She was particularly tough on this little story, which she intended to compare to the tremulous seducto-rape scenes of so-called womens fiction because, while she had been re-reading it last night with a pencil in her hand to make sharp little deflating comments in the margin as if D.H. Lawrence were one of her own, not very bright, students, she had been surprised by the sudden rise of sexual desire. Turning out the light, and sliding her hand down inside the pyjamas which she was forced to wear for warmth in the damp cottage, she found herself unexpectedly thinking of Mr Miles crashing his Land-Rover through her fence and how it would have been if he had been drunk with desire and not with Theakstons Old Peculier. As she wriggled in her bed in the dark room she found her unreliable imagination conjuring an image of herself as the girl, with the gypsy galloping on his horse, with his awesome male potency, to her alone.
That was why she was so particularly angry with D.H. Lawrence in the morning. He had played, she thought, the oldest cheapest trick of all recycling outworn sexual cliches which long years of consciousness training have not yet wholly eliminated from the female erotic imagination. All very well to say that women are fighting two thousand years of patriarchal pornographic imagery and that they will make their own fantasies anew when their imaginations are freed. All very well to say that in meetings a different matter altogether at night when the smells of early summer wafted through the bedroom window and the owls called passionately under flaming ochre stars, and Louises wilful unreconstructed desires conjured the image of a man who would push her roughly on the bed and take her urgently and breathlessly without a word being exchanged.
Louise hesitated at the garden gate. It was as if her fantasy had been made manifest, summoned by desire out of the dark scented night. What if a dark head brushed the top of the door frame, and warm brown eyes met hers? What if the gypsy himself had come for her; and nothing in her life not her long sophisticated love-affair with Toby, not her pedantic work, not her affiliation to the Womens Movement would ever be the same again?
For a moment she thought she would go back into the house, draw the curtains in all the windows that faced out over the common land tinged with early summer green, and wait for the gypsy to eat his lunch, and reverse out of her orchard, through the break in the fence, into the lane and away. When she lingered at the gate, it was a succumbing to temptation akin to switching off the light and dropping the pencil on the floor. She was tempted to know who he was, this man who had driven without invitation into her orchard, into her morning, after her night filled with dreams of desire.
The vans interior was deep in gloomy darkness. Hello? she called.
The mongrel dog lifted his pointy head and uttered one sharp bark and then wagged his tail as if to apologise for the noise. He sat up and vigorously shook his floppy ears. Nothing else moved.
Hello? Louise called again.
The dog and Louise regarded each other, unmoving. Louise was nervous of all animals. At Mr Miless farm she shrank from the size and blundering folly of cows. She even feared sheep with their mad yellow eyes. This dog seemed particularly placid, but Louise dared not open the gate and approach him. The string tied to his collar was dangerously thin; it would snap if he lunged for her.
Hello? she called again.
The van rocked slightly as someone moved inside. Louise found that her breathing was shallow as if she were afraid or excited. Hel-lo-o! she called. Whoever he was, he had heard her. Whoever he was, he was coming to the little door.
Hello yourself, came a sharp voice. Is it me youre wanting with your hello? hello? hello?
Yes.
Well, come in then.
Louise hesitated. There was the garden gate, and the dog, and the dark mysterious interior of the van. I just wanted to know if you planned to stay here, she said feebly, her voice high.
Ive got my steps down, havent I?
Its my orchard, Louise pointed out.
The van shook again as if with silent laughter and then rocked more violently. Someone was coming. The dog turned its head and raised its ears in greeting. An old woman stood in the doorway, dressed fantastically in red and orange and green. She wore a wide green skirt in some stiff shiny material, an orange dirty blouse and a red shawl flung round her shoulders. Her feet, gnarled and twisted as the trunks of Louises old apple trees, were bare. From underneath a thatch of dirty white hair her dark blue eyes stared at Louise, unsmiling. And who are you?
Im Louise Case.
Wheres the old one?
The old one? Oh! my aunt. Im afraid she died.
The woman nodded at the information. And it was you put up the fence, did you? Who broke it?
Mr Miles skidded on the corner.
Drunk again?
Louise had to stop herself agreeing.
