by Angela Huth
Then her trilby fell off, papers splattered to the ground. Martin was at once helpful, protective, bending, carrying, taking her arm, laughing, kissing her cheek several times. Ralph stood watching the small loving scene, unable to speak.
Often, over the years that followed, Ralph wondered why neither Martin nor Ursula had guessed at his curious love. Naturally, he had never said a word, being a man of honour towards his friends, or even indulged in the sort of sly hint that Frances sometimes let forth. But he spent much time with the Knoxes, in their house or his: they went on holidays together, he was godfather to their daughter, Sarah. Frequently, when Martin was working, he entrusted Ursula to Ralph’s care. They would go for walks, see a film, have dinner. In Ralph Ursula confided all the searing hatred she felt for the City of Oxford, and in return listened to his stories about his slight, always unsatisfactory, affairs. In public their fondness was revealed in bear hugs of greeting (deeply disturbing to Ralph) which plainly meant nothing more than affection to Ursula: never once had she indicated that, to her, their relationship might overstep the boundaries of friendship. In private, Ursula’s air of vague distance was a bridge Ralph was helpless to cross. His silent suffering, undiminished, responded to no antidote. It remained the most secret fact of his life.
This evening he drove from his cottage near Oxford to the Knoxes’ house. Beside him, on the passenger seat, a short-haired, blue-grey cat lay sleeping. It was not his cat. He had found it on his doorstep one evening a month ago, crouching tensely. Ralph remembered cat-loving friends declaring cats ‘found’ people. Ralph was no cat lover. He had no wish to be found by a cat. But an hour later, it was still there: impassive. Ralph gave it a bowl of milk and was rewarded with a grateful look in its elongated, opal eyes. But still it made no signs of leaving. Later that night, it mewed so pitifully that Ralph, knowing such a move was unwise, let it in to spend the night in the kitchen.
He had made enquiries in the village, but no one knew who the cat belonged to, or where it came from. Its strength of character showed in its determination to make Ralph’s cottage its home. Apart from that, it was a docile creature though the pale eyes, staring, staring, sometimes caused Ralph a nameless feeling of unease.
When, after a month, no owner had come to claim the orphan cat, he decided it was time to act. His first idea was to give it to Ursula. The second, better idea, swiftly followed. He would give it to Sarah, his enchanting goddaughter. At the age of nine, she had never had an animal and frequently requested one, to no avail. Here, then, was her chance. Ralph was excited by his inspiration. Sarah would get her cat, and he would have a good excuse for a midweek visit to the Knox household.
His day’s writing at an end, he had shared his tea with the cat, stroked it, held it, been unusually friendly. The cat, wise thing, was suspicious. When Ralph lifted it into the car, it had arched its back and lashed a suddenly indignant tail. But the motion of the car seemed to soothe, and it appeared to doze quite happily.
Ralph drove slowly through the lanes. He had not telephoned to say he was coming – the Knoxes were used to his dropping in at all times. He was always welcome.
It was warm in the car, stuffy, with a slight smell of peppermint. The thrill Ralph always felt on going to see Ursula sharpened his senses. The May green of trees and hedgerows, sequinned still with rain from an earlier shower, dazzled his eyes. He thought of Ursula. In ten minutes he would be with her. Ridiculously happy, he patted the sleeping cat. He could feel the brittle geography of its bones beneath the blue-grey fur, and was glad he had decided to give it away.
* * *
Ursula Knox, who spent much of her time planning how to get out of Oxford, had had the kind of busy day she most enjoyed. Having dropped the children at school, she had driven to Somerset to deliver plants to a client. On the way back, in her eternal quest to find someone who could make her romantic shoes, she had stopped in Gloucestershire to visit a local cobbler. Then she had lost her way trying to find a remote house in which lived a dealer in antique paste jewellery, a woman she had recently met at a rural antiques fair. The journey had been worth it: she bought a rare and beautiful French paste brooch in the shape of a lyre. There would be few occasions on which she could wear such a thing in Oxford, where any sartorial effort upon the part of a don’s wife was considered frivolous. But, as she would explain to Martin later, the brooch was not only a bargain, but an investment. Bargains and investments of this kind were the stuff of Ursula’s private life. The pleasure she had in tracking down, and often finding, pretty but inexpensive jewellery, was not something she ever tried to explain to Martin or the children. Martin proudly admitted she had ‘an eye’, and admired her growing collection. But stories of her small adventures among eccentric antique dealers in the West Country would mean nothing to him. Ralph was the only person in whom she could confide her observations of the intriguing worlds in which she found herself. Ralph was always interested.
