by Annie Bullen
Angela came off very badly in the whole affair. Revelling at first in her newly released sexual satisfaction and freedom, she was blind to the fact that Fraser regarded their affair as just that. Although he satisfied his own and Angela’s sexual needs competently and with scrupulous fairness, he clearly wanted nothing more of her – nor was he prepared to give more – than the degree of friendship that this type of relationship generated. But Angela, made rosy by personal attention, discovered long tucked-away emotional needs which she began to imagine could only be satisfied by Fraser. Growing totally careless in the matter of her increasingly estranged husband, she even began to imagine a future with the young Australian. She started, cautiously, to feel her way.
Lying idly in bed with him one afternoon she picked up a glossy magazine with pictures of beach houses in Australia.
‘Let’s live in one just like that.’ She pointed to a huge ranch-style building.
‘Sure. And we’ll go surfing every day,’ murmured Fraser, lying on his back, thinking of his long-legged blonde fiancee, with whom he planned to buy just such a place when they could afford it.
Angela’s heart lurched just a little and she lay very still. She turned her head to look at him, pale hard body, self-absorbed, reaching out now for his thin-lensed gold-rimmed glasses which made his pale blue eyes endearingly large as he juggled times, dates and projects in his mind. He held her gaze, reached over and stroked her thigh.
‘Nice bum, Angela,’ he said, casually.
The word ‘love’ draped itself significantly in the forefront of Angela’s encouraged mind. Love was an exclusive word, a word with which you curtained off certain areas of your life, laying claim with its drapery. Thus she wanted to claim Fraser. As she had often told Toby (with a lot more certainty, it must be said), she now told Fraser, ‘I love you.’
He lay very still, not looking at her at all. In truth he had no idea what to say. He knew that she did not love him, nor he her, and he also knew that by the time he left Les Meaunes, he and Angela would have discovered all they wanted to know about each other. But he was not without sensibility and, recognizing the need from which she spoke, he eventually responded.
‘Sure. Sure, Angela.’ He rolled his legs off the bed and began to dress.
Fraser was a civil engineer, part of a team employed by an international company to work on a short-term project, shoring up the cliffs in that area which were in imminent danger of falling into the sea and taking with them several hectares of money-spinning leisure industry property. The project was one which needed constant monitoring and for the past two weeks Fraser had been in charge of the night shift, which was why he had been left so carelessly free during the day.
Angela walked home slowly, feeling utterly miserable. The first thrill of their love-making over, it seemed that there was nothing more to come. Fraser had made no suggestion about meeting tomorrow; she felt desolate, empty and very lonely. As the late afternoon wore on into dragging evening, relieved only by her scrappy attempt at an evening meal, she began to feel frantic about their next meeting. The more casually the affair slipped on, the more desperate she became to hold on. At around ten o’clock she could bear it no longer and, utterly careless of what Billy might think, decided she would telephone Fraser at work. She said she needed a short walk before bedtime and pocketed enough change for the telephone as she left the house.
There was only one telephone in the area, and it was fairly risky to use it because it was within view of their garden, if not from the house itself. But Angela calculated (rightly) that Billy was far too lazy to walk out into the garden at this time of night and she decided that she had to chance it. She wanted to hear Fraser’s light voice, to make a date for tomorrow. One firm fixture meant that the pleasure and security of anticipation would defer anxiety.
She had the number of the temporary telephone rigged up in the engineers’ portable office, and assumed that Fraser, in charge of the team working there, would answer. But a strange voice – a Scotsman – took the call and when, hesitating over the words, she asked for Fraser Carlton, he did not bother to ask her name.
‘Fraser,’ she heard him yell, ‘Fraser – it’s for you. Your girl. The lovely Joanna. It’s a very clear line tonight. Sounds as if she’s just down the road.’ Angela’s heart thumped so hard that she felt it in her throat. She felt like putting the receiver down but could not. Fraser, evidently bounding over to the telephone and speaking more happily than she had ever heard him, shouted:
‘Hello sweetheart! You’re early tonight.’