Ill thank you for some water, the old woman said abruptly. She reached behind her and produced an enamelled and brightly painted jug. She held it out to Louise, not moving from her eminence at the top of the steps. Louise hesitated and then opened the gate, and walked towards the big dog. His ears dropped, his grin widened, his feathery tail stirred slightly in the grass. Louise stretched up to receive the jug; the old woman did not trouble herself to descend even one step.
Louise took it and went into the house, through the study into the kitchen. She ran water, and filled the jug. It was a beautiful example of folk art, painted in the bright garish colours beloved of gypsies, bargees, and all travelling people. There was a big surreal bunch of pink cabbage roses on one bright red side, and a sheaf of blue flowers like delphiniums on the other. Louise carried it back out into the sunshine.
The old woman was still at the head of her steps in the darkened doorway. Louise had to go through the gate again and closer still to the dog. As she handed up the jug, his breath stirred against her bare calf and she flinched. The old woman smiled at her discomfort.
Thank you, she said, and turned and went back inside the van again without another word.
Louise retreated behind the safety of the gate. I wanted to know she called. When you will be moving on?
There was absolute silence from the inside of the van. It rocked slightly as if the old woman was about her private business with her fresh water and her brightly painted jug. The dog gazed at Louise.
When will you be moving on? Actually?
There was no answer. The dog settled back down and rested his chin on his silky front legs. Only his brown eyes and his mobile eyebrows followed Louise. Defeated, she went slowly back to the house. Out of habit she took her seat again before her word processor and looked at the blank screen. Beyond the screen, where there should have been the bobbing blossom of her apple orchard, the dented blue roof of the van loomed imperturbably solid.
Louise found she could not work at all and closed down the word processor and went to the kitchen which faced coldly north, over the lane, and made herself a cup of coffee. She thought she would go into town early, see Toby, and have a drink with him at the Suffix University post-graduate bar before the meeting with Miriam. There was no point in trying to work any more. Her concentration was gone for the afternoon.
Louise found she could not work at all and closed down the word processor and went to the kitchen which faced coldly north, over the lane, and made herself a cup of coffee. She thought she would go into town early, see Toby, and have a drink with him at the Suffix University post-graduate bar before the meeting with Miriam. There was no point in trying to work any more. Her concentration was gone for the afternoon.
Toby was in the bar, sitting at a table with half a dozen students. Louise felt the familiar tweak of desire when she looked around the crowded bar and was suddenly, once more, struck by the sight of him. She smiled and waved. Toby waved back but did not rise to greet her. Louise bought herself a drink and joined them. She knew all the students; one or two of them were writing MA theses under her supervision. They were laughing with Toby, there was a running joke about what sort of poetry a Conservative government would admire. Kipling was mentioned, and Wordsworth.
But only if they didnt understand what he was saying.
Oh, but if we assume they dont understand we can give them anything. Shelley! Keats! Plath!
Toby glanced at Louise and smiled. Did you expel your trespasser? he asked.
The students, experts at interpreting when their time was up, moved discreetly to the far end of the table and exchanged gossip about external examiners.
No. Louise took a sip of wine and set herself to amuse him. I strode down to the end of the garden to assert my rights and found myself delivering fresh water. I shall be taking in her laundry next.
Her?
Its a woman. Eighty if shes a day. Dressed for a gypsy ball and with a huge silent dog. I dont know if shes travelling alone. I havent seen anyone else. I was rather thrown by the whole thing. I came into town early and Ive been working in the library. I cant write at home. Every time I glance out of the window all I can see is this most enormous van!
Toby smiled. How wonderfully surreal! Did she say when she was moving on?
She said absolutely nothing. She asked me where my aunt was and I told her that shed died. She asked me how the fence got broken and suggested that Mr Miles was drunk. She obviously knows her way around. Perhaps shes a regular visitor and Im on her route.
Toby rested his hand gently on hers as she held her glass. As long as shes no trouble, I suppose it doesnt matter?
Louise let her hand rest passive under his touch even while she protested: Yes; but I dont want her there! I cant see out of my study window, I cant see out of the sitting-room window. When I look out of my bedroom window I look down on this enormous pantechnicon! What are her bathroom facilities? What if she starts burning my trees or my fence posts?
Toby nodded. Wed better hope she moves on then, he said. Or well have to do something about it.
