The Pull of the Moon (16 page)

‘If it rains,’ said Danny, with more than a shade of hope in his voice, ‘we won’t be able to work on the pond tomorrow.’

‘I wish it would rain,’ I said. ‘I’m fed up with this hot, sticky weather.’

‘I’ll make it rain for you,’ said Trudie. ‘What we need is for that dark cloud over there to come over here and shed on us. Whistle for wind, someone, and I’ll do a
rain dance.’

Simon obediently began to whistle – a traditional tune which I half knew, but couldn’t put a name to. Trudie stepped out of her sandals, did a couple of exploratory steps across the
grass, then started to dance – graceful and unselfconscious, her long gauzy skirt swirling around her strong brown feet and ankles. She unwound the silk scarf she’d been wearing round
her neck and whirled it above her head, like an offering to the gods, against the darkening sky. Simon switched to a verse of ‘Greensleeves’ and from that to ‘Spanish
Ladies’ while Trudie danced and danced. It was as if she had forgotten us, forgotten the whole world.

We became so fixated on Trudie that we hardly noticed the progress of the clouds. The first spots of rain took us by surprise. They splotched our clothing with damp circles, the size of a 10p
piece.

‘Hey, Trudie, you can stop now,’ exclaimed Danny.

Simon aborted his whistling mid-bar and Trudie spun to a halt, staring up at the sky.

‘I made it rain,’ she said, doubtfully – repeating the words with something approaching elation: ‘I made it rain.’

The shower didn’t amount to much, which was just as well considering how far we were from shelter; but the boys addressed Trudie as Rain Goddess for the rest of the day, allowing her to
precede us everywhere and bowing her in and out of the pub at Old Radnor – much to the bemusement of the locals. This success in conjuring up a shower reawakened Trudie’s fascination
with her so-called mystical side, and on the homeward journey she and Simon started talking about the Agnes Payne mystery again. I wished they would shut up about it. Bettis Wood was a happy,
sunlit place for me just then, and I didn’t want it invaded by the shadowy deeds of long ago.

When we reached the house, the lads fell to discussing the pond again. Simon was starting to worry about the stages of the operation which were still to come – in particular the
concreting. Neither he nor Danny had any experience of using concrete, so Simon had obtained a book on the subject of constructing garden water features, from the library in Kington. The contents
were not reassuring. Danny’s theory that ‘you slap together a bit of sand and cement, then add water till it looks about right,’ was apparently somewhat wide of the mark.
Simon’s book was full of cautionary tales about what would happen to your concrete if you didn’t get the mix or application right. It ended up by stating:
Concrete laying is a skill
that demands considerable knowledge and practice. If you are at all unsure of your ability to do a satisfactory job, employ a professional to do it for you.

Which was all very well, but Simon’s uncle had only left enough money to cover raw materials and the hire of a concrete mixer. Manpower and expertise would cost extra – and we
didn’t know how much. In the end, Simon decided he would go into town the next day and make some enquiries. ‘Asking costs nothing,’ he said.

Trudie elected to go with him, while Danny and I stayed behind at the house. With Simon gone Danny opted for some lighter work, and spent half an hour clearing the last small patch of weeds out
of the rose bed by the terrace, before throwing himself down on the lawn and saying he was whacked. I joined him there and we sat discussing what we might do next, while drinking tepid glasses of
orange squash (we had run out of ice cubes as usual).

‘Let’s walk down to the woods,’ Danny suggested. ‘Get away from this place for a while.’

It was another sunny day with a few picture-book fluffy clouds almost stationary in the sky. As we turned into the road I could already feel the back of my dress sticking to me. Insects hummed
and butterflies skimmed the field. We had to go in single file down the path, but once inside the wood we walked hand in hand.

‘It’s really nice to have you to myself,’ he said. ‘We don’t often get a chance to go somewhere on our own.’

I squeezed his hand in acknowledgement.

‘You look like a fairy in that dress,’ he said.

‘Funny-looking fairy,’ I said.

The garment in question was a bit of a joke between us. It was one of those over-priced boutique buys which I had quickly regretted: a cotton dress which fell straight from shoulder to hem, with
a dozen tiny buttons leading up to a plain round neck – yellow with a big white daisy on the front. After one wash it had shrunk to a length which was positively indecent, and, far from
making me look like a fairy, it probably gave the impression of an urban street walker. I almost never wore it, but I was so far behind with the washing that I hadn’t anything else clean to
put on. Tomorrow, I thought, I will have to drag out the twin tub and tackle the pile of clothes in the corner of the bedroom floor.

