The Pull of the Moon (12 page)

‘Great,’ said Trudie, making straight for the rope swing, where she fitted the knot between her thighs and pushed off.

We took turns with the rope swing before experimenting with the see-saw, for which we discovered we were far too tall.

‘What a gorgeous place for kids to come and play,’ said Trudie.

‘I wonder who uses it?’ I said. ‘There’s hardly anyone living round here.’

‘I suppose one family would be enough – and they probably come from the other direction. Isn’t there another way into the woods, further down the road from the
house?’

My spirits were lifted by the discovery that Bettis Wood was after all a happy place, where children came to play. In my mind’s eye, Hammer Horror had been replaced by gambolling badgers
and Mrs Tiggywinkle trotting along the woodland floor. Even Trudie’s half-hearted speculation, ‘I wonder whereabouts they found Agnes,’ failed to put a dent in my sylvan
idyll.

When we had exhausted all the playground had to offer, we flopped down on a patch of grass. I lay back and watched the sunshine filtering through the leaves. I found that by closing each eye in
turn, I could make one of the branches overhead appear to dodge from one side of the sun to the other. I had given up on asking Trudie where she came from, so instead I tried another tack.
‘What are you going to do when summer’s over?’

‘Go back home, I suppose.’

‘But I thought you’d run away.’

‘I didn’t run away – I walked. Anyway I guess my parents will have learned their lesson by then.’

‘Has it ever occurred to you that they’re worried out of their minds? They probably think you’re dead.’

‘That’s stupid,’ she said – but I fancied there was a faint uncertainty in her voice. ‘Why on earth would they think that?’

‘Because that’s what everyone always thinks.’

‘They don’t.’

‘Of course they do. Parents think you’re lying unidentified in some mortuary whenever you miss the last bus.’

‘I s’pose.’

‘You could always ring them. Or ring someone else. Just to let them know you’re safe.’

There was a minute or two of silence, and when Trudie spoke again it was to complain about the endless amount of time Simon had spent in the bathroom that morning. ‘I was dying for the
loo. Honestly – I’ve never known anyone take so long. He must be the vainest man in the universe. Have you seen the way he spends ages tying that bandanna round his head before they
start digging?’

Bitching about Simon provided us with a pleasant diversion. After a while Trudie had another turn on the rope swing and then we decided to walk back to the house.

TWELVE

I have brought Mrs Ivanisovic’s letter with me – ostensibly as an aide-memoire for her address, although this, together with the contents of her letters, is burned
indelibly on to my mind. She lives in an establishment called Broadoaks. This has been her address for about ten years, but since our communication is normally restricted to an annual exchange of
cards, I have no idea what sort of place Broadoaks is. When I substituted this address in my Monet’s Garden Address Book, I mentally classified it as accommodation for the elderly, but since
Mrs I is still capable of penning a few lines coherently, I assume it is not for ‘the elderly confused’ – which is the politely euphemistic definition applied to the institution
which Hilly’s mother presently inhabits.

As I drive across the Tees Viaduct, I wonder how I will recognize Mrs Ivanisovic. She will be an old woman now, with grey hair – maybe a stick, or a zimmer frame. When I first met
Danny’s mother I already classified her as old. With the arrogance of youth, I thought her life was all but over. Twenty-five seemed past it to me then, thirty positively ancient.
Danny’s mother was tall, slender, gracious. She wore tailored clothes bought from expensive shops, had her hair done once a week and varnished her nails. She was probably younger than I am
now.

In spite of our assumed status as radical free spirits, beneath our frayed jeans and be-sloganned T-shirts we were deeply conventional. When invited to meet Danny’s parents, I was
appropriately nervous beforehand and cared what they thought of me. The invitation was to join them for Sunday tea – a ritual then observed to a greater or lesser degree by the majority of
households throughout the land. When we arrived at his front gate, I was alarmed to find that his parents lived in a detached house, set back from the road. This signified money and particular
standards of behaviour. I slid into the house alongside Danny, uneasily aware of the solid-looking furniture, lined curtains and prints on the walls which hadn’t come from Woolworth’s.
Nothing home-made or out of a Littlewood’s catalogue here.

