“And Mum can come and see you.”
“I’m such a burden to your mother. She works so hard, she doesn’t have time for me.”
“Yes, that’s true,” says Cas.
“She must be just waiting for me to die.”
Cas wants to be truthful. “I don’t think she wants you to die.”
“I’m just a nuisance,” says the old lady. “That’s all I am. A burden and a nuisance. Do they think I don’t know it? Do they think I can’t see it in their faces? Oh, they’re thinking, what does she want now? What’s she demanding now? Why can’t she just go away? But you see how it is, I can’t go away. I’d love to go away, but I can hardly walk any more. So of course it’s them who do the going away. It’s always been them who go away, and I’m the one left on my own. Why is that? I don’t understand that. Can you tell me why everyone always leaves me?”
“No, Granny,” says Cas. He thinks about it for a moment. “Maybe it’s because you get so cross.”
“Cross? I don’t get cross,” she says crossly. “Who told you I get cross? Was it Bridget? I tell her when she’s doing things wrong sometimes, but that’s not getting cross. You have to tell servants when they do something wrong, or they get lazy and sloppy. It’s just something you have to do. Not that Bridget listens to a word I say any more. No, I’m the one who has to listen to her. Come in now, she says. Go to bed now, she says. And I have to do it. She’s got me where she wants me, all right. I’ve told Elizabeth, but she won’t listen. Nobody listens. I might as well be talking to the trees.”
The guinea pig has finally had enough salad. It waddles off to its hutch.
“I listen,” says Cas.
“Well, maybe you do. But you’ll go away too. In the end everyone leaves me.”
“So really,” says Cas, “you’re unhappy because you’re lonely.”
“Well, yes.”
“Isn’t it horrible being lonely all the time?”
“Yes,” she replies. “It’s horrible.”
Cas reaches out and strokes her hand, so he can feel the wrinkles. They’re soft as soft, not dry or crackly at all. She looks at him as he strokes her hand and it’s like Mum looking at him, only her little eyes have gone shiny.
“Soft,” he says.
“Old,” she says.
“When I feel lonely,” he says, “I go and visit the rabbits.”
“What rabbits?”
“There’s a warren in the field behind our new house. They don’t know I’m visiting them, of course. But you don’t feel at all alone watching rabbits. Mostly they just eat grass and stuff. But sometimes they play with each other. It’s called binking.”
“Called what?”
“Binking. They jump about in the air just because they feel happy. They go binky.”
“Go binky?”
The word delights the old lady.
“So you could watch rabbits when you get lonely.”
“But I don’t have a warren in my garden. We don’t want rabbits in here.”
“So if you don’t have rabbits, watch your guinea pig.”
“One guinea pig doesn’t do much.” She eyes the guinea pig as it noses in the straw of its hutch. “I don’t think guinea pigs go binky.”
“Then,” says Cas, in a moment of illumination, “watch Bridget.”
“Watch Bridget!”
“So you don’t get lonely.”
“Bridget!”
“You don’t have to like her. You just watch her. See all the funny little things she does.”
“I don’t think Bridget will go binky.”
“You never know. She might. You just have to keep watching. It’s easy to miss the best moments. You have to sit very quietly, so they forget you’re there. And then, all of a sudden, they start binking. Up and down, jumping all over the place, out of just being so happy.”
“Perry used to jump like that,” says the old lady. “Oh, Perry! I hope you’re happy now, Perry.”
“Where is he?” says Cas, interested.
“He’s in animal heaven. And when I die, that’s where I’m going to go. I don’t want to go to people heaven. I don’t think I really like people very much. I shall go and live forever with the animals.”
Bridget comes out of the house.
“Supper on the table, Mrs. D. You can run on in and start, if you want, Cas. I’ll help Mrs. D in. We take our time, don’t we, Mrs. D?”
Cas jumps up eagerly.
“Do you mind, Granny?”
“Off you go, my love.”
Caspar runs into the house. Bridget comes to the old lady’s side and readies her arm so she can pull herself up. Mrs. Dickinson fixes her with an unblinking stare.
