‘So, where do we start?’ Alice asked. ‘Shall we try alphabetical order, do you think?’
Esther frowned and looked around at the piles of books covering the floor. ‘You’d have to be quite disciplined to maintain alphabetical order, Miss Finch. I’m not sure.’
‘You don’t think I’m organised enough. You can say it, Esther.’ Alice laughed. ‘You are probably right. Plus, it would be a nightmare to sort out.’ Hetty stood between the two women, her head moving from left to right as they talked, as if watching a particularly enthralling Wimbledon final.
It was the first Saturday of the Spring term, and Alice had invited Esther round for tea and to help organise her books on the shelves John had built for her. When she had returned home from school on the first day of term, Alice had been crestfallen to find that John had finished the work and had already left. She found a note propped up on fruit bowl on the kitchen table. ‘Thank you for the pie. Hope you like the bookshelves, John.’ The expanse of distance between them was hurtful. She could not understand why the sweetness of their milk and honey connection had curdled. But the spring term had surged into life and her days were crammed again with multiplication tables, lost mittens and the wives of King Henry Vlll. During the long January evenings, she cooked stews or baked potatoes in the stove and strolled with Hetty round the green, relishing the velvet silence of winter. Occasionally, at home, Hetty would bark twice and the phone would ring. Ordinarily, Alice would resent the shrill intrusion of the telephone into the solitude of her evenings, but recently she had hurried to answer the call, only to be saddened to discover it was not John. She had assumed the meeting on the headland was a prologue to a new and wondrous story in her life, yet the narrative seemed to have withered and died before the first chapter had even begun.
She pushed thoughts of John away and glanced at Esther. ‘I like your skirt. And your hair. You look lovely today,’ she said. Esther was looking through a pile of books precariously balanced on the windowsill. Since Alice had last seen her, the girl had dyed a streak of her black hair silvery blonde. She was wearing a long, flowing skirt made of a pretty liberty print fabric. It was the kind of thing Alice herself liked to wear, she realised.
Esther blushed and shyly pushed a strand of hair behind her ears. She seemed unused to compliments, to kindness. ‘Thank you. My Aunty Rose told me at our Christmas dinner she thought I looked like a prostitute, with my dyed hair and my black eyeliner and red lipstick. She said she wouldn’t be at all surprised if men starting pulling up in their cars when I walk down the street. I mean, I’m not sure how many prostitutes wear skirts down to their ankles, Doc Marten boots and men’s M&S woolly cardigans. Mother Theresa shows more flesh than me. She wears sandals, the strumpet. But no, according to my aunty, I look like a prostitute.’
Recalling the conversation she’d overheard in the butcher’s shop, Alice could quite believe that Rose would make such a cruel, thorny comment. What a thing to say to a girl in front of her family across the dinner table. A girl obviously so fragile. It made Alice seethe. ‘She sounds like a very bitter woman, Esther. Just be thankful that you are not like that. She must be very unhappy.’
Esther shrugged, as if remarks such as her aunt’s were nothing extraordinary, simply part of her day-to-day experience. ‘Do you really like the skirt? I made it myself. I got my mum’s sewing machine out and found a couple of her sewing books. It’s not very good really. The hem is awfully wobbly. I enjoyed doing it though. I need a lot more practice.’
‘I love it. I noticed it as soon as you took your coat off. I remember all the glorious dresses your mum sewed for you. She was a talented lady. I bet she’d have loved to see you sewing at her machine.’
‘My dad came back from church and found me sewing at the dining room table. He had to leave the room quickly. I think he was a bit overwhelmed. I’ve spent my Christmas money on fabrics and a couple of patterns.’ Esther straightened the pile of books on windowsill and curled up on the worn velvet sofa. Hetty immediately leapt up to join her, leaning in close to the girl’s body, offering her ears for scratches and twirls.
Alice sat at the opposite end of the sofa. ‘I heard that your dad was devoted to your mum. I’ve also heard he’s the village’s most eligible widower. Mabel Gaunt next door tells me to the spinsters in the village he’s like Gregory Peck. Those were her exact words.’
‘It’s true.’ Esther laughed, hugging Hetty close to her. ‘I tease him about all the cakes and casseroles and badly knitted socks he gets. Myra Sanderson invited him to tea once and she was in her nightie holding a plate of Mr Kipling fondant fancies when she opened the door. He ran, apparently. Away. I don’t think he’s moved so fast since the 1950s. Listen, how about categories for your books: crime, children’s books, cookery, art, women writers, poetry. That will help you find what you want, but not be too rigid.’