I was terrified of shaming myself by using the wrong cutlery, or being offered something exotic to eat and not knowing how to tackle it – but in fact the tea we were served was virtually
identical to the one with which Danny had been entertained at my home a week earlier. Ham sandwiches on white bread. A dish of pickled onions. Milky tea. Three sorts of cake: chocolate swiss roll,
Battenburg and Viennese Whirls – Continental names to betray our utter Englishness.

Mr and Mrs Ivanisovic were kind to me, and after tea they encouraged Danny to fetch his guitar and play for us. They were obviously convinced of Danny’s brilliance in every sphere of
endeavour – which made a point of commonality between us.

Does she still remember that first Sunday tea? Is she wondering how she will recognize me?

I find Broadoaks easily. There is a large sign at the open gates – very tasteful – just the name in dark brown, edged with gold on a cream background; nothing about
‘home’ or ‘elderly’.

The drive curves around a huge circular lawn, which is home to the mature trees that screen the building. It’s a sunny day, unusually warm for the time of year: a state of affairs which a
couple of residents are taking advantage of. There’s a lady in a wheelchair, with a crocheted blanket covering her lower half; a bent-backed woman walking slowly down the drive, supported by
two metal sticks. I hope neither of these is Mrs Ivanisovic. It would be too embarrassing to drive straight past with no sign of recognition. Neither of them gives my car more than a passing
glance, so they are clearly not expecting anyone.

I park in one of the spaces assigned to visitors and head for the front door, which stands open. The hall is reminiscent of the entrance to an old-fashioned country house hotel. I have been
expecting the institutional modernity of the place to which I have occasionally accompanied Hilly, but Broadoaks is much more up-market and presumably comes with a hefty price tag. And why not
– Mrs Ivanisovic has no one to leave her money to.

I can’t see any obvious means of attracting anyone’s attention, but there is hardly time to speculate on what to do before a woman appears to ask if she can help me. I am expecting
twin set and pearls, but she is in a fashionable skirt and top, with chunky modern jewellery.

‘I’m here to see Mrs Ivanisovic,’ I say.

‘You must be Katy Mayfield.’ The smile broadens further. Trained to reassure, she cannot be expected to guess how much this greeting unsettles me. ‘If you’ll take a seat,
I’ll see if Betty is ready for you.’ She gestures me to a group of winged armchairs which stand where the hall broadens out under the stairs. Once she has seen me safely to a seat, she
vanishes through a door to the right of the main entrance.

My arrival has evidently been broadcast in advance – and I note that I am to be Katy for the day. And Betty – I remember this now – her Christian name is Elizabeth. He was Stan
– probably short for Stanislaus or something like that – and she was Betty: tall, slim, gracious Betty, who was probably not so old then as I am now.

I sit taking in the cream paintwork, the brass door handles and the tell-tale handrails, stair lifts and ramps. How can anyone who needs to live here possibly threaten me?

The greeter with the chunky necklace is back – standing at the door, beckoning. ‘We’ve got the all clear.’

She doesn’t enter the room herself, but instead holds the door wide open for me, then closes it when I am inside. It is unexpected. I hadn’t realized the door led straight into Mrs
Ivanisovic’s room. I am unprepared – stand startled for a moment.

Mrs Ivanisovic is propped up on the bed, supported by a small mountain of pillows. Her white hair has been recently combed into place and she is fully dressed – a lilac cardigan which
matches the veins in her hands, a grey skirt which ends just below the knee, failing to conceal the bony shins and ankles which look frail as the bone china from which we once upon a time drank tea
together. I take all this in, together with the oxygen cylinder beside the bed – an ugly intrusion among the pastel-coloured bed linen and dainty knick-knacks – while she in turn
appraises me. Her pale lips mouth a smile, but her eyes do not. She holds out her hand: ‘Katy?’

Her skin reminds me of creased tissue paper, so when I take her hand I am surprised to feel its smooth warmth. I am frightened to apply the slightest pressure, lest her metacarpals snap at my
touch.

