Alison Giles - Meadowland

His eyebrows shot up. ‘Whoops,’ he said, ‘that must make you pacifier in chief?’

‘Something like it,’ I laughed.

I could feel myself relaxing as he pressed me to recount the contents of some of the more bizarre mail that landed on my desk.

Flora intervened to allot tasks in the preparation of the evening meal. As I peeled potatoes and Andrew chopped vegetables beside me, he whispered, while Flora was briefly out of the room, ‘Don’t judge Flora on first acquaintance. There’s a heart of gold under that dour exterior.’

I didn’t answer but concentrated on swishing the mud off the last potato.

‘I hadn’t intended to stay more than half an hour,’ I eventually said. Let him make what he would of that for a response.

‘Oh? I’m not sure that I quite …’

‘You haven’t told me what you do.’ My tone was artificially bright. ‘Do you farm?’

He accepted the change of subject. ‘Only at weekends – and even then only because I’m dragooned into it. No, no. I’m the second son. It was the army or the law for me. I opted for the latter.’

‘You’re a solicitor?’

‘Small practice in town. Mostly land disputes; a few matrimonials. Not so dissimilar from what you do, I suppose, except it’s fists rather than letters that thump on to my desk.’

I laughed, picking up the saucepan and turning.

‘Goodness. You are like …’ Andrew was staring at me.

‘My father?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘Do you know,’ I said slowly, ‘until today, no-one’s ever suggested that to me.’ I passed the saucepan to Flora, who had returned to her place at the stove and was standing there, holding out a hand.

I recollected the scene, back in Fulham the following afternoon. Remembering Flora’s Aga, the flat seemed dispiritingly chilly, despite my having turned up the central heating. I had a sudden urge to wrap my hands round a mug of cocoa. Rummaging in the back of the cupboard, I found an ancient tin.

It tasted good. I curled up in an armchair and switched on the television. A 1940s’ black and white film was nearing its climax. I tried to concentrate, to pick up the threads of the story, but found it impossible to focus my attention. The turmoil of the last thirty-six hours was too immediate.

Throughout supper, which we’d eaten at the kitchen table, Andrew had kept up a stream of light conversation. The children, I discovered, were Tom and Justin, aged eleven and nine and ‘noisy little terrors’. I blinked. Andrew must either have started young or be older than he seemed. Still, he was saying, it was good to see them enjoying life; and Ginny, he had to hand it to her, was a first-rate mother.

I learned that old Mr and Mrs Partridge had been on holiday to ‘Oh, somewhere in the Balearics’ and – he turned to me: ‘This will sound familiar’ – hadn’t stopped moaning since they got back about not being able to tune in out there to the British weather forecast. ‘Seems their only interest was in comparing hours of sunshine and making sure they were getting their money’s worth.’ Mrs Tuckett – ‘Why couldn’t she have chosen anywhere but here to retire to!’ – had managed to get herself elected on to the village hall committee and had been so rude to Commander Lancaster that now there was some doubt that he’d allow his paddock to be used for the summer fête. More seriously, had Flora heard that there was a brucellosis scare at Upper Farm? Philip – his brother, I deduced – was only too thankful he’d switched over to arable.

It was all village talk and I was torn between disdain and reluctant fascination. Whichever, I was more comfortable sitting on the sidelines listening.

Andrew left at about ten, gripping my hand and hoping he’d see me again soon.

I helped clear away the dishes and wash up.

‘Andrew’s nice,’ said Flora, as she dried her hands. ‘Parents left everything but the old Dower House to Philip, of course. Andrew and Ginny …’ She lapsed into silence. I shrugged mentally; it was no concern of mine. It was what I was gleaning about my father that tantalised me. Over a cup of coffee before bed, I brought up the subject of his paintings again.

‘I really had no idea,’ I said.

‘I expect you’d like to have the one of you.’

‘May I?’

‘Of course.’

I expressed my gratitude. I wished I could make her out.

Flora was glancing at her watch. ‘I’ll show you your room. You’ll need a hot water bottle.’ She fished one out from a cupboard and filled it from the kettle simmering on the hotplate.

I was glad of it; the bedroom was icy. Flora produced a nightdress and toothbrush. ‘Come down when you’re ready in the morning,’ she said.

Despite everything, or perhaps because of it, I must have fallen asleep straightaway. I woke to the sound of hooves clopping along the lane. It took me a moment or two to orientate myself.

I got out of bed and, wrapping the eiderdown round me, pulled back the curtains. The room was on the opposite side to the kitchen, facing east. Frost glittered on the ground, and a faint glow behind the trees indicated mat the sun would soon dispel the greyness.

I dressed and crept downstairs. The grandfather clock, ticking away sonorously, registered a few minutes past seven. For a moment I considered sneaking out to the car and driving off before Flora appeared. After all, I’d completed my mission. But then the childishness of such an action dissuaded me. I would at least wait and bid her a civil farewell.

Warming myself by the Aga, I heated the kettle and brewed a pot of tea. To my surprise, it was the back door that opened. ‘Oh, there you are,’ said Flora. She deposited a handful of eggs beside the sink. ‘Breakfast?’

In the end, it was mid-morning before I left. Somehow Flora persuaded me to take a walk through the woods before I departed. ‘You should,’ she said. ‘Your father loved it.’ She didn’t suggest accompanying me.

The lane petered out to a track, horseshoe imprints fresh there in the damp earth. Between the shadows of branches meeting overhead, sunlight glinted, dappling tree trunks and ground. I stood and breathed in great lungfuls of sweet-tasting air, gasping at yet relishing its coldness. It seemed to reach right through me, scouring out restraint. I stared up at the sky and shook my head in wonder. Every sense tingled.

Then I heard it – the sound of running water. Twenty yards further on, I came across a broad stream meandering up to the edge of the path and away from it again. I hunched down beside it, watching the flow of ripples round stones. I looked for fish but couldn’t see any. Maybe it was too early in the year.

I’m not sure how long I stayed there. Eventually, cramp in my legs forced me to straighten up. Reluctantly I wandered back, pausing every now and again, as though I could capture and hold within me every whisper and scent.

When I got back to the house, Flora was in the garden picking daffodils. ‘I thought you might like to take a few with you,’ she said. ‘They’ll come out in a day or two.’

In the kitchen, the watercolour had been set aside from the others and lay ready on the table. Flora carried it out to the car and stood waiting as I took it from her and placed it carefully in the back. The daffodils I laid on the passenger seat.

‘Well, goodbye.’ I hesitated awkwardly beside the open car door.

Flora reached out and touched my arm. ‘Take care,’ she said.

The daffodils! I’d dumped them unceremoniously on the draining board when I first came in. I zapped off the television, jumped up and found a vase. Pity to let them die. I crushed the ends as my mother had taught me, and found myself wondering whether Flora would have done the same. I fingered the tight buds lightly. No hot-house blooms these; they smelled of the country and freedom. Impatiently, I brushed away something that was more than a physical sensation. I didn’t wish to be reminded of Cotterly.