by Jo Verity
22
Tom had replaced the collapsed shelf and made sure that the others were firmly fixed. Everything was set for her to start again but her enthusiasm for the project had evaporated and she had lost direction. When she thought about it now, the whole scheme was embarrassingly simplistic, like something a child might dream up. How could a few pots affect the way people behaved? They would all have thanked her politely for their crockery sets, then pushed them to the back of a cupboard. Or, after a decent interval, sneaked them into the charity bag.
Flying ants swarmed in the sticky heat. Eric, working on the border near the Redwoods’ front door, had cast aside his cap (something he rarely did) and his pale scalp looked like the top of a boiled egg, shell removed and ready for tea. Every window was open but the curtains hung limp and still. The baby had been fractious all morning, her spikey black hair damp with perspiration. They were all on edge and Maddy had ended up in tears of confusion and exhaustion. ‘I hate it,’ she screamed. Anna dared not ask exactly what it was that she hated. When Tom, anxious that Maddy should do everything properly, had offered to take her and Seren to Cwm Bont for their first visit to the baby clinic, the silence that fell on the house had been a great relief. Anna had forgotten the tension that one crying baby could generate.
The day after the shelf crashed down, she had swept the broken pottery into a dark corner and it had been some weeks before she could face up to disposing of it. Eventually she struck on the fanciful notion of digging a hole outside the outhouse and burying it. One day, hundreds of years hence, an archaeologist might dig it up and wonder what had gone on here. Was that enough to guarantee her immortality?
She perched on the spattered chair and took a gobbet of clay from its plastic wrapping, rolling it back and forth between her hands. It cooled her hot palms and the surface of the clay took on the texture of her skin. Something about the fat roll made her think of a pig and she extended it here and there to form snout and legs. She made a second pig and placed them, side by side, on the trestle table. Next she moulded a pair of cats. The cats were more convincing than the pigs, which she rolled back into a ball. Her sketchbook was on the sill and she started drawing until, soon, she had filled a whole page with pigs. Standing, sitting, lying. Giraffes and elephants came next. The necks and trunks would be a challenge. The idea for a new project began to firm up. She would make an ark for Seren, complete with animals and the whole Noah family. What’s more, she would allow the child to play with it, not keep it on a high shelf as an untouchable ornament. She pictured a sturdy little girl setting out the menagerie, two by two.
Taking her sketchpad and pencil case, she walked up to the wood. The contentious fields had both been cut for silage and Stan Roberts, whose farm ran up to Pen Craig, was grazing sheep in the upper field. In exchange for the fodder and the grass keep, he had agreed to maintain the hedges and fences. Tom was delighted with this arrangement. He saw bartering of goods and services as the way forward. No one else had shown much interest but Jenny had commented that the animals added a picturesque-ness to the view.
Finding a comfortable spot in the top corner of the field, she sat on the grass and sketched the sheep. At first they kept a wary distance from her but soon, sensing that she meant them no harm, they nibbled the grass around her outstretched legs.
The sheep heard the sound before she did. As one, they raised their heads and looked beyond her, towards the wood. First one took flight then the rest followed, spilling across the sloping ground to the other side of the field, where they stood alert, staring back in her direction. She froze, pencil in hand, hearing the sound of snapping twigs, as someone walked along the footpath that lay on the other side of the stone wall. Quickly, she drew her knees up and clasped her arms around them, making herself as small as she could. Hidden amongst the fronds of bracken she glanced to her left, along the undulating face of the wall, and caught sight of a man holding binoculars up to his eyes. It was Prosser and he was spying on the house. After a few minutes he slipped back into the wood.
When she told Tom about it later, he asked her why she hadn’t gone across and spoken to him. ‘Anyway, lots of people use that footpath and I expect most of them look at Pen Craig through binoculars. Normal human curiosity, to take a look at landmarks in the countryside. If anything, I’d say you were the one behaving strangely.’
‘But that’s the point. He’s not a passing rambler, is he?’
He smiled, indulgently.
