Fair Do's (36 page)

‘Good Lord! And … so … she was … killed?'

‘No. He regained control, and when they got home – well,
where they were staying, with me auntie – she said, “That was grand. Specially the skid!” What a woman!'

‘But … the funeral?'

‘She died peacefully in her sleep, when she was ninety-four.'

Rita met Liz in the hall, which had brown panelled doors, walls the colour of digestive biscuits, and a brown carpet running up the stairs with their dark brown varnished banisters. It was as if they'd decorated the hall last, and run out of colours before they'd come to it.

As Rita had been striding purposefully across the brown carpet towards the brown panelled door of the dining room, it wasn't any use pretending.

‘I was just going to … er … look for the … er … food,' she said. ‘Not that I'm hungry, but …' Her voice trailed away in embarrassment.

‘Why shouldn't you be hungry?' said Liz. ‘Most people are. Tension makes them hungry. Come and have a look at the garden.'

‘What?'

‘I'd like to get out of it all for a moment. Please.'

‘Yes. Yes, of course.'

The garden wasn't particularly wide, but it was long. It was terraced, on three levels. The lawns were well-kept, the flower beds immaculate. It was a garden where nettles died of shame.

There wasn't a breath of wind. There wasn't a trace of moisture. There was no feeling of heat or cold. The day was still, neutral, grey. The world was waiting … but for what?

The garden wasn't at its best that September. The best of the flowers were over, and even those that were sometimes splendid, like the hybrid tea roses, were disappointing. What had been drenched in mid-August had become too dry by mid-September. Later, the Meteorological Office would announce that it had been the driest September since 1776. That month, in fact, Mexborough had been drier than Marrakesh.

They walked slowly across the lawn that dominated the top level of the garden.

‘Liz, I …' began Rita.

‘Please! Before you say something you regret …' interrupted Liz.

‘No, no. No, no. I was going to say something nice.'

‘Precisely.'

‘You what?'

‘Before you say something nice, which you'll regret, I think I ought to make it clear that I'm not burying the hatchet.'

‘I see.'

A short-sighted bee examined Liz's floral top. She whooshed it away imperiously. It obeyed.

‘I'm talking to you today, and today only, because Neville would have wished it, and today his wishes are paramount.'

‘I see. Well … yes … yes, of course.'

They were on the second level now, approaching a flower bed given over to lupins and roses.

‘This little corner was Neville's pride and joy.'

‘Ah. Well, it's … very nice.'

Liz moved on. Rita, the obedient guest, followed.

‘That's a lovely clematis,' said Rita, as they passed the purpleblue of a tall clematis jackmanii.

‘I prefer the Nellie Moser,' said Liz.

They sauntered on. Rita kept silent, after what she took to be a rebuff.

‘Neville and I had separate beds,' said Liz.

‘Ah. Well … I … er … I don't think I really want the details of …'

‘In the garden. I was speaking of the garden, Rita.'

‘Oh. Well … of course. As if you'd … I mean … well, anyway, it's none of my … sorry.'

It was becoming a nightmare for Rita, this slow passage through the autumn garden on this grey, empty day. They were on the lowest level now. Liz led her to a border where dahlias and phlox and begonias were in bloom.

‘This was my area, over here.'

‘Ah. It's very … “was”? Will you move?'

‘I haven't thought yet. Will I be able to sell, with your ring road being built at the bottom of my garden?'

‘Ah.'

Rita found herself imagining juggernauts roaring through this third level, and through the narrow strip of woodland
beyond, which screened these houses from the Dalton Wood Estate.

‘And here is the magnolia. The fateful magnolia.'

‘Ah.'

It was not, in truth, a particularly splendid example, but then it wasn't in flower. Rita felt that Liz was angry with it for not being in flower, as if it had let her down. But maybe the anger was for her, its destroyer. It sat, motionless, flowerless, in a circular bed studded with miniature roses.

‘How naive of me not to realise where we were heading.'

‘Yes. I was surprised. Beautiful, isn't it?'

‘Beautiful.'

‘Soon to be no more.'

‘Er … no.'

‘I must go back. Do my duty. Thank you, Rita.'

‘What for?'

‘This little talk. This little walk. They've made me feel better.'

Liz set off back to the house, briskly.

Rita followed her, slowly.

Several minutes later Rita was standing in the brown hall with a plate of food, which she couldn't remember selecting. Sometimes, when driving, she would pass through a village without noticing it, yet apparently drive with perfect safety. And now she seemed to have chosen her food quite consciously, for everything on her plate was vegetarian. But this gap in her memory, here today, was an unpleasant shock.

The drone of conversation in the living room was more animated than when she had left. She was reminded of those times, in the bad old days, when she'd gone to make tea or coffee, and had heard merry laughter from their lounge, and had believed that the world was a jollier place when she was absent. Now, although all that was over, she felt once again the sheer dread of entering a room full of people.

But there was a difference now. Geoffrey Ellsworth-Smythe was in that room.

She tried not to meet anybody's eyes. Not Betty's slightly bloodshot eyes, for that would make her cry. Not the unsmiling
eyes in Morris Wigmore's smiling face, for he would buttonhole her and discuss committees and agendas. Not Matthew Wadehurst's grave legal eyes, for he would feel obliged to say something to her; all sorts of people spoke to her now that she was a councillor, now that she was somebody.

Geoffrey was standing by the unlit fireplace. She squeezed his arm and said, ‘Hello,' but her tone suggested that she meant, ‘Thank God.'

