Oscar, Gloria, and Francesca were Elfrida’s first friends. Through them, she met others. Not just the McGeareys and the Millses, but the Foubisters, who were old-established and held the annual summer church fete in the park of their rambling Georgian house. And Commander Burton Jones, Royal Navy Retired, a widower and immensely industrious, labouring in his immaculate garden, Chairman of the Public Footpath Association, and principal chorister in the church choir. Commander Burton Jones (Bobby’s the name) threw racy little drinks parties and called his bedroom his cabin. Then there were the Dunns, he an immensely wealthy man who had bought and converted the old Rectory into a marvel of space and convenience, complete with games-room and a covered and heated swimming-pool.
Others, humbler, came into her life one by one, as Elfrida went about her daily business. Mrs. Jennings, who ran the village shop and the post office. Mr. Hodgkins, who did the rounds, once a week, with his butcher’s van, was a reliable source of news and gossip, and held strong political views. Albert Meddows, who answered her advertisement (a postcard stuck up in Mrs. Jennings’s window) for garden help, and tackled, single-handed, the sad disarray and crooked pavings of Elfrida’s back garden. The vicar and his wife invited her to a fork supper, in the course of which he repeated his suggestion that she join the Women’s Institute. Politely declining-she did not enjoy bus trips and had never made a pot of jam in her life-she agreed to involvement with the primary school and ended up producing their annual pantomime at Christmas.
All amiable enough and welcoming, but none of them Elfrida found either as interesting or stimulating as the Blundells. Gloria’s hospitality was without bounds, and scarcely a week went by when Elfrida was not invited to spend time at the Grange, for lavish meals or some outdoor occasion like a tennis party (Elfrida did not play tennis, but was happy to observe) or a picnic. There were other, more far-flung, occasions: the spring point-to-point at a nearby farm, a visit to a National Trust garden, an evening out at the theatre at Chichester. She had spent Christmas with them, and New Year’s Eve, and when she threw her first little party for all her new friends (Albert Meddows having resuscitated her garden, levelled the flagstones, pruned the honeysuckle, and painted the shed), it was Oscar who volunteered to be her barman and Gloria who produced copious eats from her own spacious kitchen.
However, there were limits and reservations. There had to be if Elfrida was not to be absorbed by, and beholden to, the Blundells. From the very first, she had recognized Gloria as a forceful woman-with, possibly, a ruthless streak, so determined was she always that things should go her way-and was more than aware of the dangers of such a situation. She had left London to make a life of her own, and knew that it would be only too easy for a single and fairly impoverished female to be swept along (and possibly drowned) in the churning wake of Gloria’s social energy.
So, from time to time, Elfrida had learned to step back, to keep to herself, to make excuses. A work overload, perhaps, or a prior engagement, which could not possibly be broken, with some imagined acquaintance whom Gloria did not know. Every now and then, she escaped from the confines of Dibton, packing Horace into the passenger seat of her old car and driving far out across country, to some other county where she was not known, and where she and Horace could climb a sheep-grazed hill, or follow the path by some dark flowing stream, and find at the end of it a pub full of strangers, where she could eat a sandwich and drink coffee and relish her precious solitude.
On such occasions, distanced from Dibton, and with her perceptions sharpened by a sense of perspective, it became possible to be analytical about her involvement with the Blundells, and to catalogue her findings, impersonal and detached as a shopping list.
The first was that she liked Oscar immensely; perhaps too much. She was well past the age of romantic love, but companionship was another matter. From their first meeting outside Dibton church, when she had been instantly taken with him, she had come to enjoy his company more and more. Time had not proved that first impression wrong.
But the ice was thin. Elfrida was neither sanctimonious nor a lady with enormously high moral standards; indeed, all the time she lived with him, her dear dead lover had been the husband of another woman. But Elfrida had never met his wife, and the marriage was already on the rocks by the time he and Elfrida found each other, and for this reason she had never been consumed by guilt. On the other hand, there was another and not nearly so harmless scenario, and one which Elfrida had witnessed more than once. That of the single lady, widowed, divorced, or otherwise bereft, being taken under the wing of a loyal girl-friend, only to scarper with the loyal girl-friend’s husband. A reprehensible situation and one of which she strongly disapproved.
But in Elfrida’s case, it was not about to happen. And she knew that her awareness of danger and her own common sense were her greatest strengths.
Second was that Francesca, at twelve years old, was the daughter whom, if she had ever had a child, Elfrida would have liked to call her own. She was independent, open, and totally straightforward, and yet possessed of a sense of the ridiculous that could reduce Elfrida to helpless laughter, and an imagination that was fed by voracious reading of books. Into these, Francesca became so absorbed that one could go into a room, switch on the television, hold loud discussions, and Francesca would not even raise her head from the printed page. During the school holidays, she frequently turned up at Poulton’s Row, to play with Horace or watch Elfrida at her sewing-machine, at the same time asking end less questions about Elfrida’s theatrical past, which she clearly found fascinating.
Her relationship with her father was unusually close and very sweet. He was old enough to be her grandfather, but their delight in each other’s company went far beyond that of the normal parent and child. From behind the closed music-room door could be heard the two of them playing duets on his piano, and fumbling mistakes brought not recrimination, but much laughter. On winter evenings he read aloud to her, the two of them curled up in his huge armchair, and her affection for him was manifested in frequent hugs and. loving physical contact, thin arms wound about his neck and kisses pressed onto the top of his thick white hair.
As for Gloria, Gloria was a man’s woman, and so closer to her grownup and married sons than her lately conceived daughter. Elfrida had met these sons, Giles and Crawford Bellamy, and their pretty, well-dressed wives, when they turned up at the Grange for a weekend, or drove down from London for Sunday lunch. Although not twins, they were strangely similar-conventional and opinionated. Elfrida got the impression that neither of the brothers approved of her, but as she didn’t much like either of them, that was not bothering. Their mother doted on them, which was far more important, and when the time came for them to leave for London or Bristol or wherever they lived, the boots of their expensive cars loaded down with fresh vegetables and fruit from Gloria’s kitchen garden, she would stand, waving them away, like any sentimental mother. It was patently clear that in her eyes neither son could do wrong, and Elfrida was pretty sure that if Gloria had not approved of their chosen brides, then both Daphne and Arabella would have got short shrift.
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.”