by Peter Benson
‘Seems a shame to waste the opportunity,’ she said.
‘To do what?’
She stood up and straightened the towels. ‘Come on, look around! Sun, sea, you, me, towels, all this oil!’ I stretched out to her, she pushed me back, our bodies slipped together, it wasn’t easy, but we did it again in that green, blue and yellow room, while the evening came. Afterwards, she sent me off to look for driftwood; we lit a fire and cooked sausages. The sea rolled onto the shore, its distance surface shimmered in the moonlight. No one disturbed us. A fishing boat trawled the horizon, a flock of oyster-catchers cried on the beach. The trees and bushes of the undercliff rustled in a breeze so slight it could have been human breath, but the sky, though cloudless, gave away no secrets. The flames on the shore, the girl in the sand; the boy stared at his feet, the sea rolled back time. I could tell; she smiled at me in the fire light, but it was the last time she would, like that, like she meant it a little.
20
‘Mum’s asked you to tea; oh, hello!’ Muriel had arrived with the invitation, Dick was there, they hadn’t met before.
‘Dick, this is Muriel.’
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘You’re meant to introduce the lady to the gentleman, not the other way round.’ She leant over and kissed me. Dick looked at the ground, but I could see his eyes moving.
‘I’ve got to get on,’ he said, ‘milking to do.’
‘Milking?’ said Muriel.
‘Yes.’
‘Could I watch? I wouldn’t get in the way.’
Dick didn’t know what to do; he mumbled about Chedzoy not liking women in the parlour, shuffled his feet, edged away and put his crash-helmet on.
‘A bit ironic, isn’t it? All those females providing your boss with a living but he doesn’t like women in his parlour.’
‘What?’
‘You heard.’
‘Billy?’ he said. He didn’t understand. ‘Any time, remember what I said.’
‘What did he say?’ We sat in the workshop, it was a colder day, a stiff wind blew cloud from the west.
‘He wants to take me for a drink.’
‘When?’
‘Anytime.’
‘And tea?’
‘Tea?’
‘Mum’s asked you.’
‘Oh, yes.’
We carried the trays into the garden, but it started to rain, so we had to carry them back to the house, and while her mother laid the table, Muriel showed me the latest painting. I thought it was a pig, but she said it was a view of Burrow Hill from Kingsbury.
‘Why’s it pink?’ I said.
‘She didn’t have any green paint.’
‘Then why didn’t she do a picture of something pink?’
‘Because she didn’t have any green paint.’
‘So she deliberately paints pink things green and green things pink?’
‘I think so.’
‘Why?’
‘Ask her.’
We ate tea in the room I’d seen on that ghostly night, with chairs lined up against one wall, and opposite, a dark cupboard, with a broom hanging on its latch. A half open door had led to the kitchen, it had been gloomy, wet, cold, now I drank tea from a china cup, was passed cakes by a painter, sat next to Muriel. Muriel. She’d never known what this house looked like, it had been changed, a summer of living, two women, they changed Drove House.
‘Have another cake.’
‘Thanks.’
‘More tea?’
‘I’ll have some.’
‘This house used to smell of apricots,’ I said.
‘Apricots?’
‘Smells of paint now.’
‘I love apricots.’
‘An apricot orchard. Mmm.’
The women liked apricots. Muriel poured herself some more tea, I put my cup on the floor.
‘When I was a girl,’ said her mother, ‘we went to the fair; I think back and say to myself, “That was the time, that was the place.’”
‘For what?’
‘For knowing what you wanted to do with your life. All the coloured wagons, swirls and swirls of paint, I knew I’d be a painter. I wanted to run away with them, be a travelling artist.’
‘What happened?’
‘I had my fifth birthday.’
The leaded windows reflected rectangles onto the walls and ceiling. A book on glass-blowing, a bowl of coloured stones, a plate of cakes.
‘Have another.’
Tea at Drove House.
‘Billy’s got something to ask you,’ said Muriel.
‘Have I?’
‘Have you?’
‘Yes.’
‘What?’
‘About why you paint pink things green?’
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘green.’ I looked at Anne, she fingered some crumbs from the corner of her mouth.
‘I paint green things pink.’
‘I know.’
‘Not pink things green.’
‘I never said you did. Muriel did.’
‘Muriel, you should know better.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I paint green things pink when I haven’t got any green paint and I’ve plenty of pink.’
‘Then why don’t you buy some green?’
‘Because that’s too easy. An artist must make life difficult for herself.’
‘I’ll buy you some.’
‘No you won’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘You don’t know what shades I like.’
‘One minute you’re doing a hill pink, then you won’t let me buy you some paint because you’re afraid I’ll buy the wrong shade.’
‘Yes.’
I offered to do something I’m good at, the washing up. I washed, Muriel dried. Anne had to go to Taunton. She had to go to the station.
