An Affair to Remember

by Virginia Budd

  “Radio Belchester (as if you didn’t know!), your wall to wall radio programme, giving you an update on the week’s events, so get your diaries out, there’s thrilling times ahead!” Tommy Lockerby – didn’t Radio Belchester have anyone else? Still, despite being such a pain, his singsong DJ voice did have a soothing effect. “…First on the list is the opening of the Coltsfoot Carnival by superstar Selwyn Woodhead. Sel Woodhead, would you believe, has come to live in our midst. How’s that for a date for your diaries…” The rook, who appears to be listening, flies away in disgust and Beatrice giggles. She’s not going to be intimidated by a rook or anyone else for that matter, she tells herself, as switching off the radio and turning on the ignition, she re-starts the car and heads for home. If she gets her skates on she’ll be in time for one (preferably two) of Sel’s pre-dinner specials, and if ever there was a moment when she needed one, that moment was now.

  *

  “Jack, you promised,” Emmie wails into the phone. She’s in the callbox down by the bridge and is beginning to feel a bit frantic. Claustro-what’s-it, and a small boy’s just peered at her through the glass and made a face.

  “But pet,” Jack’s voice is a throaty murmur; lately he’s taken to modelling his telephone voice on the man in the Lager ad who sounds like Orson Welles, and very effective he’s found it to be. Wasted on poor old Em though. “If I could, I would, you know that.” Emmie bursts into tears.

  Sam’s in the bar of The Donkey trying to make himself drunk. What else was there to do? “Phone out of order, is it, Major?” Josh Bogg at his elbow, looking inquisitive.

  “Not that I know of, why?”

  Josh takes a sip of his beer, being a punter of long standing he has his own special mug to drink out of. “Saw your missus down in the phone box a while back, thought you must be having trouble with it, that’s all.” In point of fact Josh knows perfectly well Mrs M. was phoning that fancy man of hers, but was interested to see the Major’s reaction to the news. To his disappointment the Major appears to take it in his stride:

  “She probably wanted to make a private call, sometimes it’s difficult when the shop’s full of people, and we still haven’t managed to get another extension downstairs.” Was there no privacy in this place? If he wants to get drunk, it looks as if he’ll have to do so at home. He gets up from his seat at the bar, gulps down his drink. “Sorry I can’t stay for a chat, Josh, but I’ve a load of work to get through before supper.”

  “Night then, Major, mind how you go.”

  Emerging from the pub Sam feels a little dizzy, perhaps he was a bit drunk after all. He’d take a short walk before returning home, and try to think things over. As usual he ends up down at the bridge, the river seems to hold a sort of fascination for him. Lighting a cigarette, his mind, as it has a hundred times already since this afternoon, returns to the scene at the Grove. There must be something he has to do before Brian and Tavey can somehow be at peace and go back to wherever it is they came from, that much is clear, but what? Plainly him falling in love with Tavey/Beatrice was not part of the plan, but he couldn’t help himself. For the first time in his life he was in love, and he had a pretty strong feeling it was for keeps; there it was. From her behaviour this afternoon it was pretty clear Beatrice was not in love with him, even found him repulsive, the look of anger and revulsion on her face when she left him that afternoon made that all too clear.

  Overwhelmed with sadness and longing, he leans against the parapet looking down into the river, wondering what on earth he can do. Watches as a dark raft of weeds floating on the surface of the water is carried swiftly along by the current, disappears under the arch of the bridge; and suddenly there’s this elderly lady standing beside him. She places a skinny hand on his wrist:

  “You could try the Guardians.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch –” But the lady has turned away and disappears into the shadows.

  *

  “Jack, you’re hurting: get off…”

  “OK, sweetheart, OK, anything to oblige a lady.”

  Jack Fulton and Clarrie Woodhead are once again in the back of Jack’s Volvo, Clarrie’s head resting uncomfortably on a box of samples. There must be better ways than this. She sits up, heaving Jack unceremoniously off her and causing him to hit his head on the car roof. “Mind how you go, darling, there’s a good girl.”

