Part 3. Dark Wood – 1971

 

 

The Folly


“What is that?” Greta pointed to bright washes of mauve on the hillside below the pines.

“Rosebay willow herb,” replied David. “Mother hates it. The seeds get everywhere – look.” White filaments drifted in the breeze.

“I like them,” Greta put out her fingers to catch one; unexpectedly thinking of Deborah, carried through the air towards her like Mary Poppins under an umbrella.

“Over here we have the folly.” David took hold of her head to align her gaze with a tower. Terracotta tiles on its roof glowed in the sun. Greta leaned against him, enjoying the touch of his warm hands either side of her skull. He was holding Deborah inside her head. She twisted round and pressed herself against his body. He tilted her face towards him and they kissed.

From the distant terrace that stretched along the back of the house a voice called and they could see David’s mother waving at them. “Tea on the lawn. You’re honoured,” said David as a white cloth fluttered. They began walking back. “Ah. Dad’s there now.” A second figure had appeared on the terrace; Judge Hayden-Fox presiding. Greta saw no sign of red robes or a curled white wig.

David’s mother was fierce, like the Red Queen in Alice in Wonderland and as they approached the garden here she was, coming to meet them. “Did you get as far as the folly?” she called.

“Yes,” said Greta.

“Get David to serve you cocktails on the balcony as the sun goes down,” said his mother brusquely, “you’ll have plenty of time before dinner. Eight o’clock sharp,” she added, to David.

“The garden is fabulous,” offered Greta, as they crossed the lawn past a glory of dahlias, goldenrod and michelmas daisies.

“It’s taken me years,” said his mother.

“You do all this yourself?” Greta was amazed.

“I have someone to dig and mow, and do the topiary. But I plant and design. It keeps me busy.” She sounded dismissive.

“This is beautiful, what is it?” Greta spread admiring fingers among the dancing motes of a delicate airy plant with flowers like white knots.

“Huh! Baby’s breath,” sniffed David’s mother, “comes up everywhere like a weed.”

“Il faut cultiver notre jardin,” gabbled Greta.

“Candide,” responded his mother as if it had been a test.

“Dad, meet Greta,” said David, as they reached the terrace.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Greta, welcome to Wychwood,” said David’s father. A neat moustache half hid his allusive smile. His eyes were bright and he shook her hand warmly which mitigated the severity of his lined face. “So you’re a croupier,” he said, “how are you finding that?”

“It’s only temporary - until she gets a proper job,” interjected David, before Greta could reply.

“It’s interesting learning all the different odds,” said Greta, “because…”

“Freddie, will you fetch me my sunhat?” called his mother, “milk and sugar, Greta?”

Greta hastened over and sat at the table. “She’s applying for lecturing in the FE sector,” she heard David say. These days David was always arguing the case for teaching in further education. He joined her at the table, smiling.

“Are you two coming to drinks at the Lipkin’s after dinner?” asked David’s mother, as her returning husband planted the straw hat tenderly on her head.

“No,” said David, “I’m showing Greta around the house. I’ve promised a game of billiards and she’s interested in the library.”

“The library?” David’s mother looked in astonishment at Greta. Greta’s mouth was full; she having just taken a bite of her unfamiliar slice of rather dry, marbled sponge cake. It clung stickily to her gums, so she just widened her eyes. Her cheeks felt red. Pigeons cooed in a tree at the edge of the lawn.

David’s cup gave a bone-china echo against the saucer. “Rabelais,” he said.

“What, the medieval monk?” His mother looked incredulous.

Greta’s a scholar,” he said, “she’s eager to see if we have anything by Rabelais in our collection – we probably do, if my memory…”

“Look I got you lebkuchen…” interrupted his mother, proffering a plate of the little rattling cakes.

And he leaned forward and took one as he said: “…and, by the way, sod the Lipkins Mother, I can’t stand the Lipkins. They won’t miss us. If I do take Greta into Uppingham tonight I’m taking her to the pub in any case.”

Greta swallowed her cake, saying, “maybe tomorrow…?”