By late afternoon, a bank of indigo thunderclouds had built up and the sky over the valley resembled a day-old bruise. Seren, exhausted from her crying jag, had fallen asleep, giving Anna and Maddy time to relax with a cup of tea. ‘It was a nightmare at the clinic. She screamed the place down. All the other babies slept through the whole thing. Dad was so embarrassed he went out and waited in the car.’
‘They’re pleased with her?’
‘I don’t know. I couldn’t really hear what the woman was saying. But she’s gained half a kilo.’ Maddy showed her the clinic card.
Why was weight used as an indicator of success? Babies were supposed to put it on. Children shouldn’t put on too much. Women always needed to lose it and men could ignore it. ‘Did she ask how you were coping? Offer any tips?’
‘She asked if I was getting back to my normal weight.’ There it was again. ‘It was all a bit of a waste of time.’
A breeze swept through the place, slamming a bedroom door and chilling the air, and she went around the house, shutting all the windows, billowing curtains flapping across her face. From the landing she could see the first huge raindrops, hitting the roofs of the cars below, darkening the stone surface of the yard to a blue-ish grey. Tom dashed across from the shed as the first zig-zag of lightning lit up the sky. She counted. One, two, three and then the thunder cracked. Tom, panting and dishevelled, rushed past her, on his way to disconnect the television set.
The baby slept on past her feed time, as if comforted by the storm. Maddy dithered. ‘I should wake her. She’ll be all out of synch. And she needs changing.’
‘Leave her,’ said Anna, ‘She’ll wake up if she’s hungry. Perhaps we should have something to eat, while we have the chance.’
The storm flashed and rumbled overhead and the rain beat on the windows. It wasn’t yet six o’clock but they needed to switch the lights on. They sat together around the kitchen table, secure in the solid old house. ‘Flo and I stayed with Grandma and Grandpa once – I think you’d gone to a wedding – and there was a thunderstorm. Grandma read us poetry, to take our minds off it. We weren’t at all scared but we pretended we were, so she’d keep reading. It was The Rhyme of Ancient Mariner. I can see the book now, it had a green cover.’
Anna remembered her mother had read to her and Steven from the same book. There had been an inscription on the fly-leaf. Something to do with attendance at Sunday school. Was it still on her father’s bookshelf? She must find it next time she went.
‘Oh, I knew there was something I’d forgotten to tell you.’ The food and an hour of peace and quiet had brought the colour back to Maddy’s cheeks. ‘I was coming back from the summerhouse yesterday and you’ll never guess who I saw.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Uncle Bill and Auntie Celia. Together.’
‘How d’you mean, together?’ asked Tom.
‘Together together.’
‘You can’t have,’ said Anna. ‘Well, you might have seen them with each other.’
‘It was more than that, Mum. They were kissing. I wanted to laugh. Can you imagine anyone getting worked up about Auntie Celia? It’d be like making love to a blancmange. All pink and damp.’
‘Don’t be unkind. She’s a very nice woman,’ said Tom.
‘Whatever. But she was certainly going at it with Uncle Bill.’
‘Where were they?’ asked Anna, as if the location might excuse their behaviour.
‘Behind the outbuildings, out of sight. It seemed a shame to interrupt them, so I sneaked around the other way.’
What on earth did Bill think he was playing at? No wonder Sally had left him. The man was insatiable. Anyway, Bill was in love with her, not Celia. His favourite colour was purple, not pink. And why couldn’t Mark satisfy his pathetic little wife? First she’d come sniffing round Tom, now she had her claws into poor Bill. Judith was taking after her, too. Look how quick she’d been to jump in a car and drive off with Maddy’s boyfriend. What a mess.
‘Good luck to you all, I say,’ said Maddy. ‘To think that we were worried you’d all be vegetating out here in rural Wales.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Tom’s voice was sharp.
‘Little did we think you’d be reliving the sixties. Free love, wife swapping and all that.’
‘We were schoolchildren in the sixties,’ said Anna. ‘And who’s “we”?’
Maddy, the bit between her teeth, continued, ‘Wait ‘til I tell the others.’
‘Madeleine.’ Tom shouted. The baby, who had slept through the thunder, woke with a start and began to wail. Maddy lifted her from the carrycot and marched out of the kitchen, her footsteps thudding on the stairs as she stomped to the top of the house.