We stood on the porch while the rain blew over, the sun shone for a few moments before setting, and the world became dark very quickly. I could smell autumn, old leaves and fires, a cold sink into winter, but the house was still warm, Muriel took my hand and closed the door.
‘Don’t you think we should take advantage of the situation?’ she said.
‘What situation?’
‘Billy!’
‘What?’
‘An empty house, an empty bed, two lovers?’ She pulled me towards the stairs.
‘But she’ll be back soon.’
‘No she won’t; anyway, she wouldn’t mind, she knows what’s going on.’
‘She knows?’ I couldn’t believe her. I hadn’t breathed a word.
‘Of course.’
‘How?’
‘I told her. Like I told her about the others.’
‘The others?’
‘Yes, Billy. Come on; wake up!’
‘Others?’
‘Why not? Where’d you think I learnt the things I showed you? In a book of nursery rhymes?’
‘No. I …’
‘You … ?’
‘I thought it’d just come naturally, I thought you were …’
‘What? A cabbage?’
‘No.’
‘Then take me to bed.’
I’d sat in that room with Dick, felt the smell of apricots stain the floor, and we’d stared out of the window at a winter’s night. He’d wanted to come back, but I felt the terror in the place. I knew what climbed the stairs. I had watched the bedroom door close in an empty house, no draughts, just a cold and heavy air. I remember the night came from evening so quickly, the door stopped on its hinges, like it knew I was watching. This room stood guard over my life. Muriel, murmuring in her sleep, her face turned to the window, I ran my hand up her spine, over where her back blended with her shoulders, I took my other hand and stroked her hair. She moved a little, tucked her knees in, sighed, Bang! The piece of tin in the lean-to, banging years ago, the sound echoed to me, sniff; apricots, stewing in the kitchen. I had looked at Dick. He had looked at me. Terror, waiting for what was coming, we waited.
I stro
ked behind her ear with one hand, while the other picked fluff out of her hair. I played with her earrings, and ran my fingers down the ridge of her jaw bone. The neck. I put one hand either side of it, rubbed gently, easing, pinching little rolls of skin. Her neck. It was so slim, so brown.
‘Billy!’ she said. She woke up. ‘You trying to strangle me?’
‘No.’
‘What you doing then?’
‘Remembering it.’
‘My neck.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s the only neck I’ve got this close to.’
‘The only neck? What about your own?’
‘What about it? I can’t see the back of my own neck. I can’t kiss it!’
‘No.’
‘So I’m remembering yours.’
The weather got worse. A squall of wind rattled every pane of glass in every window of the place, the clouds blew open a moment to let in a view of higher, racing cloud, screwing across the face of an angry, waning moon, and then the light it gave was gone. I looked at Muriel, she at me.
I felt alone as we lay together. A pair of headlights flooded the room, twisted down the floor, up the wall and across the ceiling. We did not move. Was it the wind, or did I hear a scream? Clunk. Muriel sat up.
‘What was that?’ she said.
‘What?’
‘That noise.’
‘The wind.’
‘Never!’
‘It was.’
‘The wind?’ She looked at me. ‘Country boy, you can’t explain everything with the wind.’
‘I never said I could.’
‘But it’s the attitude.’
‘What attitude.’
‘The attitude of your sort.’
I didn’t know what she was talking about. Clunk.
‘There!’ she said.
‘It’s …’ Clunk.
‘Yes?’
‘Like I heard before.’
‘Before?’
‘With Dick.’
The orchard trees lashed in the weather, leaves ripped in the wind, apples thrown to the ground. I stood by the window, we heard footsteps on the stairs; I looked at her, pulling a shirt over her head.
‘What are you looking at?’
‘You.’
‘And what do you see?’
‘You.’
It happened again, the odd sounds, the first boom of thunder, a minute later, the room was illuminated by lightning. Muriel’s face shone in the light, she wore a shocked expression, reached out and took my hand. It felt cold and clammy in mine, the glass rattled in the window frames, clunk. I wanted to get up and try the door, would it be stuck again? I moved off the bed.
‘Where are you going?’
‘The bathroom.’
‘Wait for me.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not staying here on my own.’
‘You’re scared.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Then stay here.’
‘No.’
Then the knob began to turn. It clicked, a crack of light appeared, and grew as the door opened, and Anne walked in, to say, ‘Half past two, gets in at five — Oh! Sorry.’ I looked at her, then at Muriel, who turned her back, stood up, and pulled her trousers on.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
Her mother closed the door, Muriel stepped into a pair of shoes, buttoned her shirt, said, ‘See you downstairs’, and left me alone, staring at the orchard, the moon appeared again, framed in shattered cloud, illuminating the end of summer.
They offered me a cup of tea, but I said I was late for something I lied about, and left them in the kitchen. I drove home, the rain eased a little, and told my father someone had stolen the rabbit trap.
‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘What’s stuffing?’
‘Nothing much.’
‘That’s what I was beginning to think.’
21
‘Why?’ I said.
‘College.’
‘When?’
‘A couple of days.’
