It was a cause of great sadness when the hippies tired of emptying bucket lavatories and collecting firewood to burn under the pots of beans. One by one they drifted away into advertising and accountancy. The ruined farm was untenanted now but for feral kittens, descendants of the original cats brought by the flower children.
‘Oh, blast!’ Dimpsie had picked up the notepad from beside the telephone. ‘Your father’s had to go out on a call. Vanessa Trumball again.’
‘Who’s Vanessa Trumball?’
‘She moved here about a year ago. She lives up at Roughsike Fell. She must be terribly lonely there on her own – her husband’s left her; such a shame. I thought he was a nice man. Your father has to go up there at least twice a week. It’s lucky for her he’s so dedicated to his profession.’
I wanted to ask if she was young and pretty but I was afraid of causing pain.
‘Never mind.’ Dimpsie hung up our coats, then twirled on the spot with her knee bent and her foot stuck out behind her, a characteristic movement which I had forgotten. ‘We won’t wait for him. Let’s have supper.’
‘I must feed Siggy first and let him have a run. He’s been cooped up all day.’
‘Siggy?’ My mother looked vaguely about the hall.
‘My rabbit.’ I indicated the cage on the flagstones.
‘A rabbit? Oh, how sweet!’
‘Don’t do that!’ I cried just in time to prevent bloodshed, as she bent down, finger poised to stroke him through the bars. ‘He has the meanest temper. I’ll take him upstairs and shut him in my room so he can run about.’
‘But what will your father say?’
Tom hated animals.
‘Need he know?’
‘I suppose not. Not telling isn’t the same as lying, is it? Shall I get him some lettuce?’
I understood that she meant Siggy.
‘He’d rather have meat. Preferably raw.’
It took a while to set Siggy up with a bowl of water, some scraps of chicken breast and a litter tray. Because of being incarcerated all day, he refused to have anything to do with me and sulked among my old shoes in the bottom of my wardrobe. By the time I hobbled downstairs to the kitchen my mother had supper on the table.
‘Lentil soup, darling. And homemade bread.’
I remembered the bread. Dimpsie made it herself from wholemeal flour ground by the watermill in the next valley. It required strong teeth and a stalwart colon. It was, in its own way, delicious. I had a second helping of the soup to gratify Dimpsie. My father considered food a boring necessity, which must have been discouraging for an anxious cook.
‘Lovely,’ I said. ‘Just what I needed after such a long journey.’
‘Poor darling.’ She opened the Aga door and brought out a large pie. ‘This’ll set you up. Cabbage and Jerusalem artichokes with a layer of cheesy mashed potato on top.’
‘Oh goodness! I hadn’t realized there’d be anything else. I don’t think I can …’ I saw her face fall. ‘All right, because it looks so tempting, I’d love just a little.’
While my mother spooned the explosive mixture on to my plate, I looked fondly at the kitchen. The walls had been stencilled with vegetables. I knew they were vegetables because I had helped Dimpsie cut them out years ago. We had had much trouble with the bulb of garlic. However we trimmed it and shaped it, it had continued to remind us of the horribly swollen scrotum my father kept in formaldehyde in his study.
‘Now, darling,’ said Dimpsie when I had eaten as much of the vegetable hotpot as I possibly could, ‘I’ll make some coffee and we can have a lovely cosy chat before Tom comes in.’
I answered her questions about my leg with vague reassurances, then I told her about my flat and Giselle and Lizzie and Bella and the other members of the company. Dimpsie rested her cheek on her hand and looked at me with dreaming eyes.
‘It all sounds such heaven. Now tell me about the men in your life.’ A note of wistfulness crept into her voice. ‘I’m in the mood for a little vicarious romance.’
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there isn’t anyone particular.’ The decision not to tell her about Sebastian was made in a moment, before I had a chance to reflect. Dimpsie was the most broad-minded mother in the world but suddenly I couldn’t bear even the thought of him. ‘I don’t really have time for men at the moment.’ I yawned extravagantly. ‘I’m shattered. I must go to bed. I’ll see Tom at breakfast.’ I saw the disappointment in her eyes. ‘But before I go up you must tell me about Kate.’
Dimpsie’s face brightened. She poured us both more coffee and popped a piece of halva into her mouth. ‘Well, darling, it’s really rather fascinating … I went to see her just before Christmas. You remember Dougall always made us take our shoes off in the porch? Well, now you have to put on plastic things like bath hats over your feet …’
I was anxious to look my best for dinner at Shottestone Manor. Luckily I had brought my best dress with me. Like many of my clothes it was a cast-off from Wardrobe. It came originally from a production of Ondine, Ashton’s ballet about a water nymph. Now, unless you looked closely, you couldn’t see the bad tear under the arm which I had spent hours mending, because the dress was made from several layers of chiffon in different shades of aquamarine and jade with a hem cut into long strips to shimmer like water. It had a high waist bound with silver braid which ran up over the narrow straps. Unfortunately the plaster cast, already quite grubby round the edges, and the black sock I wore over it to cover my bare toes seriously impaired the glamour lent me by the dress. While waiting for inspiration to effect some improvement, I wrapped a blanket round my naked shoulders and sat on my bedroom window seat to admire the view across the valley.
The hillside opposite was steep and thickly wooded. At this time of year the façade of Shottestone Manor could clearly be seen among the branches, though the distance was too great for its inhabitants to be more than moving dots. Like Dumbola Lodge it was built of grey stone but it had an altogether superior air. Two projecting wings made it an impressive size, a third storey with steep gables gave it an imposing height, and a pillared portico added gracefulness.
Isobel’s bedroom had been on the top floor. As children we had sometimes signalled to each other by arrangement. You could just make out an energetically waved pillowcase as a fleck of white. Isobel had got into hot water when one had blown out of her hand and into the trees below, never to be seen again. For a brief period we had sent messages with torches using Morse code. I had swotted up all the dots and dashes, hoping to impress Rafe with my prowess. I dreamed that he might send me messages of love flashing in beams of light above the treetops, but of course it never happened. My exchanges with Isobel were laborious because she did not have the same incentive to learn the alphabet, so there were long intervals between letters while she looked them up. Also, having spent the day together there wasn’t much to say.
Rafe’s bedroom had been on the first floor. Once I had borrowed my father’s telescope and trained it on Rafe’s window for hours, hoping for a glimpse of my idol. I had been rewarded when he had leaned on the sill for a whole five minutes wearing an unbuttoned shirt and smoking a cigarette. I drank in the sight of his godlike head and manly chest, my heart thumping with excitement while the barrel of the telescope became damp from my perspiring fingers.
Evelyn’s