The Beloveds

by Maureen Lindley

  My long-ago gift to my mother of the May branches, so pretty when first picked, were left to wither on the compost heap. I watched them shrivel, turn from rose pink to brown, and then to slime, before they were made into maggot food along with the potato peelings and the yellowing cabbage stumps.

  Mother had no idea the pain her refusal of my gift inflicted. I wondered at the time if she would have made an exception if Gloria had picked the blossom instead, if the branches would have been arranged in her favorite vase, displayed in pride of place on the hall table.

  I shake away the memory of it. Time does not heal childhood wounds. Revisited, their pain is hardly diminished. They are dredged up by sneaky little triggers: the seasons, music, tastes and smells, every damn thing. They leap from their shallow hiding place to cut you up.

  I know that visiting my sister’s near-completed house on the site where Pipits once stood will stir pain, but it must be done. Their new build trespasses on Stash earth, after all, earth I feel the need to crumble through my fingers, to touch base with. And I should visit the spot where Mother’s ashes are buried, that is only right. Will they have thought to prune the buddleia that guards the plot? Will they have started on restoring the garden?

  Gloria tells me everything is going to plan and that if the good weather continues, the building will finish on time.

  “Unheard of for builders to be on time,” she says, gloating a little. “And honestly, Betty, we love it already. Just wait till you see it.”

  “I can’t,” I trill. “So exciting.”

  I will steel myself for the sight of it. It won’t matter if I wobble a bit. They will assume that my emotions are still raw from the old house having burned, which, despite that it is almost two years since that blow, is no more than the truth. Let Gloria and Henry think that I am grieving for my young neighbors, too. Of course they will be curious about that, but I will tell them I do not want to talk about it. It will be obvious how deeply it has affected me when I inform them that I am going to sell up in London and move away from the city.

  The truth is, I do not want to think about it anymore. It is not as if I wanted to harm the couple. It was a matter of chance, them being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I feel sort of sorry for them now, of course I do, but what happened was their own fault. It was they who intruded on my life, they who moved into my space, they who tried to take over.

  My stomach drops a bit as I turn into Cold-Upton. Force of habit sends me in the wrong direction, toward the gates that still open onto Pipits’ drive. I turn the car around and park up by the churchyard. I need time for my breathing to slow, for the mixed-up feelings churning in me to settle.

  A mob of argumentative swifts are dive-bombing the church spire, picking off the midges that circle the warm roof. It is a familiar sight in the parish at this time of year. I relax into the thought that the world moves on but nothing much changes in my village. Despite the fire, despite my having to put up with Gloria and Henry, I am home.

  I think of my spot by the river, those boys gone, perhaps. I would like to be there now, watching, thinking things out.

  I stop at the shop in the village to buy Gloria some chocolates and Henry a bottle of their best wine, which isn’t saying much. Good manners are important, even with family. The woman Agneta is there as ever, the same innocent smile on her face. She smiles at both good and bad news—a nervous habit, I suppose.

  “Ah, there you are,” she says as though she has been expecting me. “Heard you were coming.”

  * * *

  THERE ARE BIRD DROPPINGS all over Alice’s path. They are on Gloria’s car, too, big white and green splodges of them. The windows of the house could do with a good clean, and the paint is peeling on the front door. Henry and Gloria are living rent-free; the least they could do is to keep the place up, to leave it in good enough order for me to sell when they move out.

  A run of annoyance overtakes me. Such bad behavior is ungrateful, to say the least. I should know by now, though, that my sister hardly notices such things. She is a messy person with a messy mind.

  “Oh, goody, you’re here,” she gushes, standing in the open doorway. “I thought that you would never arrive.”

  Noah is at her side, straining to get past the barrier of her legs. “He’s always trying to escape,” she says, picking him up. “Proper little bolter, aren’t you, Noah? Have to watch him twenty-four seven.”

  I notice tiny changes in Gloria’s looks since I last saw her in London. There are shallow lines on her forehead and around her mouth, a slight wariness in her eyes. I wonder what has put these early signs of aging on the face of the pampered child, the indulged wife. What possible demons could my beautiful sister be battling?