‘Fraser – it’s me, Angela.’
‘Oh. Oh, Angela. Hello.’
‘I just happened to be out for a walk and called to say goodnight.’
‘Nice of you. Goodnight.’ She started to sob, hating herself. She heard him sigh with exasperation.
‘What’s the matter, Angela?’
‘Who’s Joanna?’
‘Oh, for Chrissake!’ He slammed the phone down. Angela felt dry and empty.
‘You can’t follow me,’ she thought bitterly as she walked back through the garden to Billy.
‘A woman betrayed,’ she said, knowing herself to be silly and melodramatic. A silly melodramatic woman who ought to know better.
Those little worms of desire, stirred stupendously by Toby and briefly by the Australian boy, were still there, thought Angela, dozing off now in Kattie’s comfortable spare bedroom. But she had not risked waking them again, knowing that she could never be a woman who could separate desire from emotional dependency.
Kattie stood alone in her sunny kitchen, hands clasped loosely behind her back, gazing out over the garden. The grass, starred by straggly daisies, was in need of a trim, but the generous planting in the overgrown borders disguised the fact that a lot of the greenery consisted of ever-spreading ground elder, creeping buttercup and silver weed. Like many half-tended gardens, it looked splendid when everything was in the first flush of bloom, but Kattie knew, sometimes with a feeling of hopelessness and sometimes with a surge of energy, that unless she took action, in a few weeks’ time the whole area would be an overblown mess.
‘Kattie!’ Hugh’s voice, forced to its full resonance and depth, boomed out behind her. She turned. He had flung the kitchen door wide open and was striding purposefully towards her, a scroll of paper tied in black tape in one hand, while the other clutched at the neck of a strange cloak-like garment which fell loosely from his shoulders. He hoped he looked like a distinguished ambassador returning to court with an important document for his liege. Kattie caught the spirit of the thing and immediately cast herself in the role of queen. Standing straight and tall and gazing imperiously at Hugh, she extended one hand loosely before her.
‘My dear – what is it?’
‘Your piece, for the concert. It is finished. I have it here for you.’
Kattie stretched out her hand and took the proffered manuscript.
‘This is a great moment, Hugh.’ She spoke solemnly. He stood humbly before her, head slightly bowed. Each was enjoying the scene tremendously, although both had the same fleeting regret that there was no audience.
Just then Dorelia slipped into the room, filling the kettle with a clatter and slipping it onto the range. She sidled round to see what was going on.
‘Gosh, what’s that funny cloak-thing you’re wearing, Hugh?’
‘It IS a cloak, child. I’ve had it for years. Actually …’ He dropped his grand manner and began to stammer. ‘Actually I’ve lost the thingummyjig that did it up. You don’t have a suitable brooch or clasp, do you? A safety pin looks so sort of shabby, somehow.’
Kattie ignored the chatter.
‘Hugh’s finished the christening piece for my organ, darling. Would you play it to us after breakfast, Hugh?’
‘Do you need help with the stops or whatever they are? Goodness, you’ve made it just in time haven’t you, Hugh? Did Mr Ovenden do a good job?’ Dorelia was asking about the expert who had arrived the day b
efore to tune the instrument.
‘Splendid. It’s in perfect voice now. I’m not so sure about the acoustics of the room itself, though.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Kattie firmly. ‘The people who are coming aren’t musical experts.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Hugh. He sounded disappointed.
‘They’re coming because they’re curious to see how it has fitted in here, because they know they’ll get a good supper and because it’s all in a good cause. Good morning, Angela. Did you sleep well? Letter from Billy?’
Angela had picked up an airmail letter from the hall table on her way into the kitchen for breakfast, and was frowning as she started to read it.
‘Oh, yes. What good cause are we talking about?’
‘Our concert. I’ve told everyone coming that there will be a collection for your friend’s charity. Cancer research.’
‘Friend? Charity?’
