Spiderweb (18 page)

‘It is. But I’m coming to terms with it. I mourn poor Bracken and remind myself that I’ve observed plenty of this kind of thing.’

‘But not as a participant.’

‘True. A new perspective.’

‘How did you deal with hostility in Nile villages and wherever?’

‘Diplomatically. One was trained to expect it under certain circumstances and react with tact and restraint.’

‘Unlike real life,’ said Richard.

‘Oh, the anthropologist has to rise above that. Which is probably why we’re unfit for it when it comes to the crunch.’ Glib, thought Stella. Flip. Somehow he provokes me to be like this.

‘Well, that’s as may be,’ he said. ‘More to the point, why do you imagine these youths picked on you, if it was them?’

‘Heaven knows.’ She wanted suddenly to be rid of the matter. ‘Just that I am in the line of fire, I imagine, or rather Bracken was. No doubt they have problems of their own. Anyway … enough of them.’

‘Right.’ He picked up the tool-kit. ‘Just let me say, though, that I do think you should perhaps think of further security.’

‘Handgun under the pillow? An arms race?’

‘Window locks. An alarm system, possibly.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Please do.’

She watched him dismantle the mower. His concern caught her in some deep, unsuspected, vulnerable place. Those who travel alone do not often experience the concern of others.

No one nags them to take care, no one awaits them with anxiety – or reproach. Stella had thought herself indifferent. Just occasionally, a doubt flickered.

He crouched beside the machine – a spare man still, carefully fending off a paunch. You would have thought him younger, until his face in profile showed that slippage around the jowls, his bare arms displayed those ropy veins, the mottled skin. She couldn’t remember with any clarity what he had been like when he and Nadine were married – there was just a dim impression of some sharper, smaller version of the man before her now. It is not true that people diminish with age – it is those earlier remembered selves who are in some way pared down, depleted, like those who look out all unaware from old photographs.

And here they were now, washed together. All because long ago Nadine joined a political association for young Conservatives: ‘No, of course I’m not one, I’m not anything in particular, am I? But someone told me it’s where you meet men, and frankly London is a desert as far as I can see, unless you’re going to sit in espresso bars and trawl, and we’re used to better than that, aren’t we?’ Nadine had left Oxford without any promising attachment. She was working in a desultory way as an assistant in a West End bookshop, where she received her friends and reconsidered strategy. She was twenty-three and starting to panic. The political association was nicely opportune. ‘And, believe it or not, I think I’ve already met someone. The very first time I went to one of their dos. He’s called Richard and he’s at the Home Office, and he’s definitely interesting. He’s taking me to Covent Garden next week.’

And thus begins a lifetime in tandem, thought Stella. Extraordinary process, pair bonding. Quite as arbitrary, really, among humans as among animals. Simply a question of who happens to hove into view when the moment is ripe.

‘I bet you didn’t know I nearly had an official role at your wedding,’ she said to Richard.

‘He’ll do fine,’ says Nadine. She is different, tipped from girl to young woman. She is plump and creamy. The big green-gold eyes and long lashes and that satisfied pussy-cat look to her. You expect whiskers and folded velvet paws, claws sheathed.

‘Love again?’ says Stella.

‘Of course.’ But that is crisply laid aside and Nadine is off at once on a rundown of the wedding dress, the guest list, the reception at a country house hotel. ‘Richard’s got two little nieces who’ll make sweet bridesmaids. I don’t suppose you’d care to be matron of honour?‘

‘Well …’

‘OK – I’ll let you off.’

