Spiderweb Read online

  PENELOPE LIVELY

  Spiderweb

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  SPIDERWEB

  ‘A wonderfully astute and quietly clever novel’ Kate Campbell, Evening Standard

  ‘I greatly enjoyed Penelope Lively’s Spiderweb. She is one of those few compulsory authors whose books I find I must read’ Jill Paton Walsh, Independent on Sunday, Books of the Year

  ‘Her literary ancestors are novelists like Elizabeth Taylor and Barbara Pym, whose ostensible subjects – domesticity, the rural community, virtue and patience – give way to visions of savage exoticism, sex and freedom’ Philip Hensher, Mail on Sunday

  ‘Seethes with contentious ideas’ Gillian Fairchild, Daily Telegraph

  ‘As in her earlier novel, Heat Wave, Penelope Lively shows herself an astute and unsentimental portraitist of rural England, that highly-subsidized wasteland of suicidal angst and hazardous chemicals’ Hilary Mantel, Independent

  ‘Penelope Lively on good form: a typical story of quiet, respectable people and their turbulent inner lives, delivered in quiet, respectable, yet occasionally devastating prose’ Gill Hornby, Literary Review

  ‘Terrific’ Leslie Geddes-Brown, Country Life

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Penelope Lively grew up in Egypt but settled in England after the war and took a degree in history at St Anne’s College, Oxford. She is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature, and a member of PEN and the Society of Authors. She was married to the late Professor Jack Lively, has a daughter, a son and four grandchildren, and lives in London.

  Penelope Lively is the author of many prize-winning novels and short-story collections for both adults and children. She has twice been shortlisted for the Booker Prize; once in 1977 for her first novel, The Road to Lichfield, and again in 1984 for According to Mark. She later won the 1987 Booker Prize for her highly acclaimed novel Moon Tiger. Her other books include Going Back; Perfect Happiness; Passing On, which was shortlisted for the 1989 Sunday Express Book of the Year Award; Cleopatra’s Sister, Beyond the Blue Mountains, a collection of short stories; Oleander, Jacaranda, a memoir of her childhood days in Egypt; Spiderweb; A House Unlocked, a second autobiographical work; and The Photograph.

  Penelope Lively has also written radio and television scripts and has acted as presenter for a BBC Radio 4 programme on children’s literature. She is a popular writer for children and has won both the Carnegie Medal and the Whitbread Award. She was appointed CBE in the 2001 New Year’s Honours list.

  TITLES BY PENELOPE LIVELY IN PENGUIN

  FICTION

  Going Back

  The Road to Lichfield

  Treasures of Time

  Judgement Day

  Next to Nature, Art

  Perfect Happiness

  Corruption and Other Stories

  According to Mark

  Pack of Cards: Stories 1978-1986

  Moon Tiger

  Passing On

  City of the Mind

  Cleopatra’s Sister

  Heat Wave

  Beyond the Blue Mountains

  Spiderweb

  The Photograph

  Making It Up

  Consequences

  Family Album

  How It All Began

  NON-FICTION

  The Presence of the Past: An Introduction to Landscape History

  Oleander Jacaranda: A Childhood Perceived

  A House Unlocked

  Chapter One

  The west of England was once remote, inaccessible and inconvenient. Somerset, Devon, Cornwall. Country cousins lived there, whose uncouth accents provoked ridicule when they came up to town. It was picturesque, in those parts, but barbarous, and to be avoided except for purposes of absentee landownership.

  All that has changed, except that the place remains scenic – though perhaps rather less so. The three counties are now quite close to the centre of things – to Birmingham and Liverpool and Manchester and London. Consequently the balance of the country shifts, come high summer. The north and the centre tip down into the west in such concentration that when there is no longer a single car-park space left, or boarding-house bed, or vacant bay on a caravan site, they have to put up the ‘Cornwall Full’ sign on the county boundary.

  The natives of the West Country are still there and they continue to speak with distinctive voices, but they are joined now by many others – those who have drifted west and slotted themselves into the local economy, those who have ended up there in remembrance of an agreeable summer holiday.

  Ancestry and happenstance divide the population, today – people who nave always been there and people who came there fortuitously. For these last, fortune can serve up some strange conjunctions.

  North Somerset Herald

  A CHARACTER DETACHED COTTAGE occupying a peaceful situation a mile from Kingston Florey village and with excellent views in a southerly direction.

  Good-sized living-room with inglenook, kitchen/breakfast-room, bathroom, bedroom, bedroom/boxroom. Pleasant gardens to front and rear.

  Mains water and electricity. Septic tank drainage.

  DIRECTIONS: The property lies off the B4167, going east from Kingston Florey. Access is by way of the lane to the right half a mile beyond the village (with sign indicating T. G. Hiscox, agricultural contractor).