Ursula had planned to make up for her lost day (lost in business terms only, that is) by working all evening. It was to be an unusual evening, alone. The children were at a local circus with friends, returning after supper. Martin was dining in College.
In the chaos of a North Oxford kitchen (murmurous fridge, Hockney prints, clumps of unwashed saucepans awaiting attention in the sink), she sat at the table absorbed in horticultural catalogues. She had cleared a space for her drawing pad and pencils. They were enclosed by a hedge of the sort of things that for ever seemed to gather on the table – two pots of sweet geraniums, one jug of lilac, a bottle of homemade apple juice, three novels, a jar of sugarless marmalade, a toy dolphin, a school scarf, and the paste lyre, sparkling in its open box. Ursula, glancing at this exotic barrier between herself and the rest of the clutter, smiled to herself: it revealed a good deal about the inhabitants of the house, she thought, in the way that all our possessions portray us. Or did she mean betray?
Such silence! Even the fridge was quiet for a moment. Ursula stretched, revelling. Solitude was infinitely precious to her, all the more valuable for its rarity. Had she not married Martin and had the children, she would – she liked to think – have been happy spending her life alone, in some remote part of the country. Family life had uncovered the charms of solitude for her. Small, innocent but private spaces were essential to the sanity of all married couples, she had soon discovered, and she made sure that these parts of her life were as much a priority as her duties to Martin and the children.
Ursula bent her head over the pristine graph paper, drew a confident line with the lethally sharp lead of her pencil. She always loved such beginnings. It was later, changing details to accommodate the whim of an ignorant customer, that things became tedious. Mrs Robbins, whose Iffley garden she was presently designing, had been insistent about the inclusion of a great deal of York stone. She wanted a curving path that led to a hideous statue. She wanted terraces on various levels; she wanted steps leading to nowhere, rockeries, goldfish ponds, and stone troughs with plants that would survive with no care. Such suburban taste was abhorrent to Ursula, but she was in no position, just yet, to turn down valuable commissions. And at least the plants had been left entirely to her choice. Mrs Robbins’s only knowledge of flowers came from cellophaned bunches from Interflora. Ursula planned to surprise her. The amount of bulbs she would find between the stones next spring. . . . Ursula drew a second, parallel curving line – a nice fat path for Mrs Robbins. It would be a path wide enough for all her fat cocktail friends. Ursula pictured them: cigarettes lolling in red mouths, puffy hands pecking at the avocado dip, patio people, stilettos firm on stone, haters of grass. One day perhaps she would be asked to design a wild garden.
Ursula concentrated. The thin rasp of her pencil was the only sound. Late sun flared on the protruding saucepan handles at the sink, but the rest of the room was in shadow. It was never filled with light. North Oxford was a dark place. Its glowering ruddy houses soaked up any sun that managed to penetrate its sullen trees. Marti
n had always promised they would leave, eventually. Eventually. . . . How imprecise a word. The waiting to leave, starved of light, of sun, of abundant proof of changing seasons, of earth, might one day drive her mad. This was Ursula’s greatest fear. But this evening, blissfully alone, she was determined not to allow herself melancholy thoughts. To finish Mrs Robbins’s stony garden was her only aim.
The bang of the front door broke the happy silence. Ralph’s hurrying footsteps. I can’t bear it, Ursula thought. Not tonight. Not Ralph. She heard him fling open the door behind her. She heard his usual cry of delight.
‘You’re in! Wonderful!’
Ralph’s eyes quickly attuned to the husky light. The funny greenish colours of Ursula’s tousled hair matched the leaves of protective geraniums crowded round her. For an agonising moment her bent head did not move.