‘On the train?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why don’t you take the ambulance?’
‘I’m selling it back to the man I got it from.’
‘So that’s what your mother said, about leaving at half two; the time of your train?’
‘Yes.’
‘Muriel … ?’
‘You knew I was going back; what did you expect?’
‘Expect?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nothing; I just thought we were going out.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Billy?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t make it hard on yourself, you’re making it hard on me.’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes.’
‘You care?’
‘Billy!’
‘What’s your mother doing?’
‘Closing up the house. The rent’s paid for a year, she’s coming to London next week. You could come and join us.’
‘Join you?’
‘Why not?’
‘In London? What about college?’
‘What about it?’
‘But my old man. I couldn’t leave. And mother.’
‘Say you’ve got to make a choice. Someone’s forcing you. Choose. Your parents? Me?’
‘That’s not fair.’
‘Yes it is. You’ve got your own life?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then choose.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Just like that?’
‘Sure. It’s only what youz’re trying to make me do.’
‘What?’
‘Choose.’
‘I’m not.’
‘You are. College or Billy.’
‘And the answer?’
‘College.’
‘I mean so little … ?’
‘Billy, you’re selfish. There’s years ahead for both of us, you want to turn nice memories into something that would never work.’
Nice? Never work?
‘I love you.’
‘I know.’
‘Do you love me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then say it.’
‘I love you.’
‘You don’t mean it.’
‘I do. I love you. I love lots of people.’
‘I’ve heard.’
‘Meaning?’
‘You’re the sort of person that does.’
‘Does what, Billy?’
‘Love lots of people. You know?’
‘There’s something wrong with that?’
‘No, only you don’t love them like I love you. Not real love. Like the sort I feel. I think you feel something like friends do …’
‘And we’re not friends?’
‘Of course we are, but we’ve done it …’
‘Done what?’
‘You know.’
‘No I don’t. Tell me.’
‘Love, made love, you know, and that means more than just us being friends.’
‘Does it? I’ve made love to lots of my friends.’
‘Have you?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many?’
‘I never counted.’
‘Or lost count?’
‘Billy!’
‘Then how did I rate?’
‘Rate?’
‘You must have a way of scoring us, like five out of ten, six out of ten, ten out of ten?’
‘You wouldn’t want to know.’
‘No?’
‘Why not?’
‘It’d be embarrassing.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No; for you.’
‘Me?’
‘You’d be embarrassed.’
‘Would I?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you didn’t even register a one.’
‘Because
I didn’t even register a one?’
‘Yes.’
‘Muriel?’
‘What?’
‘How come someone with such a beautiful face has a mind like yours?’
‘You asked me how you rated, I told you.’
‘But I didn’t…’
‘I know. You’re one of those men who thinks it’s all right for him to go flashing it at anything in a skirt, but heaven forbid if the girl you want to shack up with’s been doing the same. And I thought you were different.’
‘I am.’
‘From what?’
‘From all the others?’
‘The “others” again.’
‘Why not?’
‘I suppose there aren’t any “others” in your blameless life.’
‘No … I mean … there are.’
‘Who?’
‘You don’t know them.’
‘Don’t I?’
‘No, besides, I never asked who yours were.’
‘Didn’t you?’
‘No.’
‘Would you like to know?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I just wouldn’t.’
‘John? Richard? Alan? Did I mention these names at all? Maurice or Dave? Philip?
‘Muriel?’
‘What?’
‘Stop it!’
‘Why?’
‘You’re hurting me.’
‘Hurting you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll stop.’
‘Thank you.’
‘On one condition.’
‘What’s that.’
‘We stay friends.’
‘Stranger things have happened.’
‘To you?’
‘No; but I haven’t lived in a hole all my life.’
‘Someone lend you a ladder?’
‘I thought you’d given me one.’
‘I want it back.’
‘You can have it.’
‘It was mine in the first place.’
I was so cold. I sat in the shelter of the single tree on Higher Burrow Hill, watching Drove House in the night, waiting for Muriel to turn off her light. It really hurt. I didn’t want to go home. I saw some headlamps along the road to Langport, bending and disappearing behind buildings and hedges, reappearing, growing fainter, going; I licked rainwater off my lips, her light went out. Muriel. I imagined her between the sheets, but stood up, turned my back on the house, and walked to Blackwood.
22
I made four fishing creels, curved bottoms, strong leather straps, fitted canvas covers, for a sports shop in Wellington. I used Bob Wright’s willow. I concentrated very hard. I did not allow my mind to wander. I turned everything I knew into the size of a pea and spat it out. I did not care. Four creels. Baskets only a master could make. Baskets strong enough to sit on. Deep enough to carry the largest fish. Four creels. There you go. Pay me what I ask, you can order any number. I have nothing else to do. It would help if you didn’t want the fitted canvas covers; these are not easy to get hold of. Yes, I will deliver them. Name the date. The eighteenth? Perfect. I will be free then. No problem.