Agnes Owens (35 page)

After addressing the envelope and putting the letter inside it, she entered her son's room and put it under the pillow on his bed. In the dark she undressed then lay between the sheets that were cold but she scarcely noticed this, her mind being so fixed on the letter and the look of surprise which would appear on Lotz's face when
she asked him if he would be good enough to post it for her if she gave him money for the stamp. She was so excited by her plan that she forgot to wait for the presence of her son, which did not enter the room at any time during that night.

T
he hut was so dark and dreary that I wished we had never come. Hardboard covered the window to keep intruders out, though there was nothing to steal but the spade behind the boiler where we used to light fires. I asked my husband if we should light a fire and he said it wasn't worth it as we wouldn't be stopping long.

‘It's all right for you. My feet are freezing.'

‘You should have put on something warmer,' he said, which was true, but I hadn't bargained on coming to the hut when we first set out. If I'd known, I would have brought a bottle of sherry like I used to do. On summer evenings we sipped it out of cracked cups while watching the sun go down. That was before he'd had the heart attack.

Everything had been cheerier then. Nowadays we didn't do anything except take the odd short walk if the weather was dry. This was the first time we'd been back for months.

‘I wonder what happened to the boy,' I said.

‘What boy?'

‘The boy who shared the hut with us. He was going to build a pigeon loft and you were supposed to be giving him a hand, remember?'

‘Yes, but I don't think he intended building anything. He was too damned lazy. Went about like a half-shut knife, he did.'

‘That's not true,' I said indignantly. ‘He helped you fix the fence.'

‘Only because it suited him.' He lit his pipe for the umpteenth time. I went to the door and gazed out at what had been his vegetable plot. It was covered in grass and weeds and apart from
the potato shaws there was no sign of vegetables. Likely they'd been eaten by slugs and rabbits. I turned and asked him if the potatoes were ready for picking.

‘They should be. I'll dig them up once I've had a draw.'

I thought he was always having a draw. He said the pipe was less harmful than cigarettes. I suspected he was fooling himself. After a while he lifted the spade and headed for the plot. From the doorway I watched him dig with surprising strength, praying he wouldn't ask me to help him for I couldn't stand the sight of all those beetles crawling over my feet. Then he called on me to bring out some plastic bags. I went inside and looked around the shelves but could see nothing but newspapers.

‘Will these do?' I said, stumbling towards him, my shoes covered in mud.

‘They'll have to,' he said, then stopped digging to watch me wrap the potatoes. It wasn't easy. They kept falling out.

‘Hurry up,' he said, then threw down the spade and said he would have to come back another day because his back was sore.

I arose stiffly, clutching the bundles. When I reached the hut he'd found the plastic bags.

‘You couldn't have looked properly,' he said, handing them over. Without a word I transferred the potatoes into the bags then wiped my hands on my coat, noticing that his hands were clean.

‘I hope the boy doesn't come back for the spade,' he said, as he was putting it away.

‘He's probably got better things to do.'

‘Like what?'

‘Like enjoying himself.'

‘Ah,' he said, as though I'd touched him on a sore point.

It was then I took out a half-smoked cigarette which had been in my coat pocket for ages.

‘I thought you'd given them up,' he said. ‘You told me you had.'

‘So I have. This is the last.'

‘Cigarette smoke is bad for my health.'

‘Pipe smoke is bad for everybody's health.'

‘Nonsense. It's a different type of smoke altogether.' There was no point in arguing. The cigarette tasted foul but gave me the courage to tell him that if he didn't light a fire I was going home.

‘All right,' he said, ‘but don't blame me if the wood is too damp.'

I thought, he must be cold himself, when he did as I suggested. The wood caught fire and soon flames were licking the edge of the boiler. In a better mood I said I'd like to do a sketch of the hut one day. It would be something to look back on if it was ever dismantled. He studied me narrowly.

‘I recollect you saying that once before.'

‘When was that?'

‘One evening last summer when the boy was here. It seemed to amuse him. He laughed at you.'

‘I don't remember,' I said hotly.

‘Likely because you'd drunk too much sherry. I know I had a few myself but it was no excuse for his attitude.'

‘What attitude?'

‘He was forever interrupting me when I spoke and I caught him staring at you when he thought I wasn't looking. I don't know what would have happened if I hadn't been there.'

‘For God's sake, he was only a boy –' I began, then broke off. My husband was a sick man. I'd better not say anything to put his blood-pressure up.

‘I believe that's the rain on,' I said, hearing it patter on the roof. ‘It's a good job you got the potatoes in when you did.'

‘Yes,' he said vaguely, as though his mind was elsewhere.

A gust of wind blew the door open. As I closed it I saw the sky had turned black. When it was closed we could hardly see a thing.

‘We'll have to make a run for it before the rain gets any heavier,' I said.

‘I'm in no shape to run. Look on the shelf. There should be a candle in that empty sherry bottle.'

I felt along the shelf and found the bottle. There was hardly any candle left but I put a match to it while my husband puffed on his pipe. The smoke made me cough.

‘I'll have to get out of here,' I said. ‘I feel as though I'm choking.'

‘Do what you like.'

Angered by the way he spoke and now not giving a damn about his blood-pressure, I asked what he thought the boy would have done if he hadn't been there. He stroked his chin then finally said, ‘Something diabolic no doubt.'

When I told him to be more precise he said, ‘The state you were in he could have stolen your purse.'

‘I didn't have a purse with me.'

‘Oh well,' he shrugged, ‘I'm sure he would have done something objectionable. He was that type of boy.'

‘You know what I think?' I said. ‘I think you were jealous of him. That's why you're running him down.'

‘Me, jealous of him?' he sneered. ‘Don't make me laugh.'

‘All right, I won't,' I said, ‘but it seems strange to me when I've always found the boy helpful and obliging. His only fault, if you could call it that, was a tendency to blush, which I suppose would irritate someone like you whose skin is as thick as putty.'

As a final thrust I said the boy reminded me of my son.

‘What son?'

‘The son I would have had but for the miscarriage.'

He stared at me wildly. ‘You're not going to bring that up, are you?'

‘Why shouldn't I?' I said, staring defiantly back. Then the candle went out and we were in the dark.

‘Aren't you going to say something?' I said, after a long pause.

‘About what?'

‘About the boy.'

‘Certainly not.'

I wasn't surprised. He would be offended now. I was never allowed to mention the miscarriage. It was like a crime that had
to be kept hidden. Driven by this bitter reflection, I added daringly, ‘Come to think of it, our son might have turned out like the boy, both in nature and looks. Did you ever think of that?'

He groaned. ‘I'll try my best not to.'

‘Especially when you've got your blood-pressure to think of.'

I wondered if I'd gone too far when I saw him lift the spade from behind the boiler.

‘What are you doing?' I asked.

‘I'm taking this home in case it gets stolen. I'll need it for the rest of the potatoes.'

‘I suppose you could,' I said, relieved but thinking him an idiot to attach so much importance to a spade. ‘I won't be coming back with you. It's depressing enough without having to sit around a dark, freezing hut.'

‘Suit yourself,' he said in his usual irritable tone. Then he stood up and opened the door. ‘The rain's off.' Sure enough when I looked out the sky had cleared and the sun was shining brightly on the puddles.

‘Right, let's go,' he said. ‘You bring the potatoes and I'll take the spade.'

‘Aren't you going to lock the door?' I asked him as he was walking away.

He thought for a minute then said, ‘I might as well leave it open for that dratted boy. Knowing him, he's likely lost his own key. That's probably why he hasn't been back.'

‘Yes, you'd better,' I said, ‘since you've just stolen his spade.'

‘I'm not stealing it. He'll get it back when I see him.'

I thought that could be never, but I merely answered, ‘We might even have managed to buy one of our own by then.'

I
t had been a long journey. Twenty-four hours it had taken because we had come the cheapest way possible: first by train and boat, then train again and finally a tedious two hours by bus. The hotel room, booked for us by the Continental Travel Agency, was small and cramped but otherwise clean. Somewhat dazed I stared over the balcony outside the window. My sister Mary Jane squeezed into the rail beside me.

‘This isn't bad at all,' she said. ‘What do you think?'

‘Where's the sea?' I asked. The holiday brochure had said that the village was close to the Mediterranean but we appeared to be in a valley – white cliffs on one side, rolling hills on the other and, facing us in the distance, a range of shadowy mountains.

‘It can't be far,' said Mary Jane, swivelling her head. ‘Isn't that a castle on top of the cliff ?'

‘Where?' I asked, but now she was pointing to the courtyard.

‘Look at that fountain, all gushing with water! And those apartments over by the river with their balconies and shutters. It's just how I imagined a French village would be – and all this lovely heat too. That's what I miss most about India – the heat.'

‘It is warm,' I said, wiping my clammy forehead, ‘but you'd have thought there would be more people about.' Down below, the square was deserted apart from one old woman in dark clothes shuffling along the pavement with a bundle of sticks under her arm. ‘Isn't this place supposed to a popular tourist attraction?'

‘The tourist season will be over by now. And I think it's perfect the way it is, slow-moving and tranquil and all this sun. What more could one ask for?'

When I looked back at the small bedroom, barely big enough for one, I wished we'd asked for separate rooms, but the booking had been done at the last minute, and it was probably too late now. I supposed it was all very nice but I was too hot and tired to appreciate it. Mary Jane suggested that after lunch we take a stroll by the river.

‘Actually I was thinking of having a rest afterwards,' I said.

‘A rest?' she said incredulously. ‘On the first day of our holiday?'

‘But I'm tired. It would only be an hour at the most.'

‘Honest to God, Dorothy – didn't you have enough sleep on the bus?' She went on to say that she hoped I wasn't going to spoil everything by being tired all the time for in that case I should have stayed at home. I thought that was a good one. She knew I hadn't wanted to come – but she'd harped on so much about it that I'd finally given in. ‘We might never get another chance at our age,' she'd said at the time, mentioning Father as a example of how easily one could go into a decline.

It never seemed to occur to Mary Jane to worry about money. Ever since she came home from abroad after Father died – only for a visit, she said, but that was two years ago – she'd been spending it like water. Nor did it occur to her that half-shares might be a bit unfair when I was the one who stayed at home to care for him while she went gallivanting all over the world ‘having a wonderful time', as she said on her postcards. It was hard not to be bitter at times, but I tried to put the past out of my mind. There was the future to consider. She was saying, ‘After all, you're only fifty-six, just two years older than me, and look at you – fat as a pudding. It's exercise you need, not a rest.'

‘I'll see how I feel later,' I said, thinking I'd rather be fat as a pudding than thin as a rake like her.

Lunch was served in the restaurant downstairs by the pro -prietor – a Monsieur Savlon whom we'd met briefly when we arrived. Though weary I had been struck by his singular appearance.
He was almost as short as he was broad and without a single hair on his head. As if to make up for this his beard grew very thick and black. The meal he laid before us was heavy with sauce and the predominant flavour was garlic, which I cannot stand. I left half of it on my plate and drank almost a jugful of water to get rid of the taste. When Monsieur Savlon came back to clear the table he asked me in perfectly good English, ‘You do not like snails?' I shook my head and hurried off to the toilet where I was violently sick. Fifteen minutes later Mary Jane came up to the room and found me lying on top of the bed.