by Angela Huth
Mrs Lumley gave a small start which dislodged, her hat once more. She put out a hand to Prue, who held it.
‘What about Bertha?’ Prue asked.
‘Ah, Bertha.’ Barry put down his cup of tea, leant back in his chair. He felt in his inside pocket for his cigar case, and gave Prue a look. ‘I think Bertha and I have come to the end of our run. She seems to have gone off the job, doesn’t make much effort any more, though she’s taken to brushing her hair. I’ve a feeling she’s met someone, might want to be off to pastures new.’ He laughed. ‘Anyhow, I thought I’d put the idea to you, Elsie. If it appealed to you, I’d give Bertha her marching orders – see she was all right, of course.’
Mrs Lumley sighed audibly. She took her hand from Prue, leant over to pat one of Barry’s knees. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything so kind, Barry,’ she said. ‘What do you think, Prue?’
‘It’s a wonderful idea, Mum.’
‘I know you like cooking, I’ve enjoyed your cooking, you’re a good cook,’ said Barry. ‘I’d be in clover and you’d have a decent job. You could stay in your house, come daily.’ He paused. ‘Or move in.’
‘Oh, I’d keep my house for the time being. See how it all goes. Don’t you think, Prue?’
‘Whatever’s best for you, Mum.’
‘You could start in a couple of weeks, if that suits. Or whenever you’ve made arrangements about the salon.’
‘If that suits,’ mimicked Mrs Lumley, a trembling hand lifting her cup to her lips. ‘Tell you what, Barry, it’s the best news I’ve had in years.’
Barry stood up and went to the window to light his cigar. Prue sensed he wanted her mother to go now. Mrs Lumley herself received no such signals, but when Barry said he’d run her home, either in the Daimler or the Humber, whichever took her fancy, she stood up, smiles flickering to and fro across her face. She went up to her new employer, tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Well, there’ll be a choice of cars once I’m here, won’t there?’ she said, with a skittishness that made Prue blush. ‘So what I’d really like to do today, maybe my last chance, is get my daughter to give me a ride in her Sunbeam . . .’
‘You buzz along with her, then. I’ll sit down and work out some kind of formal arrangement.’ Barry dabbed at her arm, avoiding a fox leg.
‘Oh, you’re a marvellous man, Barry.’ She made as if to kiss his cheek. Then, thinking better of it, she skipped away from him, child-like. Prue hadn’t seen her mother so happy for years.
In the time she had lived at The Larches Prue had learnt to judge Bertha’s mood from the food she produced. By some instinct the housekeeper knew what she liked, or didn’t like, and frequently produced the things she most disliked. From time to time she served up dishes Barry disliked, too, as if challenging him to complain. He loathed the sliminess of tinned peaches and assured Bertha he was willing to pay anything for fresh ones from France – he knew how to get hold of them from some (probably dubious) source. Bertha ignored this repeated offer and continued her praise of peaches in a tin. The peach disputes were the only times that boss and housekeeper clashed in front of Prue, though often she heard raised voices coming from the kitchen.
That evening Bertha had left a plate of cold, mottled meats and baked potatoes. For pudding there was strawberry blancmange from a packet, a delicacy that Prue could scarcely swallow. This choice of menu was plainly the sort of welcome home Bertha felt her employer’s wife deserved.
But the food was not important on this occasion: Prue was too intrigued by Barry’s news.
‘I’m extending into a new world at last, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Cinemas.’ He paused to take in her reaction.
‘You mean you’re going to have something to do with making films?’ For a moment Prue saw a new chance on the horizon: film star. A Rank starlet, perhaps.
‘Actual cinemas. I’m going to start buying them up – have a whole chain in a few year’s time. I completed a deal on the first one a couple of days ago. Brighton – well, on the outskirts, overlooking the sea, a lovely site. Pretty run down, but that’ll be seen to. What do you think of the idea?’
Prue, who could summon no thoughts about it at all, agreed it was good. Barry pushed away his scarcely touched blancmange, so Prue did the same.
‘Be quite different when your mother’s working here,’ he said. ‘Supper will be something to look forward to. Now, here’s the next piece of news.’ He took his cigar case from his pocket, chose one of the two cigars, ran through the whole rigmarole of pre-lighting preparations. ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart. I won’t light up in here.’
