Spiderweb

by Penelope Lively

  She worked all the better for this heightened state of mind. She was around the village each morning at five or six, when the women went out on the first of their many daily shopping excursions. She sat up late each night over her cards and notebooks. She was filled with purpose and well-being. I should have done this before, she thought. Lined up a love affair for each field trip.

  She never knew when he would come, or if he was already there. The proprietor of the village bar, who took telephone messages and served as substitute for a public phone, would send his son to her. For ever after, the sight of that child’s small brown face peering round her door would come to mind as the signal of delight. He would hand her a screw of paper, beaming, knowing that whatever it was he brought was something rich and precious. His father’s careful, laboured hand: ‘Miss Stella to telephone please Xara Palace Hotel.’ There was never any name. She knew who it was she had to telephone. She rewarded the small boy with sweeties or a bottle of Tizer and they glowed at one another.

  The island burned under the summer sky. Stella measured time not in days or weeks but in terms of his arrivals and departures. It was June when first they met. One day she saw on the calendar in the village bar that it was now August and was startled – that so little time should have passed, and so much. His visits melded into one continuous experience, yet each was distinguished by something they did, something seen, something said. The time when they swam in the darkness off a deserted beach, with the car headlights making long funnels of light across the sand and into the water. The time she sat waiting for him in a café, savouring the pleasure of expectation, watching, intent on picking him out in the crowded street -and then turned to find him sitting alongside her, silent and smiling, himself the watcher.

  The time they quarrelled about human nature. Facing each other over a red checked tablecloth and the remains of a meal. Exterior, night. Insects battering the light-bulbs slung from a vine above their heads.

  ‘So what have you learned from your village?’ says Dan. His inquisitorial style. This could grate, occasionally.

  ‘A great deal about firework manufacture and the range of Catholic saints,’ Stella reflects. ‘And that people – these people at any rate – can live in remarkable harmony.’

  ‘You surprise me.’

  ‘They set great store by getting on with each other. They don’t like to fall out with neighbours.’

  ‘What about these feuding band clubs?’

  ‘Just a way of channelling off aggressive inclinations. It seems to work. Homicide is virtually unknown in Malta.’

  Dan raises an eyebrow. And all this inter-village sparring you describe?’

  ‘A further means of cementing loyalties within particular villages – a harmless form of us against them that firms up neighbourly feeling.’

  ‘Some might say it’s blood lust held in check by the forces of the law.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ says Stella, who is now becoming riled. She recognizes that she is identifying with the village, which is a touch unprofessional, and so she is annoyed also with herself.

  ‘I can’t share your benign view of human nature,’ says Dan. ‘I’ve just come from Sicily – sussing out the Mafia. Now there’s a subject for you: “Kinship and Obligation in Cosa Nostra”.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll take it on, thank you.’

  ‘Too right, you wouldn’t last a week.’

  Stella lets this pass. ‘My view isn’t entirely benign. But there’s plenty of evidence that, given the opportunity, people prefer to be accommodating. It’s expedient, apart from anything else. Be nice to others and they’re more likely to be nice to you.’

  ‘Tell that to the thugs in Palermo.’

  ‘Groups like that are an aberration,’ says Stella crossly.

  ‘Well, if they are, then they’re a very effective one,’ he retorts. ‘And a global phenomenon, what’s more.’

  ‘Anthropologically speaking, they fly in the face of the general tendency,’ says Stella. Possibly she sounds a touch didactic. Possibly he thinks so.

  ‘Well,’ says Dan, ‘I’m just a hack observer of how people carry on, and I say there’s a ripe capacity out there for depraved treatment of others.’

  And so on – over the wine, under the stars. Until they declared truce and went back to Dan’s hotel to settle their differences in bed.

  This exchange lurks in Stella’s mind as she walks again on the beach of alabaster, alone. What is in her head is a rich mix of precision and effect. Words and phrases and exact recoveries are superimposed upon a hazy background of sights and scenes and voices. The great cacophony of what has happened, with its mysterious, abiding, insistent notes. But what seemed most significant of all, now, was the inexorable way in which that time was wound into this. She owed her presence here, today, to that summer. Out of it sprang the time in Somerset with Dan Mitchell. Because of that she was here again now, contemplating the shade of her former self, but less concerned with that lurking presence than with the even more unreach-able affairs of some nineteenth-century boatmen.

  Chapter Ten

  The procurement of food is an activity of social significance in all societies. From hunting and gathering to shopping. In the Maltese village, where few people had fridges and food perished fast, the women paid five or six visits a day to the various suppliers. On each occasion they exchanged news and views and checked up on what was going on. Similarly in the Nile Delta. Working in the inner cities of the eighties Stella had noted the blow struck by supermarkets to this crucial conduit of communication. The corner shop puts up a brave struggle, but it has lost its significant status.

  In Somerset much the same applied, except that local establishments still had some clout as centres for the exchange of information and opinion. It was this that drew Stella frequently to the general grocery in the village nearest to the cottage, where prices were high and choice restricted. She had always seen shopping as an essential daily move for reasons over and beyond the need to get hold of some food.

