New and Collected Stories (93 page)

After the final wicked thump, which he could hardly bear to think about, he knew there would be no bloody Heaven or Hell for him, just blackness. Having imagined the smash so vividly, almost with real pain, he felt as if he had done it, and thought that would have to satisfy him till death came for real from he didn't know where.

A loop of approving wind spun from behind a corner of the stark Castle, and he buttoned his coat against it. Loving his life, whether joyless or not, he lit a fag and walked smiling down into the town for his morning cup of coffee. Then he would buy a paper and go home to read, and feed the bird, which had always seemed happy enough in its cage.

And maybe somewhere at the back end of the newspaper there would be a few lines about a silly old sod who had stood on the wall of Nottingham Castle and got a medal for not slinging himself off.

But they don't print things like that, do they, then, my pretty little budgie? Tut-tut-tut – come on, and get this lovely birdseed in my hand. There, I knew you would. Tastes like the best steak to you, don't it? What nice smooth feathers you've got. I wish I had a coat like yourn. That's right, eat your fill.

After I've fried myself an egg I'll close all the windows and let you out of your cage for half an hour. You'll like that, won't you? Brothers, did I hear you say? Don't talk to me about brothers.

The Caller

The usual yew tree stood umbrageously in the churchyard, in an area of green and among the gravestones. ‘There's always a yew tree,' Stephen said knowingly, leaning against the wall where they had parked the car. ‘Always has been. The archers cut their longbows and arrows from them. For the price of tuppence they did for the French chivalry at Crécy and Agincourt. That very tree, I wouldn't be surprised.'

His reservoir of general knowledge was remarkable, Sarah thought, for a man under forty who had just retired from the frantic life of a whiz-kid on Throgneedle Street. She wasn't sure they were doing the right thing, but anyway he was dead set on getting out of London and taking up the life of a country gentleman. For some reason he had pinpointed this village, saying he would live here and nowhere else, only there wasn't a house for sale, and all the neighbouring agents said so. He had badgered them for weeks but, look as he could, there was no place to be had.

It had been hard to park because of a funeral. Mourners came out of the church and followed a trolley, which looked as if it could hardly support the weight, to a graveside beyond the yew tree, where lips of earth indicated the hole. ‘I expect it's a local who lived to be ninety,' he said, ‘but let's go and see what we can find out.'

‘I'll get the umbrella from the car,' she said. ‘I think it's going to rain.'

‘It usually does at a funeral.' He unlatched the gate and, walking up the steps, slipped forward on the asphalt, but managed to right himself before a nasty crash. They stood behind the line of half a dozen people, in time to hear the vicar, or whatever he was, in a white surplice, intoning his ashes to ashes and dust to dust piece. When they saw the widow Sarah nudged him in the ribs: ‘Surprisingly young for the wife of a ninety-year-old, don't you think?' The black draped woman took a lump of soil from a proffered spade and let it fall, with copious tears, onto the box.

Sarah always admired the way Stephen was able to begin a friendly conversation, often in the most unlikely conditions, and supposed that to be why women found him so compelling. She had seen him go up to someone at a party he hadn't seen before, and in minutes the head would be bending forward to hear more, whoever it belonged to laughing at whatever line he was putting over. To her, only his wife for ten years, he spoke little, and in the morning was never in a mood less than dangerous if you happened to speak yourself, more especially if he'd had something to drink the night before, or come in so late from the office that he had been seeing a girlfriend and couldn't tolerate waking back into the deadly reality of marriage.

If they did live out here he would be free of the fleshpots and temptations of London. Her few friends spoke up against leaving the flat in Maida Vale, so it was doubtful they'd ever call to see her in this remote place. As for having to give up the gym, she supposed country living would throw up enough activity to take its place.

He talked to the man next to them: ‘I'm awfully sorry. Was he your brother?'

