A Change of Pace (20 page)

‘May one ask what you’re doing in my kitchen, Liza?’

‘Mrs Snately, she want more cups. She said to find you, but you were not ‘ere.’

‘Well, I’m here now, so perhaps you will take the cups you’ve done back to Mrs Snately in the tea tent with my compliments, and tell her I’ll be along shortly with the rest.’

‘But Mrs Snately, she says — ’

‘I’m not interested in what Mrs Snately says. Will you please take the cups and go.’

Liza, shaking her bangles, gave one of her shrugs and said something to Alfonso in rapid Spanish. He made no comment, merely glanced at Bet, his face as impassive as a Buddha’s. Then, after wiping his hands in a finicky sort of way on the grubby roller towel hanging on the back door, he flicked his fingers at Liza in a gesture presumably intended to indicate that she should follow him — which, surprisingly, and pretty meekly for her, she did — picked up the tray of clean cups, and swaying slightly at the hips, slid out of the room.

‘Everything all right?’ A diffident voice behind her; could she never escape? It was Don. ‘I’m afraid your sister’s a bit miffed about all this, but it genuinely wasn’t my fault. Pete and Bernie were already too far gone by the time I got there. She ordered me to sober them up, but —’

‘You decided to join them instead.’

‘I didn’t have much option. Before I knew where I was, Pete had thrust this glass in my hand; he said it was parsley wine and he wanted another opinion. Well, I’ve never tasted anything like it in my life. I’ve worked all over the world, drunk every type of fire-water, but I’ll tell you this, Bet, that stuff beat the lot.’ He looked at her sadly, swaying a little. ‘You know, you have the most beautiful eyes. I suppose you’ve been told that hundreds of times, but it does happen to be true.’ He took a step forward and removed his glasses, they seemed to be getting a bit steamed up.

‘Shouldn’t you get back to your crystal ball?’ Bet poked him gently in the chest. ‘There are probably lots of people waiting.’

‘I doubt it. I wasn’t much good at it, you know.’

*

‘Hullo, Liza, how about a nice pink teddy to take back to Maman in Paris?’ Simon, weighed down with prizes he’d won at the shooting range, bumped into a stormy-eyed Liza behind the tea tent. Winning at shooting ranges was one of the things Simon always did — it drove people mad. Liza hunched her shoulders and wriggled her bottom irritably. ‘Please do not make fun of me, Simon, I do not want your stupid teddy, I am not a child.’

‘So what’s got into you, then? Alfonso playing up? If you must go in for these passionate Latins — ’

‘Alfonso, he is a pig — I hate him!’

Bit of a change of heart, isn’t it? Last time I saw you, you were —’

‘I do not wish to speak of the Spaniard, Simon, he is a peasant and of no importance.’

‘Got up your nose, has he? I’m not surprised, he certainly gets up mine.’ Simon tried unsuccessfully to drag his eyes away from the perfect curve of Liza’s breasts glimpsed tantalisingly through the folds of her orange T-shirt. Liza, noticing, stroked the teddy. ‘But you, Simon, you are not a peasant, you are a
grand
seigneur
. Me, I have seen those grandfathers on the walls of your manor house.’

‘Ancestors, you stupid chit, and believe me, I’m no
grand
seigneur
.
’

‘Take me away from here, Simon, this fête is boring and stupid. Mrs Brandon, she does not want you now. I see her with that Mr Stewart, they were —’

‘Let’s leave Mrs Brandon out of it, shall we?’ Oh what the hell! What was he doing here anyway? He thought for a minute and then gave in. ‘OK then, Mamselle Dupont, let’s go somewhere and drown our sorrows in drink! But I warn you, if Alfonso turns up I’m not staying around to have my throat cut. One whiff of his garlic-laden breath and I’m off.’

‘Do not worry,’ Liza, her scowls miraculously turned to smiles, wound her arms round Simon’s neck, ‘the Spaniard, he will not come after us, he is busy at his work. Besides, how shall he know where we have gone? You take me somewhere nice, eh?’ Simon sighed, unwound the arms and patted her on the rump. ‘Well, I don’t know about nice,’ he said, leading the way to the car park, ‘but at least it will be different.’

