Pearl decided to enlist him, but at that moment, she thought she saw it. ‘Ah, here it is,’ she said.
‘Ah, the famous Thomas Arnold, Headmaster of Rugby School. He was a parishioner here, although he’s not buried at this church.’ He checked the tablet as if to make sure. ‘He died in the Isle of Wight.’
‘Thomas Arnold? Not the poet?’ asked Pearl. ‘Not Matthew Arnold?’ Disappointment creased her face.
‘Ah, no. That was his son. He is with us. His grave is in the churchyard.’ He nodded to the porch entrance. ‘Just outside the door.’
He could see how relieved she was. ‘I’ll show you if you wish,’ he said.
Pearl thanked him. ‘Just point the way. I’d be grateful,’ she said.
He was also used to people’s secrets and he smiled understandingly and led her out into the dim churchyard, made darker than the winter’s day by the burdened yews. ‘Here it is,’ he said. ‘Not a very impressive grave, you might think. It doesn’t even mention he was a poet, only who his father was.’
He was standing in front of a modest stone with two smaller stones, one on either side. A curb was edged around the grave. ‘They have a backyard all of their own,’ said Pearl. The small area was compacted mud. ‘In the spring there are crocuses,’ said the vicar as if to apologise. He knew when to leave. ‘Goodbye then,’ he said. ‘My regards to Bedmansworth … and Los Angeles.’
‘I’ll tell them,’ said Pearl.
When he had gone she stood before the commonplace grave reading the inscriptions. ‘Matthew Arnold,’ she recited to herself. ‘Born December twenty-fourth eighteen twenty-two. Died April fifteenth eighteen eighty-eight.’ The poet’s wife who had lived to see the twentieth century and his sons who had died young, were also commemorated on the stone. But there was none of his poetry; only a verse from a Psalm.
She had seen enough. Carefully Pearl picked her way along the path, went out of the roofed gate and around the cars at the garage. Her driver was parked by the patch of green opposite but she told him to wait. In front of her was Blacksmith’s Lane. She had the sensation that she already knew it well and she walked down it towards the River Thames. It was terraced with cottages with the intrusion of a few postwar houses. It was not far; it turned and led directly onto the river tow-path.
The hushed Thames moved around a broad curve. There were houses facing the water and others on the far bank, wooden bungalows with boats pulled up outside them. The water was thick, green and slightly gleaming in the pale November sun. Pearl began to walk along the tow-path, the grey wind chill on her face. Ducks and moorhens were busy on the bank but otherwise it was an empty scene. Just as she knew it had been on that day.
Jet lag was something to which no one seemed immune; east to west, west to east, only flying up and down the globe seemed to leave the flier unaffected. Pills, strategies for sleep and for keeping awake, ample alcohol on the flight, no alcohol on the flight, exercise, relaxation, mind games; in the end it all came down to one disturbed night for each hour of time difference. Air crew had learned to accommodate it but never defeat it.
Richardson came in on the morning flight from Sydney, twenty-three hours in the air even when to schedule, and went to bed as soon as he returned home. Adele and Toby had already left the house, although it was Sunday. He slept unsatisfactorily and awoke at five in the afternoon. He went down to the kitchen and made himself tea. He was sitting at the table, rustling through the Sunday Times. In the Business section a name caught his eye: Peter Rose Property Company in liquidation. As though in response, he heard Adele’s car.
‘Are you fit enough to go for drinks tonight?’ she asked as soon as she came in. She said it briskly, as though to catch him off guard. For them his returning from Australia was as routine as another husband coming home on the commuter train from London. She seemed to realise her omission and asked how the trip had gone.
‘It was all right,’ he said. ‘Got Ray Francis installed, and his wife.’
‘That stupid man.’
‘Francis is a good station manager,’ he answered evenly. He drank his tea and continued to fidget with the newspaper.
‘At least his wife’s with him,’ she said. She regarded Edward seriously. ‘Grainger didn’t want you to go, I gather.’
He looked up sharply. ‘How did you gather that?’
‘I spoke to his secretary,’ she said a touch guiltily. ‘Moira, is it? She chatters on the phone. I tried to get Harriet but she had a couple of days off apparently and the calls went to this Moira.’