‘Oh, do if you want to.’ End of the marriage: why should she care where he lit his cigar? With a grateful look, Barry struck a match and puffed away till at last a wisp of smoke brought him relief. But for the scrape of the match and the exertion of his breath, there was silence between them.
‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘So it happens this lovely old cinema has a little flat above it. One day the manager might like to be installed there. It’s fully furnished – nothing very grand, but perfectly comfortable, all included in the purchase price. I was just wondering if it might be the answer to where you could go while you’re . . . deciding what you want to do. Where you want to live.’
Prue looked at him but he did not meet her eye. The fingers of his free hand were doing a five-finger exercise on the table. ‘Well,’ said Prue, ‘yes. It might be just the thing, mightn’t it? Flat by the sea, and I can’t swim. Don’t know a soul on the south coast. It might be just the thing.’
‘I’m only suggesting temporary,’ said Barry. ‘You could try it. If it didn’t work out you’d only have to wave the flag and I’d send a driver with the Daimler for you.’
‘I’m sure you would,’ said Prue.
‘And another thing. I know you don’t want to hang around here much longer, now we’ve come to our agreement. And I’m sure going back to your mother wouldn’t work. So I thought, well, sweetheart, you could move in soon as you like. I’d make all the arrangements for you.’
Prue looked down, swallowed. The whole idea was so preposterous she could think of no words with which to respond. Finally she said: ‘I’m going to stay with Stella and Philip next week.’
‘So you are!’ By now Barry’s head was in a swirl of smoke. He batted it away, but his expression was still hard to decipher. ‘You could make arrangements, then, as soon as you get back.’
Prue gave an unplanned nod of acquiescence. It was suddenly clear that Barry wanted to be rid of her as soon as possible. Considering that her desire to end the marriage was strong as his, Prue was puzzled why his suggestion for her imminent departure was unsettling. She had imagined she could take her time. Stay at The Larches while she looked around for somewhere to live – where to begin, she had no idea. But, she told herself, in so many ways Barry had been good to her: it was only fair not to make a fuss when he had so quickly found her somewhere to go. She stood up, went to the door. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll go to Brighton. Try it out.’
‘If it doesn’t work, sweetheart, you can always . . . I mean, I’ll always provide a roof over your head.’
‘Thanks.’ She turned the door handle.
‘Just one more thing. When you were away your friend Johnny rang a couple of times. He wanted you to get in touch soon as possible.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Why don’t you ring him now? See what he wants.’
Prue went into the hall, sat on the dark oak chair by the dark oak table, picked up the receiver and asked for Johnny’s number. On hearing her voice, he sounded cheerful, as he used to before the incident in the barn had put constraint between them.
‘I’ve news for you,’ he said, ‘but it’ll keep till we meet.’
‘That’s good,’ said Prue. ‘I’ve had enough news for one night. My head’s spinning. So: I hope your news is good.’ ‘It could be,’ said Johnny.
They ate cottage pie made from tinned mince and reconstituted potato at a pub in Bakewell.
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��When you think,’ said Prue, ‘how many potatoes I dug up . . . There must still be some. Why give us this muck?’
‘Easier,’ said Johnny. ‘There are still lots of places where the scrambled egg is powdered. Probably will be for years. Last time I came here, with my father – well, I suppose it was a year or two before the war – the food was wonderful. Sorry about the decline.’
The poor quality of the food did not stop them having a merry lunch. Prue, with a lightness of touch she liked to employ for serious matters, told Johnny a little about the decision to end the marriage, and Barry’s suggestion she should move to a flat in Brighton. Johnny grimaced, but made no comment other than to say he was sorry. Then, over blood-red jelly topped with imitation cream, which made them both laugh, Johnny broke the news to Prue that he, too, was soon to leave Manchester. It seemed he had a childless uncle who lived in a cottage in Wiltshire and was emigrating to Australia. He had offered to let Johnny have the cottage for a peppercorn rent on the condition he kept it and the garden in good order. There was a large shed in the garden where, Johnny said, he could set up a proper carpentry business, take on an apprentice. His idea was to make furniture from local wood, particularly elm, which he loved best of all woods.
