by Angela Huth
‘Johnny?’ Prue stayed by the door. ‘I thought you . . .?’
He looked up, mouth downturned, eyes red. ‘So did I,’ he said.
Prue took a deep breath. ‘I’ve been ironing,’ she said, aware of the banality of her announcement. ‘I just brought these to show you . . . that somehow I managed—’
Johnny stood up so fast that Prue, caught off guard, stepped back, hitting her head against a shelf that jutted from the back of the door. He was beside her in a single stride. ‘Bugger the ironing,’ he said, and swiped the shirts from her hand onto the floor. They looked at each other.
‘You didn’t have to do that,’ said Prue.
‘You’re taking over,’ shouted Johnny. ‘Whole cottage antiseptic as a hospital. I was quite happy with things as they were.’ His words were slurred.
Prue was not sure she had heard correctly. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you wanted me to – I mean, I thought you were pleased at the idea of my getting it all straight for you.’
‘That’s what you thought. That’s where you were wrong. You’re often wrong, Prue Morton. You’re just no bloody good at reading people. I’d be grateful if you went away now. Take the bloody shirts with you.’
He stumbled back to sit on the bench. Prue picked up the shirts, now crumpled and dirty again. She hurried out of the shed, shutting the door behind her.
Back in the cottage, the discussion on foot-rot was still going on, which, for a moment, tricked her into thinking that the scene of the last few minutes had not taken place. But the piles of laundry had lost their charm. Plainly, she was bad at reading people. Her foolish pride about her achievements of the last week, when she had been convinced that Johnny really hadn’t been drinking, was blasted. He’d been at it secretly in the shed, and had disguised it very well. What, now, should she do? Perhaps the answer was to leave all this very quickly, just as she had left Brighton. It would be a relief to abandon the probably insuperable problem of Johnny, and send a telegram to Rudolph, saying, ‘I’m coming after all.’
With this plan firmly in mind, Prue went out to the car. To her annoyance, she saw that one of the front tyres was flat. Johnny could have changed it easily, but to ask him was the last thing she wanted to do. She returned to the kitchen, took the clean linen upstairs. Then she concentrated on making a lamb stew – a local farmer had given them a few chops in return for eggs. She tried to remember what Mrs Lawrence had thrown into her stews. Then she switched the radio to the Third Programme. A cello, she thought it might be, was playing the saddest music she had ever heard. If Johnny returned while it was still on she would ask him what it was.
But he did not come in till long after the music had finished. It was dark. Prue had drawn the curtains and switched on the lights. The place looked unrecognizable, but she reminded herself not to feel any pride in this because she had misunderstood Johnny, and it was not what he wanted. When at last he came in he went immediately to the table and sat down, apparently sober.
‘Smells good,’ he said. Prue gave him a plate of the stew and a baked potato. ‘I’m ravenous. Thanks.’
Prue took the seat opposite him, faced her own small helping. The internal churning had blasted her appetite.
‘I’m terribly, terribly sorry, Prue,’ Johnny said. ‘Please forgive me. I do promise you that until today I haven’t touched a drop of anything. Your being here has made a magical difference. Made it easier. Honestly. But today I woke up in one of those amorphous glooms that sometimes accost me, and then . . . something hit me that was the last straw.’ He paused to cut his potato in half, mash into it a small slab of margarine. Prue had miscalculated the length to which their combined rations of butter would go, and once again they had run out. ‘When I went out to see to the hens this morning, I found a fox had got in – it’s never happened before. There were feathers everywhere. And poor old Dolly, one of the first birds I ever bought, was lying there without her head. I put her in the shed – should have buried her straight away. When I went back to get her after lunch and saw the disgusting sight of her, blood dripping from the gaping neck, I just became enraged. Once I’d buried her I came back to the shed and couldn’t face getting down to work. Feeble, I know, but I was oddly upset. I thought, Just one swig, calm myself down. Unfortunately there was a bottle in the shed from when I’d had my bad week before you came. So I opened it, cursing myself.’
‘First thing tomorrow morning,’ said Prue, ‘you must do something about mending the run.’
