(16/20)Summer at Fairacre (15 page)

'Not got without hard work,' was the reply. 'But nothing is in this wicked world!'

A serpent all right, I thought, smiling over the gate at my old enemy.

I drove alone into Caxley on Saturday morning, dodging a number of fledglings who sat bemusedly in the middle of the road and nearly gave me heart failure.

The hedges were beginning to turn green, and some copper beech trees on the outskirts of Caxley were hazily pink with tiny leaves. What a morning! What a blessed time of year! Even the thought of my coming ordeal could not quench my spirits on such a glorious day of early summer.

The optician was a spruce young fellow smelling deliciously of eau-de-Cologne after-shave. He shone a bright light into my eyes, making strange little grunts as he did so. I earnestly hoped that they were grunts of approval and not horror at his findings. Perhaps I should be rushed to Caxley Cottage Hospital immediately, 1 thought, panic returning, or there would be an urgent call to Moorfields to stand by.

After this ordeal, I submitted to the usual tests with each eye, trying to read as far down as I could so that my new spectacles, if needed eventually, would last as long as possible.

I can't say 1 cared for the lenses being dropped one after the other before my eyes while I attempted to say if the red light was brighter than the green. After a bit, one, really cannot be sure, just as the last pair of shoes after a fitting always feels worse than the one before, until a superbly comfortable pair is greeted with cries of relief, bought and borne home, only to find that it is miles too big.

'Yes,' said my nice-smelling optician. 'You definitely need reading glasses. I will write a prescription, and then my assistant will show you the different frames available. Actually, I should advise you to have half-glasses. At the moment your long sight is perfect.'

I was ushered into another room and there spent a most agreeable twenty minutes selecting suitable frames, ending up with some rather sedate gold-rimmed affairs which gave me a granny-like appearance which I rather liked.

'Perhaps I ought to have chosen something more dashing,' I said doubtfully to the young man who had taken such pains. 'Those scarlet ones look gorgeous, and those thick black ones might make me look studious.'

'Oh, I'm sure you don't want to look
tudious,
' he said rather primly, as though such a condition was rather shameful. 'And the scarlet ones are really for the young. I think you will find the half-glasses very flattering to your own, er, quieter expression.'

All the way home, I wondered if a 'quieter expression' meant plain dowdiness, and had a horrid feeling that it did.

It was an enormous thrill to see Amy's car waiting by my door when I came out of school a day or two later.

My old friend was sitting on the garden seat, her face tilted towards the sun, and her eyes closed. She looked blissfully happy and ten years' younger than when I saw her last.

'Amy!' 1 cried. 'What a marvellous surprise! Come and tell me all about your disappearance. You had us all rattled, I can tell you, and James rang me in the most awful lather.'

'I'm delighted to hear it,' said Amy, giving me a kiss. 'It was one of the objects of the exercise, but not the
chief
one, let me say.'

'And what was the chief one?'

Amy bent down to pull a long piece of grass and began to nibble it before replying.

'I suppose you could say it was to catch up with myself. You see, for years now, like most married women, I've always had James in mind. Would he like this frock I've just bought? Would he like a holiday in Italy, or would he prefer to go to Frinton as usual? Even down to: "I'd better not put bananas in this fruit salad because James doesn't care for them." Of course, women with children must find it even worse, I do realise that, and must be torn in several directions at once when trying to come to a decision, but it suddenly struck me that I hardly ever did
exactly
as I wanted,
when
I wanted, and it seemed a good idea to try it.'

'And did it work?'

'Perfectly. I decided just to go off without a word to anyone. The whole point was to be alone without agitated friends and relations harassing me. I remember you saying once that the days one enjoys most are those one spends alone. I know it doesn't hold good for everyone. Some people are lonely anyway, but for you, among folk all day, I can quite see the need for a breathing space.'

'But, Amy,' I protested, 'you live alone a great deal. Why the sudden flight?'

'Believe it or not, I am hardly ever alone, and it's largely my fault. Dear old Mrs Hopkins comes in three times a week to char. Bert does the garden on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I play bridge twice a week, and go to innumerable committees and good works, more fool me, I suppose. Do you think I was wrong to go?'

