An Affair to Remember (7 page)

Sister Daphne’s reception of her news was little better. The gist of it being how lucky Beatrice was to be single, and how little she made of her opportunities. Lottie and Horace, she had to admit, had been a trifle more encouraging. Somehow or other though their enthusiasm (“how absolutely marvellous, darling, what a super opportunity for you! Only one way now and that’s up,”) had failed to lift her flagging spirits. Syl of course had been great and it had been agreed between them that she would let Beatrice’s room in the flat for three months only, just in case, as she said with the tact she was famed for, things didn’t turn out quite as planned.

At last! Coming up on her left, a sign half obscured by trailing brambles, announces, to her considerable relief, she’s approaching the village of Kimbleford and would she please drive slowly. The lane, although pretty, had begun to seem interminable, and she was sure she’d gone more than two miles. No houses to be seen and yet another hill, but the sign held out some hope. However, she’s not out of the woods yet. On reaching the top of the hill, she’s compelled to force a reluctant Mini up the bank in order to avoid head-on collision with some idiot driving much too fast in a green Volvo. She can hear by the noise the engine’s making that this manoeuvre isn’t doing the aging Mini any good, and cursing all men, especially men in green Volvos, she pulls up in a layby at the brow of the hill to check everything’s OK, not that she knows anything about car engines and wouldn’t know what to do if there was any damage, but it might be a good idea to give the wretched thing a rest; by the smell of burning rubber emanating from the bonnet it was getting a bit on the overheated side.

All seems well, however, and she’s just about to climb back into the Mini and get going again, when all at once she’s struck by the silence and beauty of the place. Worried about finding the way, then about the car, she hadn’t had time to notice her surroundings. Until now, that is. Slowly, as though impelled by a force outside herself, she closes the car door behind her; stands quite still beside it listening, for what she’s no idea, and whatever it is she doesn’t hear it. All she hears are the normal sounds of a summer’s day in the deep countryside: the chirp chirp of a bird in the hedge behind her, the distant drone of a plane, a bee busily buzzing away in one of the tall purple foxgloves lining the bank; that’s all. What did she expect, for God’s sake? Her smart, London shoes are already soaked from the long grass, but she notices that only a few yards away from where she’s standing the road begins its descent into the next valley. She might as well have a quick look at the view before getting back in the car: Sel was expecting her at Brown End in time for lunch, and it is only 11.30. Beside the road, just as it begins its descent, there’s a heap of gravel, no doubt left from last winter, it must be awful driving round here in bad weather. Will she have to? she wonders, as she scrambles up the heap, doing even more damage to her shoes. Probably, if she stays, that is. But… who cares… because there it is, far below, straggling along the valley bottom beside the river, the village of Kimbleton, and like Sam before her, she experiences this strange, inexplicable feeling that she’s returning home. Unlike Sam, however, she also experiences a spasm of annoyance.
Fleas
on
a
dog
’
s
back
,
that
’
s
what
Father
said
of
the
village
’
s
inhabitants
–
too
many
and
too
lazy
;
refused
to
learn
and
only
interested
in
sitting
on
their
backsides
or
breeding
.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” She hears her own voice shouting into thin air. What in heaven’s name’s going on? She hasn’t a clue about the inhabitants of Kimbleford, how could she? Despite the warmth of the July sun on her back Beatrice shivers; finds herself, of all things – she hasn’t smoked in years – wanting a cigarette. Don’t be daft, she tells herself, a little frightened now, as slipping and sliding down the gravel heap, she hurries back to the safety of the car: first voices, then this. Back in the Mini things return to normality and, taking a deep breath, she lets out the clutch. Sounding its – it has to be said, pretty inadequate – horn at each and every twist and bend in the road; there are many and she can’t cope meeting another idiot head-on; she slowly descends towards the village.

