Joanna Trollope - A Village Affair

Sam took a gulp of his drink.

'Frankly, Al, I don't think I could take it on my own.'

Then you should understand exactly how I feel. Don't whine,' Alice said crossly. 'And don't try and make me feel guilty. I'm going, and that's that.'

Her father levered himself upright and came round the kitchen table to put his arm around her and plant a competent, whisky-scented kiss on her head.

'I don't blame you,' he said, 'and you shouldn't blame me for having a go at making you stay.'

'Blame,' Alice said, leaning against him and resentfully acknowledging how good he was at touching women. 'Don't talk about blame. It's a word never used at Dummeridge, and nor is guilt or loyalty or betrayal or any other of the awful emotional claptrap words you and Mum use all the time.'

Her father had gone out then, and she had returned to her room to finish packing, and when she came down, her mother was sitting on the brown repp-covered, foam-filled sofa in the sitting room staring into space with her hands gripping one another in her lap. Alice squatted beside her.

'Martin's coming for me at five.'

'I know,' her mother said.

'There's not much difference,' Alice said with difficulty, 'between going now and going when I'm married. Honestly, there isn't.'

Silence.

'It isn't - it isn't because I don't - well, it's not that I'm - I'm not fond of you and Dad, it's just the atmosphere here.'

'I see.'

'Nobody asks me to take sides there,' Alice said, pleading. 'I haven't got to think who I'm going to upset every time I open my mouth.'

Elizabeth Meadows continued to stare at nothing.

'I see.' A little pause. 'And is the Jordans' marriage a happy one?'

Alice was rather startled. She had never stopped to consider such a thing, and now that she did it came to her that perhaps it wasn't particularly companionable as a marriage but it was perfectly all right, and anyway, they both had their own lives, that was the difference.

They don't want it to be everything in life to them, like you do,' Alice said, making everything worse. 'Cecily has her own career, Richard's very successful-'

'How perfect,' her mother said, as if spitting out broken glass.

Alice sighed. She got up and went over to the french windows that opened into a sad little strip of garden that her mother tended with ferocious tidiness, filling the parallel beds with salvias and African marigolds in regimented rows.

'Look,' she said, 'whatever I do, I can't get it right. Either you're upset or Dad is. So I'm going only a little bit before marriage decently allows me to, where I get it right all the time without even trying.'

Elizabeth said, 'You protest too much. I am not attempting to prevent you,' and then, blessedly, the doorbell rang and it was Martin.

Alice never slept at Lynford Road again. The two months at Dummeridge passed like a happy dream. Richard was away almost all the time, and Cecily was in America for three weeks, and as Martin, taking his final exams, could not be there except weekends, Alice had the house to herself, looked after by Dorothy and as free as air. She slept in a hammock in the garden at midday, and at night wandered about in the pale summer darkness and made herself voluptuous sandwiches filled with cream cheese and dried apricots and chopped walnuts which she sometimes ate sitting quite naked on the moonlit lawn or in the unlit drawing room. She went down to the sea at midnight, with the surprised but politely acquiescent dogs, and swam in the glittering black water, and then walked home barefoot and sat on the Aga, wrapped in a blanket feeling her salty hair dry into long whispering snakes down her back. She meant to paint, but she didn't. She knew she would have to, when Cecily, came back, so she spun out her time alone greedily, luxuriously, drifting through the hot hayfields beyond the house, leaning her cheek against walls and trees, lying on her stomach on the lawn with her arm plunged into the goldfish pool watching the light darting in the water and the bubbles of air pour upwards from the hairs on her arm.

She saw Martin off to London on Sunday nights without a pang; indeed, when the sound of the Mini's busy little engine had quite faded away she felt a bubbling up of her spirits, as if she were really free again. This made her go straight to the kitchen and sit down at the huge scrubbed table and write to him very lovingly, telling lum how much she looked forward to Friday, and how carefully he must drive. She wrote these letters in all sincerity. When she had written them, she would go down to the sea and swim and swim and swim. Dorothy, finding wet towels on the Aga rail so many early mornings, wondered whether she should say something about the lack of sense in swimming alone in the sea in the middle of the night and decided, looking at Alice, not to. The moment she was married, that freedom would vanish, you never got it again, so even if it was risky, it was worth it, and after all, everything worth having was a risk, one way or another.

Alice had only two visitors besides Martin, while Cecily was away. One was Anthony who arrived unannounced for the night, drank copiously at dinner and tried, in a very practised way, to kiss her afterwards. She said, standing quite rigid in his arms. 'But I don't fancy you at all. I don't find you in the least attractive.'

'Try me,' he said, bending his head.

She bent away.

'In any case,' she said, 'you are only having a go to score off Martin.'

So Anthony dropped his arms and went to bed, and was gone when she woke in the morning.

The other visitor was her future father-in-law, at home for two nights, between journeys. He telephoned her to say he was coming. She said, wanting to be dutiful, 'Is there anything I ought to do? I mean, anything you'd like or usually have-'

No, he said, nothing. She was to take no notice of him; Dorothy could do what had to be done. He would be there for dinner. So she went for a long, aimless, happy walk, spending a great deal of time in an unexpected stream building a dam, and came back about teatime to hear the sound of someone playing the piano. It could only be Cecily. Full of a sudden rush of pleased excitement, she burst into the drawing room crying, 'Oh, I wasn't expecting-' and found that it was Richard.

He stopped and turned round.

'But,' Alice said, 'you don't play the piano!'

He smiled.

'I do.'

'But Cecily-'

'I always have. I'm competent but uninspired, as you may imagine. I never play if I think there is anyone in the house.'

She crossed the room slowly, and stood beside him. He had been playing Schubert, too.

'I've really thrown you,' he said, 'haven't I.'

She felt her face grow hot.

'Yes. I thought-' she paused.

'I know,' he said. 'People do.' He got up from the piano and brushed his hands briskly together as if he were shaking off the disconcerting unfamiliarity. He looked down at her and she wondered if he were very slightly laughing at her, but all he said was, 'You look well. What have you been doing?'

And she said, looking back, 'Absolutely nothing.'

He had liked that. He wanted, later, to hear what absolutely nothing involved. She could tell him parts of it, though clearly to tell a man who is about to become your father-in-law that you had lain naked on his drawing room sofa eating sandwiches in the middle of the night was hardly on. She was, to her surprise, sorry when he went away, bound for Heathrow and then the Gulf of Mexico. He hadn't seemed, while he was at Dummeridge, either to take the house away from her and after all, it was his - or to encroach upon her freedom. On the contrary, he seemed to have his own private freedom which tantalized her a little, made her want to know more about him. When he was gone, she found to her intense annoyance that she was just a little lonely, so that when Cecily returned three days later she had the same kind of thankful, over-excited welcome from Alice as from her dogs.