Red Crystal (17 page)

Ahead the chestnuts arched upwards, their summer magnificence quickly fading in a flurry of dry yellow leaves. Soon she would get her first glimpse of the house. During the early months at Hunter’s Wood she’d always looked forward to this moment, even if she’d been away a short time. But today … Today she remembered the work list, and how very long it was and how behind they were.

She drove on and pulled up in front of the house. The camper van, the only other vehicle in sight, was parked carelessly in the middle of the yard. Victoria looked at the house and frowned. Although it was noon and the day fine the living-room windows were tightly shut and the curtains drawn.

She stiffened, listening hard. Away past the tractor shed Bella, the sow, was grunting, not in her familiar snuffly contented way, but in long sorrowful snorts. And the chickens – there was no sound from them at all.

Apprehensive, Victoria hurried round the corner of the house and across the yard. The door of the tractor shed was open and the engine of the ancient Massey Ferguson lay strewn in small pieces over the floor. She sighed inwardly; there would be no ploughing today then.

In the sty a distressed Bella pushed an anxious snout over the wall. Her trough was quite empty. Victoria realized with growing despair that it had probably been so for some time. She gave the wildly grunting pig some water then went to the reed store. That too was empty. She exclaimed aloud, ‘God! It isn’t much to ask. Not
much
!’ Who was it – yes, Martin – who was meant to have picked up the monthly supplies? How
could
he have forgotten?

Angry now, she marched across to the chicken shed. She stopped short and caught her breath. The door was wide open and there wasn’t a bird to be seen. Only feathers and remains scattered widely over the ground. Foxes’ leftovers.

Muttering bitterly to herself, she strode into the farmhouse kitchen. The remains of a meal were spread over the table and draining board. Victoria went straight to the slop pail, topped up the sparse plate-scrapings with porridge oats and stale muesli, pulled up a whole fresh cabbage from the vegetable patch, and gave the mixture to a grateful Bella.

Crying now, she returned to the kitchen and stared dejectedly at the mess. A note was propped conspicuously against a bowl on the dresser. She recognized Ned’s tidy handwriting. Victoria reached out hesitantly, uncomfortably sure of what it would say. She unfolded it. ‘We hereby resign. We feel that the original spirit and intentions of the commune have been lost. We have taken a few vegetables, but nothing else. Ned and Kate.’ There was a forwarding address.

She leant hard against the dresser, thinking: They’re right, the heart has gone out of this place. She felt a black despair.

She went into the hall, the slap of her sandals echoing loudly across the stone floor. The living-room was empty and dark, the air close and stale. The other ground-floor rooms were lifeless too. She climbed wearily up the stairs and stopped outside Martin and Janey’s room. Gentle snores were audible through the closed door. She thought bitterly: How
could
they? She opened the door and looked in. The room was dark but she could see the two figures sprawled across the mattress. Martin muttered angrily in his sleep. Janey was very still. Victoria went up to the mattress and touched her hand, then shook her firmly and shouted her name a couple of times. Janey responded with a loud moan and turned over.

On the floor beside the mattress were the leftovers of the party: home-made elderberry wine, a couple of half-smoked joints, some pink tablets – speed – and a plate.

Victoria stared at the plate and her heart moved painfully. On it were the remains of a brashly coloured cake, marbled with veins of vivid yellow and green and purple. Crouching, she picked up a piece and, lifting it to her nose, sniffed it.

She should have known. Mel had joked about it often enough. Rainbow cake – psychedelic and mind-blowing. Full of junk.

In the passage she took a long deep breath and started towards the room she shared with Mel. Even as she approached, she caught the whiff of booze and grass and overflowing ashtrays.

Suddenly she had a horrible yet tantalizing thought: that there’d be someone else in the bed with him. Another girl – the blonde art student, the one who often arrived uninvited and walked naked in the back meadow; the one he sometimes disappeared with. She hesitated at the door, miserable in case her suspicions were correct, yet desperate to know.

She walked in. He was alone. She exhaled, half with relief, half with a curious sense of disappointment.

He was lying on the bed, face up, his mouth wide open. He was out cold, like Janey. The room was a mess and the smell unpleasant. With despair she realized that at one point Mel must have been sick.