‘Oh Lord, you’re seriously at work,’ he observed. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you.’
Ursula swung round, furious angelic face taking him in. He loomed above her, cat in arms, hooded eyes flinging out messages of appeal.
Ursula threw down her pencil, stood up.
‘What’s that cat?’
Ralph licked his lips, tried a small smile. ‘I’ve come to explain. . . .’
‘You know I don’t like cats.’
She saw that his top lip, unfortunately designed prissily to overhang the bottom one, gleamed with a speck of saliva. She held up her cheek. On occasions she did not do this he sought it with undignified haste, sometimes bending down, even pushing back her hair to reach it. Now, as he kissed her, she felt the tiny damp smudge of his saliva.
‘You know I’d never have one,’ she said.
‘It’s not for you. It’s for Sarah.’
‘For Sarah?’
‘She’s gone on so long about wanting an animal. I thought I’d better do something about it. I knew you never would.’
‘I see. And who do you think will have to look after Sarah’s cat? Pay the vet’s bills, have it put down when it’s been run over by a cyclist?’
‘I wouldn’t have gone out and bought it, Urse,’ Ralph interrupted. ‘You know I would never have done that. But this creature just appeared on the doorstep last month, and wouldn’t go.’
‘Very good reason for keeping it. It’s obviously chosen you, as those daft cat people would say.’ She heard the sneer in her voice, knew that any minute she would relent.
‘Don’t be cross.’
‘I’m not cross. At least, not very.’
Ralph’s smile was such an improvement on his serious mouth that it often won her over.
‘It’s a nice enough cat. No trouble.’
‘Cats are always trouble.’
‘Nonsense. You’ll see.’ Ralph lifted the animal onto the table, disliking its thinness once more. It sat very upright, like a china cat, tail curled neatly round its feet. Translucent eyes looked only at Ralph. ‘Where is Sarah?’ he asked.
‘At the circus. She’ll be back about nine.’
‘Sorry to have missed her. Look, if you’re really put out, I’ll take it away again. Find someone else.’
Ursula shrugged. ‘It could stay for a while,’ she said. ‘See how it behaves. See if I can stand it. Drink?’
‘You having one?’
Ursula shook her head. Ralph went to the fridge and took out an opened bottle of white wine. Then he found a wine glass in a cupboard. His knowledge of their kitchen, Ursula thought, was strangely irritating. Guilty at her curtness to him, she tried to sound more mellow.
‘You all right?’ she asked, noticing his paleness.
‘Fine.’
Ursula detected despair in his single, flat response. The cat did not blink, did not move.
‘Martin’s dining in College,’ she said, ‘but I don’t mind cooking something if you’d like to stay.’
Ralph’s mind accelerated with wild, impolite alternatives to plans already made. He could always put the Farthingoes off. . . .
‘I thought you were working?’
‘I am.’
But he was determined to be strong. ‘Thanks very much, but I’m dining with Frances and Toby. I’m on the way.’
‘You’ll be able to ask them why they’re giving their second ball in two years.’
‘We all know the answer to that. Frances has to be occupied. Organising a huge party, she tells me, takes an enormous amount of work. Not a moment left to think.’
‘Poor Frances. I don’t know what she’d do with a moment to think.’
Ralph finished his wine. Ursula picked up the invitation from a pile of opened letters on the dresser.
‘Years ago, it would have been something to look forward to,’ she said.
‘Don’t you like parties any more?’ He felt he sounded like a stranger.
‘Oh, sometimes. Not this huge, elaborate kind, chuntering around with other people’s husbands.’
‘I’ll dance with you. I’m not a husband.’
‘No.’
Faint smile. No hope of the idea thrilling her, thought Ralph.
‘It just might be fun.’
‘Doubt it.’
Ursula sat down again. She wanted to return to her drawing. The way to get rid of Ralph was to tease him about Frances.
‘You know why I think Frances plans these parties? Apart from something to do? Her real reason is so that she has a chance to dance with you.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ said Ralph crossly. He hated to hear such truths, even from Ursula.
