Secrets of the Heart

14

A week later, Agnes scooped up the aunts at the airport, plus a collection of plastic bags and suitcases, and drove them home.

As ever, Maud was on the case. ‘Bea had to stay behind on some of the trips. Anyone with medical problems was not allowed up the mountains.’

‘I didn’t mind. I was quite happy resting in the hotel.’ Bea gave an impression of being more than usually placid. ‘The sun was out most of the time and you would have loved the colours, dear.’

‘But the meat at dinner always had hairs on it.’ Maud swivelled round to face Bea in the back of the car. ‘You ate yours.’

Agnes concentrated on turning off the motorway and, this culinary solecism out in the open, Maud returned to the subject of the coach trips. ‘I’m afraid Bea missed a remarkable one,’ she said, with satisfaction, and went on to describe how strong the sun had been, everyone commented on it, it had been almost too bright. Slowly, slowly, the coach had risen above the world up into the mountain, a place of solitude and green, cleansing light. ‘And here,’ the disembodied voice of the guide had declared reverently, ‘is where the opening scenes of The Sound of Music were shot.’

Agnes could not resist it. ‘Actually, Maud, Julie Andrews spent most of the time in a fur coat while they were filming because it was so cold.’

Maud pouted. ‘I wish… I wish I could explain to someone as unimaginative as you are what it was like.’ What exactly she wished to explain Maud was unable to convey, for she had had no practice in the consideration of abstracts. Perhaps it was a sense of rapturous abandon and of purity so lacking in the world? ‘I was quite overwhelmed, if you must know. Particularly at the gazebo where Maria and the Captain kiss.’ She shivered. ‘I think we should light a fire when we get home, I’m feeling the cold.’

Agnes parked in front of the house. The aunts were back. ‘Did you enjoy the holiday, Bea?’

Bea was fussing over her luggage. ‘Oh, yes, dear, I loved it.’

Maud waited for Agnes to help her out of the car. ‘Human relationships are so vexed,’ she said, apropos of not much, leaning on Agnes and limping a little, ‘but a person has to soldier on.’

‘Yes, I suppose a person does,’ said Agnes gravely. ‘Have you hurt your leg, Maud?’

‘My hip. It’s getting worse.’ She limped into the kitchen. Her gaze fixed at once on the draining-board and the two breakfast cups that had remained there since Julian’s visit. ‘Have you had people to stay, Agnes?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Overnight?’

‘Yes, overnight, Maud.’

‘I expect it was the nice farmer you’ve told us about.’ Bea began to unpack the bags of duty-free. ‘Talking over your film.’

‘Actually,’ said Agnes, ‘it wasn’t.’

The look Maud gave Agnes was not so much disapproval as envy.

The gazebo was not the only thing to have excited Maud. Over coffee, and the rapturous recollections, the name Freddie was dropped into the conversation more than once. Freddie, apparently, had been a good friend to them and very helpful, but a full explanation as to who he was had not been forthcoming until Maud cornered Agnes in the study.

‘Agnes,’ Maud was unusually polite, ‘we’ve invited someone to dinner tomorrow. Will you be here? It’s Freddie. You’ll like him.’ The ring flashed as she smoothed down the sleeve of her latest cardigan in moss green. ‘You will.’

‘Are you reassuring me or commanding me?’

Maud’s eyelids dropped. ‘You can be very irritating sometimes.’

Agnes regarded Maud thoughtfully. ‘What you are really asking is, will I cook dinner?’

‘Well, yes, since you’re offering.’

Thus Agnes, who had planned to spend the whole of the next day working on the direction for the Hidden Lives film, found herself in the kitchen. As she melted redcurrant jelly into the gravy, she cursed the ancient oven and prayed that it would yield cooked beef. Transparent, ectoplasmic, the jelly swirled in the liquid. She hoped it would taste better than the primordial soup it resembled.

Sounds in the hall alerted Agnes to Freddie’s arrival. She put down the wooden spoon.

In full paste regalia, glittering, Maud led him proudly into the kitchen. Agnes, this is Freddie Loupe. Freddie, this is my husband’s niece. She’s the one who’s making the programme about those letters.’