She screwed up her face and muttered, ‘
Honestly
…’

After a few moments she went closer, drawn by a need to see the full extent of his dissipation.

Suddenly she held perfectly still, her senses reaching out like an animal scenting the wind.

With disbelief yet perfect certainty, she knew.

He was dead.

She remained still, as if the moment could be frozen or undone. But gradually she became aware of her own breathing, of infinitesimal fractions of time flickering past. Slowly she began to absorb the details of the sight before her: the eyelids which were not quite shut, the whites of the eyes which gleamed dully through the lashes, the bluish, almost transparent skin. Slowly she reached forward and touched his arm. It was cold. Cold and dead.

She felt nothing. Not then. The day took on a curious dreamlike quality. It wasn’t until much later when a policeman asked her what her relationship had been to the dead man that her detachment peeled away like a bandage from a wound.

And then she cried, not just for Mel but for herself. He’d never loved her very much, she realized that; but he was the only man who’d ever accepted her just as she was; the only man who’d made her feel at all desirable. Now he was dead and she felt ugly and fat again.

It was dawn the next day before the police drove them back to the farm. Martin and Janey, drowsy and shocked, went to bed. Victoria climbed slowly up to the top meadow and sat in the dewy stillness, watching the thin light creep into the secret valley.

She thought: This is the last time I’ll sit in this meadow.

There was no point in going on. It was the end. And she didn’t even understand why …

The sun rose. The valley filled with a strong yellow light which illuminated the lush fullness of the dying summer. It was still the most beautiful place she had ever seen.

Defeated, she walked down the hill and wandered round the farm buildings, seeing as if for the first time the dilapidated fences, the rusty gutters, the patchy repairs, the roofs that had started leaking again.

Eventually she slept for a few hours. At ten she woke the others and by midday most of the arrangements had been made. A neighbouring farmer agreed to buy Bella and arranged to fetch her at two. The three cows and one heifer were going to be collected for market on Tuesday. That left only the goats grazing up in the meadow and the fruit and vegetables unpicked in the field. Martin and Janey could deal with all that. They were staying on, for a while at least.

Victoria packed her belongings. She left Mel’s things – she couldn’t bring herself to touch them – except for the embroidered Tibetan jacket and collar of bells she’d bought him last Christmas. These she put in her bag.

At some point arrangements would have to be made to sell the few modest pieces of furniture, the farm equipment, the vehicles – the tractor – such as it was – and the camper. Finally the farm itself. But she couldn’t face that just yet.

She left without saying goodbye to Martin and Janey who were meditating in the living-room, softly chanting their mantras. As she drove away up the hill towards the vaulted chestnuts she didn’t look back.

A week later Henry Northcliff sat in his study at home, holding the telephone slightly away from his ear, and wishing the conversation would end.

But Mrs Danby’s voice continued to travel relentlessly down the wire. ‘It’s just so
dreadful
, the whole thing.
Drugs
– I mean, I had no idea Victoria was mixed up in such things – all those drop-outs and drug-addicts. Honestly, Henry, I’m really
hurt
…’

He made a few pacifying noises then pointed out, ‘She’s not actually being charged with any offence, Mrs – er – Elizabeth.’ She had insisted on the use of her first name.

‘Maybe not. But the
inquest
. It’s all going to come out. It’s going to be dreadful – for
Victoria
.’ A distinct whine had come into Mrs Danby’s voice and Henry found himself thinking that her concern didn’t extend to Victoria at all.

‘And what’s even worse,’ Mrs Danby continued, ‘is that she should drag
you
into this! I’m so embarrassed I don’t know what to say.’

‘She didn’t drag me into anything,’ Henry corrected her. ‘She phoned me and asked me for the name of a good solicitor, which I was delighted to give her. She didn’t ask anything more.’

‘No? She hasn’t come round to see you then?’

‘No,’ Henry lied.

‘Oh … well. That’s
something
at least …’

She rang off at last and Henry sat at his desk for a moment, wondering if he was wise to get embroiled in all this. He was doing it partly for Caroline, of course, but also because there was a vulnerability and innocence in Victoria which appealed to the protective side of his nature. At the same time he would have to be careful not to let things get out of hand. Unhappy people could be leech-like in their consumption of other people’s time.

