 that it dawned on us we were in trouble. The snow down in Sussex had been nothing like as bad as it was here. It must have been falling steadily ever since we’d left in the morning, because even the main roads were treacherous, with deep ruts and ridges, and minor roads were completely impassable to vehicles. We sat in a traffic jam at the Caterham junction for an hour and a half, as more and more cars tried to join the motorway and fewer and fewer dared to turn off onto its snowbound tributaries. Dusk fell, and we’d advanced only a few yards. ‘We should have set off earlier,’ Donovan said, drumming the steering wheel. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ I replied. ‘I’m just worried about your mum. Will she feel abandoned?’

  ‘No, she’ll be quite happy, snooping through my things.’ He gave her a ring on his mobile all the same, to explain the delay. I could hear her twittering away in the background. ‘I don’t possess any bubble bath. Try washing-up liquid,’ was his closing remark.

  ‘I should have brought emergency rations,’ Donovan grumbled, foraging in the map pocket and the glove compartment, turning up nothing but a lone tic-tac in a box. At the sight of it a memory of Grandpa Percy rose up before me, and I could hear again the distinctive rattle that always marked his progress.

  ‘Donovan,’ I said impulsively, before I could change my mind. ‘I owe you an apology.’

  ‘Oh? What for?’ He looked puzzled.

  ‘I once accused you of stealing some money. But it wasn’t you.’

  ‘I know it wasn’t me. Who was it?’

  ‘Grandpa. We found it hidden in his room when he died.’

  Donovan raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘What made you so sure it was me?’

  ‘I saw you on a stool, with your hand in the jar.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I suppose that might have looked pretty incriminating. I was probably just putting back the deposit for that garden strimmer. Or taking it out, or something.’

  ‘I worked that out. I think I saw you putting it back. Grandpa must have seen you taking it out, and thought you were trying to nick it. So he went back a day or so later and moved it to a safer place.’

  ‘I’m surprised he didn’t break his neck.’

  ‘He could be pretty strong when he got fixated on some task.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d seen me at the time?’

  ‘I don’t know. Stupid teenage games. Anyway, it’s been on my conscience.’

  ‘I’m glad it’s cleared up at last. Though I must admit I haven’t spent every waking moment fighting to clear my name.’

  ‘No. Such a trivial thing, really.’ But it wasn’t at the time, I thought. Back then everything was livid with significance.

  At last we gained the turn-off: ominously no other cars followed suit. The Audi crawled up the hill, slewing from side to side. I’d never seen the bypass so deserted. Abandoned cars lay at the roadside. The central reservation had become a fat, white bolster. The higher we went the harder it was. Twice Donovan stopped and dug a channel in front of each tyre to give us some grip, but the third time the wheels just churned hopelessly, and he switched off the engine.

  ‘Come on, we’re walking,’ he said.

  ‘Will the car be all right, just left here?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t think anyone’s going to be able to steal it,’ he pointed out, as he went to fetch the torch. Reassured, I opened the door and stepped out into the blue-white dusk.

  Snow is a kind of miracle, capable of transforming even our pebbledash subtopia into a scene of beauty and wonder. The dual carriageway had become a sweeping glacier; even the piles of discarded trash in the layby were smothered in lush drifts. Below us in the dip, and away up the hill, lights twinkled in the houses, all the hard edges softened and blurred. There was a holiness about the silence: traffic, car radios, voices, all the raucous sounds of human interference had been muffled by the mysterious power of snow.

  ‘It’s beautiful isn’t it?’ I whispered. ‘It makes you feel a bit . . . unhinged.’

  ‘You’ve been having that effect on me all day,’ Donovan replied. ‘Come on.’ He took one of my hands and we half-ran, half-stumbled along the road, leaving deep, powdery furrows behind us. I was laughing like a drunk.

  A dark shape shot out of the trees at the roadside, straight across our path, and stopped. A fox: its eyes flaming in the darkness. It seemed to hold our gaze for ever, and then it turned and loped along, just ahead of us, as if leading the way.

  ‘Someone left a mangled fox on the bonnet of Dad’s car the night you ran away,’ I said, as the memory surfaced. ‘I’m not suggesting it was you,’ I added. Donovan looked at me as though this was fresh evidence of my insanity. ‘What are you on about, you crazy woman?’ he said, without breaking his stride.

  ‘Nothing,’ I muttered. ‘Forget it.’ I really know how to slaughter an atmosphere.

  There was just the thinnest paring of moon visible in the sky, but the snow emitted a ghostly light of its own, and the torch sat unused in Donovan’s pocket. ‘You won’t be able to get back tonight, you know,’ I said, it having only that moment occurred to me.

  ‘Well noticed,’ said Donovan.

  ‘You’ll have to “sleep over”,’ I said, smiling at my own private joke.

  Donovan looked at me through narrowed eyes, then took hold of the two ends of my scarf and pulled me towards him, and kissed me at last, and I was fifteen again, barefoot and cl
ueless in the hot garden. We stayed there kissing for a long time, and I thought, I’ll always remember that it started here, standing in the fast lane of a dual carriageway. But it hadn’t of course, it had started years ago, before we even knew that there were such feelings. At last we drew apart.

  ‘You’re gorgeous,’ he said. ‘I’ve been dreaming about you all week.’ We carried on walking, hand in hand, towards the roundabout, or at least the undulating snowfield that had taken its place. Pavement and road were indistinguishable: several times I missed the kerb and sank in up to my knee. Neither of us was particularly well-shod for this hike. My socks were soaked through and my toes felt scalded. I thought how miserable I would be if I’d had to make this journey alone, what a joyless ordeal it would have seemed, and yet with Donovan it had become an adventure – the fulfilment of a childhood dream.

  Christian and Elaine had already gone to bed when we reached home. Enjoying the comforts I can’t provide, as Dad might have put it. I indicated their closed door and put my finger to my lips as we peeled off our wet coats and scarves. I led him down the passage to my room, our snow-crusted jeans leaving pools on the warm wooden floor.

  ‘A single bed,’ said Donovan, when the modest dimensions of my room were revealed. ‘I might have guessed.’ He sat down on it and looked up at me expectantly.

  ‘There’ll be plenty of room as long as we lie very still,’ I said, trying not to smile.

  ‘I wouldn’t count on that if I were you,’ Donovan said, pulling me onto his knee.

  I was woken some time before dawn by the scream of a fox. When I came to, Donovan already had his eyes open. ‘Oh good,’ he said. ‘I’ve been awake for hours. Now you can entertain me again.’