'You seem a little flushed, Percy,' said Dorothea. She was seated at the dining table, looking cool and austere in white, her hand still resting lightly on the little silver bell. The crucifix she had asked for as a wedding anniversary gift glittered on her board-like chest. All she needed, he thought sourly, was a wimple and she'd be a full nun. She went back to her plate of thin toast and the
Anglican Herald.
Dorothea fasted until one o'clock each weekday. Dr Percy Tichborne saw no reason not to follow suit. They must, he thought regretfully, looking at his wife's pale, even complexion, live the healthiest lives of any late sexagenarians in the area. So much for her supposedly dicky heart. I wonder, he thought, as he so often had since the advent of Crispin, what love and sex are like in combination?
If ever a man regretted marrying for money it was he. What you do when you are young, he thought, brings its heaven or hell eventually. He ran his hand over his bald dome. Experience, alas, is a comb that life gives you when you no longer have hair
...
'Has something excited you?' asked his wife disapprovingly.
‘I
thought I saw a couple of siskins,' he said. 'Coniferous woodland
’
she said, without looking up, 'only.' 'Oh well-'
‘It
was probably a pair of tits
’
she said.
'Anything but
’
said Dr Tichborne beneath his breath. And then winced as the little bell was rung again.
The young Dorkin girl entered, looking, Dr Tichborne thought peevishly, as if she had just had sex with some scrambled eggs.
'Fresh toast for Dr Tichborne
’
said Dorothea, continuing to read, 'and scrambled eggs.'
He looked at the straining grey-white blouse with its open buttons, its peep of grubby brassiere and the gouts of uncooked eggs strewn about it. 'Just toast
’
he said.
'Oh, but Sandra has been practising
’
said his wife. 'So I see
’
said Dr Tichborne.
Sandra gave him a lascivious smile. It was her mother's ambition that she should marry a rich old man. Everybody knew that Dorothea Tichborne had a delicate heart and could go at any time. Everybody knew that Dorothea Tichborne was ready to go at any time. Had been ready, so Dr Tichborne thought, since before she married him, if their wedding night was anything to go by. In which case, thought both Mrs Dorkin and Dr Percy Tichborne, why did the wretched woman take such great care of herself? She longed for heaven, so why not go there? It was only a question of the two strands connecting (only connect, thought Dr Tichborne passionately from time to time) and she would be gone. He could then throw himself into a Grand Passion at last - with all the comforts of riches to surround it.
In the watchful eyes of Mrs Dorkin, mother of Sandra, he would then be a desirable widower. Mrs Dorkin had had her eye on him in the old days for herself and went at him at quite a lick with hot pants and thigh boots. But he stayed faithful to his wife. Since it was not to be, she now claimed him for the next generation. Her daughter had all the trappings of entrapment: Mrs Dorkin had fed her on cream and butter and eggs, bathed her face with eyebright and rubbed her with whey since she was a little thing. Now there was nothing little about her. She was perfect fodder for an old, rich, lonely man. And they didn't come any richer hereabouts than the doctor, said her mother with a wink. And lonely. Since the Dorkin girl made the beds, she knew perfectly well that Dr Tichborne and Mrs Tichborne slept in separate rooms.
Her mother said that what she and Sandra were about was traditional. You sent a village girl up to the big house and the squire first seduced and then married her. It was in every book
Mrs Dorkin had ever read. Which was not a lot and among which Thomas Hardy's Tess did
not
feature. Sandra would persevere. 'You marry him
’
said her mother, 'and once you're married you can have your true love on the side.' Mrs Dorkin laughed. That was traditional too. 'Whoever he is
...'
Sandra was thinking of him, her true love, now, as she idly stroked the soft pink flesh of her throat and hummed a happy hymn. 'Eggs, then, is it?' she asked. 'And how many would that be?' She leaned over the table at Dr Tichborne. Any other man would be forced to answer 'Two
’
but he said, 'One please
’
and sipped his orange juice.
