And if he cared to believe I wasn’t suffering agonies to offer him this solace—if that was what it was—then he had far less imagination and compassion than I’d credited to him.
But poor Oliver was lost. For the moment, any pain I might have felt in having to explain all this was swamped for him by an uncertainty as to whether he should rush to the side of a woman who must love him desperately—or have done so—or to the same one, who might be nursing a bitter hatred which she had been keeping at boiling temperature for six years.
But Clare, I was beginning to understand, was a rampant romantic, who would treasure to herself the knowledge of a noble sacrifice she had made for her lover. At the same time, romantics usually harbouring a masochistic streak, she would hug to herself the pain she’d suffered, and keep it alive until she could possess him, love him, and systematically destroy him with minutely contrived distresses and obscure deceits, until finally—he trying to balance his emotional responses to her demands—she would undermine his self-confidence and leave him with no defences.
I couldn’t put this to Oliver. He would have dismissed it as fanciful.
‘Do you understand now why we need to find some truth in it all?’ I asked, as I started the car.
‘I don’t think you do, yourself, Phil, but I suppose we’d better give it a try.’
From then onwards, while I searched for the route to our destination, which I could actually see but not reach, he was silent.
Then he said, his voice normal, ‘Try the second lane on the right, Phil.’
I did so, and abruptly it was the lane I recognised. But I was involved with a sudden concern for my engine. In the background, it seemed to be making a tinkling sound, a jangling dissonance.
But then, in the approach lane, I caught a glimpse of the obvious source. An ice-cream van was manoeuvring carefully ahead of us, with its jangly tune blasting away on full volume. ‘Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer’—in June! Where, in that naked expanse of countryside, did he expect to sell even one ice lolly?
Soon I discovered where, as the van turned into the entrance drive to Collington House. I assumed that indeed I was going crazy, as we then passed two men pushing a baked-potato wagon, and then I had difficulty overtaking a farm tractor towing a trailer, which seemed to be loaded with poles and rolls of near-white sailcloth. Even before we reached the belt of trees, cars, bikes, a horse-drawn cart with no horse, and a small twenty-seater coach were all parked, well over. When we reached the shade, three men with ladders were stringing coloured lanterns through the trees. Two more were walking off, uncoiling a large spool of wire. And somewhere an engine spluttered into life; their power generator under test, I guessed.
‘What on earth’s going on?’ I asked, leaning forward, drifting the car along slowly as children ran madly in and out of the trees, screaming and laughing. Now Oliver was laughing too, having suffered an abrupt jolt back to his childhood.
‘What is it?’ I insisted.
‘Oh Phil—it’s just that the word’s got around. Clare’s home! It’s a welcome-home party…and they’re obviously going to combine it with their annual fête. It hasn’t been the same, held on the village playing field. Oh no. For years—for ever—or in any event ever since Mad Harry built this place, the annual fête’s been held in June in the Collington grounds. They’ve missed it…missed Clare. Couldn’t wait. The word’s about…Clare’s back. There’ll be people here from six or seven different villages. And the rivalry! Tug-of-war contests, knobbly-knees contests, wellie whanging…’
‘What on earth’s that?’
‘Throwing a rubber wellington boot.’
‘How ignorant I am.’
‘You’ll see it all. It’s a pity you don’t make your own jam.’
‘I never have.’
‘Best pot of jam, best bottle of home-made wine, baby contest…you’ll see the lot. And poor Clare will have to judge them all. It would terrify me. And there’ll be tombola stalls and bingo tents, and a huge marquee full of people eating and drinking, and rides on the horses for the kids, and skeet-shooting in the lower meadow, and boating in the moonlight, if we get a moon. I’m afraid I can’t row, with this arm…’
‘Can I back the car out?’ It hadn’t sounded too attractive to me. He looked over his shoulder. ‘Not a chance. You might as well park it right here.’
We were still under the trees. It would be dark along here, later, and I felt that the general expectation was that the festivities would keep going well into the night. While I’d been thinking this, my car had become encircled with sundry vehicles, from pushbikes to tractors. We were positively and truly caught.
