The Legacy (8 page)

“How’s your mother? Is she here with you?” I ask. I want to hear him talk, I want to hear everything he’s done since I saw him last, I want him to be real again, to still be a friend. But I remember now—his silences. They never made me uncomfortable before. A child is unperturbed by something as harmless as a silence, oddly patient in that way.

“She’s well, thanks. She doesn’t travel with us any more. When Dad died she gave it up—she said she was getting too old for it, but I think she’d just had enough of the road. She would never have told Dad, of course. But when he died, she quit. She’s hitched to a plumber called Keith. They live in West Hatch, just over the way.”

“Oh, well. Give her my best, when you see her next.” At this he frowns slightly and I wonder if I’ve said the wrong thing. He has one of those faces that can be rendered so grim, so hawkish by the slightest scowl. At twelve it made him look studious, serious. I felt as silly as thistledown then and I feel it again now.

With my trug full of holly, we walk back through the woods to the clearing where they always camped before. A broad space at the western edge of the copse, surrounded by sheltering trees on three sides, with open fields to the west and a rutted green lane that takes you back to the road. The ground here is not well drained. It squelches as we get near. In summer it’s such a green place; long grasses with satin stems, the ground cracked hard and safe beneath. Harry drifts along behind us, his attention flitting from one thing to another.

“And you? Are you living here now?” Dinny asks, at length.

“Oh, no. I don’t know. Probably not. For the time being; for Christmas, anyway. We’ve inherited the house, Beth and I . . .” How pompous I sound.

“Beth’s here?” Dinny interrupts, turning to face me.

“Yes, but . . . yes, she’s here.” I was going to say
but she’s different, but she won’t come out
. “You should come up to the house and say hello,” I say, knowing that he won’t.

There are six vehicles in the camp—more than there used to be. Two minibuses, two campervans, a big old horse hauler and a converted army ambulance, which Dinny says is his. Coils of smoke shred away from chimney pipes, and circles of cold ash scatter the ground. Harry strides ahead to sit on a stump of wood, picking something up from the ground and setting to work intently upon it. As we approach, three dogs race over to us, barking in apparent savagery. I know this drill. I stand still, let my arms hang, wait for them to reach us, to sniff me, to see me not run.

“Yours?”

“Only two of them—the black and tan belongs to my cousin Patrick. This is Blot,” Dinny scuffs the ears of a vicious-looking black mongrel, toothy and scarred, “and this is Popeye.” A smaller, gentler dog; a rough brown coat and kind eyes. Popeye licks the fingers Dinny offers to him.

“So . . . um, are you working around here? What do you do?” I fall back on a party stalwart, and Dinny shrugs. For a second I think that perhaps he draws endless benefits, that he steals, sells drugs. But these are Meredith’s thoughts, and I’m ashamed to have them.

“Nothing right now. We follow work around the country for most of the year. Farm work, bar work, festivals. This time of year is pretty dead.”

“That must be hard.”

Dinny gives me a quick glance. “It’s fine, Erica,” he tells me mildly. He doesn’t ask me what I do. In the short walk to the camp I seem to have used up all the credit a childhood acquaintance afforded me.

“I like your ambulance,” I say, desperate. As I speak, the ambulance door bangs open and a girl climbs awkwardly out. She puts her hands in the small of her back, stretches with a grimace. I recognize her at once—the pregnant girl from the barrow. But she can only be fifteen, sixteen. Dinny is the same age as Beth: thirty-five. I look at the girl again and try to make her eighteen, maybe nineteen, but I can’t.

The girl with the bubble-curls, a bright natural blonde that you rarely see these days. Her skin is pale and there are blue smudges under her eyes. In a tight, stripy jersey it is very clear how close to term she is. She sees me standing with Dinny and she comes across to us, scowling. I try to smile, to seem comfortable there. She looks fiercer than Blot.

“Who’s this?” she demands, hands on hips. She talks to Dinny, not to me.

“Erica, this is Honey. Honey, Erica.”