The man's laugh caused other people to look in his direction, but it was more as if amused by the increase of rain than at the demise of someone else. ‘Good Lord, no. My brother-in-law. My sister's husband is a term I like better' – from which they deduced that he hadn't been much liked, and she knew Stephen very much wanted to find out why. The rest of the mourners dispersed, cars already starting to move. Stephen introduced himself formally, and the man said his name was Larry. ‘Did he live in the village?'

‘They did, but my sister won't be staying here much longer. She has no good memories of the place. Can't stand it, in fact.'

‘Yes, I can imagine.'

The man laughed again. ‘Oh no you can't. She had one hell of a life with him, and wants to put as much of it behind her as soon as she can.'

‘What did he die from, then?'

He took out a tin of Gold Block and filled his pipe, as if needing to calm himself at such talk. ‘Car crash. What else? That 303 gets like a battlefield at times. They reckon it was about two in the morning. Nobody saw it. The police thought he must have nodded off at the wheel, but my view is that some husband he had cuckolded drove him off the road. He was that sort of chap. My sister doesn't know how lucky she is. He didn't take two years to die, nor get sent home in a plastic bag. But she thinks he'll probably come back to haunt her if she stays in this village. He was always in and out of women's beds, so you could say he had it coming to him. Anyway. I must look to my sister. She's had a blow, all the same. Nice meeting you.'

‘Where is her house?'

‘Oh, just down the road from the pub, on the right. Stands on its own. You can't miss it. A long house, hamstone, plenty of ivy.'

They left the car, rather than move it a few hundred yards, and could just see the house from the pub window while eating their lunch. ‘It's exactly the thing.' He chomped at the beef on his large plate – with all the trimmings. ‘I'll be there as soon as it comes on the market. It's a beauty.'

She ate her cheese and baked potato, pleased at his smile.

‘It's almost too good to be true.'

‘Things sometimes are. But I'll be down again in a week, to knock on the door, and ask to see the place.'

Three months later they moved in, pantechnicons – they needed two – leaving just room for cars to get by on the village street. Stephen in his joy couldn't resist helping the men to shift furniture onto the pavement, while Sarah in the house busied herself telling them where to put things, and making pots of tea whenever Stephen gave the hint. The men were quick in their work, too much so, for they dropped a container of her best china, laughing that they would get it back on the insurance – not a good omen, she thought.

She had never known him so happy, yet felt that something wasn't quite right with the place. Certainly it was perfect for him, she could see that, with its neat beams and inglenooks, ivy at the door, a large and splendid living room, and a top floor studio to hide himself away in and call it work, and apple trees in the garden. Nothing more that either could want, they would even have a bedroom each, yet an aura lurked about the place which disturbed her, though not apparent to him as he whistled and sang and then, when the removal men indicated that they could do the work themselves, wandered around the house and garden, almost gloating at what he had come into. It was the first house they'd had, and not a thing needed doing to it on moving in.

His joy continued after the men had gone, when he went upstairs to unpack the boxes containing his books and computers. She stood at the Aga cooking their first meal there as if someone were looking over her shoulder. She wondered why the dead man's wife had put herself through such an uprooting to get away from the place when her husband hadn't even died there. The village had shop, pub, post office and a filling station on the outskirts, and from what she'd heard, the women had gone to live in a hamlet only ten miles away, which had none of these.

‘I like the meat rare.'

‘What?'

Raindrops spattered the window, and she shivered. She went to the foot of the stairs, spatula in hand. ‘Darling!'

He sounded annoyed at being disturbed. ‘Yes?'

‘Did you speak?'

‘Only to myself, I expect.'

The day had been long, almost like three days, coming from the London flat after handing keys and best wishes to the new tenants, then the three-hour drive, and all the bother of seeing things put in their right place. She felt utterly wrung out, so exhausted as to be hearing things. But she could have sworn somebody had spoken, so distinctly he must have been right behind her. She'd even felt breath on her neck.

‘I'm not sure I like this house,' she said when they were eating, a bottle of Bordeaux open before then.