  I summon a smile and put my arms out to take Noah. As though he remembers me, he comes to me without a murmur. He is toddler-heavy now, a baby seal, all muscle. He presses his cheek against mine. It is damp, and his hand clutches a bunch of my hair and pulls it toward his mouth.

  “He is fascinated with hair,” Gloria says, laughing. “Don’t let him yank it; it hurts like the devil.”

  The feeling of Noah in my arms is not unpleasant. I am reminded of how it was between us when he was a baby. He knew then that I did not coddle. Does he remember that he must be a good boy for me? Noah is the only relation for whom I feel the slightest connection. Strange that he should be Gloria’s child.

  27

  I DAWDLE THROUGH THE WATER-HOLE field on my way to the garden, skirting the nettle patch that Gloria, in a rare show of temper, pushed me into once in our childhood days. I cannot remember what we were arguing about that made her do it, but I do recall her being the one to get in trouble . . . for once. Mother, aghast at the sight of the stinging red patches on my face and arms, made Gloria apologize to me. Her sobs and lisping penitence made the blister rash worth the pain. She was sent to pick dock leaves to ease my discomfort, while Mother fussed around me. She didn’t cuddle me as she would have done Gloria, but she gave me lemonade and a ginger biscuit, food in place of love, and it was good enough. On the rare occasions she was moved to hug me, I never did like the feeling of being smothered.

  Pipits’ woods are dark and cool. I think of the mushroom spores truffled into the earth between copse and meadow, waiting to show themselves in the autumn. The unfortunate miscarriage of that episode, the aftermath, and Henry’s revival come to mind. I deserve recompense.

  I am not ready yet to see the new house full-on. I told Gloria that once I have wandered the garden, I’ll meet her for coffee at Henry’s studio. I’ll walk slowly along the path to it, letting their palace impinge on my peripheral vision inch by inch so that it is not so much of a shock.

  In the orchard the apple blossom is already confetti beneath the trees. Tiny, barely visible acorns of apple bud spot the branches, and only the smallest amount of frostbite taints the leaves. A breeze runs through the wide border of pampas grass at the orchard’s wall, which is high and dry, and smells of the sun. It’s unseasonably warm, and everything is racing into summer before its time.

  The “Foundling Rose” is in sprout on the wall, long stems of thorns waiting for the flowers to bloom. We christened it that because even Mother never knew its ancestry. It didn’t quite fit any description we looked up. I like that it set itself there, that it is nameless; the mystery of it is sweet somehow. Should I ever see it elsewhere I would recognize its single madder-red flower in an instant; half dog rose, half anonymous, a lovely feral thing.

  The garden is unkempt, neither in ruins nor at its best. I can tell that some feeble attempt has been made to bring order to it. The buddleia, despite the instructions I left, hasn’t been pruned. And there are weeds on Mother’s little grave plot, greener than anything else around. The earth there has settled so that if not for the buddleia, one would hardly know where she rests.

  The summerhouse door is open, and the cushions on the wicker sofa, which clearly have been allowed to overwinter there, have a run of mold
along their seams. Apart from a stubborn patch of blue, they were bleached of their color by the sun years ago. There is a tabby cat, brown stripes and quite young, I think, curled up on one of them. I wonder who it belongs to. It watches me from a half-open eye, pretending to be asleep. I think of the stalker dog, the way it hounded me, and wonder again if it was eaten by the fire: if it met the end I had planned for myself.

  I cannot place what my feelings are concerning the survival of the summerhouse and Henry’s studio, along with the old outbuildings scattered around the grounds. It’s as though the arms and legs of a loved one have survived the trunk. So odd!

  A poor attempt has been made at clearing the beds, which despite the lack of care, are full of promise for June, one of the best months for flowers, roses and lilies and agapanthus, and the grand lacelike hydrangea, showing off their colors. Already there are bees feasting on the allium, which is only half-open.

