By late afternoon of the next day, Alfred Baxter was installed in the wing of Viola’s house. He had always prided himself on his efficiency in practical matters, and the day of moving had passed with an ease which filled Alfred with retrospective content, although at the time of humping his possessions through the door there had been moments of anxiety. Would, for instance, Eileen’s cornflower curtains fit the sitting-room windows? His first act, once the removal van had gone, was to try them, and he was well pleased with the result. The fact that they did not quite meet in the middle, and fell short of the window sill by some inches, was of no significance to Alfred. They were good enough to secure him from a dark night, and what they lacked in measurement they made up for by reasons of sentiment and loyalty. Eileen’s last curtains would never be abandoned by Alfred in his lifetime.
He stood, now, surveying his efforts in the sitting-room, sun livening the old familiar furniture and sparkling on the brass ornaments. He had made a good beginning, but there was still much to be done: more carpet to be found — his rugs covered only small parts of the floor — and the walls to be repapered, one day. There was no hurry. It would be a pleasure to do things slowly, to take time choosing, gradually to get the place up to scratch, of an evening. But already the room had a solid, welcoming air: already it felt far more like home than the flat on the seafront had ever done. Alfred knew in his bones he would be happy here, and thanked the Lord for his good fortune.
As he stood looking about him, Alfred’s thoughts naturally turned to Eileen. What would she have made of the place? Would she approve his positioning of armchairs, sofa, table? Where would she consider the best placing of their painting of Ely Cathedral? Eileen had always had such a sure touch in such matters. Arranging things — rooms, flowers, biscuits on a plate, had never been any bother to her. She placed them instinctively, to best advantage. She could, for instance, have been a top window-dresser in a large store, had she been so inclined — Alfred had often told her. But she had always said she was not interested in that kind of job. Her ambitions had never extended beyond their own shop which, with her talent for bringing life to a place, she had made as delightful as any shop you could find on the east coast. Ah, Eileen.
Hungry from his work, Alfred went to the small kitchen. This was still in considerable disorder, but it was the room Alfred cared about least. There was much to be done here: cleaning, scouring the sink, new tiles on the floor, a good gloss paint to cheer the walls. But all in good time, as he used to say to Eileen when on some occasions she would chide him for being so slow to set about things. He rummaged about in a box of food and found a tin of baked beans. He ate them with a slice of bread, untoasted as the grill would not work, and drank a mug of strong tea. Once he was settled, in a few days, he would revert to a more orderly timetable: high-tea at six, back to the old disciplined ways. He was not quite sure how he had fallen into the unsatisfactory habit, of late, of eating at odd hours, causing himself severe bouts of indigestion.
His tea over, Alfred returned to the sitting-room and the armchair that faced the window. He lay back, stretching out his legs, arms folded over his stomach, and began to accustom himself to the new view. This was, of course, made easier by Eileen’s curtains which made a familiar frame: and the trees outside, thought Alfred, would soon become friends. They were good mature limes, a lovely yellow-green in all weathers, their leaves very light in the air. Pity there was no sight of the sea from this side of the house, but you couldn’t have everything, and he was a very lucky man.
The next thing Alfred knew he was struggling to wake himself: through mists of sleepiness he saw Miss Windrush standing in the doorway, two glasses and a bottle of whisky in her hands.
‘So sorry to disturb you,’ she said, moving towards the kitchen to fill the glasses, ‘but I thought you’d probably need a drink by now.’
Alfred rose in confusion. What had come over him, falling asleep in the middle of the afternoon? He looked at his watch: half-past six. He must have been too busy to notice his weariness, which had sprung upon him as soon as he sat down.
The whisky was most welcome, restoring his spirits very quickly. Miss Windrush sat on the sofa, chatting about plans for the roof and garden, very concerned that he was comfortable and content, and begging him to let her know if there was anything he should need. She was, Alfred noticed, even in this fading light, very pale — as she had been when he arrived this morning. For all her kindness and interest in his wellbeing, Alfred felt she was distracted, there was something on her mind. Well, he could imagine: responsibility for a house like this, on young shoulders like hers, must take its toll. He hoped his presence would ease her burden.
Miss Windrush stayed half an hour, leaving Alfred with the rest of the bottle of whisky. He protested, but she insisted: a small present of welcome, she said it was. On leaving, she urged Alfred to make sure all the doors were locked last thing at night.
‘We never used to do any such thing in my father’s day,’ she explained with a wry smile, ‘but there have been cases of vandalism nearby, of late.’
