by Lucy Atkins
She felt as if there was a huge weight sitting on her chest. It was a struggle even to breathe. She was profoundly cold, too. She couldn’t stop shaking.
She might, somehow, survive David’s betrayal and the collapse of her marriage but she didn’t think she could survive if Vivian destroyed her reputation and career too. There were decades of bitterness and resentment inside Vivian waiting to come out. She’d been planning this for years before they even met. This delusion about Archeocopris olivia being her great discovery, perhaps it was that, rather than Bertie, that had made her visit the tower with sharp scissors.
She was completely certain, now, that Vivian had attacked Jess that night. It could only have been Vivian, angry, twisted and tormented by grief, lashing out to hurt her.
Whatever was fuelling this madness – professional bitterness, loneliness, a personality disorder, the childhood trauma – it added up to one thing: Vivian now had power. And Olivia had to stop her from using it.
The claustrophobic fury rose up in her again, layered on top of the fear of what Vivian might do to her. Two urges coexisted inside her, both equally potent: the urge to get away from Vivian, and the need to see this through, to go to the kitchen and scream in Vivian’s face, to do whatever it took make this stop once and for all. She imagined what it would feel like to smash her fists into that square, impassive jaw. Or even to grab that knife.
She followed the limping form back to the kitchen without a word. She had no idea what Vivian was planning, but she had no option other than to stay and find out.
Vivian
Ileford Manor
I fetch the pigeons from the scullery shelf. The routine of cooking is oddly calming and despite being unable to rest any weight on my knee I feel a sense of control returning.
I lie the first bird on its back on the chopping board so that its downy chest is exposed. I get out the heavy-bottomed frying pan. I open the fridge, ignoring the smell – I haven’t had much energy for cleaning lately – and take out the pat of butter. Out of the corner of my eye I see Olivia enter the kitchen and sit, heavily, at the table. Her body looks very upright and stiff. I cannot imagine what is going through her mind.
I don’t want her to suffer, but I know I must be quiet for a while to let her settle. Resting my weight on one leg, I begin to rip feathers from the marshmallow dome of the bird’s breast. As I tear upwards, towards its throat, its fragile craw opens and gapes at me like a little red mouth. I can see its last meal, dull coins of corn and oval sunflower seeds filched from a garden bird feeder. The collective noun for pigeons is a ‘passel’, an indefinite quantity, uncountable, impossible to pin down.
I consider sharing this snippet with Olivia, but then I decide that she might not find an observation about collective nouns very interesting right now.
I take the paring knife from the rack and make a quick incision in the goose-pimpled breast, then I open up its dark, internal blush. I follow the ribcage down, severing sinews until my blade meets a rib. Then I tug out the breast, separating it from the skin, sloughing off the oyster-coloured tendrils of fat. It is all swiftly done. I put the limp carcass aside and do the same to the next bird.
‘They’re pests, you know,’ I say, as I peel and slice a clove of garlic. ‘Completely out of control as a species. They do terrible damage to the crops.’
But she is silent. She does not want to make small talk. I hear her swallow as I drop a knob of butter into the pan and switch on the flame, watching the golden dollop melt away. I hope she can get past whatever violent emotions she is trying to control right now and enjoy the meal. I don’t just want to feed her, I want her to relish the eating. She needs fattening up too. She is beginning to look scrawny, presumably from the stress and uncertainty.
‘Butter, garlic and Middle Farm cider,’ I say. ‘Wood pigeon used to be Bertie’s favourite.’ I sprinkle slices of garlic into the bubbling butter, followed by the breasts, one at a time. They sizzle. They smell very good. ‘Though of course he always had his raw.’
‘Is this somehow about Bertie, Vivian?’ Her voice is hoarse.
‘No. I do know that was an accident. You did lie about it which was very wrong and hurtful, but that’s in the past now. I’ll probably be able to forgive you for it, eventually.’
Her voice is almost a whisper. ‘This is just brutal.’
I push the pigeon meat around the fizzing pan, then limp to the cupboard for the plastic jug of cider. I don’t want to be brutal. In fact, I feel rather the opposite about her, now that she seems so fragile. The biggest problem is my knee, which is in quite serious pain. Perhaps this makes me sound less tolerant than I feel.
‘Brutal is casting someone aside when they no longer serve your needs,’ I say. ‘Brutal is refusing to introduce a person to your friends because they are unattractive and socially embarrassing.’
‘What are you talking about? I invited you to the launch! I practically begged you to come. And you came, didn’t you? You were there?’
I say nothing.
‘OK. Are you talking about France then? You would never have wanted to come up to the house for dinner, would you? You hate socializing.’
‘I’m rather fond of lobster.’ I grab a metal spatula and slap the pigeon steaks. The butter spits, hisses and clicks. I clear my throat. ‘One thing I would say to you is that you should think carefully about how you treat people who you consider to be your inferiors.’
She says nothing. She is thinking about this, perhaps, going back over that moment in France when her small, strawberry-blonde friend wanted to ask me up and she cut her off and walked away from me. She is also no doubt trying to work out what she can say to make me vanish from her life forever. And she is perhaps trying to control her panic, too, trying to find a way to bring back the persuasiveness, the spin, the Sweetman charisma. Only she can’t quite manage it.
There are about fifty species of dung beetle in the UK and I can identify thirty of them by their behaviour when threatened. Some attack, some scuttle to safety, others spin in bewildered, panicky circles; some play dead, sticking their legs out as if in rigor mortis; some squeak in fear and others bury themselves deeper into their pile of dung. People aren’t so different, really. We all have different ways of coping when under attack. I have not yet worked out what Olivia’s method is but I strongly suspect it is the latter.
‘I need you to understand something, Vivian.’ She sounds tense. ‘This is very important. I didn’t invite you up to the house in France that day because I was freaked out when you appeared in the village like that. I just couldn’t understand what you were doing there. Don’t forget I’ve had a bad experience of being stalked before – you know all about that, of course, but let’s not get into that now. The point is, it was very odd of you to appear like that in France. I don’t know if you appreciate how disturbing that was for me. I didn’t walk away because I felt superior, or embarrassed by you, I walked away because I felt threatened. Rightly, as it turns out.’
I laugh because I was right: she’s a digger. I pour cider onto the breasts and watch the golden liquid bubble, fizz and embrace the butter. I can smell the sweetness of apples mixed with the butter musk. I watch it darken and begin to caramelize. The confusing thing about Olivia is that, in with all the spin, there is always a dash of truth. It can be hard to separate the two.
I remember her comment, when we had the argument about integrity, that all historians are storytellers. She is definitely a fabricator. I think she tells herself stories, lies to herself so brilliantly that sometimes she has no idea what the truth is.
She is waiting for me to answer. She hates to feel powerless. I can’t really think of anything to say because she is right, I have observed her in the past, on occasion. I thought she hadn’t noticed me. It was important to know who she was in order to be sure that I would produce the right bait. And, I suppose, I was curious. Perhaps I became a little obsessed. She is an interesting person to watch. She has her little routine
s too, behaviour patterns that are peculiar to her.
‘When I got back to England,’ she says, slowly, ‘I should have come to see you, but I was too upset about Jess’s hair.’
‘What happened to Jess’s hair?’
‘What happened? I think you know, Vivian! Someone broke into the tower in the middle of the night and cut it off. They took it.’
I look over my shoulder at her then. She is staring right at me and I catch what I think might be a look of hatred in her eyes before she looks down at her hands again. She is not yet tamed, then.
‘Why on earth would someone do that?’ I say.
‘You tell me, Vivian.’
I feel ill, suddenly. The pigeon fat smells too sweet. My knee radiates nasty pain. I know she will never believe me if I tell her that it certainly was not me who cut the child’s hair off. There is no point in protesting my innocence of this nonsensical crime. She has obviously made up her mind that I am the sort of person who would visit a tower with sharp scissors in the middle of the night. This is disappointing, but it can’t be helped.
She is picking at the nail polish on her left thumb with the ring finger of the same hand. There is a pale, indented circle in the flesh. I wonder if it has ever occurred to her how like her father David is, an arrogant charmer who thoroughly believes in his own brilliance, despite evidence to the contrary.
But her marriage is not my concern. I turn my attention back to the pigeon breasts. I don’t want them to burn.
The hair is certainly shocking: a bizarre thing to happen to a child. I am sure Olivia was very upset about it. It was extremely long hair. Golden and wavy. I can’t think of an appropriate comment, so I reach for two plates.
‘That night …’ She really won’t let it go. ‘You were extremely angry, remember? It was the night I told you about Bertie. It happened that same night.’
I think about our horrible conversation in the Café de Paris. I was more distraught, I think, than angry. Though there was anger, definitely. It is an uncomfortable memory. I would rather not think about it. Not now that I have decided to move on.
Perhaps she thinks that if she forces me to confess to cutting her daughter’s hair then she will be able to paint me as a madwoman, a deranged fantasist. She will be able to threaten me with the police, perhaps. Our threats will balance each other out.
I consider telling her that I was, in fact, at the tower that night. I watched the two boys, hers and that other slightly heftier one, just before dawn, stumbling around in the trees and undergrowth, hissing at each other. But of course if I mention this then I will have to enter into a complicated discussion about what I was doing there. Olivia would, I am sure, find it hard to believe that, wakeful and feverish, reeling from the information about Bertie’s death, I found myself driving, somewhat blindly, up the hillside. I do not believe that I had malevolent intentions when I parked just below the gates. The whole episode is a little hazy, but I do remember walking up the stony road, through the open gate and into the courtyard. I remember thinking how eerily quiet it was in the pause of the night, the suspended moment just before the birds awake, that tipping point when stars begin to fade.
I was, I suppose, in deep despair; a night wanderer, a lost soul, a shadowy visitor leaning on the ancient olive tree outside that solitary tower. I could tell her that I watched the two boys flit back through its velvet mouth before I limped down to my car. But, of course, I cannot tell her any of this.
She is still staring at me, waiting for me to confess, I suppose, to stealing her child’s hair.
‘Do you really believe I would do a thing like that?’
‘Honestly?’ She sounds frustrated. ‘Yes, Vivian! After what you’ve told me today, I think yes, you probably did attack her. You probably did.’
I know that she probably doesn’t mean to be so accusatory. I have always found it hard to put myself in other people’s shoes, but I can only assume that some kind of maternal feeling is preventing her from blaming her own son. She is wrong about me, though. I am not a violent person. But we must move on from the hair now. The truth would set neither of us free.
I think about Olivia on the podium at her book launch, in her full-skirted yellow silk dress, Cteniopus sulphureus teetering on her flower tip, thronged by admirers. The room was packed with cognoscenti, the London literati, all that knowledge and power and pretention focused on one object, her. Now look at her. She is bedraggled and fearful, sitting at my table, stripped of her authority, desperately digging, still looking for a way out. Still furious. She is tough, that’s for sure. She is not broken after all. It is going to take a while to win her trust. But I can be very patient.
The pigeon is done. I slide it onto the plates with the spatula. She is shifting around in her seat. She reminds me of a helpless beetle wriggling furiously in a specimen jar. It is alright because I am about to show her that there is a way out. But first I will feed her. Nobody – not even Olivia – can think constructively when hungry.
I pour the caramelized juices over the meat, which is tender and fragrant. I look at the plates, side by side. A pigeon pair. That’s what they used to call boy and girl siblings born close together. Not the same, but inseparable, tied together forever.
I grit my teeth and limp to the table with the plates. She doesn’t move to help me.
