Meadowland

She returned moments later bearing a dozen or so examples of my father’s work. As I studied them, one by one, I gasped. ‘But they’re amazing. Did he really do these?’ I found it hard to comprehend. The paintings were delicate and robust at one and the same time; mostly landscapes, but here and there focusing with finely sketched lines on an animal or, in one instance, a young woman. I stared at this last – one of the only two framed ones. The girl was seated amongst meadow grass, arms hugged round legs over which full skirts were drawn tight, eyes turned towards a background of tree-dotted hills. Cornflowers bent, as though pressed by the same gentle breeze as ruffled her hair.

Andrew studied it over my shoulder. I felt him turn to look again at me. ‘It’s you!’ he said.

I knew he was right.

Yet again those tears – those damn tears – started to well up.

Flora was the one who broke the tension.

‘Are you staying for supper, Andrew?’

‘I was hoping you’d ask me. Ginny’s taken the boys off to visit their grandparents. Don’t know where she gets her energy from, working all week and then rushing around at the weekend.’

I surreptitiously dried my eyes, then stacked the paintings. From the conversation I gathered Ginny taught music, wind instruments mostly and some singing, juggling her time between several different schools.

‘Mind you, I’m all for it,’ Andrew was saying. ‘No point women sitting at home all day, wasting their talents.’

‘I do.’ Flora challenged him with a look that might or might not have been serious.

‘Waste your talents?’

Flora allowed herself a small smile. ‘That’s for others to judge. I meant stay at home.’

Like my mother always had, I thought.

Andrew was laughing. ‘Ah, but you’re one on your own, Flora. You don’t need the world like the rest of us mere mortals.’

He had, I realised with a sudden start of recognition, the image of my mother receding rapidly, put his finger on something.

‘And what about you, Charissa?’ He turned to draw me back into the conversation. ‘Didn’t your father say …’ He stopped. ‘Don’t you work for a travel company?’

I nodded. ‘At their head office.’

He encouraged me to expound.

Recruited from university, I explained; stints in different sections. ‘I seem to have settled for the time being in the Complaints Department.’

His eyebrows shot up. ‘Whoops,’ he said, ‘that must make you pacifier in chief?’

‘Something like it,’ I laughed.

I could feel myself relaxing as he pressed me to recount the contents of some of the more bizarre mail that landed on my desk.

Flora intervened to allot tasks in the preparation of the evening meal. As I peeled potatoes and Andrew chopped vegetables beside me, he whispered, while Flora was briefly out of the room, ‘Don’t judge Flora on first acquaintance. There’s a heart of gold under that dour exterior.’

I didn’t answer but concentrated on swishing the mud off the last potato.

‘I hadn’t intended to stay more than half an hour,’ I eventually said. Let him make what he would of that for a response.

‘Oh? I’m not sure that I quite …’

‘You haven’t told me what you do.’ My tone was artificially bright. ‘Do you farm?’

He accepted the change of subject. ‘Only at weekends – and even then only because I’m dragooned into it. No, no. I’m the second son. It was the army or the law for me. I opted for the latter.’

‘You’re a solicitor?’

‘Small practice in town. Mostly land disputes; a few matrimonials. Not so dissimilar from what you do, I suppose, except it’s fists rather than letters that thump on to my desk.’

I laughed, picking up the saucepan and turning.

‘Goodness. You are like …’ Andrew was staring at me.

‘My father?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘Do you know,’ I said slowly, ‘until today, no-one’s ever suggested that to me.’ I passed the saucepan to Flora, who had returned to her place at the stove and was standing there, holding out a hand.

I recollected the scene, back in Fulham the following afternoon. Remembering Flora’s Aga, the flat seemed dispiritingly chilly, despite my having turned up the central heating. I had a sudden urge to wrap my hands round a mug of cocoa. Rummaging in the back of the cupboard, I found an ancient tin.

It tasted good. I curled up in an armchair and switched on the television. A 1940s’ black and white film was nearing its climax. I tried to concentrate, to pick up the threads of the story, but found it impossible to focus my attention. The turmoil of the last thirty-six hours was too immediate.

Throughout supper, which we’d eaten at the kitchen table, Andrew had kept up a stream of light conversation. The children, I discovered, were Tom and Justin, aged eleven and nine and ‘noisy little terrors’. I blinked. Andrew must either have started young or be older than he seemed. Still, he was saying, it was good to see them enjoying life; and Ginny, he had to hand it to her, was a first-rate mother.

I learned that old Mr and Mrs Partridge had been on holiday to ‘Oh, somewhere in the Balearics’ and – he turned to me: ‘This will sound familiar’ – hadn’t stopped moaning since they got back about not being able to tune in out there to the British weather forecast. ‘Seems their only interest was in comparing hours of sunshine and making sure they were getting their money’s worth.’ Mrs Tuckett – ‘Why couldn’t she have chosen anywhere but here to retire to!’ – had managed to get herself elected on to the village hall committee and had been so rude to Commander Lancaster that now there was some doubt that he’d allow his paddock to be used for the summer fête. More seriously, had Flora heard that there was a brucellosis scare at Upper Farm? Philip – his brother, I deduced – was only too thankful he’d switched over to arable.

It was all village talk and I was torn between disdain and reluctant fascination. Whichever, I was more comfortable sitting on the sidelines listening.

Andrew left at about ten, gripping my hand and hoping he’d see me again soon.

I helped clear away the dishes and wash up.

‘Andrew’s nice,’ said Flora, as she dried her hands. ‘Parents left everything but the old Dower House to Philip, of course. Andrew and Ginny …’ She lapsed into silence. I shrugged mentally; it was no concern of mine. It was what I was gleaning about my father that tantalised me. Over a cup of coffee before bed, I brought up the subject of his paintings again.

‘I really had no idea,’ I said.

‘I expect you’d like to have the one of you.’

‘May I?’

‘Of course.’

I expressed my gratitude. I wished I could make her out.

Flora was glancing at her watch. ‘I’ll show you your room. You’ll need a hot water bottle.’ She fished one out from a cupboard and filled it from the kettle simmering on the hotplate.

I was glad of it; the bedroom was icy. Flora produced a nightdress and toothbrush. ‘Come down when you’re ready in the morning,’ she said.