‘Excellent idea. Right Esther, you start finding female writers and children’s books. I’ll look for crime, cookery and the rest. We can put them in piles. Remember, if you want to borrow anything you are more than welcome, just set it to one side. I’ve got Lolly Willowes ready for you. A story of witchcraft and independence and the natural world. I think you’ll enjoy it. I remember you naming every single flower and tree when we went on our nature walks through the dene.’
The women worked companionably for most of the afternoon, and by the time darkness had descended, the alcoves in the sitting and dining rooms were neatly stacked with books. Alice lit the lamps and they sat in front of the fire with plates of warm cheese pie on their knees and mugs of strong golden tea at their feet.
‘I adore your house, Miss Finch. You’re like a Beatrix Potter character in her lovely, safe burrow. I’d love to have my own place like this.’
‘You will do, one day.’
‘I forgot to tell you, the kittens have been born. There are four. Each one is different. There’s a black and white one, a ginger one, a tortoiseshell one and an inky black witch’s cat. They are gorgeous. I’m keeping the black and white one because even though he has too many ears, he reminds me of Bakewell. We need to find good homes for the rest. That pie was delicious, Miss Finch. Thank you. I couldn’t eat another thing.’
They put their plates on the floor and sipped their mugs of tea. Hetty snored loudly on the rug in a flickering pool of firelight. Esther opened her copy of Lolly Willowes and started to read. The mantle clock ticked loud and slow. Alice closed her eyes and felt herself sinking into delicious sleep.
Suddenly, Hetty jerked her head up from the rug imparted two shrill barks. She scrabbled to the front door where she stood with her head cocked to one side and her ears pricked. When the knocking began she released a furore of sharp, excited barks.
‘Oh, who can that be? I was almost dozing off there.’ Alice sighed. She threw off the knitted blanket that was covering her knees and went to the front door, pushing a feverish Hetty out of the way.
‘Hello petal, I was passing and I thought I’d check you’re happy with the bookshelves.’ John stooped in the doorway. His smile was tender and his face was creased and worn and lovely. He stepped into the hallway and fished out a couple of biscuits from his pocket. ‘Here you are Hetty. I came prepared. She’s warming to me, I think.’
Alice led John into the sitting room. ‘Come on through. This is Esther. She’s helped me today sort my books out. Your shelves are now fully operational thanks to her. Esther, this is my friend John, master builder of bookcases, expert on nuns and enemy of lurchers.’
‘Hello, Esther. Your hair is fucking fantastic, by the way,’ John walked over to the shelves. ‘These look great. The jumble of colours reminds me of all the jars of sweets on the shelves in the old ice cream parlour. Can I look at the ones in the dining room, flower?’
‘Of course. Would you like a piece of cheese pie and a cup of tea?’
‘Aye petal. Please. Your pies are sheer witchcraft. Milk. No sugar. Strong.’
He stalked out of the room. She could hear his slow, steady footsteps on the creaking floorboards of the dining room. It was a homely, comforting sound, like the running of a warm bath or the whistling of a kettle on a cold day.
When Alice returned from the kitchen with John’s tea and pie, she found him sprawled in the armchair that looked out over the village green. Esther was speaking timidly to him, her pale cheeks glowed as red as an apple in the firelight. Alice felt a surging of tenderness for the girl.
‘Yes, we’ve had our pie. It’s lovely. Mind you, my Aunty Rose would say I shouldn’t be eating such things. All that butter and cheese. She’d have me eating a single cream cracker topped with one sliver of celery and a sprinkling of birdseed.’
Alice handed John his plate of pie and set his tea on the windowsill.
‘Thanks flower. That looks excellent. Esther, you know what I would say to your Aunty Rose? I would say fuck off. Seriously. I mean, look at Alice there.’ He waved his fork to where Alice stood in front of the fireplace. ‘Does that look like a woman who has ever turned down a slice of cheese pie. Or two slices of pie? No. Absolutely not. That’s the natural order of things.’
Alice felt her hands cross in front of her stomach. It did feel somewhat rounded she thought. ‘I’m not sure how to take that comment, to be honest, John,’ she said.
‘As a compliment! That’s how it’s meant. Something tells me Aunty Rose is a scrawny, gristly bag of bones who has never been happy in her life. I’ll say it again, fuck her.’
Esther laughed. Hetty had moved from the fireside to sit in front of John. Her head swayed from side to side like a charmed cobra as she followed the movements of his fork.
‘You back from college for Christmas, Esther?’ John asked. Alice shot a fierce warning look his way, but he was too focused on Hetty and his pie to notice. Esther, amazingly, did not seem disconcerted by the question. John’s casual insouciance appeared to put her at ease. ‘I went to Uni in London in September, but I dropped out. I didn’t like it.’
