Timescape

CHAPTER TWO

MARJORIE LOCKED THE KITCHEN DOOR BEHIND HER and walked round the side of the house, carrying a bucket of chicken feed. The lawn behind the house was crisply quartered by brick paths, with a sundial at the intersection. From force of habit, she followed the path and did not step on the wet grass. Beyond the lawn was a formal rose garden, her own pet project. As she walked through it, breaking beaded spider webs with her body, she stopped here and there to pinch off a dead bloom or to sniff at a bud. It was early in the year, but a few roses were blossoming already. She talked to each bush as she passed it.

“Charlotte Armstrong, you’re doing very well. Look at all those buds. You’re going to be absolutely beautiful this summer. Tiffany, how are you? I see some greenfly on you. I’ll have to spray you. Good morning, Queen Elizabeth, you’re looking very healthy, but you’re sticking out rather too far into the path. I should have pruned you more on this side.”

Somewhere in the distance she could hear a knocking sound. It alternated with the trill of a blue tit perched on the hedge. With a start she realized that the knocking was coming from her own house. It couldn’t be Heather or Linda; they would come round the back. She turned. Raindrops splattered from the leaves as she brushed past the rose bushes. She hurried across the lawn and round the side of the house, setting the bucket down by the kitchen door.

A shabbily dressed woman with a pitcher in her hand was turning away from the front door. She looked as though she had camped all night; her hair was matted and there were smudges on her face. She was about Marjorie’s height, but thin and round-shouldered.

Marjorie hesitated. So did the woman. They eyed each other across the U-shaped sweep of the gravel drive. Then Marjorie moved forward.

“Good morning,” She was about to say, “Can I do something for you?” but held back, uncertain as to whether she wanted to do anything for this woman or not.

“Morning, Miss. Could you lend me a bit o’ milk, do you think? I’m all out o’ milk and the kids ‘aven’t ’ad their breakfast yet.” Her manner was confident but somehow not cordial.

Marjorie narrowed her eyes. “Where are you from?” she asked.

“We just moved into the old farm down the road. Just a little milk, lady.” The woman moved closer to her, holding out the pitcher.

The old farm—but that’s derelict, Marjorie thought. They must be squatters. Her uneasiness increased.

“Why do you come here? The shops are open at this time of day. There’s a farm along the road, you know, where you can buy milk.”

“Come on, lady, you wouldn’t make me walk miles while the little ones are waiting, would you? I’ll let you ’ave it back. Don’t you believe me?”

No, Marjorie thought. Why hadn’t the woman gone to one of her own kind? There were some little Council houses just a few yards beyond her grounds.

“I’m sorry,” she said firmly, “but I haven’t got any to spare.”

They confronted each other for a moment. Then the woman turned towards the shrubbery.

“’Ere, Rog,” she called. A tall, gaunt man emerged from the rhododendrons, tugging a small boy by the hand. With an effort Marjorie kept herself from showing any alarm. She stood stiffly, her head a little back, trying to look in control of the situation. The man shuffled over to stand next to the woman. Marjorie’s nostrils flared slightly as she caught a sour odor of sweat and smoke. He was wearing an assortment of clothes that must have come from many different sources, a cloth cap, a long striped college scarf, woolen gloves with all the fingers unraveled, a pair of jaunty blue espadrilles with one sole flapping, trousers that were several inches too short and too wide, and, incongruously, a lavishly embroidered waistcoat under a dusty old vinyl jacket. He was probably about Marjorie’s age but looked at least ten years older. His face was leathery, his eyes deep set, and he had several days’ growth of stubble on his chin. She was aware or the contrast she made with them, standing there plump and well-fed, her short hair fluffy from washing, her skin protected by creams and lotions, in what she called her “old” gardening clothes, a soft blue wool skirt, a handknit sweater, and a sheepskin jacket.

“You expect us to believe you don’t ‘ave no milk in the ’ouse, lady?” the man growled.

“I didn’t say that.” Marjorie’s voice was clipped. “I have enough for my own family but no more. There are plenty of other houses down there you could try, but I suggest you go into the village and buy some. It’s only half a mile. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

“Like ’ell you are. You just don’t want to. Stuck up, like all you rich types. You want to keep it all for yerselves. Look at what you’ve got—a great big ’ouse just for you, I bet. You dunno ’ow ’ard life is for us. I ’aven’t ’ad a job for four years, an’ nowhere to live, while you ‘ad it soft—”

“Rog,” the woman said warningly. She laid a restraining hand on his arm. He shook it off and moved a step closer to Marjorie. She held her ground and anger surged in her. What right did they have to come here and shout at her, damn it, in her own garden?

