Authors: Edward Hogan
‘Are you the bouncer?’ Maggie said to the eagle.
She did not bother with the door this time, but stepped across the lawn and knocked on the window. She looked inside; the living room seemed untouched, but she could only see along the tunnel of moonlight which burrowed into the smooth sofa, half of the coffee table, and a section of the white wall. The corners of the room were invisible to her. It had been almost a week since she had last spoken to her friend. A couple of times she had seen Louisa in the mornings, coming out of the cottage to deal with the birds, but she was too far away to call out to. More often, the van was already gone when Maggie rose. She tried to tell herself that the unanswered phone calls were a result of the bad signal on the hill, and hoped that Louisa was not relapsing into those old hermitic habits. ‘Lou?’ she shouted, one last time. ‘Are you okay?’ She turned and walked back to the house.
Maggie spent the night – as she spent many of the lengthening nights – in the office, filing papers and working on funding applications. When she was too tired to continue, she visited a deer webcam set up on a farm in Norfolk. It was empty now, as it was most of the time – just a grainy clearing in the bramble – but it was worth the wait for the occasions when the stags came into view, and wallowed in the steaming mud, their tines like writhing fingers in the mist. Maggie watched the seconds pulse on the digital clock in the corner of the screen.
It was the weird collisions she had loved, back in Greenwich. The Greenwich deer had a bloodline dating back to the time of Henry VIII and yet, out in the enclosure, the low grey ghosts of aeroplanes yawned overhead; you could hear the laser chirp of green parakeets and see the top deck of a bus sliding above the brick wall that shut them off from the wind-scoured roads of Blackheath. She had loved the physical signs of their seasonal desires, too, the antlers growing as the hormones raced, the blood-rich velvet nourishing the hard bone beneath and then peeling raggedly. She loved the ugly, aching bellow. It was an unmajestic, hurt sound. During the rut, the neck of a red deer stag increases exponentially in muscle mass; such spontaneous gains are unrivalled in the animal world. And at the end of the season, the antlers fell off, one by one.
Her own desires had waned now. The empty physical longing she had felt throughout the autumn had begun to subside. She had cancelled her last two appointments with the man from Fulbrook. It wasn’t what she needed any more.
The deercam was best in the early hours, when a hind would sometimes turn and face the camera, pulling her hooves through the grass, eyes like molten metal in the floodlights. But tonight, the camera showed nothing but a tangle of briars. She knew how crazy it was to sit there watching for an elusive glimpse of a wild animal when there were hundreds in her garden, but there were no deer at Drum Hill, and deer made her nostalgic for her early moments with David. These days, and these nights, nostalgia was the feeling she longed for.
* * *
The keepers and volunteers sat in David’s old office while Maggie, alone, explained the proposed changes to the park. Scattered rectangles of livid red stood out from the faded carpet, where she had removed the cases of stuffed animals.
She told them of the plan to reduce the stock to those species which were native – or had been native – to Britain. Talks were underway with the local university and the Nature Conservation Committee to captive-breed several species, including red squirrel, with a view to re-introducing them into wild habitats. She was particularly keen to obtain a herd of red deer, and she planned to buy another ten acres of woodland. She had hired a consultant zoologist, and spoken to conservation groups who had urged her to purchase vulnerable wolf cubs from fur farms in Romania. Fewer species meant more space for those that remained. Deer in, miniature zebu and wallabies out. She would also require staff to undertake training. Some of the volunteers looked at each other when she said that, some just groaned.
‘Why are we getting rid a the zebu, anyway? I love those little buggers,’ said Yvonne, a quiet sixty-year-old volunteer for whom Maggie felt great affection.
‘I love them, too, Yvonne. But they’re used to a tropical climate, and the cold is making them sick. It’s cruel.’
She couldn’t hear what the staff were muttering, but she could guess. Visitor numbers had further slackened as the cold weather began. People were beginning to think that her obsessions would destroy the park. She had heard the keepers talking about ‘the spirit of the place.’ More ghosts.
