by David Beaty
‘I know what you’re going to say.’ She pulled out a chair and sat down opposite him, leaning her elbows on the polished table. ‘What with looking after Fandango et cetera, but I didn’t have to. No, he hasn’t come to a sticky end or anything. But I found someone else had been doing him.’
‘Jane?’ He brightened. ‘She said she might pop over.’
‘No. That’s exactly what I thought. But apparently not. She phoned me in fact to see how you were. She was worried when she couldn’t get an answer here.’
Paul nodded. ‘I see.’
‘So I asked her then, and she said no, she felt awful about Fandango but Mick’s car didn’t pass its MOT and they haven’t got another yet. And she hasn’t been feeling too clever, so she couldn’t come on the bus.’
‘She’s all right, is she?’
‘As far as she can be as she is.’ Madge’s brown eyes regarded him with mournful and tentative sympathy. Her cheeks quivered lugubriously. She leaned across and patted his hand with her heavy one. She whispered, ‘Did Harriet know that Jane was …’
‘Pregnant? Yes, of course.’
‘She never mentioned it to me.’
‘No. She wouldn’t.’
‘Did she mind?’
He shook his head. ‘She seemed glad. Very glad. Don’t ask me why. I just know that she was.’ He drew a long deep breath and then, to turn Madge’s questions away from Jane and Mick and the baby, he said, ‘So if it wasn’t Jane who was looking after Fandango, who was it? Someone Jarvis got? Or Jarvis himself? If so, I’d better settle up with him.’
‘No, it wasn’t. He didn’t know anything about it. But he’d seen someone up there one day grooming him. A young girl, he said. I suppose it couldn’t have been that young girl we met in the Wheatsheaf? The one I liked, the one Archie said was a stewardess? She volunteered, remember, but you didn’t want her particularly. Not then.’
Paul screwed up his face, as if in a supreme effort of memory. ‘Oh, I remember, vaguely.’ He shook his head firmly. ‘No, it couldn’t be her. I don’t even know if she’s still around. No, it’ll be some girl from the village. Or someone Harriet knew at the hospital. Or …’ But he knew who it was.
He also knew what he was going to do about her. Harriet’s loss was bad enough, but to have the guilt of his association with Belinda was more than he could bear. In the last few weeks, he had received considerable comfort from the fact that he had at least sent Belinda packing before Harriet died. He now proposed to send her packing once again.
He slept badly that night. Jet lag and loneliness kept him wide awake until just before dawn. He dozed uneasily and woke to a bright morning.
The wind had dropped and the sky was blue. He heard the sound of Mrs Webb’s key in the door as he dried himself after his shower. He kept out of her way. She had been very fond of Harriet. And she liked to talk, given the chance. He couldn’t risk an emotional scene. So while the sound of the Hoover howled through the open windows, he went out into the garden and did some digging in the vegetable patch. At one o’clock when Mrs Webb had safely gone, he ate up the remains of the chicken casserole, and forced himself to reply to six more of the awful letters of sympathy.
At four-thirty, about the time he would normally feed Fandango, he set off to walk the mile to the field, cutting through the small wood at the back of Elmtrees, over a stile into a potato field and onto the farm track that led to Thresher’s Field.
The anonymous helper had already preceded him. A lady’s moped was propped against the wooden wall of the feed shed, a crimson helmet was hooked over one of the handlebars. The door was open, and a trail of hay led to the gate in the fence. Belinda was separating out the wafers of hay into the manger, while Fandango butted her impatiently with his head. She looked very slight and young and vulnerable beside the horse.
Catching the sound of his footsteps, she looked up suddenly. A procession of expressions crossed her face – surprise, guilt, apology, hope …
‘Oh, Captain Harker … Paul …’ She threw the rest of the hay into the manger, pushed past the horse and came up to the fence. ‘I hope you’re not angry. I don’t want to upset you. I hope I haven’t. But …’
‘I’m not angry, Belinda.’ He opened the gate and came into the field. ‘Why should I be? I simply came to see who was kind enough to be looking after the horse.’
He kept his voice very formal and reasonable and steady. ‘Madge … Mrs Truscott wondered …’
‘Didn’t she guess? I thought she would have.’
‘Apparently not.’
‘I almost rang her up and told her I was doing him. But I thought …’ She didn’t say what she thought. That Madge would tell her not to, most likely.
‘Anyway, I’m grateful, Belinda. Thank you. But now I can look after him myself.’
‘You mean, you don’t want me to do him any more?’
He nodded.
‘You’re sending me away? Telling me to get out of here?’
Her voice shook. ‘Like you did last time?’
‘That day,’ he said slowly, ‘it was quite unforgivable of me. I was upset. I’m very sorry.’
Tears filled her eyes at the memory of it, but she just said, I understand. That’s all right. I understand.’
He put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Do you? Do you really understand?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do.’ She lifted her face. ‘You were upset.’
He bent forward to kiss her cheek, but she turned her head quickly. Her lips, moist and parted and eager fastened on his.
The kiss both frightened and delighted him – frightened him with its power to melt him, and delighted him with the splendour of something frozen inside him coming alive again.
‘And you must understand something too, Paul,’ she said when he drew away. ‘I was upset too. Because I’m not trying to intrude. Really I’m not. I’m trying to help. I just want to be here.’ Her face was so innocent, her tone so vehement that he nodded, smiling down at her in a sudden wave of affection. ‘ I like looking after him,’ she turned and favoured Fandango with a dazzling smile. ‘He’s a lovely horse. And he seems to like me. He looks well too, doesn’t he? I groomed him for when you came home.’
‘How do you get the time?’
She gave a little tentative laugh, as if not sure whether the solemnity of the situation had sufficiently diminished to permit laughter. ‘Oh, I’m not skiving off duty, Captain. Don’t worry about that! I’m off the roster and on a course. A survival course.’
He laughed briefly. ‘ But you’re already a survivor, Belinda.’’
She laughed back. ‘Oh, I hope so! Anyway, the course is three weeks, so it’s been easy. And I only live twelve miles away. And I have my moped.’
‘Mopeds are dangerous things,’ he said, frowning.
‘So are aircraft, Captain Harker. So are horses.’ She smiled up at him, now almost with pertness. ‘They’re a challenge, aren’t they? I like a challenge. And I know you do.’
‘Did you ride Fandango?’
‘Just round the field. Bareback. I could find a bridle but I couldn’t find a saddle.’
‘Jane used to keep her saddle locked in that shack behind the feed shed. I’ve got a key for it on my key ring.’ He fumbled in his trouser pocket and brought it out. ‘Would you like a ride? A proper one with a saddle?’ He felt fatherly and indulgent now, his intentions of sending her packing justifiably forgotten. ‘ I don’t see why you should do all the work and not have a ride?’
‘The story of my life,’ she laughed as she followed him to the shack.
The saddle when it was unearthed from the damp hut was stiff and mildewy, but the girl expressed herself delighted. Fandango allowed himself to be caught and saddled up. Belinda pretended to have only a passing acquaintance with how to put the bridle on and the bit in his mouth, but finally, she was ready for Paul to give her a leg up.
‘Did you do this for your daughter?’ she asked him as he crouched with his fingers inte
rlaced for her to put her small foot on.
‘Sometimes.’
‘She’s a very lucky girl.’ She smiled at him, then cupped his face on apparent impulse and kissed his lips. ‘Ready!’
She trod on his interlaced fingers, grasped the pommel and struggled up. He helped her adjust the leathers, then waved her away. She made a decorous circuit of the field at a slow trot, and came back to the starting point.
‘Now you have a go, Paul,’ she said, holding out her hands for him to lift her down, as a child might do. ‘ Show me how it’s done.’
I’m too old. And anyway riding was never my tipple.’
‘You’re not too old. Please. You’d look marvellous on a horse. And you’ve probably forgotten more about riding than I’ll ever know!’
‘Forgotten,’ Paul laughed, ‘is the operative word.’