‘Marjorie Pelham. Your old flame’s mother. She spends a lot of time collecting for that, so the vicar tells me, and I thought that if we’ve got all these people coming here to hear my organ, we might as well get something out of it for someone. So I thought of her straight away. She’s going to find us some collecting boxes or plates or whatever they use at these do’s.’
‘She never mentioned it when I went to see her,’ said Angela absently, her mind on the awful threat in Billy’s letter.
‘No reason why she should, really.’
‘Is that Toby’s mother you’re talking about? Really?’ Hugh loomed over them like a polite horse sticking its head over the fence.
‘Yes. Don’t you know her? She lives in the village, near the church.’
‘Well, obviously I knew her slightly a long time ago. She must be getting on a bit now.’
‘She’s a very sprightly lady,’ said Kattie, brightening at the thought of an errand for Hugh. ‘I don’t suppose you would like to renew your acquaintance with her today some time? We have to sort out how this collection is going to be made and she may well want to say a few words.’
There were only three days to go now before the concert, which had escalated into rather a grand affair. Extra chairs had been ordered (not, as originally planned, from the village hall, but from a firm of caterers who had been called in to provide the simple supper) and Hugh, star of the show, was being handled by Kattie with sweet blandishment, lest his almost-bereaved state should cause him to falter. But Hugh seemed remarkably perky this morning.
Talking over their coffee when Hugh, ridiculous cloak reinforced with a huge silver brooch recently bought by Dorelia in a junk shop, had left to visit Marjorie Pelham, Angela and Kattie decided that Anna’s defection was, now the shock had subsided, a relief.
‘And after all I don’t suppose it was that much of a shock,’ said Kattie, rather nastily for her. ‘He spent most of his time away from home, and when he wasn’t there she always had lots of men hovering around. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if…’ and she nodded her head towards the sunlit pool on the table where Juanita, snug in her basket, slept on.
‘How can you say that Kattie!’ Angela was beginning to enjoy this conversation.
‘Well, obviously I happen to know when the poor little sweet was born, and I recall quite distinctly that at the time when we can reasonably assume conception took place, Hugh was here. For about six weeks. And I don’t remember Anna and Hugh getting together during that time. Not at all. I suppose I could be wrong though,’ she added hastily, a little chastened by the enormity of the scandal she was spreading.
Kattie looked very pretty that morning, a pink flush on her cheeks and her exuberant hair pinned up. But wispy curls escaped, the brown-gold tendrils framing her face. Angela thought that the glow and the restless excitement were due entirely to the forthcoming christening concert. But she was wrong. Kattie had decided to appropriate little Juanita by whatever means she could. Foster her, adopt her, but she wanted to bring her up as her own daughter. She had spoken briefly to Clem last night as they lay in bed. Then she had used the word ‘adoption’. Clem sighed mightily, recognizing Kattie’s insatiable need to possess. He sniffed.
‘That nightie thing of yours – it still smells a little musty.’
‘Oh dear.’ She was distracted. ‘Yes, I thought it did. Washing it by hand doesn’t really do the trick. I wonder if it would survive the machine?’
Kattie, who could afford to buy silk designer nighties if she wanted, or do as everyone else did and buy from Marks and Spencer, still persisted in traipsing round ‘Granny’s Attic’ or making forays to Saturday morning jumble sales or second hand stalls. There she rummaged until she found hand-stitched broderie anglaise or flounced crepe de Chine nightgowns. She then spent an inordinate amount of time and care washing and mending the undoubtedly beautiful garments that had been happily sacrificed by owners only too pleased to make do with easy-care polyester. But Kattie was not to be sidetracked for long.
‘About little Ju. Anna clearly doesn’t want her. No mother who can go swanning off to America with a new man leaving a tiny baby behind deserves to have the child back. You know that we were talking, well thinking, about another one of our own before it’s absolutely too late …’ Clem shuddered. ‘Well, it all seems so obvious, doesn’t it?’
‘It can’t be quite as simple as that, sweetheart. We can’t just commandeer the child. And then there’s Hugh to consider.’
