A party! With bunting and cake and champagne. They would celebrate her birthday, Audrey decided.
She’d been in Cambridge; airplanes had flown overhead with only a cursory upwards acknowledgement as onlookers cheered for the home team in the boat race. Everyone seemed giddy, a surging energy that had drawn Audrey in as she strolled the riverbank following her meeting with the Women’s Reproductive Rights Committee.
The green by the river was filled with blankets, picnic baskets sprawled open near lounging bodies, glasses tilted on the uneven surface, teacups clinking against saucers. The boats approached like water striders skimming across the surface, and the onlookers, one by one, started to stand to cheer them on. It was this that inspired her to have her own celebration.
Audrey had decided to have a party because there was a general mood, so prevalent these days, of one more before it comes. She’d invited Miriam and her husband, Frank was welcome to invite Peter, she could not say no to that. Peter had become invisible since his sighting in London, a relief to her, truth be told. How would she face him? What would he say that could make her accept what she saw as a betrayal?
“Miriam told me you lived in a caravan,” Edmund said. “I hardly believed her.”
Miriam looked at Audrey, a flash of worry across her face, thinking he might have insulted her in some way. Edmund was not usually so forward.
Frank had arranged for chairs and a table to be brought from the house, and they’d sat by the river, glancing at the gathering clouds, wondering if rain would spoil their day.
“Why a caravan, if you don’t mind my asking?” Edmund pressed, ignoring Miriam’s look.
“I was with Frank. We were late for a luncheon,” Audrey said, placing the glasses on the table.
“We were never ones to arrive early at family functions, so were rushing as usual, and on this day I felt slightly ill, a headache coming on. Dark clouds followed us on a road we’d never travelled before, one that narrowed dangerously and where trees reached across from one side to another. We came to an opening, and there it was, sprouting from the landscape. From a distance we didn’t know what it was, but I told Frank to slow down, then ordered him to stop when I saw it clearly. A caravan.”
“I kept telling her that we would be late,” Frank said. “The wrath of my father is something I generally try to avoid.”
“I found the gate to the fence, ignoring Frank’s pleas to return, and traipsed through knowing this was not a public way. The caravan came alive as I got closer, the colours and designs, it was like a giant music box against the forest.
“I knew the caravan would be my home,” Audrey continued. “Frank was beside himself, but I called out to see if anyone was inside. There was no reply, as I knew there wouldn’t be, for at that moment, the moment I stood at the steps and reached up to the door, my hand tracing the design, I knew it was already mine. I walked all around it and came back and tried the handle.”
“I kept telling her, don’t go in,” Frank said, “it’s trespassing.”
“I told Frank he would do well to do a bit more trespassing himself.” Audrey leaned over to pat him on the arm before continuing.
“There was a sign, handwritten, made on a piece of card, tacked under the window. For Sale. Frank kept telling me to get back into the car, the luncheon surely spoiled. I pulled the sign off and saw that the address was near where we stood. Come, I told him. We need to speak to the owner. I bought it that day.”
“Our next celebration will be the race,” Miriam cut in, worried that Edmund would start asking about the particulars of Audrey’s living arrangement. “One week to go.”
“What do you make of the chances of winning then, Frank?” Edmund, normal reserve pushed aside, becoming more voluble out of nervousness.
“A good chance—a very good chance,” Frank clipped, glancing up the pathway as if watching for Peter. He seemed agitated, fussing with his jacket. “Our calculated time is now twelve minutes better than the last winner.”
“There’s so much activity in the air these days,” Audrey said. “One wonders how they will manage to squeeze in a war, should it come.” She passed a slice of cake to Edmund, who offered it to Miriam.
Miriam flashed him a brief smile, searching his face to make sure he was all right. She’d been to visit Audrey so many times, it seemed natural to sit by the river, discussing plans, and yet with Edmund here it all felt different. Audrey would notice the way he held himself, spine stiff, appearing to judge when really it was he who felt judged.
“They’ll find space to fit in war,” Frank replied. “If that’s what they decide to do in the end.”
“The villagers have already decided,” Edmund piped in again. “They’ve been stockpiling for weeks. I can’t keep Lyle’s syrup on the shelf.”
“As long as they are talking, there is a chance to avert war.” Audrey was standing over them offering more water for tea. “I know wishing it will not make it so. But I believe that discussing it is a kind of progress. Surely you don’t talk your way into a war.”
Audrey began telling them about the recent trip to Cambridge, how she’d stopped to watch the boat race, which, despite all that was going on, seemed the most natural thing to do, a bit of excitement on an afternoon. When the RAF planes flew past, she’d noticed an older man sitting back from the river on a bench. He was not really watching the race, just watching all that was going on around him, and she’d happened to catch his eye as they passed, a swarm whose drone she could feel in her body, and she knew at once he’d been in the last war. He was completely and utterly still, one hand gripping the bench arm, his eyes full of fear while all around them young people merely glanced upward, the distraction fleeting, seen as a spectacle rather than a threat.
“I just knew that he’d been a soldier. I knew it was all too much for him.”
Just then the magpie that Audrey had not seen for some days flew into their clearing and landed on the caravan.
“Maudie, where have you been?” Audrey scolded. To the others she said, “He takes care of me when I’m here on my own.”
“Mind he doesn’t take off with a teaspoon,” Edmund said. “Though, I admit, I’ve never seen a magpie actually steal anything.”
“My father hated magpies,” said Miriam. “He said they brought bad luck. ‘I salute you, Mr Magpie,’ he would say whenever one came around in order to negate its dark forces.”
“Well then, I salute you, Mr Magpie,” said Edmund.
They opened the champagne, and their mood loosened somewhat. Miriam brought the sketches from the trip to show the others.
Soon Edmund spotted Peter coming over the rise at the top of the hill, and Audrey rose to greet him, meeting him halfway, their murmurs unheard by the others as they walked together to the table.
“I’ve just come from the airfield,” he said, his eyes focussed on the drawings laid out on the table. “The King’s Cup Race has been cancelled.”