  T. G. Hiscox

  Agricultural engineer and contractor

  Grass silage

  Muck spreading

  Power harrowing

  Combine harvesting

  Drilling

  Repairs and servicing

  Agri-pac bagging system

  Ploughing crawler or 4 w/d

  Maize drilling and harvesting

  Mole draining and subsoiling

  Heavy discing

  Richard Faraday to Stella Brentwood

  Dear Stella,

  I have cast an eye over the property advertisements in the local paper, as requested, and believe I may have come up with a possibility. Particulars enclosed. It meets your specifications in various ways – absence of busy adjacent road, good rural views. The place is situated in a quiet backwater – a scatter of nearby cottages, one farm, and at the far end of the lane there are the bungalow and repair yard of an agricultural contractor – at some considerable distance and therefore not a potential source of noise or nuisance. I have had a scout around the area and found everything most agreeable.

  Since my previous letter a few thoughts have occurred. I am sure that you will find these parts as congenial for retirement as I do. I feel, though, that I should warn you there are aspects of life down here which you might find it difficult to come to terms with, if you do decide to follow this through. Forewarned is forearmed!

  RAIN: you are drawn to this area by the glories of the landscape (I take it). Relatively mild, yes (very little frost or snow – influence of the sea), but wet. Adjust your expectations accordingly.

  SOCIAL SERVICES: this is a rural area – hospitals and such are spread thin. Expect to have to drive twenty miles to get your teeth seen to – that sort of thing. But of course you will have considerable experience of this on your various field trips. I merely mention the matter.

  ENTERTAINMENT: as above.

 
DRIVING: You will be doing a lot of this (arising out of the preceding points) – mostly in narrow lanes which do not allow two vehicles to pass except at gateways or deliberately constructed indentations in the hedgebanks. The local convention is that the vehicle going uphill is the one to do the backing. On the flat, it is a question of staring down the opposition, if equidistant from a passing place. Tractors, milk tankers and agricultural suppliers always have right of way. I advise a small, manoeuvrable car. I drive a VW Golf.

  HUNTING: both fox and stag. An entrenched local tradition. Adverse comment can provoke ill feeling, and worse. I strongly advise a policy of silent neutrality, whatever your natural reactions may be.

  RELIGIOUS PRACTICE: I seem to recall that you are agnostic, but I would suggest, with all respect, that you stretch a point and attend Sunday Matins, at least on occasion. You will thus establish yourself in the community and make useful contacts. It is a question of social expediency rather than a spiritual commitment.

  Let me say again that I am very pleased that you may settle in these parts. I know that Nadine would have been delighted to think that her oldest friend would be my neighbour, so to speak. Please let me know if there is anything further over which I can be of use.

  Yours,

  Richard

  North Somerset Herald

  ITEMS FOR SALE: Livestock and Poultry

  Free range eggs, rabbits (live & frozen oven-ready), ducks, young cockerels from £5.50. K. Hiscox, T. G. Hiscox, Agricultural Engineers, Kingston Florey.

  Women’s Institute Reports

  KINGSTON FLOREY: The newpresident, Mrs Joyce Williams, welcomed twenty-six members and friends. Mr Paul Hampton spoke on bee-keeping and its products, which was very interesting. After the meeting members were able to buy honey and candles made by his bees. Refreshments were served and the retiring president Mrs Pleydell and secretary Mrs Davies were thanked for all their hard work over the last three years and presented with a rose bush each.

  Live Music

  The Mayfair Bar, Minehead

  Thurs: Blossom Sisters and Crazy Jane

  Fri: The Devils Incarnate

  Sat: Hullabaloo

  Foxhampton Barbarians RFC

  Under 17s Disco Rave at Foxhampton Rugby Club

  Friday 4 May, 7.30–11.00 p.m.

  Hunting

  Clarkton Farm Meet. Mr and Mrs Apsley kindly entertained all comers. Hounds moved off to draw Pinner Wood, where they found and went away across Hallows Farm, down Clac-ombe to Parkers Plantation, over to Wester Lea, down Mapley and ran swiftly to Lannersmead, where he went to ground. Hounds were taken back to Eastcombe, where they drew with no luck, cast down through Candon Water and up on to the heath where a fox was found. Hounds ran well in a circuit back to Eastcombe, where the scent was lost. Hounds found again in the quarry but checked almost at once, cast on over Shapcott, into Burnley Wood and round Bittersedge without finding again, so the day ended.

  It is possible, within this deeply rural landscape, to play golf, to go hang-gliding or moto-cross racing, or to indulge in a bout of ten-pin bowling or skittles any day of the week. You can sail, cycle, walk, ride. You could also take up country dancing or enjoy change-ringing or go fishing. The visitor is richly indulged and may choose between castles, abbeys, stately homes, gardens of national repute, scenic railways, tropiquaria, farm parks, country life museums, trout fisheries. There are fifteen hunts within a radius or thirty miles, including harriers and beagles.

  You might think that the entire place is given over to the purveying of leisure activities. This is not so. Real life continues here, beneath the surface gloss of brown signs inviting a departure from the main roads carrying glittery lines of cars which slice their way though the green quilt of fields and hills. People are still growing things and selling them and providing one another with services and necessities. Most of them spend much of their time in one place, contemplating the same view, locked in communion with those they see every day. For some, this is a stranglehold; others are more fortunate. It all depends on perspective.