‘Look what you’ve done now, Tom.’
‘Don’t blame me. She can’t go round causing mischief like that.’
‘She’s not the one causing mischief. God, you men stick together, don’t you?’
‘Bill’s stressed at the moment. He’s not totally responsible for his actions.’
‘You mean he doesn’t know it’s wrong to snog Celia?’ The word sounded juvenile.
‘No. Of course not. But a man can get frustrated.’
‘Is that why you kissed her?’
‘Ah-haa. Now we have it. I knew you’d throw that back in my face sooner or later.’
‘That’s not fair. Besides, you don’t know the half of it,’ she taunted, without really knowing what she meant. The rain lashed and the baby cried. The lights dipped as the power surged.
There was a clatter at the back door. Happy to have the excuse to stop the exchange before it veered into dangerous territory, she went to see who it was. Two figures, one tall and one very small, were standing in the driving rain, unrecognisable in waterproof jackets, hoods drawn around their faces.
‘Hello, Anna.’ It was Arthur.
‘Good gracious. Come in, quick.’ She pulled them into the utility room.
‘You don’t mind, do you? We were passing.’ Taliesin offered the implausible explanation. No one passed Pen Craig.
She helped them off with their dripping coats and sodden shoes, then took them into the kitchen. Tom had disappeared. ‘You’re soaked through,’ she said to the child. ‘Let’s get these off.’ Without complaint, he allowed her to peel off his trousers. His skinny legs were blue and covered with goose bumps. One of the baby’s blankets lay on the back of the chair and Anna wrapped it round his shivering legs. ‘There. Very dashing.’ He smiled and put his cold hand in hers.
‘Sorry about the dramatic arrival. The weather overtook us.’ Taliesin looked different. Less biblical. He’d shaved off his beard and his hair was neater. ‘I should have phoned but I knew she’d make some excuse not to see us. How are they?’
‘Fine. Seren’s doing really well.’ She filled the kettle. ‘Have you eaten?’
‘Look. I don’t want to make things difficult for you. I think it might be best if you told her we’re here. We’ll go if she wants us to.’
He was right. It wasn’t a good idea to make them too welcome but she couldn’t help hugging Arthur. ‘Come on.’ She led him, blanket wrapped sarong-style round his narrow waist, up the stairs and knocked on Maddy’s door. ‘Can we come in?’
Maddy was sitting in the rocking chair near the window, Seren feeding at her breast. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, Arthur walked across to them and kissed Maddy on the cheek. ‘Does it feel funny?’ he asked. ‘I think it must tickle.’ He stood close, watching the baby working hard, grunting as she sucked. ‘She’s nice.’
Maddy looked at her mother, questioning her with raised eyebrows.
‘Honestly, I had no idea they were coming. Taliesin wants to know if you’ll see him.’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘Yes, I think you do. He’s waiting downstairs for an answer.’
‘Please, Maddy. He just wants to make sure that you’re OK,’ Arthur’s little voice pleaded. She had forgotten how perceptive he was.
‘Where’s Dad?’
‘I haven’t a clue. Why?’
‘He won’t be horrid to Tal will he?’
‘Of course not.’ She wasn’t so sure.
‘OK. Tell him to come up. Art, can you bring me that box of tissues?’ The boy smiled and pottered about the room, charmingly oriental in his wrap-around garment.
Tom was in his office, apparently absorbed in whatever was on his drawing board. ‘Who was that?’
‘Taliesin and Arthur. They were passing. Don’t look at me like that, Tom. They just called to see the baby.’ She closed the door before he had time to say anything, and ran on down to the kitchen.
The storm rumbled away into the next valley and a calm descended on the house. After the stickiness of the day, the evening was fresh and invigorating. The honeysuckle near the back door scented the air with twice its normal fragrance and the swallows swooped up the lane, gathering insects beneath the dripping trees.
Arthur came down to join Anna and Tom. ‘Maddy told me to tell you that we’re staying for supper. What are we going to have?’
Taliesin and Arthur had been upstairs for almost an hour and she’d spent much of that time planning a meal. ‘New potatoes and peas from the garden, and boiled ham. Come on. I need some help. You can shell the peas for me.’