‘That's a right bloody helpful thing to come out with when we've just moved in.' His elevated moods were easily punctured. Normally she would think before speaking, but maybe the first glass of wine, with immediate effect because she was so tired, had betrayed her. He broke the sullen silence: ‘And why aren't you sure?'

‘There's something – well – spooky about it.'

He finished his second glass. ‘Oh my God! You – to say a thing like that.'

‘I thought someone talked to me while you were upstairs.'

‘Well, I didn't hear anything. Nobody spoke to me. It must have been someone passing the house. The window's open, so you'd easily hear conversation from outside.'

She laughed at such an obvious explanation. ‘I suppose you're right. Glad to know I'm not going out of my mind just yet.'

‘That'll be the day.' It was the beginning of September, darkness already coming earlier than she liked. ‘I'll pick up those drops from the lawn tomorrow. Some of them are Bramleys, and I'll make a pie.'

They usually slept in separate rooms, but he wanted her in his bed on the first night. She was put off by noises in the attic, as if a squirrel was loose, or a pigeon had found a way in or, at times, someone was drumming impatiently with their fingers. Waiting for us to finish, she thought.

‘I'll go up there in the morning, and if I see any sign I'll put traps down. A dab of Somerset brie on each one should tempt the little devils to their doom.' She didn't know whether he had heard it as well, or was only trying to calm her. Either way, she didn't like it, and had to fake her pleasure.

There was so much to do in the next few weeks, arranging the furniture, stacking shelves in the kitchen, dusting and sweeping, filling the wardrobes with clothes, and cupboards with bedding, that they took little note of life in the village, only too glad to fall into a dead sleep in their separate bedrooms at night.

But Sarah's sleep was far from dead. First there were the dreams – nightmares, more like – which she couldn't tell Stephen about. He might be upset, though he was looking less happy the longer they were in the house, a further reason not to tell him. Her dreams were like a full theatre, with lights, noise and human movement. A face which she thought she had seen before kept appearing in the glare. Much of her day was taken up trying to place it, Stephen often accusing her of not paying attention to what he was saying. The face was that of a man in early middle age, in full vigour, eternally persuading her to come with him, his expression one of promise and charm, as if to lead her to a state of endless pleasure. But he always spoiled it by waving her away when she had made up her mind to follow, implying that he would come to her, and when he did she turned to see streaks of blood on his distorted face.

One morning Stephen said: ‘I seem to be going through a spate of the most peculiar dreams.'

‘Oh, do you?' she said brightly, pressing the coffee grinder which made such a noise that she wouldn't have to hear what he had to say for twenty seconds.

‘I dream I go outside to the car,' he said, ‘and all four tyres are flat, and there's this dread that I have to get in and drive away to save my life or yours. Another time the whole windscreen's gone, and the car's covered in dust and cobwebs, as if they hadn't been used for years. Then again I was driving along the dual carriageway and the car went out of control. I expect it'll pass. Sounds as if I'm afraid of going impotent.' He kissed her. ‘No sign of it, though.'

She poured water into the pot. ‘I should say not,' but she didn't tell him about the laughter she heard when they were making love. Maybe it wasn't fair not to tell him her own dreams, but it would be too ludicrous to do so, like someone saying: ‘I've got cancer,' and the person replying: ‘How strange! I have it as well.' Not the thing to get into at all.

The fact was that they were here, and you had to press on with your life. Nothing could go on forever, either good or bad. If things got better you were lucky, and if they became worse that was only a sign for them to improve, in any case. She would like to think so, and could when the dreams hadn't bothered her for a week, in which case where had he gone, and why? The possibility that she might be missing his attentions now seemed worse than the dream itself.

Stephen said to her one morning, after coming in from mowing the lawn and cutting the jungle back: ‘There are times when I think of getting out of here.' She wanted to say: ‘You're right. We must. It's not good for either of us,' but a vision from her wayward dream, of the man so charming and persuasive, showed with a finger to his lips for silence, and she obeyed. Even worse, feeling a joyful lightheadedness, she said: ‘But why? We're just about settled in. And we've done so much work to make the place comfortable.'