“No, I haven’t given up and don’t intend to. Does that offend you?”
“Jeffrey, nothing in all my life has ever offended me. You know that.”
“You look wonderful. How are you?”
“Wonderful, perhaps.”
“Not too lonely?”
“Getting better.”
“It was cruel, what happened to you.”
“Jimbo, you mean? Darling man. It was crueler for him than for me. A slow degeneration of a wonderful, brilliant man. But no regrets, Jeffrey. I know we didn’t have very long together, but what we did have was special. Not many people achieve such happiness, even for a year or two.”
“Tell me about your Hampshire hideaway.”
“Dibton. The village is rather ordinary and dull. But somehow that was what I wanted. The house is a tiny railway cottage, one in a row. All I need.”
“Nice people?”
“Ordinary again. Kind and friendly. I think you could say I’ve been made welcome. I couldn’t stay in London.”
“Any special friends?”
She started telling him about the old Foubisters and Bobby Burton Jones, the vicar and his wife, and the Sunday school pantomime. She told him about Mrs. Jennings and Albert Meddows and the fabulously wealthy Mr. Dunn with his indoor swimming pool and immense conservatory filled with red-hot geraniums and rubber plants.
Finally, she told him about the Blundells. Oscar and Gloria and Francesca.
“They’ve been truly, enormously kind. Taken me under their wing, one might say. Gloria is wealthy and generous. The two don’t always go together, do they? She owns the house they live in, it’s called the Grange and is perfectly hideous, but frightfully warm and comfortable. She was married before, so she’s got two grownup married sons, but Francesca is so original and funny and sweet. Gloria is an avid hostess, scarcely a day passes when she isn’t organizing some party or picnic, or a get-together or committee meeting. She’s rather horsy and loves gathering a great gang of friends and setting off for some point-to-point, with a bar in the boot of her car, and her Pekingeses tied to the bumper barking their heads off at anyone who passes.”
Jeffrey was clearly amused. “And does Oscar enjoy such occasions?”
“I don’t know. But he’s a gentle, amiable man… a charmer, really … and he and Francesca go off together, and put bets on unlikely horses and buy themselves ice-creams.”
“What does he do? Or is he retired?”
“He’s a musician. An organist. A pianist. A teacher.”
“How clever of you to find such an interesting couple. They clearly adore you. Probably because you’ve always had the effect of a good strong gust of fresh air.”
But Elfrida voiced her reservations.
“I have to be quite careful and strict with myself. I do not intend to become absorbed.”
“Who wouldn’t want to absorb you?”
“You mustn’t be partisan.”
“I was always on your side.”
In later years, looking back to those weeks she spent at Emblo, the thing that Elfrida most clearly remembered was the sound of the wind. It blew perpetually; at times shrunken to a lively breeze, at others pounding in from the sea at gale-force strength, assaulting the cliffs, howling down chimneys and rattling at doors and window-panes. After a bit, she became used to its constant presence, but at night the wind was impossible to ignore, and she would lie in the dark, hearing it sweep in from the Atlantic, stream up across the moor, the branches of an elderly apple tree tapping like a ghost at her window.
It was-this wind made very clear-summer no longer. October moving into November and the nights drawing closer every evening. The farmer’s cows, his handsome Guernsey dairy herd, trod down from the fields, for the morning and evening milking, and churned to mud the lane that ran between Emblo and the farmhouse. After the evening milking, they were turned out into the fields again, and were adept at seeking shelter in the lee of a wall, or behind a tangle of thicket and gorse.
“Why can’t they spend the night indoors?” Elfrida wanted to know.
“They never do. We have no frosts, there’s plenty of grass.”
“Poor things.” But, she had to admit, they looked sleek and happy enough.
The daily routine of the little household took her over, and she slowed herself to its pace. There was always washing to be pegged out, shirts to be ironed, potatoes to be dug, hens to be fed, and eggs washed. After the first week, she realized with some surprise that for seven days she had neither read a newspaper nor watched television. The rest of the world could have blown itself to pieces while all Elfrida worried about was whether she could get the sheets off the line before the next shower of rain.
Some evenings, she took over the kitchen and cooked supper for Ben and Amy, so that Jeffrey and Serena were able to grab the chance of a dinner out by themselves or a visit to the nearest cinema. And she taught the children to play rummy, and mesmerized them with stories about the old days, when she was in the theatre.
One weekend, the fickle weather turned warm as spring, and the wind dropped and the sun shone from a cloudless sky. Determined to make the most of the benevolent day, Serena gathered up the farmer’s four youngsters, packed a picnic, and they all set out to walk across the fields towards the cliffs, a straggling party consisting of six children, three adults, and three dogs. Amy and Elfrida, side by side, brought up the rear. The footpath crossed stone stiles and snaked down between the gorse-and bramble bushes.
Elfrida spied blackberries.
“We should pick them,” she told Amy.
“We could make blackberry jelly.”
But Amy was wiser.
“No, we can’t. We can’t pick blackberries after the beginning of October, because that’s when the Cornish witches do wees on them.”
“How extraordinary. How do you know that?”
“Our teacher told us. But she didn’t say wees, she said ‘urinated.’” They reached the edge of the cliff and the whole breadth of the ocean was revealed, extravagantly blue and glittering with sunshine. The path trickled on, a precipitous and dangerous-looking descent into a secret cove. It was low tide, and so there lay a tiny sickle of sand, and rock-pools gleaming like jewels.
With some difficulty they all scrambled down, the dogs bounding fearlessly ahead. On the rocks, Amy left Elfrida and went to join the others on the sand, where Jeffrey had already started everybody digging a mammoth sand castle, and Serena searched for shells and pebbles with which to decorate this edifice.
Now midday, there was a real warmth in the sun, so Elfrida shed her jacket and rolled up the sleeves of her sweater. Rugs and baskets and haversacks had been dumped on a smooth flat rock, and she sat beside them watching the restless sea, and felt mesmerized by its sheer size and magnificence. The colours of the water, the clearness was breathtaking. Streaks of blue, green, turquoise, purple, all laced and streaked with white surf. A heavy swell was running, and the breakers formed far out, moving in and gathering height and weight before finally crashing against the jagged granite coastline, sending up great fountains of sizzling spray. Overhead the gulls wheeled, and out towards the horizon, a small fishing boat butted its way through the turbulent water.
Staring, bewitched, she lost all sense of time, but after a bit was joined by Serena, come to unpack the picnic. From the haversacks she produced bottles, plastic cups, paper napkins, a bag of apples. As well there emanated the warm, mouthwatering smell of hot pasties.
Elfrida was amazed.
“Whenever did you make pasties, Serena? They take forever.”
“I always keep a dozen or so in the deep freeze. The children love them.”
“Me, too.”
“I took them out last night. I had a feeling it was going to be a good day. How about a drink? You can have lager or wine. Or lemonade, if you’re feeling abstemious.”
“Wine would be perfect.”
The bottle was wrapped in a wine cooler, and drunk from a
plastic glass tasted better than any wine had ever tasted before. Elfrida turned back to the sea.
She said, “This is heaven.”
“In the summer we come most weekends. It’s easier now that both children can do the walk themselves.”
“What a happy family you are.”
“Yes,” said Serena, and smiled.
“I know. So fortunate. But I do know that, Elfrida. I really do know. And every day I say thank you.”
From time to time, Elfrida left Emblo and took herself off on her own, driving her little car and leaving Horace behind in the company of Jeffrey’s sheepdogs. She found herself amazed that such a small tract of country could be so wild, so remote, and yet so varied. Roads, freed of the summer tourist traffic, were narrow and winding, but all she ever met was the occasional bus or butcher’s van or tractor. And she would cross an empty moor, and the road would slip down into a tiny valley thick with rhododendrons, where enviable gardens were still verdant with hydrangeas and the dangling ballerina blossoms of fuchsia.