She sounded anxious, and quite unlike her usual confident self.

'No, I don't,' I assured her. 'I know exactly how you were feeling, and I think you were right to recognise that you must take the plunge to keep your own personality. But, tell me, where did you go?'

Amy gave a chuckle.

'Well, I drove to a health farm a few miles south of Cambridge, and stayed there for a few days being massaged and creamed and bathed—and starved, incidentally—and generally being cossetted. It was marvellously therapeutic, and I lost five pounds too, which was a bonus. And they had the best hairdresser I've ever come across. I must say, I prefer a man to do my hair, do you?'

'I think you're right. They don't seem to slice your ears off with long sharp talons as the girls do, and they don't rub your hair into tangles so viciously.'

'After that I went on to dear old Cambridge for a couple of nights, and simply drifted about the Backs, and up and down Trumpington Street, and round the Fitzwilliam and the Botanical Gardens. It was so peaceful, and Cambridge was looking lovely, and really warm for a change. It did me a power of good.'

'I wish I'd been with you.'

'So did I, now and again, but that would have defeated my aim. I must say I began to feel more balanced with every day that passed.'

'Then what?'

'I rang Vanessa and asked if I could come up for a few days, and she was wildly welcoming. So I took two days ambling northward through some of the most spectacular country, and spent the rest of my time with Vanessa and the children.'

She threw away the chewed grass and sighed happily. 'Of course I was
lightly
guilty about James worrying, but after all he keeps me guessing often enough, and I think it's given him food for thought. 1 was sorry he'd bothered the police though. The poor things have quite enough to do trying to catch house-breakers and muggers and murderers, without badgering them with a perfectly happy truant wife. But what about you? Did you worry?'

'A bit,' I admitted, 'but I had the comfortable feeling you were in full control of the situation, and you see I was right. Like a cup of tea?'

'Lead me to it,' said Amy.

While the kettle boiled, she told me more about the proposed party.

'Well, Horace is free, and so are Irene and David Mawne, and I came across that nice Gerard Baker again. He called at Vanessa's on his way to some Highland village with a name like a sneeze. He's coming too. So sad his wife Hattie died. Do you remember he wrote about a poet called Aloysius Something who used to live in Fairacre?'

'Indeed I do. He called with Vanessa one morning when he was finding out about our Loyshus, and I directed him to Mr Willet.'

'Well, he's got mixed up with a television programme about Aloysius and I think they may do some filming in the village soon.'

'What excitement! I must ask him all about it when we meet at your house.'

After tea, we walked in the garden and I picked Amy a real country bunch of mixed flowers, irises, columbine, sweet rocket, some late narcissi, and a few early roses.

She sniffed them appreciatively as she made her way to the car.

'I must get back to poor old James,' she said smiling. 'He's all of a fidget now, in case I take off again.'

'So you've still got a conscience,' I quipped.

'It's well under control,' she assured me, and drove off with a flippant tootle on the horn.

11 Amy's Party

I WAS sad to see the last of May despite the problems it had brought me. Would June ever be as glorious, as fragrant, as tender with new blossoms everywhere? Fairacre delights me in all seasons, but May is the crown of the year for me, and when exceptionally early warmth is added to its blessings, then everything is perfect in this upland village.

However, the weather forecaster, on the last evening of May, promised us a continuation of the balmy conditions, and the weather map was nicely sprinkled with high pressure areas, and isobars widely apart foretelling very light winds.

And it looked as though he would be right.

I woke on the Saturday morning to a cloudless sky, and spent a few luxurious minutes relishing the fact that I need not get up at my usual early hour. A robin was singing in the plum tree, and there were occasional chirrupings from foraging blackbirds. But the rapturous dawn chorus of some weeks earlier was fading now that the young birds were hatching and fledglings needed feeding. A sudden furious chattering and scolding fetched me from my bed and, as I had guessed, Tibby was looking up at an irate blackbird a few feet above him in the lilac bush.

