Meadowland

‘Have you always lived here?’

‘Basically, yes. Did a bit of travelling and was at law school in London. Then articles there. Didn’t need my arm twisting to leave it, though. I just don’t seem to be the ambitious type.’ Again he turned his head to look at me. ‘Are you?’

I considered. ‘Well, yes … Reasonably so, anyway.’

We strolled on. My foot scuffed the ground sending a flurry of dust and small stones billowing ahead of us. A sudden commotion erupted in the undergrowth and a squirrel leapt towards a tree trunk and up it, bounding away through the branches.

We reached the end of the track. The gate, now, was shut. I leaned up against it, staring into the meadow.

‘It’s OK. Only horses. No bulls.’

‘What makes you think I’d be worried?’

Andrew laughed, steering me through and across to the base of a large oak standing on its own. I perched myself on a root, facing away from the rooftops of Cotterly. Andrew sank to the ground beside me.

I slid my legs out of the borrowed boots and wriggled my toes, relishing the coolness around my ankles. Picking nodules of dried-out earth from around the base of the tree, I crumbled them between my fingers. Two horses, one a deep brown, the other a mottled grey, cropped peacefully in a lower corner of the field. Every now and again they swished their tails at flies. At one point, the grey abruptly cantered forward a few paces, then stopped and dropped his head again to continue grazing. It was as though the moment of activity had never been.

I broke the silence. ‘Do you ride?’

‘Not any more.’ The answer rose lazily. ‘We had ponies as children. Mine was a skewbald. Stubborn as hell except when she was pointing for home.’ He laughed, and rose on one elbow. ‘Do you?’

‘Me? No. Unless you count donkeys on the beach.’ I remembered the occasions – two of them; Father hoisting me up …

‘I suppose we were pretty spoiled. Lots of freedom. We used to go off all day with a packet of sandwiches, build dens in the wood, fish a bit …’

‘My father fished.’

‘Not that sort of fishing. The trout stretches are all heavily controlled. Apart from anything else our pocket money wouldn’t have stretched to the fees. No, worms on bent pins, that sort of thing. Kept the cat supplied with minnows – and the occasional roach. I sometimes wonder about all those kids trudging along pavements …’

‘I was one of those kids “trudging the pavements”, as you put it.’

‘So is my sympathy wasted?’

I had to laugh. ‘Not entirely. But it wasn’t as dreary as you make it sound.’

I didn’t feel inclined to elaborate. Andrew lay back and closed his eyes. I hugged my knees and stared over the hedges towards the horizon. This was where Father had painted me, or rather his image of me. Sitting like this. But a little further over. I estimated the spot, then rose and padded across to it, the grass coarse against the soles of my feet. I squatted down, surveying the scene.

My nose twitched at the sickly-sweet odour of horse dung, a large dollop of which, disturbed by buzzing flies, steamed gently close by. The smell mingled with the scent of baked earth and grass, fine dust from which hovered in the air, tickling the back of my throat. A plane, jetting towards London, scored the sky, its slipstream flaking out into a cotton-wool trail. I could just make out the tiny silver shape at the head, winking the sun’s reflection. In less than half an hour its passengers would be disembarking at Heathrow; real people again with lives to lead, no longer cocooned in a sliver of metal suspended in mid-air.

I straightened up and strode back towards Andrew. ‘I really should be making a move,’ I said.

‘I’m sorry.’ He bounded to his feet. ‘I’ve kept you too long.’

‘It’s only that I’m planning to stop off overnight at my mother’s –’ I looked up from pulling on a boot – ‘and it’s a good hour and a half’s drive.’

‘Of course.’ He steadied me as I pushed my foot into the second one.

‘Pity you haven’t seen Flora,’ he said as we wandered back.

‘Why?’

‘Because you ought to talk to her, get to know her.’

‘How so?’

‘You tell me.’ He turned and placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘You’re kidding yourself, you know, if you pretend you don’t want to.’

I released myself and walked on quickly.

When he caught up, I said, ‘Will Ginny be back?’

‘Possibly. And the boys. Why?’

‘I’d like to meet her.’

‘She’d like to meet you.’ I felt him looking at me. ‘You’re changing the subject.’

I didn’t answer.

‘Oh, well,’ he said eventually, ‘it’s your life, I suppose.’

We’d reached the road. Ahead of us it dipped towards the village. As we turned off it to retrace our steps across the field and down the path to the house, I said, ‘I can’t see it would do any good to speak to her. It’s all in the past now.’

I marched on. ‘In any case,’ I said, as we descended to the garden, ‘Flora wouldn’t want to see me.’

‘You don’t think so?’

The house was empty. I retrieved my shoes and made towards the car. The Volvo stood next to it, the scrape disconcertingly visible.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, grimacing towards the damage. Then, unnecessarily formally, ‘You’ve been very kind, and I’ve enjoyed my afternoon.’

He held the car door open. ‘See you again perhaps.’

The revving of the engine drowned my muttered, ‘I doubt it.’

I was angry. I knew I was angry, for reasons I couldn’t quite put my finger on, and I drove badly, narrowly missing a grey Metro as I swooped round the corner and changed gear for the climb away from the source of whatever it was that was bugging me. Its driver was a fair-haired woman. Two smaller heads bobbed in the back. I guessed it was probably Ginny. If so, I was relieved to have left; I was in no mood for polite conversation with a stranger.

Would Andrew tell Flora of my visit? What did it matter? My stupidity in returning here at all was embarrassing anyway.

I didn’t stop at my mother’s. It was too late, I told myself lamely, knowing the real reason was that I wanted to be alone. Safely back in Fulham, I switched on the hi-fi as I started to fling the contents out of my suitcase. A recording of popular arias was, for some reason, already in the machine. As soon as the baritone came in, I lunged for the off-button. I threw myself down on the sofa and pulled the crocheted rug, still awaiting attention, up over me. Forty minutes later, the burning smell of a forgotten pizza drifted through from the kitchen.

I was only just beginning to feel more relaxed when, halfway through the following week, the postcard arrived. The handwriting was large and sprawling. I turned it over. The brief message filled the space. ‘I’ll be at home next weekend if you want to come. F.’ I didn’t really need to check the postmark, but I did and it left me in no doubt. How did she have my address? But then she clearly knew a great deal more about me than I her.

No, I didn’t want to go, damn her. Whatever gave her the idea I’d want to have anything more to do with her? In any case, I’d already arranged to spend the whole of the bank holiday with Mother.

I’d been neglecting her shamefully, I’d reminded myself again early on Monday when the need to replace laddered tights had me nipping into Selfridges, one of her favourite London shopping haunts. I’d said as much when, fortified by the normality of a frenetic day at the office, I rang her that evening.

‘It has been a while,’ she acknowledged. ‘But you mustn’t worry about me.’