The blazer alerted Agnes. The material had a sheen acquired from over-zealous cleaning and age, and the buttons were too bright. A poseur, she concluded, possibly one who did not possess much imagination. He was tall, but his well-manicured nails had a blue tinge, suggesting that he had heart problems. But just in case the observer was inclined to write him off, Freddie had dyed his hair an improbable, almost hypnotic, glistening white.

He took Agnes’s hand and peered short-sightedly into her face. She was taken aback, for he had a kind expression. He cleared his throat and said, ‘Your aunt never stops extolling your gifts.’

She did not require the inflection on the word ‘gifts’ to know that he was lying. Maud would be dead before she extolled anyone’s gifts.

During the dinner, he kept up a flow of anecdotes culled from years of package tours. ‘I’m the best of troupers,’ and ‘I know the form backwards.’ Agnes imagined him moving from one honey-pot of a widow to another, prospecting for treasure. Realizing she must defend the aunts against the con-man and the gold-digger, she set herself to find out about Freddie Loupe. What she discovered was that Freddie liked life, and wished others to enjoy it too. Against her better judgement, Agnes succumbed to his charm.

The aunts’ faces shone with wine and pleasure.

Agnes studied them with misgiving. They had both fallen in love with Freddie.

The evening wound up with Freddie promising to escort the sisters to the local theatre. Saying goodbye to Agnes, he remarked, ‘You have a very beautiful house, dear lady, but I don’t envy you. I’ve seen it too often. All history and tax. Thank you for an excellent evening.’ He tapped the side of his nose with a finger. ‘If you ever want to sell, just let me know.’

‘What did you think of him?’ Maud demanded, before the door was safely shut. Before Agnes could answer, Bea nipped in with ‘Oh, he’s so sweet. Sweet He’s a very, very nice man.’

Maud looked dangerous. ‘He’s my friend, Bea.’

‘Of course, dear.’

Agnes put her arms around them both and propelled them towards the staircase. Two elderly women: Maud, the nutcracker-chinned crone of the fable; Bea, the selfless wraith consigned to the fireless corner of the room. One day, Agnes would be like one of them. Or both.

Having said the goodnights, Agnes went back to the study to catch up on her correspondence and the neglected schedules. At midnight, she went upstairs.

The washer on the basin tap in the bathroom was on its last legs, and she resorted to the pair of pliers she kept there for the purpose. She yanked at it angrily. Given the chance, someone like Julian Knox would rip out this bathroom. His sensibility was different from hers. He would ignore its period charm and superb Edwardian domestic engineering, its individuality, in favour of his boxed-in baths and shelves of white, crunchy chain-store towels.

She gave the tap a final twist. There was nothing wrong with this bathroom, except for a lick of paint and a sort-out of the plumbing. She stepped back and wrenched her toe on the split matting. The pain was intense enough to allow her to weep.

The last week in May was the date finally settled on for the shoot.

Agnes phoned Andrew from the flat to check that everything was OK and they talked over sleeping arrangements – Agnes and Bel had been offered a bed at Tithings, Jed and the others had been booked into bed-and-breakfasts – and the catering for the team.

Andrew took it in his stride. ‘It will be interesting.’ They discussed further details for a little longer and Agnes was about to say goodbye when he cut in, ‘I think I should tell you that Penny, my wife, has left me.’

‘Oh.’ He sounded so matter-of-fact that it was almost insulting to the departed Penny, she thought. ‘I’m sorry. It must be a difficult time for you and I’m afraid we’ll add to the confusion.’

There was a pause. ‘It’s double the work without her.’

Of course, he was the farmer who relied on his spouse and it had a certain logic. Farming was all about growing and harvesting and selling off the crop to plant the next. Perhaps Penny Kelsey had planted secret desires in herself and this was the moment at which they had pushed to the surface. Other people and their mistakes were a mystery. But how could they not be when she herself was a mystery?

She confided to Bel afterwards that she had found Andrew’s reaction a little too detached.