‘Good for you,’ John replied, feeding Hetty a piece of pastry crust.
‘What do you mean? Most people think I gave up too easily. I failed.’ John’s response had obviously surprised her.
‘I mean, well done for recognising that you weren’t happy. That you were in the wrong place. I would have hated to think of my daughters unhappy so far away from home. Now you just need to figure out where the right place for you is.’ He put his plate on the floor and slurped his tea. He made everything sound so simple, Alice thought. He’d stripped away all extraneous clutter and the problem stood in front of them, as bare and still as a tree in winter.
‘Oh, I’m not sure I could go through that again,’ Esther said quietly. ‘I’m not sure I can face it.’
‘You’re obviously talented and bright to get into university in the first place. You fucked up your first choice of college, you’ll learn from that so the chances of that happening again are slim. Choose something to study that you love, stay closer to home and try again. Honestly, life is fucking up at least seventy five percent of the time if you’re male. Less obviously, if you’re female, so you’ve an advantage there. That’s what I’d suggest anyway.’
Esther’s eyes were lowered. She traced the cover of the book on her knee with her fingers. ‘I did choose the wrong thing. I wasn’t true to myself. I was trying to be someone else and that was exhausting. I love reading, books, writing.’
‘Esther was an amazing writer, even as a child, John.’ Alice said. ‘You know, John’s right, if you went to Newcastle or Sunderland you could stay at home. If you did English you could spend your days reading. Imagine that. You’ve got years to figure out what comes next, but at least for the time being you’d be studying something you love. If it all gets too much, you’d be close to home: to your cats, your dad . . . me.’
‘Your Aunty Rose,’ John added wryly, ‘so you can eat enormous slices of cheese pie in front of her while telling her to go fuck herself.’
Esther smiled and then covered her face with her book. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know what to do, truly.’
‘Well, think about it. How about I get some prospectuses for local colleges and we could have a look at the courses. See if there is anything you like the look of.’ Alice sat next to Esther and put her arm around the girl’s shoulders. Esther hugged her knees to her chest and stared deeply into the quietening fire.
Alice had another suggestion to put to Esther. She hadn’t planned mentioning it so soon, but as John’s straightforward boorishness seemed to have had a positive effect, she decided it was worth the risk. ‘Actually, there is something I wanted to ask you, Esther. I’ve been wondering if you’d like to start coming in to school a few mornings or afternoons a week. You could help out, listen to children read, read stories to small groups. Mr Gibson would love it. I’ve already spoken with him. You can help out in my class, and then, if you like, work in some of the others. We can’t pay you, I’m afraid, but I thought you might enjoy it. I know how happy you were with us. And how much we loved having you as part of our school.’
Esther’s face was a picture of astonishment, ‘Oh lord, Miss Howard’s class? She terrified me. She had dry, sinewy talons for hands. I swear she could move her neck 360 degrees, like an owl. She always saw everything anyone did wrong!’
‘Well maybe not Gillian’s class then. What do you think. There’s a little girl called Lesley Benson in my class who needs support with reading. I don’t always have time to work with her one to one. Just reading with her would be a massive help.’
‘I can see you doing that, flower. I bet you’d be great with the kids.’ John said. ‘They’d love you. Canny experience too, if you wanted to get into university. I bet Mr Gibson would give you a fantastic reference. Then, in October you’ll be spending those beautiful autumn afternoons in a dusty old university library. It all sounds pretty good to me.’ He spoke with such a quiet and understated authority that it seemed as if his words contained the essence of a prophecy. Alice was glad he was there. He could relate to Esther as a parent, she saw. I could love this man, she thought.
John continued, ‘Shall I tell you the reference I got from my Headteacher? John’s good points usually outweigh his bad.That was it. That was all he wrote. The cunt.’ Hetty rested her head on John’s knee and gazed into his face. ‘She’s coming round, Alice, look at that. She bloody worships me now.’
‘I think I would like to help out at school. My dad would be pleased. He keeps telling me I should be a teacher like my mum. I’m not sure. I need to think about university though. That seems . . . big.’ She looked from John to Alice who were smiling at each other. ‘I’d better be getting back home. I’ll just go and get my boots.’ While she sat on the stairs and laced her boots, Alice called, ‘Shall I get the prospectuses to have a look at though? It can’t hurt, can it? To look.’ There was a pause. John ran his hands through his beard and met Alice’s eye as the old mantle clock chimed six times.