‘I’ve fixed the weak place for tonight and I’ll mend it in the morning. I will, I will. And I’ve thrown away the rest of . . .’ Johnny sat back, held out his plate for more. ‘God, I feel better. That was so good. One day you’ll be a cook.’ He gave her a smile, then his eyes roved round the room. ‘I suppose I haven’t really said anything, have I? Shown appreciation. What you’ve done to this place? It’s an absolute wonder. It’s marvellous.’
‘Almost as hard work as farmwork.’
‘Thank you for all your efforts. I never quite understand you, Prue. There you are, a dotty flibbertigibbet, apparently no thoughts in your pretty head beyond dresses and bows and seducing young men, yet you’re the hardest worker I’ve ever met. All that rubbish I think I said to you about not being able to read people is completely untrue. I’m so sorry. I didn’t really know what I was saying. You’re amazing. You’ve been kinder to me than anyone in my life. If I was a different sort of man I’d like to marry you, look after you, have children with you. But I’m not that sort of man. I’m a loner. I get irritated by another presence, however sympathetic and untroublesome that presence is.’
‘Does that mean you’re giving me my marching orders, now the cleaning’s done?’ asked Prue.
‘Good heavens, no. I love your being here. It’s changed everything. We seem not to get in each other’s way. It’s a perfect arrangement.’
‘It won’t go on for that long,’ Prue said. ‘I’ve got to get a job that I love. I’ve got to find somewhere permanent to live, settle down.’
‘Not too far from here, perhaps.’
‘I hope not.’
‘Don’t give up on me.’ Johnny took one of Prue’s hands. She expected him immediately to withdraw, as he had done several times, but he kept hold of it. ‘I’m determined to get over this drink business. I’ve done it once – for five years – so I can do it again. I can do it for ever. What I have to guard against is flying to the bottle when something unexpected, something disturbing, takes me unawares. Like the chickens. Thank God you were here, or who knows what might have happened?’ He released her hand.
‘I’ve tried to make a treacle sponge pudding,’ said Prue. It was so heavy, so dry, so lacking in syrup that they could only laugh, throw it away and make a pot of tea.
Later Johnny gave Prue her first lesson in backgammon. She went to bed feeling quite proud that she had understood a few of the rules, and relieved that the air between them was clear again. All the same, the scene in the shed that afternoon had alerted her to a wild, alarming streak in Johnny. There was no guarantee that something unexpected would not trigger his drinking, or his temper, again. That was unsettling. She did not fancy the idea of living with him for too long, for all that she liked the place and her fondness for him remained.
The novelty of spring cleaning had worn off by the end of the week and the urgent need for Prue to find a new and challenging job spurred her to look in the local paper for work. Nothing of interest was advertised. She asked in the village if anyone knew of a Young Farmers’ Club: the idea of a strapping young farmer, and going to village-hall dances with his equally strapping farmer friends, suddenly appealed to her. There was, indeed, just such a club, and they were to have an Easter Knees-up, as it was described on the posters, in a nearby village. Prue toyed seriously with the idea of going to it, without Johnny, but her enthusiasm waned as quickly as it had come.
A letter came from Barry. Prue waited till Johnny – in a much happier mood for the last few d
ays – had gone to his shed before she read it at the kitchen table.
Dearest Prue,
Thanks for your letter and news. Of course it doesn’t matter about the Brighton failure. My mistake, that. But I’m pleased you’re settled with Johnny, a nice enough young man, though I always thought there was something a little troubling about him. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. So take care. I very much hope you will come across the perfect place to live soon, and settle. You only have to alert me and the money will be there. At the moment I’m spending a fortune on run-down cinemas.
The divorce, Prue, is going through. I have to be found in a hotel bedroom with some floozy. But who? That is my problem. I can see it will cost me. A friend of mine in the same situation got so desperate trying to hire someone that in the end he persuaded his wife to be the special co-respondent – bought her a wig and a pair of glasses! I believe they had such a good time they almost cancelled the divorce.