And in the event Stella did not even attend the wedding, because the chance arose to do field-work on a project in Cardiff with a posse of other graduate students, and thus while Nadine was parading down the aisle on Richard’s arm, Stella was in Tiger Bay interrogating Lascar seamen. She was so heady with this first taste of professional fresh air – out there amid the real thing instead of stuck at a library desk – that she almost forgot to send the statutory telegram. Besides, she sensed that they were already spinning inexorably apart. She had inspected Nadine’s wedding present list with bewilderment. Denby ovenware? Pyrex dishes? Coffee percolator? Travel rug? The revelation of such freight filled her with dismay. If this was the requisite accompaniment to marriage, then no thank you. In Cardiff she had a brief but charged affair with the director of the project, the stereotype charismatic older man – an appropriate and illuminating rite of passage, she felt. Nadine sent a honeymoon postcard from Majorca, hinting complacently at suspected morning sickness.

‘Indeed I knew,’ said Richard. ‘Nadine was most put out. You were to have been got up in apricot velvet, to complement the bridesmaids.’ He rose. ‘There, that’s fixed now, I hope.’

‘Fancy your remembering. The apricot velvet, I mean.’

‘It was a heightened time. Details tend to stick in the mind. I remember thinking that the colour would be becoming – with your hair. And in the end you weren’t there at all. May I use your kitchen sink? My hands are filthy.’

‘Of course. No, I wasn’t, was I?’ She had heard him with surprise. I thought he didn’t much like me, back then. Disapproved slightly. Found me rackety, uncongenial. ‘I was serving my apprenticeship in Cardiff docks. The apricot velvet is news to me. I rather let Nadine down, didn’t I? We were already off in different directions, I suppose. Nadine always knew what she wanted and I never did. Just took what came up. Or failed to, as the case may be …’

She followed him into the kitchen. ‘I’m sorry you’ve got in such a mess – there’s a nail-brush on the side there. And thanks. I am grateful, even if I don’t sound it. Grass cutting has never been a central concern. Indeed, I can’t believe I’ve come to this.’

‘In that sense you’ve led a sheltered life. It’s routine for me, as a long-term householder. But I sympathize. Perhaps …’

‘In fact,’ she said, ’there’s a lot that’s giving pause for thought at the moment. Here am I, having put down roots for the first time ever, and supposedly a connoisseur or community life, unable to identify a community or even establish cordial relations with my neighbours. Oh, I dare say it’s partly that this dog business has unnerved me. I’ll make us some coffee, shall I?‘

‘Yes, please. So far as community goes, I can’t say that I …’ ‘Oh, but you do. Beavering away for local societies. Attending church. You’ve slotted in. I can’t manage that particular slot. And the rest are largely inaccessible by virtue of age or occupation – the farming layer, the arts and crafts enclave, the landed gentry. I can’t see myself striking up an accord with the Rotarians or the Golf Club. The truth is that this place is a web, a network, it has many dimensions. The communities I know about are integrated. Concrete. They have a shape, a structure. Archetypes. Museum pieces, indeed, I suppose. No milk? Nor sugar either, right … The fact is, I’m an expert on systems that no longer exist. Even Tiger Bay back in the fifties was something of an entity. As for my Orkney island … But down here what we have is a cauldron, a late-twentieth-century melting pot. All sorts of mutually exclusive groups co-existing after a fashion. And I’m in there with the rest of them. In fact what I’m really wittering on about is myself, I think. Quite as alienated in my way as anyone else. Just as I always have been. On the outside looking in.’

Richard considered. ‘That is what you were trained to do.’ ‘There you are, then. Unfit for real life. Or at least for any of the versions of life going on around me here. So the question is …’

He cut in. ‘Does it matter?‘

‘Probably not,’ she said after a moment. ‘It requires a process of adjusting expectations. Or adjusting – period. Learning to keep still.’

I suppose that’s it, she thought. I have been expecting to move on, all this time. Treating this as yet another perch, from which to investigate and observe. I have not taken root at all. Tweaking at the hedge, cutting the grass – ritual gestures only. Acquisition of a dog … But it is the fate of the poor dog that would appear to have thrown me.

She felt entirely dispirited. The house seemed to squat on top of her, its cargo of furnishings hemmed her in. Richard was talking and she hardly heard him. He was proposing a visit to the north Devon coast. Therapy, I suppose, she thought. I have become an object of charity. Lawnmower repairs and restorative excursions. No, no …

’ … and possibly the walk to the Valley of the Rocks, if we felt sufficiently energetic.’