‘She,’ said Richardson, ‘should learn to hold her tongue. In that job.’
Adele had poured herself a gin and tonic. ‘Well, she probably thought that as I am your wife, it would be all right. Most husbands and wives know each other’s … what’s happening in each other’s lives.’
‘Grainger got it into his head that I needed a rest, that’s all, that somebody else could go down to Sydney,’ sighed Edward. ‘But it’s my job and I don’t need a rest. Where are these drinks tonight?’
‘At my chief executive’s house. It’s not far from Maidenhead.’
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Of course.’
‘Don’t sound so enthusiastic.’
‘Look, I’m tired. I’ve had a long flight.’
‘You didn’t have to go.’
‘It was apparent to me that I did. That’s what matters. We’ll go and have drinks with your chief executive at his house outside Maidenhead.’
Adele regarded him cagily. ‘Then there’s a lunch tomorrow. The Lord Lieutenant of Buckinghamshire …’
‘I’m busy tomorrow, even to the Lord Lieutenant of Buckinghamshire. I already have a lunch.’
‘There’s nothing in your diary. I got Moira to …’
‘Moira!’ he exploded. ‘Bloody Moira ought to be out on her ear. I have a lunch, I’ve told you. I fixed it from Australia. Harriet didn’t know about it, so it wouldn’t be in my diary.’
Adele gritted her teeth. ‘This is important to me, Edward. My promotion may depend on it. I want you to come. Most people don’t think I have a husband….’
He remained seated. ‘I’m already engaged,’ he said flatly. ‘And I’m not coming.’ Because he was tired he said: ‘Why don’t you take old Peter Rose? He sounds like he’s down on his luck. He’d like a lunch….’
She picked up her gin and tonic and threw it over him as he sat in the kitchen chair. She screamed ‘Bastard!’ at him. He remained seated and she went from the kitchen. He wiped his face with his hand. When he looked up he saw Toby was standing, stricken faced, at the door.
The boy walked into the room and reached forward. ‘You’ve got a lump of lemon on your head, Dad,’ he said, taking it off.
They had planned that Rona would wait at the bus stop outside the village. How strange, she thought, that such a mundane arrangement had taken on aspects of a plan, a plot, an agreement that they were to become lovers. But it would not do for Edward Richardson to call for her at the Swan; Bedmansworth people, in their cul-de-sac village, watched, noted and talked.
He was on time. Wearing her long, dark coat she had waited only three minutes, under the grubby bus shelter, out of the rain which had been falling since early morning, below the shadows away from anyone who might recognise her with a passing glance. Her mother had stayed in bed late, with breakfast brought by Mrs Durie, carrying both the tray and news of the birth of Princess Maud, third daughter of King Edward the Seventh. The previous evening Pearl had said that she planned to look through the church registers that day.
‘She must know more about local history than anyone who lives in Bedmansworth,’ said Edward as they drove along.
‘She’s very secretive about it,’ smiled Rona. She had taken off the long coat. She wore a grey sweater and grey trousers tucked into boots. They were driving through the eddying rain. ‘She makes notes and mutters over them but I still can’t quite grasp what she’s going to do with it all. And she won’t tell. As far as I know, she
hasn’t started writing the Definitive History of Bedmansworth.’
Being together felt entirely comfortable, their shoulders just touching; he was aware of the light scent of her face and neck. She said: ‘A couple of days ago she went on an expedition. To … Laleham … ? Yes, Laleham. On the Thames.’
‘Matthew Arnold is buried in the churchyard there,’ said Edward. ‘Adele’s family have always been keen on Matthew Arnold. Her mother was almost obsessed. Apparently at some time he had stayed in our house.’
Rona shook her head. ‘I’m not familiar with the name.’
‘He was a Victorian poet. He wrote “Dover Beach” and his father was headmaster of the famous Rugby public school. Do you know Tom Brown’s Schooldays?’
‘Ah, now that strikes a chord. Even with an American.’
