Puffball

Liffey’s birthday was on Christmas Day, a fact which annoyed Madge, who was a proselytising atheist.

They were to spend Christmas with Richard’s parents. They journeyed down to Cornwall on the night of Christmas Eve: there was a hard frost. The night landscape sparkled under the moon. Richard and Liffey were drunk with love and Richard’s remorse. The back of the car was piled high with presents, beautifully wrapped and ribboned. They took with them a Thermos of good real coffee, laced with brandy, and chicken sandwiches. They went by the A 303, down past Windsor, on to the motorway, leaving at the Hungerford exit, and down through Berkshire and Wiltshire, crossing Salisbury Plain, where Stonehenge stood in the moonlight, ominous and amazing, dwarfing its wire palisade. Then on into Somerset, past Glastonbury Tor, into Devon and finally over the Tamar Bridge into Cornwall.

Liffey loved Richard too much to even mention Honeycomb Cottage, although they passed within five miles of it.

Christmas Day was bright, cold, and wild. Mr and Mrs Lee-Fox’s cottage was set into the Cornish cliffs. A storm arose, and sea spray dashed against the double glazing but all was safe and warm and hospitable within. The roast turkey was magnificent, the Christmas tree charming, and Liffey’s presents proved most acceptable—two hand-made patchwork quilts, one for each twin bed. Liffey loved giving. Her mother, Madge, did not. They had once spent Christmas with Madge, rather than with Richard’s parents, and had a chilly bleak time of it. Madge liked to be working, not rejoicing.

Mr and Mrs Lee-Fox agreed, under their quilts on Christmas night, that at least Liffey kept Richard happy and lively, and at least this year had worn a T-shirt thick enough to hide her nipples.

On their way back to London they made a detour out of Glastonbury and into Crossley, and passed Dick Hubbard’s estate agency. There was room to park outside, for the Christmas holiday, stretching further and further forward to grab in the New Year, kept most of the shops and offices closed. And Dick Hubbard’s door was open. Richard stopped.

‘Townspeople,’ said Dick Hubbard, looking down from his private office on the first floor. ‘Back from the Christmas holidays, and looking for a country cottage to rent, for twopence halfpenny a week. They’re out of luck.’

He was a large, fleshy man in his late forties, at home in pubs, virile in bed; indolent. His wife had died in a riding accident shortly after his liaison with Carol had begun. Carol was smaller and slighter than her sister Mabs, but just as determined.

‘There’s Honeycomb Cottage,’ said Carol.

‘That’s for sale, not for rent. I’m holding on until prices stop rising.’

‘Then you’ll hold on for ever,’ said Carol. ‘And in the meanwhile it will all fall down. Mabs says it’s already an eyesore. She’s quite put out about it.’

‘Mabs had better not start interfering,’ said Dick, ‘or she’ll lose her grazing.’ But no one in Crossley, not even Dick Hubbard, liked to think of Mabs being put out, and when Richard and Liffey enquired about Honeycomb Cottage, they were told it was to rent on a full repairing lease for twenty pounds a week.

‘Done,’ said Richard.

‘Done,’ said Dick Hubbard.

They shook hands.

‘In the country,’ said Liffey, as they got back into the car, ‘the word of a gentleman still means something. People trust one another. You’re going to love it, Richard.’ ‘It’s certainly easy to do business,’ said Richard.

They decided to rent the London apartment to friends, and let the income from one pay for the outgoings on the other.

‘We could get thirty a week for the flat,’ said Liffey. ‘And the extra can pay for your fares.’

It was a long time since she had been anywhere by train.

After Richard and Liffey had gone, Dick Hubbard returned to his interrupted lovemaking with Carol.

‘Didn’t they even ask for a lease?’ asked Carol.

‘No,’ said Dick.

‘You’ll do all right there,’ said Carol.

‘I know,’ said Dick.

Friends (#ulink_4319f3c6-ee6e-57dc-b26d-15180fd4d0b2)

On the morning of December 30th, Liffey rang up her friend, Helen, who was married to Mory, an architect. The friendship was not of long standing. Liffey had met Helen in the waiting room of an employment agency a year ago, and struck up an acquaintance.

After the manner of young married women, still under the obligation of total loyalty to a husband, Liffey had cut loose from her school and college friends, as if fearing that their very existence might merit a rash confidence, a betrayal of her love for Richard. She made do, now, with a kind of surface intimacy with this new acquaintance or that, and since she did not offer any indication of need or distress, or any real exchange of feeling, the friendships did not ripen. Liffey did not like to display weakness: and weakness admitted is the very stuff of good friendship.

Mory and Richard had met over a dinner table or so, and discussed the black holes of space, and Richard, less acute in his social than his business relationships, thought he recognised a fellow spirit.

So now Liffey went to Helen and Mory for help.

‘Helen? Sorry to ring so early but Helen we’ve rented a most darling cottage in the country and now all we have to do is find someone for this flat and we can move out of London in a fortnight, and I was wondering if you could help?’

There was a pause.

‘How much?’ enquired Helen.

‘Richard says forty pounds a week but I think that’s greedy. Twenty would be more like it.’

‘I should think so,’ said Helen. ‘If you can’t find anyone Mory and I could take it, I suppose, to help you out.’ ‘But that would be wonderful,’ cried Liffey. ‘I’d be so grateful! You’d look after everything and it would all be safe with you.’

Liffey sorted, washed, wrapped, packed and cleaned for two weeks. Friends rather mysteriously disappeared, instead of helping. She had no idea she and Richard had accumulated so many possessions. She gave away clothes and furniture to Oxfam. She found old photographs of herself and Richard and laughed and cried at the absurdity of life. She wrapped her hair in a spotted bandana to keep out clouds of dust. She wanted everything to be nice for Helen and Mory. Charming, talented, scatty Helen. Mory, the genius architect, temporarily unemployed. Lovely to be able to help!

‘Friendship,’ Liffey said, ‘is all about helping.’

‘Um,’ said Richard. Five years ago the remark would have enchanted, not embarrassed him.

‘Don’t you think so, Bella,’ persisted Liffey, not getting the expected response from Richard.

‘I daresay,’ said Bella, politely. Ray was out visiting friends who had a sixteen-year-old daughter he was helping through a Home Economics examination. Bella was in a bad, fidgety mood. Richard knew Ray was making her unhappy and from charity had lifted the embargo on the friendship. And Bella was being very kind; the kindest, in fact, of all their friends, offering packing cases, time, concern, and showing an interest in the details of the move. Now, on the eve of their departure for the country, she gave them spaghetti bolognese. The sauce came from a can. Richard followed Bella into the kitchen. Liffey had gone to the bathroom.

‘Liffey’s a lucky little girl,’ said Bella, ‘having a husband to indulge her so.’

Bella kissed Richard full on the lips, startling him.

‘If you’re not careful,’ said Bella, ‘Liffey will still be a little girl when she’s got grey hairs and you’re an old, old man.’ She dabbed his mouth with a tissue.

‘You’re going to hate the country,’ said Bella. ‘You’re going to be so lonely.’

‘We have each other,’ said Richard.

Bella laughed.

Liffey came back from the bathroom with a long face.

‘No baby?’ asked Bella.

‘No baby,’ said Liffey. ‘I’m sorry, Richard. Once we’re in the country I’m sure it will happen.’

The removal van arrived on the morning of Wednesday, January 7th. Liffey’s period was soon to finish. She was in a progesterone phase.

Richard took the day off from work. They followed the furniture van in the car, and left the key under the mat for Mory and Helen. There was no need of a lease, or a rent book, between friends.