‘There are those who aren’t respecters of other people’s property,’ agreed Alfred. ‘I shall see to that every night, never you worry.’
‘Not that locked doors are any deterrent to someone who is really set on getting in,’ said Miss Windrush, ‘but we might as well make it harder for them, don’t you think?’
She asked the question a little nervously, Alfred thought, but things would quickly change, now. With him around to protect her and the house, she would have no more cause to be afraid.
When Miss Windrush was gone, Alfred busied himself with more unpacking for the rest of the evening. Not until it was quite dark did he draw Eileen’s curtains and return to his favourite armchair. He looked slowly round the room, wondering whether his late wife would have approved his positioning of the lamps. He decided she would, and felt pleased with himself. ‘Well, Eileen,’ he said out loud. ‘I’m nicely settled here and thank the Lord for that.’
He tried then to imagine Eileen sitting opposite him, as they had sat for so many evenings of their life together, each side of the fire. He tried in his mind’s eye to see her bent head, nodding in agreement, her sweet smile with its funny way of starting one side of her mouth and slowly uncurling. But the conjuring did not work. Once again, as that bad time some weeks ago, he was able to envisage her body — clothes and shoes down to the last detail — but the picture stopped at the neck. She was a headless vision, and her going from him again made Alfred sit up in fright. It must have been the whisky, he thought. He was unaccustomed to the stuff, had never really liked it, certainly wouldn’t be finishing the rest of Miss Windrush’s bottle if this was the effect it had. He stood up and took the wedding photograph from the mantelpiece — he had placed it there early in the afternoon with a sense of grave priority. Eileen’s face came back to him then, of course: staring at him. But only her young face as it had been on that day. The older Eileen, the one he knew better, had grown to love more, would not return.
‘Dammit,’ he said, putting back the photograph. ‘Tricks of the mind. Cruel tricks of the mind.’
With a great effort of will he decided to stop thinking about Eileen and calm himself with a crossword puzzle. He found a book of puzzles in the kitchen. Disinclined to return to the sitting-room, he sat down at the small table in the window and took up his pencil.
For an hour or so Alfred gave himself up to the pleasure of tracking down clues and filling the blank squares with his neat answers. He had always had a good head for puzzles, Alfred, he had to admit. In the old days he had won several competitions and gathered quite a number of prize book-tokens. Eileen never knew how he did it. It was a knack, Alfred explained patiently, many times. But still she never understood, could never get the easiest clue herself. In the end, she ceased to wonder at Alfred’s skill, and he stopped trying to explain. The pleasure of the occupation was something he kept to himself. He silently whipped through a puzzle most evenings while Eileen did her sewing. Enclosed in his small world of blanks and spaces and words, he was able to cast off the worries of the day before going to bed.
This old familiar feeling of relaxation was just beginning to seep through Alfred, reminding him it would soon be time to venture into his new bedroom, when he was disturbed by voices. At first he thought Miss Windrush must have visitors in the kitchen. But she had said she was going to bed when she left him, wanting an early night. Perhaps she had changed her mind. Alfred listened hard.
He heard a laugh. It was a thin, high, familiar laugh. No. It couldn’t be. But it was. Definitely was. Lily’s laugh … Laughing at him like she used to those evenings he bolted up the shop with such care. How could it be? Lily was picnicking …
When she laughed again, Alfred stood up, heart beating uncommonly fast, clutching at his book of puzzles. Then he heard her voice, coming from the other room.
‘Alfred! Alfred, really. You can’t go on like this. Boring old memorials. Eileen’s curtains again! They don’t even fit. You must see they don’t fit. Tear them down and throw them away. Why not? They’re not the prettiest curtains, after all.’
Mocking, she sounded. She’d always had a nasty side to her, Lily. Jealous, really. He’d always thought that, privately. Alfred scratched his head.
‘Come on, Alfred. Come on, love,’ the voice went on, more sweetly. ‘You can let your hair down a bit now, can’t you? After all those sewn-up years … You can let your mind wander, now, can’t you? Let your mind take its fancy. Be kind to yourself, love. Let yourself remember me …’
The voice faded away. Alfred sat down again. He sat for a while like a man stunned, his hands heavy on his knees, mouth open, eyes glazed. Then he remembered Lily.
From the start she had been a tantalizing enigma, pale and brittle-boned, her Mona Lisa smile confounding Alfred with its mystery every new day. She was beautifully dressed in those early days, Eileen saw to that — silks and satins and vague scarves round her neck that fluttered when the shop door opened. Sometimes she wore a small hat on the back of her head. Alfred recalled a damson velvet pillbox with a trailing ostrich feather that curled under Lily’s beautiful chin. She had been wearing it on a particular evening, God knows how many years ago …
Alfred bowed his head, shutting his eyes. He asked forgiveness as he remembered.
On that particular evening, November it was, he heard a wind blowing up as he bolted the doors. He shut the windows and closed the shutters against a smell of snow in the air. He turned off the lights, leaving himself in almost complete darkness but for a shaft of light coming from the open door that led to the kitchen. He stood for a while in the middle of the shop, sniffing at the familiar smells of material and pot pourri and polished beeswax on the oak — all the scents enhanced by the darkness, he thought. And then he looked over at Lily, upright and alone in her corner, feathers tickling her chin but smile unbroken, and a strange sensation seized Alfred’s heart. He felt great weakness at being so close to such beauty, for in this semi-darkness Lily was quite perfect. And he felt an almost overwhelming yearning to acknowledge this beauty — how, he did not know. A picture flashed through his mind of himself in the unlikely position of sitting next to a girl like Lily in a cafe in Paris, sipping at green drinks in long glasses. The very thought made him smile at his own absurdity: he must have seen a film with some such scene. But the smile did nothing to lessen the pain. He stretched out his hand and whispered goodnight to Lily, guiltily left the room with her eyes upon his back.
In the warm, bright kitchen, where Eileen was beating at a lump of dough on the table, the yearning did not cease. But it became more comprehensible. Alfred realized that for all their friendliness he and Eileen were quite distant in some ways, and after much abstinence he wanted to take her in his arms, dough included, if necessary, and hug her.
But Eileen’s face — maybe she read his mind — deterred him from any such rash gesture. She had never shown much enthusiasm for what she called the other side of life, and anything that had to take place should be strictly confined to the bedroom. For Alfred to take her in his arms, in her apron in the kitchen, would be nothing short of an affront. It would widen their particular distance, and Alfred had no wish to risk that. So he kept his patience through their beef stew and dumplings, and refrained from offering her a glass of cider lest he should arouse her suspicions.
Later that night in bed, the Bible reading over, the light off, the bony wind rattling at their window, Alfred moved close to his wife. He pushed up the sleeve of her wool nightdress, put a hand on her arm. But the flesh which had looked so warm and soft in the kitchen felt strangely hard, cold as china. He moved his hand to her breast, Lily quite forgotten, only wanting Eileen. He felt her small hand slide over his. It lay still for a moment. Then very gently pushed him away.
‘Oh, Alfred, love,’ was all Eileen said.
The chill in her voice was enough. Alfred scrambled back to his side of the bed, telling her to sleep well, as always. Then, in the dark, Lily’s lips smiled at him, and he ached to split that smile and crush her tantalizing little mouth and his desire twisted agonizingly through him. But he lay absolutely still for fear of waking Eileen. Thus she knew nothing of his night and made no comment on his pale face next morning.
Alfred raised his head, remembering, ashamed.
The night of Harry Antlers’ visit Viola slept little. Her greatest fear was of the thing Harry had warned her, the demon energy that knows no bounds. She believed he had the cunning to gouge out things most private in her life, and the thought made her feel physically sick. How had he discovered about Richard? How? How? How? Her mind twirled, a Chinese ball of ivory rats, the useless speculations skidding round and round each other, getting nowhere. Eventually, towards dawn, she slept with the help of pills, only to wake an hour later, sweating and shaking from a nightmare.
At least there were no telephone calls the next day, and by the time she had had her drink with Alfred Baxter, Viola felt calmer. But again she worried her way through the night, wondering at what point she could go to the police and complain of harassment, and if she should elicit Gideon’s aid. But what could he do? Richard would be better help, but Richard had enough concerns of his own. Besides, the thing that most shocked her, the knowledge that Harry Antlers had discovered her love of the doctor, she could never divulge to Richard.
This morning, woken from fretful sleep by bright sun, she went to the window. She surveyed the marsh, beach, thin distant line of sea, huge dome of cloudless sky, their various boundaries running into each other, translucent as water colours. In the garden Alfred Baxter was pushing a wheelbarrow towards the neglected herbaceous border. Viola could hear him whistling. She supposed it must be quite late, and did not care. The events of the last two days seemed mercifully to have receded, leaving her etiolated but composed. She returned to bed, picked up her book.
There was a knock on the door.
Immediately Viola’s heart leapt like a wild thing and she cowered down under the bedclothes, saying nothing. The door opened. Richard walked into the room, carrying a breakfast tray.
‘Hey, Violetta! I can’t be that frightening. What’s the matter?’
He put the tray on the end of the bed, took her hand and pulled her into a sitting position.
Viola managed a smile.
‘I wasn’t expecting —’
‘Of course you weren’t. I’m sorry.’ He pulled a chair to the bedside, sat down. ‘I should have warned you. But the idea only came to me very early this morning. Naturally I didn’t want to wake you.’
‘You mean you woke up this morning and thought: I must take Viola breakfast in bed?’ Viola laughed, incredulous. The violent pumping of her heart was no longer caused by fear.
‘To be honest, I thought, as a doctor, Viola could do with a morning in bed. I’m sure I was right. You look pretty worn out. Here. Look what I’ve brought you.’
Richard placed the tray on Viola’s knee. There was a boiled egg, brown toast, homemade marmalade, coffee, a single Rosa Mundi in a jam jar. Richard picked up the rose and held it under Viola’s nose.
‘Have to admit I’m not responsible for this. Alfred insisted on the rose. Dashed off into the garden and spent a long time choosing. In fact he was so long I had to boil a second egg as the first one grew cold.’
Again Viola smiled, still unbelieving.
‘Did Alfred let you in?’
‘He did. Very pleased, we were, to see each other again. I hadn’t seen him since just before his wife died. He seems in much better spirits now, delighted to be here. I’m glad all that’s worked out. Very good plan all round. Now, come on: the egg.’
Viola chipped at the shell with a small silver spoon. Richard peered at the rich yellow of the yolk.
‘From one of my two free-range hens, I’ll have you know,’ he said. ‘Three and a half minutes.’
‘Perfect.’
‘Toast all right?’
‘Wonderful.’
‘I’m not bad at breakfasts. But you know what I’ve forgotten?’
‘Can’t imagine —’
‘The Times. No decent woman should ever breakfast in bed without The Times.’
Viola laughed again. Her hand shook as she held the coffee cup.
‘Aren’t you meant to be on your rounds?’
‘Unusual morning, luckily. No surgery as I have an appointment at the hospital in half an hour. So I’ll have to be off in a moment or two.’
But he had an unhurried look, hands clasped round a crossed knee. He observed Viola carefully, in silence as she ate. He saw her struggling.
‘Don’t eat any more, just to please me,’ he said.
‘All right. But it was lovely. Thank you.’
Gratefully Viola handed him the tray which he put down on the floor. She shifted her legs, making an uncalculated space on the bed. Richard moved to sit there.
‘The other night,’ he said, ‘I came round to see you but there seemed to be a fraught little scene going on. It was difficult to work out whether or not I would have been welcome. Perhaps I did wrong, leaving. But I didn’t want to intrude.’
‘I saw you. I wanted desperately to call you to help. But then I thought there was no point in your getting involved.’
‘Presumably it was your wild suitor?’ Viola nodded. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
Viola thought. ‘Not really.’
‘Promise to call upon me any time.’
‘Promise.’
‘I think you should leave here as soon as possible. There’s no chance of his finding you in London. He’ll soon give up. With nothing to go on, obsessives soon burn themselves out and turn their focus to something else.’
‘Hope so.’ Viola sighed. ‘But don’t let’s talk about all that if you’re about to go.’
‘No.’ Richard took her hand, smiled. ‘If you were a real patient, I’d say you were a case for listening to the heart.’ He glanced down. ‘As it is, I can see it.’
Viola’s look followed Richard’s to her breast, visibly heaving beneath the thin cotton of her nightdress. Without giving herself time to think she dragged Richard’s hand — curiously light and willing — to her heart, held it there for a moment or two, then flung it back on the bed.
‘It’s all been rather unnerving,’ she said. ‘But you’re right. I must go very soon.’
‘Shall I give you some tranquillizers?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Then take care of yourself, Violetta. Eat. Sleep.’ He stood. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Viola held out her arms. Richard bent over her, briefly kissing her hair. She could almost have sworn, too, that for a lightning moment he stroked the back of her neck with his finger. But in a giddy state of joy mixed with hopelessness, nothing was quite certain. With a supreme effort of will she released him from her arms as soon as he began to pull away. Impeded by her own state, she could not be sure whether a fleeting look on his face was one of confusion. A moment later he seemed to be quite normal, looking down at her with affectionate eyes.