‘Adele’s family were fascinated by him and his work. Apparently, a hundred or so years back, one of their forebears was a friend of his, that’s how he came to stay in the house. I remember Adele’s mother on family outings to Laleham and Cobham where he also lived. We had to go at least once a year. Adele’s mother used to put flowers on the grave on Christmas Eve, which was his birthday, and she knew his poems by heart. Toby’s middle names are Matthew Arnold. That was to please her.’
The landscape was grey, lumpy as a stormy sea. ‘This is new country for me,’ Rona said peering from the window through the thick rain.
‘Not much of a day for viewing it,’ he said. ‘Once we’re off the motorway we go down through Surrey and into Sussex.’
‘Surrey and Sussex sound wonderful, even if we can’t see too much of them,’ she smiled. ‘How was Australia?’
‘Just coming into summer. Not that I saw much of that. No more than we’re seeing today come to think of it. On that sort of trip all I see is the interiors of airports, offices and hotel rooms. I could have been anywhere. Their summer was outside the window.’
‘And you come back into winter,’ she said.
‘I’m used to changing seasons every week or so. In any case … I was looking forward to today. Going down here will be a change from the rubbish tip.’
‘The photographs were terrific,’ she said laughing. ‘Those gulls. You could almost see the wind around them. I’m glad you were looking forward to this.’
‘My life has become very predictable,’ Edward said quietly. ‘Even though I take off every couple of weeks, even though I’m in exotic places, changing climates, it all falls into a pattern. I always come home.’
The rain eased as they drove over the hump of Surrey but there were piled clouds hurrying from the west and before they reached Sussex, it was back. They neared Chichester, the cathedral spire standing against dark and ragged skies.
Taking the main road west, they turned towards the sea. The flat coastal countryside cowered under the weather. The trees were bowed. ‘It looks mysterious,’ she said.
‘Smugglers’ territory,’ he said. ‘Imagine the barrels being carted up these lanes. The coast is full of creeks and inlets.’
They turned the last corner and the road ran through Bosham, an irregular village street, a long thatched hotel, and a maritime church standing square against the Channel weather.
‘We’ve run out of England,’ observed Rona as they reached the foreshore. The tide was running away quickly, gurgling through muddy channels, islands and peninsulars which formed as they watched. Gusty rain threw itself against the car windscreen. ‘Not a good bird day,’ said Rona. ‘If they’re wise they’ll be hiding up somewhere.’
The road circuited the rim of the natural harbour, low and wide. There were high tide warnings displayed but the way was now wet and clear. He turned the car along the shoreway and drove slowly around the perimeter to the distant side. ‘So your King Canute didn’t have any luck,’ she said.
‘He ended up muddy,’ he said. ‘The tide did its usual thing.’
On the far bank he braked and stopped the engine. It still rained, obscuring the view from the windscreen. They were acutely aware of each other’s presence. ‘Maybe we should have some lunch and see if it clears later,’ she suggested. ‘I must buy you lunch for bringing me here, I insist.’
‘How could I turn down an offer like that.’ He restarted the engine, the wipers cleared the view and he backed the car, turning it towards the harbour bend again, into the village and to the thatched hotel.
It was old and comfortable, with chintzy curtains and cushions on window seats. They sat in the restaurant watching drenched ducks in the garden. A stream ran deeply between the lawn and the village road.
‘I think it’s clearing,’ he suggested when they had almost finished. ‘The weather comes from the west.’
‘There’s even some blue out there,’ Rona pointed. ‘Maybe it’s the summer coming from Australia. I suppose the weather can lose its way.’
She insisted on paying the bill. They walked out into the reception lobby. A deep-faced young man was standing at the door. ‘It’s going over,’ he said, studying the sky. He saw Rona’s camera. ‘You come for the birds?’
The man had a moustache almost as long as his face. He sniffed as if fighting a cold. ‘I come for them too, I do. The birds. Love ’em. Broke up my marriage, bird-watching. I can go anywhere now. Gave up my job, well, got made redundant, which is better. I been up in Scotland, all over.’
They moved out of the door with him. ‘Couldn’t see a thing early,’ said the stranger. ‘But now it should be good. They’ll be feeding close in. Brent geese, pochard, all sorts. Saw a lovely little golden-eye yesterday. It’s good ’ere.’