She thanked him. What a nice idea, she said. Maybe in a week or two. I have to tidy up that article I was working on. Let’s talk … And thank you. She saw him into his car, stood for the polite farewell. He lowered the window. ‘I came with the intention – ’ he avoided her eye, fiddled with the ignition key – ‘anyway, it was inappropriate. The dog – I can see that has been distressing. I shall be in touch, Stella. Very shortly.’

She watched him drive away. What was that about? The uncharacteristic hesitation, the sudden opacity?

They’d killed the dog just because they suddenly got the idea. And afterwards they told each other there was no way she’d ever get to know. But she did and first she’d laid into them and now she was either lashing out or else pretending they didn’t exist, setting three places at the table instead of five, ignoring them if they spoke. Making a fuss of Gran, being matey with their father.

They began to spend most of the time in the sheds. Their father was out on jobs – it was harvest now and he had contract jobs every day. The boys bashed at the corrugated iron. This shed they were making. Sometimes her face was staring up at them, staring, shouting – ‘Shut up, you! Shut up, shut up!’ – and then they’d bash that. Smash, bang! Now it’s your turn to shut up.

Shut up and listen, they told her. You think you’re so clever, you think you know everything. But you don’t. We’ve done things you don’t know anything about. We can do it again. And you’ll never know. We’ll do another and watch you not knowing who did it. We’ll do one you can’t miss.

When high summer arrives in the west of England the arteries begin to clog. The M 5 is an oozing river of vehicles that thrusts down through Somerset to disgorge into the heartlands of Devon. The A39 crawls, day after day, clotted with caravans, trailers, cruisers. The coastal cliffs wear a mantle of campsites; each cove, each bay, each stretch of sand is peppered with human flesh. Anywhere with a cathedral and pedestrian shopping precinct on offer is awash. The Exmoor car-parks are spilling into the heather, there are timed visits only to Lynmouth and Lynton, a three-day waiting list for Clovelly, Cornwall was declared closed on 10 August.

But behind and beyond this surface pollution the place remains unscathed. Normal activities continue. Crops grow and are harvested. There is getting and spending, birth and death and the pursuit of love. Those who are a fixture in these parts endure and ignore as best they can. In due course the seasonal tide will ebb, leaving behind the enriching silt of its visitation. Many are nourished, some are entirely sustained. The place has learned to diversify, in tune with the times.

It has been ever thus, of course. Coleridge blazed a trail. The Victorians had a penchant for points west. The Edward-ians loved it, descending with their bicycles and their walking gear. The West Country was still quite a long way away, at the turn of the century, but getting closer all the time. Now it is no distance at all – one stop-off at Granada Services and you’re there. Everyone has been west now, at one point or another, though many barely notice. But among the million birds of passage there are always those few who alight, for whom the place fulfils some need. Those who see it as a promising market stall for their craft products, those with skills to offer, those without. Those seduced by that siren scenery, those in search of a rural nirvana. Those in doubt and those, perhaps, in flight.

Stella and Nadine are having a heart-to-heart – once upon a time and long ago over midnight Nescafé in front of the gas fire in Stella’s room – though there is perhaps rather more of Nadine’s heart on offer than there is of Stella’s. Nadine has suffered a reverse in love, but she will pick herself up, as ever, put herself together again and sally forth to fight another day. Stella is sympathetic but clear-eyed.

‘I did warn you. Anyone could see it would all go up in smoke.’

Nadine stares at her for a moment.

‘Anyone but me. And it wouldn’t happen to you, would it? The thing about you is that you always manage to stay on the outside. You’re the cat that walks by himself. You’re on the edge always, looking on. Interested. But … detached – that’s the word. You’re not like the rest of us. How do you do it? One always has this feeling that you’ll just take off, when it suits you.’