*

In the tea tent the afternoon was nearly over, helpers were already busy counting the day’s takings and finishing up the leftovers. In a corner Angela Snately was expertly sorting out change. ‘Ah, Mrs Brandon, there you are — we’d quite given you up. Never mind, your little French girl has been helping us out. I simply don’t know what we would have done without her. She tells me that poor Mr Redford has been taken ill ... ’

‘At least we made more than they did last year, and that’s without Cyn Westover’s cheque. Everyone worked like an absolute Trojan, but then one knew they would.’ Did one? ‘With the possible exception of one or two members of this family, that is.’

‘I take it you’re referring to me?’ Bet and Pol were having a post mortem in Bet’s kitchen, while she listlessly fried hamburgers for Diz and JP who were off to a Saturday night disco in Stotleigh and, despite the fact that they’d been eating all day, wanted a meal before they went.

‘Not entirely you.’ Pol put down her mug of tea and stood up. ‘There were others who weren’t much better, and at least you had some excuse. I just don’t know how that wretched man had the gall to show his face here.’

‘If you mean Simon, I didn’t know he had.’

‘Oh Bet, I’m so sorry. I thought you must have seen him, I’d never have mentioned it otherwise. The last thing I want to do is upset you.’

‘For God’s sake, Pol, I’m not sixteen years old! I’m not going to burst into tears every time anyone mentions Simon’s name. He’s as much right to come to the fête as anyone else; after all, his bloody family more or less own the village.’

‘I sometimes wonder if I can do anything right in this house!’ Pol was overwrought, puce in the face, and all set for a scene. ‘Aren’t you even glad I’m on your side? I mean, I would have thought you might be grateful — ’

‘Grateful —
grateful
!’ Bet turned, fish-slice at the ready, dripping hamburger grease all over the kitchen mat. ‘Why should I be grateful?’

‘Hullo, girls — everything OK?’ Pete, miraculously recovered, naked except for a bath towel round his middle and for once without a drink in his hand, stood in the doorway. ‘Look, Pol ducky, Lavy Nicholson’s just been on the blower. Change of plan for tonight. Would we meet her and Fruity for a noggin in their local instead of up at the house. Then we can all go on together from there. She didn’t say why, perhaps old Fruity’s run out of booze — seems unlikely, but ... ’ He paused, looking from one sister to the other. ‘Now don’t tell me you two have been fighting again! If so, I’m off, I still feel too frail to cope with flying crockery.’

But Pol was already at the door, handkerchief in hand and dangerously near to tears. ‘We’re not quarrelling ... Anyway, he started it. All I was doing was trying to help; that’s all I ever do.’

Now, now, ducky, you’ve been marvellous, absolutely marvellous; we all think so, don’t we, Bet?’ Bet slapped the hamburgers on a plate and cracked a couple of eggs into the pan. ‘Yes, we think you’re marvellous, Pol, didn’t you know,’ she said in the flattest of flat voices while she peered at the spluttering eggs. Pol went on standing by the door, bosom heaving, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief, then with a shriek of, ‘Hypocrites!’ she fled, slamming the door behind her.

‘Bet, ducky ... ’ Pete loomed reproachfully.

‘If you’re going to tell me I’m a bitch, don’t bother, I know already.’ Green eyes turned on Pete, misty with tears and pain.

‘Oh
ducky
... ’

Chapter Sixteen

Hours later — or at least, that was what if felt like — Bet heard the phone ringing in the empty house. Everyone else was out somewhere, having a good time, and Bet, supperless, was sitting alone in the kitchen with a glass of gin and tonic for company. She’d bought the gin that morning with the sausages, feeling she might need it to cope with today, and she’d been right. The tonic was a bit flat, but it was the gin that counted, wasn’t it? The phone went on ringing. Hell! She’d have to answer it; if she didn’t, she’d only wish she had as soon as it stopped ringing.