They walked with him through the last of the village towards the shore. He had a huge pair of binoculars so weighty around his neck that they seemed to drag his head forward. The pockets of his anorak bulged. His face looked old; drawn and lined by weather. ‘I’ll show you where,’ he offered. ‘They come right close in. Brilliant some of them.’
Rona took her camera from its case. ‘Nice,’ said the young man. ‘Good lens that. Can I ’ave a look?’ She showed him the camera. ‘I’m going to America next,’ he said to her. ‘I can now, no worries, nothing. I’ve promised myself. She couldn’t understand what I was doing for hours watching birds.’ He faced them as though about to tell some awful truth. ‘Thought I was out after the other sort of bird,’ he said incredulously. ‘Me!’ He grimaced and pulled his long face longer. ‘Who’d want me?’ he said as if he hoped they might have some answer.
They progressed below the village walls butting onto the harbour where salted windows overlooked the tidal basin. They could see flocks of birds feeding on the mudflats and in the shoals. ‘If I ’ad the money I’d buy a house ’ere,’ said the man. ‘Right along ’ere, watching the water. You could see ’undreds without getting out of bed.’ He laughed, his mouth dropping into a long bag shape. He almost tiptoed to a slipway and led them down to where the tide had left mud shining and smooth as velvet. ‘There’s a diver,’ he said looking through his binoculars. ‘Red throat with ’is nose in the air.’ He offered them to Rona. ‘See. And just left there’s some greylag and some little scaup. Lovely.’ She peered at the feeding birds. ‘And out there, just a bit to your right.’ He guided her hand familiarly. ‘See, white fronts, a whole load of them.’
They left him eventually and got into the car, driving to the far side of the harbour where they had been that morning. There was no colour in the day, a land and seascape, shades of grey. It was cold, clear, the rain gone.
Rona pulled on her coat and left the car to take photographs. He had resisted the conscientious temptation to call Harriet on the car phone, but now he did.
‘Wherever are you?’ Harriet asked. ‘Mr Grainger was asking. And your wife rang.’ She paused. ‘Can I hear seagulls?’
‘I doubt it. I’m at Gatwick.’
There was a silence. Then she said: ‘Oh, are you.’
She relayed the rest of the day’s messages and he replaced the telephone and sat watching Rona’s long coated s
ilhouette balanced on the edge of the empty scene. She was gazing out into the blank afternoon, her hair moved by the small breeze. He left the car and walked to her.
‘It’s so empty,’ she said. ‘And I always thought England would be small and crowded.’
They were standing together. It was only a moment for them to turn face to face, to hold on to each other. Her skin felt chill. ‘I want to stay here,’ she whispered close to him. ‘For just one more day. I want to stay here with you.’
From the room below came the deep, padded sound of a grandfather clock striking three. She stirred against him, their skins warm with sleep. He touched her. ‘I would never have guessed that you would be so passionate,’ she murmured.
‘Nor me,’ he answered.
‘It’s been such a long time for me,’ she whispered.
‘Me too, really.’
‘That’s how it is with Adele?’
‘Yes. Except for quarrels, we’re avoiding each other.’
‘It’s so hard like that.’
‘Like playing a game, knowing the rules of pretence.’
‘It’s no way to live,’ she said. ‘With me, I thought everything was okay. We went away for the weekend, upstate. It came as a terrific shock when he just didn’t come home from his job.’
‘I think it would be some time before Adele really noticed. Yesterday we had a fight.’
‘What about?’
‘Today.’ He saw her eyes react in the dimness of the room. ‘She wanted me to go to some official lunch with her. It had to be today.’
‘Edward,’ she said. I’m not going to break up your marriage.’
‘It doesn’t need you,’ he said.
‘This is just for now. I’m going home.’
He kissed her deeply. ‘All this time you’ve been just out of reach,’ he said. ‘Just beyond my touch.’
‘I’m not beyond it now.’
Gently he slid his hand below her. ‘I can hear your heart beating when I do this,’ he said.
‘Let me hear yours like that,’ she said. She held him. ‘It’s pounding.’ Her hair flowed over his neck.
Arrivals & Departures Page 30