Alison Giles - Meadowland

I slopped water on to a teabag and thrust a slice of bread into the toaster. I pulled out the card from behind it. ‘Well, why not?’ I said.

The temperature rose steadily as I drove, the early summer heatwave showing no signs of breaking. The heat pressed in through the wound-down windows whenever I was forced to slow.

The twists and turns of the last few miles were now sufficiently familiar to allow me to anticipate the road ahead. The feeling of confidence this gave me began to wane as I drove through the village, up the lane, and turned in through the gates of Wood Edge. I parked beside the yellow Citroën. The handbrake squealed as I pulled it on.

I eased myself out of the car, my crêpe shirt peeling away from the back of the seat and clamping itself in damp creases across my spine. I brushed back the wisps of hair sticking to my forehead.

‘You look as though the first thing you need is a shower.’ Flora had materialised behind me as I burrowed into the car to retrieve bits and pieces from the passenger seat.

I emerged and held out a bunch of irises. They matched the blues and yellows in her dress, which hung low necked and loose from comfortable shoulders. ‘Rather like bringing coals to Newcastle,’ I apologised, looking round at the garden about to burst into unordered bloom, ‘but I didn’t think chocolates would survive.’

She led the way into the house and stopped at the bottom of the stairs. ‘The bed’s made up. You remember where the bathroom is.’

The shower was a hand-held one in the cast-iron bath. I pulled the curtains round and doused myself. For a few minutes, everything but the blissful relief of tepid water on parched skin was drowned out. I towelled my hair, brushed it back loosely and, dressed in fresh cotton, slowly descended to the kitchen.

Flora had meanwhile prepared a tray – a pile of salad sandwiches and a large earthenware jug of juice in which segments of apple and orange floated.

I followed her outside and round to the back of the house. She placed the tray on the ground under the apple tree and I helped set up deck chairs in its shade.

‘I’m not at all sure why I’ve come,’ I said, having drained one glass of grape and pineapple and accepted another.

Flora acknowledged my statement with no more than the merest movement of her head. She leaned back, seeming in no hurry to press me to talk. In an odd way I found it comfortable sitting here with her, lunching companionably. Apart from the distant whirr of a tractor, there was no sound other than the discreet ones of our eating. But it was a deceptive silence. As my ears accustomed themselves to the quiet, I began to be aware of a background murmur: a flutter of wings; the protest of drying-out timbers as a bird landed on the shed roof; the sigh of grass under its feet as it hopped down, searching spy-eyed for insects; the click of its beak on the hardened soil. Bees, busy about their pollinating duties, strummed a steady harmony.

I put my plate down on the ground beside me. ‘That was delicious,’ I said. ‘Was the lettuce from the garden?’

She nodded.

She was watching my face and, with nothing to occupy me, uncertainty returned. ‘I thought it must be.’ I laughed awkwardly. ‘Lot more taste than those limp things one gets in London.’

I stared into the branches overhead. ‘Why did you invite me?’ I wondered what I was hoping she’d say – and what I was afraid she might say.

‘Andrew told me you’d been down. He got the impression you felt you wouldn’t be welcome. I thought you might appreciate reassurance.’

I lowered my gaze and tried to read her expression. It told me no more than the words themselves. ‘I think you’ve just put the ball back into my court,’ I complained.

‘Not really.’ Flora regarded me without rancour. ‘It’s always been there, hasn’t it?’

‘In my court?’

‘In the sense that it was up to you. You would have been more than welcome here at any time.’

I looked at her. Did she mean it?

‘It was hardly that simple …’ I said.

‘Your father and I both realised that.’ Flora picked up the jug, checked my glass, then refilled her own and sat back.

There was an extraordinary stillness about her. So unlike my mother who, even when she sat down, had to keep her hands busy. I wondered where she was now. Probably scouring some tourist attraction, determined not to miss any small corner on the itinerary. Just as she did with her duster; there was no place for cobwebs in her house. Everything clean and orderly.

Flora had been a particularly untidy item.

‘Even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t have come.’ I remembered my father’s one hesitant suggestion and knew it was true.

Flora’s hands cupped her glass. Her fingers were round and softly lined. An emerald gleamed on her right hand, its gold band nestling into the supple skin. ‘So why is it different now?’

I sipped my drink and wondered.

Flora rose to her feet; not particularly elegantly – I was beginning to realise that wasn’t her style. ‘I think I’ll clear these things away.’ She collected up the plates, leaving the jug and glasses.

‘Can I help?’

‘You stay there and relax. You’ve got things to think about.’ She brushed crumbs on to the grass and strolled off towards the house.

I was glad of the time to myself. My mind jumped and twisted; but came up with no satisfactory answers.

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