Puffball, p.8
Puffball, page 8
Richard had quite a lot to drink one night. Richard rang through to Cadbury Farm.
‘Take a message to Liffey,’ he said. ‘Tell her I love her.’
The Underside of Things
Mabs and Tucker thought Richard was daft, wasting good money on such a call. There was a wistful look in Mabs’ eye, all the same.
‘Don’t you start sticking pins in her,’ said Tucker.
‘Now why should I want to do that?’ asked Mabs, virtuously.
‘I don’t know why women do anything,’ said Tucker.
Once Mabs had made a model out of candle wax to represent a farmer who had wronged Tucker and stuck a pin through its leg, and shut it in a drawer, and the farmer had developed thrombosis in his leg and gone to hospital. Just as well the pin had not been driven through the chest: Mabs had desisted from that obvious course because the farmer’s daughter had once done her a good turn.
But Liffey was a different and difficult matter. It was Mabs’ experience, and her mother’s before her, that spells worked only upon angry and disagreeable people, and Liffey was neither. Moreover, if the spellbinder herself or himself was angry, then the spell could turn back like a boomerang. That was why a third party was so useful, to curse or spite for payment—in the same way as a psychoanalyst is paid, to receive spite and curses on behalf of others: sopping up the wrath turned away from cruel mothers and neglectful fathers and unfeeling spouses. The witch or spellbinder did more; and passed the evil on.
Mabs’ mother, along with everyone else, said that spells were a lot of rubbish and she’d rather watch television any day; if you wanted to do anyone a bad turn these days all you had to do was ring up the Income Tax Inspector, or now, even better, the VAT man.
All the same, when Mabs and Carol had been little, they’d once nailed their mother’s footprint to the ground—one damp day when she’d been hanging out the washing—and sure enough she’d developed a limp. That was a sure test of a witch.
‘It’s not magic,’ their mother would say, limping, as she mixed her powders and potions, ‘it’s medicine. Natural, herbal medicine.’ And Carol and Mabs would listen, not knowing what to believe. She’d cured old Uncle Bob Fletcher of cancer. Everyone knew that. He’d gone on to ninety-nine, fit as a fiddle, and left her five hundred pounds and three acres in his will.
Dirty old man: some said Carol was his daughter; Carol and Mabs couldn’t have come out of the same bag. One so small, the other so large.
Mabs went up to Honeycomb Cottage with Richard’s message—Liffey was out walking so Mabs left a little note, and a bag of home-made sweets which Liffey didn’t eat. She thought they tasted bitter.
Liffey, on the Tuesday of that week, organised a taxi to take her in and out of Crossley two days a week. She bought a new motorised bicycle at Poldyke garage, and on Friday a brand new Rotovator at Crossley. On Saturday she returned the bicycle. The engine was faulty. The village counted the cost of it all and marvelled.
Liffey’s grandfather, Madge’s father, had left Liffey a large sum of money, by-passing his daughter. What is the use, he asked her, bitterly, of handing wealth on to those who despise it? To those who would rather eat cheese sandwiches than steak au poivre? Madge had made nonsense of her father’s life. She was as like as not to give away an inheritance to something she believed in—nuclear disarmament one year, save the whale or women’s liberation the next. No, Liffey would have to have it. Liffey at least enjoyed spending money, and acted as most people did, on whim rather than principle. Liffey did not open bank statements. She put them straight into a drawer. Thus Richard’s face was saved, and the illusion that they were living off his money preserved. Liffey would, from time to time, offer money to Madge, but Madge always refused it. Madge lived in a tiny cottage in a Norfolk county town, taught at the local school and ate school dinners, and now she had given up drinking whisky, was able to save most of her salary. Madge wanted nothing that Liffey could give. Never had, thought Liffey sadly. Not smiles nor gaiety nor prettiness nor money, which was all Liffey had to offer. Nothing of solid worth. Just what she was—nothing she had achieved.
