Mary George of Allnorthover

by Lavinia Greenlaw

  When Stella and Mary arrived, Tom was unpacking the cottages onto the Arts and Crafts table. He was arranging them in a circle, facing inwards. Mary froze when she saw him but her mother took her arm. ‘That’s nice of you.’ With her free hand, she pushed him gently aside. ‘But we won’t need them all out at once.’ Tom didn’t respond as he was looking at Mary, trying to be still and to smile and not say anything. It was strange, but she didn’t look at all like the girl he’d seen by the water. She was wearing dirty glasses with one cracked lens, and wouldn’t look up.

  Tom wandered over to Sophie, who was sitting at a stall of guessing games – How many sweets in the jar? How much does this cake weigh? How many biscuits in the tin? He spent a long time rearranging the prizes and the paper slips on which people would put their estimates. Finally, Sophie sat him down, and gave him the money tin and a box of pencils.

  Christie had set up a platform over a pool, on which Julie Lacey, in a pink polka-dot bikini, was settling herself. Boys were already queueing to try to kick a football hard and accurately enough to dislodge a loose prop and tip her into the water. Sophie had appeared and held out a towel, ‘You could keep something more on till the actual start. Don’t want to get chilly.’ Julie only stretched and turned her strong brown back. She looked monumental, like a goddess in repose, making the bikini seem even smaller and sillier. Christie kept checking the prop and the boys kept their eyes on the bright blue pool. It was the school’s new pool, about fifteen feet across and collapsible. When the school wanted to use it, they had to allow half a day for the hose to fill it, and then it was difficult to get the level right on the playground slope. Christie had got permission from the Parish Council to use the water.

  The Fête was opened by a nephew of Violet Eley’s, who had starred in a recent television costume drama. He arrived in a cloak and on a horse, made a brief speech then dismounted to sign autographs for the rest of the afternoon. His name on the posters had attracted more of a crowd than usual. The marquee was crammed with people balancing plates and cups, napkins and knives. Some gave up trying to eat or drink but stayed inside the tent’s muggy shade anyway. The trestle tables were piled with donations of Victoria sponges, scones, flapjacks, fruitcakes, chocolate cakes, gingerbread, parkin and fairy cakes. Most of these were made from packet mixes, brightly decorated and over-risen as sugar was hard to come by, making it difficult to bake from scratch. It had disappeared from the shelves in the supermarkets and there was talk of Caribbean islands hit by tornadoes or revolution, no one was quite sure. Violet Eley’s meringues had dribbled and sagged. She had made them with dextrose, bought from the chemist in Mortimer Tye. Stewed, lukewarm tea ran in a tetchy stream from two massive urns. Bottles of milk sweated in crates of melting ice. The cream teas included just three strawberries each. There had been talk of importing them from Spain. Crumbs and cream were ground into the yellow grass. Children pushed their way through, snatching slices of cake and biscuits from the edge of stalls, and dropping whatever they couldn’t cram into their mouths.

  Against the edge of the tent, was a line of garden chairs where the older members of the First Families settled themselves, their paper plates arranged on handkerchiefs spread across their knees. The women kept on their hats and their white nylon gloves, but eased their swollen feet out of special-occasion shoes that were ill-fitting but had lasted for years. They didn’t notice what they spilt, or the dogs that nuzzled under the canvas to gobble whatever they could reach, or the sparrows that pecked among their feet.

  The commuters turned out with their sulky, untidy children who had Victorian names, hairstyles and clothes. The adults spent a lot of money but they talked in shrieks and exclamations, and were sloppily dressed. ‘Come in their gardening clothes,’ observed Edna Lacey. The current Lady Newling appeared on the arm of Father Swann. She was a surprisingly young blonde who was keen to talk about the stable conversion she and her growing family had moved into in the grounds of the old house.

  At one point, the dogs were distracted by a rabbit that staggered out from under the elms. It sat upright but reeling, its eyes curdled and its mouth dripping foam. One of the Stroud grandchildren, a little boy of three who had gone behind the tent to pee, caught sight of it. ‘Bunny!’ he murmured and started towards it, but the dogs that had been panting, sniffing, licking and making him laugh, stiffened and growled and were on the rabbit in a barking rush. The little Stroud boy was too frightened to scream and just stood and watched as the dogs tore the rabbit to pieces. When he found his mother again, he was smacked for wetting himself.

