Alice's Secret Garden

by Rebecca Campbell

  Alice wasn’t sure how Lynden would greet her. They had exchanged a couple of telephone calls over the week to finalise the arrangements. He’d been weirdly rapt during the conversations; not so much flirting as paying a particularly concentrated attention to her, like an addict contemplating his fix. She’d felt his presence, heavy like fate, at the end of the line.

  But now, when he saw her standing by the door, alone, still coated, he just raised his left eyebrow, before returning his focus to the woman. Alice looked at her again. Her first impression was that she was like Kitty, a slightly batty, selfish, hopeless, late middle-aged widow. But there was something intimidatingly single-minded about this woman. Her face, though relatively unlined, looked cruel, or at least as if it were indifferent to suffering. There was something in her manner that made it clear that she was used to being obeyed, that hers was the only opinion that mattered, perhaps even the only opinion that existed. Kitty, despite her folly and selfishness, was ultimately pitiable, but not this woman. She was to be feared.

  ‘Hello,’ said a bright voice, interrupting her scrutiny. ‘You look a bit at sea. Why not come and meet some of the gang.’ The voice, she saw, belonged to one of the floppy-haired men. It continued in a pleasantly mellifluous way, ‘I’m Johnny. Johnny Twogood.’

  ‘Is that a nickname?’

  ‘Nickname? Oh, ha ha, I see, very amusing. No, it’s a name name, you know, like Smith only spelled completely differently. How about getting you one of these things,’ he said, holding up a luminous pink concoction. ‘Really very effective, you know, at getting you drunk.’

  Alice went with Johnny Twogood back to his group. The other floppy-haired youth (who wasn’t, when you got close, that floppy-haired – he just looked like he ought, or at least wanted, to be), was called Jeremy, and didn’t say as much as Johnny, evidently fancying himself as deep. Johnny and Jeremy were paying court to one of the elegant thirty-something-year-old women. They were joined by an older woman, who was almost certainly somebody’s mother, and the self-possessed teenager, who was Johnny’s kid sister. Alice knew her sort instantly. She’d been told all her life how wonderful she was and now took it for granted that the world owed her its attention. How lucky, thought Alice. She’d never feel inhibited about her oily skin, or bulbous nose, or flagrant disregard for the correct pronunciation of the letter r. The way she looked at Jeremy suggested an emotional attachment somewhere between crush and fatal obsession.

  None of them seemed particularly interested in who or what Alice was, which was, at least partially, a relief. Alice just stood among them and listened, trying to work out who was who, and how they fitted in to the Lynden picture. She soon gathered that most of the guests were neighbours, rather than close friends, of Edward, of whom they spoke in near-reverential terms. The thirty-something woman in their group wrote the Country Pleasures column in the Telegraph, and whenever anyone said something they thought might be amusing or clever (admittedly not very often) they looked over to see if she had caught it. Evidently a mention in the column represented the pinnacle of social achievement in this part of the Quantocks. Whenever she spoke, it was usually to demonstrate how she could have a viewpoint further to the right than any of the others, so don’t even think about trying, got that, okay? Her statement about publicly birching hunt saboteurs, was not, it seemed intended as a joke, and she looked sharply at Jeremy when he roused himself sufficiently to suggest that the foxes themselves should be flogged for delinquency before the hounds were sent in to finish the job. Johnny had recently completed some kind of degree or diploma in land management, and his enthusiasm ensured that the conversation continued to lean heavily on matters equestrian, with forays towards more generally agricultural issues, although Alice could see that the ladies, in particular, had little interest in the day to day world of pig rearing, or barley growing. The teenager, who was introduced as ‘Miranda’, was asked about college, and gushed about the sporting facilities at Lady Margaret Hall.

  Jeremy made sure that Alice could see that he was bored.

  ‘You don’t look like a country girl,’ he said during a round of guffaws in which neither of them were inclined to join.

  ‘No, I suppose I’m not really, any more. But I’m not cosmopolitan either. What do you do?’

  ‘The Law,’ he said, and nothing more.

  ‘Do you practise around here?’