We walked on for a bit, eventually sitting down in one of the grassy dells not far from the playground. After exchanging a few kisses, we began to roll around together on the grass – half
playful, half in earnest. I realized my dress had rucked up around my waist and tried to pull it down.

‘Don’t,’ he murmured, between kisses. ‘Let’s do it here, out in the forest.’

Presumably this was his idea of Free Love and all that back-to-nature stuff, but I could only focus on lower middle class proprieties and creepy-crawlies.

‘No,’ I squeaked, as his thumb engaged with the waistband of my pants. ‘We can’t. Not here. Let’s go back to the house.’

‘No,’ he said, with his mouth close to my ear, full of lust and mischief. ‘Here.’

‘It’s more comfortable in bed,’ I protested, aiding rather than impeding his assault on my knickers by trying to wriggle away.

‘Much more romantic here,’ he said, kissing me again.

At that precise moment I couldn’t think of anything less romantic than the prickle of bent grass under my bare bottom, but it was clear that Danny would not be deflected. I tried a last
protest. ‘Someone may see us. Suppose someone’s coming.’

‘Someone is coming, babe – and it could be you.’

I didn’t want to upset Danny by repelling him with the violent refusal my every instinct cried out to make. My only hope was a random bird watcher or someone out walking their dog, but
Bettis Wood was deserted as usual. Even so, I covered myself up as quickly as possible afterwards, urging him to do the same. It would be just typical for this to be the one afternoon when some
pillar of the Parish Council brought her grandchildren through the wood, to hunt for pine cones or something.

‘You’re not upset, are you?’ Danny asked, as we set off for home.

‘No – of course not. Why should I be?’ I didn’t want to make a big thing out of it. Didn’t want to be accused of being a prude.

‘It was good for you, right?’

For a second I thought he had picked up on my unease, but then I decided it was no more than a routine enquiry – a question to which I always answered in the affirmative – so I
nodded, even while I set about dismissing the uncomfortable conjunction from my mind. The truth was that by then I had come to the conclusion that sex was not all it was cracked up to be. Danny was
the first boy I had slept with and the idea had turned out to be far more exciting than the actuality.

When we emerged from the wood, Danny led the way back along the path and I followed a pace or two behind. It wasn’t a situation conducive to conversation, so I was left with my own
thoughts. I decided that I would switch on the immersion heater as soon as we got in, so that I could have a bath later. Tomorrow I would get up early and do the washing. I hated that stupid dress
– I should never have allowed things to get so far behind that I had nothing else to wear. I was conscious that lately some aspects of the housekeeping had been neglected more than usual.
When Trudie first joined us, it was generally she who had initiated things like the washing and ironing; whereas I tended to have a mass of good intentions, which never quite came to fruition.
Lately Trudie’s initial enthusiasm had worn off.

When we reached the top of the footpath and came out on to the road, there was a glint of sunlight on metal, visible through the bushes.

‘Si’s back,’ said Danny. A fraction of a second later we turned in between the lilac and the rhododendron which marked the gateposts and he added, ‘Blimey O’Reilly
– that’s Mum and Dad’s car, parked next to Si’s.’

We both automatically quickened pace. As we entered the house we met Simon in the hall.

‘It’s your mother.’ He addressed Danny. ‘There’s nothing the matter. She just drove out here to see how you are.’

At that moment we came into line with the open door of the drawing room and caught sight of Mrs Ivanisovic and she of us, so no chance for me to sidle upstairs and pretend to be out. There was
nothing for it but to look pleased and walk right in.

She was being entertained to tea by Trudie, who was singularly inappropriately clad for the task, in a pair of cut-down denims, to which a splash patch saying
Try it, you’ll like
it
, had been sewn; and a bikini top from which her breasts strained to escape every time she leaned forward, which she was doing now, to pour tea from the best teapot. Amid everything else, I
noticed that Murdered Agnes must have anticipated visitors, since she had kindly returned the teapot in the nick of time.

‘Hello, darling,’ Mrs Ivanisovic greeted Danny, who went across to kiss her on the cheek. ‘And Katy. How are you?’

