Ashenden (41 page)

“What’s it say?” said Stuart.

“I can’t read the label, I’m afraid. The writing’s too small,” said the old person in an old person’s voice.

Typical. Old people always said the writing was too small or the hill was too steep. They never said their eyes were bad or they were on their sodding last legs. Stuart took the plate.

“It’s twenty pee.”

“What’s that in old money?”

“Four bob.”

“Oh dear, no. That’s far too much.”

“Go on, treat yourself,” said Stuart.

“No, no, I mustn’t. You have to watch the pennies at my age.”

“Well, have it for nothing, then.”

“For nothing?”

“Yeah, go ahead. It’s on me.”

“Well, thank you very much, young man,” said the old person. “God bless.”

Christ, thought Stuart.

A middle-aged man with poofy hair, short legs, beer belly straining against a striped shirt, came up and stood sifting through the Mantovanis and Perry Comos and Andrews Sisters. From time to time he shot Stuart filthy looks that said, “They should bring back National Service,” and “In my day . . .” A kid bought an Airfix kit. Another kid bought a green plastic frog. The middle-aged man with the beer belly said, “I’ll take this, thank you very much,” and placed coins on the table.

Auf Wiedersehen in Garmisch-Partenkirchen.
Lederhosen on the cover.

“Sorry. That’s not enough,” said Stuart.

“It says twenty-five pee.”

“Yeah, it’s been marked up wrong. You see, this is kind of a rare album. It’s actually one pound fifty.”

“One pound fifty?”

Stuart explained that he was the manager of a record shop, giving the name of the record shop where Izzie worked. “Trust me, mate, one pound fifty is a bargain. You could flog it for three times as much up in London tomorrow. Rare pressing.”

“You’re having me on.”

“I was thinking of buying it myself,” said Stuart. “As an investment.”

“Were you?” said the middle-aged man.

“Yeah,” said Stuart, putting the album to one side.

“One pound fifty, did you say?” The middle-aged man got out his wallet.

For the next half hour or so, Stuart decided on his own pricing policy. Everything on the stall was crap.
Sligo and Its Surrounds,
an ashtray with “Souvenir of Weston-super-Mare” written on it, a shower cap in its original packaging. The trick was to work out how much someone could afford to pay, how much they wanted the piece of crap, and multiply that by how much they annoyed him. Most people who came to the stall annoyed him, one way or another, so the cash was building up nicely when he caught sight of Izzie over by the stable block. “Mick,” he said. “Mind the stall for me, will you?” But Mick had disappeared.

*  *  *

When it was time for the prize giving, Izzie still hadn’t worked out what to tell her father. She saw him coming into the tea tent and escaped out the back, where she immediately ran into her mother and Mrs. Drummond.

“Where on earth have you been?” said Alison.

“Helping Mrs. Marsham.”

“You were supposed to be helping
me.
”

“Does it matter?” said Izzie. “I’m still
helping,
aren’t I? I’ve been down here all day. I put up most of the tent on my own.” And had an accident. She squashed the thought like a fly.

“She had her hip op yet?” said Mrs. Drummond.

“Who?”

“Mrs. Marsham.”

“I doubt it,” said Izzie. “She has a stick.”

“If she’s sick, she shouldn’t be serving teas,” said Mrs. Drummond, who was deaf. “It’s not hygienic.”

Alison said, “I’m going to take Mrs. Drummond in for the prizes. Why don’t you go and relieve Stuart? When I couldn’t find you, I left him minding the stall.”

“Stuart?” said Izzie. “What’s he doing here?”

“I expect you asked him, didn’t you?”

Izzie had told Stuart not to come, but she wasn’t about to admit that to her mother.

“He’s got some sort of friend in tow,” said Alison.

“Why are you frowning, Mother?”

“I’m not frowning.”

“I’ll go after the prizes,” said Izzie, who didn’t want to see her father, Stuart, or Stuart’s friend, whichever friend that was. “Grandma always said the best bit was the expressions on the faces of the ladies who came in third.”

“So many ladybirds this year,” said Mrs. Drummond, nodding. “The garden’s full of them. Never known anything like it.”

*  *  *

First prize for cake (class H) had never been awarded to an empty plate before.

“You did remember to fetch it, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Mother,” said Izzie. “You can ask the old dears if you don’t believe me.”

Petra Curtis, handing the certificate to a bewildered Mrs. Drummond—“Goodness me, for the ninth year running. What a champion!”—said that she had no idea what had happened to the cake but all the judges could testify how delicious it was. “We only ate a slice, mind you, so don’t go blaming us!” There was a little laughter. She consulted her notes. “Moving on, and bearing in mind there is no class I. Class J. Chutney. Third prize to—”

At that moment Mick rolled out from underneath one of the
trestle tables, blinked, and sat up, sawdust in his hair and wispy beard, sawdust all down his maroon cords. Then he staggered to his feet, bent over the table, and gouged out a handful of second prize.

“Ace cakes,” he said, stuffing the handful into his mouth and gouging out another. “Specially that one.” He pointed to the empty plate. “That one was really, really amaaaaazing.”

The reaction was immediate and, as it was an English reaction, almost invisible to the untrained eye. People looked and looked away, muttered shock and disapproval, and wondered why no one was doing anything about it and how anyone could wear corduroy in this weather.

“Shame!” said someone at the back, and all the heads swiveled round to see who it had been.

“That’s Stuart’s friend, isn’t it?” said Alison.

Mick stumbled across the floor, throwing his legs in front of him and trusting that the rest of his body would follow. “Hey, Izzie,” he said, grabbing her by the arm. “Stuart wants to see ya. He’s got something important to tell ya.”

Across the stable block Izzie saw Charlie Minton standing alongside Sir Hugo and Lady Lyell, trying and failing not to laugh. The tidewaters of embarrassment rose up her body, up her neck, and closed over her head. She was drowning in a sea of shame.

Her father came through the door, a quizzical expression on his face.

“Izzie? Where are you going?” said Alison.

*  *  *

Stuart was trying to persuade a mother of a snotty-nosed kid that a wicker wastepaper basket was worth a pound of anyone’s money— “hand-crafted,” he said, and “locally made”—when Izzie came tearing across the paddock with “Fuck you” written all over her face.

“A pound. Seems a bit steep,” said the mother.

“Fuck you!” said Izzie. “I never want to see you again. Do you understand? Ever!”

“Crumbs,” said the mother, putting her hands over her kid’s ears.

“Go!”

Stuart put up his hands. “Hey.”

“Go. Now! Just bugger off.”

The mother led her child away.

“If you want the wastepaper basket, have it!” said Izzie, throwing it after them.

“Izzie,” said Stuart.

“Bugger off,” said Izzie, coming behind the table and pushing him away. “And take that fucking old hippie with you! You bastard!”

“Izzie.” Stuart had never been the chuckee before and didn’t know whether to smirk or push back. On balance, a smirk seemed best.

“Go!”

“OK, OK. Keep your cool.”

“Go!”

Stuart went.

Izzie placed her hands on the table and bent over. A dull rumor of pain started in her lower back. Probably whiplash or something. The sun beat down on her head. She stood there for some time, all the embarrassments of the day washing over her in wave after mortifying wave.

“That was impressive.”

She lifted her head and was confronted by the startling blue eyes of the class enemy. “What was?”

“I think you would be a lot cooler if you took that headband thing off,” said the class enemy, who had a camera around his neck and a drink in one hand. “Here, this is for you. Thought you could do with it.” It was a glass of Pimm’s. “Courtesy of Uncle Hugo and Aunt Reggie.”

Pimm’s. Strawberries, cucumber, and mint. The drink looked cool and delicious, but she was certainly not going to give him the satisfaction of taking it.

He put the glass on the table and retrieved the wastepaper basket from where it had rolled away on the ground.

“How much do you want for this?”

“A pound,” said Izzie, her cheeks blazing. “What was impressive?”

“Too expensive,” said Charlie, putting it back on the table. “You should really take that headband thing off. Let me. There you are. Much cooler, isn’t it?”

Izzie rubbed her forehead. “He wasn’t my boyfriend, if that’s what you’re thinking.” She picked up the glass and took a sip. “Just somebody I sort of know.”

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking anything,” said Charlie. “Now, are you going to give me your phone number so I can ring your dad and tell him the accident was all my fault?”

*  *  *

“A hot-water bottle,” said Walter. “In this weather?”

“You know how she gets,” said Alison. “The first day of her period. It’s soothing.”

“She scratched the van.”

“Walter,” said Alison, halfway out the door. “You did let her drive it.”

“She said she was getting on so well with the lessons.”

