by F. R. Tallis
As soon as the bell rang, Laura rushed down the hallway and opened the front door.
‘Hi.’
The woman standing beneath the porch had struck a pose reminiscent of a pantomime ‘boy’ – legs set apart, hands on hips – and everything about her seemed to telegraph vigour and robust health. She was wearing denim dungarees over a khaki T-shirt and her complexion had been reddened by exposure to the sun. Her thick, streaked hair was pulled back into a single dense tuft.
‘Sue.’ Laura made a sweeping gesture. ‘Please. Come in.’
‘Another beautiful day.’
‘Yes, isn’t it?’
Laura showed Sue into the kitchen, where Faye was sitting in her highchair clutching a red crayon and scribbling on a sheet of paper. The child looked up and smiled. ‘That’s unusual,’ said Laura. ‘She’s normally frightened of strangers.’
Sue went over to the highchair and examined Faye’s drawing. ‘What a lovely picture.’ Then she brushed a knuckle against Faye’s cheek. ‘You don’t need to worry about me, do you, darling?’ Her voice carried a trace of cockney.
‘Tea?’ Laura asked.
‘That’d be great,’ Sue replied. ‘Thanks.’
As the kettle was boiling they chatted about mutual acquaintances, all of whom were regulars at the bookshop in Islington, and when they sat down their conversation continued naturally, easily, broadening out, expanding to cover the novels they were reading and other topics of common interest. A second pot of tea was made and Laura, mildly curious, asked Sue how she’d become a gardener. Sue replied, ‘I sort of fell into it,’ and went on to explain how three years earlier her husband had been made redundant and she had started to do some odd jobs for her elderly neighbours: weeding, planting, mowing the lawn. They liked what she did and recommended her to others. She attended evening classes in order to study horticulture and subsequently sat an exam in garden design. During this period her husband became a heavy drinker and prone to angry outbursts, so she left him. ‘Best thing I ever did,’ she concluded with breezy indifference.
Laura reciprocated, telling Sue a little about her own past, about her childhood and her parents. ‘They threw me out when I started modelling.’
‘Why?’ asked Sue.
‘They thought it was undignified . . . wanton.’
‘That must have been tough.’
‘It was. I was still very young when I left home.’
‘Were they religious, your parents?’
‘Yes, and terribly pious – it was inevitable that I’d rebel. But, ironically, I’ve come to share their views. I don’t think modelling is sinful – not like they did – but I think it’s morally dubious. I wouldn’t want Faye to become a model when she grows up.’
Laura discovered that her companion was refreshingly level-headed. Sue didn’t become overly excited when Laura spoke about the glamorous world that she had formerly inhabited, nor did she ask any salacious questions about celebrities (which was what usually happened). When Sue learned that Christopher was a composer of film scores, her response was equally measured. Laura was impressed. She had enjoyed talking to Sue, and it was with some reluctance that she looked up at the kitchen clock and said, ‘I suppose I’d better show you the garden.’ Laura lifted Faye out of the highchair and led Sue down the hallway, into the drawing room and out through the open French windows. The air was buzzing, warm and fragrant. Two white butterflies took off and flew into the clear blue sky. Sue took some cigarette papers and a bag of tobacco from her pocket and with deft fingers made a thin roll-up, the end of which she glanced with a burning safety match. ‘So what do you want?’
The bluntness of Sue’s question took Laura by surprise.
‘I don’t know.’
Sue drew on her cigarette and surveyed the margins.
‘There’s a lot here that could be preserved. Well-established growth. I’d leave that well alone. I mean, look at those pyracanthas – beautiful – and that lovely purple berberis.’ She took another drag. ‘And what about the gazebo?’
‘What about it?’
‘Do you want to keep it?’
‘I don’t know. I’m sorry, I haven’t thought . . .’ Laura felt a little flustered. ‘I asked you to come, but I haven’t thought about what I want you to do at all. How stupid of me.’
