Flying High. Литагент HarperCollins USD
times when one had to be a little selfish, otherwise people would take advantage of one’s good nature. Almost gaily she waved, as Teddy Redfern drove away from the centre still calling out, ‘Don’t let me down!’ from his car window.
Mrs Oliphant spent the month of August visiting her married daughter in Canada. They did a great deal of touring about and the weather was very hot and, although of course one absolutely adored one’s grandchildren, there was no getting away from the fact that toddlers were most frightfully exhausting.
It was delightful to be back in the peace of one’s own charming little cottage, to rediscover the joys of solitude and the sheer bliss of pottering around one’s garden. It was not until she had been home for a week that she chanced to pick up the new Adult Education Prospectus from the library.
Yes, there it was: Discovering Drawing: Edward Redfern. For beginners or the more advanced. Drawing can simply record information, but it can also express dynamic emotion. Students will be encouraged to develop their skills in a free and original way, using a variety of techniques. It really did sound quite exciting put like that, and she began to look forward to the new term.
One day in the second week of September she discovered that the grapes were ripe enough to eat. She could not remember having picked them as early as this in previous years; it had been an exceptional summer. She toyed with the idea of taking a bunch along to her first drawing class, then the happy thought struck her that there was really no need to wait for this. She knew where Teddy Redfern lived and could perfectly well call round with the grapes she had promised him. Perhaps she could advise him on his garden at the same time.
Mrs Oliphant arranged several of the ripe bunches artistically in a shoe box lined with crumpled pale-green paper napkins – almost as if one were taking them to church for a Harvest Thanksgiving service, she told herself mockingly. But one did like things to look elegant; even a simple gift should reflect one’s personality. For similar reasons she dressed with care in a lilac cotton skirt and top that she had bought in Canada. It was still warm enough not to need a cardigan.
Teddy Redfern’s bungalow, seen close to, was even nastier than she had imagined and the poor man’s garden certainly was neglected! The hedges had simply been allowed to run riot and the last of the privet blossom gave out a warm, sickly scent; a lawnmower stood abandoned on the half-cut patch of grass; the flowerbeds were dry and choked with weeds. A large, untidy clump of red-hot pokers almost blocked the path that led to the front door.
Stepping delicately past these red-hot pokers, Mrs Oliphant rang the doorbell, then stood listening with her head on one side. She became aware of music playing somewhere inside – the sort of music with a heavy, pounding bass that somehow she would not have expected a man of Teddy Redfern’s age to have liked. She rang the bell again but this time without much confidence.
His little red car was standing on the drive so he must be at home. Perhaps he was working in the back garden. She made her way round the side of the house, hardly noticing that the music had stopped. As she came to an open window she found herself looking into an incredibly disordered living room and was about to hurry past when she was arrested by the sound of voices. They seemed to come from a sofa covered in hideous mustard-yellow velveteen which stood with its back to the window.
‘Have a heart, sweetie – I’m not a superman.’
‘That’s not what you told me half an hour ago …’
It was at this point that Mrs Oliphant caught sight of the black cycling shorts and orange vest which lay next to a whisky bottle on the carpet. She lifted her eyes and saw a plump but shapely leg rise into the air, the toes curling and uncurling. There was the sound of a slap then a giggle, followed by Teddy Redfern’s unmistakable laugh.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Just let me change the tape first.’
The next moment Mrs Oliphant stepped back in horror as he got up from the sofa and crossed the room, revealing more of the naked male body than she ever wished to encounter again. It was clear that he had not been ‘drawing from the figure’, though he could have been expressing dynamic emotion in a free and original way, using a variety of techniques.
Her heart thudding, she tiptoed swiftly back to the front of the bungalow. Would it be best to take the grapes home with her? But then, looking at their firm, shiny plumpness, she felt a sudden distaste for them. Quietly she laid the box on the front doorstep and hurried out of the gate.
It wasn’t that one was shocked, she told herself, standing in her cool, gracious drawing room a little later. If one had thought about it, one would naturally have assumed that he must have some sort of ‘love life’, to use the rather ridiculous modern expression. It was simply that one didn’t expect that kind of thing to be going on in the middle of the afternoon, in broad daylight, and not even in his bedroom.
Absently she rearranged a spray of Michaelmas daisies in the vase that stood on the low table. With sprigs of purple hebe and a few creamy-white roses the effect was exquisite.
It was strange that she had not noticed the reddish tinge in Mr Redfern’s hair before today; she had never cared for ginger men – just one of those little irrational foibles. Of course, one had always realized that he was not quite a gentleman …
She gazed out of the window at her charming garden, a restful, soothing vista of greens and blues and silver and white. It might be agreeable to take a tray of tea out to the courtyard, she thought.
Sitting there, sipping Earl Grey tea from a fragile, bone china cup, she turned once more to the Adult Education Prospectus. Watercolour Flower Painting; how delightful that sounded! The tutor was a Bridget Coombe-Stevens, and students were encouraged to bring their own plant and flower material.
There was nothing more ageing than to get into a rut and one really had a duty to oneself to ensure that this did not happen. And of course this class had the added advantage of not clashing with Italian, and so one would be able to keep one’s promise to poor Marjorie …
Philip Sealey
Philip Sealey currently teaches English at the European School in Munich. He has travelled widely and written two novels and the libretto for an opera. At present he is working on a third book set, like this short story, in Berlin after the Wall.
Es war einmal – once upon a time.
The wood was dark and the thin ribbon of sky above their heads was already speckled with the first stars.
She was four and he was six and every few paces she had to break into a run in order to keep up with him. Her basket, filled with the berries they had been gathering, hung heavily in her small hand and she longed to abandon it somewhere. Her brother Hans had nothing to carry.
‘Why do you always go so fast?’ she called crossly after him.
‘It’s getting dark!’ he shouted back over his shoulder.
‘But we’ll be home soon, won’t we? You promised we’d only be gone an hour.’
In the middle of the path, he stopped and turned to face her. She looked at his wide, frightened eyes and, in her mind, saw the forest stretching away endlessly behind him.
‘I don’t know the way any more,’ he said.
When Greta Maier opened her eyes, the sunlight was already filtering through the gaps in the half-drawn blinds. She lay still, listening to the faint voices she could hear from downstairs. Children’s voices. How strange that, on this of all days, the old dream – or was it a memory? – should return to haunt her. But not only the dream. The three words also that, like an incantation, seemed to