  Chapter Two

  The man and the two boys watched her come out of the bungalow. They saw her slam the door, march down the path, get into the car, roar the engine. The boys noted the set of her mouth, the swagger in her step, the deliberate din of door and accelerator. It could get their insides churning when she was like that, but this time they were in the clear.

  Michael said, ‘Going to Carter’s, isn’t she?’

  Their father nodded.

  The car shot off, spraying dirt. They watched it belt away and turn into the lane that led to the main road.

  ‘Give Carter an earful, I bet,’ said Peter. ‘Stupid bugger don’t know what’s coming to him.’

  Carter had a business selling animal feed. He’d sent one of his men over last night asking again for cash for a delivery made six weeks ago. She wasn’t paying because she said the delivery was a sack short. She’d have to find another supplier, but that wouldn’t bother her. Rather that and be one up on Carter.

  ‘Was the sacks one short?’ he said after a moment.

  Their father shrugged. ‘Dunno. Could be.’

  ‘Stupid bugger,’ Peter said again. ‘He can’t do nothing, can he, if she won’t pay?’

  Ted Hiscox grinned. ‘He’ll say he’s taking her to court, but he won’t. Too much trouble, in the long run. He’ll want to get her off his back, anyway.’

  The boys stood there, thinking of her. Their thoughts ran parallel, as usual, and both knew this, so they did not even need to look at one another to be in accord. They thought of her bawling the man out at his own depot, in front of his men and other customers and whoever. She’d go on as long as it suited her. When she came back she’d be pleased as anything, riding high, in a good mood that would last the rest of the day. So Carter had done them a favour.

  Ted Hiscox turned towards the repair shed. ‘I got a job over by Treborough. Get those tyres moved out of the way before I get back.’

  When he had gone the boys went behind the shed to the place they’d made, a scoop in the hedge with a roof of corrugated iron. They sat in there and smoked, as near to easy as they could ever be, knowing that she was miles away. For an hour or so. They were fourteen and fifteen, short, stocky, silent boys with shaggy black hair who seldom spoke except to each other because they knew the rest of the world to be against them. They had been in collusion all their lives, embattled together against everything. Against her, first and last.

  The younger boy, Peter, said, ‘Where’ll she get feed from now?’

  ‘Plenty of places.’

  That was it, you could always move on. That was what she said herself – if someone tried to put one over you, then you gave them the shove. It’s each for himself in this world, she said, you’d better remember that or you’ll get nowhere. They remembered. They watched her and remembered.

  Both or them wondered now if there’d really been a sack short. Not that it mattered one way or the other.

  Stella Brentwood, looking out of the window of her kitchen, saw a red car go past along the lane, driven rather too fast. She did not much register either car or driver, since her mind at that moment was on other things. She was concerned with various needs and deficiencies within this new home: a lack of storage space, a dripping tap, a recalcitrant radiator. She was making a list, but the making of the list had been interrupted by a phone call, and now the phone call had distracted her further. By the time the red car had gone past she was no longer thinking of taps or radiators but had been pitched into another time and place which seemed suddenly more vivid and more reliable than this unfamiliar view of greenery, pink earth and the long slack lines of hills.

  When Stella was twenty-one her best friend’s recently acquired lover took the most tremendous shine to her. He did little to conceal this and the best friend soon cottoned on. She tackled Stella in the ladies’ loo of the pub where a gang of them, the lover included, were having a few drinks before go
ing on to a bottle party in someone’s flat which would probably last all night and at which much would be got up to.

  ‘Hands off,’ said Nadine, powdering her nose. ‘He’s mine.’

  There had never been such talk between them before. Nadine meant business. She had not had much luck with men and saw this as her last chance. Marriage was taken seriously, back then, and was an essential move, even for a girl with an Oxford degree in history.

  ‘I don’t want him,’ said Stella. ‘He’s not my type.’

  ‘I dare say not, but you seem to be his.’ Nadine brushed powder flecks from her black jersey bat-wing top and snook out the turquoise circular felt skirt. She tightened her three-inch-wide belt by another notch. ‘So hands off, if you don’t mind.’

  Stella considered. This moment of effortless power was rather enjoyable, even between old friends.

  ‘James Stanway is coming to the party,’ said Nadine. ‘You’ve always had a thing about him.’

  ‘It’s peaked,’ said Stella. ‘But I’ll look around and see what else there is.’

  They inspected their reflections in the pock-marked mirror. They knew everything about each other, from political and spiritual views through food fads and fashion tastes to the details of their menstrual cycles.

  ‘Your bra strap shows a bit,’ said Nadine. ‘Is that scent Muguet des Bois or Mitsouko?’

  They gathered up their possessions and bounced back to the steamy clamour of their friends, who were setting up a kitty for the purchase of bottles of cheap plonk. Presently they all surged off to the party, which by the small hours degenerated into a semi-darkness strident with gramophone records that kept getting stuck, and heaving bodies on floor and sofas. Stella heaved half-heartedly for a while with someone she hardly knew, who took her home in a taxi but turned out to be too sloshed to pay the fare. Nadine had somehow kept possession of the lover all night, though wearing a strained expression. Within months he had cleared off and a year later Nadine married Richard Faraday, who had taken the Civil Service exam and was starting at the Home Office.