‘Yummy’. The boy concentrated hard, splitting the pods and dropping the peas into the colander. ‘Can I eat one?’
‘You can eat as many as you like.’
From then on, for every pea that made it into the pot, one found its way into his mouth. ‘When I was a little girl,’ she leaned across to confide to him, ‘my Mum used to buy us fresh peas instead of sweets.’
‘Who was your Mum?’
‘A nice lady called Nancy. She was Maddy’s grandmother.’
‘Is she dead, too?’
She looked at the child, painstakingly removing the tiniest pea from the end of the pod. It was heartbreaking to think that he had no mother to create kitchen rituals and enrich his life. There must be a maternal grandmother somewhere and maybe Charles Leighton had a wife, although Maddy had never mentioned another woman in the house at Brecon. She was sure that he would tell her, if she asked, but she didn’t want to interrogate him.
When he’d finished his task, he edged around the table to where Tom was peering at a roll of drawings. She was at the sink, scrubbing the potatoes and held her breath. Please Tom, don’t take it out on this child. Arthur moved nearer and nearer, as if he were creeping up on a wild beast. His caution paid off. Tom put his arm around the small shoulder and pulled the boy closer to him. ‘Can you see what this is?’ He spoke in a school masterly voice.
Arthur studied the drawings, giving them his full consideration. ‘A windmill, I think.’
‘Correct.’
‘Are you going to build one? I’ve seen lots of them in Wales. It’s an excellent way to have free electricity. And it’s better for the environment.’
Tom, delighted, slapped his hand on the table. ‘Exactly. I only wish our neighbours were half as clever as you are, Art.’
From that moment on, Arthur didn’t leave Tom’s side and, when they set the table, he asked Anna if he could sit next to him.
They ate supper in the kitchen, Seren sleeping contentedly, reassured by voices and the chink of cutlery on plates. They discussed the violence of the storm. Taliesin complimented Anna on the flavour of her vegetables. Arthur and Tom talked about windmills and the best design for a go-cart. Maddy was relaxed and ate a huge meal. Despite th
e calm, Anna couldn’t help feeling that she was balancing on one leg, on a very narrow ledge.
23
A jangling telephone shattered her dream and she was out of bed before she had opened her eyes. A call this early in the morning could only signal an emergency and she grabbed the receiver. ‘Hello?’
It was a relief to hear that it was Steven. ‘Hi. Sorry about this but Dad’s getting a bit steamed up. The thing is, Dorothy died in the night.’
‘At the house?’
‘No. The Infirmary. They took her in yesterday. I’ve just brought Dad back. Would you believe he’s putting a new washer on the kitchen tap?’
‘Why didn’t you phone yesterday?’
‘Because I didn’t know about it myself until late last night. I came round to find out why he wasn’t answering the phone. The woman next door told me where they’d gone. Thank God for nosey neighbours. There wasn’t much point in ringing you earlier. After all, she’s nothing to us.’
Typical of Steven to see it this way. His life was ruled by cold logic and, applying his parameters, what he said made sense. Why should they care? Dorothy was little more than a stranger who had, incidentally, been their stepmother for a few months.
She thought of the featherweight figure whom she’d last seen lying in her father’s bed, and felt sad. Day after day, death fuelled the media, titillating and entertaining. Once in a while, a particular death touched the national psyche. Fairytale princesses and innocent children topped the list. Strangers felt compelled to weep. They placed teddy bears and flowers along railings and grass verges in newly devised rituals. Were they displays of regret or pagan offerings, ensuring that their own loved ones escaped similar harrowing fates? Who would be touched by Dorothy Holton’s un-newsworthy death?
Her brother’s voice was demanding a response. ‘Sorry, Steve. What did you say?’
‘How soon can you get here? I’m snowed under at work. It’s not a good time for me.’ How quickly he had claimed this as his crisis.
It wasn’t a good time for her either and it must be a dreadful time for her father. Tom, yawning and scratching, arrived at her side. Covering the mouthpiece with her hand, she whispered the gist of the conversation. ‘Hang on, Steve. Give me a few minutes. Can I phone you back? I’ll sort something out with Tom.’