‘We’ve both done regrettable things.’ I put the plates down on the table. ‘We’ve both duped and pretended, we’ve both lied, but I don’t think we’re bad people, do you? Neither of us is cruel or evil.’ I ease myself onto the chair opposite her and stick out my leg. ‘So I’d say it’s time to move on, wouldn’t you?’
She peers at me through narrowed eyes. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I have no intention of talking to Joy or Carol or anyone else about the diary.’
‘Really? You don’t?’ She sounds breathless.
‘All history is storytelling, Olivia, you said that yourself. The spirit in which Annabel was written is what matters. What was it you said? “It’s perfectly possible to lie with integrity.” Well, I think the intention behind the book is honourable. Women like Annabel need to be remembered. They paved the way for every female doctor practising today and for female scientists too. I wouldn’t have had my career were it not for the women like Annabel, who shoved aside their embroidery and picked up science books. We should all be reminded of that, shouldn’t we? In a way, the existence of an actual diary isn’t the point, is it? You yourself said that readers accept invention. They want colour. They want something to pin their imagination to.’
She is staring at me. I can see that she is breathing fast.
‘The essence of our story is true,’ I continue. ‘Annabel was real, she really did live here in Ileford a hundred years ago and she really was one of the first women to go to medical school in England. Whether or not she pushed her husband off the minstrel’s gallery is neither here nor there. There’s no evidence that she did, of course, the death certificate records it as accidental, and contemporary sources confirm that he was a drunkard. But, equally, there’s no evidence that she didn’t. I rather like the idea that she shoved him, don’t you? After all, she had everything to gain. With Burley gone, she was free to use his money however she wished and the facts do speak for themselves: she enrolled at medical school almost the moment he died. Historians and scientists actually have a lot in common, when you think about it. We both make imaginative leaps and inspired guesses from time to time. And what was it you said about historians and the truth? “We have to invent the stories that get us there.” So, yes, Olivia, I think we should put all this behind us once and for all. Don’t you?’
The relief on her face is almost comical. ‘Yes.’ She nods, vigorously. ‘God, Vivian. Yes.’
‘Good.’
I realize then that I should have made peas to go with the meat. The two plum-coloured breasts sitting on each plate look small and stark without peas. The sight of them brings a wave of anxiety. They just look wr
ong. I look up at her, but she doesn’t seem to notice my distress. She has splayed her hands on the table, as if supporting her torso. ‘I should have done peas. I always do peas.’
‘No, no,’ she says. ‘It’s fine like this.’ She is lying. Everyone knows there must be peas with pigeon.
‘I have a packet of frozen peas in the freezer.’
‘Really, Vivian. There’s no need. Please – your knee. We really don’t need peas.’
‘I always have peas with pigeon.’
‘It’s OK this time. It really is. No peas is fine. Special circumstances.’ She even tries to smile.
I think about this. ‘Cutlery!’ I shout. Her shoulders jerk. I get up again and hop across the kitchen to find knives and forks.
She takes the cutlery from me and I watch, keenly, as she slices into the first pigeon breast. I tell myself that I must not worry any more about the peas. I must not obsess about it. I am probably a little overwrought. I have to let the peas go.
Pink and caramel juices ooze from the breast onto the plate. I wait for her to pop a piece into her mouth, but she just pushes it around. Her eyes bulge. I can see a little vein pulsing between her brows. She is still thinking this through, looking for the catch.
She is also, perhaps, recognizing that I have won. My hypothesis was correct. By agreeing with me about Annabel she has just proved it. I don’t blame her. I would – did – do the same myself.
I pick up my own knife and fork and slice into the flesh in order to encourage her to eat. I am beginning to feel slightly less agitated. Special circumstances indeed.
I swallow the meat. ‘After we’ve eaten, perhaps you could go up to the study for me and bring down the Chocolate Cream Poisoner file?’
She stops playing with her food. ‘What?’