‘That’s OK.’
‘No. It isn’t. Not really.’
‘Look, I’ll make a few suggestions and we can take it from there. All right?’ Laura nodded. ‘Do you mind if I take a look around?’
‘How can you? It’s like a jungle.’
‘I’d like to see what’s going on under those shrubs.’ She pointed towards the far wall. ‘See how high they are. I reckon there’s an old rockery or something under there.’
‘How will you get across?’
‘I’ve got some tools in the van.’
‘Do you want another tea?’
‘No thanks. I’m fine.’
Laura carried Faye back inside and took her up to the nursery. She had meant to play a game with her daughter, but she found herself hovering behind the net curtains studying the woman at work below. Sue had put on a pair of canvas gloves and armed herself with a cutting instrument that she wielded with extraordinary efficiency. Within minutes, she had sliced a channel through the long grass and thorny bushes. For someone of slender build, she seemed to possess remarkable strength; she looked like an Amazon, a warrior princess, hacking and slashing, moving forward with merciless determination. Suddenly, Sue stopped working. She wiped the back of her gloved hand across her brow and turned round. Laura drew back so as not to be seen – as if she had been doing something wrong. She sat down on the floor next to Faye. ‘OK. Let’s play, shall we?’
Thirty minutes later, Sue called up the stairs, ‘I’ve finished.’
Laura lifted Faye, balanced the child on her hip and descended the stairs. In the garden she discovered Sue standing by an upright shovel, the blade of which had been pushed into the earth. Sue’s arm was outstretched and she was holding a cork in her hand. ‘I just found this.’ Laura took the cork and remembered Simon and Amanda’s impromptu visit the day she and Christopher had moved into the house – champagne on the terrace. ‘I think it must be one of ours,’ said Laura, putting the cork in her pocket. ‘This way,’ Sue beckoned. Laura advanced along the freshly cut route through the grass and bushes. A fat, grumbling bumblebee bounced against her bare arm. On reaching the gazebo, Sue pulled the door open. ‘Look inside. Someone must have been sleeping rough in here when the house was empty.’ Laura saw a filthy tartan blanket, some pillows, a pile of empty cider bottles and some disintegrating newspapers. Grasping a mouldy plank, Sue pulled it away from the frame with ease. The wood cracked and splintered. ‘Completely rotten. To be honest, I’m surprised it’s still standing. You could get rid of it easily enough or, if you want to keep it, I could get a friend of mine to build you something similar . . . or make a copy . . . up to you.’
‘I wouldn’t mind something less fussy,’ Laura replied, ‘with more room inside, big enough for a table and chairs.’
Sue shaded her eyes. ‘There’s a rockery by the back wall, just as I’d suspected.’ She chopped her visual field into sections with quick, downward hand movements. ‘Rockery, orchard, lawn, flower beds. Not much work at all. Everything you need is already here. You just can’t see it. Ah! Almost forgot.’ She marched off in the direction of the apple trees, calling out, ‘Mind the nettles,’ and stopped next to a large bush. She pulled a branch back and said, ‘Look in there.’ Laura crouched down and peered into a shady hollow. Near the trunk was a statue – a cherub on a pedestal reading a large book.
Something seemed to pass in front of the sun. The light dimmed, but when Laura looked up there were no clouds in the sky.
‘There could be more,’ said Sue, ‘The bushes are so thick round here, who knows what they’re hiding. Do you want me to cut the branches away to expose it?’
Laura felt uneasy and
in spite of the June heat a curious sensation made her shiver. ‘No.’ She shook her head.
‘No?’
‘It’s probably best to just . . . leave things as they are.’
Sue’s voice sounded distant. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Actually, I feel a bit . . .’ Laura didn’t know how to describe what she was experiencing. ‘Odd.’
‘Here. Give me Faye.’ Laura expected her daughter to protest, but when Sue took her the child seemed perfectly happy. ‘Must be the heat. Let’s go back inside.’