“I’m watching you, Bridget,” she says.
“You do that, Mrs. D. Now come on. Up you get.”
44
Early evening on Saturday. Sunlight bathes the west-facing terrace, and the air is mild. Laura has made her decision. They will eat outside tonight. They will sit down to the main course at half past eight, in just over two hours time. Now begins the most complex and intense phase of the entire operation.
The rolled saddle of lamb, the expensive centerpiece of the meal, is the source of greatest anxiety. As she works away at its preparation, piercing holes, poking in sprigs of rosemary and wedges of garlic, massaging it with olive oil and salt and pepper, she reruns the sums in her head to determine the cooking times. Six pounds at sixteen minutes a pound, ninety-six minutes roasting time, twenty minutes to rest: just under two hours. So it should go into the oven in ten minutes or so. But what are the chances the guests will be in their places ready to eat at eight-thirty? Better the lamb too pink than overcooked. So put it in the oven at 6:40 p.m. and take it out at 8.15 p.m.
Time before that to top and tail the courgettes and slice and toss them in olive oil and butter. Then there’s the baguettes to slice and grill for the taramasalata. And oh God, someone needs to pick some flowers.
She goes out onto the terrace, where Henry is sitting talking with Diana and Roddy.
“I think we can eat outside, don’t you?” she says. “Henry, I’m leaving you to lay the table and deal with drinks. Diana, I don’t suppose you’d like to pick some flowers?”
“I’ve just been telling Henry about Max,” says Diana. “That boy never ceases to amaze me. I’ve always known he was bright and, of course, exceptional, really, but he’s becoming so wise. Yesterday he gave me quite a lecture about taking life more seriously. He’s becoming almost formidable.”
“Maybe he gets that from Roddy,” says Henry.
“From Roddy?” Diana sound surprised. “Roddy isn’t formidable in the least.”
“Why don’t you give everyone a drink?” says Laura to Henry. “And bring me a glass in the kitchen.”
She returns to her vegetable preparations. In her mind she is slotting the various tasks into the time available. Clearly Diana won’t be picking the flowers, so she’ll have to find five minutes for that. Then at some point after the lamb’s in the oven and before it’s time to cook the vegetables she must steal a quarter of an hour to change and make herself presentable. And what is Carrie to eat? She may choose to lurk in her room but she still needs to be fed.
Roddy appears, bringing her a glass of wine.
“I’m an emissary from Henry.”
“Oh, thank you, Roddy. It’s a bit early, I know.”
She drinks gratefully. Then she starts work cutting up the baguettes.
“So when are the other guests coming?” says Roddy.
“In half an hour or so. I asked them to come early while there’s still sun on the terrace.”
“Half an hour!” Roddy sounds shocked. “We haven’t had any time to talk.”
“Yes, I know,” says Laura. “Everything’s been a bit up in the air, what with Carrie’s accident and all the rest of it. And now I’m afraid I’m going to be a bit frantic until we’re all sitting down and eating.”
“Would it bother you if I hang a
bout in the kitchen while you work? I’ve been so looking forward to telling you about—well, you know.”
“Your adventures.”
“Yes. My adventures.”
Roddy is visibly pleased. Laura would far rather be left alone at this point, but she hasn’t got the heart to turn him away.
“I don’t suppose you feel up to picking some flowers for the table, do you?”
“I don’t think I’m much good with flowers,” says Roddy. “I’d pick all the wrong ones.”
“There aren’t any wrong flowers. You just pick ones you like, that you think will go together.”
“But what if you don’t like what I pick? Or Diana. I’m quite sure Diana wouldn’t approve of my choice.”
“Oh, Roddy.”
She meets his uncertain gaze with a smile of sympathy.
“You really are a saint with my sister.”
“Oh, well, Diana and I . . .” He looks out to the terrace where Diana and Henry are talking. “It’s been so long since we’ve been . . .”
His voice trails away into silence. Then before Laura can say something vague and consoling, he starts up again.