‘I almost forgot,’ he said. ‘I ran into Maisie Fanshawe last week, happened to mention you were home. She seemed anxious to see you but said she didn’t like to call after so long. I said I’d put it to you. I was sure you’d be pleased.’
Viola smiled. ‘How’s Maisie?’
‘Definitely older.’
‘Happy?’
‘Who knows? She pretends to be.’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Poor old Maisie.’
‘Will you ring her?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll take down the tray — ‘
‘Please —’
‘Must hurry. Bye, Violetta.’
Morning bedroom huge with sun, now. Alfred Baxter stooping over the weeds in a bright garden. Tide coming in. Richard gone. But Richard having been.
Everything was new about Maisie except her anticipation, and even this she managed to burnish quite convincingly so that people might suppose her hope of better things was not undimmed. Her frequent wearing of new clothes was her unspoken sign: she was ready, should the chance arise.
On the afternoon of her reunion with Viola she wore a new cotton dress covered in Picasso-like squiggles and new navy shoes, though their shape was one she had first been attracted to twenty years ago. She was very thin with long, shapeless legs flaring slightly at the ankle. Gaunt-faced, her eyes seemed to have been pressed under a heavy brow by the thumb of a careless sculptor — their outline indefinite, they sagged downwards at the sides. Crimson lipstick was painted meticulously on to her indeterminate mouth, which in her youth had been baggy and faintly sexy. But there was no disguising of the greying hair. Age had trammelled Maisie very fast in the last few years, thought Viola. Even her neck had not escaped its ravages. Once her best feature, exceptionally long and pale, slack skin now danced in the V of the ugly dress. Gideon had admired Maisie’s neck quite genuinely. ‘It’s unfair that so fine a neck should support so disappointing a face,’ he used to say. He would be shocked, now. Maisie’s only physical attraction quite gone, she was definitely older, as Richard had said.
With little else to do, Viola had taken considerable trouble with tea for Maisie. She had laid a small table in the garden with a linen cloth and the old teatime china wild with green dragons. She cut honey sandwiches and found a packet of ginger biscuits, made China tea in a silver pot. Fearing the encounter would at best be stilted — she and Maisie had nothing in common except for their various loves for Gideon — she felt that at least if she constructed an occasion similar to bygone days it would enable them to talk about the past.
They sat, now, in attitudes of women much older than themselves, smelling the warmth of the garden and the faint salt of the sea. A breeze tugged at the lace hem of the tablecloth and blew Maisie’s frizzled grey hair across her eyes. She drew her new mackintosh about her shoulders, always nervous of sea breezes. As Viola had predicted, the setting gave her the opportunity eagerly to remember.
‘So many afternoons like this,’ she said. ‘Your mother in those wonderful hats.’
Viola smiled. If they could glide along on such trains of thought it would be quite easy.
‘Things have slipped a bit, since then.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. It all looks very trim to me. The grass a little longer, perhaps. But that’s all.’
Viola nodded in the direction of Alfred. He was tying hollyhocks to stakes at the end of the garden.
‘Now Alfred Baxter’s come, I’m hoping to get everything back as it was. Do you remember Baxter’s, the haberdashery shop?’
‘Of course I do!’ Eager for small and happy memories, Maisie listed some of the good things the Baxters used to stock and which were unobtainable now, elsewhere. ‘But I could never understand,’ she whispered, nodding towards the distant Alfred, ‘how he could stand that bossy wife.’
‘Bossy? I always thought her timid.’
‘That’s how she liked to appear.’
Surprised by the force of her own conviction, Maisie fell into guilty silence. It was not her way to be uncharitable about people, especially the dead. A purple flush appeared on her grey cheeks. She took a long sip of tea, stamping the cup with a curve of red lipstick.
‘Lupins,’ she said, embarrassed now and glancing across the lawn. ‘I’ve always so loved your lupins.’
Viola tried to help.
‘In her dotty gardening days,’ she said, ‘after my father died, my mother had a tremendous thing about delphiniums. But in fact she wasn’t much good at them. While lupins, which she hated, seemed to spring up all round her.’
Maisie smiled. Silence again. Then she said, ‘Richard told me you’d been over to New York.’