  The general store was called a Minimart and sold nothing whatsoever of local provenance. What was on sale could have been found in Salford, Brixton or Glasgow, and a good deal of it in Boston, Singapore or Adelaide. The proprietor, on the other hand, was a product of the place. Her family name reverberated across the pages of local newspapers and on the gravestones in the churchyard. A brisk forty-something, known to all as Molly, she presided from behind the till, darting out to find things for feckless customers or to replace goods dislodged by small children. It was neither possible nor expedient to complete any transaction without a conversation.

  ‘So are you feeling properly dug in here now?’

  ‘I am indeed,’ says Stella. ‘I’ve even lost track of how long it’s been.’

  ‘A couple of months, I’d say’ Molly pauses, considers one of Stella’s purchases and rings it up on the till with deliberation, ‘lived in the country before, have you?’

  ‘Well …’ Stella thinks of the pulsating agricultural life of the Delta. She considers that Greek village, the stark sweep of the Orkney island. Country life? Of a sort, but not in the sense that Molly means. Molly’s context is precise. Country life, to her, means a place like this – or rather, these specific westerly hills, these fields and villages. ‘Not quite like round here.’

  ‘Getting to know your neighbours?’

  There is a hidden agenda here, Stella sees. She is supposed to say what she thinks of her neighbours. ‘Everyone has been most welcoming,’ she says, with stern neutrality.

  ‘Of course you’ve got quite a mixed lot along the lane there now. John and Sue Morgan go way back, and Stan Watson. And the Laytons – not that I see much of them now, their daughter takes them into the Minehead supermarket once a week. Karen Hiscox comes in now and then, and those boys – not what you might call charmers those two, are they? Never a civil word. That Bristol family don’t come in except for the Sunday papers. Had much to do with them?’

>   ‘Truth to tell,’ says Stella, ‘I haven’t had a huge amount to do with anyone. I suppose I had imagined that rural life would be … more intimate.’

  Molly rings up the last of Stella’s purchases. ‘Eight pounds forty’ Then she laughs. ‘Intimate! Well, you could have said that once, I suppose. Where I grew up – and that’s not a million miles from here – you knew everyone’s business almost as well as they did themselves, if that’s what you call intimate. And that was swings and roundabouts, know what I mean? Having the neighbours cheek by jowl isn’t always an ideal situation, even if half of them are your second cousin once removed.’ She laughs again. ‘But you’ll never have lived like that, I dare say, if it’s towns you’re used to.’

  ‘People live like that in cities, too,’ says Stella. ‘At least some do.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Molly is clearly sceptical. And in any case another customer is looming. She sweeps Stella’s purchases into a bag. ‘There you go. Mind, we were all a bit more dependent on each other then, too. It’s a bit different now’

  Stella thinks about this, driving home. True enough. A more detached attitude is a luxury of greater affluence and independence. If you are likely to need the help, guidance, support or co-operation of those around you, then you cannot afford such a cavalier approach. Neighbourliness thrives at subsistence level. The pioneer legacy is to be seen in the American tradition of hospitality and mutual obligation. You can afford to disregard the people next door only if certain that all your requirements will be supplied by neutral agencies. The doctor will come running if you are taken ill. The plumber and the electrician are at your beck and call. The garage mechanic will get your car to start. The money in your bank will cover all contingencies.

  And only if your need for companionship and the occasional kind word are otherwise supplied, thought Stella. If you can pick up the phone to talk to a friend. If your personal community is far-flung, but easily accessible. As is mine. The self-contained capsule is a reasonable option, with the technology now available. Whether or not it is a desirable one is another matter.

  It occurred to her that her first neighbour of all had been Nadine. The adjoining rooms on the top landing of that hefty red-brick Edwardian house on Banbury Road. The tap on the door while she was arranging her possessions – the Indian cotton bedspread draped over the bed, mugs and a biscuit tin on the shelf over the gas fire, her handful of books, her Picasso poster stuck to the wall. ‘Hello – I’m Nadine from next door.’

  So it all began, she thought. That moment, too, pointing directly to this, could one but have known it. Nadine led to Richard, who would one day send a Christmas card from west Somerset. And in between, of course, had been a lifetime of neighbour experience. Richer than most, probably, given Stella’s peripatetic tendency. Many of her proximities had been grist to the professional mill. Those nearest to her in Orkney or the Delta or Birmingham had been neighbours and sometimes friends, but also indicators of behaviour and belief. She had been involved, but a part of her had also been neutral and detached, listening and observing.

  She turned off the main road into the lane. The cottage was in view. Home? Did the heart lift at the sight of it? Did it soothe and reassure? Well, up to a point. There was a comfortable working relationship. And something more, perhaps – a stirring of proprietorial satisfaction. Mine. My property, my territory, the place where I am secure. There was a distant surge of feeling. Maybe this is it, she thought. Maybe I am growing roots for the first time ever, little white tendrilled fingers pushing down into the inviting red Somerset earth.