  ‘What, suing the vet who’s left his speculum, if that’s a word, up a heifer’s fundament? And those entrancing disputes over water rights and field boundaries. No. My chambers are in Lincoln’s Inn. I’m doing some work for Edward at the moment,’ he added, as if to explain his presence. He didn’t elucidate, and Alice didn’t care.

  She was becoming very nervous about the whole thing. What on earth was she doing here? She’d only come because she thought that Edward … what – wanted her? Needed her in some way? All seemed so improbable now that she was here, with all these people. She began to invent reasons for leaving. She could pretend that she’d been summoned back to London to look after her mother, who’d, yes, fallen off the Stannah stair-lift. But how had she been summoned? Of course, the vibrating alarm on her mobile phone could go off, and she could fake the conversation with the doctor. No, not doctor – it would be a social worker of some kind; that was it, leave it vague, just a bod from social services. Pity about her not having a mobile phone. There was half a Mars bar in her pocket, forced on her by the generous Asian family on the train – could she use that?

  And then Edward was there.

  ‘I’m sorry about that. One has … family obligations.’ Was Edward’s adoption of the ‘one’ form ironic? Alice didn’t know. ‘But I trust you’ve been kept entertained.’

  There was no mistaking the irony now, as Lynden looked archly at the company.

  ‘It would be nice to know what’s happening,’ said Alice, trying, and succeeding, just, to look unconcerned.

  ‘But I told you, Alice. Merely a little get-together for my nearest and dearest. Can’t live as a recluse forever, can I?’

  ‘Which am I, nearest or dearest?’ The voice was familiar, and familiarly low down. Semele was holding a glass of blue liquid, presumably a cocktail of some kind.

  ‘Who gave you that drink, Semele?’ asked Lynden, sternly.

  ‘Cousin Offie. I asked her for a blue one, and she got it from a tray.’

  ‘She’s not your cousin,’ Lynden said, firmly taking the drink from Semele’s hand.

  ‘Well, I wish she was. She’s my favourite.’ And then, turning to stare baldly at Alice, she added, ‘Why is she here now?’ It was obviously intended as retaliation for the humiliating loss of the blue drink. ‘Are there some more books to look at? Are you going to send her to the library soon? I won’t show her the way this time. You can get that Mary from the village to take her and I’ll carry the tray.’

  ‘I’ve told you, Semele, if you misbehave you must go to your room.’

  ‘Let her stay, Edward. We can have a little talk together.’ Despite the child’s hostility, Alice would have welcomed the chance to escape from the stifling atmosphere of the party.

  ‘I don’t want to talk to you. I want to talk to Offie. She’s prettier than you.’

  ‘That’s it, Semele,’ said Edward, now distinctly annoyed and embarrassed. ‘Your behaviour is intolerable.’

  ‘Edward, what a stick in the mud you are. Hello, Alice. How nice to see you again out of the office, and still wearing that cardigan. I’m sure Edward would approve of your sort of thrift.’

  Cousin Offie. Ophelia. Alice remembered Ophelia’s face when the Lynden name had first come up in the office. She remembered the mention of some distant relationship. It didn’t stop it from being the sort of shock to the system that could leave you gulping for air like a stranded guppy.

  Somehow Ophelia had managed to improve upon perfection, and was looking even more astounding than usual. She was wearing a full-blown cocktail dress that seemed to be woven from mother of
pearl and golden fish scales. It was cut low and showed the irresistible rise and flawless skin of her breasts. Even through her surprise, Alice could feel an urge, something only a little short of a desire, to brush them with her cheek, to feel their yielding firmness.

  Lynden saw Alice’s astonishment. ‘You two know each other?’ he said, with a note combining suspicion and concern.

  ‘Really, Edward,’ said Ophelia, talking in a voice that seemed an octave lower than the penetrating, crystalline tone she used at work, ‘if you ever asked any questions about other people you’d know that Alice worked for my auction house.’

  ‘I had no idea that you worked for … your mother never mentioned anything. And anyway, I haven’t seen you in …’

  ‘I rest my case. Of course I didn’t want to come and value your birdy books – just wouldn’t be professional. Conflict of interest. So I sent Alice and her lapdog. But let’s not talk about horrid work.’