I’m so sorry about our marriage, I really am, but I’m relieved it all remains so civil between us. You know you can always count on me for anything. I rather miss you scuttling about in your funny bows. I think your mother is settled in and happy. She sends her love. She looks after me well, does wonders with the pathetic rations we still have to put up with. She never complains about the constant queuing and likes to do her shopping in the hat she wore when you and I were married! Despite running the house so well, she seems to have time on her hands so I’ve suggested she joins the British Housewives’ League – fed-up women who write to ministers to complain about food shortages and so on. She’ll enjoy that. How is the Sunbeam? Daimler and Humber still in good shape. I can never make up my mind which one I like best.
With love, Barry
Prue read the letter again. She smiled at the story of the co-respondent. During their marriage he had never told her funny stories. He never reported his private observations. Why hadn’t he mentioned his misgivings about Johnny? And why had she herself not noticed warning signals beneath her friend’s agreeable but detached exterior? The only time she had been jolted was the occasion in the barn. But that wildness had been driven by pure lust, and she had long ago forgiven him. Barry’s letter, Prue thought, was altogether surprising. Sometimes he had seemed so coarse, dull, insensitive. She would never have guessed he could write such a letter, and began to question herself. Perhaps much of the blame for their marriage breakdown was hers. Come to think of it, she hadn’t tried very hard either to discover things about him or to please him. She had always appreciated his generosity, but scoffed at his belief that endless presents were the way to a wife’s heart. She had learnt very quickly, married to her rich man, that material goods did not make up for so much else that was missing. Perhaps if she had been more sympathetic she would have unearthed a man of more value than she had imagined existed. There was nothing she could do now, of course: she had no desire to return to the claustrophobia of The Larches, and she and Barry probably had too little in common to flame real happiness. His liking of older women meant Prue could never have satisfied him sexually, and his perfunctory approach to making love would never have fulfilled her. All the same, this bright morning, daffodils jigging at the edges of the garden, Prue felt a kind of guilt, a patina of shame. She decided that the least she could do was to write him another letter and try to convey a kind of apology.
Prue drove slowly to Marlborough – now she could no longer get Barry’s black-market petrol she had to try to be economical – to buy stamps. Then she went to the newsagent for Picture Post. On the way out of the shop she stopped to look at the handwritten cards in the window advertising for baby-sitters, gardeners and shop assistants. One card stood out from the rest, thick, shiny, expensive, with a printed line at the top: ‘From the Hon. Mrs Ivy Lamton’. Beneath this, in sepia ink, her requirement was written in the most beautiful script Prue had ever seen, rather like the writing in an old manuscript, reproduced in a magazine article that she hadn’t bothered to read. ‘Would anyone be willing,’ it said, ‘to spare a few hours a week with an old lady? Companionship, conversation, potting out a few plants, nothing very taxing, agreeable surroundings. Please be kind enough to write.’
The address given was a few miles from Johnny’s cottage. Prue’s first thought was that, should she get the job, she could bicycle there to save petrol. She read the card again. She would have done anything to take it away, send it to Ag – it was her sort of thing. As the job was still advertised, she thought, it was probably still available – if you could call it a job. There was no point in waiting, postponing. Why not go at once, apologize for arriving with no warning?
She found the house at the end of a small village of scattered grey stone cottages. The Old Rectory was up what Prue considered to be a long drive – almost as long as the Ganders’ rough road, but with an immaculately tarmacked surface, and hedged in with trimmed yews. The house was a real-life dolls’ house: red brick, symmetrical windows with glossy white frames, a shiny black front door with a brass knocker. Prue parked, but didn’t move for a few moments as she determined whether or not to call unannounced on the Hon. Mrs Ivy Lamton. What was an Hon.? Was Ivy really a name? Why didn’t a vicar live in the Old Rectory? All so peculiar. But now she was here she might as well . . .
Prue tried to tug her skirt a bit further below her knees. She dabbed at the bow in her hair, wishing it wasn’t the yellow one with red spots. For some time she stood looking for a bell to press before she realized a wrought-iron handle, attached to an iron pole twisted like barley sugar, was the sort of bell that came with old rectories. She pulled it. Silence, for a moment. Then a deep, growling, far-away ring like a noise that might come from the bottom of the sea. But no footsteps.