  The men and the teenagers went back again and again to old Dr Burgess’s bottle stall, hoping to win the sherry or even the champagne, but they kept coming away with shampoo or orange squash. Older villagers concentrated on the tombola, where they could fish up tins of salmon and soup. Women bought the Arts and Crafts, and looked through the White Elephant stall. Children ran about, played their own games in the graveyard and watched older boys vainly trying to topple Julie Lacey, who had closed her eyes and hidden her face beneath a pink straw hat. The villagers also made a point of going to guess the weight of something, and of welcoming Tom back. He was so angelic-looking, frail and eager to please that they felt only pity. More than one of the men clapped Christie on the back and mumbled, ‘Good for you, seeing your brother right.’ They remembered why he had gone.

  Mary had been glancing over at him all afternoon. Not once did she see him look back. When Sophie returned and urged him to have a walk round, Mary watched him circuit the field and saw how the crowd opened up for him to pass, but patted and propelled him, nodding and smiling, setting him on course. She wanted to feel like they did, sympathetic and willing to help.

  Father Barclay rang the school bell and announced the Fancy Dress Competition and Dance Display. The crowds moved over to part of the lawn on which a large rope circle had been laid. The actor was to judge and he came over, looking shiny and tired, and stood politely next to the priest, who had a clipboard and a loudhailer that amplified his high voice into the cluck of a flustered hen. When the crowd had gathered and settled, he announced the Fancy Dress. There were three fairies, two pirates, a cowboy, and the dance teacher ushered on nine girls dressed in blue tutus, with gold stars attached to their heads. As the others wandered round the ring, prodded and prompted by their parents, the nine stars made a circle in the middle and knelt down. ‘Europe!’ boomed Father Barclay, delighted to have worked it out and then, anxious to play fair, ‘What enchanting nymphs! Shoot ’em up pardner! Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum, what?’ At that point, a boy draped in a grey sheet entered the ring. ‘Oh and a late entry!’ The boy lay down under his sheet and the other children began tripping over him as Father Barclay continued smoothly, ‘A thing that goes bump in the night, ha, ha!’ One star was crying and trying to leave the ring but her neighbour held her arm. Another had stood up and was scratching her bottom. Then the boy got up and came over to the priest and said something crossly to him before returning and crawling back under his sheet. ‘Sorry folks,’ came the priest’s tight voice. ‘Young Fred here says he’s come, of course, as a puddle! My mistake!’ He scribbled something on his clipboard and turned to the actor. After a brief exchange, he announced the winner: ‘Europe!’ and the box of chocolates was handed over to the dance teacher to divide up among the nine girls later.

  ‘Do stay for the Dance Display and the raffle at four! And there’s Guess the Weight!’ Father Barclay yapped as the audience clapped briefly and wandered off. The cowboy was shooting his cap-gun at the priest. Fred stayed where he was, under his sheet.

  Mary left the stall and went to find a place to have a cigarette. She had seen Billy making his way towards the cemetery and set off to find him. As she rounded the corner of the church, she bumped into a gaggle of girls she’d been at school with, Julie’s friends who’d left after the Fifth Form, too. They surrounded her, casually, as if they had found her under their feet.

  ‘Oh look!
It’s the Second Coming!’ said Dawn Smith. The others laughed but Dawn’s sister Terri looked baffled.

  ‘What’s that then?’

  ‘Jesus, right?’ Dawn rolled her eyes.

  Terri looked uncomfortable. ‘You mean she’s holy or something?’

  Dawn spluttered ‘Her? Holy? Fuck, no. She’s just weird, isn’t she. Says she walks on water, right? Haven’t you heard?’

  Terri became alert. ‘Oh, you mean … but that’s not true, is it?’ She smiled anxiously.

  Dawn regarded Mary coldly. ‘If it was though, and you could help the poor mad sod that would only be fair, wouldn’t it?’ She pushed past, laughing again, followed by Terri and the others, all joining in with Dawn and trying to be the one who laughed the loudest, the one who got the joke, who really got it.

  Mary found Billy lying on his great-grandfather’s gravestone. He only knew which one it was because his father had told him. The inscription was too badly eroded and covered with moss to read now. He was smoking a joint, which Mary took from his hand. She took a few puffs and handed it back. ‘Got to go back and help my Mum,’ she said and left.

