The Haunt (18 page)

He said, ‘I’m sorry—’

‘Don’t apologise, it’s humiliating.’

‘It’s my fault – not being organised.’

‘
Organised?
’
She uttered that dry sound in her throat again.

‘An affair of this sort – and this more than most, because we’re such near neighbours – requires careful planning – orchestrating.’

‘Affair?’

‘Clandestine.’

‘Is that how you see it? I’m to be your little bit on the side?’

Owen protested, ‘Is that how it seems?’

‘Don’t worry, I shan’t harass you. Greville’s coming back.’

Owen said, ‘Good. You’ve sorted things out between you?’

‘Not quite everything.’ She was plaiting her hair as she spoke. ‘I’m going to stay with my mother in Friern Barnet.’

‘Think about it; don’t make up your mind on the spur of the moment.’

‘This moment has plenty of spur.’ She smiled wryly.

‘What about James?’

‘Greville agrees he must go away to school: it’s best we don’t try to share his upbringing.’ She drew the finished plait over her shoulder. ‘I still love my husband, you know.’

Owen, who hadn’t known, was glad. He had wanted to leave her with something. Hope could be recognised without being guaranteed.

*

He set a match to the heap in the garden. The stuff on top had dried: a thread of black smoke came up from the base which was still damp. There was no fragrant woodsmoke, which he understood was the reward of an autumn bonfire.

At this time of year the garden had little to commend it. The grass looked chewed, the broad-leaved trees had been stripped by the first of the winter winds and stood
as a black scribble against the sky. Owen found himself hankering after pavements, well-defined stone slabs with Nature pinned underneath; felt something like nostalgia for a whiff of London traffic.

He went to the garage, fetched newspapers and oily rags and pushed them into the bottom of the heap. The paper burned fiercely. Then the flames died. He went back to the garage, gathered the wood shavings and offcuts left over from his spell of carpentry. A wicker chair, left by the previous tenant, promised results. He carried it all to the heap which was putting up a wisp of black steam. He kicked it and the heap fell open on a nucleus of sweating twigs and charred rags. He heard a long-drawn hollow cry. Alarmed, he took a stick and stirred the embers. The cry came again, louder. James was behind him, carrying a bulky parcel.

‘Hey, you gave me a fright. I thought, here’s a firebird dropped into my bonfire, hoping to rise up young again from the ashes. It’s an old Arabian custom.’

James giggled. Owen pushed the wood shavings into the heap and dropped the basket chair on top. He lit a match and held it to the shavings. They took at once: a ring of lusty flames spread and licked the old wickerwork of the chair. It was ablaze in a moment. James shouted for joy.

Owen said, ‘What’s in the parcel?’

James let it fall to the ground. Crouching, he tore off the brown paper and stood with his arms full of reddish fur. ‘It’s his coat.’

‘Your father’s?’

‘The bear’s coat. I’ve killed the bear.’

Solemnly he raised his burden and released it to the flames.

*

Antony found Pam piling clothes into a suitcase. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I want to go home.’ Her lip trembled. Like a child’s, he thought, his temper rising. ‘I don’t like being here—’

‘You want to go home – I want to stay.’

‘I can’t go without you!’

‘You can. We’re not joined at the hip.’

‘Nanty, you’re not well, I know you’re not. This place is bad for you. In the boat – I thought you were dying—’

‘Disappointed, were you?’

‘Nanty – don’t!’

‘You’re the one that’s sick. You and your plastic tadpole!’

He stormed out, slamming the door, and drove away fast. Clear of the Falmouth traffic, he plunged through everlasting lanes, past constantly recurring road junctions, grassy islands with finger-posts which he did not read. It didn’t matter where he went, he needed to get away. If distance didn’t make the heart grow fonder, it might help sort his feelings. Unprepared as he had been – or, rather, prepared for it to be nothing at all – when he looked over the side of the boat and saw that sheet of plastic stamped ‘Blue Circle Cement Co.’ he could have howled. Would he ever be able to make love to her without it coming between them? Turned off by a cement bag!

He cornered too sharply and finished on a grass verge,
front wheels just short of a ditch. He got out, locked the car and walked away, across a field.

