Perfectly Correct. Philippa Gregory

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СКАЧАТЬ had every hope of seeing an empty orchard. Instead, as she rounded the bend that Mr Miles had found so treacherous, she was greeted by the irritating sight of the big blue van and a washing line strung between two of her apple trees. Brightly coloured blouses and shapeless grey underwear were bobbing among the blossom. Louise swore, turned her car down the drive, jerked on the handbrake and marched purposefully towards the orchard.

      ‘Anyone home?’ she demanded truculently.

      The van rocked. First the dog put his head around the door, and when he saw Louise wagged a welcoming tail. Then the old lady herself emerged. She was wearing a man’s smoking jacket in deep plum patterned silk and midnight-blue silk pyjama trousers. ‘You again,’ she said.

      ‘I think you should move on today,’ Louise said clearly. ‘This is my orchard and you have been here now for more than twenty-four hours. I think it’s time you went. If you want a nearby site I can telephone Mr Miles at Wistley Common Farm for you. He sometimes has a vacant field.’

      The woman observed her from under the mop of hair. ‘Out all night,’ she said. ‘Did you go to a party?’

      Louise found herself blushing. ‘Of course not. I was at a meeting and then I went on to dinner with friends.’

      ‘I’ll trouble you for some fresh water,’ the woman said. She reached inside the van and brought out the empty jug again. She jumped lightly down from the steps and strolled towards the gate, the dog at her bare heels. Louise took the jug and marched into the house. A couple of letters were pushed to one side as she opened the door into the porch. She filled the jug and stalked back down the garden path. The old woman was leaning on the gate.

      ‘Beautiful day,’ she commented. ‘You must enjoy the birds at dawn.’

      Louise, who never woke until long after dawn, said nothing.

      ‘I was born here, you know,’ the old woman said conversationally. ‘In this very cottage.’

      Louise could not help but be interested but she remained sulkily silent.

      ‘The trees were younger then,’ the old woman sighed. ‘The trees were so much younger then.’

      She put out an old mottled hand and rested it against a tree trunk as an owner might stroke a favourite dog. There was a strange familiarity between her and the tree, as if the tree were responding to her touch. Louise found herself trying to picture her orchard as a field of saplings, like girls ready to dance. ‘I think you should go today,’ she said, but her voice was no longer angry.

      The old woman nodded. ‘As you wish,’ she said. ‘Whatever you wish.’

      Louise felt suddenly deflated, as if she had triumphed in some small act of malice.

      ‘What was your meeting?’ the old woman asked.

      Louise shrugged. ‘It’s a committee I belong to. We’re trying to encourage older women to go on university degree courses. Every year we organise an open day and then for those that are interested we run introductory courses. This year we’re focusing on women in science and industry.’ Louise heard her voice sounding flat and indifferent. ‘It’s a very important issue,’ she said.

      ‘And where did you go for dinner?’

      ‘To my friends’ house – Toby and Miriam. I used to rent their flat before I came to live here. Miriam and I were at university together. Toby and I…’ Louise abruptly broke off. ‘Toby is her husband,’ she said.

      ‘Drives a white Ford Escort car, does he?’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘I’ve been past a few times. Quite often there was the white Ford Escort parked outside.’

      ‘Yes,’ Louise said shortly.

      The old woman smiled at her benevolently. ‘Quite a friend you are!’ she observed.

      Louise could think of no response to make at all.

      ‘And what d’you teach, at the university?’ the woman inquired pleasantly.

      ‘I have an experimental post. I’m a specialist in women’s studies seconded to the Literature department on a year’s trial.’

      The old woman nodded. ‘Well, I must get on,’ she said as if Louise were delaying her with gossip. She started towards the van.

      ‘But you are leaving today?’ Louise confirmed.

      The old woman turned and waved the gaudy jug. ‘Just as soon as I get packed,’ she said. ‘As you wish.’

      Louise nodded and turned and went into the house. She picked up the letters and went to read them in her study. The van, solid and blue, obscured the view of the common which she usually found so soothing. She opened the letters without needing to tear the flaps, glanced at them and put them under a paperweight. She switched on the word processor and picked up the phone to speak to Toby.

      ‘She says she’s leaving.’

      Toby, collecting books for a seminar for which he had failed to prepare, was rather brisk. ‘Good. End of problem.’

      ‘I feel like a bully.’

      ‘Napoleon!’

      ‘Napoleon?’

      ‘You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs,’ he said bracingly. ‘Napoleon said it.’

      ‘She’s so very old. And she was born here. She says she was born here.’

      ‘She probably says that everywhere she goes. Look, I have to go. I’m supposed to be taking a seminar on industrialisation and I’ve put Das Kapital down somewhere and I can’t find it.’

      ‘Call me later,’ Louise urged. ‘I feel a bit desolate.’

      ‘Do some work!’ Toby recommended. ‘Sarah’s waiting for your Lawrence article, she told me this morning. I’ll call you later. I might be able to get out to see you this evening – Men’s Consciousness group is finishing early.’

      ‘Oh!’ The half-promise was an immediate restorative. Louise often dreaded being alone in the cottage. On cool summer evenings when the swallows swooped and chased against an apricot horizon the cottage seemed too full of ghosts, other people whose lives had been lived more vividly and more passionately than Louise’s. They had left a trace of their desires and needs in every sun-warmed stone, while Louise flitted like a cold shadow leaving no record. Louise felt half-invisible, looking out of the window across the common. She would pour herself a glass of wine and go out into the garden, sit in a deck chair on the front lawn and read a book, consciously trying to enjoy her solitude. Then she would turn around and look at the little cottage which seemed more lively and vital than herself.

      It had been built as a gamekeeper’s cottage, part of a grand estate of which Mr Miles’s great-grandfather had bought a small slice. Louise thought of a man like Lawrence’s gamekeeper, Mellors, letting himself quietly out of the gate that led to the common and walking softly on dew-soaked grass to check his rabbit snares. Impossible for Louise to speculate what a man like that would think as he walked down the sandy paths СКАЧАТЬ