But Francesca was a different cup of tea. Deeply influenced by Oscar, she went her own way, followed her own interests, and found books and music a good deal more alluring than the local Pony Club gymkhana. Even so, she was never rebellious or sulky, and with good grace cared for her bad-tempered little pony and exercised him regularly, riding around the paddock that Gloria had set aside for equestrian activities, and taking him on long hacks down the quiet tracks by the little river. Often, on these occasions, Oscar accompanied her, mounted on an ancient sit-up and-beg bicycle, relic of schoolmaster days.
Gloria let them be, possibly, Elfrida decided, because Francesca was not that important to Gloria; not as absorbing or fulfilling as her own hectic lifestyle, her parties, her circle of friends. Important, too, was her position as social mentor, and sometimes she reminded Elfrida of a huntsman blowing his horn for attention and whipping in his hounds.
Only once had Elfrida fallen from grace. It was during a convivial evening with the Foubisters, a dinner party of great formality and style, with candles lit and silver gleaming and an aged butler waiting at table. After dinner, in the long drawing-room (rather chilly, for the evening was cool), Oscar had moved to the grand piano to play for them, and after a Chopin etude, had suggested that Elfrida should sing.
She was much embarrassed and taken aback. She had not sung for years, she protested, her voice was hopeless…. But old Sir Edwin Foubister added his persuasions. Please, he had said. I’ve always liked a pretty tune.
So disarming was he that Elfrida found herself hesitating. After all, what did it matter if her voice had lost its youthful timbre, she wobbled on the high notes, and was about to make a fool of herself? And at that moment, she caught sight of Gloria’s face, florid and set like a bulldog in an expression of disapproval and dismay. And she knew that Gloria did not want her to sing. Did not want her to stand up with Oscar and entertain the little group. She did not like others to shine, to steal attention, to deflect the conversation away from herself. It was a perception of total clarity and somewhat shocking, as though she had caught Gloria in a state of undress.
In different circumstances Elfrida might have played safe, gracefully declined, made excuses. But she had dined well and drunk delicious wine, and emboldened by this, a tiny flame of self-assertion flickered into life. She had never allowed herself to be bullied, and was not about to start. So she smiled into Gloria’s threatening frowns, and then turned her head and let the smile rest upon her host. She said, “If you want, I should like to, very much….”
“Splendid.” Like a child, the old man clapped his hands.
“What a treat.”
And Elfrida stood, and crossed the floor to where Oscar waited for her.
“What will you sing?”
She told him. An old Rodgers and Hart number.
“Do you know it?”
“Of course.”
A chord or two for introduction. It had been a long time. She straightened her shoulders, filled her lungs…. “I took one look at you…”
Her voice had aged to thinness, but she could still hold, truly, the tune.
“And then my heart stood still.”
And she was all at once consumed by reason less happiness, and felt young again, standing by Oscar, and, with him, filling the room with the music of their youth.
Gloria scarcely spoke for the rest of the evening, but nobody endeavoured to coax her out of her black mood. While they marvelled and congratulated Elfrida on her performance, Gloria drank her brandy. When it was time to leave, Sir Edwin accompanied them out to where Gloria’s highly powered estate car was parked on the neatly raked gravel. Elfrida bade him good night, and got into the back of the car, but it was Oscar who slipped in behind the driving wheel, and Gloria was forced to take the passenger seat of her own vehicle.
Heading home, “How did you enjoy your evening?” Oscar asked his wife. Gloria replied shortly, “I have a headache,” and fell silent once more.
Elfrida thought, no wonder, but prudently didn’t say it. And that was perhaps the saddest truth of all. Gloria Blum dell, hard-headed and with a stomach like a tin bucket, drank too much. She was never incapable, never hung over. But she drank too much. And Oscar knew it.
Oscar. And now, here he was, in Mrs. Jennings’s shop on a grey October afternoon, picking up his newspaper and paying for a bag of dog meal. He wore corduroys and a thick tweedy-looking sweater, and sturdy boots, which seemed to indicate that he had been gardening, remembered these necessary errands, and come.
Mrs. Jennings looked up.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Phipps.”
With his hand full of change, Oscar turned and saw her.
