The trouble was that three years later, though everything was still going well, she found herself trapped, journeying round and round the same restrictive circuit. Occasionally she was invited to “guest,” as they put it, in a few churches somewhat further afield, which she was happy to do, and also to take part in various “evenings of clairvoyance,” which she always refused. But fame, as experienced by Doris Stokes, who Ava now knew all about, remained elusive. Like most of the other mediums she came across, outside the limited world of spiritual and psychic practice Ava Garret was still a nobody. And the money was no great shakes either.
At this point, perhaps recognising she had drifted somewhat from her glowing representation of an outstanding oracle to her visitors, Ava suddenly stopped speaking. Then, with an artificial start of Eureka-type astonishment she clapped her hands and cried, “How fortunate that we have met. You’ll need advice, of course. Practical, artistic, psychic. I will sit in on your Blithe Spirit rehearsals. No—but me no buts. I won’t hear a word against it. The matter’s settled.”
“Notice how she veered off when you brought up the question of that last visitation?”
“Of course I noticed!”
“No need to be snippy. If it wasn’t for me telling her you were in the business you’d have got zilch.”
“As far as any helpful research is concerned I did get zilch. We heard her life story—”
“Boy,” said Nicolas, chewing on a frangipane, “did we hear her life story.”
“But I couldn’t pin her down as to how the actual experience of transmission felt.”
“Probably indescribable.” He pushed his plate aside. “Like these tarts.”
“Mine’s all right.”
They were in the Secret Garden Tea Rooms, having decided that all that listening had left them in dire need of more refreshment. Sitting at a little window table they watched the world go by. There wasn’t much going on at half-past five on a warm Sunday afternoon. A few people wandered past. Some backpackers sat on the kerb licking ice lollies.
“Let’s walk round a bit before we go and see the folks,” said Cully. “It’s such a lovely day.”
Nicolas went to pay the bill. The proprietress was behind the cash desk. She didn’t put herself out on the charm front. Experience had taught her to recognise those who might become regular customers from the passing trade.
Nicolas, recalling the terraced houses on either side and spotting a brick wall through the café’s rear window asked, faux naïf: “Where is the actual garden, then?”
“That’s the secret, smarty pants.”
Nicolas gave her one of his warmest smiles. “My mother made cakes just like yours.”
“Really?” The sour lemon pucker of her lips loosened slightly.
“Mm.” He retrieved the pound coin he had left under the saucer and slipped it into his pocket. “They were actually cited in the divorce petition.”
As they emerged, hand in hand, into the sunshine Nicolas said, “Whatever happened to have a nice day?”
“Don’t be pathetic. You surely don’t think they mean it?”
“I’ve no problem with people who are insincerely pleasant. It’s the sincerely unpleasant that get up my nose.”
They wandered round the village, unwilling wholeheartedly to admire what Nico described as yucky, picture-postcard kitsch, yet drawn into the quiet, apparent serenity of the place in spite of themselves.
“Take that, for instance.” Nicolas scornfully faced an exquisite, tiny thatched cottage with mullioned windows. “Half a dozen peasants used to live in that six-figure biscuit box. Mud floors, chickens scratching about, water coming through the roof, children in rags…”
“That was then, darling.” Cully took her husband’s hand and led him across the lane, past a vast orchard of apple trees and towards the parish church of St. Anselm’s. “And since when have you cared tuppence for the peasants?”
“True, true.” Nicolas laughed. “Mind, to be fair, I don’t expect they ever cared tuppence for me.”
They wandered around the churchyard, looking for interesting gravestones. Some were quite new and shining, addressing rectangles of sparkling white or green gravel. Others were so old the inscriptions were almost worn away. A few of these were listing dangerously and one had fallen on its back. Some graves, even more ancient, were just gentle bumps in the ground. They were so numerous it was difficult not to walk on them.
“Careful, Nico.”
“What?”
“Look where you’re standing.”
“They won’t know.” But he moved all the same. “God, I am so incredibly glad that I’m not dead.”
“Me too.”