  But the soil has not been turned, and the weeds have been cut down, not pulled out. They will be back before you know it. I hear Mother’s voice in my head. Cut before June, back too soon. The garden is both joy and anguish to me now. It would have pleased me more to see an allotment of weeds, not a flower or shrub surviving, no hope of resurrection.

  A part of me wants to run. Another part wants to get a spade and start digging. The old ache begins to fill me up. This should be my garden, my orchard. The fields should be mine, the woods, too. I want this land, Stash land, all of it. Why should it be Henry’s? Before he turned up here, who had ever heard the name Bygone in this village?

  Outside Henry’s studio they have laid a flagged terrace. The windows are closed, the slatted blinds raised. I can see through into the interior, glimpse dust motes in flight and shelves of powdery pottery lined up waiting for decoration. As I pause at its open door, hot air hits my body. I smell the cindery odor of the kiln at full blast.

  I try to stop myself from looking toward the new house, but despite the effort, I am aware of it at the corner of my eye. Its presence tells me that something solid has filled the space where Pipits once stood. The sun is glinting off it, daggers of dazzling prisms splitting the light.

  Henry and Fi are sitting on the new terrace at a green ironwork table, drinking coffee. There is a bowl with cat food in it placed near to the studio door, and a cat flap has been set low in its bottom panel. So the creature is theirs.

  Fi has bright blue stripes in her hair and painted wooden bangles clacking around her wrist. She has lost weight but still looks as if she could do with a good scrub.

  “Hi there,” she calls in a mock American accent.

  “Nice life for some,” I say.

  Henry stands and offers me a coffee. I take the seat that will have my back to the house.

  “Gloria is on her way,” he says. “We want to show you the house together.”

  Oh, God, can I bear it? “Lovely,” I say. “I am looking forward to it.”

  Everything in and around the studio has been tidied up. The paintwork is fresh, and the brickwork has mellowed a little since I last saw it. They have planted a Russian vine at the corner where the smoke damage blots the bricks. A bad choice. I know the variety; it will have taken over the whole building by this time next year.

  Big terra-cotta pots have been perched at each corner of the new terrace, empty of plants but filled with dark, freshly tumbled earth. If they can do this, why can’t they keep up the garden, take care of Alice’s house?

  “We plan to fill them with geraniums.” Henry nods toward the pots. “ ‘Lord Bute,’ I think, those lovely dark red, almost black ones.”

  “My idea,” Fi says.

  Just as I am about to say that the flowers of “Lord Bute” will hardly go with the green table, Gloria calls out “Hello,” so that we hear her before she appears, pushing Noah’s stroller in front of her like a recalcitrant lawn mower, bumping it over the humps in the grass.

  “Oh good, coffee,” she says, plonking a freshly made Victoria sponge on the table. “He is asleep at last. If he doesn’t get his morning hour, he’s a horror for the rest of the day. He likes the bouncing, our little man.”

  “Does he really still need a daytime sleep?” I ask.

  “Yes, and you would, too, if you were hurtling around at five a.m. every morning.”

  “Wish I could have one,” Henry says.

  “Have you met Eddie, our studio cat?” Gloria asks. “The sweetest little serial killer you will ever come across. God knows how many mice he’s done in.”

  She says that Noah will sleep for an hour at least, more if we’re lucky. Henry peers into the buggy, smiles indulgently at the sleeping Noah, and kisses Gloria, a brief welcoming peck on the lips. Fi pours Gloria a mug of coffee and adds a generous splash of milk.

  “How lovely, thank you,” Gloria says, and gives Fi’s arm a little squeeze.

  And suddenly there is less oxygen to breathe, and I feel a tightness in my chest. We are Gloria’s audience, there to admire her, to appreciate her cleverness at producing Noah, her skill at baking such a plumped-up yummy sponge, her beauty, her perfect wifeliness.

  “You look lovely,” Henry compliments her.

  I wonder what he sees that I don’t. Gloria’s jeans could do with a wash, the same for the white T-shirt that her braless breasts are straining against. Henry obviously sees something gorgeous; I see a big contented hausfrau, spreading what I find to be her dubious charms while absorbing all the available light.