Prue was about to turn and go back to the car when the door opened. An old lady stood there, one hand on a cane. She was very upright, as if she had learnt to balance books on her head and never lost the habit. Her soft white hair was piled up, a bun on top like a cottage loaf. She had the smallest eyes Prue had ever seen, set far back in hollows the colour of black grapes. Prue bit her lip, worried that the Hon. Ivy could read her astonished thoughts.
‘Can I help you?’ The voice was thin, high, sweet.
‘I’ve come – I mean, I saw your card and I thought I’d better come right away before the job had gone.’
‘Oh, that.’ The old lady laughed. ‘Do come in. That card’s been there for months. No one remotely interested. I don’t know why I thought anyone would be . . .’
Prue stepped into the hall. No wonder there had been no footsteps: the carpet was so thick she felt the heels of her red shoes sinking into it.
‘I was about to give up. How very good of you to come, how delightful. Let’s go into the sitting room.’
Sunlight on the brass face of a grandfather clock in the hall made a sudden flash, like a wink, acknowledging the oddness of the encounter with the Hon. Ivy who, tapping her cane on the carpet, which changed from grey to dark red as they went through a heavily panelled door, led Prue into the sitting room. There, Prue came to a halt, suddenly overcome.
‘Blimey,’ she said. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, I’ve never seen anything like this. Such a room.’
Ivy looked at her. One pale eyebrow twitched. She smiled. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘its heyday’s long past. I don’t mind the fading or the threadbare tapestry, but it’s all a little . . . lifeless now. Everyone gone.’ For a second she was melancholy, then instantly righted herself to brightness. ‘Why don’t we have a pot of coffee, and you can tell me all about yourself?’
‘Lovely. Thank you.’
‘And do sit down.’
‘Lovely. Thank you.’
Prue was cross with herself for the silly repetition. She could not imagine why she felt so nervous, ill at ease, but supposed it was because she hadn’t come prepared to find herself in a world so far from her own. She looked around, wondered how many books there must be in the shelves that lined an entire wall, and chose
the corner of a sofa by the fire. She put out her hand to move a cushion covered with what must be real satin. Ivy crossed the room to a desk of dark wood with brass trimmings. She picked up a small bell and rang it. The tinkle, in the deep silence, was almost impertinent.
‘Alice will bring us a tray in here,’ she said. ‘Dear Alice has been here for ever. She’s not the fastest but she’s a treasure, one of those saints who spend their lives in English villages helping people. She probably didn’t hear the bell. I’ll just go and tell her.’
Ivy loped towards the door faster than she had previously moved. Prue stroked the satin cushion and looked round the room. Old furniture glowed from decades of polish. The sage green walls that were free of bookshelves were crowded with portraits. The stern faces shone out from dark and gloomy paint – they all looked either cross or sad. A bit spooky, Prue thought. She wouldn’t much like to be alone with them in this room on a winter’s evening. At the high windows curtains hung from elaborate pelmets – the word suddenly came to Prue: her mother had once expressed an acute desire to live in the kind of house that had pelmets. They were gathered into breathtaking pleats. The curtains – brocade, was it? – were the colour of the wet sand on the seals’ beach. Oh, how she wanted to tell Rudolph all this. But their edges, where the sun had touched them, had paled to the colour of candle wax. On a table beside Prue stood a precise arrangement of photographs in silver frames. One was of a very grand-looking man in uniform, medals all over his chest. On another table there was a bowl of white hyacinths. Their scent reached across the room.
Ivy returned.
‘So sorry, my dear,’ she said, and lowered herself into an extravagant armchair opposite Prue, hitching up the back of her long black skirt before her behind touched the cushion. ‘Now, you must tell me why you’ve come. Were you really attracted by my plea? If so, I can’t imagine why. Who knows? Maybe I’m in luck. Who are you? What’s your name?’