At seven o’clock that evening Tucker came up to see if he could help Liffey with the Rotovator. Liffey’s breath came short and sharp as she opened the door—but the tension between them had evaporated, and she was alarmed to see how ordinary he looked, and unattractive, and not in the least worthy of her. He stood in the kitchen, knowing more about her business than she cared to acknowledge, but no cause at all for erotic excitement. Grimy nails were just grimy nails, and not black talons of lust and excitement.
‘I can manage,’ said Liffey. ‘I have the manual and am quite good mechanically.’
That was his cue to say she was quite good at other things too, but he didn’t, so she knew it was over for him too, and was, when it came to it, relieved. ‘My husband’s coming back soon,’ she said boldly. ‘Stay and meet him properly,’ which Tucker did, settling down in front of the Aga, easing off his working boots.
‘Rotovator’s no good for virgin land,’ said Tucker. ‘You’d need a tractor, your side of the stream. Bad soil, too. You’d be lucky to grow an onion. All right for cows but that’s about all.’
Liffey was making mayonnaise. She squeezed in garlic. ‘Strong stuff for eggs,’ commented Tucker. ‘Eggs are delicate.’
It had not all been rough and powerful: no. His fingers had been hard and calloused, but his mouth had been soft, and his tongue gentle.
No, Liffey, no. Enough.
Oh, lonely nights without Richard.
Richard arrived at seven minutes past eight, looking forward to his weekend. He was loving, cheerful and eager, and loaded with good things. Ray and Bella lived around the corner from the Camden Town street market, and Richard had bought aubergines and peppers, celeriac and chicory; and olives from the Greek shop, green and black, both, and feta cheese and pitta bread: and whisky and a new kind of aperitif and good claret; and a joint of the best available lamb in all London.
Richard had resolved not to tell Liffey about the film he had seen the previous night with Bella and Ray, and how they had all gone off to a new fish restaurant afterwards, on expenses, for Bella and Ray were writing the place up for the column, or about the fun they had choosing the most expensive dishes on the menu, finding fault, and sending them back to the kitchen. The management had not seen it as fun, and Richard had wanted Liffey to be there, so he could discuss the whole thing afterwards, but where was Liffey? At the end of a muddy lane, a hundred and more miles away, which she loved more than she loved him.
Richard unloaded the good things on to the table, kissed Liffey, and was glad to see Tucker sitting there, since the presence of a stranger made the lie in his heart less likely to show in his eye.
How quickly Liffey makes friends, thought Richard. At least he would not have to worry in case she were lonely, stuck away here by herself.
‘Tucker and Mabs have been so helpful,’ said Liffey.
‘Until we get her driving, and get a telephone put in,’ said Richard to Tucker, ‘we’re going to be dependent on your good services, I’m afraid. Sorry about the call the other night. Too much to drink.’
‘That’s what neighbours are for,’ said Tucker.
Liffey had the uncomfortable feeling that Richard was in some way shelving his responsibility towards her, and handing it over to Tucker and Mabs.
Tucker suggested they both go over to Mabs for a meal, and Richard accepted with what Liffey saw as unseemly alacrity. ‘But I’ve got supper waiting—’ she began, but didn’t finish. She moved the meat from the fast to the slow oven. They could eat it tomorrow.
Mabs saw the lights in the kitchen go out, and knew they were on their way up, and determined that Liffey should have an uncomfortable weekend. She could in no way see that Liffey deserved Richard’s love as well as Tucker’s attentions. Those who must be up and doing, as was Mabs, have little time for those who are content just to be, as was Liffey. And the need to be pleasant to her, for the sake of a pound here and 50p there, and an acre of free grazing, no longer seemed of pressing importance.
Mabs served a lamb stew from an enormous pot on the
cooker. Liffey was given the gristly bits.
‘Wonderful flavour!’ marvelled Richard.
‘It’s because they’re home-grown,’ said Liffey. ‘Everything here tastes wonderful.’
