by Peter Benson
Dr Rice was amazed that Marjorie took it so well.
She made two cups of cocoa with one arm and pancreatic cancer.
‘For the pain,’ Dr Rice had said (about chemotherapy).
‘Stuff your therapies,’ she said, rudely. ‘And blow the pain. I’ve had pain before.’
The doctor hadn’t argued. He was a sensible thin man. He stood up, offered her his hand. She took it and he said, ‘It’s your decision, but if you need anything you must get in touch. I’ll contact Dr Thubron personally.’
The cocoa was thick and sweet - she put a pinch of spice on top.
I had a dream that night. Marjorie and I had gone to a beach. We had a blanket. The sea was rough, but she went for a swim. There was a small boy swimming too - I watched as he dived into the waves.
I was sitting on the blanket. Seagulls were whirling above me. Marjorie shouted and waved to me. She was beyond the boy, who hadn’t surfaced from his last dive. I could see his legs bobbing between the waves. They looked like aerodrome windsocks. I watched them for five minutes before thinking this wasn’t right.
I stood up and pointed to him - at the same time, Marjorie noticed him.
I ran into the sea, but she reached the legs first. She grabbed the nearest foot, but when she did, her eyes widened, she noticed something on one of the toes, screamed and leapt back.
I moved forward and looked into the sea. It was very clear, and I could see the boy’s face. His arms had caught in some rocks. His lips were blue and his eyes were closed. His hair was flowing around his head like weed. He was wearing a brown swimming costume. His whole body seemed to be floating in something other than water, more like air.
10
Colonel Franklyn’s Rover 95 could be spotted, like a distant posse, by the column of smoke it left in its wake. Like the man on the run, I saw him coming. I was planting beans.
Gardening is about common sense and spacing. It’s common sense to cultivate the ground properly before sowing seed, but you have to look up the spacings in a book. Broad beans ‘should be inserted 2 ins deep and 8 ins apart, this being the distance at which the plants will mature.’
‘I used to sow them in the autumn, but I never proved the advantage,’ Marjorie said.
I spent a couple of hours hoeing and raking a patch of ground before lining up and stretching a string, and then carefully sowing the seed. A few spots of rain began to blow out of the forest. It had been a dry warm winter so far. I saw the first clots of smoke from the Colonel’s Rover.
When he had parked it, he climbed out and banged the bonnet. ‘Wonderful bus!’ he yelled. ‘And all you need to keep it tip-top is a screwdriver and an adjustable spanner!’ He walked towards me, and in a lowered voice said, ‘That’s more than you could say about hers.’ He pointed to the Alfa and shook his head.
I was going to say something about his oil seals being shot when Marjorie stuck her head out of the window and croaked, ‘What about hers?’
‘Marjorie!’ The Colonel swung around and smiled.
‘I didn’t hear,’ she said.
He waved over his shoulder to me, said, ‘Men’s talk,’ and went to play cards. Half an hour later, he was forty-two Vestas down and I was washing my hands. It was raining.
Marjorie was holding a full house, he had a pair of twos, a pair of sevens and a queen. Without looking up from her cards, she said, ‘You could check the loft for leaks,’ to me. ‘I’ve been waiting for the chance.’
I fetched a ladder and hauled it upstairs. The Colonel offered to help, but she told him to stay where he was.
I couldn’t find any drips in the loft. It was cold up there, and the rain was loud on the slates. There were a few tea chests stacked by the hatch, but otherwise nothing.
I nagged Marjorie to phone Alice with the news, so she promised, but only if I went out. She didn’t like the idea of having a conversation with an old friend and me lurking somewhere in the lodge. She didn’t say this. She did say, ‘Take the car if you like, but have a bath and wash your hair first.’
I drove to the pub - I felt polished. My hair was neat. I bought a pint, sat in a corner and listened to two farmers. Besides them, the barman and me, the place was empty. Someone in the neighbourhood had been fined for polluting a brook with silage effluent. The taller of the two men said, ‘We made the bloody landscape they like so much, but don’t mind telling us what to do with it.’
The barman was very quiet.
The other farmer said, ‘You’re right there.’
‘It’s like that copse.’
‘What copse?’
The one I scrubbed out. You know.’
The barman nodded.
‘What do people want? I had them queuing to complain. And then they want cheap food.’
‘You’re right there.’
‘The abuse! You wouldn’t believe it! One of them said she was going to chain herself to one of the trees. And it’s the same people who want a pile of logs for their woodburners.’
‘You’re right there.’
‘People think they know everything.’
‘They know too much,’ the barman said.
‘You’re right there.’
‘It’s television. Too much bloody television. And newspapers. I’ve never got the time to read a paper…’
‘Think of the trees in a newspaper,’ said the barman.
‘Yes. I wonder what those people think about that.’
‘What people?’
‘You know.’ I was suddenly the subject of conversation. There was a little silence: the first farmer had looked at the barman; he glanced up at me and then back at his friend. He nodded. I heard a car pull into the car-park.
Nicky recognised me as soon as he came in. He was on his own. He said, ‘You’re the bloke in the Alfa.’ His face was red and his hair lay flat on his head.
‘Yeah,’ I said. The farmers’ conversation and the beer had given me a mellow glow that I connected to my mouth when I said, ‘I’m sorry.’ I could see my mistakes. ‘I’d just had some bad news.’
‘Bad luck,’ said Nicky, meanly.
One of the farmers turned round to listen. The barman leant over the bar.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It was.’
The atmosphere in the pub was thick and threatening; I felt hot though it was cold in there. ‘I said I was sorry. I—’
‘I heard you. What sort of bad luck?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Yes, I do,’ Nicky said, and leant towards me.
The other farmer listened. Everyone listened. I said, ‘I’d just heard a friend of mine has cancer. She’s dying…’
‘Marj?’ said the barman.
‘Yes,’ I said.
Nicky leant back. ‘You’re staying with her?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
The threats vanished and I was left with four intrigued men. I had them all ears.
‘She’s dying?’ said the barman.
‘Who’s dying?’ said one of the farmers.
‘Mad Marj.’
‘Marjorie,’ I said.
Nicky went to the bar for a drink. He came back, sat opposite me and drank in silence for a while, before shaking his big head and saying, ‘I didn’t know.’
‘How could you?’
‘It’s a small place. Everybody knows—’
‘Not as small as all that,’ I said.
‘That’s what you think,’ Nicky said.
Nicky was an overweight boy. He ate too much meat and dairy produce. I’d been listening to him talk about how he’d always felt something odd about the old gamekeeper’s lodge when another car pulled up outside. He recognised it as Sadie’s.
He stood up when she came in. She said, ‘Hello, Nicky,’ off-handedly, and then, ‘Greg! You made it!’ to me, excitedly.
I said, ‘Yes. She kicked me out. She’s phoning my Aunt Alice.’
‘That’s the one in Brighton?’
‘Yes.’
�
��How’s she been?’
‘Excuse me—’ Nicky said.
‘What?’ said Sadie.
‘You know this bloke?’
‘Greg? Yeah.’
The farmers and the barman enjoyed this twist.
‘You never told me,’ Nicky said to Sadie.
‘Why should I?’ she said, and went for a drink. ‘Anyone want another?’ she said.
I held my glass up. Nicky hadn’t finished his.
‘You didn’t say anything either,’ Nicky said.
I shrugged. ‘What’s it to you, anyway? Is she your wife or—’
‘She will be.’ He raised his voice. ‘You can bet on that.’
‘Short odds?’ I said.
‘I’m the favourite. No problem.’
I didn’t want to argue. The day’s fresh air had made me tired. When Sadie came back from the bar you could have cut the air with a knife.
I wasn’t interested in proving anything, so I just sat back and listened to Nicky as he moaned about his work and told Sadie he was going to buy a sunroof for the Capri. ‘You’ll love it,’ he said.
‘Good,’ she said.
Back at the lodge, Marjorie was reading a book called Yak! (a Tibetan adventure). She’d had a bath, and was in her dressing gown, sitting by the Rayburn.
‘Nice drink?’ she said.
‘The beer was good. How’s Alice?’
‘Fine.’ She went back to her book. ‘She sends her love.’
‘Did you tell her?’
‘What’s there to tell?’
‘I thought that’s why you were phoning her. You said—’
Marjorie held her good hand up and said, ‘Don’t worry. She knows.’ She pointed to the whisky. ‘Have a drink.’
Mum drank as she died. She’d always avoided spirits, but rum became one of the few things she could swallow.
Once she gave some to Bruce, ‘because he watches me when I pour a glass. It’s like he’s asking for a tot.’ Then she asked me to take the dog for a stroll.
I took the dog for a drag. When we reached the garden gate and I put the lead on, he lay down, so I had to carry him to the park. I put him on the grass and dragged him around until a woman came over and threatened me with violence unless I stopped being cruel. I didn’t say anything about Mum having cancer, but I did say that she’d got the dog drunk, and that if she hassled Mum about it, I wouldn’t be responsible for Mum’s actions. Then I picked Bruce up and carried him home.
11
When Marjorie began to sleep late I offered to take her breakfast in bed. At first, she told me not to be stupid. She had never had breakfast in bed before, and wasn’t starting because she was dying. I told her that because she was dying she should indulge herself. She appreciated my frankness, and because of it said yes, she would have breakfast in bed.
She liked cereal, toast, marmalade and a pot of tea. I would have mine first, before carrying hers up and sitting beside her while she ate.
‘I’m decadent,’ she said.
‘You’re ill.’
‘That’s no excuse.’ She let me pour milk into her cereal. ‘I don’t like excuses. If you’ve got to use an excuse it means you’ve made a mistake.’
‘No, it doesn’t!’
‘Are you arguing with me, Gregory?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, excuse me,’ she said. I couldn’t do anything with her.
It became important to her to visit places in the area she would never see again. She made me fetch a pile of guide books and two maps and chose. One day it was Sleech Wood, Rhode Barton and Hole Common, another it was Bettiscombe (home of the Screaming Skull of Bettiscombe Manor) and Coney’s Castle.
In 833, King Egbert the Great of Wessex lived at Coney’s Castle. We stood on a grassy plateau, and as litter blew all around, we imagined him receiving emissaries from East Anglia, Mercia and Northumbria. For the first time in England’s history, the excuse of invasion had spurred the disparate kingdoms to unite: the Danes had already ravaged the north and east. Wessex provided the last bastion, and the first king of all England. Egbert watched for invasion. He had a righteous wife (name unrecorded), mother of Ethelwulf and grandmother of Ethelbald, Ethelbert, Ethelred and Alfred. Marjorie and I watched a pair of horses in a field below, and saw kestrels hovering over the escarpments. In the distance, a bypass was being built around Charmouth. The fresh cuttings were pale, and shone in the sunshine. Marjorie taught me to appreciate nature.
‘We’ll do the Undercliff tomorrow,’ she said.
‘You’ll wear yourself out,’ I said.
She laughed. ‘Were you born stupid?’ she said.
‘No.’
‘So you’re self-taught?’
‘No!’
‘What then?’
We did the Undercliff - a wood between Lyme and Axmouth that falls off the fields to the north and tumbles into the sea. A muddy path meanders through it for five miles. We managed two and a half, but in such an inaccessible place, we met weird people.
We must have looked weird. I was wearing battle fatigues; she took me with one arm, the other, plastered and slung, swung and bounced against her chest. We didn’t hurry. We met a motorcyclist on the tarmacked lane that led down to the woods. He stopped to let us pass, and yelled, ‘It’s a stoater!’
‘What?’ I shouted.