When Philip got up to leave with the others, she called him back.
‘I can’t really stay,’ Philip said. ‘The wife is picking me up, and I don’t like to keep her waiting.’
‘You didn’t say much in the meeting.’
Philip looked down at his hands. He did not wear his cap indoors, and Maggie noticed the lustre of his oiled hair, the surprising thickness of the strands.
‘I needed a little support, there,’ she said, trying to smile.
Philip coughed.
‘What’s up, Phil?’ Maggie said.
‘I shan’t be doing the training. I will understand if that means you have to terminate my contract.’
‘Oh, Phil. Surely you’ve not taken it personally. I know how skilled you are.’
‘It’s not a personal thing, but I’m not going back to school.’
‘Look, Philip. Firstly, nobody is terminating any contracts. You should see this training as an opportunity.’
Philip shook his head. ‘I’m sixty-seven years old. I’m weary.’
‘
I’m
doing it. It won’t cost you anything. I’m paying for it.’
He looked up sharply. They held each other’s gaze.
‘Philip, if there’s something you need to say to me, then feel free. We’ve always been very open. If you think I
don’t understand
, or that I’m
not from around here . . .
’
‘I’ve never said anything of that sort. When someone comes to this part of the world, they can either shut themselves off from people, or they can get involved in the community. When you first got here, I saw you as someone who’d fit right in. Someone who’d get involved in the village.’
‘I do get involved.’
‘
She
doesn’t count,’ Philip said, with a sudden burst of anger. The fury immediately dissipated, and he sighed.
‘I see. It’s Louisa you have a problem with. I know Louisa is difficult sometimes, but she is a good person. I spend time with her because she knew my husband better than anyone. Better than I did.’ Maggie thought of Louisa’s current retreat from their friendship.
‘Oh, that’s true,’ said Philip.
‘I
know
she was in love with him, if that’s what you mean.’
Philip frowned in confusion, his skin stretching over the thick ridges of his forehead. ‘
In love with him?
She sabotaged him at every bloody step. She’s got nothing but bitterness, that woman. She tried to snatch this place, which is ours –
yours
– from under your feet. Don’t you remember? You should have heard the things she said about you, and all.’
‘I can imagine what she said about me in the early days, thank you.’
Philip tried to reclaim his composure. Maggie had never seen him like this. He dropped his hands by his sides. ‘There are a lot of good people in this village,’ he said.
‘I know that.’
‘People who respect you. People who really like you.’ Philip paused, seemed to deliberate. ‘Richie Foxton—’
Maggie laughed suddenly, and then stopped when she saw the dismay on Philip’s face.
‘Oh I see,’ Philip said. He turned to leave. ‘Fair enough.’
‘Philip, I didn’t mean – Richie is a great guy.’
‘When David died,’ Philip said, turning back to her, ‘you said that you had wanted to start a family with him. There’s no reason why you can’t move on, eventually.’
‘I’ve put all of my energies into this park,’ Maggie said.
‘Believe it or not, I want what’s best for you. And there’s a lot I could say now, but I’ll settle for this: you continue to keep the company you’re keeping, and you’ll end up with nothing. No park, no family, nothing.’
He cut the air in front of him with a chopping motion. Maggie thought again of the ironic timing of Philip’s attack on Louisa. He wasn’t to know. She reached out to him, and took his hand. She looked down and saw the difference in colour between their skin – his raw pink flesh beneath the net of callouses, her own fingers light brown. ‘Okay,’ she said, to calm him. ‘Okay.’
* * *
A few hours later, Christopher stepped halfway into the office, covering his body with the door like a shower curtain. ‘I’m going out for a mammoth, erm, session,’ Christopher said.
‘Well, it’s probably healthier than being on the internet all day,’ Maggie said.
‘You don’t know anything,’ Christopher said.
