A Rural Affair

We all looked at her blankly.

‘I mean, the thriller?’

‘Oh no, we’re happy with any … genre. Tragedy, romance. I’d happily read Georgette Heyer every week!’ Jennie assured her.

‘I don’t know her.’

‘You don’t know Georgette Heyer?’ Jennie looked genuinely shocked. She clutched her heart. ‘Oh my God, I’ve got the whole lot. I’ll lend them to you. You’re in for a treat. Start with Faro’s Daughter and you’ll be hooked for life!’

‘Thank you, I’d appreciate that. And meantime,’ Hope lowered her voice again and we all had to lean in because her voice was soft. And she was tiny, so we must have looked like we were mugging her. ‘Well, meantime, if you’re really looking for suggestions, I’m ashamed to say there’s one book which I know I should have read in high school, but just never got around to. I’d love to do it now.’

‘Oh!’ we breathed. Plenty of those. Whole libraries full. ‘Yes?’

‘You’ve probably all read it.’

‘Noo, noo, not necessarily,’ Angie warbled.

‘It’s Ulysses.’

‘Ulysses!’ Jennie and Angie agreed in unison. They rocked back on their heels, glancing wildly at one another. It rang a faint bell, but not a very loud one.

‘Can you believe I’ve never read it? Must be one of the greatest novels in literary history.’

‘I’ve never read it either!’ squealed Angie, hand pressed to her heart. ‘I’ve been so ashamed of that for years!’

‘I’ve always meant to,’ Jennie chimed in. ‘Just never got round to it. Poppy, what about you?’

But I was hanging out Marjorie’s washing now, because she’d asked me to. Large white pants, huge conical bras, the cups of which a puppy could have curled up and had a nap in. Hanging them on my line, while she watched my television.

‘Poppy?’

‘Yes, I told you. I liked the cable-car bit.’

Jennie blinked. Turned her back on me pointedly. ‘I think that’s a brilliant idea, Hope. We’ll all read that for next week, then.’

‘And I could get a few notes from the Internet, perhaps? Circulate them, if you like, to help us along?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. As you can see, we didn’t need notes for this one!’ Angie trilled. She turned. ‘Everyone!’ She clapped her jewelled hands prettily into the party atmosphere that had naturally ensued – flooded in, more like, when given the chance. Angus was already florid and booming; Luke had his hand on Sue’s arm as he told an anecdote, just emphasizing a point, but still; and the volume was high. ‘Um, everyone! Listen up! Hope’s made a marvellous suggestion for next week. We’re going to read Ulysses, which is a lovely book, apparently. I’m sure you’ll all adore it. It’s by –’ Angie turned to Hope expectantly.

Hope looked startled then collected herself. ‘Oh, OK. James Joyce.’

‘James Joyce, and it’s about …’ Angie tinkled, cocking her head to one side, liking this double act.

‘Well, not so much about anything as a stream of consciousness. One day in the life of. I guess if it does have a central theme it’s … well, it’s –’ Hope puckered her pretty brow; looked momentarily flummoxed.

‘It’s about death,’ Peggy interjected softly, from over by the window.

We all turned to look at her. Her face, in profile to us, was sad and mournful. She blew a thin blue line of cigarette smoke at the pane of glass and thence to the darkened fields beyond.

15

‘Saintly Sue and Luke seemed to be getting on rather well last night, didn’t they?’ Jennie said casually.

I was on my way back from the shop. Jennie was on her hands and knees in her front garden, messing around with a trowel, the second time I’d found her thus in two weeks. Generally she expressed the opinion that plastic flowers were the way forward, so authentic were they nowadays, and soil-tilling just another extension of a housewife’s shackles, only we got to rattle them in the fresh air.

I paused at her gate. ‘Yes, they did, didn’t they?’

‘You don’t mind?’ She straightened up anxiously.

‘Not in the least.’