  The battered prop holding the ledge on which Julie Lacey lay, finally gave way and she fell with a long scream into the water. The boys cheered and formed a new queue, and as soon as Julie had clambered back up, she was tipped in again. The fourth time, she slipped and Christie caught her elbow and said, ‘That’s it, lads. All in a good cause but enough’s enough.’

  Julie shook her head. She had goose-pimples and a bruise on one thigh. Her curls were in knotty clumps and her blue eyeshadow had clouded her cheeks, but the next in the queue was the actor. She took a long time to arrange herself, and when his half-hearted kick tapped against the prop and nothing happened, she gave her biggest shriek and rolled into the water anyway. When she surfaced, wiping her eyes and slicking back her hair, he had already walked away, and the boys, furious and disappointed, put their money back in their pockets. One of them muttered ‘Slag,’ as they, too, went away and another turned round to smile at her and when she smiled back, spat on the ground. Julie climbed out and lunged at him but Sophie caught her, wrapped her in a towel and held her.

  The raffle winners were announced by Father Barclay. By now, the crowd was so small that he didn’t need a megaphone. He won the flower arrangement and donated it back, so another ticket was drawn and it was given to Joe Kettle. Lucas won a bag of sugar and swapped it with Violet Eley who’d won the aftershave. He had a swig but it tasted so awful that he pursued one of the dancing stars who’d got a bottle of sherry, and managed to get her to agree to an exchange. Then Father Barclay asked Tom for the winners of Guess the Weight. Sophie had given him a list of the correct answers and he had amused himself by calculating the volume of the jar according to the size and number of sweets, the density of the cake, the layers and shapes of biscuits. From there he imagined the tins filling the church, the cakes piled as high as the steeple, the sweets laid along the High Street and his mind was agile and quick again, leaping from number to number, gathering, multiplying, holding and totalling. He proffered the list but it was scribbled all over with numbers he couldn’t remember having written down. He shrugged and shook his head as Father Barclay looked urgently round for Sophie. She wasn’t there. She had taken Julie into the vestry to get dressed and drink some tea.

  ‘Any idea, Tom? You were always pretty good with numbers, ha, ha!’ Others began to laugh too and then realised they might be seen to be laughing at Tom and stopped. It did not matter; everything was muffled by the wool in Tom’s head.

  Under that wool, Tom worked backwards, pulling down the steeple of cakes, emptying the church of biscuit tins and picking up all the sweets along the road. He leant against Father Barclay and mumbled: ‘Cake was three pounds eight ounces. Eighty-three sweets. Thirty-six biscuits.’ Father Barclay rapped out each number and checked down the lists till he found the nearest winners.

  The field was almost empty now. The Raffle Table and Bottle Stall were surrounded by crumpled pink tickets. Dr Burgess was putting away the bottle of champagne, and the women were in the marquee clearing leftovers and the paper cups and plates into binliners. Lucas was sifting through the full bags with such a delicate and solemn manner that the women offered them to him with deference, as if he were some kind of inspector. Mary hadn’t moved again from the Arts and Crafts stall. The dried flowers, ceramic cottages and straw dollies had sold fastest, then the primary school’s donation of leaf collages and Christmas cards. All that was left was a macramé potholder and a couple of crocheted mats.

  When Stella went off to help in the marquee, Mary pulled a book from her bag. When she next looked up, there was a girl standing nearby with her back to her, holding up a piece of lace and discussing it with Father Barclay. She was tall and strong, and wore an old chiffon tea dress painted with tiny flowers. She had the loveliest hair Mary had ever seen – long thick red ringlets, film-star hair. Fairytale hair, Mary was thinking as the girl turned and smiled, and Mary forgot to smile back because she thought she must be looking at someone else – that long hooked nose and pointed chin, the narrow jaw and eyes, the heavy eyebrows, belonged to a different fairytale character altogether. The girl was coming over now, tying back her hair with the lace, and Mary, to cover her confusion, pulled off her glasses and began cleaning them on her shirt.

  ‘You’re Mary George?’ The girl was barefoot and wore a silver ring on one of her long brown toes. Her voice was low and resonant.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t remember …’ Mary began, still polishing her glasses.

  ‘Don’t worry, we haven’t met. I’m Clara Clough. Have you got a light?’ She held out a cigarette while Mary passed her matches to her.

  ‘You’re the doctor’s daughter?’