As I soaked in my bath a few minutes later, I thought how lucky I was to have a bathroom to myself, and hot water at the turn of a tap.

It was not always so. I recalled the effort of dragging the zinc bath from its nail on the side of the woodshed, the boiling of rainwater in the old copper and the sloshing of buckets into the bath. It had been hard work, but the water, brownish and silky, had left one's skin as smooth as satin, and the soap had lathered in half the time it took with the water from the mains.

Nevertheless, I told myself as I stepped out, I would not want to return to the primitive sanitary conditions of my early years at Fairacre, and I praised the Lord for mercies received.

That evening I was due at Amy's party and I donned my new pale green silk frock with some trepidation. Amy has an eagle eye for the cut and colour of garments, and although I flattered myself that the colour suited me, I was not too sure about the sleeves. They seemed rather tight at the top to me. No doubt Amy would tell me if anything were drastically wrong when we were alone together.

The sun was still quite high as I drove to Bent, slanting rays through the young foliage and dappling the road surface with sunlight and shade.

Within a mile of Amy's house, I recognised the car in front of me as David and Irene Mawnes', and saw that Horace Umbleditch, Irene's brother, was also with them. They did not see me.

I slowed down to let them get ahead. It was quite a change to realise that I was not first as usual. Amy tells me that it looks as though I don't get enough to eat and have rushed ahead to get my trotters in the trough first. I thought these porcine allusions were very rude, and I told her so.

'Well, I apologise,' she had replied, 'but it doesn't alter the fact that as soon as you enter the hall you raise your head and sniff the air ravenously like a Bisto Kid!'

'I wonder I get invited at all,' I answered. 'Anyway, it's because there are usually such luscious smells drifting about that I automatically respond.'

This time, I told myself, watching the Mawnes' car draw ahead, I must remember my manners and try not to sniff.

James let me in. He looked as debonair as ever, but I thought he seemed a little more subdued than usual. However, he kissed me on both cheeks gallantly and led me towards the party.

I was pleased to find several people already gathered together in Amy's splendid drawing room. The French windows were open, and some of the guests, glasses in hand, were watching a little bevy of chaffinches splashing in the bird bath. Roses seemed to be everywhere, inside and out, and their perfume was marvellous.

Most of the people were old friends, but I was glad to meet Amy's new young vicar and his wife. They had only recently moved to Bent from a parish in north London, and were enthusiastic about country life.

There was also an elderly cousin of Amy's, recently widowed, who was staying for a week. Luckily I remembered that she was a fairly well-known writer of detective novels and we had plenty to talk about when we found ourselves on the same sofa.

'Do you know Basil Bradley?' I asked her. 'He writes historical novels, and lives near here.'

'We share the same publisher. Now, he really is an enormous success! I believe they print ten thousand copies at first go.'

She spoke with awe.

'I once tried to analyse his great hold on the public, but I came to the conclusion that it could not be true literary worth. That may sound catty, but I don't mean to be. His style is rather florid, I think.'

'I think he gives his readers exactly what they want,' I replied. 'They only have to look at the book jacket, and see one of his heroines, all ringlets and a high-waisted muslin gown, to know that she is going to have wild romances every ten pages, and lots of wicked villains hoping to deflower her, and probably a cruel guardian into the bargain, and a few ghosts in the background, and it's all going to be the mixture as before, and very nice too.'

'I don't grudge him his popularity, for a moment,' said she bravely, 'but it would be nice to know its secret. Have you met him?'

'Frequently. He's a perfect dear, and we all love him. He opens bazaars, and empties jars of coins in pubs at Christmas, and generally pulls his weight most satisfactorily. What's more, he's as modest as they come.'

'Really? Well, it's nice to know that he is as popular in private as in public.' She sounded rather wistful, and I wondered if she had hoped for some terrible secret vices to be disclosed, but I was unable to gratify her. Basil Bradley is exactly as I described him, and although the men locally tend to make disparaging remarks about his pink shirts and bow ties, and his rather too-gorgeous silk suits in pastel shades, we women uphold him loyally, always ending with: