Part of the Furniture (7 page)

She would have to wait, the porter said, there was only one taxi and it had been taken by another party. It might come back or it might not, all depended on how it stood for petrol.

‘I met your son in London, Mr Copplestone—’ She repeated the mantra, standing in the dark with her case at her feet. She wondered what on earth she was doing here, why she had come. She could see her breath freezing as it left her lips. ‘I met your son Evelyn in London, Mr Copplestone. There was an air raid and he—’

The taxi was returning; it ground to a halt beside her. ‘Where’s it to?’ She told the driver the name which was written on the envelope. He said, ‘Ah,’ got out, swung her case into the back of the car, held the door open for her, shut it when she was in, then settled himself behind the wheel and started the engine.

They drove from the station in what seemed to be open country up a hill into a large village, blacked out. The houses loomed in darkened streets. Then they were in open country again, the road nipped in by high hedges.

‘I met your son, Mr—I met Evelyn—no—I met Evelyn Copplestone, your son. He said I—’ It was slipping from her. At one moment during the journey she had got it almost right, hit the right note, but hitting the right note had, only helped to tighten the bonds which knotted the grief, the anxiety and the anger lumped in her midriff and clogging her mind.

Now the taxi wound up a long hill, changing gear with a jerk to twist through another village, a wider street, no lights but dark squat houses, a glint here and there of shop windows and the shadow of a church tower. Then down a steep hill to swoop up again, climbing hard between steep banks or walls on either side with hedges atop to form a tunnel, up and down, but mostly up, the road climbing steeply.

‘I met Evelyn, I met your son, there was an air raid and he, and he said, and he—’

The taxi had stopped. There was a gate; the driver got out to open it but the wind was rising and fighting to slam the gate shut.

‘I can help.’ She jumped out of the car. ‘Let me hold it while you …’

The man drove through. The gate wrenched free and slammed shut. She got back in the car. The driver said, ‘Thanks, miss,’ and the car jerked forward and her case, which had posed upright, fell across her foot, bruising the instep.

Now they were driving across open moorland; she could see patches of snow against black heather and a half moon racing the clouds.

‘Oh, Mr Copplestone, I met your son in London and he—’

The driver changed gear. They were passing under trees which were being whipped into shape by the wind, then down a dip and the taxi stopped.

Juno got out and the driver put her case beside her and named his fare. She paid him, thanked him, said, ‘Shall you manage the gate?’

The man said, ‘Yes,’ he was not talkative, and drove off.

There was an archway into a courtyard lit by the fitful moon and, across the yard, a porch. She hesitated before fumbling for a bell.

Perhaps she should have asked the man to wait? Arriving like this was bad manners. She was tired and not thinking straight. Fool. When she had delivered the letter she would have to leave. She should have kept the taxi to take her away somewhere when she had handed in the letter. Where?

There was no bell, she could not find a bell. The sound of a horse whinnying across the yard startled her. It stamped its hoof and throttled breath through its nostrils. Her hand found a knocker; she knocked. Somewhere in the house a dog barked.

She had intended saying, ‘I met your son in London, Mr Copplestone, and he gave me this letter for you.’ Simplicity was best.

There were explanations, of course, some flowery additions. One for instance, ‘The letter was not stamped so I brought it by hand.’ Or, ‘He told me to deliver it by hand,’ which was a lie. Also she had hesitated long whether to opt for brevity or whether she should say, ‘I met your son in London and he very kindly sheltered me in his house during an air raid and gave me whisky’—perhaps it would be unwise to mention the whisky?—‘before giving me this letter to give to you by hand,’ but he had said nothing about delivery. He had died, hadn’t he?

Perhaps he had expected her to stamp the letter? People did, normal people; they stuck on stamps and posted them into pillar-boxes. But it had to be by hand or tear it up, throw it into the waste-paper basket, get no answer.

In the event she held the letter towards the woman who opened the door and said, ‘I brought this letter for Mr Copplestone.’

And the woman said, ‘He’s in London, me dear, but you’d better come in. Come in, ’tis cold. A letter, you said?’

Then when Juno was in and the door closed, she took the letter and looking at it said, ‘Mr Evelyn’s writing,’ and laid the letter on a salver which sat on an oak table.

Juno stood looking at the letter, noticing that the envelope was square, not oblong as were most envelopes, but square and pristine in spite of its long sojourn squashed beside her identity card, ration book and passport.