  Alice was too astounded to point out the flagrant dishonesty in Ophelia’s words. Edward, she hoped, would not be so easily deceived. But then Ophelia’s beauty had a way of blinding men to what seemed obvious to those not under the spell. And what of the others? Would she be taken for Ophelia’s underling? The thought made Alice distinctly uncomfortable, a discomfort given added piquancy by the fact that Alice thought herself above such worldly concerns.

  Any plans that Alice had to correct the false impression that Ophelia was giving were rendered futile by Ophelia’s decisiveness, and before Alice quite knew what was happening Lynden had been swept away into a far corner of the room. Alice felt a pressing need to disappear. Find a bathroom, she thought. Splash some water on her face. Then … go. Yes, go! Just escape from it all. The chance of freedom exhilarated her, and she almost ran through the door. And in the hall she bumped heavily into Grace Harbour carrying a huge tray full of vaguely oriental snacks, complete with a bowl of fluorescent red dip. The tray flew into the air, and fell clattering to the floor. Grace shot her a look of anger, perhaps even contempt, and silently stooped to clear the mess.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Alice, and knelt beside her, trying to help. Grace gruffly shunted her out of the way.

  ‘There’s no room here,’ she said. ‘No room for this. No room for you.’

  Alice saw now that the look wasn’t contempt, or anger. It was something much worse. It was pain. And she wasn’t referring to the corridor, narrow though it was, when she spoke of the lack of room. She was completely baffled. Her mind was still back in the room with the party, and its embarrassments, and she couldn’t understand why Grace was being so strange.

  ‘Grace,’ she said, standing up and trying to get out of the woman’s way, ‘have I done something, something to offend you?’

  Grace laughed, a choking, bitter sound, and continued picking up the little rolls and folds of pastry.

  ‘Some people,’ she said, ‘some people never have a chance. A chance to show … what they are.’

  Alice’s heart went out to the woman, bent over the scattered food, wiping with her apron at the red pool of sauce. She must hate me, she thought, for being from the town, for coming here and complicating her life. She thinks I’m one of the bright young things. If only she knew. For a moment, Alice was possessed with the urge to tell Grace Harbour that she also suffered, that her life was full of sadness. But she didn’t. It would be selfish. Grace had enough to think about, and she would not care. But nor would she move. To get out of there, Alice would have to squeeze past her, through the mess, or leap over it all. Neither appealed. With grim determination, she turned around and went back in to the party.

  ‘You might want to try one of these green ones next.’ The voice belonged unmistakably to Johnny. ‘I used to have a shirt in exactly the same shade. Always rather regretted it. Do you remember when they said lime-green was going to be the next grey? Or was it some other colour?’

  ‘Do you mean,’ cut in Jeremy, ‘that it might have been another colour that was going to be the next grey, or that lime-green was going to be the next some colour other than grey?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it,’ said Johnny, vaguely. ‘Well?’ he said, looking straight at Alice.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ she replied.

  ‘Oh, sorry. I think I was either asking you something about my shirt or if you wanted another drink. Yes, that must be it. I blame the blue one I had. Really very good. At making you drunk, I mean.’

  Alice could see Ophelia in the corner. She’d trapped Edward, who was facing the room, but he didn’t seem excessively intent on escape. He laughed, and glanced over to Alice, without making eye contact. Alice knew Ophelia must have made some joke at her expense.

  ‘Rather than the green, I think I’ll have a blue,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you could fetch one for me, Johnny. You are Johnny, aren’t you?’ Alice was a little worried that she might have got her Js mixed up at some point.

  ‘Oh yes, absolutely definitely to that.’

  At around the same time Andrew and Leo were settling down to their first pint of beer. Leo had astounded Andrew by suggesting, and then, on encountering resistance, insisting upon a new pub, by which he meant not the Red Dragon of Glendower, in Finsbury Park.

  ‘It’ll give us something fresh to complain about,’ he’d said, unanswerably.

  Continuing that theme, Andrew announced once they’d shuffled their way to a quiet corner, and moved the ashtray overflowing with billowing crisp packets and tabs smoked down to the filter, ‘I’ve got some new things that I hate.’