“Honey? Pleased to meet you. I’m sorry for scaring you, up at the barrow the other day,” I say, in a cheery tone I secretly, horrified, think is my teaching voice.

Honey gazes at me with flat, tired eyes. “That was you? You didn’t scare me.” A noticeable Wiltshire burr to her speech.

“No, well. Not scare, but . . .” I shrug. She looks at me for a long moment. Such hard scrutiny from one so young. Palpable relief when she dismisses me, looks back at Dinny.

“The stove’s not drawing right,” she says.

Dinny sighs, crouches down to put his hands through Popeye’s coat. The first drops of rain land on our hands and faces.

“I’ll see to it in a minute,” he tells her, soothingly. She stares at him then turns away, goes back inside without another glance. I am momentarily dumbstruck by her.

“So . . . when’s the due date? Must be soon?” I ask awkwardly, hoping she won’t hear me from inside.

“A little after Christmas,” Dinny says, looking away across the clearing.

“So close! You must be very excited. Has she got her overnight bag ready and everything? For the hospital?” Dinny shakes his head.

“No hospital. She wants to have it here, she says.” At this Dinny pauses, stands up and turns to me. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea. Do you know anything about babies?” he sounds anxious.

“Me? No, not really. I’ve never . . . But the government are always on about the merits of home births these days. Every woman’s right, apparently. Have you got a good midwife?”

“No midwife, no
home
birth—she wants to have it out there, in the woods.”

“In the
woods
? But . . . it’s December! Is she mad?”

“I know it’s December, Erica. But it’s her right to choose, as you say,” he says flatly. There’s a hint of exasperation there, beneath the surface. “She’s taking the idea of a natural birth about as far as she possibly can.”

“Well, you have a right to choose, too. The father has a right too. First babies can take their time, you know. Beth was in labor for thirty-six hours with Eddie . . .”

“Beth has a baby?”

“Had a baby. He’s eleven now. He’s coming for Christmas, so you’ll probably meet him . . . Eddie. He’s a fantastic kid.”

“So she’s married?”

“Was married. Not married now,” I say shortly. He has questions about Beth, but none about me.

The rain is coming down harder again. I hunch, push my hands deeper into my pockets, but Dinny doesn’t seem to notice it. I think about offering to talk to Honey, then I remember her hard eyes and I hope Dinny won’t ask me to. A compromise, then.

“Well, if Honey wants to talk to somebody about it, maybe she could talk to Beth? Her experience could be a good cautionary tale.”

“She won’t talk to anybody about it. She’s . . . strong willed,” Dinny sighs.

“So I noticed,” I murmur. I can’t stand another silence. I want to ask him about Christmas. About names for the baby. I want to ask about his travels, his life, our past. “Well, I should be getting back. Getting out of this rain,” is all I can say. “It was really good to see you again, Dinny. I’m glad you’re back. And nice to meet Honey, too. I’ll . . . well, we’re up at the house, if you need anything . . .”

“It’s good to see you too, Erica.” Dinny looks at me with his head on one side, but his eyes are troubled, not glad.

“OK. Well, bye.” I go, as casually as I can.

I don’t tell Beth about Dinny when I find her, watching TV in the study. I’m not sure why not. There will be a reaction, I think, when I tell her. And I am not sure what it will be. I am agitated suddenly. I feel like we’re no longer alone. I can feel Dinny’s presence out there, beyond the trees. Like a niggling something in the corner of my eye. The third corner of our triangle. I switch off the TV, throw open the curtains.

“Come on. We’re going out,” I tell her.

“I don’t want to go out. Go where?”

“Shopping. I’m sick to death of canned soup. Plus, it’s about to be Christmas. Mum and Dad are coming for lunch, and what are you going to feed Eddie on Christmas day? Meredith’s old Hovis crackers?” Beth considers this for a moment, then stands up quickly, puts her hands on her hips.

“God, you’re right. You’re right!”

“I know.”

“We need lots of things . . . turkey, sausages, potatoes, puddings . . .” she counts items off on her long fingers. Christmas is ten days away yet—we have plenty of time. But I don’t say that. I make the most of her sudden animation, point to the door. “And decorations!” she cries.