He found the women sitting either side of the kitchen table, Caroline composedly in her chair, Victoria slumped over a cup of coffee.

The moment Victoria saw him she jumped to her feet. ‘I must go. I only meant to stay a minute—’

‘No, don’t go yet,’ Henry found himself saying, and hoped he wouldn’t regret it. When she was back in her seat he added, ‘That was your mother on the phone. I didn’t tell her you were here.’

Victoria closed her eyes and shook her head as if the news were the final straw in an already heavy burden.

Henry sat down and said patiently, ‘Now – let’s look at the positive side of things. Everything’s been sorted out on the legal front. There’s absolutely nothing more to be done about what happened last week. What you must consider now is your future.’

Victoria looked at him blankly. ‘I – haven’t a clue. The commune was what I wanted … Or what I thought I wanted.’

‘Isn’t there anything else you could do?’

She shook her head miserably. ‘That’s the trouble. I’m not
trained
to do anything. I was brought up to be jolly company at hunt balls and make a terrific quiche lorraine and avoid serious subjects. And I’m not very successful at
that
!’

Henry couldn’t help smiling. ‘Well, there’s nothing wrong with tackling serious subjects.’

‘Oh! You wouldn’t say that if you’d met my county friends!’ she exclaimed passionately. ‘They think it’s bad form to discuss politics or Vietnam or the Third World. And if anyone
does
mention anything like that, they just make a ghastly
joke
of it.’

‘The British disease,’ said Caroline. ‘Making jokes.’

Henry watched Victoria and realized what else he liked about her. She had a delightful ingenuousness. She was incapable of guile or subterfuge. Everything came spilling out, straight from the heart.

He said gently, ‘Look at it another way. Can you afford to go without a job for a while?’ She nodded. ‘Well then,’ he went on, ‘why don’t you do voluntary work? For some charity or another. Something you really care about.’

She thought for a moment. ‘Well – I do feel strongly about poverty. And bad housing. And Vietnam. And the Third World. And oppression. And injustice—’

‘That should do for a start.’

She caught the gentle mockery in his tone and shot him a self-deprecating smile. ‘Well, perhaps I’d choose
one
thing to start with … Perhaps Vietnam. I do feel very strongly about that.’

‘And how exactly would you serve this cause?’

Her round freckled face puckered into a frown of concentration. ‘I think – by helping raise awareness of the atrocities committed against the people … And collecting money to help the victims of American bombing … And combating American imperialism generally – that sort of thing.’

The speech had more than a hint of propaganda to it, but Henry let it pass.

She said abruptly, ‘I suppose you don’t approve? The British government always supports US imperialism, whether it’s Labour or Tory.’

Henry didn’t want to argue the point. Remembering his own commitment to Spain when he was young, he said, ‘If that’s what you really believe, far be it from me …’ He got to his feet and, taking her cue, Victoria picked up her bag and followed Henry and Caroline towards the door.

‘Thank you
both
,’ Victoria said. ‘And I’ll think very hard about what you’ve said.’

Henry paused thoughtfully. ‘Only one thing, Victoria. I’m all for the free expression of opinion, whatever that opinion might be. But if you do get involved in any of these movements, take care, won’t you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well’ – he tried not to sound like an old woman – ‘keep a sense of proportion. There’s always an element who like to take things too far, to – use an issue to provoke discontent rather than to make a point.’

‘Oh, you mean at demos and things? Don’t worry, I wouldn’t get involved in any of
that
. It frightens me rigid.’

‘Was I too pompous?’

‘No,’ said Caroline. ‘I thought you were – just right.’

‘She probably won’t take a blind bit of notice of what I said anyway.’

They walked slowly towards his study. ‘I’ve still got a pile of work to do. I’m sorry.’

Sensing that he still wanted to talk she followed him in and sat on the edge of the desk.

She said, ‘You’re tired.’

He sat down and ran a hand across his forehead. ‘No more than usual. It’s just that’ – he thought for a moment, trying to analyse his mood – ‘I’ve lost my optimism, I suppose.’