First signs of habitation: a line of council houses, followed by a dilapidated looking building with a corrugated iron roof, which turns out to be the village hall; a garage-come-work shop –
Bogg
’
s Repairs
, states a bold, but rusty sign over the door – equally dilapidated, its forecourt jammed with broken cars; a row of what looked like alms houses and at long last, round a right-angle bend, the main street. This is more like it! This is how a country village ought to look – like the one depicted on the posters in the London underground. Tarted up, prosperous looking cottages, mostly slate roofed, but some still thatched. On the right half way along, a village store, newly painted, fashionable pottery in the window, a sign above it (green with red lettering, Emmie’s idea) announcing they do deliveries, and at the far end of the street, where it descended gently towards the river, an ancient looking church surrounded by yews. No immemorial elms of course, they’d all gone.

Following Sel’s instructions, she ignores all this; there’ll be plenty of time to explore later; and carries on through the village, past a pair of 1920s bungalows designed to look like Swiss chalets and a newish looking housing estate, until she reaches the river. “Over the bridge,” Sel had told her, “follow the road uphill, down the other side, and you’ll come to Brown End.” The bridge is narrow, no pavement for pedestrians: as she crosses it there’s time to look down and notice the large, ungainly grey bird standing still as a statue on one of the flat stones protruding from the bubbling water below the bridge. The bird looks up, startled at the passing car, and with an angry flap of his wings takes off, gliding away up the valley towards a distant belt of trees. ‘
Ardea
!’ says a voice in Beatrice’s head, ‘
Ecce
ardea
– so long, so long it has been…’

“Rubbish,” she shouts, anger overwhelming her, as she grinds the Mini into bottom gear in preparation for the climb up the hill: “It’s not a bloody
ardea
, it’s a bloody heron…”

The auguries, it seems, are not good…

At the top of the hill, as the road enters a small wood and flattens out before descending to Brown End, the Mini gives up the ghost. A knocking noise, a splutter; that’s it, the engine conks out. “Bloody car! Bloody, bloody useless little car!” Her anger, already stoked, turns to a fury of frustration, as hastily switching off the engine she opens the door and gets out. The smell of burning rubber’s back and there’s smoke coming out of the bonnet. The damn thing passed its MOT only three weeks ago, how could it let her down at such a crucial moment; how could it? Far from the cool, efficient image she tried so hard to promote at her interview, she’s going to look a flustered, overheated idiot when,
sans
luggage,
sans
car, she arrives at Brown End on foot. What about her luggage, for that matter? Would it be safe in the car? Anyone could force the boot open, one bang would probably do it. She wants to cry, scream; she can feel one of her headaches coming on. She can’t cope, really she can’t; one’s done one’s best and this is how one’s rewarded. She tries a breathing exercise featured in one of Syl’s health magazines; closes her eyes and tries to think of something nice (what? – for God’s sake); slowly begins to calm down. Opening her eyes she finds she’s being scrutinised by a rook. There’s a gate leading to a pathway into the wood, just beside where the Mini gave up; he’s sitting on it, head on one side, peering at her. She’s pretty sure he’s laughing. “Bugger off,” she shouts angrily and squirting a quick, contemptuous message, he hops away, but she can still see him further up the fence, and he’s still looking at her.

The sweat’s trickling down her neck, her T-shirt seems pasted to her breasts, she’s a feeling she’s been stung by something nasty and she knows she looks a complete mess. The only good thing, if Sel’s right, and people often aren’t when dealing with distances, is that there’s only another half mile before Brown End. It shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes to walk it, at the most half an hour, and she can carry the small holdall – newly purchased and quite smart looking, with her. The rest of the luggage must take its chance. At least the car seems to be cooling down a bit, so hopefully no danger now of it blowing up. She drags a comb through her hair, puts on a bit of lipstick, turns to check the car doors are locked…

“Can I be of help?” A tall man walks out of the wood, opens the gate where the rook was sitting. Her first impression; everything about him is reddish brown: brown hair, streaked with grey, brown face, arms, khaki denims, shirt. After that – recognition.

“Brian?” she hears herself ask in a voice not her own, “Brian?” Silence, while the gentle, cooling wind ruffles her hair and a blackbird whistles in the trees behind them.