‘Yes.’ Viola paused, judging it unkind not to give Maisie the information she craved. Her smudged eyes were desperate for news. ‘I stayed with Gideon for three weeks.’
‘Oh? And did you have a good time?’ She sounded very old, like a great-aunt.
‘I don’t much like New York.’
‘How does Gideon find it?’
‘He enjoys making a lot of money, working long, hard hours. I think it suits his temperament.’
‘Well, he’s always been a hard worker.’
Viola noticed that Maisie’s hand trembled on a sandwich.
‘But he won’t stay for ever. I think he plans to come back. He might even live here one day.’
‘Really?’ Maisie dropped the sandwich, clumsily picked it up again.
‘I mean, in five or six years’ time, perhaps.’
‘Well, quite.’
Viola recognized the look of contrived nonchalance, as if five or six years would make no difference to Maisie.
‘There was a terrible moment,’ Viola went on, to give Maisie time to compose herself, ‘when we thought it would be impossible to keep the house. Luckily, that crisis passed.’
‘Oh, I am glad of that.’ Maisie turned to Viola with a real smile. ‘I mean, it’s been in the family so many years, hasn’t it? I always imagined that one day Gideon would want to return. Bring up his own family here,’ she added.
‘Yes, well, I expect he’ll do that.’
Maisie bit her bottom lip, shuffling words in her mind.
‘I imagine he’s … set up with someone in New York, is he? I hate to ask, but it’s very hard, not knowing.’
Viola paused, thinking about her answer. ‘As you can imagine,’ she said at last, ‘a bachelor like Gideon is much sought after in New York. He goes to a lot of parties, gets pursued by a lot of girls. But as far as I know his heart remains untouched. He doesn’t seem to have any plans for marriage, or anything like that.’ She was pleased to be able to be quite truthful.
‘I see,’ said Maisie quietly. Fearing further questioning on this delicate ground, Viola changed the subject. She asked Maisie how she spent her time, now. Maisie drew herself up, dignified, a little defensive.
‘I run a small bindery,’ she said. ‘We’re lucky enough to have more work than we can cope with. And then, I’m pretty occupied looking after my father. He’s virtually senile now. So I’m very busy. I have plenty of interests.’
She suddenly slipped her arms into the sleeves of her stiff new mackintosh and did up the belt. Viola enquired if she was cold and would like to go in. But Maisie shook her head.
‘It’s just that I can’t afford to catch a cold, or anything like that, because I’m all my father has. He depends on me totally.’
She gave a small laugh. Her eyes swerved beyond the garden to the sea. The eyes were quite hard, as if they had become accustomed to masking despair. She looked back to Viola.
‘If ever you and Gideon and Richard think of me at all, and I don’t suppose you ever do, but if you ever do … I expect you must wonder why I’m still here, unmarried — ‘She laughed again. ‘Five years off forty and nothing much changed. Well, believe it or not, I was propositioned many times by an old boy, a widower, who lives near here. He even promised he’d take out a large life insurance, assuring me I’d benefit from it quite soon. I think he just wanted me as a nurse, though his offer of marriage was quite convincing. But of course I couldn’t contemplate any such thing, could I? Though my father kept urging me, a bird in the hand and so on. There were one or two other minor interests. But it was so hard, after Gideon, you see. He set such an impossible standard. I can’t imagine any other man coming anywhere near it. So here I am, still, poor old Maisie of Docking, as I believe you all used to call me.’ She stood up.
‘Oh, Maisie …’
‘No, no. For heaven’s sake, don’t feel sorry for me. I have no pity for myself, I promise you that.’ She sat down again, surprising herself by the bump on the seat, brushing away the hair from her eyes once more. ‘In fact, I often feel detached enough to see the whole thing in all its absurdity: first love binding one to a standard from which one is never set free. Well, I waited quite hopefully at first. It took me ages to realize Gideon scarcely acknowledged my existence, let alone had any designs upon me. So then I slipped into waiting without hope, and the years have gone by. It’s hopeless waiting that takes the toll. Look at my hair!’ She pulled at a wild bit of fringe. ‘Quite grey! Oh, I’ve aged wickedly young. I know it. I see it in people’s faces. I saw it in Richard the other day. I saw it in you when we met. I see it every morning in my own mirror —’
‘But you look very —’
‘Don’t deny it,’ snapped Maisie, ‘please.’
She stopped and looked out to sea again. Then she turned to Viola with a melancholy smile that must have enchanted the old boy with the plans for life insurance.