  “Get a move on, Jack, I’ve got cramp. Why on earth we couldn’t have gone to the Grove I don’t know, there’s no one about there at this time of the evening.”

  “Thought you’d like a change, darling, that’s all.” This wasn’t actually the case: the fact was he has a feeling his somewhat hectic love life could be catching up with him and if he doesn’t watch it things could, as from time to time they had an unfortunate habit of doing, get out of hand. The penalty, he supposes, of having fun. Lucky his holidays are coming up; a fortnight with the wife on the Costa del Sol would be a rest cure after this. The trouble was, he’s thinking as he clambers stiffly out of the car, and wanders across the road to pee stylishly into the hedge, all women turned out to be the same once you’d screwed them a few times, even classy birds like Clarrie.

  Clarrie watches him, trying not to feel disgust. What in God’s name did she see in him, she wonders helplessly. Jack returns to the car, “I don’t know about you, pet, but I’m badly in need of a noggin, it’s been a long day.”

  “Jack, your zip…”

  Minutes later they’re seated in the Pink Panther bar at The Trojan Horse, a large 1930s public house much patronised by coach parties, up on the main road. Clarrie looks at the décor and shudders. “Just a quick G and T, I can’t stay long.”

  “Anything you say, pet, anything you say.” He looks about him approvingly, “Classy little joint, don’t you think?” Clarrie closes her eyes. Jack perseveres. “I think I met your hubby’s new sec this afternoon.”

  “Oh?”

  “Tall, fair, kind of cool looking.”

  “She’s certainly tall and fair, I don’t know about cool.”

  “Didn’t you say you thought she had a screw loose?”

  “I didn’t say she had a screw loose. I merely said she seemed a bit odd, all that stuff about the rookery –”

  “If you ask me, she’s off her trolley – suffers from that para… para-what’s-it.”

  “Paranoia. That’s not very likely, Sel says she’s a brilliant secretary and anyway –”

  “All I can say is you should have seen her this afternoon.”

  “Gave you the brush-off, did she?”

  That was the trouble with bright birds, they cottoned on to things too quickly. “Didn’t give her the chance. Anyway, you mustn’t say things like that, you know old Jack only has eyes for you.”

  “What did happen then?”

  “Well,” Jack takes a gulp of his whisky, “I’m on my way to pay yet another visit on old Carter, the stupid old devil won’t make up his mind about his order, when I see this bird ahead of me walking down the middle of the road just past the Grove. Well you know old Jack, always ready to help a damsel in distress –”

  “I know old Jack alright.”

  “Don’t be like that, pet, it’s not nice, really it isn’t…”

  “Oh get on with it, I’ve got to go in a minute.”

  “Well I stop the car and offer her a lift.”

  “And –?”

  “You’d think I’d threatened to kill her! She’s shaking all over and tells me to piss off.”

  Clarrie giggles. “That wasn’t very nice, was it?”

  “No, it wasn’t very nice. She said some other things too, but I’m not going to repeat them, I hate to hear a woman use bad language, always have, and anyway I was only trying to help.”

  “Her mother probably told her not to talk to strangers.”

  “She did talk to strangers, she told me to piss off.” But Clarrie’s had enough, finishes her drink in one gulp and stands up.

  “Let’s go,” she sa
ys briskly and makes for the door.

  *

  Beatrice lies on her back in bed staring up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. It’s silly really, earlier in the evening she’d felt so sleepy she could hardly keep her eyes open. Something whines over her head in the dark. Must be a mosquito, there would be mosquitos, being so near the river, and she’ll never get to sleep with that around. She sits up, switches on the light, nearly three, and she has to be up by seven. Sel wanted a pre-breakfast session, and lovely though he is, he dislikes one being late. Perhaps she should go down and make herself a drink, people said that helped, and surely Juan wouldn’t mind.

