Meadowland. Alison Giles

to do,’ she said. I was vaguely aware of her shrugging on shoes and coat; and then of the beam of a torch as she opened the back door and closed it again behind her.

      I pressed the stopper back on the brandy, then rinsed my glass under the tap, staring out through the window as I did so. The night, I realised now that my back was to the lights in the room, was not as dark as I’d imagined. As my eyes accustomed themselves to the dimness, pinpricks of stars enlarged into dancing crystals. I started as a shadow streaked across my line of vision. A bat, maybe? Hardly. Not this early in the year.

      But the thought had stirred an image; myself, cringing; and Father sweeping me up in his arms, laughing away my fears. ‘They’re only bats, silly,’ I heard him say, his voice deep and comfortable. When could that have been, I wondered.

      Now I could discern branches stirring gently and, in the distance, the shimmer of headlights. I watched them approaching, turning into the lane and lighting it up with powerful beams. There was a squeal of brakes and the sound of tyres swerving on gravel as the vehicle swept round and up to the house. The lights were extinguished.

      I retreated towards the table. A metallic bang was followed by heavy footsteps. A broad shape passed the window. Then, with no more than a token knock, the same man who had spoken to me earlier in the day from his Land Rover pushed open the door and stood in the entrance.

      He gave a swift glance round the room before addressing me. ‘Flora in?’ Then he looked at me more closely. ‘Oh, it’s you. Nearly ran into your car out there.’ He shook his head tolerantly. ‘Do you always park in damn fool places?’

      I clapped my hand to my mouth. ‘Oh, I’m sorry … no lights. I hadn’t thought …’

      ‘If you give me the keys, I’ll move it.’

      I scrabbled in my bag and produced them. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

      ‘Self-interest. By the way, where’s Flora?’

      I hesitated. ‘I’m not sure. I mean, she didn’t actually say.’

      He gave me a bemused look. ‘Probably shutting up the hens.’ He jiggled the keys in his hand. ‘Right. I’ll just go and do this.’ He strode out.

      Aware that my face was probably still showing traces of my recent outburst, I reached for my make-up. As I touched up, Flora returned.

      ‘I see Andrew’s here,’ she said from the lobby. She stepped into the kitchen. ‘Where is he?’

      ‘Moving my car.’ My words were accompanied by the sound of its engine starting up.

      She nodded and went to the sink to wash her hands.

      When he came back, she introduced us.

      ‘Not …?’ He hesitated and looked questioningly at Flora.

      ‘Yes. That’s right. Hugh’s daughter.’

      His reaction on discovering my identity was totally different from Flora’s. His eyes lit up in greeting as he moved forward to grasp my hand. ‘Really?’

      I responded gratefully.

      Andrew turned to Flora. ‘You didn’t tell me …’

      ‘I didn’t know.’ Flora stood leaning against the cupboard, arms relaxed at her sides.

      ‘You mean … you just …?’ He swivelled his head from one to the other of us, seeking clarification.

      ‘My father asked me to return some books.’

      Andrew’s face sobered. ‘We all miss him,’ he said. Then, as though realising the possible trickiness of his ground, ‘What I mean is …’

      ‘Thank you,’ I said.

      So he obviously knew the situation. It occurred to me that Flora wasn’t the sort of person to try to hide it. Whatever else, there seemed a straightforwardness about her. I couldn’t help wondering if things would have been different if my mother had cared less about what the neighbours thought.

      ‘So what brings you, Andrew?’ It was Flora who spoke.

      He jerked his attention back to her.

      It turned out to be a matter of mild curiosity about rumours concerning the egg farm. They chatted about it, Flora meanwhile opening a tin of cat food and spooning it into a dish. Columbus, awoken by the sound of scraping, stirred himself and then bounded across the room to its source. When he’d licked the plate clean, Andrew bent down, scooped him up and carried him to the door where he unceremoniously shooed him out into the night. ‘Go catch some mice,’ he said.

      For the first time, I saw Flora laugh. ‘What, with his stomach as full as that? At best he’ll only have the energy to sit and ogle Joe Manning’s tortoiseshell.’

      Andrew’s eyes crinkled acknowledgement. ‘Mind if I help myself to a beer?’ He was clearly very much at home.

      ‘Go ahead.’

      He poured himself one and came to sit beside me on the sofa, to which I’d retired while they were talking.

      ‘Flora’s bite’s not nearly as fierce as her bark,’ he informed me conversationally, grinning across the room to where she still stood. Her face was a mask.

      He pulled out a packet of cigarettes, gestured it towards Flora who waved it away, then held the packet out to me.

      I made to take one, then glanced at Flora. ‘If you don’t mind?’

      ‘Not at all.’

      Gratefully I lit up.

      ‘So,’ Andrew said, ‘did you enjoy your walk this afternoon?’ He gave Flora a quick résumé of our earlier encounter.

      We pursued the subject briefly. Then: ‘Didn’t Hugh do a painting of the view from up there?’ He looked enquiringly at Flora.

      She nodded.

      He turned to me. ‘Has Flora shown you your father’s watercolours?’

      I hesitated, then opted for honesty. ‘I didn’t even know he painted.’

      A flicker of surprise crossed his face, and then he said, ‘Well, you must see them.’ He looked at Flora for confirmation. ‘Mustn’t she?’

      Flora went to fetch them, for the first time opening the door to the rest of the house. A rush of cooler air swept in, and on it the steady tick of what I guessed could only be a grandfather clock – the sound I’d been aware of earlier, no longer muffled by panelling.

      I shivered involuntarily. Andrew grinned. ‘Now you know why Flora lives in the kitchen.’

      She returned moments later bearing a dozen or so examples of my father’s work. As I studied them, one by one, I gasped. ‘But they’re amazing. Did he really do these?’ I found it hard to comprehend. The paintings were delicate and robust at one and the same time; mostly landscapes, but here and there focusing with finely sketched lines on an animal or, in one instance, a young woman. I stared at this last – one of the only two framed ones. The girl was seated amongst meadow grass, arms hugged round legs over which full skirts were drawn tight, eyes turned towards a background of tree-dotted hills. Cornflowers bent, as though pressed by the same gentle breeze as ruffled her hair.

      Andrew studied it over my shoulder. I felt him turn to look again at me. ‘It’s you!’ he said.

      I knew he was right.

      Yet again those tears – those damn tears – started to well up.

      Flora was the one who broke the tension.

      ‘Are you staying for supper, Andrew?’

      ‘I was hoping you’d ask me. Ginny’s taken the boys off to visit their grandparents. Don’t know where she gets her energy from, working all week and then rushing around at the weekend.’

      I surreptitiously