‘Very well, thank you.’ I hung back in the doorway, conscious of my dishevelled appearance in general and that awful dress in particular. Why hadn’t I just stuck with my
underwear and a big badge which said
Trollop
on it, for goodness sake? ‘We’ve just been for a walk in the wood,’ I said, belatedly reaching up to tidy my hair: an operation
which sent a dead leaf fluttering on to the carpet.

Mrs Ivanisovic didn’t have to say the words ‘Dressed like that?’ out loud, because her face said it for her. I sat down on one of the sofas opposite her, thereby enabling my
skirt to shame me still further by boldly riding up to expose the remaining inches of my thighs.

‘Tea?’ asked Trudie, brightly. She appeared to be vastly amused by the whole thing. Why the heck couldn’t she have slipped upstairs and put a T-shirt on?

We stumbled through a superficially conventional conversation – Mrs I saying it had been ‘quite an adventure’ finding us, Danny telling her all about the work in the garden and
promising to take her for a look round as soon as we had finished our tea. While we talked, I saw the drawing room through fresh eyes. We didn’t use it very much, but the silent pointers to
our sporadic periods of occupation were unflattering. There was a pile of Simon’s uncle’s LPs on the floor in front of the radiogram: someone had extracted them from the cupboard and,
having looked through them, left them to slide sideways across the floor. The uppermost and perhaps most recent addition to the collection – a live recording of
The Goon Show
–
had become the resting place for a stained teaspoon and a saucerless cup, one of several miscellaneous items of crockery which were lying about. There was dust everywhere and a stale smell of
sluttish neglect.

Every so often I felt Mrs Ivanisovic’s eyes on me. I imagined the aroma of recent copulation mingling with my sweat and heading in an invisible stream, straight as an arrow up her
patrician nose. I wondered what other clues might be shouting out from my person, apart from bringing half the forest floor back in my hair. My face burned hot while I sipped tea and listened to
her telling Danny all about what was flowering in their garden at home.

She was obviously curious about Trudie, who Simon had been at pains to explain ‘was only staying for a couple of nights’: as he said afterwards, the Ivanisovics knew his parents, who
in turn might talk to his uncle, who would not be happy to find his property had been used as open house by all and sundry.

When Trudie made her silly remark about being picked up on the beach like a sea shell, I began to sweat hot and cold lest Mrs I’s next question be to ask when we had gone to the beach
– some idiot would be sure to blurt out that it was several weeks ago; but luckily Mrs I turned to Trudie instead and said, ‘I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.’

‘Trudie.’ There was a pause, both women smiling at each other. It was obvious Mrs I was expecting the addition of a surname. Trudie could easily have ignored the hint, because Mrs I
was far too polite to press the point and say ‘Trudie what?’ – but of course, Trudie couldn’t leave it.

‘Trudie Eccles,’ she said, with too obvious a trace of mirth.

Danny’s mother checked slightly. I knew she must have spotted the recording of
The Goon Show
. Oh Lord – say something somebody, quick, before Trudie goes and makes things even
worse.

‘What’s the weather been like in Brum?’ asked Simon. I could have kissed him on the spot.

We made an ill-assorted group that afternoon. None of us belonged in our surroundings – we four having the appearance of campers at a pop festival, scantily clad and slightly grubby, while
she, cool as a cucumber in spite of having driven sixty miles on a hot day, was far too smart for the room in her navy and white summer frock, white matching shoes and handbag.

I was relieved when the time came to escort her round the garden, in which she took a polite interest; like a visiting dignitary, asking all the right questions. She declined to approach the
earthworks too closely, for fear of dirtying her shoes, but she admired our work on the rose beds and advised that some of the shrubs had got so out of hand they needed cutting down altogether.

At the conclusion of the garden tour she said she would have to be getting back. The journey had taken longer than she anticipated and Mr Ivanisovic would be worried if he got in from work and
she wasn’t there. It had been lovely seeing us, she added, and seeing what we were getting up to: I felt the colour rise in my face, feeling that Mrs Ivanisovic knew exactly what I’d
been getting up to, as surely as if she had stood in the wood and watched us. Thank heavens there had never been any direct communication between my parents and Danny’s. It was one of the
reasons I had been confident I could get away with the fruit-picking-in-France story – and now I was doubly grateful.