“Come on. You can make a list in the car.”

D
evizes is prettied up for Christmas. Little fir trees lean out from the sides of shops and hotels along the High Street, strung with white lights; there’s a brass band playing, and a man roasting chestnuts, plumes of acrid smoke rising from his cart. I wonder what he does for the rest of the year. Here, the darkness and the sleet draw us in, make us part of the huddled crowd. We wrap our scarves around our ears and window-shop, basking in the warm yellow light. Back in the world, the pair of us, after the solitude of the manor. It feels good, exciting, and I miss London. Inside each shop, Beth hums along to the taped carols, and as we walk I loop my arm through hers, holding her tight.

Several hours later and Beth has gone into Christmas overdrive. We have eight different cheeses, a huge ham, chipolatas, crackers—edible and the ones you pull—a turkey I struggle to carry to the car, and a cake that cost a ridiculous amount of money. We cram it all into the trunk, go back for glittering baubles, strings of beads, gold paint, glass icicles, little straw angels with dresses of white muslin. There’s a farm two minutes from the manor selling Christmas trees—we call in on the way back, arrange to have a tree four meters high delivered and erected on December the twenty-third.

“It can go in the hallway—they can wire it to the banister,” Beth says decisively.

Perhaps I should not let her spend when she is troubled, like now. I daren’t put all the receipts together, add it all up. But Beth has money—money from Maxwell, money from her translating work. More money than I have, certainly, but it’s something we never discuss. She lives small, most of the time. She squirrels it away unless Eddie needs something. All mine is absorbed by London, in getting to work, in rent, in living. Now we have enough food for ten people, when we will be five; but Beth looks happier, her face is less drawn. Retail therapy. But that’s not it—she likes to be able to give. I leave her threading garlands along the mantelpiece, with a slight frown of concentration while I put the kettle on, feeling pleased and sleepy.

There’s a message from my agency on my mobile phone, about some supply work at a school in Ealing, starting on January the twelfth. My thumb hovers over the redial button, but I am strangely reluctant to press it, to have real life intrude upon me. But money must be earned, I suppose; life must resume. Literature must be crammed between deaf ears. Unless it doesn’t. Unless I live here, of course. No more rent. Just the upkeep, although that would probably cost more than my rent does now. Would it be worth it for five years, even ten? Trying to live here—just long enough for the legacy to stand. Then we could sell up, retire at the age of forty, once property prices are back up. But if living here makes Beth ill? And if I will always have this feeling of something stealing up behind me? I wish I could turn and look at it, I wish I could make it out. I remember everything else that happened that summer, except what happened to Henry.

We came here the two summers after that year, and our mother watched us closely. Not to protect us, not to keep us from harm; but to assess, to see how we would react. I don’t know if I was different. A little quieter, perhaps. And we stayed in the garden; we didn’t want to venture further any more. Mum kept us away from Meredith, who was unpredictable by then; who flew into storms of cursing and accusation. But Beth drew further and further into herself. Our mother saw and she told our father, and he frowned. And we stopped coming.

Outside, the sun sets orange and coldly pink on the horizon. I spray the holly gold, the paint burnishing the dark leaves. It looks delicious. The fumes make me dizzy, euphoric. I am hanging it from the banisters and laying it along window sills when Beth comes downstairs, arms folded, face creased with sleep. She moves from place to place where I have hung it, touching it lightly, testing the paint with her fingertips.

“Do you approve?” I ask her, smiling. I’ve tuned the radio to Classic FM. They’re playing “Good King Wenceslas.” Beth nods, yawns. I sing: “Silly bugger, he fell out; on a red hot cinder!” I’ve no kind of singing voice.

“You’re chirpy,” Beth tells me. She comes over to the window sill I am strewing with sprigs, puts my hair behind my ear for me, touches the scratch under my eye. So rare, her touches. I smile.

“Well . . .” I say. The words teeter in my mouth. I am so tempted to say them, still so unsure if they’re right or wrong.