Geoffrey understood and said, ‘Rita!' as if he were saying, ‘What a wonderful stroke of luck. It's you, the person I most want to see in the whole world,' causing Rita to say, in a low voice, ‘You aren't going to tell me that you want me again, are you?' Geoffrey, in a voice even lower than usual, said, ‘Not if it upsets you.' He gave her a close look, and said, ‘You are upset, aren't you?'

‘It's Liz.'

‘Snap.'

‘She showed me the magnolia.'

‘Ah.'

‘It's become an obsession with her. Sometimes, which is an awful thing to say, I wonder if she cares more for that magnolia than … what do you mean, “snap”?'

‘I'm upset about Liz. I'm dreadfully ashamed.'

‘What about?'

‘My dislike of her. When I left England she was a selfish, spoilt girl. I suppose I assumed she couldn't change and hadn't changed.'

‘Has she changed?' Rita was surprised.

‘Well, I certainly didn't think her capable of the courage she's shown.'

‘Courage?' Rita was very surprised.

‘Hiding her grief so bravely.'

‘Hiding her grief?' Rita was very, very surprised.

‘Excuse me. Be back soon.'

‘Where are you going?'

‘Big brother is going to be supportive for the first time in his life.'

And Geoffrey was gone. And Rita, reeling but no longer able to cope, found that her legs had decided to take her past the oatmeal settee towards the front window, past a dimly
seen man in an oatmeal armchair, who said, ‘Don't speak to me, then.'

‘Oh. Sorry, Ted,' she said. ‘I didn't realise it was you.'

‘There
are
lots of people encased in plaster, aren't there?'

‘Sorry.' His face was grey with pain. She pulled up a Windsor chair and sat beside him. ‘How are you?' she asked.

Ted smiled bravely. ‘I'll recover,' he said. ‘The scars will heal.'

‘And … the mental scars?'

‘Healed. Almost. Forgotten she ever existed. Almost.'

‘She? Oh, Corinna! No, I meant … the accident … the …'

Ted leant forward, to speak yet more confidentially. His left arm, the one in the sling, was almost digging into Rita's bust.

‘Rita,' he said. ‘You're a woman.'

‘Ten out of ten for recognition.'

‘I suppose this isn't really the time or place. But.'

‘But?'

‘Is it possible, Rita, for a woman to entirely … utterly … fool a man over experiencing … sexual ecstasy?'

‘You what, Ted?'

‘Incidentally, I'm … er … luckily under the … I'm … er … undamaged in …' Ted glanced down, as if making a final check that everything was still there, ‘… those areas.'

‘Oh good. I'm relieved to hear it. I speak disinterestedly, of course.'

‘Oh yes. I realise that. Those days are … but … I mean … sexual ecstasy … can it be simulated?'

Rita glanced round the room, full of respectable people, dressed quite sombrely, and a few, who hadn't known of Neville's wishes, wearing black.

‘Should we be discussing this here today?' she said.

‘No. No. I agree. Not the … er … at all.' Ted lowered his voice a further notch. ‘But … I mean … Corinna conned me in business. Could she have conned me in … er … well … bed? I mean, she … regularly made …' he searched for a description that might not be too unseemly for a funeral, ‘… movements consistent with gratification. She regularly … uttered cries indicative of ecstasy. I mean, she must have liked me a bit, mustn't she?'

‘Oh, Ted. This really isn't the time or place.'

‘No, no. I know. Right. Let's change the … but I mean you sometimes … in our marriage …'

‘Made movements consistent with gratification?'

‘Well … yes. Well … you did.'

‘Uttered cries indicative of ecstasy?'

‘Well … yes. Well … you did. I mean … were they …?'

‘Sometimes.'

‘You what?'

‘Sometimes they were genuine. Sometimes I was … giving you what I thought you wanted to hear.'

‘Rita!'

‘I really think we ought to change the subject.'

‘Oh yes. Yes. Right. You see, I don't think I could ever again trust a woman in … if I … if I felt … I mean, Corinna couldn't have found me utterly repulsive, could she?'

‘No, Ted, I daresay she couldn't have found you utterly repulsive. Oh Ted!'

‘Thanks, Rita.' Ted's voice went through a gear change, as if it was entirely his idea to change the subject. ‘I … er … I see Liz is talking to you.'

‘Only for today. After that, it's back to silence.'

‘That's pathetic.'

‘Rather inconvenient, too, as I'm in love with her brother.'

‘I like your clothes.'

Big brother's support of Liz was taking place near the back window, beside the unused dining table, far from Rita and Ted.

‘Good heavens.'

‘Why “Good heavens”?

‘“Good heavens, Geoffrey is making small talk.” “Good heavens, Geoffrey has said something nice to me,” and, “Good heavens, Geoffrey likes my clothes, because everyone else disapproves.'

Geoffrey Ellsworth-Smythe tried not to look too rueful. His beard was a great help in this deception. He hadn't really noticed Liz's clothes. He wasn't a man for noticing clothes. It had just been a random throw in his awkward attempt to find a comfortable conversational level with his
sister. Once started, however, it was as good a subject as any.

‘I didn't mean these particularly,' he said. ‘I meant … all your clothes. I like your dress sense.'

‘Good heavens.'

‘Once again, why “Good heavens”?'

‘“Good heavens, a member of the male sex has noticed my clothes.” “Good heavens, the great anthropologist, who's spent a lifetime studying people who run around in the buff, can appreciate dress sense,” and, “Good heavens, Geoffrey has now said two nice things to me,” making, when you include all the childhood years, the grand total of … two.'