One day, she made the trip into the neighbouring town, where she parked her car and walked down into the warren of baffling lanes and alley-ways that led to the harbour. On the harbour road were restaurants and gift shops and many small galleries displaying every kind of art and sculpture. She found a bookshop and went in and took some time choosing two books for Ben and Amy. And so delightful was this that she browsed on and, thinking of Francesca, bought a book for her as well. She found it in the second-hand section, The Island of Sheep, by John Buchan, and she remembered reading it at school and becoming totally caught up in the adventure. This was a story Oscar and Francesca could read together, the two of them squashed into a single huge armchair by the flickering log-fire.
She had the books wrapped and went out into the street again, continuing on her way. In a craft-shop, she found brilliantly patterned hand-knitted sweaters, and chose two. One for Jeffrey and one for Serena. She bought postcards and a bottle of wine, and by now considerably laden, set out once more walking away from the harbour and into a maze of cobbled streets where washing hung, and window-boxes were brilliant with nasturtium and pink petunias. Another gallery. Unable to resist, she paused to look in its window and saw a little abstract painting, its frame bleached like driftwood, with all the colours of Cornwall set into shapes that represented exactly her own impressions and feelings about this ancient land.
Elfrida craved it. Not for herself, but as a present. She thought that if Jimbo were still alive, she would have bought it for him, because it was exactly the sort of image that he would have loved beyond anything. She imagined giving it to him, bringing it to his house in Barnes where they had been so unimaginably happy together. Watching him strip off the wrappings, watching his face, knowing that his reaction would be one of delight and pleasure … The picture wavered and became watery. She realized that her eyes had filled with tears. She had never cried for Jimbo, simply grieved and mourned privately to herself, and tried to learn to live with the cold loneliness of an existence without him. She had thought that she had achieved this, but it could not be so. She wondered if perhaps she was a woman who could not live without a man, and if this was true, then there was nothing she could do about it.
The tears receded. Ridiculous. She was sixty-two, snivelling like a young girl who has lost her lover. But still she stayed, staring at the picture, wanting it. Wanting to share her pleasure. Wanting to give.
The idea occurred to her that she could buy it for Oscar Blundell. But Oscar was not simply Oscar. He was one half of Oscar and Gloria, and Gloria would be completely bewildered by such a gift…. In her head Elfrida could hear Gloria’s voice. Elfrida! You can’t be serious. It’s just a lot of shapes. A child of four could do a better job than that. And which way up is it meant to be? Honestly, Elfrida, you are a hoot. What possessed you to put down good money for a thing like that? You‘ve been robbed.
No. Not a good idea. Reluctantly, she turned from the window of the gallery and walked on, and left the streets behind her, and set out on a path that climbed, in zigzags, to the top of the grass promontory that divided the two beaches. As she climbed, the wind became blustery, and when she reached the shallow summit, she found herself surrounded by ocean and sky, the whole blue curving rim of the horizon. It felt a bit like being at sea. And she came to a bench and sat upon it, huddled in her sheepskin jacket and with her packages set about her, like any old pensioner exhausted by shopping.
But she was not any old pensioner. She was Elfrida. She was here. She had survived. Was moving on. But to what? A seagull, scavenging for crusts or some edible picnic titbit, swept down out of the air and landed at her feet. His eyes were cold and acquisitive, and his aggression made her smile. And she found herself longing for company. Specifically, for Oscar. She wanted him to be with her, just for a single day, so that when she returned to Dibton, they could talk about the wind and the sea and the gull, and remember, and marvel at the magic of a special moment.
Perhaps that was the worst of all. Not having someone to remember things with.
When the day came to return to Dibton, Elfrida could scarcely believe that she had been at Emblo for a month, so swiftly had the weeks sped by. They tried to persuade her, of course, to stay.
“You are welcome for as long as you like,” Serena told her, and Elfrida knew that she was totally sincere.
“You’ve been the best. A lovely mixture of mother, sister, and friend. We’ll miss you so dreadfully.”
“You’re sweet. But no, I must get back. Pick up the thread of life again.”
