Alison Giles - Meadowland

‘Maybe,’ I took the occasion to venture, ‘Clare’s father would give me a lift. They pass the end of the road anyway.’

My mother’s lips pursed. ‘No.’

She was like that; refusing to ask for or accept any sort of help from anyone. Unsanitary gurglings one Sunday morning advised that the drains were blocked.

‘Wait till Daddy gets home,’ I suggested.

Mother wouldn’t hear of it. ‘What do you expect me to do?’ she demanded. ‘Keep my legs crossed all day?’

I laughed. Then hastily straightened my face.

Unearthing some ancient sailing trousers and an anorak and reaching for the Marigold gloves, she covered herself from head to foot in waterproofing. Then, heaving aside the manhole cover outside the back door, she prodded the murky sewage with a broken branch. ‘I think there are some rods in the shed,’ she instructed.

I sought them out. Meticulously, she assembled them one by one, pushing the gradually increasing length down and along the underground pipe. I was despatched to lift off the drain cover further down the garden.

Mother raised her head. ‘Anything coming through?’

Suddenly there was a sploosh, echoing and rumbling towards me, and a welter of thick brown porridge surged across the hole at my feet.

‘You’ve done it!’ I shrieked.

‘Yes?’ For an instant, something like pleasure crossed my mother’s face as she stared enquiringly at me.

Much hosing later, with disinfected rods stacked neatly in their place again and scrubbed waterproofs hanging over the line, Mother emerged from the shower, smelling of soap and shampoo, her hair wrapped in a towel. ‘There,’ she said with a look of brave acceptance. ‘One can always manage if one has to.’

If Father felt reproached when he returned that evening, he gave no sign of it. Mildly he remarked, ‘You should have left it to me.’

I was about to say, ‘That’s what I said.’ But Mother shushed me with a look.

I shifted restlessly in my seat as she served up spaghetti Bolognese, chattering about Mrs Duckworth’s roses. Father commented on the traffic jams on the bypass. I wanted my mother to be angry, my father to acknowledge guilt. But as always, if they felt those emotions – or any others for that matter – they never showed them.

A motorbike swooped past me as I approached the brow of the hill. ‘Bloody idiot!’ I yelled, surprising myself at my vehemence. By the time I levelled off on to the narrow plateau, the bike was a blur disappearing down the other side.

I slowed. From my earlier study of the map, I guessed that the road ahead plunged straight into Cotterly; that I was less than a mile or so from my destination.

I pulled on to the entrance to a wheel-marked track into the wood and turned off the engine. I reached for my bag, found a cigarette and lit it. Stupid habit, I acknowledged, but one I’d taken up after the Mark episode. Mother didn’t approve, of course. I tried not to smoke when I visited her. In any case, I usually restricted myself to two or three, just in the evenings. But today was different.

I inhaled deeply and wound down the window to allow the smoke to escape. The air that flooded into the car had a tang to it. On impulse, I pulled the key from the ignition and climbed out. My shoes sank into the soft ground. I leaned against the warm bonnet while I finished my cigarette, savouring the freshness of the air on my face. Then I threw the stub on to the ground and watched it extinguish as I shrugged my arms into my coat and hugged it round me. A walk would help clear my mind.

By keeping to the hump in the middle of the track, I was able to circumvent the worst of the mud. Ditches on either side were filled with composting autumn leaves. On their slopes, and in among the trees too, occasional clusters of primroses winked pale yellow eyes. I picked my way across the ruts and crouching down, coat-skirt tucked carefully behind my knees to prevent it trailing on the ground, gathered a small bunch. I held them up as a nosegay, breathing in the fragrance.

A cloud crossed the sun which, weak though it was, had been shining comfortingly on my back. I stood up, shivered, and marched on. I could see that the trees petered out a hundred yards or so further along and had an idea that maybe I would be able to look down on the village.

I was right. A huge muddied grass field fell away in front of me revealing a hotchpotch of dwellings in the distance. Which one of them, I wondered, was Wood Edge? I would have to ask directions.

I wondered suddenly if my mother was aware that the sealed envelope, inscribed so seemingly mundanely in my father’s handwriting ‘Weekend address’, had been tampered with. Two weeks ago, a few days after Father’s funeral, I had located it, discreetly tucked away at the back of the top right-hand drawer of the bureau where Father had whispered to me from his hospital bed I would find it, and steamed it open while Mother was having tea at the vicarage. I’d been invited along too but had pleaded a headache. Mother had nodded understandingly: ‘But I feel I have to go – so kind of them to invite me.’

It had been a curious feeling staring at the address – the words on the page somehow transforming the ethereal quality of Father’s ‘absence’ into the concrete reality of his presence elsewhere. Presumably Mother didn’t know the details of it, else why was the envelope there? Had she, bar in dire emergency, always preferred not to; been devoid even of curiosity?

I copied it out, re-inserted the original into the envelope and stuck it down again as neatly as possible. I could only hope Mother wouldn’t notice the hint of tell-tale wrinkling, nor indeed the lack of dust which I’d wiped away to erase the smudges I’d made in it.

She refused my suggestion, inspired at least in part by that concern, that she wait and let me help sort through Father’s things next time I could get down from London. ‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘I can manage. And anyway I’d rather get on with it.’

I wondered what progress she’d made. Staring down now on the place where Father had spent so much of his time, I wasn’t sure whether I was grateful or not to be excused the somewhat ghoulish task. Wasn’t it all part of the last rites; of saying goodbye?

A wind ruffled briefly across the ridge and for an instant a vision of my father, laughing with me, filled my mind. I sank down on a tree stump, careless this time of my clothing, and found myself rocking, head in hands. Tears welled up. For a moment I felt like a child again – confused, angry, helpless.

I pulled myself together. This was ridiculous. I was, I reminded myself, twenty-five years old, owner – courtesy of a deposit I’d only briefly hesitated, damn it why not, to accept from Father – of a flat in Fulham, and a rising executive in a West End-based travel company. I hadn’t been close to my father for years. If either of us should feel his loss at all, it was my mother.

And Flora. The thought took me by surprise. I pushed it away.

I stood up, glanced once more at the innocuous-looking buildings below, and turned. As I retraced my steps, a Land Rover lurched along the path towards me. Moving over, I waited for it to pass.

‘Is that your car back there? Had a hell of a job squeezing past it!’ Early to mid-thirties; expensive but well-worn jersey over check shirt; land-owning accent. Not aggressive; not even irritated; just mildly reproving.

He had driven on before I’d decided whether or not to apologise. I glared after him indignantly. Tough. It wasn’t my choice to be here.

Back at the car, I jettisoned the already drooping primroses, cleaned off my shoes as best I could, and renewed my make-up. The books were still lying, dishevelled, on the floor. I heaved them back on to the seat, straightened their edges, and pulled on to the road. The car purred reassuringly and the sun, already on a downward path, reinstated itself in a patch of watery blue sky. I checked my watch as I started the descent. Well gone two already. If this one-horse place did have a pub, it would probably be closed by now. And I could have done with a sandwich at least – not to mention a drink.