‘Bet? Don. Don Stewart here. Hope I’m not interrupting a meal or anything?’

‘Oh hullo, Don. No, you’re not interrupting anything.’ Better not say she was alone, he might want to come round and she didn’t think she could face that. ‘Have you recovered?’

‘Yes thanks. I dosed myself liberally with black coffee as soon as I got home and I feel as right as rain now.’

‘Oh good.’ Silence at the other end. ‘Look, Don, I don’t want to sound rude, but I am rather tired. What exactly did you — ?’

‘Actually, I wanted to apologise for this afternoon.’

‘For getting sloshed on home-made plonk? Hardly your fault, by all accounts.’

‘More for trying to make a pass at you.’

‘But you didn’t, you behaved with the utmost decorum.’ ‘I told you you had beautiful eyes. Well, you do, but it was neither the time nor the place to tell you so.’

‘Don’t give it another thought; it’s always nice to receive compliments.’

‘As a matter of fact, there is one more thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s just ... well, I know you’re in love with someone else so probably not in the least interested — will no doubt think me the most frightful bore for bringing it up in the first place. But the fact is, I seem to have fallen in love with you and ... I’d like you to know that if you ever need a shoulder to cry on, I’ll be there — that’s all.’

But she wasn’t in love with someone, not any more, she knew that now. They’d been right, damn them; her great affair with Simon Morris had been nothing more than a stupid infatuation after all, and would never have stood the test of time, and Dr Ram’s warning about the psyche playing strange tricks had been spot on. But why didn’t this knowledge make her feel better; why did she feel so awful; why did she feel such a fool? She ran her fingers through her hair and looked down at the hole in the loose floorboard underneath the telephone table; she must remember to have it seen to. Except that of course she needn’t bother now, need she. Soon this would be part of the Sparsworth domain, she and Diz banished upstairs. And next year, with Diz away at university, there would be only her; a solitary granny in her granny flat ...‘Bet, are you still there?’

‘Yes, of course I am. I was just trying to think what to say. And if by “a shoulder to cry on”, you mean what I think you mean, then the answer is —’

‘Of course I didn’t mean that! I can’t have made myself clear, please understand —’

‘I’m sorry, Don. I know you mean well, but I’m tired, I’ve got a headache and I can’t think straight about anything at the moment, so can we leave it at that? Now, if you don’t mind, I really must go,’ and she gently replaced the receiver.

‘Bloody hell!’ shouted Don to his terrier, Rex, who looked surprised. Then he just went on sitting there in front of his elderly portable typewriter, gazing gloomily at the now silent telephone. He hadn’t intended to ring her in the first place, and he certainly hadn’t intended to say what he had said.

What had got into him? Did he have to keep on making such a fool of himself? He brooded on this for a moment, then decided that unfortunately — or fortunately, if you looked at the thing from the other way round — the answer seemed to be yes. So be it.

*

Bet was alone again, and the silence of the house was now so thick you could cut it with a knife. She supposed she should eat; life, after all, had to go on. But did it? Did life have to go on? Who said so, and why? Back in the kitchen, she poured herself another drink and decided she didn’t know the answer and was too tired to try and work one out. Then, collecting a plate of tea-tent leftovers — two rock-hard rock cakes and a squashed sausage roll — she put them and her drink on a tray and wandered into her sitting-room. Late evening sun shone through the two long windows, illuminating the soft, rich colours of the Persian rugs and highlighting the dust on the furniture. The room smelt of damp and roses; it seemed a long time since she’d last sat down in it.

It was while she was moving the several volumes of Parson Woodforde’s Diaries — still unread — from the table by Miles’s chair to make room for the tray, that she came upon the postcard of Cosimo Medici. She remembered now, she’d found it months ago in a pile of old letters in the attic, and must have stuck it in Parson Woodforde as a bookmark. Holding it up to the light, she tried to discern the likeness, once seen, to Simon. But the clever, patrician face with its dark curling beard and scarlet cap, stared back at her mockingly; there was certainly no resemblance now — how could she ever have thought they looked alike? Sadly she returned the postcard to its place in Parson Woodforde. Perhaps now she would get round to reading him at last; there would be plenty of time in the long months to come. Then, worn out with absolutely everything, tearless and supperless and more than a little drunk, she sat down in Miles’s chair, closed her eyes and instantly fell asleep.

