“No credit to me, Elfrida. All Serena. A glass of wine?”
“Delicious, thank you. It’s like another world, isn’t it, from the way you used to live. The house in Campden, and flogging off to the City every day, and formal entertaining, and knowing all the right people?”
He was on the other side of the room, pouring her wine. He did not immediately reply to her remarks, but seemed to be considering them. Returning, he gave her the wineglass, and sat again in his wide-lapped chair. Across the hearth rug their eyes met.
She said, “I’m sorry.”
“Why sorry?”
“Tactless. You know I’ve never thought before I spoke.”
“Not tactless. Just truthful. You’re right. Another world and one not mourned. Chasing after money, sending the girls to the right, and so appallingly expensive, schools. Hiring a butler every time we had a dinner party. Redesigning the kitchen because the Harley Wrights on the other side of the square had redesigned theirs and Dodie couldn’t stand to be left behind. Perpetually worried about the cash flow, the state of the stock market, the demands of Lloyds, the possibility of being made redundant. Sometimes I went through the whole night without sleeping. And all about nothing. But I had to walk out to discover that.”
“You’re all right now?”
“In what way?”
“I suppose, financially.”
“Yes, we’re fine. Even keel. We haven’t got much, but we don’t need it.”
“What do you live on? Your hens?”
He began to laugh.
“Scarcely. But they provide an occupation and a tiny income. Bed and breakfast helps in the summer, but we only have one room, which is yours, and the shared bathroom, so we can’t charge too much. There’s a derelict outbuilding between us and the farm, and from time to time we think of putting in an offer and converting it into an annex for paying visitors, but it’s such an undertaking that we keep putting it off. But Serena still works, doing flowers for weddings and parties and such, and Ben and Amy are getting an excellent education at the local school. To me it’s been a revelation, how simply one can live.”
“And happy?”
“Happier than I ever thought possible.”
“What about Dodie?”
“She’s living in a flat near Hurlingham, very desirable, with a view of the river. Nicola’s living with her. Nicola’s marriage fell to bits, so the two of them are shacked up together, doubtless getting on each other’s nerves.”
“And Nicola’s child?”
“My granddaughter. Lucy. She’s fourteen now. Poor kid, she’s living there, too. Can’t be much fun for her, but there’s not much I can do about it. I’ve tried asking her to come down to us and stay for a bit, but Nicola has labelled me as a villain, and Serena as a witch, and refuses to let her visit.”
Elfrida sighed. She could understand perfectly the hopelessness of the situation. She said, “How about Carrie?”
“Still in Austria or wherever. She’s got a good job with a travel company, quite a responsible position.”
“Do you see her?”
“Last time I was in London we had lunch together. But our paths seldom cross.”
“Not married?”
“No.”
“Does she come here?”
“No, but for the best of reasons. She doesn’t want to in-trade, to make things awkward for Serena and Ben and Amy. Anyway, she’s nearly thirty now. Not a child. She leads her own life. If she wanted to come to Emblo, she knows she only has to pick up the telephone.” He paused, to set down his glass and reach for a cigarette and light it. Elfrida said, “You haven’t given up smoking?”
“No, I haven’t given up and don’t intend to. Does that offend you?”
“Jeffrey, nothing in all my life has ever offended me. You know that.”
“You look wonderful. How are you?”
“Wonderful, perhaps.”
“Not too lonely?”
“Getting better.”
“It was cruel, what happened to you.”
“Jimbo, you mean? Darling man. It was crueler for him than for me. A slow degeneration of a wonderful, brilliant man. But no regrets, Jeffrey. I know we didn’t have very long together, but what we did have was special. Not many people achieve such happiness, even for a year or two.”
“Tell me about your Hampshire hideaway.”
“Dibton. The village is rather ordinary and dull. But somehow that was what I wanted. The house is a tiny railway cottage, one in a row. All I need.”
“Nice people?”
“Ordinary again. Kind and friendly. I think you could say I’ve been made welcome. I couldn’t stay in London.”
“Any special friends?”
She started telling him about the old Foubisters and Bobby Burton Jones, the vicar and his wife, and the Sunday school pantomime. She told him about Mrs. Jennings and Albert Meddows and the fabulously wealthy Mr. Dunn with his indoor swimming pool and immense conservatory filled with red-hot geraniums and rubber plants.