Sitting in the kitchen, Laura began to feel better; however, she noticed that Sue was looking at her differently. Her oblique regard suggested suspicion.
‘What happened out there . . .’ The sentence remained in limbo, neither a statement nor a question – an uncompleted thought expressed prematurely. Sue shifted uncomfortably before making a fresh start. ‘You get feelings, don’t you?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Strong feelings . . . intuitions?’
‘Doesn’t everybody?’
‘Not everybody, no.’
Laura shrugged. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
Sue nodded. ‘Sure you’re all right now?’
‘Yes,’ Laura replied. But she didn’t feel all right. Something of the chill she had felt in the garden had insinuated itself into her bones.
Sue stood up and leaned against a wall. ‘I could clear that rockery in an afternoon. It wouldn’t take me very long, and then you’d have a nice place to sit.’
‘I’d have to talk to my husband.’
‘Don’t worry about the money. I’d do it for you as a favour. It’d be no trouble at all.’
Laura protested. ‘That wouldn’t be right. I couldn’t . . .’
Sue shrugged and glanced at her watch. ‘I suppose I should be going.’
‘No, don’t go. Not just yet.’ A note of desperation had entered Laura’s voice. ‘Please. Have another cup of tea.’
The hotel room was small but decorated ostentatiously: fake eighteenth-century furniture, heavy velvet curtains and antique prints of palaces and gardens in gilt frames. It was getting late, but Christopher wasn’t tired. He had already bathed and put on a dressing gown, and he was sitting on the bed, legs outstretched, staring at his reflection in the cheval glass. A man sees himself in the mirror. But what does he see? Christopher remembered the young director’s observations concerning the objectification of the self and found, to his surprise, that he was indeed experiencing his image as something extrinsic and foreign.
A trolley rattled down the corridor outside. There was a distant knock and muffled voices, then receding footsteps.
Christopher was disinclined to pick up the paperback he had bought at Heathrow airport. He felt uneasy and oddly despondent. This wasn’t only because of his disappointing meeting with Ancel. Lately, it seemed to Christopher that the whole of his life had become unsatisfactory. He thought about Laura and their hopeless lovemaking the previous evening, and how afterwards they had stewed in the moist, rank heat, barely touching – or barely able to touch? And he remembered how, in order to bring their laborious union to a merciful end, he had had to think of Amanda Ogilvy.
About a year after meeting Laura, Christopher had rented a villa just west of Cannes for a month. It was a cool, spacious building, set on a headland with spectacular views over the sea. The outer walls were covered with red bougainvillea and a steep stairway led from the end of the garden down to a private beach and jetty. Two weeks after Christopher and Laura arrived they were joined by Simon and Amanda, who, at that time, had not been in a relationship for very long. Most evenings, the two couples would eat outside together, drink excessive quantities of red wine and watch the sun set. As darkness fell, the warm air would become fragrant with herbs and the scent of flowers. One night, Amanda produced a coal-black lump of cannabis. She rolled several joints which were passed around the table and the party talked and smoked and watched a crescent moon rise into a starry sky. Laura was the first to retire and shortly afterwards Simon said that he was feeling sick and that he would have to lie down.
Amanda continued rolling joints. When she spun the spark wheel of her cigarette lighter a tall, steady flame made her face vivid and vaguely infernal. She spoke about Marxism, poetry and Kandinsky, one word slurring into the next, until she was overcome by torpor. They sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity, pleasantly vacant, watching the moon scatter glittering streamers across the calm water. Amanda started to giggle and Christopher found that her amusement was infectious.
‘Let’s go down to the beach.’ Her low, husky voice was bewitching.
‘We’re not capable,’ Christopher replied. ‘We’ll fall down the stairs.’
‘No we won’t. Not if we’re careful.’ She started to laugh again. ‘Not if we’re very, very careful.’
She stood up and offered him her hand.