Suddenly, she was jerked into unwilling consciousness by the raucous sound of the backdoor buzzer. Who the hell could that be at this hour? Perhaps if she ignored it, whoever it was would give up and go away. She tried, leaning back in the chair and closing her eyes again; it buzzed once more, louder than ever. No use, she’d have to rouse herself and go and see who it was. Feeling ghastly, she hauled herself to her feet, peered briefly at her wan, smudged face in the mirror over the mantlepiece, gave up on it, and tottered into the kitchen.

Opening the backdoor she discovered Mr Bone, resplendent in lime-green vest and pinstripes, about to press the buzzer again.

‘Oh, hullo,’ Bet blinked muzzily at him. This was all she needed.

‘Sorry to bother you so late, Mrs Brandon; it’s about your little dog.’

‘You’ve found the body?’

‘No, no, nothing like that,’ Mr Bone made soothing noises, ‘only I was talking to old Zach Keeble in The Waggoner just now. Old Zach doesn’t get out much these days, but it’s the old chap’s birthday so some of the lads were buying him a drink.’ Bet nodded impatiently. ‘Well, we got talking about your Tib and how you’d lost him, like, and Zach said Had you tried the old lime-burner’s cottage in the woods? He said what made him think of it was that some visitors lost their dog a while back, when they were down here on holiday; had to go home without him. Then months after, a couple of lads broke into the old cottage and found the dog’s remains. They reckoned it must have got in there somehow, and then couldn’t get out.’

‘And you’re saying the same thing’s happened to Tib?’ Mr Bone nodded, trying not to be aware of the look of horror on Bet’s face. He pressed on. ‘Early days yet, Mrs Brandon, if the dog is there, he’s most likely still alive. That’s why I came straight round — your boys could go up now, have a look before it gets too dark.’

‘They’re out, and won’t be back for hours yet. I’ll have to go myself.’

‘Not on your own, Mrs Brandon, you can’t go on your own. I’d come with you, but the wife and me are on our way to visit friends, we’re late already and —’ Bet nodded abstractedly. ‘Of course you mustn’t think of it, I’ll be perfectly all right, I know the wood quite well. It’s just that I never knew there was a cottage —’

‘In the old lime pit, Zach says, up the north-east corner on the Manor side. He says the pit’s so filled up with trees and bushes now, you’d never know there was a cottage ... All the same, better wait till morning.’

‘Look, Mr Bone, if Tib is there, he’ll certainly be nearly dead from starvation, if not already dead. A few hours might make all the difference.’ A horn tooted in the lane. Mr Bone looked harassed and said he was sorry but he had to go ... The wife, you see ...

Bet, intoxicated, this time with excitement, had already forgotten his existence. She knew with complete certainty that she would find Tib in the old cottage. Whether he would be alive or dead was another matter, but he’d be there. She dashed upstairs, threw on an old pair of trousers, a thick sweater and her red anorak, rushed downstairs, scribbled a note for the children, found, after some rummaging, a torch that worked, and put on her wellingtons. Then she rushed upstairs again to fetch Tib’s blanket from his basket; he might just be still alive and she would need something to wrap him in .

Her preparations complete at last, she locked the back door, put the key under the geranium tub and set out for the woods.

*

‘Simon, there is something in my sandal ... There is blood. Let us go back, I do not like this place.’

‘Oh don’t whinge! Come on, only another few minutes, we must be nearly there. I thought you said you wanted some excitement.’