‘Will the car be all right if I leave it here?’
‘Of course. You’re not in a city now. Relax, Phil. You’ll enjoy yourself.’
That I doubted. I locked up the car, and we stood there. It was around three o’clock, and I felt exhausted already.
‘What’s skeet-shooting?’ I asked.
‘The same as grouse or pheasant shooting, except that they fire at clay discs instead of live birds.’
‘With shotguns?’
‘Yes. They bring their own, of course.’
I began to feel a little better about it. My background had never included any protracted acquaintance with shotguns, and it seemed to me that I ought to know more.
‘Well—let’s not just stand here,’ I said.
‘I was waiting for you,’ he explained. ‘For a minute, you weren’t with us.’
‘Yes. Sorry. I was thinking. Let’s go and see what’s happening.’
We were no more than fifty yards from the point where the trees ceased and gave way to the final circular sweep round the maze at the front of the house. Packed around that circle, jostling for a glimpse of the proceedings and already in a heady state of excitement not far from inebriation, seemed to be the entire contents of at least half a dozen villages. Children sat astride their fathers’ shoulders, dogs chased each other frantically about and around legs, larger children were perched on hefty branches in the trees, and the clamour shimmered the heat haze.
A man, up in front, was shouting something. He was standing on a box. Clare was sitting even higher, lifted on to the shoulders of two other men, not comfortably because one was taller than the other, and was giving a very good impersonation of somebody loving every second. The shouter wasn’t receiving much encouragement. From his first few words, it was clear that he wanted to make a speech, or whatever it was, and the comments hurled at him indicated that nobody was interested in his speeches. Clare was back, wasn’t she! She was home! Wasn’t that what it was all about?
This, so it seemed, was the opinion of the large man on my opposite side to Oliver. I had a brief impression of a smelly hacking jacket with leather reinforcements, a waterproof cap with a large peak, and a remarkably jutting jaw. He put two hands to his mouth, forming a huge megaphone, and shouted, ‘Shurrup, Jamey. It ain’t the time for speeches. Three cheers for Clare Collings! Hip, hip…’
I didn’t join in the roar of hooray. Collings, I was thinking. In their minds she wasn’t Steadman. Harris Steadman had been erased, removed, expunged. And the three cheers rang out heartily, as Clare blushed, laughed, kissed her hands and waved, and fell from the supporting shoulders into other hands ever ready to catch her. In that second I caught a glimpse of her expression. This was not exactly to her liking; she was not in any way in control of the situation.
Everybody wanted to touch her, as though she carried a special charm around with her. They wanted to hug and kiss her and cheer her, and this they all attempted to do, in one way or another, because it all became a seething mass in which she, being quite small, seemed to vanish. Only the swirl-centre indicated her position at any one time. I detected that she was trying to make her way to the front door, to escape in that way.
‘Edge round to the side, Oliver,’ I said. ‘Get to the front door.’
Though he still didn’t have the full use of his ri
ght arm, and it still gave him a certain amount of pain, he could nevertheless use his bulk and weight, by leading with his left shoulder. I kept very close to him, slightly disconcerted by the surge and noise of the crowd.
We edged round and through, and back round the other side of the maze. Oliver went to the door, and I found I was quite correct in my supposition in regard to Clare’s arrival. She must have been waylaid before she reached her porch, and now, if she were able to slide free of them, her retreat would be quick and simple. And Oliver had the keys.
He unlocked the burglar alarm, then the door, and held it ajar. We waited. She edged her way free of reaching hands and thrown kisses, fumbled behind her for the door, encountered my hand and an open space, slid through it, and in a second I had the door secured.
She stood panting before us, dishevelled, her hair flying, her eyes shining and manic, her face flushed, and her arms whirling around as though still fending off reaching hands, which had wanted only to touch, and gain something from the contact.