In the weedless garden of the Rudges' house a snail slithered across the newly flagged path towards a bed of tender, delectable young polyanthuses in very bright colours. It stopped on the way to sniff and lick a little blue ball that also smelt delectable, about the size of a baby pea, lying in its path. 'Lick, lick, lick
’
said the snail. And then it pulled a face. 'Yaroo
’
it said. And exploded. A blackbird flew down and swooped upon the glutinous mess, pleased to find a quick takeaway for the family instead of one of those all-in jobbies that took for ever to crack open. Off he flew, gliding low along the road, narrowly avoiding being hit by an oncoming car. The glistening poison, so deftly dispensed by the little blue slug pellet, attracted his youngsters and his own dear wife, as he flew into view. He dropped it into the nest for his wife to serve up. 'Yum, yum, Daddy
’
they chirruped, and ate it all up. After which they went remarkably silent.
The Rudges liked the peace and quiet of the countryside at weekends. When they first purchased Brier House they cut back their yew hedge into a long, thin perfect rectangle, cut down several badly placed trees, removed the ancient briers that grew there willy-nilly and from which the house derived its name, and generally gave themselves a tidier aspect to look out on from their new conservatory. It went pleasantly quiet after all that. They commented in amazement at the number of old nests they discovered in the course of reshaping the garden. Like Centre Point, the Rudges told some of their London visitors, for they had lived near its high-rise shadow before they left Fitzrovia. Now, loving the silence as they did, given how hard they worked in their law practice in Bristol, it was all to the good that the chorus of birdsong had diminished in their garden over the last couple of years. As, indeed, had the trails of the snails
...
And the toads. And the frogs. Even the breathy wings of butterflies seemed to be silenced and still. All, in their own way, had once made such a frightful din.
When the Rudges first came here from London, weekenders visiting with them would marvel at the rural cacophony, taking great pleasure in it. But the crows and rooks were ugly and loud, and the blackbird and the song thrush were piercingly insistent, and the toads and frogs croaked ceaselessly during the mating season, and, as the Rudges said as they waved their friends goodbye, those departing guests didn't have to listen to it every weekend. Well, well - something had sent these noisy elements on their way and it was very nice indeed to have a bit of peace.
Lucy Elliott stared out bleakly from the window above her sink and draining board. She wanted to sit in the sunshine and read a book, or listen to the radio, or have her nails polished by some visiting beautician and masseuse. She wanted to have flying lessons. Like Craig. Or faxes from her publisher saying how well the reviews were going, when they weren't. Like Craig. She wanted to be able to walk into the house on a Friday night, having been in London since Tuesday, and say, 'Hi, guys,' to the children, who were already tucked up in bed. And then have sex once the children were asleep. And then fall asleep herself. Like Craig. She did not want to be here at the sink, which had got blocked again, wondering if she had enough fish fingers to go round and afraid that she might be pregnant once more. Unlike Craig.
'We'll have a lovely idyll
’
he said to her when he moved them all to the country. And then he buggered back off to London whenever he could.
'Let's have another baby
’
he said, 'and see if we can't get a girl.' They got Esmond. 'Cyril Connolly might talk about the pram in the hall
’
she heard him say to his agent,
‘I
)ut I've got three
...
How can you expect me to get it in on time?' Overhearing, she wondered what would happen if she was six months late with the dinner.
Lucy Elliott pushed the plunger one more time with great strength - a strength which, she felt sure, came from heaving toddlers up hill, down dale, in and out of the car, the bath, the swing. Unlike Craig. A great gout of greeny-black matter flew up and hit her smack in the eye. Lucy Elliott burst into tears. She threw down the plunger, went over to the telephone, then heard the first wail of two-year-old Tommy, followed by the first wail of three-and-a-half-year-old Esmond, followed by the stamping of five-year-old Jamie on the stairs.
She picked up the telephone and tapped out a number. As she waited she thought, God bless the countryside for helping its mothers to keep their children at home and safe. If she had won and not Craig, they would still be in Weybridge, where there were pre-school playgroups and where children were certainly in full-time school by the age of four and a half. But a writer should not live in Weybridge, or anywhere remotely like it, said Craig. A writer must live where his Muse responds. No one ever, according to Craig, had a Muse that responded if they lived in a place like
Weybridge.