‘That all sounds pretty good,’ said Prue. ‘But what about the poetry?’
‘A poet has to live. I’ll keep writing. There’ll be plenty of room for the chickens. I’ll sell the eggs.’
‘When will you move?’
‘Soon as Barry can get a new tenant for my flat.’
‘And is this cottage far from Brighton?’
‘Yes. Miles. But you can have my number if there’s a telephone. You’d be welcome any time.’ He poured pale coffee from a pot into their two cups. ‘As a matter of fact, it had occurred to me that. . . the cottage might be a solution for you.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean, we could live there together.’
‘What – as—’
‘As friends. Platonic friends.’
‘I see. Can platonic friends live under one roof?’
‘I believe they can. Men don’t only want sex, you know.’
‘Most of the ones I’ve met did. It’s a kind thought, but it could be difficult. I mean, the woman of your dreams might turn up to order a table or something, and then you’d have to chuck me out.’
Johnny gave a wry smile. ‘Doubt it,’ he said.
‘I’ve said I’ll try out the Brighton flat. Might as well. I’ve nowhere else to go. I hate the sea, what I’ve seen of it, but I dare say there’ll be pubs nearby. Maybe I’ll run into some friendly young things, find some boring job, make a life.’
Johnny asked for the bill, spent a long time counting out coins. His face had closed again. ‘Chickens’ll have to do better,’ he said, with a wry smile. Prue considered taking the bill from him, but resisted. Johnny would be affronted. He stood up, left sixpence on the table and went to the bar to pay. ‘The offer will always stand,’ he said. ‘Now I’m going to take you up into the Dales. We’ll go for a walk.’
‘And I’ve got a story to tell you,’ said Prue. ‘Staying with Ag, I met this vicar. But wait till we’re walking.’
The story lasted all the way up a steep, wooded rise. At the top they sat on a bench and looked down over a soft, open landscape. Groups of Derbyshire’s grand trees flared on the horizon. Others gathered, less darkly, nearby. Johnny began to laugh.
‘What’s so funny?’ Prue asked.
‘You’re incorrigible. I feel for that poor vicar.’
‘He’ll survive. He’s got God to talk to.’
‘I sometimes think you’ve no idea what you’re capable of doing to men. Your stories – you slay them. But you don’t finally want them.’
‘No. Not yet. Not till I find the right one. Then I’ll be the best wife.’
Johnny folded his arms, stared ahead. ‘I would have done anything to see his face when you accused him in your unGod-like language.’
Prue, encouraged by Johnny’s appreciation of her story, added some details about the Incident of the Spurning of the Man of God, as she called it. Some of these suddenly remembered details were not entirely accurate but kept them laughing all the way back down a track through the woods to the car.
When Prue left for her visit to Stella and Philip in Norfolk she drove very slowly to save petrol. She chose cross-country roads and stopped every now and then to consult her map and select a diversion that looked interesting. Late morning she parked in a field to eat a sandwich she had made for herself, and drink a flask of tea. As she drew nearer to the east coast she marvelled at the swelling of the sky: the vast arc of thin blue, darned with cloud, that exercised her eyes, stretching them as she could never before remember such stretching, such filling of vision.
It was early spring: the hedges were just beginning to turn – strange hedges in East Anglia, she thought: there was a clump of hawthorn, then a gap, another clump, another gap. From afar they looked like loosely strung necklaces. The huge fields reminded her that this had been arable country before the war. There were no cows, but patches of just visible green crops, a thin fuzz scattered over dark earth.
Prue paused for a moment at the top of a hill – cripes, a steep one at that, she’d thought Norfolk was meant to be flat – for her first sight of the sea. It was a silver thread tacked to the hem of the sky, whose misted blue gave Prue a moment of regret: if she had found that colour when she was looking for her Buckingham Palace dress, she would have thought it even more appealing than the bluebell blue she had chosen.
A church spire rose from the flat land at the bottom of the hill. There was a gathering of red-brick cottages, thick trees. Beyond them, marshes stretched towards dunes. Beneath the vast sky, in which clouds scarcely bothered to move across the blue, everything in the landscape looked small enough to gather up in your hand and throw into a basket.