“So utterly overwhelmingly mind-blowingly glad. Imagine, no more first-night parties.”
“Or last-night parties.”
“No more applause.”
“No bacon and eggs at Groucho’s.”
“No Margaritas at Joe Allen’s.”
“Or frocks from Ghost.”
“No sunrise.”
“Or sunsets.”
“No sex.”
“Oh, Nico. Worst of all.”
“I shouldn’t worry. In twenty years’ time they’ll have found a way to keep us immortal.” He turned, looking backwards at a splendid Norman tower. “D’you want to look round?”
“I’d rather go.” Running from the impartial cruelty of time passing Cully was already halfway down the rose-brick path, calling over her shoulder, “It’ll be locked anyway.”
Nicolas caught up with her at the lych-gate. Saw shadows fall across her face as she slipped through. Thought they were caused by leaves in the elm trees. Then was not sure.
“You all right, Mrs. Bradley?”
“Fine.” No Mum and Dad. No terrible meals and touching hints about possible grandchildren. No bear hugs and garden cuttings or surprise presents. No sensible, loving advice…
“Oh, shit. Sorry.”
“Here.” Nicolas offered his hanky and drew her close. “Have a good blow.”
“Sometimes I hate loving people, don’t you?”
“No. Not when you think of the alternative.” He paused. “C’mon let’s hear it for the Lion King.”
Cully trumpeted loudly into the handkerchief. Gently Nicolas wiped her tears away. Then they linked arms and walked back into the street. Just a few yards further it humped itself into a bridge with a little carved parapet. They leaned over together and listened to the fast running water rattling the pebbles. Diamond-bright water; crystal clear.
“We could bottle this,” suggested Nicolas. “Make our fortune.”
“Those sheep are pooing in it.”
“Added minerals.” Nicolas pulled out some loose change before replacing his hanky. “I think we should throw money in. Like people do at the Trevi Fountain.”
“That’s because they want to return, silly.”
But Nicolas threw his money in anyway. He tossed a fistful high into the air and it descended in a glittering shower to lie winking and sparkling on the sandy bed of the stream.
By nightfall every coin had been removed by village children and consequently Nicolas and Cully never returned to Forbes Abbot. On the other hand Cully’s father, a detective chief inspector in the Criminal Investigation Department of nearby Causton, got to know it very well indeed.
14
Like all villages Forbes Abbot had its down side. There was more to it than the bijou constellation of Barrett homes with their fake leaded windowpanes, swirls of bubble glass and electric carriage lamps. More than the few large, beautiful old houses in their own grounds, the renovated Edwardian terrace and carefully restored nineteenth-century cottages. Unfortunately there were also council houses.
The blessing was that these, of which there were around twenty in the form of a crescent, had been sensibly constructed right on the edge and so could be fairly easily ignored. Of course, they were full of people who would insist on going in and coming out, but most of th
em appeared to have cars and shopped in bulk at Asda or Tesco, which mainly kept them free of the local Spar. It was grudgingly admitted that nearly all the houses had well-cared-for gardens and clean curtains. Some were even privately owned with fancy front doors and lemon mock stone cladding. Even so, living there, confided the upside residents to each other, definitely constituted a stigma.
The majority of the council tenants had no idea they constituted a stigma and wouldn’t have given a monkey’s had anyone been brave or foolish enough to point it out. But there was one exception. Returning from the Middle East seven months pregnant, Ava Garret had been reluctantly taken in by her now elderly parents. Rows started almost immediately and, contrary to all received wisdom, nothing changed once the baby was born. Ava’s mother, barely able to cope with the stairs and already on the waiting list for a council bungalow, made some increasingly urgent phone calls, and when Karen was six months old, she and her husband moved out.