‘You said to find old the cottage in the woods and have a picnic — this would be romantic. It is not romantic, Simon, it is stupid. You did not say there would be thorns and nettles, you said ... ’

Simon gave up listening. They’d reached the bottom of the steps cut into the quarry face, and ahead of them the path into the old lime pit was barely discernible under the mat of brambles, thorn bushes and outsize stinging-nettles. Surely it never used to be as bad as this, not in the old days? Perhaps Liza was right, perhaps they shouldn’t have come. Then, just as he was about to call a halt, the path twisted suddenly to avoid the remains of a battered holly bush, and there in front of them was the cottage.

‘Do you know, I don’t think I’ve been here since I was eleven years old.’ Liza shrugged and went on examining her cuts. ‘Nothing like a spot of enthusiasm, I always say. What’s happened to all that Gallic charm?’ Simon peered through the windows, then gave the front door a kick; it creaked slowly open. Somewhere in the ivy above it, something rustled.

Inside smelt of damp and rotting vegetation. Mildewed wallpaper hung in brown strips from the bulging walls of the dark little room, and remnants of lace curtain smothered in cobwebs and defunct flies adhered to one of the tiny windows. A door let out of the back, and a rickety stair-case led to the two bedrooms upstairs. It was very cold.

‘Come on then, let’s open that wine and try to make things a bit more comfortable.’ Simon slung the haversack of wine on the floor and rubbed his hands with an enthusiasm he didn’t really feel. ‘You know, we used to have the most marvellous feasts here in the old days, a whole gang of us from the village. It was in Cyn’s commando phase; we turned the lime pit into an assault course, and she timed us with Grandpa’s stopwatch ... ’

‘Simon, this corkscrew, it does not work — see how it grinds the cork in little pieces.’

But Simon wasn’t listening, he was looking round the poky little room, trying in vain to recapture the sense of wonder and excitement he’d felt there as a boy so long ago. He remembered Cyn, a stocky figure in baggy flannel shorts, a red Alice-band holding back her golden hair, putting away the stopwatch and taking off her Aertex shirt to reveal her beautiful twelve-year-old’s breasts. A glimpse of these — you could only touch them if you won three times — was the ultimate prize in the game — the fastest man round the course allowed to view them for one minute only. He’d cheated once and quickly been demoted. ‘Si, that’s not fair, you must always play the game properly or not at all,’ Cyn had said when she found out, and he’d been near to tears. What was he doing here now, what in hell’s name was he doing? He looked at Liza and suddenly realised he didn’t even like her. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, he found her a crashing bore.

Yet here he was, performing the same old routine just one more time. Tomorrow he’d go away again; back to hotel rooms, bars, other people’s flats. He’d never write his book, he’d always be the clown who wanted to play Hamlet but somehow couldn’t bring himself even to try; the little wop, the organ grinder’s monkey ...

‘Come on then, you lazy bitch, hurry up with that wine.’ Behind him Liza put her arms round his neck. ‘Love me, Simon, love me now ... ’

Simon closed his eyes. ‘Oh, all right then ... If we must. And then we’ll have the wine ... ’

*

Bet, mud on her boots from the tramp across the field, reached the wood in record time. Despite a hangover of fairly horrific proportions, and an empty stomach, she felt exhilarated. Because she was doing something positive at last, she supposed. Had she ever done anything positive before? Cleaning the mud off her boots on a handy tussock, she racked her brains. What about joining the CND? That time she’d gone on the Aldermaston March. Miles hadn’t wanted her to go; civil servants, he’d said, shouldn’t get involved in politics. She wasn’t a civil servant, she’d said, she was a civil servant’s wife, and CND wasn’t politics, it was the future of mankind; and she’d gone. Miles hadn’t spoken to her for a week, and she’d sprained her ankle somewhere just outside Reading and had to be brought back home in an ambulance.

She dived into the wood.

What seemed hours later, with her heart hammering and blood on her cheek from a passing bramble, limping slightly and sticky with sweat, she finally caught up with the old lime pit. It was dusk now, and behind her the wood breathed a life of its own; wind scratched at the ash poles, leaves rustled, twigs snapped. There were other noises, too; slightly more nerve-racking noises whose origins one couldn’t begin to guess at — even if one wanted to, and one didn’t.