All the same he allowed himself to be persuaded. He managed to jump quite lightly into the saddle, adjusted the leathers himself, held the reins, pressed his heels into Fandango’s sides and really let go.
Fandango, bored and unexercised, gave every demonstration of being a mettlesome beast – which he wasn’t. But with mane and tail flying, bucking, prancing, he must have been spectacular to watch.
Paul cantered round the field twice, and then galloped another circuit. Then he reined him in to a collected canter, then a trot, then a walk before coming up to Belinda. It suddenly dawned on him that he had been like a young boy showing off. But if Belinda guessed, she gave no sign. Her hands were clasped together in admiration, her eyes wide.
‘You were wonderful, Paul,’ she said, as he jumped down. ‘You seem to be good at everything.’
Chapter Ten
Good at everything, Paul thought, remembering Belinda’s words. Better than a kick in the teeth, even if it was untrue. Somebody believed he could do anything. And because of that, life didn’t seem quite so cold.
He had been touched by seeing Belinda hauling hay out of the feed shed, brushing the mud off Fandango’s coat, exercising him. A changed Belinda, too. Instead of pushing herself forward, she had been tactful and sympathetic. She hadn’t tried to formulate meaningless words about how sorry she was and how sad he must be. She had simply got on with a job that would help him, a chore that must have been both difficult and expensive for her to carry out.
During the subsequent week, he had half expected she would come over to Elmtrees, but she didn’t. Twice he went over to Thresher’s Field to check that the feeding and watering were still going on, though he had said to himself there’d be no need, she’d have let him know if she couldn’t do it.
On both occasions, a sleekly brushed Fandango looked up at him in surprise from munching half a bale of hay. On Saturday in the Wheatsheaf, he told Madge that the mystery good fairy was the girl who’d volunteered before, and for the time being, at any rate, she needn’t bother any more.
‘Where does she live then?’ Madge asked.
‘Allerton.’
‘But that’s twelve miles away!’
He nodded.
‘And she’s doing it morning and evening?’
‘While she’s on this course a friend’s helping.’
‘Now that I do call a labour of love,’ Archie said. ‘Pretty girl too.’
At two o’clock when the landlord called Time, Madge asked, ‘You’ll come over to us for Christmas, Paul?’
‘Love to, Madge. But I’m off on Service on Christmas Eve. The long one with the Bermuda shuttles. Won’t be back till mid-January.’
They said nothing, knowing he’d want to be away from Elmtrees then particularly.
‘But you’ll come to us before you go?’
He accepted, though he didn’t want to go.
It was the usual Truscott sort of evening, with chicken casserole and Madge’s bottled raspberries and Archie getting sozzled on whisky but on his best behaviour and never once mentioning his crash.
They are victims of aviation, Paul thought, watching Madge’s ample figure drawing the faded chintz curtains across the diamond-paned windows and Archie’s flushed face highlighted by the log fire in the old open grate. Both have a date stamp on them – Tecuma 10/7/69 – like an expired licence. In a way so am I, even though as yet there’s no stamp on me. An unnatural life, a long-range pilot’s. If he’d been at home after work like a normal father, wouldn’t his relations with Jane have been different? He might have learned to understand her. She might have learned to love him. He might have had the time to talk to Colin, not let him become covered by a hide of conventionality. Above all, he and Harriet might have had more real fun.
‘Thanks, Madge.’ He gave her the usual kiss on the threshold and was surprised by her warm motherly hug. ‘ Been a lovely evening.’
Archie said, ‘ Come again, dear boy.’
‘You must come over to me.’ Already, he thought, I’m slipping into my-turn-your-turn. ‘Try my cooking. Choice of baked beans on toast or boiled egg!’
‘How are you managing the washing?’ Madge asked.
‘Washing machine and drier have risen to the occasion splendidly.’ He raised his hand. ‘Happy Christmas!’
‘Happy Christmas, dear boy.’
‘Happy Christmas and a good trip, Paul. And a safe return.’
There were storms over the Atlantic and strong westerlies. New York was white with snow. But it was a delight to slip from winter into the Bermuda sunshine and bougainvillea and warm pink beaches.