Ava stayed on in sole possession of a modern, two-and-a-bit bedroomed, centrally heated home on which both the rent and council tax were paid. Far from being grateful she seethed with resentment. Removing the number of her house and renaming it Rainbow Lodge merely confused the postman. The neighbours, who laughed at her pretensions, had not always been unkind. When she was first on her own they would ask her round for a cup of tea and a chat. A surplus of allotment vegetables occasionally appeared on her doorstep. The family next door even offered to sit with Karen in an emergency. But gradually it became clear that, though Ava proved to be the world’s greatest taker, giving was not her bag. Gradually people came to see that they were simply being made use of and the offers of help dried up. Ava was not surprised. It was the story of her life. Everyone all sugary smarmy till they got what they wanted, then you could be on fire and they wouldn’t widdle on you to put it out.
However, no such resentments clouded her thoughts on the morning after her most recent appearance at the Church of the Near at Hand. In fact Ava sat at the kitchen table as near to happy as she had been for years. Two things had happened within the past seven days, that looked fair to turning her fortunes round. The latest was her meeting with Cully Barnaby, which reawakened in Ava all her early dreams of theatrical success. And how understanding the young actress had been. How intelligent her questions. How impressed by everything that she, Ava, had had to say. Heavens, the husband even took notes!
And to be invited to the theatre as a consultant. It would be the legitimate theatre too, not some sleazebag cesspit in Soho crammed with fawn raincoats jacking off under the Evening Standard. She wondered what the pay would be like. If they would offer a fixed sum and expect her to be available when needed or if she would be asked to attend every rehearsal. If that was the case she would insist on a taxi, door to door. Either that or a hired car. You had to make your status clear from the very beginning or no one would respect you.
Ava lit her first cigarette of the day, sorted through a stack of junk mail and pulled out a leaflet about a carpet sale in Pinner. On the back she wrote “Almeeda,” underlined it, chewed on her pen for a moment then added, “Blithe Spirit.” She must get hold of a script, that was the first thing. Spending money would hurt but it was in a good cause. The film, which she had seen on the box a year or so ago, was now just a memory. Anyway, the play – and it had been news to Ava that there was a play – was bound to be completely different. When people made movies out of books and such they always changed everything.
“Clothes.” Clothes were vital. If you looked the part you were home and dry, and in show business that meant glamour. She could not turn up at the theatre in the boring old things she wore to drive to church meetings—ordinary skirts or trousers, a padded jacket, her old camel coat. Fortunately she had some money. A sudden windfall had dropped into her hands a few days ago. Just in time, as it happened, to accommodate this second stroke of luck. An omen if ever there was one. Her stars had been spot on as well: “A meeting with a stranger could expand your horizons.”
Ava decided to go up West to get the things. She saw herself making an entrance and knocking them dead, like she had at auditions in the old days. A dress some way above the knees – her legs were still good – and matching coat. Or a really stunning trouser suit in cream with a patterned shirt, possibly turquoise or aquamarine, matching earrings and her tan slingbacks from Dolcis sale, still in their box at the back of the wardrobe. She must also get a smart briefcase for her copy of Blithe Spirit.
Next, hair. Ava chewed on her pen for a while then wrote “ends trimed plus rinse.” Of course the colour must be in no way frivolous. Her natural shade, faded mouse, was commonly enhanced by Strawberry Fayre highlights but wouldn’t they be rather inappropriate? Partyfied rather than workmanlike? She decided to go for Autumn Leaves, a warm chestnut plus an ash-grey streak to denote competence and sincerity. Here Ava paused and reflected briefly on her mother who had recently died (thank you, God). About the only sensible bit of advice Mrs. Bunton had ever passed on was: “Get your hair right, everything else falls into place.” And in spite of the fact that her own had always resembled a supernova of rusty iron filings, Ava believed her mother, then and to this day.
She stubbed out her cigarette in a smear of marmalade and poured some more tea. Overhead Karen was clumping about in some shoes she had got off a girl at school in exchange for doing her homework. They were ridiculous, Ava thought. Hideous even. Dull black leather with ankle straps and platform soles so high they looked like surgical boots.
“That’s right,” she had said as Karen had proudly staggered through the front door, “break your bloody neck.” It never occurred to her that the child might know she looked ridiculous but still longed to wear what everyone else was wearing.
