Ella camped in the house now, sleeping in William’s bed and avoiding the upstairs rooms.
She was absorbed in making Becky’s rug. She made excursions to unknown suburbs looking for opportunity shops, buying secondhand clothes of finely woven wool and bringing them home in triumph. She spent the rest of her leisure unpicking, washing, pressing cloth and cutting it into fine bias strips which she hooked into the rapidly growing picture.
Who was it that had spoken of the pleasures of the hunt? That described her feeling as she brought home an old topcoat of grey-green gabardine which would do excellently for the little stream.
She was sorry she had made that remark to Rob (of course – the pleasures of the hunt) about pale brown silk, for of course one couldn’t walk on silk. Only pure wool was hardy enough for that; pure wool, however, was becoming very difficult to find. The best fabrics came from ancient garments. The next lucky find at the Saint Vincent de Paul was a man’s suit in dark brown, just right for the patches of ploughed field, though it was not in good condition. She had to be careful to discard the worn areas.
While she worked, another picture was taking shape in her mind, one which would not impose such restrictions, which could hang on a wall and involve a river of pale brown silk, embroidered flowers – or crocheted perhaps in bright silks and half-seen among tufted grasses. She had only herself to please, so why not?
In that ‘Why not?’ there was a stirring of pleasant excitement.
Pam came in for coffee and found her in the dining room working at her frame.
‘Ella, what do you think you are doing?’
‘Making a rug for Becky.’
She ripped out a row of loops. The project of carrot tops for the market garden had been too ambitious. A pity, for the colour was perfect.
‘Oh, wake up, Ella. Have you done anything about finding a place to live?’
‘Not yet. No. I will. In a few days.’
Pam said earnestly, ‘If you don’t show some initiative, Ella, you’ll lose control of the situation. You’ll wake up and find yourself in a nice little retirement unit with geriatrics groaning around you.’
Ella perceived that this horrible prospect, which could not be taken seriously, was meant to spur her to action.
‘I’ll put the coffee on.’
Pam followed her to the kitchen, persisting in her effort.
‘It doesn’t have to be permanent, you know. Just a roof over your head for the time being. We could go round the estate agents on Sunday, if you like. Do you want me to come with you?’
That carrot colour would do for a few meadow flowers, thought Ella.
‘That’s very kind of you. I’ll let you know.’
Pam accepted her cup of coffee in silence. Her mind was no longer concentrated on Ella’s problems. Thomas was going to be married. Pam had struck up a ready friendship with the girl and could easily be directed to talk of her own affairs.
‘How are Thomas and Anthea going?’
‘They’ve decided against any sort of wedding. They’re just going to the registry office with two friends, no guests, then we’re having dinner together, the three of us, before they get the train. I told you, didn’t I, I’m giving her her dress? A suit, actually. I’ve put one aside for her to look at.’
Ella smiled over Pam’s happiness, but the smile revived Pam’s anxiety and brought her back to the subject.
‘Ella, dear. I wish you would face reality.’
‘Yes, I will. Truly. Now please don’t worry about it any more.’
‘I wish you would start worrying about it,’ said Pam, and sighed as she got up to leave in defeat.
It was necessary to break up that expanse of grey-green gabardine. The search for a certain colour and texture led her to the duster bag, where she retrieved a yellowed, shrunken pair of wool and silk knickers. As the fabric ballooned under her hands through the greying suds of their third wash, promising a satisfactory effect of froth and glitter, the muscles of her face relaxed and her mouth softened into a curve. She perceived that she was smiling.
She had remarkable success with cauliflowers and cabbages of variegated green, but the flowers of the meadow, no matter how finely she cut her strips, remained absurdly large in proportion to the vegetables. The effect, however, was not bad, primitive and amusing.
When the phone rang she was irked by the interruption.
‘Mrs Ferguson? Mary Duckworth here. About your settlement.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Are you prepared to accept four hundred thousand dollars in return for surrendering your interest in the house?’
Ella said nothing. She was making a mental image of a figure four and adding noughts to it. How many?
‘I don’t really think you’ll do any better. Otherwise the house will go on the market and you might do worse. What do you say?’
Ella said yes, and returned to her handiwork.
In the second week, she forgot that the day was Thursday. When David and Martha surprised her at work, she did not recollect herself in time and they saw they were not expected.
‘Why, Ella! Isn’t it beautiful! And how much you’ve done!’
Martha’s enthusiasm was forced.
As Ella bent to put her hook and her ball of strips into the basket, she knew that behind her back they were staring at each other in dismay.