‘Oh…they’re wonderful! Aren’t they simply marvellous? I’ll have to sit down. Have to…I’m going to…’
Then she did, break down in tears with her hands over her face and fingers digging into the flesh, huge eyes staring at me above drawn-down lower eyelids, the tears welling. But no sobs. The tears streamed and her lips made bubbling sounds against her palms.
Eventually she moved them enough to be able to speak, leaning her back against the wall in the entrance lobby.
‘I’ll have to sit down.’
But there was no chair. Slowly, her legs gave way, until she was sitting on the floor with her back against the wall. In such a position had her husband, Harris, died.
I stared down at her, convinced that she was overreacting, and said, ‘Didn’t you expect it, Clare?’
‘No, no.’ The hands came away from her face now, and she hunted frantically for a handkerchief in the shoulder bag on to which she had somehow managed to cling. She found a tissue and dabbed at her eyes with it.
‘I must look terrible.’
‘Oh no…’ began Oliver.
‘Of course you do,’ I said encouragingly. ‘Pushed and shoved and pawed at…anybody would. You’ll need a shower and a change. But there’ll be no hot water, and I suppose your clothes—’
‘I’m not a helpless, poor creature, Philipa Lowe. Is that right: Philipa Lowe? Yes. I’ve had time to plan things. I knew more than a month ago that I was coming out. Help me up, Oliver, please.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Here…’ He could offer only one hand, but he made the most of it, so that when she was on her feet she was somehow clasped in his good left arm. It seemed to be taking a long while for the strength to return to her legs. Meanwhile, her tongue not fatigued, she went on:
‘I wrote to people, and they came in to tidy up and get some food in and put the fridge on, have the electricity switched on…oh, you know all the things that have to be arranged.’
‘Yes. It’s complicated,’ I agreed, not mentioning that nobody had done any dusting. ‘How did they manage to get in?’
‘Oh...’ She flicked a hand dismissively. ‘I told that estate agent person to let them have the keys. The various people. She got that right, anyway, and it’s about all she has got right. Stupid creature. I wrote to her six weeks ago to take the place off the market. Didn’t I tell you that? But she didn’t do it. Let’s go and look at the kitchen. I want to check that something’s been done right. Come along.’
Now she had all her strength back, and the emotion no longer affected her. She was entirely practical, leading the way with rapid steps—she hadn’t a long stride.
‘Here,’ she said suddenly, halting and diving her hand into the shoulder bag, retrieving a crumpled sheet of paper. ‘Is that what she gave you—that pitifully inadequate person?’
I took a copy of the prospectus from her. She at once walked away, and I had to stand a moment to scan it. Then I rushed to catch up.
‘Yes…it’s the same,’ I said, and Oliver removed his supportive hand from her elbow.
‘Then you ought to know what’s wrong with it.’
‘I can’t say I do.’
‘This is the kitchen,’ she informed us, flinging open a door.
While it might have been too small for the Café Royal, it would nevertheless have been adequate for a medium-sized restaurant; it now looked empty without half a dozen chefs managing their appointed stations. She peered into two large refrigerators and two larger freezers, and seemed satisfied. She looked up.
‘They got the price wrong,’ she informed me casually.
‘In what way?’ I might have guessed that something had to be wrong.
‘You can imagine…People would see the place and say they’re happy with it—then find the price is quoted wrong. That’s a let-down. Of course it would be. So…no sales.’
‘What’s wrong with the price?’ I was a little annoyed that she was stringing it along. ‘Did you want it in Deutschmarks, or something?’
‘They missed a nought off the end.’
Oh, what a difference a nought can make! A nil, a zero, a nothing. But add it at the end, and it multiplies everything by ten.
‘What’, I said, ‘an unfortunate mistake.’ I failed to sound casual. And Oliver said, ‘Unfortunate for a lot of disappointed people, Clare.’ Then he spoiled it. ‘But it does mean you’ve got a home to return to.’
‘Home!’ she cried, turning in a circle and flinging out an arm. ‘This place—on my own! That’s no home, and you know it, Oliver. A woman needs a man…and I lost mine.’
Lost…as though he’d died of an illness, or been mislaid.