‘They probably couldn’t wait to see the back of each other.’ Bel fanned her fingers over her exposed thigh and inspected the dark plum of her nail varnish. ‘Do you like this colour?’

‘Bel?’

Bel wouldn’t look at her. Agnes waited. Bel was brilliant at trawling low water in which she could detect scum and corpses quicker than anyone. And the atmosphere was not good. When she had an opinion, and the subject of Andrew Kelsey and the letters was as yet unthrashed-out between them, Bel did not hold back. ‘Agnes, I think you’ve lost it a teeny-weeny bit over these letters. I’m asking myself why you want this programme to happen. I’m also telling myself there are plenty more ideas for me to toil over. Is it the brooding farmer who’s got to you?’

A thought settled at the back of Agnes’s mind: Andrew Kelsey no longer has a wife. ‘The angle is important. This is an illustration of what is happening to the rural heritage. It’s a good subject.’

But Bel was not easily won. ‘There’s better material to make the point with. Have you noticed how menopausal-male the letters are? I’m not convinced about this female Scarlet Pimpernel either. I think she is a fantasy’

‘Well, here’s the script,’ said Agnes wryly. ‘Do, please, give me your opinion on that.’

Bel glanced at the typewritten pages, shrugged, extracted a bottle of nail varnish from her bag and repaired a chipped nail. Only then did she pick the first up. After a few paragraphs, she stopped. ‘What is this?’ she expostulated and flapped the hand with the wet nail through the air. ‘No, don’t answer. It’s the crusade and I’m the dumb cluck who gets beaten up. It’s the Newcastle factor all over again.’

There are some things that stack up on the ‘unforgivable, unforgiven’ shelf. On it was the programme on the red-light district in Newcastle when Agnes had made Bel go undercover in a feather boa and a PVC skirt. Bel had only just escaped serious injury by an enraged pimp.

‘“At first sight, Andrew Kelsey’s farm is similar to many others of approximately a hundred and fifty acres. A tumble of outhouses flanks a modern farmhouse, surrounded by fields in various stages of cultivation and fallow. Tithings is a working farm devoted to producing organic beef. Cattle of all generations, mothers, aunts and grandmothers, graze peacefully together, on a mix of herbs and grasses. When the time comes for the trip to the abattoir, they travel in pairs, and Andrew Kelsey will have checked with the slaughterman to ensure that there will be no waiting.

‘“There is a world of difference between Andrew Kelsey’s approach and the men who run agri-business.

‘“Andrew Kelsey’s farm enjoys an astonishing diversity of grass, wildflowers, insect and wild life. He has forbidden all pesticides. As a result, his soil is rich, friable and astonishingly fertile, unlike many other farms whose soil is biologically dead. His farm is notable for the wealth of birds: songbirds, swifts, martins and, even, the increasingly rare linnet. It is an example of man and nature co-existing in harmony and to the mutual benefit of both.

‘“But this paradise is now under threat. Having fought off opposition to his way for farming, Andrew Kelsey is now battling developers who are planning to evict him and build executive homes to cater for the projected overspill of the local town of Exbury. Andrew Kelsey has a battle to save his farm, but he also possesses another small part of our heritage. A series of letters…”’

Bel sighed and put down the script. ‘OK so far. But if we lose our edge, we’re finished. The critics will crawl all over us. There’ll be a fine old row and we’ll have to fight our way up all over again. You are transfixed by the letters but there is not one shred of evidence to authenticate these scribblings, nice though they are. Beautiful, though they are. And there’s a hard-luck story there, all right. But the two are not necessarily linked and the fact remains that we take the rap for what we produce now, as much as for what we’ve already done. Our names are on it, Ag. The dynamic partnership.’ Bel cast around wildly. ‘You were always the one to see through a pretty idea and insist on the facts. You can’t make a programme on this flimsy basis.’

‘It’s good,’ said Agnes. ‘Believe me. This is what should be said.’

She and Bel traded a look. Agnes,’ said Bel, ‘can I tell you something?’

Agnes waited expectantly.

‘You’re a fool.’