‘Do you remember my dance?’
‘Of course I remember your dance.’
‘My parents were so worried about the rain. I didn’t think it mattered at all.’
‘No. It didn’t at all.’
‘I hated you that evening,’ went on Maisie with a new smile. ‘You spoiled my whole evening because Gideon took you home early.’
‘I’m very sorry,’ said Viola.
‘He only danced with me once then he said he had to go and take care of his sister. I could have killed you. Still, I daresay if he’d stayed, and hadn’t danced with me again, that would have been worse.’
‘Had I known, I would never have —’
‘You could never have known. I don’t blame you,’ interrupted Maisie. ‘The young never have an inkling what their contemporaries really feel. Particularly the plain ones. They’re too busy fending for themselves.’
‘Quite,’ said Viola. ‘The young can be very cruel.’
Maisie stood up again, this time with a more determined appearance of going. She dabbed at her forehead under the tiresome hair with a transparent hand of blanched bones.
‘Oh dear, one of my headaches. Brought about by all the remembering, no doubt.’ She smiled wryly.
‘The past can be exhausting,’ agreed Viola.
‘Well, goodbye dear Viola. Violetta, they used to call you, Richard and Gideon, didn’t they? I’m glad you’re here. Come and see me one day. And thank you for the tea. I must have a word with Mr Baxter before he goes. He’ll remember me, don’t you think? I’ll tell him to take care of those lupins, shall I?’
She was on her way towards Alfred Baxter’s newly weeded border, voice petering out, grey hair tossing bravely, horribly thin beneath the bulges of her spotless mackintosh, mere ghost of the fat girl in pink tulle whose dance was spoiled by Gideon’s kindness to his sister so many years ago.
In Maisie, Viola saw herself very soon, should she not take hurried steps to change things. She decided to leave tomorrow.
Alfred Baxter much enjoyed his mornings weeding in the garden, sun on his back, back soon aching but nothing serious. He had enjoyed, too, seeing Dr Almond again: fine young doctor, though he looked a mite older these days. He had been good to the Baxters through Eileen’s last months: kindhearted man, pity about his troubles. Everyone knew his fondness for children. He deserved to have some himself. Life without them was not —
— Hollyhocks. Hollyhocks, Alfred told himself over his lunch of bread and cheese, were what he should be thinking about. He would stake them all afternoon to give his back a rest. They were almost his favourite flower, hollyhocks. At least, a close second to lilies of the valley. Eileen it was who had introduced them to their garden — yellow, pink, a lovely deep red, huge great spires that the Lord had so cleverly designed with the flowers getting smaller towards the top. Eileen went on and on about her hollyhocks, and the importance of giving them support. Once, in a summer gale, they’d all been smashed to the ground as a result of his careless staking. She hadn’t half been angry, didn’t get over it for days. Sometimes, Alfred tried to bring her round to other tall flowers — the sunflower, for instance, with its cheerful beaming face. But Eileen said she couldn’t abide sunflowers. Only hollyhocks.
The afternoon was spent no less pleasurably than the morning, tying and restaking. It was among Miss Windrush’s hollyhocks that Alfred came to the definite conclusion it had been her whisky which had given him such trouble the other night. For here in the bright sunlight there was no trouble whatsoever in recalling Eileen’s face. Not that he was trying to, mind: in fact, he hadn’t, for once, given her so much as a thought, and there she was grinning at him through the petals, all over the place, images of her scattered high and low, all angles, skin redder than he remembered, mouth smaller — quite confusing. She came and went all afternoon, but was no hindrance, really. He carried on with the job. He thanked his lucky stars … And then he saw Miss Windrush laying up tea on the terrace by the house. The sight of everything so neat gladdened his heart and Eileen disappeared. Every now and then he turned for a surreptitious glance at the two young ladies sitting there — Miss Fanshawe, he believed the other one must be, though she had changed quite a bit — pouring tea from a silver pot. Again and again he was glad. He had the definite impression life was going on here, in Miss Windrush’s house. Visitors. Plans. Memories. Things he had not been able to witness, let alone share, for a good while too long. Thank the Lord, then, and now to empty the wheelbarrow. But there was a voice behind him. Calling his name. He gave a small start. Lily again? He turned and saw his own stupidity. It was Miss Fanshawe, striding towards him, a painfully thin version of her former self, but smiling and waving and coming to speak to him.
Oh yes, life was going on, here.