‘It’s a majority view,’ Maggie said with a smile. ‘Who are you going out with?’
‘Erm. I’m going to call on Louisa Smedley,’ Christopher said.
‘Oh,’ Maggie said. She frowned. ‘Have you seen her recently?’
‘No. I mean, erm, erm, what’s it to you?’
‘Doesn’t matter. Will you tell her I said hello?’
‘I’m not making any promises,’ Christopher said, sliding out.
Maggie stood at the window, and waited for Christopher to come into sight. The light from the house gave his clothes a purple hue as he leaned forward into the wind. She could hear him swearing, and knew his curses were probably for her.
They had once been part of a family. He had always loved to hear the story of how Maggie and David met. He would ask questions about the drunken woman they had carried to the taxi (‘Was she completely inebriated? Did she lose bladder control, at all?). Mostly he would just listen, enraptured, his laughter fading into an open-mouthed smile. ‘It’s like in days of, erm, yore,’ he once said. ‘With all those deer prancing around in the background. The squire and the, erm, buxom wench.’ After a pause he said, ‘I like true love.’
Maggie went back to the computer. The graph line of the park’s income dipped across the years. Looking at the dates, she recognised that a landmark had slyly passed: she had now known Christopher longer than she had known David. She turned back to the window, but his shape had already melded with the dark. Maggie sighed. She saw the light of Louisa’s cottage twitching behind the waving branches. Maybe her neighbour could restore the boy to his former self.
Louisa was back into the habit of turning off the lights when she saw a figure approaching from the big house. She did so now, then poured herself a drink and sat in the dark. He banged loudly on the door, rhythmically and unceasingly for nearly a minute. ‘Come on, erm, Louisa. We’re the two biggest loons this side of Christendom,’ he shouted. ‘Let’s return to the theatre of war, and repeat our former glories. Erm, in the pub, I mean.’ He was more persistent than his stepmother, but she could feel the darkness and the silence begin to threaten him. After a while longer, he said, ‘Erm. Erm. Bye.’
When she was sure he had gone she licked her thumb, picked up her glass of whisky and then froze, noticing the gesture for the first time. She threw the glass across the room. The contents spattered on the wall and the floor but the glass itself lodged between a cushion and the seat of the armchair, still intact.
The card lay on the table in front of her. She thought of the man appearing at the window of her van, gesturing for her to roll down the window with the rotation of his closed fist. The same movement as turning a spit. She thought of his tie and the lining of his suit, the muscles of his jaw like stones beneath the skin. She thought of Maggie’s hands in his hair.
‘Pull yourself together,’ Louisa muttered. She retrieved the glass, poured another drink and dialled the number, unsure of what she was about to say.
‘Yep,’ the voice said.
‘Do you see Maggie Bryant?’ Louisa said.
‘Eh?’
‘Maggie Green.’
A silence. ‘I don’t give out such information.’
‘Do you know what I’m talking about?’
‘Look. Best thing to do in a situation such as this, is talk to the person in question. I provide a service, but I don’t ever knowingly provide that service to someone in a relationship unless it’s with the consent of partner.’
‘It’s not like that. I just want to know if she pays you, like it says on your card, or if you’re seeing her because you like her.’
‘You’re the woman from the van, aren’t you?’
She wanted him to remember. She wanted her face to appear in his imagination.
‘Yes, it’s me,’ she said.
He was quiet for a moment. ‘I shouldn’t really be having this conversation, to be honest.’
‘Why not?’
‘There have been . . . There’s been a few incidents in the past.’
‘What kind of incidents? Are you accusing me of stalking you?’
‘Well, you are. Anyway, that’s not the point. I’ve had a few conflicts of opinion with folk who don’t approve of what I do, that’s all.’
‘What, you mean religious people?’
He laughed. ‘Husbands, mainly. Unsurprisingly. I’ve been given some very specific legal advice concerning such matters.’