The Old Girls' Network. Judy Leigh
Some days had been better than others; for the first few months, it had been too easy to retreat into herself and she’d been glad of the distraction from the local residents, who would call in whether she’d asked them to or not, and would help themselves to coffee or tea and fudgy cupcakes. She hadn’t seen Barbara for a while, though. Barbara had said that Winsley Green was a terrible place, either too remote and lonely or full of gossips and busybodies; she’d go out of her mind if she had to stay in such a backwater for long.
Pauline smiled. She was coping well now. She missed Douglas but she was made of strong stuff. Winsley Green was her home now; the community surrounded her like a warm blanket. She belonged; she’d become part of the fabric, part of the thick stone walls of the cottage, a small spoke in the hub of the community. The locals were lovely, like a second family.
Pauline wiped crumbs from the corner of her mouth and swiped the last morsels of cake from the wooden table into her hand, then into the bin. She picked up the empty teacup and took it to the sink, placing it below the dripping tap. At least the water wouldn’t go to waste. She leaned against the Belfast sink and wondered what to make for lunch. She’d treat herself to something nice and nutritious, like homemade soup and crusty rolls.
She picked up the radio and fiddled with the switch; she’d listen to Radio 4. A friendly voice in the room might lift her spirits, which had started to sag a little today. Pauline glanced at the silver urn again. The Sheep Dip would be open now, Oskar and Justina pulling pints and chatting to the customers. A log fire would be burning in the huge hearth and, if Douglas were still alive, it was likely that’s where he’d be. The dripping tap would still need fixing; the window frame would still be rotten.
Pauline was pulled from her thoughts by a resonant banging sound: someone was at the front door, heaving the huge horseshoe knocker. She wiped her fingers on a teacloth, dabbed a hand over her hair where the strands had come loose, and rushed down the hallway to open the heavy door. Len Chatfield filled the doorway, his square shoulders broad inside a tight jacket, the fabric torn and dirty. His blue eyes stared at her from beneath grey wavy hair. His face was ruddy, wind-ravaged, whiskers blooming from the lower part of his cheeks, and he looked anxious.
‘Pauline…’
‘Hello, Len.’ Pauline offered him a warm smile.
‘Brought logs,’ he muttered in his crackly accent, nodding behind him at the Land Rover. ‘I’ll put them in the woodshed for you, shall I?’
Pauline nodded. ‘That’s nice of you, Len. But spring’s well on the way. It’s late for logs. Still I suppose they’ll come in useful for next winter.’
‘No.’ Len’s face clouded with further anxiety, his curling eyebrows moving upwards. ‘Weather will turn next week. It’ll come cold again before summer is here proper – it’ll come icy, snow even, mark my words.’
Pauline met his eyes. Neither she nor Len spoke for a moment, then she said, ‘Thanks, that’s kind.’
Len brought his lips together, wiped his face with the back of his wrist. ‘Ah, yes, right. So, I’ll put them in your woodshed for you then, Pauline.’
She fingered the neck of her jumper. ‘Thanks, Len.’ Her eyes met his: a thought came to her. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘No.’ He shook his head fiercely, as if a bee was buzzing against his nose. ‘No. Best be off. Things to do. Lambs. Sheep. Tractor.’
Pauline nodded as if she understood. But she didn’t really understand how Len Chatfield managed to find time to bring her gifts. He was a busy man; he owned Bottom Farm and many other fields around the village, and of course he was always working, daytimes and even into the late evening. She wondered how they coped up at the big farmhouse on the hill, Len and his son Gary, who all the neighbours said should be married and gone now he was in his thirties. But perhaps he didn’t want to leave his father, in his seventies, a widower of some twenty years, or the farm where he had worked since he was a boy.
Pauline studied Len’s strong features and wondered how well he cooked for himself. Of course, he could easily kill a chicken with his bare hands but she had no idea how he managed with basic meals from day to day. Pauline reached out and patted his arm.
‘Thank you, Len.’
He grunted, his cheeks ruddier than ever, then he turned and ambled back to the Land Rover, lifting out two sacks filled with bulky logs. He heaved the sacks towards the wood shed, where he pushed the door open and deposited the logs on the floor. He strode back to a Land Rover parked by the gate without turning to look back. Pauline watched him go, noticing his square solid back in a thick checked shirt, the steadiness of his stride. He swung himself into the Land Rover. She waved as he drove away down the lane, but his eyes were firmly on the road. She was alone again. Pauline sighed.
A gust of wind swirled the grass of her front lawn and she saw Derek decapitating a sparrow. She closed the door with a clunk and wondered if Len was right, if the weather would change. It was almost midday. She’d hoover the lounge, lay a fire for later and perhaps she’d have a little snooze in the afternoon. The phone started to trill in the kitchen. Pauline disliked phone calls; it usually meant that she had to do something she didn’t want, or talk to someone she’d rather not. It might be the surgery reminding her about a routine appointment; double glazing salespeople; life insurance. And she’d heard stories about all these scammers. She breathed into the receiver.
‘Hello?’
Barbara’s voice boomed back. ‘I’m coming to visit, Pauline. The day after tomorrow. There’s nothing wrong with me but I’ve been in hospital and they’ve told me to take it easy so I’m coming to you for a rest.’
Pauline frowned. ‘Well I’m not sure you’d like…’
‘The train arrives on Thursday at one thirty. Of course, it doesn’t come as far as Winsley Green because you haven’t got a station there, so you’ll have to pick me up in Taunton. One thirty sharp.’
‘But how long will you stay? I’ll have to get the spare room ready and do some shopping. I haven’t got any vegetables in…’
‘Oh, never mind about that.’ Barbara’s tone was irritable. ‘Just be there. I’ve no idea how long I’ll be staying. The woman next door will keep an eye on my little place.’ There was a pause and when her voice returned to the earpiece, Barbara sounded strangely cheerful. ‘I’m actually looking forward to the break. Do you know, Pauline, we might even enjoy ourselves.’
Pauline pulled a face: she wasn’t sure. She could imagine Barbara in Douglas’ favourite chair in the lounge, her feet up, sipping the Christmas sherry while Pauline rushed around obeying orders.
‘Barbara—’
‘That’s settled then. Thursday, Taunton station. Don’t be late.’
Pauline wondered if her sister was pausing to smile or to clench her teeth, then she heard her add, ‘There’s a dear girl. Goodbye.’
Pauline put the phone back softly into its cradle and stood still for a moment. She wondered what the next few days would bring. Barbara was coming to stay, and she had no idea for how long. She breathed in, pushed back her shoulders and tried a smile. It might be nice seeing Barbara again; it would certainly be pleasant to have another person in the house, another voice. But Barbara could be quite difficult.
Pauline considered for a moment and resolved to be positive. They were sisters, after all, both in their seventies now: it was about time she tried again to close the gulf between them: Barbara couldn’t do it. She was by nature a little prickly and Pauline thought it might be the right thing to do, to try to connect. They were the only local family either of them had now, after all, Jessica being so far away.
The word family made Pauline frown thoughtfully. Most sisters usually had something in common; there was usually an opinion they shared, a hobby, a memory. But not Pauline and Barbara. They couldn’t be more different. It would be an interesting challenge though,