  She’d been off somewhere – she didn’t say where, she never said where she was going or how long she’d be – and when she got back she was in a rage. You could tell from the word go – the way she slammed the car door, banged into the house, didn’t shout to say, ‘You there? Michael? Peter?’ She’d be spoiling for a fight, they knew that, so they stayed out of the way as long as they could.

  Their father had been off on a job and came back later, so he didn’t realize. At least not until it was too late. And he was in a bad mood himself. The sprayer had jammed with the job only half-done and he’d have to finish off tomorrow, when he’d fixed it.

  It was different, when their father was in a mood. He didn’t blow up like she did – go on for hours and then calm down all of a sudden and be like it hadn’t happened. Their father would just go black silent and you’d better watch out, because he could stay like that for days on end, and when he was like that he’d do funny things. Sometimes you just heard him swearing and cursing by himself, out in the sheds. He might go to the pub and get pissed and end up having a set-to with someone. Anyone or anything that got in his way when he was in a mood, he’d go for. Back when they had that dog, the Staffordshire bull terrier bitch, when their mother thought she’d maybe do some dog breeding, back when that dog was around, their father’d take it out on her, beat the daylights out of her. The boys knew when to stay clear, but the stupid dog didn’t, and she’d come smarming around and their father would get hold of her … It was dead funny, so long as you kept well away yourself.

  So their father came in, grumbling about the sprayer. And then he went and asked when there’d be something to eat.

  She hit the roof. Did he think she was some sort of skivvy? Did he think this was a McDonald’s? She’d cook when she felt like it. Maybe soon, maybe not. Maybe not at all. If you want something to eat, you can bloody get it yourself. Did he think he was the only one round here who did a day’s work? Did he think she had nothing to do but wait on him? I own this place, she said. I own this place more than you do. It’s my money tied up in the business more than yours.

  And so on. On and on. Not letting their father get a word in. Till the phone rang and she went to it and let whoever it was have an earful, and then their father had a chance when she banged the receiver down. He’d got his rag up now, too. The talk about her owning the place. He never liked that. Maybe it was true.

  ‘I can’t hear you,’ she said. She clapped her hands over her ears and stood in front of him. ‘Tra-la, tra-la, tra-la,’ she said. ‘I can’t hear you. I’m not listening. I’m not interested. Got it? I’m not interested. Tra-la, tra-la, tra-la …’

  And in the end their father slammed out of the house and off into the sheds. He’d be like thunder for days, probably. She might be as though nothing had happened, tomorrow, but not him.

  You’d keep clear of him, if you knew what was good for you.

  Stella had started to make a garden. She was clearing the overgrown and dishevelled rectangle around the cottage, having identified a lawn which had become a small hay field and old beds drowned in nettles and bindweed. She was surprised at herself. She knew nothing about gardening and did not consider herself particularly interested, but the physical activity was satisfying. Also, she supposed, she had succumbed to the proprietorial instinct. This was now hers, and could not be left in this disordered state. The previous owners of the cottage must have neglected the garden entirely. Its condition indicated an extended period of abandon. She knew nothing of them, except that they were a couple with a child who had owned the place for a year or two only and had moved out, leaving the cottage empty and in the hands of estate agents.

  She recognized that her efforts were perfunctory and would be scorned by any serious gardener. She could not be bothered to consult books and the television programmes she occasionally noticed referred to situations of such abstract perfection as to be entirely incongruous. But there was a certain pleasure in reducing shrubs to a manageable size, clearing out nettles and cutting down the long grass. And each time she straightened up to take a breather there was that shapely landscape -the flowing lines of the hills with the sun highlighting an emerald field or a long, luminous streak of pink earth. Always the same but always different, like some theatre set endlessly transformed by ingenious effects of light to become drained and sombre, a palette of shadowy greens, or glowing with gold and rose and the running
silver of wind on a field of corn.

  It was the hills that did it, she thought, standing distracted with a pair of shears in her hand by the low hedge that shielded the front garden from the lane. The endlessly changing contours; the tipping fields and hedges that gave a sense of movement whichever way you looked. A trick or geology which infused the place with depth and distance, light and shadow. Aeons ago, the rocks heaved, and gave us this. And we are neither here nor there. Scratching briefly at the surface. Making fields. Digging ore. Trimming our natty little hedge. Beech, is this? Box? Privet? I should be better informed.

  ’Gardening!’ said Judith. ‘Good grief, what’s got into you? Has it come to this? Yes, yes – I can see the evidence. The freshly turned soil. Incidentally, I can’t get over the colour of the stuff you have in these parts – designer earth, some might call it. And your fingernails have rims to match.’

  There seemed to be something amiss with Judith. She had phoned. ‘Can I come over for lunch? I need a break.’ She did not say from what, or why. Her manner now was a touch artificial. She talked with vigour and animation but her attention strayed. It was doing so at this moment. She sat on what passed for Stella’s lawn, making a daisy chain and chewing her lip. The daisy chain broke and she threw it aside. ‘I can’t do this any more. You have to be about six. My fingers are too big.’ She glanced up at Stella. ‘Tell me … would you call yourself happy?’