‘You know perfectly well she’s been dotty about you for years.’
‘That’s something I don’t ever want to think about. It may not even be true any more. People come to their senses eventually.’
‘I don’t know about that. Unrequited love takes a tremendous hold on people. Sometimes, they don’t even want to shake it off.’
They looked at each other. Ralph licked his lips again. The cat’s eyes were still upon him.
‘What will it need?’ asked Ursula, after a while.
‘A basket, I should think. I’ll bring you one.’
‘No, Ralph. You’re always bringing me things.’
How could he help it?
‘I’ll bring it for Sarah. Look, you must get back to work. Sorry I disturbed you. I must go.’
Ursula picked up her pencil, sighed. He was easy to offend. She did not want to offend him.
‘I met a cobbler in Gloucestershire today,’ she said quietly. Ralph was also easy to pacify, with small fragments of the life no others would find interesting. ‘His workshop was by a millpond – you could hear the water all day. He had shelves and shelves of different leathers. I left him some designs. You know, the kind of silly shoes I’m always looking for. He had the most amazing eyes.’
Ralph smiled at last. He picked up the paste lyre from its box. The cat, barely moving, shifted its glance to watch him.
‘And this?’
‘A bargain. From a rabbit breeder in Somerset. I tracked her down, as well as the cobbler.’
‘You’re so clever. You do have a funny life.’
‘It’s fun.’
‘Bye.’ Ralph kissed the top of her head. Left.
Returned to silence, Ursula felt the sadness she often experienced on Ralph’s going. She had disappointed him. She nearly always disappointed him. But what could she give, apart from friendship? To be loved by someone whom you did not love in the same way was full of awkwardness, she found. It was a responsibility from which she longed to be released, but did not know how to set about it.
She tried to return to her work. But the previous mood of the evening, fragile as eggshell, had been cracked beyond repair. And the weird cat still had not moved. It stared ahead at the door from which Ralph had left.
‘Cat?’ she said.
But it would not look at her.
* * *
The early evening sun had given no warmth to the Farthingoes’ vicarage. Sumptuously Victorian, it was a cold house. Always cold. Drau
ghts brushed in small tides across dark polished floors. Mean wood fires, on the occasions they were lighted, were apathetic in their struggle against the chill. Unhungry flames kneaded damp logs for many hours before releasing an ineffectual warmth.
The house was also dark. Majestic Pugin wallpapers rose to high ceilings. Elaborate cornices of deep-stained wood lent the rooms an ecclesiastical air. Tall windows, shaped like shields looked onto vast cedars of Lebanon, in the garden, that had taken root three centuries ago. Their snarled branches were pale as pith, as if skinned by the years: their needles so dark a green they seemed quite black. The cedars protected the house from sunlight, cast their magnificent gloom through the windows in all seasons.
Toby Farthingoe liked all these things; ‘small defects’, as the estate agent had put it, which had deterred many a potential buyer. He had secured the house very cheaply. He loved the dark, the chill, the rich austerity, the orchestration of sounds denied to a carpeted house. He had given firm orders to his wife that, here, nothing should be prettified: only in the bedroom could she have her way. For this house, as he had instantly felt on finding it, and the feeling had grown ever since, was definitely his. In return, he gave the London flat to Frances – a place that meant no more to him than a hotel – and had enjoyed watching her spend money on it. He marvelled how the purchase of elaborate curtains and finickity lamps could give a woman so much pleasure.
His order of no carpets meant that the vicarage was full of noises that gave constant delight. Toby revelled in the changing timbre of footsteps as people moved from wooden floors – muffled taps, as of gentle dancers, to the flagstone floor of the hall – harsher, chipping sounds. Climbing the stairs slowly, as he did now, he heard the familiar, distinct note of every step. His hand trailed up the handsome bannister, supported by its ‘black, purgatorial rails’, enjoying the slide of polished wood beneath his arched palm. At the half landing there were more reminders of St Agnes’ Eve:
A casement high and triple arched there was,
All garlanded with fruits and flowers, and bunches of knot grass.
And diamonded with panes of quaint device . . .