A dog had appeared, its nails clicking on stone flags. It came across to Juno and snuffled round her legs, sussing her out. Then it thrust an icy nose against her fingers, jerking her hand up for attention. She could feel its whiskers.

The woman, looking closely at Juno, said, ‘Soup.’

J
UNO FOLLOWED THE WOMAN
across the hall to a large kitchen and sat on a hard chair at a long deal table grooved by many scrubbings. The dog settled on its haunches beside her, leaned against her leg and rested its chin on her knee.

The woman glanced at the animal but made no comment. She was a short woman with thick grey hair pulled back into a bun. Her face was brown from sun and wind and traced with wrinkles. She had very bright, very small brown eyes and a large mouth pursed in an expression of permanent amusement. She wore dark-grey, ribbed, wool stockings and flat-heeled shoes. Her calves, shapely and muscular, emerged abruptly from a heather mixture tweed skirt which sagged round her bottom with the familiarity of long wear. Above the skirt she wore a pale grey cardigan over a dark grey jersey, and covering the lot a loose holland overall.

Moving precisely and without haste the woman fetched a jug from a walk-in larder, closing the door quickly to exclude a blast of cold air. From the jug she poured soup into a pan to heat on the stove. Two cats, so tightly balled together it was impossible to distinguish one from the other, remained wrapped in sleep, ignoring her feet. While the soup heated the woman put bread, butter, salt, a knife, a spoon and plate in front of Juno. Then, when the soup was heated, she poured it into a bowl which she put in front of her.

‘Eat that.’

Juno said, ‘Oh!’ as the aroma of pheasant wafted up her nose. ‘Thank you.’

The woman suggested, ‘Take your coat off?’

Juno obeyed, slipping her arms free of the sleeves, letting the coat flop back over the chair-back.

‘Eat it up.’ The woman watched her.

Juno obeyed, spooning the gamey liquid from bowl to mouth. The spoon was silver, smooth on her tongue, not plate as had been the forks and spoons at Quaglino’s where she had last eaten proper food, days ago, sitting between them, listening to their jokes. How could they joke at a time like that? After—

‘Like some more?’

‘No, no, thank you. It’s absolutely delicious, but I—’

‘Yes?’

‘There are knots in my chest like coiled springs, I—’ She pressed her fists against her breastbone. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t finish it.’

‘I dare say.’

Juno laid the spoon in the bowl. There was soup left over; she could eat no more. It was such wonderful soup, she had not eaten much, she was wasting food, it was wartime, it was wicked to waste good food. She could hear Aunt Violet’s voice. I hardly know Aunt Violet, she thought. I don’t want to, but I know what she would say.

‘Jessie will finish it.’

‘Oh!’

Juno watched as the woman removed the bowl and poured what was left into a dog-bowl on the floor. (Imagine, Aunt Violet!) The dog removed her chin from Juno’s knee and sauntered to the bowl to lap. She finished the soup, scraping the bowl along the stone floor to reach the last drop. Her tail waved at half-mast in rhythm with her lapping. She was either a very fat dog or about to whelp.

‘Bed?’ The woman was speaking.

‘Bed?’

‘Those springs in your chest might uncoil. Come along. You won’t need that’—Juno had sprung up, snatching at her coat—‘but bring it if you wish. It won’t run away, but bring it if it makes you feel safer.’ This was a long speech. ‘Come along,’ she said again.

Juno followed her, carrying her coat. In the hall the woman picked up the suitcase, said, ‘No,’ when Juno made to take it, and led the way up wide uncarpeted stairs. The dog followed, her paws shuffling and clicking on the polished wood. Juno, climbing behind the woman, felt such immense fatigue she could barely climb without stumbling. The woman led her along a cold dark passage carpeted at intervals with rugs and into a bedroom, where she switched on a lamp beside the bed, saying, ‘Got a nightdress?’

‘In my case.’ Juno looked about her. The room was large, with shuttered windows. The woman was drawing faded chintz curtains. There was a mahogany chest of drawers, an oak armoire, a cheval glass, a bookcase stuffed with books, an armchair with a sagging seat, its chintz matching the curtains, and across the foot of an enormous bed a
chaise longue
onto which the dog was climbing to settle possessively, resting its nose on its paws.