‘Oh, Hugh!’ Kattie rolled towards Clem and pushed her head through the crook of his arm to lay it on his shoulder, disturbing his view of the catalogue he was browsing through.
‘Oh, Hugh!’ he mimicked, putting the book down.
It did seem simple and obvious to Kattie. Notwithstanding all the legal fiddle and procedure, the fact remained that the baby was here, lying happily in her basket beside the bed, while her mother was halfway across the world.
But Kattie said nothing of all this to Angela. She got up to pour some more coffee and to load the washing machine, hoping that the lace tucks on the new nightie would withstand the programme.
‘How’s Billy?’
‘He’s apparently on his way here.’
‘What? Is that what your letter is all about?’
‘Yes. Well, I think so. It’s all a bit odd. Look at it and tell me what you think.’
Kattie took the flimsy letter, which she noted was streaked with dirt, and read the short message. It was undated, but postmarked Les Meaunes three days earlier.
‘As I’ve heard nothing from you, I assume that my travel arrangements as outlined in my last letter meet with your approval. No need to meet me at the station.’ It was, Kattie noticed with a jolt of anger, unsigned.
‘But you never said Billy was coming over here.’
‘I didn’t know. That’s what I can’t understand. I’ve had no other letters from him, apart from one when I arrived. I haven’t even answered that one,’ said Angela, guiltily.
‘I’m not sure where we can put him. I suppose if he doesn’t mind, there’s Fergus’s old room,’ said Kattie. It never occurred to either of them that Angela’s husband should share her bedroom.
‘I don’t want him to come here,’ said Angela, quickly.
‘But we can’t just turn him away.’ Kattie was shocked. ‘You didn’t leave in the middle of a blazing row, did you? I mean what were the – the terms of your going away?’ she said, delicately.
‘There weren’t any terms, really. But, since I’ve been here– and I do realize I can’t stay here for ever, Kattie, and I won’t – I know that there is absolutely no point in my living with Billy again. I don’t even feel I want to see him again. I’d rather just, well, sweep him under the carpet!’ said Angela, solemnly.
Kattie, trying to look just as solemn, started to snigger at the impossible image. She caught Angela’s eye and the pair of them laughed immoderately and helplessly while the dirty little note from Billy lay unconsidered on the table between them.
‘Do you know, Marjorie, I have always conside
red the assumption that it is our duty to forget the dead, to carry on living as though they had simply not happened, to return to normal as soon as possible, to be one of extreme arrogance and in the worst possible taste.’ Hugh had never consciously thought any such thing but, excited by Marjorie Pelham’s undivided attention on the renewal of their acquaintance, was becoming increasingly expansive.
Hugh and Marjorie Pelham were getting on famously. She had recognized him instantly as an old friend of her son’s. Here it must be said that while Hugh had admired the younger boy enormously and had been his good companion for a short while, joining him in several escapades, Toby had eventually ‘seen through’ Hugh and had dropped him, sensing a character flaw which would never be mended. But he had never communicated this much to his mother, who knew only of their old friendship and welcomed Hugh with much cordiality.
For all Hugh’s faults (and not least among these was an inability to be honest, especially with himself), there existed in his nature a genuine liking for people. Right now, sensing Marjorie’s preoccupation, he was enlarging on the callousness of human nature that did not allow room in the soul for the dead. For the moment Marjorie impressed him with her sense of communication with her husband and son. He was touched by the way of life she led, which so fully embraced the unseen. But it did not occur to him that perhaps he would be able to enrich his own life with spiritual communication with his own departed family. He was, as Kattie had correctly guessed, beginning to feel relief – tinged perhaps just a little with regret that such a bright bird of passage as Anna had flown away.
They had discussed Angela and had agreed that her only salvation lay within herself and her ability, or not as the case might be, to work creatively once more. They talked about Toby and his father, and then Hugh had held forth at length on his much aired grievance that artists should not have to worry about material comfort whilst they were working. Marjorie brought in home-made bread with some cheese and salad, which Hugh wolfed down happily. Then he remembered his errand.