Marjorie didn’t say anything. She was staring at the sky. It was deep blue; a few clouds moved across it like brides and grooms to the altar, or tears down a cheek. The man turned his bike off and leant back in the saddle like Marlon Brando. I whistled through my teeth. He spoke to Marjorie.
‘A stoater! Brilliant! Today! It’s brilliant!’
Marjorie said, ‘It certainly is.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
The man needed a shave. He had a knapsack slung over his shoulder and his boots had holes in them. He kicked the bike on again and said, ‘I’m late.’
‘Oh, we can’t have that,’ said Marjorie, laughing.
The man laughed too, and then rode away.
The wood was nothing like the forest around the lodge. It was more of a jungle - enormous sycamore, ash and beech trees grew out of tangles of brambles and gorse. Creepers climbed into the branches of the trees, birds called alarms, and all around us the undergrowth rustled as mice and voles dived for cover. The path was well trodden. Every now and again we glimpsed the sea between the branches; we could hear it all the way.
We were climbing a flight of steps cut into a bank that crossed the path when I heard a loud human yelling. It was insistent - not in pain, but needing something. After a minute, it was joined by another scream, then another and another until somewhere in the woods below us a group of people were filling the air with their cries.
‘What the hell is that?’ I said.
‘I don’t know,’ Marjorie said. ‘But it reminds me of something. I…’ She stopped and thought.
‘It’s down there.’ I pointed.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Let’s find out what,’ and she began to crash through the undergrowth towards it.
We beat our way through brambles, clematis and clumps of hazel until we reached a small path, less muddy than the main one. Marjorie orientated herself on it, brushed her trousers and waited for me to catch up. The yelling stopped for a moment. She whispered, ‘In the Congo. That’s where it was. God! I must be losing my memory. Memory… I thought that was the last thing to go!’
‘Marjorie?’ I said.
‘Come on!’ The noise started again. ‘This way.’
The way her broken arm was set threw the rest of her body into an uncomfortable arch, her back hunched. I followed this down the small path. All around us, trees and bushes were bursting their buds. Somewhere in front of us, people were bursting their veins. As we got closer, I could make out individual cries. Some were men and some were women.
‘The Congo,’ Marjorie said. ‘The M’Bochi used to put on shows for us. They screamed like that.’ She had stopped for a
breather. I caught up with her. ‘Evil spirits,’ she said.
I stood beside her and puffed.
‘Gregory,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘I’m the one who’s dying.’
‘Very funny,’ I said.
‘I thought so.’
We walked for another hundred yards before Marjorie suddenly stopped, crouched and signalled for me to join her.
I crouched next to her and parted some branches so I could see. There were a dozen people standing around a huge beech tree with their heads thrown back, yelling at the tops of their voices. There was no wildlife in the area. The grass around the tree was well trodden. Most of the men had beards, and the women had long hair. Marjorie was fascinated, and wanted to ask them what was going on.
‘It’s religious,’ I said.
‘Of course it’s religious,’ she said, and waited for them to stop.
‘They might not want to be disturbed.’
They stopped. Marjorie stood up and walked towards them. I stayed where I was. She made a lot of noise climbing out of our hiding place and crashing into the clearing, but none of the screamers moved. They stared into the branches of the beech tree.
‘Hello,’ Marjorie said.
No one said anything.
‘We were walking - we heard you and thought there might be someone in trouble, but…’
One of the men looked away from the branches and at us. None of the others moved. They were transfixed - I didn’t know what to do with myself but Marjorie was confident. The man said, ‘That’s beautiful.’
‘We didn’t mean to disturb you…’ said Marjorie.
‘No,’ said the man. ‘It was beautiful of you to come. Thank you.’
‘No thanks,’ Marjorie said.
‘Really.’ The man put his hands together and bowed to us, said, ‘Thank you,’ again and then went back to his place, closed his eyes, opened his mouth and let out another scream. The others waited for a moment before joining him.
We walked away from the clearing and back to the main path. While Marjorie talked about the Congo, I remembered some hippies in London who had promised themselves that scene.