‘Yes please, English courses maybe.’ Esther called from the hallway. Alice beamed and mouthed thank you at John. She stood up. ‘I’ll walk you back, Esther. Hetty needs to stretch her legs before bedtime anyway. John, there’s some ginger wine in the kitchen if you’d like a glass. Build up the fire will you? I’ll only be twenty minutes or so, if you can wait?’
‘I can wait, flower,’ he said.
The women walked across the green and through the churchyard under a slender sickle moon.
‘I could have walked by myself, Miss Finch, you have a guest. Although Aunty Rose says that women should not walk anywhere at night on their own. She had me terrified when I was younger. I had to be escorted everywhere by my dad or my brothers.’
‘Women live in fear in a way that men can never understand or experience. My mother would argue it’s a way of controlling us. A life lived in fear is no life at all. What are we poor bluestockings with no husband to chaperone us to do? Are we to remain housebound, knitting by the fire on dark nights? Like some kind of vampire in reverse, only to be allowed out in daylight. Rather than terrifying our girls we should be educating our boys and men to behave better. That’s what I think.’
‘I agree. It is crazy isn’t it? I can’t remember my brothers every being spoken to about their inappropriate behaviour. Don’t all the houses look drab now the Christmas trees are down? January is so miserable. I’d like to hibernate until Spring, like a bear. . . Is John your boyfriend?’
‘No. I don’t think so. Friends. I’ve not known him long. Just a couple of weeks, I think.’
‘Really? You seemed like old friends. I like him. He’s rather direct. He’s got a kind face. Crumpled and kind and sad all at the same time.’
They had reached Esther’s street. Alice imagined John sitting by the fire in her cottage. She pictured a cord attached to her heart, she saw it winding its way along pathways, past cottages and empty gardens, curling through the graves in the churchyard and snaking across the green, connecting her to John. She could feel the cord tugging within her chest, pulling her back to him. ‘Yes, I like his face too. He is kind, I think. And sad. You’re right. Listen, come to school on Tuesday morning at nine o’clock. We’ll sort out everything then. I am overjoyed you’ve said yes, Esther.’
‘What do I wear?’
‘Whatever you like. Wear you best Mother Theresa street-walker outfit. Whatever you feel comfortable in. I bet all the girls in the top juniors’ class will go home demanding a silvery streak in their hair though.’
After Esther disappeared into her house, Alice crouched down, wrapped her arms around Hetty and burrowed her face into the dog’s warm body. She breathed in the waves of scent: biscuits and blankets and snug firesides. ‘Come on old girl. Let’s get home. I think we’ve done well today, you know.’
As they hurried home, an easterly wind began to gust, smothering the thin smile of a moon behind a fleece of grey and splattering heavy drops of rain on Alice’s face. From the top of the village green, she could see that John’s maroon van was still parked outside her cottage. She began to walk faster.
In the cottage, she found John lying on the sofa leafing through a book. He had lit the beeswax candles on the fireplace, she noticed and put out two small glasses of ginger wine on the side table. He’d taken his shoes off and placed them neatly together by the door. The sight of them, large and black and masculine was seductive. Hetty trotted into the kitchen and began to lap water from her bowl. If she was concerned by John’s presence, she didn’t show it. Alice knelt in front of the fire.
‘It’s wild out there now. A storm’s coming in from across the sea. I’m freezing.’
John put the book down on the floor. ‘Come here then petal. Get warm. Your hair’s gone all curly with the rain.’
Alice went and curled into John, resting her head on his chest. She could feel his heart pounding, slower and deeper than the mantle clock, each heartbeat a tiny earthquake. He enveloped her in his arms and slowly wrapped a tendril of curl around his finger.
‘I’ve been thinking about doing that since I first met you in the shop,’ he murmured. As she brushed her hand across his beard, her golden bangles chimed.
‘You’re not like Miss Howard. You’d never be able to sneak up on the reprobates in your class. Those bracelets would give you away every time. You’re like a cat with a bell on her collar. I love that sound. It’s lovely here. This house is like a blueprint of your life. Of you.’
‘What do you mean?’ Alice asked, closing her eyes and allowing the warm waves of contentment to ebb at the edges of her consciousness.
‘Well, it’s soft, dark, quiet, lovely, feminine, comfortable. Full of hidden treasures. Like those rabbits lurking in the wallpaper.’
The storm outside churned. The wind put her breath to the old leaded windows making them rattle and creak. The little cottage felt like a ship on a surging sea.
‘Do you have to be anywhere tonight,’ Alice asked.
‘Aye. I do, he replied. ‘Here is exactly where I need to be tonight, flower. Just here.’
Lovely, just lovely
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