Peculiar Ground. Lucy Hughes-Hallett
him. Benjie, abandoned mid-anecdote, latched unperturbed onto the only other available audience and went ahead with Flossie.
‘You gave me a fright this morning.’
‘I know. I could kick myself. I was being a rotten father. And what must have gone through your mind.’
‘I saw Fergus. Just for a second. Less than a second.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘No. I’m sorry. That’s what I wanted to say. Let’s forget it now.’
A hiatus.
‘Do you want to show me where the new rose-beds are to go? Green could get started on it next week.’ Hugo’s voice was light and steady.
‘I suppose they can all amuse each other for a minute or two.’
She led him through a green arch, across a round lawn entirely encircled by blackish yew hedge, out beneath another arch, down steps foaming with alchemilla into an alleyway bounded on each side by rows of pleached limes.
‘I thought down at the bottom there, you see? This view needs an ending.’
‘A sundial’s not really big enough for the centrepiece,’ said Hugo. ‘You’d need an obelisk. Or maybe a flowering tree. A weeping pear.’
‘But if it was on a stone plinth? With a threepenny-bit-shaped arrangement of rose-beds around it, and then a wrought-iron gate beyond?’
Hugo laughed. ‘Not just a few shrub-roses then. Actually, you know, a fountain would be the thing. We could bring Norris’s Triton up from the home lake. It’s wasted there. We could pipe the water down from the canal.’
‘Boboli-under-Wychwood.’
A smile. A pause.
‘Lil.’
‘Not now, Hugo.’
Another hiatus.
‘I . . .’
‘Never when Christopher’s here.’
‘No. Of course.’
And yet they didn’t move.
The alley was open-ended. Where the proposed sundial or fountain might one day stand was now a gap in the garden’s perimeter, a hole beyond which the park shimmered, and out of which the magical seclusion of the garden leaked. Across this breach Antony and Nell were seen to walk. She was turned to him, talking earnestly, and beyond him saw, tiny at the other end of the alley, Lil’s brilliant-blue blouse, and then her father, and at once span round and ran towards them.
‘There are tiny tiny lizards in Mr Green’s watering pond.’
Both Hugo and Lil noticed the awkward way Antony checked and dithered, before waving his hat and passing on towards the house.
*
My very dear Nicholas
Lil is a monster, she really is. She makes me laugh but she is just so dangerous. Look at the way she’s luring that nice young agent into her web. Christopher sees it all, of course he does, but he’s too grown up to flap about it. Lil should be careful, though. He may not be jealous, or not very, but he is fastidious. If he gets disgusted with her he could just drift out of her reach.
She knows about us, I can tell. So that’s why we’re both here now. You must have told her. I most certainly didn’t. You must be mad. She can keep secrets all right if she chooses to, but mostly she doesn’t. She’ll have told Christopher by now.
But perhaps it doesn’t matter because last night it came to me that I don’t have to put up with Benjie’s fooling around any more. That girl is a child. I know it’s harsh. I know he needs me and I could depend on him for ever if I chose. But I know now that I no longer love him. There are no children to worry about. And there is you. So it’s your turn now to make a decision. If you don’t respond I’ll never reproach you. But here I stand.
Helen
*
Rose garden. Water garden. Moorish saucer sunk into the soil of Anglo-Saxon Oxfordshire. Lil and Christopher had travelled down through Spain the first summer after the war’s end, through a landscape foul with invisible blood, so absorbed in each other they barely enquired what might have happened there. Stopping the car at midday, they had hidden from the sun, as from an armed enemy, under cork trees, eating ham that wrenched at their teeth and hard bread. In the villages men who looked old, but perhaps were no older than they were, sat on planks balanced on oil drums and stared at them as they drove by. A passing car was an event – not necessarily a welcome one. Women spat in Lil’s direction, and crossed to the other side of the street. Not hostile exactly, just avoiding the bad luck a stranger might bring.
Lil had brought pre-war dresses her mother had passed on to her – rayon in abstract geometrical prints, bias-cut Liberty lawn covered with convolvulus, silvery-green pleats like the chitons of Athenian caryatids. The dresses stayed in the suitcase, while she wore the invisibility cloak of a dusty-blue shirt-waister. Christopher drove, though she was better at it, and on mountain roads she shut her eyes so as to stop herself whimpering with fear. In Ronda they rented a room above a cheese shop and stayed there for long, long afternoons. The high hard bed. The bolsters bristling with horse-hair. The shiny pine-green satin cover. The deliquescence of two bodies. Down into the streets at twilight to join the paseo, so languid from hours of sweat/sex/sleep their legs felt tremulous as a newborn donkey’s. Sherry. Pork-fat thyme-scented. Churches decorated with effigies of tortured saints. Sleeping and waking again hours later to the sound of singers lamenting, lamenting, lamenting. Spain was all grief – its architecture grim – its people grandly dour. There they were happy.
At Wychwood, eight years later, Lil set Hugo, the new agent, to making her a garden to rival Aranjuez, and he mistranslated it into a Cotswold fantasia in pink and green.
*
Nicholas found Helen’s letter on his dressing table. Talk about madly indiscreet! He put it in his inside pocket and thought, What am I feeling? And didn’t have an answer ready. Exasperation: couldn’t she tell he was busy? Joy. A bit of each, obviously. And shame. What a contemptible cold fish he seemed to be. Through his bedroom window he could see her on a rug, propped up on her elbows, Antony cross-legged beside her, making daisy chains while they talked. She didn’t look as though she was waiting for a signal that would determine her future. She looked, as she always did, sleek as one of those fancy grey oriental cats. If I am a cold fish, he thought, she is my fair Miss Frigidaire.
They were all having tea on the terrace (iced coffee, actually) when Underhill came and murmured to Nicholas that he was wanted on the telephone again. Helen looked up sharply, but the others were laughing at Benjie. He had launched into a series of anecdotes about louche goings-on in the art world and Antony, who knew most of the people involved, was dodging his questions and getting more and more embarrassed (which was of course the point).
The telephone was in a sort of mahogany sentry box in the marble hall. While he talked, Nicholas was being eyed by the stuffed bear, rampant, from whose outstretched and fearsomely clawed forearms the dinner gong depended. It was the foreign editor. One of the stringers had a source in East Berlin, who had been told by an old schoolfriend that if he was still keen to move his mother to the West he should drive her over instanter, that very afternoon. The old schoolfriend was in a position to know whatever was up in the Deutsche Demokratische Republik.
‘So you’d better get back here, just in case.’
‘Does it stand up? Anyone corroborating?’
‘I’ve got half the desk working on it, but nothing solid yet. The entire Foreign Office knows there’s something in the offing, but the Americans aren’t sharing information, and there’s nothing coming in from the East. Or that’s their story. You heard what that senator said in Ohio?’
‘About a wall? You think he might have known something? It sounded to me like wish-fulfilment fantasy. Please, somebody,