They made their way along the garden path, leaning against each other for support, and descended the stairs. Amanda dragged Christopher across the sand and they stopped when the surf cooled their feet. Across the cove on the next headland was another villa. None of its windows were illuminated.
‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ said Amanda, throwing her head back and spinning like a child. She let her shawl drop from her shoulders and reached behind her back to undo the fastening that held her bikini top in place. Her breasts were suddenly exposed.
‘What are you doing?’ Christopher asked.
‘I’m going for a swim. Are you coming?’
Everything became dream-like. Christopher felt light, airy and transparent. Amanda turned to face him. She took a deep breath and her breasts seemed to expand, becoming too magnificent to resist. Christopher pressed his palms against her blunt nipples and his fingers sank into her receptive flesh. A shudder of pleasure passed through Amanda’s body. She fell to her knees and Christopher felt her exploring the contours of his rigidity through the cotton of his shorts. He heard the teeth of his zip separating, a soft tearing, and moaned as she discovered the secret of his release and took him into her mouth. He stood, gently swaying, listening to the waves until his eyes closed and his being dissolved and he became nothing but sensation.
The following day, no one got up until late afternoon.
Simon and Laura were sitting on the veranda and Christopher was squeezing oranges in the kitchen. Amanda entered and stood beside him. Her hair was wet and she was wearing a brightly coloured sarong.
Under his breath, Christopher said, ‘It never happened.’
‘That’s right,’ she replied, her voice full of gravel. ‘There’s nothing to discuss.’
And they never spoke about it again.
Christopher gazed at his reflection in the angled glass. The reality behind the mirror seemed to be disjointed with the reality in front, misaligned by several degrees.
For five years, Christopher had resisted the urge to exhume those memories or extract any pleasure from their content. Yet recently the recollection of his encounter with Amanda Ogilvy had become an increasingly necessary marital aid. Christopher released a long, melancholy sigh. Hotel rooms could be lonely places.
Laura was lying on the sofa in the drawing room flicking through a pile of magazines. When she had finished reading the articles that had interested her most, she sat up and gazed out into the garden. The light was failing and there was a curious absence of birdsong. Apart from the hiss of the baby monitor she could hear nothing. It was as if the house had been transported from the city to some remote location, a faraway place, beyond the reach of civilization. She began to feel a vague sense of disquiet; her chest tightened and she struggled to suppress a rising wave of panic. ‘It’s OK. Nothing’s going to happen.’ The words lacked conviction and Laura fled to the kitchen, where she opened a packet of biscuits and, one by one, ate them all. She made herself a cup of camomile tea and turned on the radio, hoping that the sound of human voices would stop her feeling quite so removed
from the rest of humanity. The discussion programme she listened to was full of bleak predictions about the country’s imminent demise, but she found the illusion of companionable, erudite conversation comforting.
When the programme was finished she was feeling calmer. She listened to the ten o’clock news, collected the baby monitor and then went to the bathroom where she washed and reluctantly swallowed a pill. Once again, she wondered about side effects. She remembered standing in the garden next to Sue and the way the light had changed; sudden chills, shivers, vivid nightmares – things seemed to be mounting up. For a brief instant she considered paying the doctor a visit, but she rejected the idea almost immediately, doubting her ability to remain civil while being subjected to more of his condescension and benign censure.
Laura crossed the landing to the bedroom, set up the monitor, climbed into bed and read a novel until she began to feel sleepy. She switched off the lamp, turned to lie on her side, and extended a hand over the mattress to the point where, ordinarily, her fingers would have made contact with her husband’s body. To her surprise, she discovered that the coolness of the sheet made her sad. She missed him, although she wasn’t quite sure what that meant anymore. Her thoughts became sluggish and incoherent and she gradually drifted into a state of semi-consciousness. She became dimly aware of something irregular, an unexpected sensory event, a perturbation, when really there should have been only blackness and the feeling of her mind slowly unravelling like a ball of wool. What was it? She didn’t open her eyes, but forced herself to become more alert.