On the days when Bermuda was their night stop, the crew came off Kindley Field at four o’clock, just in time for a quick cup of tea on the hotel verandah, and then down to the cove for a quick swim.
Paul went for walks in St George’s Town, drank rum at Arthur’s on the edge of the quay. The hedgerows still smelled of roses and lavender. In the evenings, after dinner, he would sit on the grass terrace, listening to the faint strains of the dance band in the ballroom and watching the red, white and green lights winking on the airfield down below.
On his last trip there, he saw Griffiths, who was the Engineer on the direct London-Bermuda Service, down in the hotel bar. He mentioned that he’d bought a cottage in a terrace of houses not far from Maybury, was now a regular patron of the Saturday sessions at the Wheatsheaf. But he didn’t mention Belinda. Just before Paul bought his round, a red-haired beauty, one of the stewardesses on the London-Bermuda Service, made an appearance and took the stool on the other side of Griffiths.
‘This is Tina, Captain Harker. Tina Maynard.’
She inclined her head and smiled. ‘Hello.’
‘Drinks?’ Paul suggested, but they both shook their heads.
The subsequent silence suggested that they’d rather be alone. Paul looked at his watch, said he was hungry and he’d be seeing them. An hour later, he saw them at a table for two in the restaurant, heads very close in the candlelight. The thought did just cross his mind that the girl was not half as beautiful as Belinda and that Griffiths was a fool.
Next night he was back in the Plaza, New York. And the day after that he was winging his way eastbound across the Atlantic.
It had been another good trip. As he drove away from Heathrow Airport, he was thinking that continuous flying was the best tonic for anyone. He had his confidence back solidly. And though he was sure he’d never completely get over Harriet’s death, he felt now more able to bear it. The ache was still there, but only when he let up from concentrating or working and allowed it to slip into his consciousness.
As he turned into the gates of Elmtrees, he saw with a twinge of disappointment that the drive was empty. As if she were trying to break him in gently to the ways of widower-hood, this time Madge was not at home to greet him.
He slammed the car door, but it produced no response. The house remained shut up. He let himself in.
However, Madge had left everything ready for him. The house was polished and immaculate. There was a vase of winter jasmine on the hall table next to the alcove containing Harriet’s stick. He hung
his uniform cap in the cloakroom, picked up the stick, ran his hand down it and then replaced it at a slightly different angle. He walked through into the sitting room, Madge had left the sherry decanter on a tray. There was a note propped up against the single glass.
Welcome home! There’s some cold beef and salad in the dining room and a mousse in the fridge. Have put your mail on the sideboard. Ring us if you want anything. Love, M. and A.
He went upstairs and changed into flannels and a pullover. He poured himself a glass of sherry, drank it quickly, then walked through into the dining room.
There was a pile of mail, practically all brown envelopes, either circulars or bills, but there underneath, like a small treasure at the bottom of the well, was a letter in Jane’s bold handwriting.
He pushed the other letters to one side, helped himself to a piece of beef and some salad, and carried plate and letter through into the conservatory. He ate slowly, eyeing Jane’s letter speculatively and hopefully, postponing opening it like a chocolate at the end of a meal.
It amused him to guess what it might contain. Might Jane be writing to say that Mick and she had split up and that she was coming home? Or coming for a visit? Or might she have had the baby early? At the thought of that possibility he became alarmed, reached over, picked up the letter and tore it open.
There were, he saw, only a few lines of writing.
Dear Father, it began. Believe it or not, I did actually go to see Fandango while you were away. I thought that was what you wanted me to do. It wasn’t easy. Mick managed to get another car but that’s just failed its MOT too, so I had to get out there on the bus, which was no picnic. Then what the hell do I find? Some blonde dolly-bird who says she’s a personal friend of yours, riding my horse with my saddle as if she owned the place, and when I remonstrated with same dolly-bird, I got a very dusty answer. She had your blessing, your key, your gratitude and of course your friendship of long standing. Now I’m sure, dear Father, you have all sorts of sweet and lovely explanations for this. But I can tell you some very unlovely ones spring to my mind.