“You have to look at these things objectively, don’t you? And objectively speaking, I don’t see that I have all that much to offer Diana these days. I suppose that sounds hard. But you can see how we are together.”
Laura’s heart sinks. It’s worse than she feared. This is not what she needs right now. She reaches for a pair of scissors.
“Roddy, I’m the first to admit that my sister must be impossible to live with, and God knows how you’ve managed it all these years. But this is really going to have to wait for another day, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, of course,” he says. “It just helps to know that you—that you understand.”
“I really do have to go out and pick some flowers.”
To her slight irritation he follows her to the flower borders. She cuts handfuls of alchemilla, laying it in foamy yellow-green heaps in the trug she carries on her arm. She moves briskly, aware of her deadline for the lamb. Roddy trots along behind, talking in a ceaseless semi-coherent stream.
“You get to an age,” he says by the magnolia, “when you realize you’re not living the life you were created to live. Of course I realize that’s something of a presumption. That there is a creator, I mean . . .”
And following Laura to the banks of pink cosmos, “After all, we’re not either of us getting any younger, though I dare hope for at least another thirty years of vigor and good health—”
And by the fringe of the orchard, where the bright blue cornflowers grow, “In one sense we’re all borne along by the stream of life, but in another sense we must act, we must be the authors of our own destiny, when that destiny at last presents itself.”
Laura has only a general idea what Roddy is talking about, and isn’t really paying close attention. He comes at last to a stop, saying, “I think we understand each other pretty well, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes, absolutely,” she replies.
It’s almost time to put the saddle of lamb in the oven. She returns to the house with Roddy half a pace behind.
“Talk to Henry, Roddy,” she says as she crosses the terrace where Henry and Diana are sitting with their drinks. “He understands all this so much better than me.”
“All what?” says Henry.
“And don’t forget you’re laying the table, Henry. Roddy can help you.”
By this means she sheds Roddy. She parks the trug of flowers on the table, checks the time once more, and slides the lamb in its roasting tray onto a high rack in the top oven. She makes a mental note to baste the roast in half an hour. Within that time she must trim and arrange the flowers in two vases, tidy the mess in the kitchen and living room, sort out serving dishes—oh, and put out the redcurrant jelly, bought rather than homemade, but you can’t do everything. Then there’s the sliced baguettes to oil and grill for the starter. Might as well take the taramasalata out of the fridge now. Get down a long platter to lay the slices out. And some olives, they’ll go well, the big sweet Spanish olives from Bill’s in Lewes, everyone loves them.
More wine. Now to see to herself.
She runs upstairs and changes into a light cotton summer dress. She brushes her hair and does a little work on her makeup. A bolder red on her lips, some eye shadow, some mascara. Then she picks out a pair of shoes with heels, pretty and rather fragile. She checks her appearance in the long mirror, unconsciously assuming a pose that presents her body to advantage and slightly protruding her lips. From the terrace below comes the sound of voices and the clink of cutlery as Henry puts out knives and forks. She checks her watch. Almost seven o’clock. Still so much to do.
She looks in on Carrie before heading back downstairs. Carrie is sitting on her bed with her guitar on her lap and a pad of paper and a pen in her hands.
“You okay?”
“Yes. Fine.”
“I’m going to make a plate of food for you. You’ll have to eat it in secret.”
Carrie doesn’t even look up. “Thanks, Mum.”
Maggie and Andrew walk over to the Broads from Maggie’s cottage. The Broads’ house looks so substantial, so rooted in the world of tradition and convention, that Maggie hesitates, assailed by doubt, on the gravel before the front door. Suddenly she’s not sure she can do this. Sounds of teenage music come from an open upper window. A glimpse into an unoccupied drawing room shows framed photographs of smiling children on a sideboard. This is family land. All the guests will be in couples.
“Maybe this is a mistake,” she says. “I feel like I’m here under false pretenses. What if they ask us about our plans for the future?”
“People don’t ask people about their plans for the future.”
“They might.”