Later, as she set the table in the dining room, she heard the refrigerator door open and close. They were checking on the food.
Did they suppose she had given up eating? Why, she felt … how did she feel? Better, certainly. The rug, which had been intended as an expression of grief and loss, had become a kind of comfort.
Nobody takes this away, she said to herself, seeing the moving footway which had carried them all one after the other out of her life: Mrs Barlow, Ursula Rodd and her committees, Nina, Becky, Sophie – not Pam, not David and Martha – better for them to think her a little crazy than to find her ungrateful.
They had better not find out about her sleeping in William’s room for all that. That might indeed seem a little eccentric.
At dinner the conversation went awkwardly, encumbered by unspoken thoughts.
Martha asked how Sophie was faring, her tone suggesting that it was minimally better to ask than to ignore the subject.
Ella knew that she owed it to William to describe his virtuous and responsible behaviour. She could not do this without shaming Sophie further. William would have to suffer the injustice.
‘David, I forgot to tell you I lent her your sleeping-bag. I hope you don’t mind.’
A very lame approach to the truth, that was. Martha, however, received the message of the sleeping-bag – and nodded over it.
David said absently, ‘Yes, that’s all right.’ He was reserved, meditating some topic he found difficult to approach.
At last he said, ‘Mum,’ and paused.
‘Yes, dear.’
‘About signing the deed of settlement. Dad wants to sign it here. In the house. Would that be all right? He’s making a point of it. Mary says it would be all right. What do you say? It could be, you know, that he wants … it might be a move to … to make things better, you know.’
Remembering the note about the electricity bill, Ella doubted that. However, the children didn’t have to know all the squalid details.
‘We still have to talk about the contents of the house. Sharing it out. We’ll have to start moving our stuff out, too.’
‘Sophie wants the furniture from her room.’
‘Tell her that’s all right, then.’
Ella asked irritably, ‘How can they settle up before they’ve sold the house? Where would they get the money?’
‘I can’t ask them that, can I? So long as they can pay it. I know she’s sold her unit and I suppose they’ve raised a loan.’
The subject was so painful that they left it abruptly.
‘What about it, Mum? Is it all right for Dad to come here?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘That’s the end of it, then.’
Shocked at the weariness in his voice, Ella said, ‘I shouldn’t have left so much to you.’
‘So long as I’ve done right by you. Mary thinks we couldn’t have done any better.’
You’ll never be the same again, thought Ella sadly. Never so careless and cheerful again.
‘So we’re all on the move,’ said Martha. ‘We’ll be moving, too, joining the mortgage belt now that we’ve paid off the unit. Do you have any idea where you’re going to settle? It would be nice to be close to you.’
Ella had no idea on this subject at all. As furniture for the future, she had a remnant of pale green lamé which was to form a stylised arc of sea, the base for a foam of cobweb Shetland wool knitted rather loosely in the traditional Old Shale pattern. The rest of the design was blank as yet.
There was also the prospect of lunch with Rob, and she meant to apply for another student to replace Nina.
She understood that none of these prospects was an answer to Martha’s question.
‘I don’t want to buy straight away. I’ll rent for a while till I get my bearings.’
That was an unfortunate image, conjuring up such a pathetic picture that Martha said hastily, ‘I wish Sophie would get in touch with us. We haven’t heard from her at all. Can you give me her phone number, Ella?’
Helpless, exasperated, Ella said, ‘She won’t give it to me. I don’t think she wants me to know what kind of place she’s living in. She says she’s out all day househunting and then typing the manuscript in the evenings. Everybody listens to you and it’s very embarrassing. It’s so much easier for her to ring from a callbox. You know Sophie. If she doesn’t want to, she’ll always find a good reason. And she does ring and chat every couple of days. I know it’s ridiculous. I make meek suggestions about emergencies and she says that she’ll be moving out any day and she wishes I wouldn’t fuss.’
‘Ask her to ring us, then,’ said Martha.
‘I don’t want to see her with that character.’
‘Oh, David.’ Martha was indignant. ‘He didn’t kidnap her, you know.’
Another chance for the truth. Ella let it pass.
‘Besides,’ Martha added, ‘sometimes you have to be polite to people you don’t like. We’re not going to drop Sophie, whatever happens.’
David had been subjecting her to a cold and steady glance.
She answered it, ‘All right. You win.’
The name of the unacceptable person was not spoken.
Martha gave up all attempts at conversation and began to clear the table.
‘Can you give me a carton, Ella? I’ll start packing the trophies.’