‘No time to grow vegetables,’ said Tucker. ‘We do manage a drop or two of cider; come November you’d best be bringing your apples over for the pressing. You get quite a nice little crop off of some of your trees. No good for eating, mind. Not if you’ve got a sweet tooth.’ And he grinned at Liffey, and Liffey wished he wouldn’t.
Liffey was well into her menstrual cycle. Some twenty-five or so follicles ripened nicely in her ovaries, one ahead of the others. In a couple of days it would reach maturity, and drop, and put an end to the generative energies of the rest. Nature works by waste.
There was apple pie and real cream for pudding, and afterwards Mabs handed round home-made Turkish delight. She pressed the mint-flavoured piece on Liffey. Liffey didn’t think it was very nice.
Liffey and Richard walked home down the lane. The night was crisp and clear. The moon had a chunk out of it.
‘Wonderful people,’ said Richard. ‘Real people; country people.’
‘Those are my lines,’ said Liffey.
‘With none of the false romanticism about the country you get from townfolk.’
‘Those are Bella’s lines,’ said Liffey.
They were, too.
Liffey was getting grumbling pains in her stomach. Her hand clenched Richard’s.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Pains.’
‘Ovulation pains?’ asked Richard, knowledgeable.
‘No, not like that.’
‘What like, then?’ He used the childish vocabulary that was their habit, and heard himself, and despised himself.
‘Indigestion. Perhaps it was the stew.’
‘Delicious stew. Why don’t you make stews, Liffey?’
‘Perhaps I will, now I’m in the country.’
‘We’re still going to have our baby, aren’t we?’
‘Of course!’
Bella had said that having a baby might be the making of Liffey. Responsibility might mature her.
‘The Turkish delight tasted peculiar,’ said Liffey. ‘Why would a woman like Mabs make Turkish delight?’
Richard discovered that he was critical of his wife, that he jeered inwardly at her absurdities, and felt the desire to mock what had once entranced him. He blamed Liffey for the loss of his love for her. Richard had been to bed with Bella.
Full Moon
Mabs stared at the moon. The moon stared at Mabs. Tucker couldn’t sleep.
Other people looked at the moon.
In Liffey and Richard’s former apartment Mory lay in bed in the moonlight while Helen tweezed hairs from her chin. He had a sharp, pale face and a straggly beard which jutted above the bedclothes.
‘No need to get uptight about anything,’ said Helen, comfortingly. She was plump, pretty, dark and hairy. She was a freelance TV set designer, usually out of work. ‘Liffey has money to burn. They can afford to live anywhere. We certainly can’t.’
‘I’m really hung up about Richard,’ said Mory. ‘I can feel my ulcer again. What sort of friend is he, writing solicitors’ letters when he could just as well phone?’
‘And there’s Lally to think about,’ said Helen.
Lally, Helen’s sister, out-of-work model, and eight months pregnant, lay on foam rubber in the room next door, in the arms of Roy, out-of-work builder. If they married, her Social Security payments would cease. She was cold. She tossed and turned in the moonlight and presently decided the warmth was not worth the discomfort and told him to get the hell out of her bed, and build a fire. ‘What with?’ he asked.
‘With that,’ she said, and pointed at a Japanese bamboo screen of Liffey’s and a little wickerwork stool. ‘People before things,’ she said.
‘He’s got it all ways,’ observed Mrs Martin, Richard’s secretary’s mother. She was a plump, busy little body, with a husband two years dead. She was ashamed of her widowhood, as if in letting her husband die she had committed a criminal offence—a feeling which the neighbours up and down the suburban street reinforced, by ceasing to call where once they had called, or even going so far as to cross the road when she approached. That they might have acted thus from embarassment, or from a primitive fear that misfortune might be catching, and so could hardly be any more responsible for their reactions than she was for her husband’s death, Mrs Martin failed to appreciate. She kept herself to herself, and studiously read the more profound of the women’s magazines, scanning the pages for truth and understanding about wifehood, mistresshood, motherhood, never quite knowing what she was looking for, but feeling sure that one day she would find it; in the meantime she passed on to her daughter what she found out about the ways of the world.
