Many days have wonderful moments within them. Some are so good they allow us to hold fast to the feelings of well-being they create for longer periods of time; twenty minutes, half an hour, an hour or two. And on a few, which can be counted on one hand, time ticks by in what promises to be a coming together of perfect unison amongst oneself, others, the surroundings, the light and the atmosphere. And then there is the disappointment that inevitably ensues when those promises fail to come to fruition.
But today would be different. Was different. Nothing could sully or defile the cloudless, crystalline sky, so clear as to be almost translucent. Try as she might, Viola could not blink open her eyes for longer than a second to follow the flight of a collared dove or a blackbird, chaffinch, goldfinch or some other bird that appears on matchless British summer days, like smudges on the palest of blue china.
The boys were hitting a tennis ball back and forth in a half-hearted, laconic way behind the greenhouse and sheds that stood beyond the small orchard. The dull thump of their plimsolls on the lawn and the ball meeting taut racquet strings came to her in a muted, rhythmic pattern; she was sure she could smell the dust they kicked up. Laughter carried over as they taunted each other with jibes, then one or another shouted a congratulations of ‘Shot!’ followed by twigs snapping as they retrieved the ball and lined themselves up to start all over again.
There was the cushioned thud of a plump apple falling into the grass; the leaves of a tree quivering as another was plucked by one of her brothers. On their way to inspect the hollyhocks or roses or foxgloves, bees swooped in and out of earshot. As a warning, she flapped her hand when one of them buzzed too close to her face.
Under the willow, she felt shaded and cool even though the heat found a way through the lustrous branches that swayed almost to the ground. Mum had left an earthenware jug of elderflower cordial and three glasses on the table. Viola filled one and sipped the sweet juice that always reminded her of summer as it ran down the back of her throat, leaving her tongue tingling.
Pitch lay beside her, his eyes closed, his coat sweltering when she parted it with her fingers. She poured cordial into his bowl and pushed it under his nose where he lapped it without moving his head an inch. ‘Lazy Pitch,’ she murmured, laughing out loud at the irony. ‘Lazy Vi, too,’ she said. But the day, she decided, was made to be lackadaisical.
She flopped back against the canvas deckchair and thought about Fred speaking to her father in his study at this very moment. This perfect moment. On this perfect day. She smiled when she imagined him, tall and determined with eyes as blue and pellucid as the sky, striding across the lawn to her any minute now, telling her it was all settled.
Fred. Who would have thought she would find herself in this position with Her Fred as she now called him? She hadn’t. Not when the other girls working in the university library started to giggle and nudge her when he came in yet again asking for her, and only her, to assist him in finding more and more obscure books to help with research for his thesis. Not when he happened to be propped against a tree next to the side entrance of the grey building when she finished her shift, frowning into a book on his open lap – a book he fumbled with and let fall the minute she appeared. And not when he turned up in the pub with his friend, George, asking if they could sit with her and her crowd although they were surrounded by a number of empty tables. She smiled to herself.
He made her laugh on those occasions, but he was also a thoughtful and rational conversationalist – everyone listened when he spoke. On one particular day, he didn’t come to the library to look for her over the heads of those in front of him in the queue and she felt deflated. Another time, she caught herself turning towards the door of the pub every time it was pushed open and realised that her heart dropped when a shorter, darker-haired man with less of a well-built presence appeared.
But still she dismissed that she felt anything for him until he asked her to meet him one evening. It was early autumn, so she decided to wear a light jacket and she remembered now how giddy and girlish she felt when deciding which brooch to pin on it – like an agitated bottle of champagne that was ready to pop. She thought she’d be nervous alone with him in the pub, in the Arts Cinema, on the walk home. Instead she felt the fizz of anticipation and a deep comfort, both at the same time. When they said goodnight, she knew they would see each other again as he had wrapped his college scarf around her neck against the first frost. Disappointment had overwhelmed her when he hadn’t kissed her goodbye, but he soon made up for it. That thought caused as much heat to rise from her skin as did the blazing day.