Roy, the paying guest, on nights this week, was sleeping upstairs. He had been staying at Rainbow Lodge for around eighteen months. Since, in fact, he had come to the end of his time in the children’s home at Causton. Of course, the neighbours had shopped Ava. Couldn’t wait. Living off the fat of the land already, wasn’t she? On the social, drawing child allowance, housing allowance, family allowance, fucking ferret-keeping allowance as like as not, and now subletting and pocketing the divvy. I should cocoa, said righteous Fred Carboy (invalidity benefit/moonlighting for Cox’s MiniCabs), residing dead opposite and well placed to observe chicanery in his near neighbours.
The powers that be called round. Ava swore Roy was staying temporarily, doing the garden and decorating the house in lieu of rent. Roy, desperate for a real home in a real house instead of yet more hostel accommodation, backed her up. He pretended to leave after a couple of weeks, then came back, then went again, and after a bit more of this toing and froing the neighbours gave up trying to cause trouble and Roy stayed for good.
Karen had been pleased. She liked Roy. He was going to be a comedian one day and was always trying out jokes. Also he was interested in a lot of weird things. Ancient civilisations: Egypt and the Pharaohs and King Arthur and magic and dragons. In fact his main reason for helping out at the Near at Hand was to learn how to raise the dark forces and use them to his advantage. But he wasn’t at all frightening himself and often brought little treats home from Tesco where he worked mainly in the warehouse, but also filling shelves if someone was off sick.
Alas, Roy’s rent, which Karen had assumed would really make a difference to their pretty constrained lives, didn’t. At least not to hers. Her mother smoked more and better quality cigarettes and fresh pots of cream and stuff started appearing in the bathroom but the food didn’t change and Karen still had to get all her clothes from charity shops. As Ava crossly explained when asked if there might now be some pocket money, seventy-five pounds went nowhere these days. If Karen wanted money, she’d have to earn it. Other kids did. What was wrong with a paper round? But you needed a bike for a paper round.
Now Karen, having safely tottered across the landing, began to descend the stairs, tightly gripping the banister. There was a pleasant sme
ll of warm toast.
“Hello, sweetheart,” cried Ava as her daughter safely negotiated the final stair. “Brekkies up.”
Karen paused, hesitated. She almost looked over her shoulder to check that no other person, the “sweetheart” of the greeting, had mysteriously materialised. She wasn’t hungry, but who could resist such a welcome?
“Great—thanks.” The table was full of rubbish: dirty plates and cutlery, a huge glass ashtray brimming with scarlet-tipped butts, an empty jam jar, a scraping of marge in a saucer, the Evening Standard. “I’ll get some cornflakes then.”
But Ava had already gone back to her writing. Karen found a waxed bag with a rubber band round it and shook out the few remaining fragments. She added some UHT milk (£1.50 for a packet of six). Unopened it kept for ever. You bought it off a lorry on the market. The side rolled down and things were stacked really high inside. Everything was past its sell-by date and some of the tins were rusty and had labels you’d never heard of but it was all incredibly cheap. Karen sat down, then got up again to move the ashtray, which smelled disgusting.
“If you’re making a list we want some more cereals.”
Ava immediately put her arm around the bit of paper like a child at school. Not that she was embarrassed to reveal that she was planning to treat herself but because Karen would then know she had some money and would begin looking for it. She’d probably tell Roy too, just to start something. The pair of them were as thick as thieves.
“I’m just making some preliminary notes for when I’m called to rehearsals. Aahh—Blithe Spirit’s such an enchanting play.”
“Good idea.” Karen left it at that, though she had been present at the conversation with Cully Barnaby and knew that any future involvement was all in her mother’s mind. It wasn’t easy to keep silent. When Ava discovered her mistake all in the immediate vicinity would suffer from the fallout. Would be castigated and lectured as if caught out in some crafty misdemeanour. Her ability to shift blame was awesome. On the other hand, attempting to point out any error in advance could also bring about unpleasant repercussions. Either way you couldn’t win.
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