Meadowland. Alison Giles
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What was it, I wondered – at that moment more perplexed than resentful – that had not only drawn him here, but brought such a look of relaxed contentment to his face?
‘It’s a good likeness.’ Flora had glided across the room in her stockinged feet and was standing over me, a mug in each hand. She passed me one, then swivelled a dining chair and sat down.
I nodded agreement, and waited for her to initiate further conversation. She didn’t.
‘Nice part of the country, here,’ I offered eventually. ‘Very peaceful.’ I forced a light laugh. ‘Makes a pleasant change to get away from London traffic.’
She inclined her head.
‘Had quite a good run down,’ I suggested. I prattled on about the time it had taken me, the weather …
I tried a different tack. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘About my father’s death, I mean.’
This time she did comment. ‘So I should imagine.’
I stared at her. ‘What I meant was …’
‘Yes?’
Confusion stoked animosity. ‘I meant you must miss him.’ It came out angrily, attempts at civility swept aside.
There was a flicker of something indefinable at the corners of her mouth. Eventually she said, as though having considered the matter, ‘Yes, I miss him.’
‘I suppose –’ I managed to soften again as the thought struck me – ‘I suppose we might have invited you to the funeral.’
‘I came anyway.’
I felt my eyebrows shoot up. But then I hadn’t really been aware of anyone but family among the congregation, and I wouldn’t have known who half of them were anyway. I could hardly have been expected to notice a stranger – Flora – in their midst. And maybe, in any case, she’d slipped out before we turned to leave. Must have done, or surely she’d have recognised me more quickly when I arrived.
‘Tell me –’ Flora changed the subject abruptly – ‘why have you come?’
It wasn’t a question I was expecting. I twisted my mind back. ‘My father asked me to.’ I nodded towards the books. Then defensively, pushed into elaboration by a lack of response, ‘One doesn’t refuse a dying wish.’
‘Oh, no. One doesn’t, does one.’ Flora’s tone was bland. She leaned back, that considering look on her face again. Then: ‘Was that the only reason?’ The question, though mildly put, felt nonetheless to prise into me.
The hurt of years surged suddenly in a wave of hatred. How dare she interrogate me! With great control, I rose from my seat, placed the coffee cup carefully beside the photograph of my father and looked her squarely in the eye. ‘Of course. What other reason could there be? Thank you for the coffee. I must be on my way.’ It was, I prided myself, a dignified little speech. I reached for my bag.
‘Sit down.’ Again quietly said; but, given the discomposing effect she was having on me, she might as well have delivered a karate chop to the back of my knees.
I sank back on to the cushions.
Taking her time, she asked casually, ‘Do you always run away from the truth?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
She repeated the query.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Then maybe –’ there was the faintest lift of an eyebrow – ‘you have a thing or two to learn.’
‘But not from you!’ The retort, satisfyingly, seemed to fire itself without any conscious effort on my part.
Flora’s expression didn’t change, and my momentary sense of triumph evaporated as I felt caught up in a childhood game of ‘stare as stare can’. I yielded and looked away.
‘I really must go.’ But the words sounded petulant.
Flora, unperturbed, got up. ‘I expect you’d like something to eat first. I take it you’re going back to London? How about some soup?’ Her tone was matter of fact.
A sick feeling in my stomach identified itself at least partly as hunger. To my astonishment, I found myself accepting.
Unhurriedly, Flora set about the preparations. ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘if you want to wash your hands there’s one the other side of the lobby, or the bathroom’s upstairs.’
I opted for the lobby. On my return, I wandered over to the window and stared out. Beyond the bushes and bare-branched trees bounding the garden, the top of the haybarn I’d passed earlier was outlined against the pink-tinged clouds of early evening. ‘Shepherd’s delight,’ I murmured automatically.
‘We’ll have a beautiful sunset.’ The observation floated from behind me.
I turned. Flora was stirring a pan.
Grabbing for the relief of small talk, I said, ‘I was admiring your crocuses.’
‘None of my doing.’ Abruptness had returned to her voice. She poured the soup into a bowl and transferred it to the table, indicating to me to seat myself.
This time, I decided, I would be the one to ignore a comment. I picked up the spoon. The soup smelled good. I tasted it. It was thick with fresh vegetables, just peppery enough to bring out their flavour. Flora placed a farmhouse loaf and the butter dish before me. ‘Help yourself.’ She took the chair opposite. Columbus, wakened by the activity, descended from his bed and sauntered, yawning and stretching, towards the table. He raised his front paws on to Flora’s knee and leapt up. She fondled his ears.
I saw an opportunity for conversation again. Nodding towards the cat, I asked, ‘How did he get his name?’
‘Your father gave it to him. We found him down by the river, soaking wet. He said he looked as though he’d swum the Atlantic.’
‘So he was a stray?’
‘Yes.’
Her monosyllabic response left me scant scope.
‘Was my father fond of cats?’ I regretted the question as soon as it was uttered.
‘He loved animals. Didn’t you know?’
I took a mouthful of soup to delay replying. Columbus purred complacently.
I decided to go on the offensive. ‘The fact that I didn’t know him as well as I should,’ I said carefully, ‘is hardly my fault.’ I stressed the ‘my’.
‘Does anyone say it is?’
She had missed the point. Or had she? Flora didn’t strike me as unintelligent. Far from it. All right, then; if she wanted me to spell it out …
‘Don’t bother,’ she forestalled me. Her eyes were glinting with something. Not anger – I could have coped with that; more an amused, or perhaps merely patient, tolerance.
I put my spoon down. ‘Look,’ I tried. ‘I’ve come all this way …’
‘And I’m supposed to be correspondingly grateful?’ She paused. ‘I can’t think why. You could have consigned the delivery to the Post Office.’ Again, that indecipherable expression. I heaved a sigh; this was getting us nowhere.
‘I take it,’ Flora continued consideringly, ‘that I’m not reacting in whatever way you’ve decided would be appropriate to the … er … circumstances. Which, I would remind you –’ she fixed me with one of her unwavering looks – ‘you have created.’
‘I have created?’
‘You chose to come.’
Her calm only fuelled my indignation.
‘And what about the circumstances you’ve created!’ I thumped the table