Then, her mood changing in a flash as the thoughts darted through her mind, barely pausing to make an impression, she went on, ‘You’ll stay with me for a while…of course. Just a little while.’
‘No, no,’ I whispered, not sure whether or not the idea suited me.
‘I’m afraid I’ve had only the one guestroom prepared.’
‘We really need two,’ I ventured.
‘Then that’s all right.’ She seemed pleased that we needed two. ‘It does solve the problem. Oliver can come in with me. Can’t you, Ollie?’
I could have kicked myself. This was part of the running battle I’d been pursuing with Oliver, refusing him my favours (as I thought of them) until I had persuaded him into marriage. But it was becoming more and more difficult, and sharing a room—a bed—would have put an intolerable strain on me. In such a situation, I had to admit to myself, the favours would become his. I most definitely needed a solid wall between us. To Clare, this would have been incomprehensible, but she hadn’t hesitated. She had snapped briskly at the opportunity. I waited for Oliver’s response.
5
I watched as his eyes glazed, as his nose turned grey and his lower lip protruded, quivering, as though rehearsing various combinations that might see him through it. Yet he was barely a couple of seconds before answering. It was a magnificent performance, though his voice emerged dead and unemotional.
‘It’s usual for a man and wife to share the same room,’ he said.
It was not a lie, but simply a misleading statement of fact. Her eyes flicked to my left hand, which I obligingly raised to touch my lips. I was still wearing the wedding ring from my first marriage.
‘In that case…’ She shrugged. I could almost see her mind working on the different surnames.
And there had been just a suggestion in Oliver’s statement that implied a disagreement between us, leaving it open for me still to protest. Bless him! So I laughed lightly, murmured something about his arm, and said, ‘It’s as you wish, Oliver.’ And his eyes lit up hopefully. Then I turned back to Clare. ‘But shouldn’t you be outside, meeting your guests, judging the babies and the jams, and throwing the odd wellie?’
She grimaced. ‘I suppose.’
‘You must be good at that,’ I said.
‘At what?’
‘Wel
lie whanging, as they call it. Anybody who can throw shotguns back into the gunroom from the lawn…heavens, Clare, you’d run rings round the local blacksmith.’
‘Are you trying to be funny?’ she demanded, danger in her voice and flashing in her eyes. These were directed at my throat, though perhaps because she was shorter.
‘Of course not, Clare,’ I assured her. ‘I’m filled with admiration. When Oliver told me all about it—’
‘He did?’
‘Oh yes. The whole story. And I couldn’t help myself getting a mental impression. I thought you would be a great athletic bundle of muscle.’
‘And I turned out to be a little squirt?’ Was she laughing at herself? ‘I’ll show you that room. I don’t suppose you’ll like it, but it’s somewhere to lay your head.’
She then led us back through the house, and to a door next to the gunroom. As Oliver had explained, the house was really a bungalow. This window, too, overlooked the terrace, the last ten feet of it, but it didn’t open out like a door on to the terrace, being an ordinary window, and one whose catch, when I tried it, wouldn’t open.
‘Here. Let me,’ said Clare. ‘It’s years since this room was used, and my father had special, tricky catches put on the windows.’
I didn’t manage to spot the trick, but she opened the window easily enough.
‘There,’ she said, and then, ‘Somebody’s cut the lawn. Well…fancy that. How good of them.’
Only a combined burst of energy could have brought all this about, and it had arisen the moment the news broke that Clare was coming home. The lawn smelt gloriously green and lush, and on it a group of people were playing croquet, doing it in a casual and placid manner (in so far as croquet can be placid) that suggested the game had barely been interrupted during the past five summers. It was as though they had never existed, those years, the continuity unmarred. This was a subtle compliment to Clare. I wondered whether she realised it, and glanced at her. Her lower lip was between her teeth, her eyes bright.
‘The bed’s been changed,’ she muttered. ‘You’ll find it all fresh and clean. I’ll have to get out there, I suppose.’
A Shot at Nothing Page 8