Finally, she told him about the Blundells. Oscar and Gloria and Francesca.
“They’ve been truly, enormously kind. Taken me under their wing, one might say. Gloria is wealthy and generous. The two don’t always go together, do they? She owns the house they live in, it’s called the Grange and is perfectly hideous, but frightfully warm and comfortable. She was married before, so she’s got two grownup married sons, but Francesca is so original and funny and sweet. Gloria is an avid hostess, scarcely a day passes when she isn’t organizing some party or picnic, or a get-together or committee meeting. She’s rather horsy and loves gathering a great gang of friends and setting off for some point-to-point, with a bar in the boot of her car, and her Pekingeses tied to the bumper barking their heads off at anyone who passes.”
Jeffrey was clearly amused. “And does Oscar enjoy such occasions?”
“I don’t know. But he’s a gentle, amiable man… a charmer, really … and he and Francesca go off together, and put bets on unlikely horses and buy themselves ice-creams.”
“What does he do? Or is he retired?”
“He’s a musician. An organist. A pianist. A teacher.”
“How clever of you to find such an interesting couple. They clearly adore you. Probably because you’ve always had the effect of a good strong gust of fresh air.”
But Elfrida voiced her reservations.
“I have to be quite careful and strict with myself. I do not intend to become absorbed.”
“Who wouldn’t want to absorb you?”
“You mustn’t be partisan.”
“I was always on your side.”
In later years, looking back to those weeks she spent at Emblo, the thing that Elfrida most clearly remembered was the sound of the wind. It blew perpetually; at times shrunken to a lively breeze, at others pounding in from the sea at gale-force strength, assaulting the cliffs, howling down chimneys and rattling at doors and window-panes. After a bit, she became used to its constant presence, but at night the wind was impossible to ignore, and she would lie in the dark, hearing it sweep in from the Atlantic, stream up across the moor, the branches of an elderly apple tree tapping like a ghost at her window.
It was-this wind made very clear-summer no longer. October moving into November and the nights drawing closer every evening. The farmer’s cows, his handsome Guernsey dairy herd, trod down from the fields, for the morning and evening milking, and churned to mud the lane that ran between Emblo and the farmhouse. After the evening milking, they were turned out into the fields again, and were adept at seeking shelter in the lee of a wall, or behind a tangle of thicket and gorse.
“Why can’t they spend the night indoors?” Elfrida wanted to know.
“They never do. We have no frosts, there’s plenty of grass.”
“Poor things.” But, she had to admit, they looked sleek and happy enough.
The daily routine of the little household took her over, and she slowed herself to its pace. There was always washing to be pegged out, shirts to be ironed, potatoes to be dug, hens to be fed, and eggs washed. After the first week, she realized with some surprise that for seven days she had neither read a newspaper nor watched television. The rest of the world could have blown itself to pieces while all Elfrida worried about was whether she could get the sheets off the line before the next shower of rain.
Some evenings, she took over the kitchen and cooked supper for Ben and Amy, so that Jeffrey and Serena were able to grab the chance of a dinner out by themselves or a visit to the nearest cinema. And she taught the children to play rummy, and mesmerized them with stories about the old days, when she was in the theatre.
One weekend, the fickle weather turned warm as spring, and the wind dropped and the sun shone from a cloudless sky. Determined to make the most of the benevolent day, Serena gathered up the farmer’s four youngsters, packed a picnic, and they all set out to walk across the fields towards the cliffs, a straggling party consisting of six children, three adults, and three dogs. Amy and Elfrida, side by side, brought up the rear. The footpath crossed stone stiles and snaked down between the gorse-and bramble bushes.
Elfrida spied blackberries.
“We should pick them,” she told Amy.
“We could make blackberry jelly.”
But Amy was wiser.
“No, we can’t. We can’t pick blackberries after the beginning of October, because that’s when the Cornish witches do wees on them.”
“How extraordinary. How do you know that?”
“Our teacher told us. But she didn’t say wees, she said ‘urinated.’” They reached the edge of the cliff and the whole breadth of the ocean was revealed, extravagantly blue and glittering with sunshine. The path trickled on, a precipitous and dangerous-looking descent into a secret cove. It was low tide, and so there lay a tiny sickle of sand, and rock-pools gleaming like jewels.