The field had been left fallow. He found himself in a sea of wild flowers, buttercups, ox-eye daisies, dandelions, sheep’s bit, foxgloves, laughing jacks. He watched his shoes turn yellow with pollen. Then the blossoming tide petered out.

He looked up. He had come to the edge of a wood. On the threshold, as it were, he was looking into a concourse of great trees, elms and oaks rejoicing as their leaves raced in the wind. Sunlight and shadow rocked the ground under his feet; the roaring of the leaves gathered strength from somewhere in the heart of the wood and deepened to a sustained organ note which swelled in his eardrums. He began to feel weightless, like nothing.

Pam might not be so wrong after all. The business with Soulsby was sheer kiddology, but this was how he had felt as he lay on his back in Clapham’s boat. Perhaps he should get a medical check-up.

Driving back to the hotel he caught glimpses of the Carrick Roads. A yacht race was in progress, white sails running before the wind, sun sparkling off blue water – a picture from the calendar he had pinned over the sluice in the shop and kept tally of the days till their holiday. As a holiday it was a write-off. But at least – at most – it had clarified the situation between himself and Pam.

There had been life before her, but would he want it again? In his single existence he had spent a lot of time bar-crawling, seeking ad hoc girls. From that angle, the choice was clear.
He would be a fool to go back to random searching for a congenial partner.

I’ll take her away, he thought, I’ll ask no question, I’ll go along with whatever she wants. This place brings out the morbid streak, but she’s not the only one. There’s Olssen painting monsters, Mrs Clapham attacked by her own saucepan, the Soulsbys are trying to work miracles and a deaf woman heard wolves.

Perhaps it depended on what was meant by miracles, how you look at them, and where. You shouldn’t ask too much, a change of heart is a minor miracle.

The patrolman in the middle of the road seemed to be beckoning him on. He was waving his arms, his mouth opening, shouting. Antony slammed on his brakes, stalled the engine.

The patrolman, still waving his arms, ran to the car. He leaned in through the window.

‘What’s up?’ said Antony.

‘You can’t come any farther. Go back.’

‘Back where?’

‘Back!’

The patrolman was very young, he still had a boy’s fuzz on his cheek.

‘I’m going to Falmouth,’ said Antony.

‘Take the M road.’

‘Why should I? This is pleasanter.’

‘There’s a tree down, a great big tree …’ He looked queer, his face was greenish and dewy with sweat.

‘Don’t worry, there are plenty more trees.’

‘It’s across the road. On top of a car!’

‘Christ – is anyone hurt?’

The boy bit his lips, his jaw cracked. ‘Two women …’

Antony reversed and drove away. He pulled up when he saw a man leaning on his cottage gate. ‘What happened back there?’

‘The old oak came down. I warned them. That tree’s dangerous, I said, fixing to fall. I know, I said, owls, I said, have always lived in that tree. It’s not easy for them to find roosts to suit them nowadays, they wouldn’t go unless obliged to. They upped and left a week ago. That was a sign.’

‘What happened? The patrol said a car was involved.’

‘Built to last, those old cars were.’ The man made an ugly face. ‘This one won’t.’

‘Have they got the passengers out?’

‘I don’t reckon a flea could come out of that alive. They’re waiting for lifting gear. They wouldn’t let me near but I saw it under the tree.’

‘Saw what?’

‘An old bull-nosed Morris.’

Startled, Antony recalled a car parked alongside his at the Bellechasse. ‘What was it like?’

‘Like?’

‘What colour?’

‘Dark colour. It was pancaked, for God’s sake.’

Antony had a vision which he would far rather not have had. He trod on the accelerator, tyres squealing, shot away.

Watch it, he told himself, this is where we came in, this is what it’s good at, this place: intimidation, false alarms,
jiggery-pokery. At a rough estimate there was more than one vintage Morris in Cornwall. He had seen another only yesterday, resprayed shocking pink. Any number of them – golden oldies, bull-nosed and cherished – were bouncing along Cornish lanes at this minute.

His was the only car when he parked behind the Bellechasse, everyone else was out, everyone except Pam – waiting for him.

He ran upstairs calling her name. In their room was a letter written on one of the ‘English Field Flower’ series of notelets he had given her at Christmas: ‘Nanty, I can’t stay here. Senga’s going back to London and is taking me. I’ll be waiting for you at home.’