“Elfrida. Good afternoon.”
She said, “You must have walked. I didn’t see your car.”
“Parked it round the corner. That’s it, I think, Mrs. Jennings.”
He moved aside to make space for Elfrida, and stood, apparently in no sort of hurry to go.
“We haven’t seen you for days. How are you?”
“Oh, surviving. A bit fed up with this weather.”
“Dreadful, isn’t it?” Mrs. Jennings chipped in.
“Chilly and muggy all at once, doesn’t make you feel like doing anything. What have you got there, Mrs. Phipps?”
Elfrida unloaded the contents of her basket, so that Mrs. Jennings could price them, and put it all through her till. A loaf of bread, half a dozen eggs, some bacon and butter, two tins of dog food, and a magazine called Beautiful Homes.
“Want me to charge them?”
“If you would; I’ve left my purse at home.”
Oscar saw the magazine. He said, “Are you going to go in for some domestic improvements?”
“Probably not. But I find reading about other people’s is therapeutic. I suppose because I know I haven’t got to get my paint-pot out. A bit like listening to somebody else cutting the grass.”
Mrs. Jennings thought this was very funny.
“Jennings put his mower away, back of September. Hates cutting the grass, he does.”
Oscar watched while Elfrida reloaded her basket. He said, “I’ll give you a ride home, if you like.”
“I don’t mind walking. I’ve got Horace with me.”
“He’s welcome to join us. Thank you, Mrs. Jennings. Goodbye.”
“Cheerio, Mr. Blundell. Regards to the wife.”
Together, they emerged from the shop. Outside on the pavement, the youths still loitered. They had been joined by a dubious-looking girl with a cigarette, raven-black hair, and a leather skirt that scarcely reached to her crotch. Her presence seemed to have galvanized the young men into a pantomime of joshing, insults, and meaningless guffaws. Horace, trapped in the middle of such unseemly behaviour, sat and looked miserable. Elfrida untied his lead, and he wagged his tail, much relieved, and the three of them made their way around the corner and down the narrow lane where Oscar had left his old car. She got into the passenger seat, and Horace jumped up and sat on the floor, between her knees, with his head pressed onto her lap. As Oscar joined them, slammed the door, and switched on the ignition, she said, “I never expect to meet anyone in the shop in the afternoons. Mornings are the social time. That’s when you get all the chat.”
“I know. But Gloria’s in London, and I forgot about the papers.” He turned the car and nosed out into the main street. School for the day was over, and the pavements were busy with a procession of tired and grubby children, trailing satchels and making their way home. The man in the churchyard had got his bonfire going, and grey smoke streamed up into the still, dank air.
“When did Gloria go to London?”
“Yesterday. For some meeting or other. Save the Children, I believe. She took the train. I’ve got to meet her off the six-thirty.”
“Would you like to come back and have a cup of tea with me? Or would you prefer to return to your gardening?”
“How do you know I’ve been gardening?”
“Clues dropped. Woman’s intuition. Mud on your boots.”
He laughed.
“Perfectly correct, Mr. Holmes. But I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea. Gardener’s perks.”
They passed the pub. Another moment or so, and they had reached the lane that ran down the slope towards the railway line and the small row of terraced cottages that was Poulton’s Row. At her gate, he drew up, and they decanted themselves; Horace, freed of his lead, bounded ahead up the path, and Elfrida, lugging her basket, followed him. She opened the door.
“Don’t you ever lock it?” Oscar asked from behind her.
“Not for a village shopping spree. Anyway, there’s little to steal. Come along in, shut the door behind you.” She went through to the kitchen and dumped the basket on the table.
“If you feel very kind, you could put a match to the fire. A day like this needs a bit of cheer.” She filled the kettle at the tap and set it on the stove. Then she took off her jacket, draped it over the back of a chair, and began to assemble a few items of mismatched china.
“Mugs or teacups?”
“Mugs for gardeners.”
“Tea by the fire, or shall we sit in here?”
“I’m always happier with my knees under a table.”