THIRTEEN

When Trudie and I got back from our walk in the woods, we found the boys on the point of setting out to Leominster. We were only just in time to scramble into the back of the
car, indignant at being almost left behind. Driving with the windows down generated a welcome draught, but once in town the air tasted of dust and exhaust fumes and I half wished we hadn’t
come along. While Simon and Danny pursued an errand in the record shop, Trudie and I gravitated towards Dorothy Perkins. In my case visiting the shops was essentially a spectator sport, because I
had too little money left to buy anything. My parents had provided me with the fare to France, but that had gone into the pool from which we did our grocery shopping. However, this lack of funds
didn’t prevent me from riffling through the rails of clothes, and inspecting the cosmetics on the Biba counter alongside Trudie. I was in the process of testing the lipsticks when I realized
she was no longer beside me. It was only a small branch – the sort of place in which it was impossible to lose track of anyone, unless you deliberately set out to. I hung about for a few
minutes, thinking she must have decided to try something on, but when I eventually checked the changing rooms they were empty. After that I went into the street and stood looking up and down,
uncertain what to do. We didn’t always stick together in town, but nor did we generally abandon one another without a word. At the edge of my vision I caught sight of someone slipping out of
one of the phone boxes at the far end of the street. I only glimpsed the figure as it crossed the narrow pavement and vanished into the adjacent shops, but I knew it was Trudie.

I walked slowly towards the phone booths. There were several shops she might have gone into – all I had to do was wait her out. Sure enough a few minutes later Trudie emerged from an
antique shop, busily tucking something into her Greek bag.

‘Did you buy something?’ I asked.

She hadn’t seen me standing there. For a second her eyes registered surprise, then became guarded as she said quickly, ‘Oh no. I only went in to look at something.’

‘I thought you were putting something into your bag.’

She erased a decidedly shifty look with a smile. ‘Oh that – a tissue. I’d just wiped my nose.’ I knew it was a lie. Whatever she’d had in her hand, it wasn’t
a balled tissue. Anyway, she hadn’t got hay fever or anything like that. Ever the mind reader, she added, ‘The dust in the shop made me sneeze.’

‘Why did you sneak off by yourself?’

‘I didn’t. What’s wrong with you? Why the third degree?’

‘Hey.’ Danny’s shout made us swivel towards the far end of the street, but then an echoing ‘Hey’ set us instinctively turning to look in the opposite direction. For
a second I thought it was some strange trick of the acoustics: but a guy was waving – not at us, but beyond us to Danny and Simon. I turned to see Danny raise a hand in acknowledgement and
the three of them converged at the point where we were waiting outside the shop.

The newcomer was wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt and dangling a motorbike helmet from one hand. It quickly became evident that ‘Josser’, as he appeared to be called, knew Simon and
Danny from university. He hailed from somewhere up north – a fact betrayed by his sing-song accent and elongated vowels – and was thus the very last person they had expected to bump
into in Leominster. After mutual expressions of surprise, Josser explained that he was down for the summer, camping in a friend’s garden and earning his keep by fruit picking.

While these preliminaries were being covered, I took a good look at Josser, taking in his greasy shoulder-length hair and clothes which gave no indication of a recent encounter with a washing
machine. He had a noticeable gap between his upper front teeth and there was something about his smile which repulsed me, so that I shrank instinctively nearer to Danny when he looked my way. I
hated the way his muddy brown eyes appraised Trudie and me from head to toe, like a greedy diner excited at the arrival of the sweet trolley.

On our side Danny predictably did most of the talking, managing to sound friendly while being deliberately vague about exactly where we were living. Each time Josser raised the question Danny
evaded him as neatly as a winger at the top of his game, but I noticed that, whereas Danny managed to appear friendly, Simon’s forced smile soon faded and at the first opportunity he
interjected something about it being time for us to start back.

At this Josser said he didn’t plan on staying in town either. ‘I only came in to buy some fags. There’s not a lot of action here, is there? Right dead and alive
hole.’

‘We’re parked just round the corner.’ Simon waved his hand vaguely in the direction and half turned – an obvious preliminary to saying goodbye.

‘I bet it’s the same place I’ve left my bike,’ said Josser, cheerfully falling into step with us.

Unfortunately this proved to be correct. Josser’s motorbike, a black monster with scarlet and yellow flames painted down the sides and a luggage box attached to the back, was parked a mere
three vehicles away from ours. When we got level with it Josser began to wax lyrical on the machine’s many virtues, while three-quarters of our party edged pointedly towards the Anglia: only
Trudie was taking an interest in the bike and of course we couldn’t go without her. It was impossible to decide whether she was genuinely oblivious, or just perversely determined not to pick
up the collective vibe.