Meadowland. Alison Giles
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was too early in the year.
I’m not sure how long I stayed there. Eventually, cramp in my legs forced me to straighten up. Reluctantly I wandered back, pausing every now and again, as though I could capture and hold within me every whisper and scent.
When I got back to the house, Flora was in the garden picking daffodils. ‘I thought you might like to take a few with you,’ she said. ‘They’ll come out in a day or two.’
In the kitchen, the watercolour had been set aside from the others and lay ready on the table. Flora carried it out to the car and stood waiting as I took it from her and placed it carefully in the back. The daffodils I laid on the passenger seat.
‘Well, goodbye.’ I hesitated awkwardly beside the open car door.
Flora reached out and touched my arm. ‘Take care,’ she said.
The daffodils! I’d dumped them unceremoniously on the draining board when I first came in. I zapped off the television, jumped up and found a vase. Pity to let them die. I crushed the ends as my mother had taught me, and found myself wondering whether Flora would have done the same. I fingered the tight buds lightly. No hot-house blooms these; they smelled of the country and freedom. Impatiently, I brushed away something that was more than a physical sensation. I didn’t wish to be reminded of Cotterly.
I’d driven up the hill out of the village in a state of confusion. It wasn’t until I reached the motorway and was able, with my foot hard down on the accelerator, to put distance between myself and the source of my bewilderment, that I began to feel a sense of normality returning. Cars beat a steady rhythm along the uniform stretches of tarmac. This was the world I knew. As I crossed Hammersmith flyover, the buildings on either side enfolded me in the familiar again. Relieved to be home, I’d staggered up the stairs fully laden, balancing Father’s painting between raised knee and chin as I turned the key in the lock. I’d left it just inside the door.
Now I wondered what to do with it. I almost regretted having accepted it. It was disturbing somehow – my father imposing an image of me on the landscape he loved. Had he sent me down there simply to make a reality of the fantasy he’d painted? Just once? Or did he have some deeper intention? I’d assumed my visit was aimed at satisfying some need of Flora’s. Having met her, that hardly seemed likely. What was he up to?
Dammit. I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. I’d done what he asked. That was the end of it.
I carried the flowers through to the sitting room, changed my mind about placing them on the coffee table, and instead made space on top of the cupboard in the corner. I picked up the phone, trailed its lead across the room, and perched on the arm of a chair.
‘Clare? Are you in? Can I invite myself over? … Supper? Hadn’t thought about it. I could bring a tin of … Right. See you in ten minutes.’
I was my old resilient self again. I threw on a coat, grabbed my contribution to the feast, and clattered down to the street. I loved London, particularly at night. Lights everywhere; the buzz of traffic; bright, exuberant voices of passers-by; traffic lights alternating red, amber, green. I walked the three blocks, humming to myself.
It was eleven-thirty when I returned, pleasantly weary. My old schoolfriend, temporarily grass-widowed by her boyfriend’s attendance at a conference in Stockholm, had been a good choice of companion for the evening. She didn’t believe in moping – whether over a broken ornament or, as she assumed in my case, a bereavement. Instead, she kept up a bright bubble of chatter and encouraged me to help her drain a large bottle of Spanish red.
I fell into bed. My last thought before falling asleep was that I’d forgotten to ring my mother. Too late now. I’d do it tomorrow.
I wondered, next day, whether Mother would ring me at work. I rather hoped she might; I’d have an excuse to keep the conversation brief. I felt uncomfortable at the prospect of speaking to her. I’d never lied to her before. Not about anything of any consequence. However, I’d decided from the beginning that there was no need for her to know about my visit to Flora. The whole matter, I’d reassured myself, was totally unimportant, and the sooner it was done, finished, forgotten, the better.
But I’d come back with that painting. I wished I’d never seen it. I wished Flora hadn’t been at home. I wished …
I struggled through the day, formulating platitudes to disgruntled customers and seeking advice on two particularly thorny problems from our legal people. I tried not to snap at the school-leaver who dropped a tray of coffee in the corridor outside, jangling my nerves. Even the physical exertion of an aerobics class after work did nothing to relieve my mood.
I slammed into the flat that night, tired and sweaty. The first thing I would do was throw out those daffodils. I marched across the room and grabbed the vase. But Flora was right: they were already beginning to open, their bright gold centres offering themselves up. So vulnerable they seemed; so fragile. I replaced the vase. For heaven’s sake, they were only flowers.
The phone shrilled. Skidding my sports holdall out of the way, I grabbed it; then wished I’d waited long enough to prepare myself.
‘Hello, dear. Is that you?’
‘Hello, Mother. How are you? Sorry I didn’t ring last night.’
As always, she was understanding. She expected I’d been late getting back. Had I had a good weekend?
‘Yes, fine. Gorgeous weather as well.’ Then hastily, as I sank down into a chair, forcing myself to relax: ‘How were Leah and Harold?’
My enquiry was genuine enough. I was fond of my mother’s sister and her husband; and knowing she was occupied entertaining them over the weekend had somehow made me feel less guilty about my own activities.
She gave me a quick run-down on Uncle Harold’s hernia operation; and amused me by lowering her voice – as though even now Mrs Potter next door might be skulking in the flower-bed, ear pressed to the curtained window pane – to confide that they were somewhat concerned about my cousin Elspeth. ‘Taken up with a very questionable type, by all accounts.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘I can’t tell you what a relief it is that you’re so sensible.’
No, I thought. I certainly didn’t give her any worries over men. Most of those I came across these days were firmly attached elsewhere, as often as not to my girlfriends.
‘What about your weekend?’ she was asking as I banished a sudden image of Andrew.
‘Oh, lovely,’ I heard myself respond. ‘Paula’s totally immersed in nappies … yes, twins, didn’t I tell you? And James …’ I garnished the tale with up-to-date information gleaned from a recent telephone conversation with my ex-university classmate. The words slipped smoothly from my tongue.
Later, lying full length in the bath, I wondered, guiltily, at the ease of the deception. But then, Mother had never had any cause to doubt my loyalty. Nor was she by nature suspicious. I wondered how long it had been before she became aware of Father’s infidelity. Now, the thought struck me, not only was I the one deceiving her – but over the very same person.
Flora. I wanted to put her out of my mind, but her image confronted me implacably. What on earth could my father have seen in her? ‘Heart of gold,’ Andrew had said. Even at her mildest, I’d seen no sign of it. On the contrary, she must have taken some sort of sadistic pleasure in stirring me first to anger and then to tears.
I lunged for the hot tap and turned it on full pressure. The water scalded my toes and I scooped it round to merge with the cooler pool at my back. I added more oil and lay back once again, surrounded by a mist of steam which settled in a film on the tiles. I watched the small rivulets of condensation as they trickled down the mirror-hard surfaces.
Three months later – three months devoted, by dint mainly of immersing myself in