'What about J. G. Ballard?' she answered with spirit. 'He lives in
Shepperton.
He's wildly successful.'
Unlike Craig.
The wails increased. The phone was answered. 'Millie's All Staff Agency
’
said a nice, female voice.
‘I
want a live-in mother's help please
’
said Lucy Elliott. And she thought, I want a very ugly one. Unlike Craig. As she waited for the woman to take down her details, she
glanced at the hill and saw one of her neighbours striding upwards, a dog prancing at her side, a stick in her hand, comfortable and at one with the climb, pacing it as Lucy had still to learn to do. If she went out for a walk, it was with three children and the fear that one of them would do something to cause a tragedy while her eyes were on one of the others. I am thirty-five, she thought, and I walk like that old woman. What is to become of me? Fear clutched at her, as it so often did if she took a minute to think about anything beyond fish fingers. For the thought that always followed, What's to become of me? was, If Craig ever leaves me.
'We have a Dutch girl,' said the voice. 'Available at the end of the month.'
'Is she pretty?' snapped Lucy Elliott.
'She's from The Hague,' said the voice, as if that was an answer.
The vicar, fresh from his shower, limping a little and wearing his groovy blue dog-collar shirt and black jeans, slipped through the lych-gate and noticed the hinges were coming away. He skirted the gravestones and went to the side of the church. Looking up towards the dangerously crooked weather vane, he stared into the face of an old gargoyle and remembered that he was having tea with Mrs Tichborne. He apologized for the graceless thought, though the carving, like so many, did look uncannily like her. Not surprising, he supposed, since her family connection with the area went back hundreds of years.
His eyes went dreamy. He would make that the subject of his sermon at the family service on Sunday. He would string his guitar around his neck, talk about little and big and their place in the world, remind everyone that no matter how humble or how great, they all had a role in the scheme of things. That you should value what you had. And then sing 'Me and Bobby McGee' - the perfect anthem for such a theme. He started to hum it to himself:
‘I
took my harpoon out of tee dum tee red bandana
And was blowing dum while Bobby dee dum dum
...
Tee tee tee dum dum dee slapping time
I must learn the words -
Nothing ain't worth nothing but it's free
...
And I'd give all my tomorrows for a single yesterday
..
‘
'Ooh
’
said a voice behind him that instantly made him think of very full, if very grubby, brassiere cups. 'Well, if it isn't the vicar singing.'
He did not turn round. The limp melted away. He fled.
Puffing, he entered the church, hoping it would remove the lingering sense of that warm and unwashed skin. Inside it was still and quiet and empty. Too empty. He must set about changing that. He blinked away the muddled image of a Madonna and a milky breast from his mind and crossed himself. He conjured up the face of St Hilary's benefactress instead. He hoped Dr Tichborne would join them today for tea. He was always friendly and supportive, with his encouraging little smiles and his pats on the hand. Otherwise it would be hard going. Mrs Tichborne was set on spending a lot of money on a vast memorial tablet to her father, Sir Peter Devereux, and it was the Reverend Crispin Archer's job to get that money spent on something more urgent, more temporal. Like refurbishing the church hall and some heating that worked. Not for himself -
he
did not mind suffering for his witness - but he could hardly persuade his parishioners that turning blue with cold was useful. If God had sent them the potential for central heating, then they were obliged to use it. And in a church hall they could have playgroups, Sunday schools, quiz nights, youth clubs - and he could play the guitar. Though quite how he was going to persuade Mrs Dorothea Tichborne to drop the ancestral marble and pay for a range of requirements including a pool table instead was beyond him. Despite the fact that the memorial tablet to Sir Peter (RIP
1988)
was highly questionable, since his great moment of glory was to stand up in the House of Lords and declare that one could not make an omelette without breaking eggs in response to a reminder that his family money came from a rollicking slave trade in Bristol.