Sunshine and contentment allowed the book she was holding to slip from her fingers to her lap to the ground where it lay, cover up, next to the sluggish dog. She gave up the battle with her weighted eyelids and succumbed to sleep.
*
Gooseflesh spotted her arms when she woke. The boys had retreated to the house and her book was wet and sticky from the cordial that Pitch must have upended when he refused to be left behind. Gusts of warm, damp wind ruffled the branches of the willow and tossed the hollyhocks from side to side as if they were lost at sea.
The air had become heavy and burdensome and it felt as if she alone were holding up the sky with her head and shoulders. Fred was standing next to her, his jaw set stiff and tense. She looked down at his hand on her shoulder, moulded into a rocky fist, and wondered at how swiftly a day such as this could deteriorate. Because she knew with certainty that it had.
‘Fred, whatever has happened?’ Viola asked, rising to face him. ‘What did Dad say?’
Fred placed both his hands on her shoulders and eased her back down into the deckchair, the bright yellow and blue stripes mocking her with their frivolous reminder of a seaside holiday. She sat and looked up at him, her mouth agape and heart pounding.
‘Fred,’ she demanded again.
He pulled his hands through his dappled brown hair. ‘He said no.’
‘But I… I can’t… How could he? Fred, why would he?’
Fred sat on the grass next to her, his shoulders sagging in his summer-weight jacket. He plucked up handfuls of grass and weeds and earth and slung them towards the root of the tree. ‘He’s taking care of you,’ he managed at last, each syllable delivered in a concise, controlled way.
Viola stared at him. Fred kept his eyes down. ‘If, Frederick Albert Scholz, this is your idea of a joke it’s not at all funny. Not at all.’ A drop of tepid rain glanced across her cheek as she waited. ‘Fred,’ she hissed. ‘Please tell me you’re winding me up.’
‘Viola Victoria Baxter,’ Fred said, lifting his head to look at her. ‘I wish I was.’
‘But… But…’ Viola rose and pushed away Fred’s hand. She felt for the collar of her blouse and pulled and scrunched at the soft material. The garden seemed to tip on its side and blur around the edges. There was nothing to hold on to, nothing stable under her feet. Everything that existed in concrete terms was bound up in Fred.
‘Viola, sit down.’ There was an edge of alarm in Fred’s voice.
‘The countless times he’s made you welcome here.’ She began to pace in circles. ‘Both he and Mum. What did they think was happening between us? How could they think we were not leading up to this? This… hope for a future together.’ Her head was spinning and she clutched at it to steady the turmoil that made her want to be sick.
Fred grabbed her and held her against him. Viola could feel the shallowness of his breathing, the banging of his heart, the tick, tick, tick of his quick pulse. She put her arms under his jacket and his shirt was slick with sweat. ‘I cannot tell you now.’
Viola pulled back and scoured the lines around his eyes, the trimmed beard, the streak of sunburn on his straight nose. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.
‘After dinner,’ he said. ‘When there is more time I will tell all that was said.’
As if she’d been waiting, Mum appeared on the terrace. ‘Dinner in twenty minutes,’ she said. ‘Just enough time to freshen up.’
Viola could not believe what she was hearing. Her eyes, she knew, pleaded with Fred for an explanation, but he placed a hand under her elbow and steered her towards the house. She could feel that every step he took was charged with bridled anger and she was frightened for him. And for herself.
As they stepped into the house, she looked back over her shoulder into the garden. What remained of her perfect day was nothing more than a spurious shambolic mess. Roses and hydrangeas bounced down towards the dry earth as they were bombarded by fat raindrops; apples lay rotting on the patchy, brown grass; a ruined book; an abandoned jug of sugary water; a muddy tennis ball under a fuchsia bush. If indeed the perfection she had perceived, or conjured up, had existed at all, she knew it had disappeared and would never be restored.