“You’ll come again?”
“Try and stop me.”
She had planned to set off as early as possible, so that she could reach Dibton before darkness fell. At eight in the morning she was out of doors, with Jeffrey loading her car. The little family stood about her, and Amy was in tears.
“I don’t want you to go. I want you to stay.”
“Guests don’t stay forever, Amy, my pet. It’s time to leave.”
Horace, too, showed a disloyal reluctance to depart. Every time he was put into the car, he jumped out again, and finally had to be dragged by his collar, deposited on the back seat, and the door shut behind him. He gazed from the window, his furry face doleful and his dark eyes agonized.
“I think,” Ben observed, “that he’s probably going to cry as well.”
Neither Amy nor Ben was yet dressed, and they looked bizarre with padded jackets and gum boots pulled over their pyjamas. When her brother made this remark, Amy’s tears welled up once more, and her mother stooped and picked her up and held her on her hip.
“Cheer up, Amy. Horace will be fine once he’s on his way.”
“I don’t want anybody to leave us.”
The parting had gone on for long enough. Elfrida turned to Jeffrey.
“Dear man, thank you a thousand times.” He had not yet shaved, and her cheek grated against the stubble of his dark beard.
“And Serena…” A swift kiss, a hand over Amy’s flaxen head, and she got firmly in behind the driving wheel, slammed the door, turned on the ignition, and drove off. They stood and waved until the car was lost to view, but she had a pretty good idea that they didn’t go back indoors until the little Fiesta had turned out onto the main road and she and Horace were truly on their way.
Not the time to feel lonely and bereft. The goodbye was not forever, because she could return to Emblo any time she wanted. In a year, maybe, or sooner. Jeffrey and Serena would always be there, and Ben and Amy. But that was the poignant bit, because Jeffrey and Serena would remain more or less unchanged, while Ben and Amy would be taller, thinner, fatter; growing street-wise, losing front teeth. She would never know Ben and Amy again as the small children she had come to love during this particular period of their lives. Like the holiday that was over, those children would be gone forever.
To cheer herself up, Elfrida looked ahead, in positive fashion, which she had always found a reliable met
hod of dealing with a sense of loss. She was going home. To her own little nest, filled with her own possessions. The small and humble refuge that she shared with Horace. She would open doors and windows, inspect her garden, put a match to the fire.
Tomorrow, perhaps, she would telephone the Grange and speak to Gloria. And there would be cries of delight that she was back again, and an instant summons to come and see them immediately. And when she went Elfrida would take the book with her to give to Francesca. The Island of Sheep. I chose it specially, because I loved it so much when I was your age, and I’m sure you’ll love it, too.
But first, of course, before even reaching Poulton’s Row, Elfrida knew that she must do some shopping. There was no food in the cottage, and she had cleaned out the refrigerator before she left. So her first port of call must be Mrs. Jennings’s mini-supermarket. She began to make a mental list. Bread and milk. Sausages, eggs, and butter. Coffee. Biscuits and some tins for Horace. Perhaps a tin of soup for her supper. Something sustaining, like Cullen Skink …
Half an hour later, she joined the motorway that led upcountry. She switched on her car radio and settled to the long drive.
The Dibton church clock stood at half past two as she drove into the main street of the village. Outside Mrs. Jennings’s slouched the usual gang of louty youths, and a little farther on, she spied Bobby Burton Jones trimming his privet hedge with a pair of shears. Nothing much seemed to have changed, except that most of the trees had shed their leaves and there was a definite wintry feel to the air.
She parked the car, found her bag, and went into the shop. It seemed to be empty. She picked up a wire basket and moved up the aisles, taking what she needed from the shelves. Finally, she presented herself at the counter, where Mrs. Jennings was doing sums on the back of an envelope and had not heard her come in.
But now she looked up, saw Elfrida, laid down her pencil, and took off her spectacles.
“Mrs. Phipps. Well, what a surprise. I haven’t seen you for weeks. Have a good holiday, did you?”
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