  The things they hated was one of their stock conversations. Over the years it had ranged through Chaucer’s verse other than The Canterbury Tales, The Canterbury Tales, banana-flavoured things that weren’t actually bananas, the idle rich, the rich, the idle, Desert Island Discs, dancing at weddings, weddings, lady novelists, hardcore Dutch techno, interior design (practice and theory), Scandinavia, Kafka (‘people say he’s funny but he’s just not funny – find me a joke, go on, go on’), the New World Order, gastro pubs, fake vegetarians who eat fish and chicken and, in fact, all animals except those animals which eat other animals (‘Tiger? Won’t touch it, unless it’s at a dinner party and not eating it might cause offence’), the way the news talks about ‘rubber bullets’ fired by Israeli security forces, which conjures up the big silly red jobs, like something out of a sex shop, when what they mean is rubber tipped bullets, which are ordinary, evil little bullets, with a rubber end, and which are very nearly as good at killing people, and especially children, as ordinary bullets; the weirdly uncomfortable sisal or sea grass matting that people put down instead of proper carpet in posh flats; MTV, MPVs, RVP, RSVPs, the IMF and all acronyms, except those which succeeded in spelling something rude, such as the Metropolitan police’s Fast Action Response Teams, and the honorary title of Bibliographic Unit Manager, that Andrew had assigned to Oakley in a number of widely-read internal documents.

  It was therefore always something of a challenge to bring something new to the table.

  ‘Swimming,’ said Andrew, decisively.

  ‘Swimming,’ replied Leo, nodding in agreement. ‘Of course, how could we have left it out?’

  ‘The thing is that I thought I’d better do some. You know, for exercise. So, blind fool that I am, I went to the Swiss Cottage baths. The trouble was that I’m faster than all the slow swimmers, but slower than the fast ones. I felt too embarrassed to stay in the lanes with the bloody Olympic types overtaking me, but in the dodderers part I got stuck behind some nonagenarian in baggy trunks, so I had half an hour of his fucking old man’s scrotum waving in front of my face. But it wasn’t just that. It was the whole spectacle. The people who go swimming who patently can’t swim, but just sort of paddle along in a more or less vertical position, or the ones where all of their limbs are doing a different stroke, you know, one leg’s doing breaststroke, the other the crawl, left arm’s sidestroke and the right’s the reverse humber. And who invented the butter
fly stroke and why? Let’s think about it: it’s more difficult than any other stroke, uses up more energy, and yet it’s slower. And why are there never any attractive girls in the pool, just the ones the East Germans rejected as too beefy to be plausible, or the ones like odd bits of Kentucky fried chicken mould-injected into a Victorian bathing suit? And the water. You expect, and can avoid, the larger items of solid matter: the corn plasters and panty-liners, and the more or less discrete globules of phlegm, but when you look carefully you see that the water’s simply swarming with micro-particles, and you don’t know what they are until you realise that people take in a gulp of water with each stroke and spit it out again, along with whatever bits they’ve managed to loosen from their mouths: skin-cells, plaque, pasta, so you’re basically swimming in other people’s expectorated mouthwash. And the slimy changing rooms full of men with much bigger tackle than yours, and the lockers that take your ten pee, but still won’t let you open them. And then there’s the athlete’s foot, and the fact that they make you, and I mean make you, pay three quid for all this.’

  Leo had taken it all straightfaced, making sympathetic, sagacious and encouraging noises where required.

  ‘I’ve one or two new ones myself,’ he said when the tirade had run its course.

  ‘Good good good,’ said Andrew. ‘Pray proceed.’

  ‘I hate the soap that girls use, which instead of getting you clean, makes you soft.’

  ‘Good shooting. What is it with that soap? Why don’t they just use proper soap to get clean and then use some other unguent to make them soft?’

  ‘And then there’s the thing they do with their feet.’

  ‘Which of the things they do with their feet? Kicking you?’

  ‘No, no. The thing with that rasp they have, when they file off the hard skin on their heels, like grating parmesan.’

  ‘Yeah, what is it with girls and hard skin? I can’t help thinking it’s locked in with the soap that’s supposed to make them soft. I don’t think I’ve ever had to file away any part of me.’