Louise was mollified at once by his use of the word we.
Are you coming back to dinner after the meeting?
Miriam asked me. She said you were cooking.
Toby nodded. I thought Id do lentil soufflé.
Lovely.
You could stay overnight. Perhaps your gypsy will be gone in the morning.
It was not unusual for Louise to stay in Toby and Miriams spare bedroom. Meetings often went on late or, enjoying their company, she drank more wine than was safe if she were to drive home. A new tenant now lived in their studio flat which had been Louises home for six years. But she still felt a sense of ownership and comfort in the house. Although Louise and Toby never planned intercourse they prided themselves on being spontaneous rather than calculating adulterers Miriam always woke at seven and left the house at eight to be at her desk at eight thirty when the first bruised refugees from the night would start arriving. Toby and Louise never had to be at the university until ten. There was always time to make love, have a shower and eat a leisurely breakfast.
I might stay, Louise said unhelpfully.
One of the reasons behind her move to the country and a house of her own was a feeling that Tobys sexual convenience was too well served by an attractive wife in his bed, and an attractive mistress in his upstairs flat. The arrangement had been of Louises own making she had found them the house to buy and then suggested that she rent their studio flat but after the illicit delight of the early months, she wondered if the chief beneficiary was Toby. His occasional affairs at the university, so prone to heartbreak and disaster, ceased. He no longer had to invent plausible late-night meetings to satisfy Miriams polite inquiries. He was no longer exposed to the risk of gossip among the undergraduates.
But his affair with Louise did not cramp his sexual style. If he was attracted to a woman at a conference they would sleep together, and he would tell Louise openly and frankly that he had done so. There was no reason for them to be monogamous lovers. It was only Louise who found that no-one pleased her as Toby did and that other encounters left her weepy and depressed. It was Louise, not Miriam, who dreaded Tobys weekend conferences on Vandalism and the Inner Cities or Dependency Culture. Miriam had the security of a contractual, property-sharing marriage. Louise sometimes feared that she was peripheral.
Even worse for Louise was that the chief beneficiaries of her arrangement were both Toby and Miriam. Louise did more than her share of housekeeping. She cooked meals for the three of them, she stayed at home to greet plumbers and electricians when Miriam had to be at work. When the married couple took their long summer holiday cycling in France, Louise maintained the house in their absence. Miriams outpouring of energy and care to the poor, the dispossessed and the victims of sexual violence left a vacuum in her marriage which would inevitably have been filled by another woman. Any woman other than her best friend would have tried to break up the marriage. But Louise, loving Miriam and desiring Toby, was the only woman in the world who would satisfy Tobys errant sexuality without threatening Miriams position.
And Miriam, sexually satisfied and overworked, trusted her husband and her best friend to be as honourable and as straightforward as herself.
At first Louise had thought herself lucky. Her luxuriously frequent sex with Toby was unshadowed by guilt and did not exclude other possible partners. Her constant and long affection for Miriam deepened and grew as the three settled comfortably into their house together. But slowly Louise began to resent Miriams commitment to her causes and her absent-mindedness at home. Louise started to fear that at an unconscious level Miriam was glad to have Toby sexually served without threat to her marriage. This put an entirely different complexion on a love-affair which had been gloriously secret. If it were not clandestine, then it was not a hidden betrayal of Miriam but an open exploitation of Louise and she hated the thought of that.
Then Louises aunt died, she inherited the cottage and chose independence. Toby advised her to stay in town, and even took the trouble to take her to see attractive sea-front flats. Louise suspected him of wanting to set their affair on a permanent and unchanging footing with a wife at home and a mistress in a pretty little flat. Miriam advised her to stay in town, citing the need of a peer group, of sisterhood, and intellectual neighbours. Louise suspected them both of wanting to keep the comfortable status quo forever. She feared a life of half-marriage, half-spinsterhood, forever waiting on Tobys free time, forever trying to please him, forever competing not only with Miriam but with younger and younger women. In the back of Louises mind was the hardly glimpsed thought, that without her in the house Toby and Miriams differences would surface and become insoluble. Their marriage, which from the start had been a three-legged stool, might topple and fall. Toby might leave Miriam for Louise; and the hidden issue of which woman was his favourite would be openly and finally resolved in her favour.