  ‘So they say. Want one?’ Stella was nowhere to be seen, so Mary accepted. Clara’s cigarettes smelt foreign and delicious.

  A month earlier, the Cloughs had moved into the Clock House, a Georgian folly built by one of the Newling family at the end of a long drive, just outside the village on the Camptown road. All Mary had heard about them was that Dr Kill Off was odd but good, that his wife was foreign and even more peculiar, and that they had at least five children and any number of animals. She had liked the sound of them very much indeed.

  ‘You at Camptown High?’

  Mary put down her glasses. ‘For one more year.’

  Clara settled herself on the edge of the table. ‘I’m studying painting on the coast.’

  Mary was startled. ‘Do you, do you know someone called Daniel, Daniel Mort?’

  Clara frowned, which made Mary think she was about to say no but she said yes, she knew him, of course, had done for years, had lived next door to him before her father’s sabbatical year, which they’d spent in Italy with her mother’s family.

  ‘I met him at a party, we …’ Mary wanted Clara to be interested but she was looking around the field as Mary spoke.

  ‘Sorry, what was that?’ She turned back distractedly. ‘Sorry! I must go and persuade my baby brother to come out from under his puddle.’ She pulled the lace out of her hair and set off across the grass in enormous strides. Mary couldn’t stop watching her, just as Christie, Sophie, Julie, anyone she passed, stared. Clara appeared to take no notice, but once or twice Mary saw someone catch her eye and she would swing her head away so sharply that her hair flailed out at them, as if she were raising a shield.

  After she had gone, Mary went to find Billy. He was floating on his back, fully clothed, in Julie Lacey’s pool.

  ‘Come on in,’ he said. Mary thought about Julie in the pink bikini, Clara’s frown, Dawn’s joke, Tom Hepple’s shuffling circles. She took off her glasses and boots, and climbed onto the narrow ridge of the pool. She closed her eyes, walked once round but did not let herself fall in.

  Dr Clough fiddled with a wooden spatula and swivelled the glass apothecary jar of sweets that he handed out to children after an injection. Tom’s right leg w
as crossed over his left, and his right foot was tapping rapidly in the air. His face quivered and jerked as he spoke, but his fixed stare remained.

  The doctor rolled a thin silver fountain pen between his fingers, and then looked down at the new manila envelope in which he had begun Tom Hepple’s medical notes. It had Tom’s name, Christie’s address, Tom’s date of birth and NHS number on the front, and contained a single card covered on both sides with the notes he had made at their previous meeting. Beneath it were the notes that had just arrived, forwarded from London, in a bulging, worn-out envelope packed with folded white consultants’ letters and flimsy pale-green carbon copies of results and reports. Tom’s treatment record covered dozens of cards and at the back of the London file was clipped another which contained ten years of Dr Burgess’s notes.

  Dr Clough now knew that Tom had been having psychiatric treatment since he was nineteen. He had begun university and then a breakdown had brought him home. The levels of sedation he’d been given as a young man must have left him barely able to speak. Ten years had followed in which Tom had been prescribed one new drug after another: valium then largactil, and once during a crisis in which he was admitted and referred, LSD, at a time when it was being tried out as a treatment for phobias and post-natal depression. The side effects of each drug were noted in Roy Burgess’s impatient italic script: lethargy, increased metabolism, anxiety, irregular pulse, nausea, dry mouth, oedema, decreased metabolism, morbidity, lack of co-ordination, arrhythmia, dilated pupils, neuroses, facial tic, narcolepsy, tremors, fits(?). Then there was the correspondence: ‘Dear Dr Haight’ (the name deleted with a flick of Dr Burgess’s pen and replaced with ‘Julian’), ‘I’d be grateful if you could see this troubled but gifted 20-year-old man …’ Dr Clough smiled at this; he knew the form. Then the Camptown psychiatrist’s eventual letter to London: ‘Dear Mr Brooking (a line, and then “Sidney”), I’d be most grateful if you could see this distressed and sensitive 28-year-old man …’ The record of the Sectioning: Christie’s leaden signature committing his brother to hospital care. Then the London notes on psychotherapy, sedatives, anti-depressants, ECT, insulin therapy, anti-psychotics, behavioural therapy, anti-depressants, sedatives, group therapy, analytical therapy, suicide watch, anti-psychotics, ECT, voluntary stay.