Without much hope, Elfrida opened cake-tins. Two were empty. The third contained the heel of a gingerbread. She put this on the table, with a knife. She took milk from the fridge and emptied the carton into a yellow pottery jug. She found the sugar-bowl. From the other room could now be heard crackling sounds and the snap of hot twigs. She went to the doorway and stood, leaning against the lintel, observing Oscar. He was placing, with some care, a couple of lumps of coal on the top of his small pyre. Aware of Elfrida’s presence, he straightened and turned his head to smile at her.
“Blazing nicely. Properly laid, with plenty of kindling. Do you need logs for the winter? I can let you have a load, if you’d like.”
“Where would I store them?”
“We could stack them in the front garden, against the wall.”
“That would be marvelous, if you could spare a few.”
“We’ve more than enough.” He dusted his hands on his trouser legs and looked about him.
“You know, you have made this little place very charming.”
“It’s a muddle, I know. Not enough space. Possessions are a quandary, aren’t they? They become part of you, and I’m not very good at throwing things away. And there are one or two little bits and pieces I’ve been carrying about with me for years, dating back to the giddy days when I was on the stage. I was like a snail with its shell on its back. A silk shawl or the odd knickknack rendered theatrical lodgings a little more bearable.”
“I particularly like your little Staffordshire dogs.”
“They were always part of my luggage, but they’re not, actually, a pair.”
“And the little travelling clock.”
“That travelled, too.”
“It appears well-worn.”
“
“Battered’ would be nearer the truth. I’ve had it for years; it was left to me by an elderly godfather. I… I have one thing which I think might be very valuable, and it’s that little picture.”
It hung to one side of the fireplace, and Oscar found his spectacles and put them on, the better to inspect the painting.
“Where did you get this?”
“A present from an actor. We were both in a revival of Hay Fever at Chichester, and at the end of the run he said that he wanted me to have it. A leaving present. He’d picked it up in a junk-shop and I don’t think paid all that much for it, but was excited, because he was sure that it was a David Wilkie.”
“Sir David Wilkie?” Oscar frowned.
“A valuable possession. So why did he give it to you?”
But Elfrida would not be drawn.
“To thank me for mending his socks?”
He returned his gaze to the painting. It took up little space, being only about eleven inches by eight, and depicted an elderly couple in eighteenth-century dress sitting at a table on which lay a huge leather Bible. The background was sombre, the man’s clothes dark. But the woman wore a canary-yellow shawl and a red dress, and her white bonnet was frilled and ribboned.
“I would say she’s dressed for some celebration, wouldn’t you?”
“Without doubt. Perhaps, Elfrida, you should lock your front door.”
“Perhaps I should.”
“Is it insured?”
“It is my insurance. Against a rainy day. When I find myself on the streets with only a couple of plastic bags, and Horace at the end of a piece of string. Then, and only then, will I think about selling it.”
“A hedge against disaster.” Oscar smiled and took off his spectacles.
“Whatever. It is the manner in which you have put your possessions together that melds into such a pleasing whole. I am sure you own nothing that you do not think to be beautiful or know to be useful.”
“William Morris.”
“And, perhaps, the measure of good taste.”
“Oscar, you say the nicest things.”
At this moment, from the kitchen, Elfrida’s kettle let out a startling toot, which meant that it was boiling. She went to retrieve it, and Oscar followed, and watched while she made the tea in a round brown teapot, which she set upon the wooden table.
“If you like builders’ tea, you’d better wait for a moment or two. And if you’d rather, you can have lemon instead of milk. And there’s some stale gingerbread.”
“A feast.” Oscar pulled out a chair and settled himself, as though relieved to get the weight off his legs. She sat, too, facing him across the table, and busied herself cutting the gingerbread. She said, “Oscar, I am going away.”
He did not reply, and she looked up and saw, on his face, an expression of horrified astonishment.
“Forever?” he asked fearfully.
“Of course not forever.”
His relief was very evident.
“Thank God for that. What a fright you gave me.”
“I’d never leave Dibton forever. I’ve told you. This is where I’m going to spend my twilight years. But it’s time for a holiday.”
“Are you feeling particularly exhausted?”
“No, but autumn always depresses me. A sort of limbo between summer and Christmas. A dead time. And I’m going to have another birthday soon. Sixty-two. Even more depressing. So , time for a change.”
“Perfectly sensible. It will do you good. Where will you go?”