“Tomorrow’s Friday,” said his mother, “David won’t stay for that – he hates Friday nights.” David shrugged, stuffing another of the lebkuchen into his mouth. A wasp landed on Greta’s plate and she gave a partially suppressed squeal of alarm. With a deft stroke of his knife, Judge Hayden-Fox swatted the wasp and then, with a gallant flourish and a smile at Greta, flicked its body into the petunias.

Greta roared with laughter. “You’re like a conjuror,” she said.

“More tea, Greta?” David’s mother was already pouring it so Greta obediently drank.

“Only the female stings,” declared the judge and Greta listened as he launched into a disquisition on the life cycle of vespa vulgaris.

Soon his wife interrupted, saying to David, “can’t you have a look at the library now, with Greta?”

“Come on Greta, the Lipkins won’t get you,” laughed David, rising. He bashed crumbs off his jeans and leaned sideways to kiss his mother. “We’re going to the stables now,” he said to her, “and then we’re having a swim and then I’m giving Greta champagne on the balcony just like you said.” He eased Greta out of her chair, “see you later, Dad,” he touched his fist to his father’s shoulder in passing, then with his arm around Greta’s waist he swept her away with him.

And when Greta said: “David, do you think maybe we should do what your mother wants?” He seized her, laughing again, and lifted her right up into his arms, running away with her across the grass and round the corner of the house while she shrieked, overcome with involuntary giggles.

 

“What did your Mum mean about you hating Friday nights?” asked Greta later as they sat on the balcony of the folly.

“It’s the Jewish Sabbath,” said David, “you knew I was Jewish didn’t you?”

“Vaguely,” Greta said, “It’s not as if you’re religious though.”

He leaned over to pour more Champagne into her glass. “Would you ever consider converting to another religion?” he asked.

“Christ no!” she laughed, “It’s taken me until now to stop thinking I’ll be struck dead for not going to Mass any more.” At her feet lay sloping meadows and wooded hills. She pointed at the sunset, “look at the golden clouds,” she said.

The casino provided svelte high-necked gowns and Greta was instructed to buy silver evening shoes. The other trainee, Rosalind, had the elongated bulky elegance of a giraffe and shiny, platinum-dyed hair. “Can we smoke in the casino?” Rosalind demanded, when the manager, fearsome Miss Norma, asked if they had any questions.

“No,” was the curt reply. “Leave your cigarettes in the rest room.”

“She does though,” said Rosalind, grimly, as they followed Miss Norma down the stairs.

A beautician taught them how to apply elaborate make-up. She smiled at them in the rest-room mirror as they sat meekly on their plush stools. Miss Norma stood and frowned. “This lady knows how I want you to look,” she said, “so do as she tells you.” A green shantung dress set off her pale skin. With her full lips and large eyes she was like the wicked queen in Snow White. “She needs it most,” Miss Norma jabbed her cigarette towards Greta, making a vortex of smoke. Her eyes locked on Greta’s in the mirror. “You should dye your hair,” she said.

“What’s wrong with it?” Greta was taken aback.

“It’s no colour,” said Norma, “it reminds me of… I don’t know - digestive biscuits. Put it up.” She swept out.

“Let’s get that racoon eyeliner off you,” said the beautician to Greta, in a soothing voice, shaking cleanser onto cotton wool. “You’ve got a lovely long neck; your hair will suit you, up.”

“Norma’s a bitch,” snapped Rosalind, lighting a cigarette and inhaling a decisive lungful of smoke.

The shifts were nine at night to four in the morning. Make-up hid the effect when she was at work but during the day, unable to adjust to working nights, Greta looked haggard. “Give it up,” urged David, “I don’t care about you paying half the rent, wait until you get some proper work.”

“No,” said Greta.

“Apply to Central College for part time lecturing, then; it’s right on the doorstep after all.” David had continued to circle further education lectureships in The Guardian so in the end she decided to apply. It was a step down from being an academic; which Greta would have preferred. But she had not achieved a good enough degree to do postgraduate work. All the urgency went out of her studying in her second year. She had coasted to a 2:2 and sold all her books. The only book she had ever wanted to own, she realised, was that copy of Gargantua and Pantagruel that she found in the school library. Sometimes she thought about going back there and stealing it. She didn’t feel as if she had got anywhere. Sometimes she wondered if David would ask her to marry him. Meanwhile she carried on as a croupier.