Chapter 4

“Clarrie? Jack here. Look, love, I’m afraid I can’t make it tomorrow morning, something’s cropped up…”

“Oh God, Jack, what? Tomorrow morning’s the only time I can make it, Roman Living’s coming in the afternoon to discuss the way forward over them re-doing that bathroom they mucked up, and I’ll have to be there – Sel’s hopeless at dealing with people like that. Then we’ve got weekend visitors – I was so looking forward to seeing you.” Clarrie Woodhead is lying on her bed (imitation Louis XV, matching hangings and duvet cover in a
fleur
de
lis
pattern). She feels humiliated. He’s such a slob – what in heaven’s name does she see in him?

“Not my fault, darling.” The disappointment in her voice nearly gives Jack a hard on there and then. What a bird! “It’s the bloody office again. They want me back for a conference; something’s come up. What about tonight instead? I’ll be down your way early evening – I’m booked to pay a visit to old Carter at The Gables. Should be finished with him by seven o’clock – we could meet after for a quickie. –”

“For a ‘quickie’! You make it sound as you’re giving me a free handout – who the hell d’you think I am?”

“Oh come on, darling, don’t be like that,” Jack puts on his wheedling voice, “word of a lie; this isn’t my fault. Would I pass up a chance to see you – I mean would I? You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve clapped eyes on in years and – hang on a sec.” The line goes dead, except for some sort of knocking in the background. “Look, darling, must go, some turd’s banging on the box, but I’ll be waiting up at the Grove 7.30 pm. If you’re not there by 7.45 poor old Jack’ll drive sadly home and top himself – how’s that?”

“Don’t get your hopes up! The new sec’s arriving today, in fact she should have been here by now so I probably won’t make it. Anyway I must go, Sel’s on his way up. Bye.” At least she’s had the last word, not that that counted for much; so subtle a victory would cut no ice with Jack Fulton.

Clarrie Woodhead is small, dark and thirty-nine years old. She’s kept her figure and her looks and could be taken on a good day for someone in her twenties. She has beautiful eyes, peaty brown with long lashes, and an equally beautiful figure. Sel Woodhead’s women always have beautiful figures; it’s his trademark; they have to be highly intelligent as well (which Clarrie is). This is why, though perhaps not quite his type, he had warmed to Beatrice, who also has a beautiful figure, if you’re into Greek goddesses that is, and he is, although in Clarrie’s case she’s more your pocket Venus.

Clarrie loves, even admires her husband. The snag: sex between them is virtually non-existent. Hence of course her wasting her time on the likes of Jack Fulton. She had accepted Sel on those terms; as always, he had been honest with her. As far back as their first date, he had made it clear that sex had never really been one of his things. Too much else to do, he’d told her, also there’d been a nasty experience (he’d never explained what) at the north London primary school that as an underfed, undersized six year old he’d attended sometime in the 1930s. However, as far as Clarrie was concerned, despite the lack of sex, Sel had a lot to offer and they were both prepared to accept the fact she would, within reason, seek it elsewhere. He loved her, she knew, and she loved him; he was the father and the intimate friend she’d never had, and on the whole their marriage was a good one.

She’d met Jack Fulton in the spring while camping at Brown End. She’d gone down there for a few days to organise the builders and discuss plans with her interior designer, a morose young man by the name of Giles Pumfritt. It turned out later that Giles had been a mistake. His designs, once applied, had looked quite ghastly in the simple old farmhouse, and even Sel, who normally left such matters to her, had put his foot down. It had been a wild and windy March day, and driving back from Belchester, her Renault sustained a puncture on the way up Dog’s Head Hill. Jack, in his green Volvo, happened to be passing and offered to change the wheel for her, and they’d got talking. There was something about Jack – hard to say what, she thinks, as she swings her golden brown legs out of bed and pulls on the long, Indian cotton skirt she habitually wears about the house and makes her, so her husband says, look like a ‘high class gypsy’ – he was really nothing more than a big, boastful, rather common commercial traveller with a bristly moustache and a crude line in jokes. However, there it was; he had it, whatever ‘it’ is. Incidentally, Clarrie Woodhouse and Emmie Mallory weren’t the only ones to think this; there were many others who felt the same, and from Penrith to Plymouth, Sunderland to Southampton and all places beyond, Jack Fulton had left a trail of angry, frustrated and randy women waiting longingly for his return.