‘Bathroom’s through that door.’ The woman pointed. ‘You unpack your nightie and sponge while I put a match—’ She knelt by the fireplace and, taking matches from her overall pocket, struck one and applied the flame to kindling in the grate. ‘Soon warm up,’ she said as the kindling caught and flames drew up the chimney. ‘Don’t take all night.’

Juno rummaged in her case for nightdress and sponge-bag. The woman was stacking logs in a pyramid over the sticks. A drift of smoke blew back sweetly scented into the room, then was sucked up the chimney. ‘Wild night.’ The woman stood up. ‘Come on now, get undressed.’ She reached to pull Juno’s sweater over her head, removing the wool cap as she did so. ‘Pretty hair. Take all these things off and go and clean your teeth.’

Juno unzipped her trousers, kicked off her shoes without undoing the laces and eased off her socks. The woman dropped her nightdress over her head and said, ‘Lavatory,’ pointing to the bathroom door.

The bathroom window was shuttered. The bath was huge with a mahogany surround, the basin and lavatory bowl willow-patterned. There were soft, much-mended towels and rose-geranium soap.

Juno cleaned her teeth, bathed her face and, sitting on the lavatory, stared round the room. She had never seen such a bathroom. There was a dressing table, another armchair, more books and still the room looked large.

In the bedroom the woman had turned down the bed and was unlacing Juno’s shoes, putting them tidily by a chair where she had laid Juno’s clothes. She said, ‘Hop in,’ pointing to the bed.

Juno climbed into bed. The linen sheets were cold and smooth. In the double bed in the London hotel the sheets had been of cotton and Jonty’s and Francis’s bodies had radiated fire.

The woman said, ‘My name is Ann. What’s yours?’

‘Juno.’

‘Then sleep well, Juno, give those springs a chance.’

Juno said, ‘Thank you,’ in a strangulated voice. If she could be alone, she could weep if she needed to. She said, ‘Thank you very much.’

‘Sleep well, then,’ the woman said. ‘I’ll put your light out, the firelight’s nice. Come along, Jessie.’

‘Oh, can’t she stay? Please let her stay.’ Juno was almost shouting. ‘Please!’

Ann stood in the open door, her hand on the knob, the firelight flickering across her face. ‘Very well, if that’s what you’d like,’ she said gently. Then she was gone.

Juno drew in her breath, thrust her legs down in the icy sheets and laid her head on the pillows to stare up at the firelight dancing on the ceiling. Perhaps tomorrow she would meet Mr Copplestone, explain why she had brought the letter, how she had met his son. If there was an explanation, she would have to think of it tomorrow.

A gust of wind went whump in the chimney; hail pattered on the window-panes. On the
chaise longue
Jessie whimpered, stretched out in her sleep, relaxed.

R
EACHING THE PORCH, ROBERT
Copplestone kicked off his gumboots and pushed the door open, letting it slam behind him. He stood in his socks, grateful to be in from the icy night, grateful to be home.

Hearing him arrive, Ann came from the kitchen. ‘You’re back.’ She took the hat he held in his hand and helped him out of his overcoat, which she shook before hanging it up. ‘Still snowing.’ She eyed him closely as he pulled off his gloves. ‘And you travelled in that suit—’tis too thin—hot toddy?’

‘Please, Ann.’

‘You walked,’ she accused him, looking at his feet in thin silk socks emerging from black suited trousers. ‘Funerals is always chilly, funeral suits should be warm. You should have changed before you travelled. Where are your shoes, then?’

‘The taxi couldn’t get up the hill, so I borrowed Bert’s boots. I left my shoes and case at the farm.’

Ann clicked her tongue. ‘In this weather! You don’t look fit, look like death—’

‘Well, I did, and I’m here.’ (And I shan’t tell her I was nearly blown over at the moor gate and felt like lying down in the snow and giving up.)

She eyed him anxiously, face drawn with fatigue, usually erect shoulders stooped. She said, ‘The fire’s lit in the library, go into the warm. I’ll bring the toddy.’

‘Where’s Jessie?’ He glanced round the hall.

‘She’ll come. Go and sit by your fire, you’re frozen, don’t want you ill. Go on.’ Ann pushed him gently.

He walked slowly across the hall to his library, thin-socked on stone slabs, to slump in an armchair, stretch hands towards blazing logs, rest feet on warm rug, lay his head back, close his eyes.

Ann came with hot whisky and water. She had been expecting him for hours; the kettle had been simmering on the hob, whisky and glass ready. ‘Drink.’ She watched him. He swallowed.