‘The thing about you, Stella,’ says Dan Mitchell, ‘is that you are entirely independent. It’s a great gift – and a rare one. Most people need tethers of one kind or another. They need a support base – spouses or offspring or property. They need an organization to wrap around themselves, or they need power over others, or they need adulation and approval. You seem to get by without any of that.’ He props himself on his elbow and stares at her across the beach towel. She sees his face dark against the hard blue sky; there is a smell of sun oil, salt, sand and ripe melon. ‘It’s not a criticism – far from it. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that you set yourself apart from the human race – it’s simply that you seem to be self-sufficient. While the rest of the world is enmeshed with one another – which, of course, is your professional subject, a nice anachronism, by the way – you walk alone. That’s what you prefer.’ He is silent for a moment – then he laughs. ‘And the thing about me … is that I suspect I’m the same. So where does that leave us, I wonder?’

‘You’re a strange woman, Stella,’ says Alan Scarth. ‘I’ve not known the like of you. You come from nowhere, you’re beholden to no one – or so it seems. You traipse the world asking people who their grandfather married, but you carry no baggage of your own. This place fits you like a glove – I’ve seen that in your face all these months. But you’ll not marry me, will you? You’ll not settle for anywhere or anyone, will you? You’re a risk-taker, but that’s the one risk you’ll never take.’

Letter from Richard to Stella

My dear Stella,

I had intended to put this to you personally rather than in a letter, but the moment was not right when I visited you last week. And on consideration I feel that the case may perhaps be more coherently stated on paper. I trust, by the way, that you are by now getting over this unfortunate matter of the dog.

I want to suggest that we join forces. That we live together, in short. Let me set out the arguments in favour of such a venture.

PRACTICAL ADVANTAGES
. One set of living expenses rather than two. My house would supply ample space for both of us – separate studies, shelving for your books easily installed. Your cottage, though charming, is somewhat on the small side even for a single person. You have mentioned a problem with the septic tank drainage system. I would propose that we pool both resources and energies – housework, cooking, etc. Shopping, incidentally, would become less wasteful – you will have noted that Somerfield, Tesco, etc., do not cater sufficiently for the single-person household. I should mention that my pension is of course index-linked – I take it that yours is also (if USS it undoubtedly will be).

There is the further point that we are both at the time of life when illness becomes more likely. The provision of mutual support has a distinct appeal.

EMOTIONAL DITTO
. Solitude. I am frequently lonely. I appreciate that for you this may not be so much of a problem – you have lived rather differently. Suffice it that should you look kindly upon my proposal, I would respect your need for a degree of privacy, while hoping to convince you that a shared existence has its compensations.

PHYSICAL RELATIONS
. Sex – not to put too fine a point on it. We have reached the stage when the libido is in decline. I will say simply that mine is not yet extinguished and I have always found you an attractive woman. However, I feel that at our age this need not be a central issue.

I realize that you will be surprised – startled, even – by this proposition. But not, I hope, offended. I am aware, too, that my style of letter-writing lacks emotional fervour. My trade has left its mark. I must ask you to believe that surface appearances can be deceptive, Stella.

I shall await your response with cautious optimism.

Yours affectionately,

    Richard

Letter from Judith to Stella

Dearest Stella,

Look – things have come to a head. With Mary, that is. To be honest, I can’t take it any longer. You’ve known, I’m sure, that it’s not been an ideal set-up for quite a while now. I’ve felt as though I’m being quietly smothered. She’s a super person in many ways but – well, she has to own whoever she’s with and I’m just no good at being owned.

I’ve moved out. The only way to do it. Endless argument and recriminations otherwise. I’m in b. & b. – address and phone number above.

Now – I’ll come to the point. But let me say first that I’ve wondered about this many times before – it’s certainly not a question of any port in a storm.

What would you say to the idea of you and me setting up together?