  Spotless, the kitchen hums gently round her, everything in its place. The trouble is everything is concealed by oak doors and she can’t find the fridge. She tries a cupboard that looks as if it might possibly conceal one, but it turns out to contain a wine rack which swings out and hits her in the chest. Feeling helpless, she tries another, equally unsuccessfully. This is actually the first time she’s been in the kitchen, Juan doesn’t encourage visitors. It’s his domain, Clarrie had told her that first day, and on no account must Juan be upset. Just about to give up, go back upstairs and get a glass of water from her own bathroom, which she should have done in the first place, she sees it, a gleaming monster in an alcove at the far end of the kitchen. From the vast array on offer she selects a small bottle of orange juice, and sipping from the bottle, there being no visible sign of cups or glasses, carries it over to the large, uncurtained kitchen window and looks out. The window faces on to the yard at the back of the house, tonight illuminated by the light of a huge, yellow harvest moon. Opposite, the great barn looms, slit windows staring blindly back at the house; behind the barn the trees that hold the rookery sigh gently in the night wind. It all looks quite magical, and Beatrice, compelled by something she doesn’t even bother to understand, bottle in hand, wanders into the passage that leads to the back door, with some difficulty unbolts the door, and walks out into the moonlit yard.

  “I forbid you Octavia, your father would not wish it. What will I tell him? It is I who will be blamed.”

  “Peace, woman, I am going. My father is far away, and besides I don’t care. I don’t care, do you hear me, I don’t care.”

  The words seem to echo round the yard. Beatrice stands quite still waiting, for what she has no idea. Then the rooks start. Something must have woken them. What? She walks slowly across the yard to where a wicket gate at the north end of the barn leads into the small paddock, a corner of which contains the rookery. Carefully placing the now empty bottle of orange on the wall, she lifts the latch, and, closing the gate gently behind her, grass wet with dew brushing the hem of her dressing gown, wanders into the paddock. Ah, this is better, she’ll sleep here alright. Things are beginning to become a little confused, but she knows where she’s going, and makes for the tallest of the trees in the rookery, the one that towers over the barn; and kneeling down beneath it, peers upwards into the twiggy depth above her. “Guardians help me,” she whispers and faints away.

  Back at Kimbleford Sam’s talking in his sleep. “For heaven’s sake, Sam, shut up. I have to be up in the morning even if you don’t.” Emmie, maddened by his gibberish, switches on her bedside light. “What on earth’s the matter?”

  Sam sits up, looks at his watch. “Christ, Em, it’s three o’clock in the morning, what on earth’s got into you?” Emmie’s wearing her frilly purple nylon nighty, there’s cream on her face; he feels a spasm of distaste.

  “Nothing’s got into me, it’s what’s got into you. You were making such a din, I wouldn’t be surprised if next door could hear you, you –”

  “What was I saying?” Sam, aware of a sudden rush of excitement, jumps out of bed and going over to the window, pulls back the curtains and lights the inevitable cigarette.

  Em looks at him helplessly, “Oh I don’t know, rubbish mostly, I can’t remember.”

  “You must remember something. Come on, Em, it may be important.”

  “How can it be important? What people say in their sleep never means anything. There was a name, I think, ‘Tavy’, something like that, could be a man or woman I suppose, knowing you, probably a woman.”

  “What else? I must have said something else?”

  “I can’t tell you what I don’t know. It was all so jumbled and I was fed up at being kept awake, but you might – and I told you it was rubbish – you might have said something about rooks.”

  “Rooks?”

  “Yes, rooks.”

  “You sure it wasn’t books?”

  “No, it wasn’t books, it was rooks, and now I come to think of it you said something about your mum.”

  “You see, you do remember. Although I agree it doesn’t make much sense,” Sam puffs his cigarette; he feels both angry and frustrated. Someone’s trying to make a fool of him, he’s sure.

  “I did tell you that, dear,” Emmie says patiently, as one talking to a child, “didn’t I. Now why don’t you put that cigarette out and come back to bed. You’ll sleep now, now you’ve had a bit of a break, don’t be such a silly billy – or perhaps we could –”

  “Oh cut it out Em. We both of us need some sleep.” Putting on his dressing gown he makes for the door.

  “I will one day, ducky,” Emmie switches off the light, leaving him to make his way in darkness, “if you’re not careful, that’s exactly what I will do.”