“I’ve already told you I only have enough for my own family. These are hard times for everyone,” she said coldly. But I would never go begging, she thought. No moral backbone, these people.

The man moved closer. Instinctively she stepped back, maintaining the space between them.

“Hard times for everyone,” he said, mimicking her accent. “Just too bad, ain’t it? Too bad for everyone else, just so long you ’ave a nice ’ouse and food and maybe a car too and telly.” His eyes were raking the house, taking in the garage, the TV antenna on the roof, the windows. Thank God the windows were locked, she thought, and the front door.

“Look, I can’t help you. Will you please go?” She turned and started to walk back round the house. The man kept pace with her, the woman and child following silently.

“Yes, that’s right, just turn your back on us and go on into your big ’ouse. You won’t get rid of us that easy. The day is comin’ when you’ll ’ave to get down off that bloody ’igh—”

“I’ll thank you to—”

“’At’s it, Rog!”

“Your kind ’ave ’ad it all their way. There’ll be a revolution and then you’ll be beggin’ for ‘elp. And you think you’ll get it? Not bloody likely!”

Marjorie increased her pace until it was almost a trot, trying to shake him off before she reached the kitchen door. She was fumbling in her pocket for the key when he came up close behind her. Afraid that he would touch her, she whirled around and faced him.

“Get out of here. Go. Don’t come bothering me. Go to the authorities. Get off my land!”

The man fell back a step. She seized the bucket of chicken feed, not wanting to leave anything out that he might steal. The key turned easily, thank God, and she slammed the door just as he came up on the step. She snapped the lock home. He shouted through the door: “You bleedin’ stuck-up tart. Don’t fucking care if we starve, do you?”

Marjorie began to shake all over, but she shouted back, “I’m going to call the police if you don’t leave at once!”

She walked through the house, eying the windows. They would be so easy to break. She felt vulnerable, trapped in her own house. Her breathing was very fast and shallow now. She felt nauseated. The man was still shouting outside, his language becoming more and more obscene.

The phone was on the hall table. She picked it up and held it to her ear. Nothing. She pressed the receiver bar up and down a few times. Nothing. Damn, damn, damn. What a time for it to go out. It happened often, of course. But not now, please, she prayed. She shook the phone. Still silence. She was completely cut off. What if the man broke in? Her mind raced over potential weapons, the poker, the kitchen knives—Oh God, no, better not start any violence, there were two of them and the man looked a nasty customer. No, she would go out the back. Through the French windows in the living room. Run to the village for help.

She couldn’t hear him shouting any longer, but was afraid to show herself at the window to see if he were still there. She tried the phone again. Still nothing. She slammed it down. She focused her attention on the doors and windows, listening for sounds of a break-in. Then the knocking started again at the front door. It was a relief to know where he was and that he was still outside. She waited, gripping the edge of the hall table. Go away, damn you, she willed him. The knocking repeated. After a pause, steps crunched on the gravel. Was he going away at last? Then there was a knock at the kitchen door. Oh Christ! How could she get rid of him?

“Marjorie! Hello, Marjorie, are you there?” A voice hailed her.

Relief flooded her and she felt close to tears. She was too limp to move.

“Marjorie! Where are you?” The voice was moving away. She straightened up and went to the kitchen door and opened it.

Her friend Heather was moving off towards the garden shed. “Heather!” she called. “I’m here.”

Heather turned and came back to her. “Whatever’s the matter? You look awful,” she said.

Marjorie stepped outside and looked around. “Has he gone?” she asked. “There was a dreadful man here.”

“A shabby-looking man with a woman and child? They were just leaving when I came. What happened?”

“He wanted to borrow some milk.” She started to laugh, a little hysterically. It sounded so ordinary. “Then he got rude and started shouting. They’re squatters. Moved into that empty farm down the road last night.” She sank into a kitchen chair. “God, that was scary, Heather.”

“I believe it. You look quite shaken. Not like you, Marjorie. I thought you could handle anything, even fierce and dangerous squatters.” She had adopted a bantering tone and Marjorie responded to it.

“Well, I could, of course. I was going to bash him over the head with the poker and then stick him with a kitchen knife, if he broke in.”

She was laughing, but it wasn’t funny. Had she actually thought of doing that?