Hilary Mantel - Beyond Black

The princess faded. Al implored her silently, Di, don’t go. The room was cold. With a click , the tape switched itself on.

WAGSTAFFE: This sceptered isle … .

MORRIS: My sceptered—

Colette yelled, “Al, are you playing that tape again?”

“Not on purpose, it just switched itself—”

“Because I don’t think I can face it.”

“You don’t want it for the book?”

“God, no. We can’t put that stuff in the book!”

“So what shall I do with it?”

WAGSTAFFE: This other Eden—

MORRIS: My sceptered arse.

Colette called, “Wipe it.”

At Admiral Drive there were these house types: the Collingwood, the Frobisher, the Beatty, the Mountbatten, the Rodney, and the Hawkyns. Colette, initially, was unimpressed. The site was ragged grassland, half of it turned over already by the diggers.

“Why is it called Admiral Drive?”

The woman in the sales caravan said, “We theme all our developments nautically, you know?” She wore a name badge and a bright orange skirt and jersey, like a supermarket cashier.

“Awful uniform,” Colette said. “Wouldn’t navy be more appropriate?”

“We’ll be glad of it,” the woman said, “once the building starts. Orange stands out against the landscape. We’ll have to wear hard hats when we go out there. It’ll be mud up to your knees. Like a battlefield.” One of nature’s saleswomen, Colette thought. “What I’m saying is,” the woman added, “it’s really much better to buy off-plan?”

Colette picked up a fistful of brochures from the desk, banged them end-on to tidy them, and dropped them into her bag.

“Can I help you there at all?” the woman said. She looked aggrieved at the loss of her leaflets. “How many beds were you looking at?”

“I don’t know. Three?”

“Here you are then. The Beatty?”

Colette was puzzled by the woman, who turned most of her statements into questions. It must be what they do in Surrey, she decided; they must have had it twinned with Australia.

She opened the brochure for the Beatty and took it to the light. “Are these the actual room sizes, Suzi?”

“Oh no. It’s for information purposes only?”

“So it’s information, but it’s wrong?”

“It’s guidelines?”

“So the rooms could be bigger than this?”

“Probably not.”

“But they could be smaller?”

“Some contraction could occur.”

“We aren’t midgets, you know? What are the four-beds like? We could merge the rooms, or something.”

“At this stage, subject to building regulations, some redesign is possible?” Suzi said. “Extra costs may be incurred?”

“You’d charge for walls you didn’t put up?”

“Any alteration to the basic plan may be subject to extra costs,” Suzi said, “but I don’t say it will. Might you be interested in the Frobisher at all? It comes with a spacious utility area?”

“Wait a minute,” Colette said. “Wait a minute, I’ll get my friend.” She skipped out of the sales caravan and across the hardstanding to where the car was parked. The builders had put up a flagpole to dignify their sales area, and Alison was watching their emblem sailing in the wind. Colette swung open the car door. “Al, you’d better come in. The Frobisher comes with a spacious utility area. So I’m told.”

Al released her seat belt and stepped out. Her knees were stiff after the short drive down into Surrey. Colette had said, new-build appeals, but I need time to do my research. You have to go back beyond paint finishes and colour schemes, back beyond bricks and mortar, look at the ground we’ll be standing on. It isn’t just a place to live. It’s an investment. We need to maximize the profit. We need to think long-term. After all, she said, you appear to have no pension plans in place. Don’t be silly, Al had said. How could I retire?

Now she stood looking about her. She sensed the underscape, shuddering as it waited to be ripped. Builders’ machines stood ready, their maws crusted with soil, waiting for Monday morning. Violence hung in the air, like the smell of explosive. Birds had flown. Foxes had abandoned their lairs. The bones of mice and voles were mulched into mud, and she sensed the minute snapping of frail necks and the grinding into paste of muscle and fur. Through the soles of her shoes she felt gashed worms turning, twisting and repairing themselves. She looked up, to the grassland that remained. The site was framed by a belt of conifers, like a baffle wall; you could not guess what lay beyond it. In the middle distance was a stand of young birch trees. She could see a ditch running with water. Towards the main road to Guildford, she could see a hedge, a miscarried foetus dug in beneath it. She could see ghost horses, huddled in the shadow of a wall. It was an indifferent place; no better nor worse than most others.

Colette said briskly, “Is something upsetting you?”

“No.”

“Was there something here before?”

“Nothing. Just country.”

“Come in the caravan. Talk to Suzi.”

Al caught the scent of standing water; the ditch, a pond, a sludgy canal, widening into a basin that reflected faces looking down at her from the sky, sneering. The dead don’t ascend, or descend, so properly speaking they can neither leer down at you from the treetops nor grumble and toss beneath your feet; but they can give the appearance of it, if it takes them that way.

She followed Colette and heaved herself into the caravan. The metal steps were flimsy; each tread, under her weight, bowed a little and came snapping back.

“This is my friend,” Colette said.

“Oh, hello?” Suzi said. She looked as if she meant to say, we discourage friends. For a few minutes she left them alone. She took out a duster and passed it over her model drawer fronts and cupboard doors, clicking them backwards and forwards on their swivel-jointed display stand with a sound like the gnashing of giant dentures. She blew some dust off her carpet samples, and found a spot of something disagreeable on her stack of vinyl tiles, which she worked at by spitting on it and then scrubbing at it with her fingernail.

“You could offer us a coffee?” Colette said. “We’re not time wasters.”

“Some people make a hobby of it. Driving around the new developments on a Sunday afternoon, comparing prices? With their friends?”

I never got this far with Gavin, Colette thought. She tried to imagine the life they might have had, if they’d been planning to have a family. She would have said to him, what kitchen do you want, and he’d have said, wot’s the choice? And when she pointed to the model drawer fronts and cupboards, he’d have said, are they kitchens? And when she had said yes, he’d have said, wotever.

But here was Alison, studying the details of the Frobisher, behaving just like a normal purchaser. Suzi had put her duster away and, her back still turned, was edging towards the counter by degrees. Al looked up. “It’s tiny, Col. You can’t do anything with these rooms, they’re just dog kennels.” She handed the leaflet back to the woman. “No thank you,” she said. “Have you got anything bigger?” She rolled her eyes and said to Colette, “Story of my life, eh?”

Suzi enquired, “Which lady is the purchaser?”

“We are both the purchaser.”

Suzi turned away and snatched up the coffeepot from its hotplate. “Coffee? Milk and sugar?” She turned, the pot held defensively before her, and gave them a wide smile. “Certainly,” she said. “Oh, yes, of course. We don’t discriminate. Far from it. Far on the other side. We’ve been away for a training day. We are enthused to play our part to enhance the diversity of the community. The very special kind of community that’s created wherever you find a Galleon Home?”