  Far down the valley a cock crows; it’s dawn already.

  Chapter 8

  “Now, dear, I think it’s time we had a little talk.” Beatrice nods miserably. Seven o’clock in the morning and they’re in Sel’s office, Beatrice after a shower and a cup of tea, only marginally refreshed.

  “I just fainted, that’s all.”

  “I know you fainted, dear, I was the one who found you, remember? And in a poor state you were too. If I hadn’t gone out to try and hush those infernal rooks up, heaven knows what would have happened. What I’m asking you now is why did you faint, and why did you faint where you did? I mean, to let yourself out of the house in the middle of the night, go straight like a homing pigeon to a particular tree and faint underneath it, is somewhat bizarre behaviour, you must surely see that?” Beatrice, trapped, says she doesn’t know why, she must have been sleep walking. “Are you in the habit of sleep walking?”

  “I don’t think so, it was just those voices and of course there were the rooks…”

  “Voices, rooks?” Sel’s beginning to sense a story, the old newshound in him, quiescent for more years than he likes to remember, stirs, pricks up its ears. “I do think I deserve an explanation, dear. Things appear to be happening in my house of which I know nothing, and as your employer I feel I have a right to be told what they are.”

  “I don’t know,” Beatrice says, “I only wish I did,” and bursts into tears. Sel, now really beginning to get excited, calms her down as best he can – she ends up sobbing into his shoulder – and with little hope that Juan is up yet, rings for coffee. After several tries it’s plain he isn’t – Juan has a habit of over-sleeping – Sel says he’ll make some himself, and after kissing Beatrice gently on her forehead, and telling her to take a few deep breaths, he won’t be long, hurries away to the kitchen.

  Beatrice stays where she is, looking blindly out of the window at the valley and the hill beyond, now shimmering in the early morning September sun. It’s going to be another scorching day. There’s a spider’s web glittering with dew strung across a branch of wisteria, escaped from its moorings and hanging down from above the window, a fly encased in its mesh; the scent of late roses wafts into the room. An elderly lady in a blue robe walks across the garden and points towards the distant bridge. Beatrice looks. Down the hill comes a small procession. Hard to see it clearly as it appears to be moving in a cloud of dust, but she can make out a group of people carrying someone in a litter.

  ‘Father,’says the voice inside her head, ‘Father?’

  “Sorry to be so long, but I couldn�
��t get the coffee machine to work.” She turns away from the window and there’s Sel in the doorway with a laden tray. She jumps up to make room for the tray on his desk, and when she turns back to the window, as she knows it will have done, the little procession has vanished.

  “My dear, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost, surely nothing else has happened?”

  “I’m afraid so.” In silence Sel puts down the tray, pours them both a coffee, butters one of Mrs Bogg’s rolls and hands it to her.

  “Eat that dear, you look as if you need it.” Having buttered one for himself, he sits down beside her, takes a sip of coffee, makes a face, says: “Now, dear, it’s time, I think, you told me what is going on? It’s something serious I can see, so please don’t leave anything out, it may be important. I want to hear absolutely everything…” And Beatrice tells him, while Sel, his enigmatic eyes following the spider as it hovers on the edge of its spangled web, hears her out in silence.

  Clarrie wakes up knowing she’s about to be sick. Out of bed just in time, makes for the bathroom. She returns feeling shaky but marginally better, to find Juan with her breakfast tray. The thought of coffee and orange juice makes her want to throw up again, but she supposes she’d better try some.

  “Good morning, Señora. It is a beautiful day again – yes?” Juan places the tray carefully down on her bedside table, while she climbs back into bed.

  “Yes.” She feels too ill to enlarge on the subject.

  Juan flicks an imaginary crumb away with his napkin, “The Señorita, Beatrice, she is ill in the night. The Señor, he give her brandy.”

  “I heard nothing?” Oh God, what was Sel up to now. “But the Señorita Beatrice, she is better now?”

  “Yes, better now. I hear the typewriter.”

  “Well, that’s alright then,” Clarrie is dismissive.