  The four of us sit together at the ironwork table on the newly flagged terrace, the three of them smiling as though all is right with the world. The cake is cut, the coffee replenished. We make a pretty picture, I should think. A happy family picture, like one of those overly sweet Victorian paintings: Father, Mother, sleeping child, domestic bliss.

  * * *

  AT FIRST ALL I see is a huge cathedral of glass, the sky and the garden reflected in its silvery acres of window. We are mirrored there, too, a trio of minimalized people, as though we are viewing our altered selves in the hall of mirrors at a funfair. We might be three dwarfs standing in front of a mountain; the scale is hardly human.

  “It is so much bigger than I imagined,” I say, as though I am impressed.

  “I know, wonderful isn’t it?” Henry exclaims.

  “We’ll be in by the end of August,” Gloria says. “Such heaven!”

  It isn’t how I imagined it would be; the usual glass cube, a template of what passes for contemporary and has done for the past three decades. It is something else entirely, the likes of which I have never seen before. It is a schooner of white sails and crystal walls, a light-as-air ocean liner about to set sail. I feel nervous about going inside, as though by crossing the threshold I am betraying Pipits.

  I have never seen a house without a front door before. There are locks on the big sliding windows and number pads with codes to gain access through them.

  “Open sesame,” Henry says, and hits A1234 on the pad, and I hear the clunk of an unlocking mechanism.

  “Easy to remember,” I say.

  “When you think about it,” Henry says, as though he has. “We don’t need front doors. This way you can let yourself into the house from multiple entrances.”

  “What about callers?” I ask. “I don’t see a bell anywhere.”

  “We’re sorting that out,” Henry says.

  He flattens his hand against the huge pane of glass in front of us, and it takes off, rolling on its runners until it opens wide enough for the three of us to enter together, stepping abreast.

  Inside, the light is pure and clean, hardly changed from that of the outside. Polished cement floors roll through the huge rooms in a seamless cream-colored carpet. There are brushed steel skirting boards and butler’s sinks, solid marble worktops, fields of tiny halogen lights set in white ceilings, cupboards with no handles that open at the slightest pressure, and those light switches that Gloria raved about, only requiring a hand waved in front of them to work.

&n
bsp; “And look at those stairs,” Henry says. “Aren’t they just the most beautiful stairs you have ever seen?”

  He pauses beneath them as though he’s in a trance. I can see what he means, actually: see why the soaring structure has affected him so. The glass staircase—can it possibly be glass?—floats in the air with no obvious support, like something Cinderella might glide down in a Disney movie. It is the color of sea glass, a soft ethereal green. A curving, burnished steel handrail that feels like satin flows the length of the staircase, finishing in a finial flourish. I run my hand along it, and some primal feeling that has been secretly camping within me is brought to life for a moment. The exhilarating sensation is almost immediately replaced by remorse, as though I have been worshipping at some false altar.

  “Is it safe?” I ask.

  “Of course,” Henry answers, a touch tart. “Up you go.”

  I can tell that he wants me to gush, to ooh and aah over every little thing. But I do not feel like playing his game. I feel instead like crying, getting as far away from the place as possible.

  But the bedrooms must be seen, the bathrooms, with their limestone tiles from Israel, crooned over, the wide hallways with pale pink plaster, like some ancient Italian ruin, breathlessly admired.

  “We thought,” Henry says, “that we would leave the natural plaster as it is. It’s the perfect background for hanging art.”

  “It must have cost a fortune,” I say.

  “Well, probably not as much as you think,” Gloria says.

  “Although, despite the insurance money, I wouldn’t like you to see the size of our mortgage,” Henry adds.

  I cannot visualize Gloria and Henry living here. My sister doesn’t understand the principle of putting things away; the concept of a place for everything is alien to her; her way of living will ruin the look of this homage to minimalism. The gleaming concrete floors will be stained, the bins will overflow, there will be clutter everywhere, and the faint trace of Noah’s overnight training pants that he has progressed to wearing, not quickly enough disposed of, will taint the air.