Shock horror? Nothing physical – don’t get me wrong. Just that nowadays two seems to me better than one. Despite the Mary experience. We’ve always got on a treat, you and me. Never a cross word. Well – hardly ever.

I haven’t got much money but I can pay my way. I could doss down in that boxroom at the cottage. For the moment – if you think we might give it a whirl.

Well? Or have I shot my mouth oft? If so, be candid – I’ll take it on the chin.

Whatever – all my love,

      Judith

‘Vine Cottage?’ says the estate agent. ‘Yes, I know it. On the lower lane, right? Just along from the Morgan farm? Cream stucco and pantiles? Yup, I’ve got it. Nice spot down there. Quiet but not too isolated, that’s what people like. Let’s see … you’ve got the Morgans and that other place the Bristol family have done up. I sold them that – Mr and Mrs Pritchard. Shambolic, it was, not touched for God knows how long. Lovely job now. Then you’ve got the Hiscox place at the far end. Those people …’ He flicks an eyebrow, shoots a glance. ‘We handled that sale, too – sold them the smallholding, way back. Came from Surrey. Funny people to do business with, I found. Had much to do with them? No, I don’t suppose you would. Fact is, between you and me, there’s some background there, know what I mean? Undischarged bankruptcy. Not that I knew when I handled the sale – nice old chap had the place before them, local man, been there for donkey’s years – and the money came through, though I wonder now where from. Then a bloke came around a year or so later asking for Picton – family by name of Picton – and it was clear enough to me he meant them. Had some score to settle, I don’t doubt. Changed their name, see, to set up trading again. That’s what people do. No skin off my nose, anyway, but one makes a mental note. There was all that mobility back then, mid-eighties, everyone out to make the most of it, cash in, look after themselves. Not that we were complaining.’ He laughs -a mite self-consciously perhaps. ‘Well, it was windfalls all round, wasn’t it? For anyone who had their nose to the ground. And good luck to them, say I. You felt the ripples even down in these parts. New faces, new money, new ideas. There’s been some very nifty projects in the leisure and tourism department – all strength to their elbow, given a lift to the area, hasn’t it? Put us on the map. But then of course there’s been others took a tumble. Swings and roundabouts, isn’t it? We pick up the pieces, in my business, is how I see it. Anyway … to our muttons. Your property. Looking for something a bit bigger, are you? Oh – moving away altogether. We’ll be happy to look after the sale for you. The market’s not buoyant round here, but you’ve got a nice little place, shouldn’t be any problem.’

Letter from Stella to Richard

Dear Richard,

This letter is difficult to write …

Letter from Stella to Judith

Dearest Judith,

This letter is impossible to write …

North Somerset Herald

A fire on Thursday night that destroyed outbuildings and agricultural machinery belonging to contractor T. G. Hiscox spread also to the adjoining family bungalow, causing extensive damage. The family of five escaped but an 86-year-old woman was taken to Williton hospital suffering from shock and smoke inhalation. Three fire engines tackled the blaze and a spokesman for Minehead Fire Brigade said that there was no immediate indication as to the cause. Mr Barry Smith, from South West Electricity, who examined the site the following day, said that there was no evidence of an electrical fault. Police investigating the fire are anxious to contact Mr and Mrs Hiscox, who left with their teenage sons Michael and Peter while firefighters were still at work. Mrs Hiscox’s mother remains in Williton Hospital but Detective Constable Harris said that he has so far been unable to trace the rest of the family, who have not been seen in the area since the blaze.

A CHARACTER DETACHED COTTAGE
Occupying a peaceful situation a mile from Kingston Florey village and with excellent views in a southerly direction.

Good-sized living-room with inglenook, kitchen/breakfast room, bathroom, bedroom, bedroom/boxroom. Pleasant gardens to front and rear.

Mains water and electricity. Septic tank drainage.
DIRECTIONS:
The property lies off the
B
4167, going east from Kingston Florey. Access is by way of the lane to the right half a mile beyond the village (with sign indicating T. G. Hiscox, agricultural contractor).