Prue followed Stella’s written instructions through the village and down a wooded track. She came to a bungalow of no great beauty, but it faced the marsh, the dunes, the distant sea and the overwhelming sky. She got out of the car, leant against it, saw and heard a skylark high above her. A feeling of utter safety warmed her: for a week or so she would have to make no decisions, no plans. She could just be here quietly with Stella, and get to know Philip.
But the peace she had imagined would greet her was not altogether forthcoming. She saw Stella at the door, arms folded under her breasts, smiling – not quite the old smile, a pinch of anxiety at its corners. They hugged, went inside.
Stella’s kitchen had less of Mrs Lawrence’s influence than Ag’s: there was a feeling that not much effort to make it welcoming had gone into it – but then Stella was so constantly busy looking after her husband that anything beyond that priority was probably neglected. There were two big wooden armchairs at the table in the large window, a jug of sea gorse on the table.
‘That view,’ Prue said.
‘Aren’t we lucky?’ Stella took coffee from the stove, carried it to the table. ‘It never stales. Every morning when I come in here and look out, no matter what the weather, I think how lucky we are.’
Stella, Stella, beautiful Stella . . . what has happened to you? wondered Prue. Even since Mrs Lawrence’s funeral, there had been a change. There were shadows under her cheekbones, shadows under her eyes. Her thick hair had lost its shine. Her hands seemed to have aged: there were small blue dips between the knuckles. Her shirt was not ironed – and Stella had always been first into the laundry room at Hallows Farm, usually to press not only her own things but the others’ as well.
‘Philip will be here in a moment,’ she said, glancing at the clock. ‘It’s a long process, his getting up every morning. Still, we’ve got a pretty good routine.’ She smiled. ‘It’s just a matter of patience and organization. Though he hasn’t been too well lately, which has meant. . .’
Prue guessed at troubled nights, hence Stella’s look of exhaustion. ‘Can’t you get a
ny help?’ she asked.
‘Oh, we can. A bit. But Philip, poor love, isn’t easy. Really he only likes me to look after him. Though he didn’t complain when I left for the funeral, which was nice of him. But what about you? I want to hear about this vicar you mentioned.’
Before Prue could begin her story Philip, in a cumbersome wheelchair, came into the room. He, too, was pale, but smiling: Prue remembered his blunt good looks, the kind of face that is at its best under the peaked cap of some uniform, as it had been in the photograph by her bed in the attic that Stella used to kiss every night. He edged himself close to the table. Prue got up and went to kiss him on the cheek.
‘So, so glad you’re here,’ he said. ‘Stella’s been talking of nothing else for days. Afraid we haven’t laid on any parties for you – we lead a pretty quiet life – but you and Stella will be able to go for walks, see the seals, catch up a bit.’
‘Perfect,’ said Prue. ‘That’s all I want.’ She noticed that when he picked up the mug of coffee Stella had put before him, his hand was shaking, as was his lower lip. With his free hand he supported the one that was taking the weight of the mug.
In Devon Prue had been instantly aware of the deep affection between Ag and Desmond, and was lulled by the slow pace of their contentment. Here, in the Norfolk bungalow, she quickly sensed an air of anxiety between the couple. Stella’s eyes constantly flicked towards Philip, alert to any sign that he might need something. He smiled a lot in her direction, occasionally moved to pat her hand.
‘She’s a saint, my wife,’ he said quietly, when Stella had moved away to grill kippers. ‘Don’t know what I. . . I’m the luckiest. . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘As for this place, don’t know how much longer I’ve got, but whatever it is, I said to Stella, it must be by the sea. Inland, I’d frizzle up and die very quickly. I think Stella loves it here, too – don’t you, darling?’
‘I do.’ Stella returned to the table, arranged knives and forks. And over lunch – Mrs Lawrence’s homemade bread (Stella had practised her recipe) with the kippers – Prue told the vicar story with such relish and liveliness that her hosts laughed throughout. The atmosphere lightened. When they had finished Philip said he was going to have a rest. ‘Every afternoon, I’m afraid. I rest every day. What from? I ask myself. Life’s one bloody long rest.’ His arms jerking sharply on the wheels of his chair, he went skilfully out of the narrow doorway.