With some difficulty they all scrambled down, the dogs bounding fearlessly ahead. On the rocks, Amy left Elfrida and went to join the others on the sand, where Jeffrey had already started everybody digging a mammoth sand castle, and Serena searched for shells and pebbles with which to decorate this edifice.
Now midday, there was a real warmth in the sun, so Elfrida shed her jacket and rolled up the sleeves of her sweater. Rugs and baskets and haversacks had been dumped on a smooth flat rock, and she sat beside them watching the restless sea, and felt mesmerized by its sheer size and magnificence. The colours of the water, the clearness was breathtaking. Streaks of blue, green, turquoise, purple, all laced and streaked with white surf. A heavy swell was running, and the breakers formed far out, moving in and gathering height and weight before finally crashing against the jagged granite coastline, sending up great fountains of sizzling spray. Overhead the gulls wheeled, and out towards the horizon, a small fishing boat butted its way through the turbulent water.
Staring, bewitched, she lost all sense of time, but after a bit was joined by Serena, come to unpack the picnic. From the haversacks she produced bottles, plastic cups, paper napkins, a bag of apples. As well there emanated the warm, mouthwatering smell of hot pasties.
Elfrida was amazed.
“Whenever did you make pasties, Serena? They take forever.”
“I always keep a dozen or so in the deep freeze. The children love them.”
“Me, too.”
“I took them out last night. I had a feeling it was going to be a good day. How about a drink? You can have lager or wine. Or lemonade, if you’re feeling abstemious.”
“Wine would be perfect.”
The bottle was wrapped in a wine cooler, and drunk from a plastic glass tasted better than any wine had ever tasted before. Elfrida turned back to the sea.
She said, “This is heaven.”
“In the summer we come most weekends. It’s easier now that both children can do the walk themselves.”
“What a happy family you are.”
“Yes,” said Serena, and smiled.
“I know. So fortunate. But I do know that, Elfrida. I really do know. And every day I say thank you.”
From time to time, Elfrida left Emblo and took herself off on her own, driving her little car and leaving Horace behind in the company of Jeffrey’s sheepdogs. She found herself amazed that such a small tract of country could be so wild, so remote, and yet so varied. Roads, freed of the summer tourist traffic, were narrow and winding, but all she ever met was the occasional bus or butcher’s van or tractor. And she would cross an empty moor, and the road would slip down into a tiny valley thick with rhododendrons, where enviable gardens were still verdant with hydrangeas and the dangling ballerina blossoms of fuchsia.
One day, she made the trip into the neighbouring town, where she parked her car and walked down into the warren of baffling lanes and alley-ways that led to the harbour. On the harbour road were restaurants and gift shops and many small galleries displaying every kind of art and sculpture. She found a bookshop and went in and took some time choosing two books for Ben and Amy. And so delightful was this that she browsed on and, thinking of Francesca, bought a book for her as well. She found it in the second-hand section, The Island of Sheep, by John Buchan, and she remembered reading it at school and becoming totally caught up in the adventure. This was a story Oscar and Francesca could read together, the two of them squashed into a single huge armchair by the flickering log-fire.
She had the books wrapped and went out into the street again, continuing on her way. In a craft-shop, she found brilliantly patterned hand-knitted sweaters, and chose two. One for Jeffrey and one for Serena. She bought postcards and a bottle of wine, and by now considerably laden, set out once more walking away from the harbour and into a maze of cobbled streets where washing hung, and window-boxes were brilliant with nasturtium and pink petunias. Another gallery. Unable to resist, she paused to look in its window and saw a little abstract painting, its frame bleached like driftwood, with all the colours of Cornwall set into shapes that represented exactly her own impressions and feelings about this ancient land.
Elfrida craved it. Not for herself, but as a present. She thought that if Jimbo were still alive, she would have bought it for him, because it was exactly the sort of image that he would have loved beyond anything. She imagined giving it to him, bringing it to his house in Barnes where they had been so unimaginably happy together. Watching him strip off the wrappings, watching his face, knowing that his reaction would be one of delight and pleasure … The picture wavered and became watery. She realized that her eyes had filled with tears. She had never cried for Jimbo, simply grieved and mourned privately to herself, and tried to learn to live with the cold loneliness of an existence without him. She had thought that she had achieved this, but it could not be so. She wondered if perhaps she was a woman who could not live without a man, and if this was true, then there was nothing she could do about it.