‘He’s got it all ways,’ she said now. ‘Bachelor life all week, and country cottage at the weekends. Trust a man.’
‘Oh no,’ said Miss Martin. ‘It wasn’t his idea, it was her idea.’
‘He’ll be after you next,’ said Mrs Martin, ‘in that case. You be careful. Men always cheat on women who organise their lives.’
‘I’m not the type,’ said Miss Martin, wishing she were. She felt cheated by life, which had taken away her father, and turned her mother into someone whose advice was based on reading, not on experience. Mrs Martin thought it unwise of her daughter not to sleep with her fiancé Jeff; but Miss Martin knew well enough that the only reason so handsome and eligible a young man as Jeff wanted to marry her was that all the other girls did, and she didn’t. He was a Catholic and divided women, in the old-fashioned way, into good and bad. The good ones, Virgin Marys all, who had a man’s babies by as near to an immaculate conception as everyone could manage; and the bad ones whom you loved, humiliated and left. Miss Martin saw all this quite clearly, and still wanted to marry Jeff. Mrs Martin also saw it clearly, and didn’t want her daughter to marry Jeff: her advice was directed, if unconsciously, to this end.
Their little white cat yowled to be let out. Miss Martin opened the back door and it darted out between her solid legs.
‘Why should Mr Lee-Fox choose me?’ she asked.
‘Because you’re there,’ said her mother. ‘All a man needs is for a woman to be there.’
Miss Martin’s boyfriend Jeff was on the Embankment doling out soup to vagrants and alcoholics. Once a week he did voluntary social work. ‘There but for the grace of God,’ he’d say. He took girlie magazines in his briefcase, to read in the early hours, when the flow of mendicants and suppliants dried up. Tonight the moon was so bright that he did not need his torch, and a shimmering mystery was added to an otherwise brutal reality, and he was glad. He put his trust in Miss Martin’s virginity to cure him, in some magic way, of his unseemly lusts.
Bella and Ray lay far apart in their big double bed. Bella thought of the love of her life, who had been married for five years to someone else, and Ray thought of his hopeless love for Karen, schoolgirl. Bella and Ray held hands across the gulf which separated them, and felt better.
‘Helga fancies Richard,’ said Bella, with satisfaction. Bella lived in fear of losing Helga, for if Helga went, so would her own freedom from domestic and maternal duties. Au pairs were becoming hard to find, and harder still to control. They demanded nights out, and lovers in their beds, and exorbitant wages. Helga had been showing signs of restlessness. A romantic interest in the house, in the form of Richard, would do much to keep her quiet and docile.
‘So long as you don’t,’ said Ray, more out of marital politeness than any real anxiety.
‘Of course I don’t,’ said Bella. ‘He’s much too simple for me.’
The moon, shining through the Georgian window, making shadow bars across the bed, made her think she was in prison, which in turn made her feel she could yet be free.
Helga, indifferent to a foreign moon, slept soundly in her boxroom. She worked hard, too hard: she was always tired. She was a warm, rounded, sleepy little thing with busy hands, for ever cleaning and wiping and tidying. Sometimes she thought she would look for a new job with less work but there was never time. And if she went home, who would look after the children? They needed her. Those who responded to others’ needs live hard lives, and go unrewarded. She knew it, but could do nothing about it.
Mabs’ sister Carol, allegedly spending the night at Cadbury Farm, was in the back of Dick Hubbard’s car. Later they would go to his office in the market square, letting themselves in when the pubs had closed and there was, they wrongly believed, no one about to see. While they waited, they indulged the passion that obsessed them both. It was true, the whole village agreed, that he was a better partner for her than her husband Barry, but she made her choice, and the village said she should stick to it. Carol was lean and dark as Mabs was broad and pale. Her limbs were silvery in the moonlight, smooth and slippery as a fish seen under water.