Alison smiled and shook her head. Upstairs, she knocked on the door of her daughter’s bedroom, the bedroom that used to be hers. There was a muffled reply.

“Slip this under the sheet,” she said.

The room smelled of antifungal foot powder and deodorant.

“Are you crazy?” said Izzie, her face rumpled and sweaty. “In this heat?”

“It’ll help the pain in your back.”

“No, I don’t want it, Mother.” She burrowed her head in the pillow.

“Aspirin?”

“Had some.”

“Well, I’ll just set this down on the bookcase in case you change your mind.” Alison sat on the edge of the bed. “We made fourteen quid on the stall. Can you believe it? The strange thing is I don’t know quite how. I only took three pounds or so, if that, and there was quite a bit of stuff left at the end.”

No reply.

Her hand hovered over her daughter. Without finding any obvious place to rest it, she sighed and got up.

“All right, then. See you in the morning. Hope you feel better.”

“Mum?” From the pillow.

“Yes?”

“Is Dad mad at me about the van?”

“No. He’s a little sad about the house. Wistful is how he puts it.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I forgot. You missed the speech, didn’t you? It was after you ran off. The Lyells are moving out of the house into one of the pavilions.”

Izzie shot up in bed, creases all over her cheeks. “Oh no!”

“Much easier for them to manage a smaller place at their age.”

“That’s terrible! That’s so sad!”

“I think it’s sensible of them, actually.”

“I can’t believe you don’t care!”

“Get some sleep. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

“How am I supposed to sleep now?”

“It’s been a long day. I think you’ll manage.”

When her mother had left the room, Izzie fetched the hot-water bottle and laid it against her back. Then she reached under her pillow where she had put the piece of paper with Charlie Minton’s address and phone number written on it. Just to check that it was still there. He had really nice handwriting, much nicer than Stuart’s. She wondered how the photograph he had taken of her was going to turn out.

I
f these are ghosts, they are friendly ones, who slip past in the thin cold air and leave no disturbance or sadness behind. It’s the gentlest form of haunting, really, a smile fading from a face, or a forgotten tune playing in the next room. Ghosts are only to be expected when the house contains so much time.

So much of your own life too, over half a century. The house is your skin, your memory, your thoughts. It’s family; all that you’ve loved.

*  *  *

Reggie awoke to find a glare on the ceiling, a bright reflected uplight that told her that it had snowed again. What did Luke, Charlie’s boy, call it?
A snow dump.
There had been another snow dump. Thick drifts plumped the outlines of trees and fences and hedges, hid the world under a goose-feather counterpane. She was standing at the window staring out over the whitened park, the monochrome landscape like an old silvered photograph, perhaps a Brassaï, when her carer, Elaine, came in with the breakfast tray. This morning Elaine was wearing purple leggings and a bulky sweater patterned with gray and white lozenges.

“Oh, I see we’re up, Lady Lyell.”

She had never been able to persuade Elaine to call her Reggie, one of the small failures of recent years, any more than she had become
used to “we,” the old-age pronoun. Live past eighty (she was past ninety) and you became a “we.”

Elaine set down the tray. “No post, of course. Everything’s at a complete standstill. They’ve been saying for days on the telly this was coming, so why haven’t they gritted the roads? Scandal, if you ask me. What do we pay our council tax for is what I want to know. Before I forget, Mrs. St. George rang earlier.”

“Did she? I didn’t hear the phone.”

Elaine poured the tea. “Breakfast first. Then we’ll see about ringing her back, shall we?”

“She’ll want to tell me the date of the charity auction, I expect.” Reggie thought she might need assistance with some aspects of daily life—bathing these days was a chore—but returning calls to old friends like Mrs. St. George was not yet one of them. Waving away Elaine, who was trying to pull out the chair for her, she sat herself down at the table in front of the window, spread her napkin over her lap, and reached for the honey. Hugo used to have a sweet tooth; nowadays she did. She’d read somewhere that one’s sense of taste altered with age. Otherwise, she had all her own teeth, all her faculties (reading glasses didn’t count), and no arthritis beyond a thickening of the knuckles that meant she couldn’t wear her rings anymore. There had been one or two odd little turns, dizzy spells, nothing serious to speak of. Low blood pressure, the doctor said. Her sister, who was eighty-eight, was the same. She supposed it was in the genes. Every evening they spoke on the phone, a little something to look forward to.