“Then we say we’re thinking of setting up a commune,” says Andrew unexpectedly.
“A commune?”
“Shared property. Free love.”
Maggie grins at that.
“Seriously, Maggie,” says Andrew, “if it all gets too much we can leave. We could have a code word, and if you say it, I’ll come up with an excuse, and we’ll leave.”
“What sort of code word?”
“Something you wouldn’t normally say in conversation, but not so weird that everyone notices. Like Basingstoke. Or Purley. Rhymes with early, as in Let’s leave early.”
All this is a side of Andrew that has been in hiding in recent weeks. Her confession of uncertainty seems to have liberated him.
“How do you get Purley into a conversation?” she says.
“It doesn’t have to be Purley the place. It can be pearly like in a necklace.”
“Pearly necklace? That’s just odd.”
“It’s got to be odd, or it’ll come up in ordinary conversation. The code word could be girly, but you might say it not as code, and I’d think you wanted to leave, and you wouldn’t.”
“Girly? I never say girly. When does anyone ever say girly?”
“Girly laughter. Girly night out.”
“All right,” she says. “Purley it is.”
Such a ridiculous conversation to be having. She takes a deep breath and rings the doorbell. Henry Broad answers the door.
“The lovely Maggie! And you must be Andrew. What terrible neighbors we are. You’ve not been round before, have you? Come in, come in. I blame the Internet.”
He leads them through a big, warm-toned kitchen, where Laura Broad is turning a rack of toast on the hot plate. The air is heady with the aroma of roasting meat. Laura greets Maggie with a kiss. A quick friendly glance at Andrew shows that she at least is following the plot.
“I have to find a moment to talk to you, Andrew,” she says. “I’ve been learning a few things about your uncle’s collection.”
Henry ushers them out onto the terrace, where a thin elegant woman stands with an ugly middle-aged man, quarreling in undertones. As they’re introduced Maggie finds hersel
f actually blushing, not at anything anyone says, but because in the eyes of these strangers they are effectively married already. She wants to say, “No, you don’t understand, we only met on the doorstep.” Or more truthfully, “We’ve come as a couple but we’ve had a rocky week and may be splitting up tomorrow.” Instead she dips her head and smiles and allows the illusion to remain. Everyone here is tidily paired off. Everyone has a home and a life companion. There’s no call to confuse matters.
“Maggie’s job is in conservation,” Henry says.
“Whenever I hear that word I think of jam-making,” says the thin, elegant woman.
Diana takes against the newcomer on sight. Maggie is exactly the kind of woman she finds most tiresome: pretty in a girly sort of way, without sophistication, the sort who grew up in pony clubs and feels at home in Wellington boots. Maggie’s smiling at her in a placatory way because that’s how people behave in the provinces, where they value social cohesion above intellectual stimulus. So instead of smiling back Diana looks away, not to talk to anyone else, but to indicate that she at least won’t be playing the tedious game of nicey-nicey that passes for an entertaining evening out in Sussex.
“You’re thinking of conserves,” says Maggie.
“So I am,” says Diana. “But actually there is a connection. You know when you make jam there’s a vital ingredient that makes the jam set? It’s called pectin. There’s bound to be an equivalent in the conservation of buildings, something you have to add to the process to make it really last. I wonder what it is.”
“What on earth are you talking about, Diana?” says Henry.
“I’m making small talk,” says Diana. “I’m being sociable.”
She can feel without actually looking how the person called Maggie is entirely out of her depth, and this gratifies her. Why should people put so much effort into making each other comfortable? Life begins when you leave your comfort zone. Her talk with Max this morning, just before she left, had just this effect. She still feels a little shaken by it. But she recognizes that Max had the energy and the originality to challenge his own mother’s preconceptions, and Diana applauds that.
“What makes you think your views are superior to Dad’s?” he said. “Has it occurred to you that you might occupy a far smaller mental universe than he does? Has it occurred to you that he’s grappling with the really important questions, and you’ve never asked them because your mind is clogged by triviality?”