“I’m sorry, but I think we should stop now. Maybe five-all is as good a place as any.” She decides to say nothing, but privately wonders what on earth made Sally imagine that a four-year-old and a six-year-old would sit patiently while their mother hit a ball back and forth across a net.
The children seem happier in the cafeteria, pulling joyfully on their straws and slurping Coca-Cola all over their faces and clothes. She drinks an orange juice while Sally sits with a cup of tea and analyses the game.
“You’re getting stronger all the time. I think you’re a bit of a natural.”
She graciously accepts the younger woman’s compliments. However, if it was not for Sally she would not be here. There is nobody else that she knows in the leisure centre, and she has no desire to join up. The woman on the front desk has twice told her that she is losing money doing it this way, and that it would be much cheaper to become a member, but she prefers her temporary arrangement. Sally glances at the two children, who continue to enjoy their newly harmonious, if messy, friendship. Then she looks back at her older companion.
“Tongues are wagging in the staffroom.”
She stares blankly at her, but in a manner that forces Sally to continue.
“It’s just that I know you’ve never been much of a mixer, but these days you seem to keep yourself to yourself. As if you’re too grand for everybody, but I know that’s not how you really feel. It’s just what some people are saying.”
Through the glass, and down on the court below them, she can see two men furiously thrashing a ball back and forth with little concern for finesse. Theirs is a game of brute strength and endurance. She turns to look at Sally. The younger woman’s face is calm and etched with concern, but she resents her younger colleague’s words. Warning? Admonishment? It matters little. The words are inappropriate and she will not play tennis with this woman again.
Geoff seems slightly less animated than he was at the restaurant. Wine, she thinks. More wine, and she pours him another glass and makes a point of leaving the bottle uncorked. This morning, she slipped a note in Sally’s pigeonhole cancelling next week’s tennis. She gave no reason. Then she found the hastily scribbled note from Geoff. “Dinner? Tonight?” She put the note up against the wall and under his double question she scrawled, “My place, 8 p.m.” Then she wrote down her address, folded the note twice and tucked it into his box. She had hoped for a note from him on the morning after their dinner, but better late than never, she thought. And now, as he sips at his new glass of wine, he finally explains his failure to write.
“Claire hurt herself at school, but my wife made it sound as though the child was going to have a leg amputated. But when I got there we argued, of course. I missed the whole of yesterday, and I didn’t get back till one o’clock this morning.”
“I’m sorry.”
He empties his glass in one and pours himself another glass. Again he praises the food, but she knows that there is nothing to praise about tuna casserole. It is nice of him, but not necessary. They move into the living room and he reclines back into the sofa. She takes the armchair and sits opposite him, and then he points to the gilt-framed photograph on top of the piano.
“Your parents?” She nods.
“They were born in this town, and they lived and died here. They’re both buried in the local cemetery, side by side.” He sits forward now.
“How do you feel about that?”
About what? she wonders. About parents who had neither the means nor, in the case of her father, the desire to escape their working-class lives? Who never recovered from the shock of their eldest child going off to university in another town? Who resented their youngest child for having the temerity to abandon them and go and seek her fortune in London among the lights? How did she feel? She didn’t feel that she owed them anything, but she couldn’t deny that she had come running home when her own life had collapsed. She had, in essence, returned to their world, albeit with council houses sold off, Indians controlling the local economy, and new town houses that cost six figures for those who worked in the technology sector. Were her parents to step from their graves and re-enter this world, theirs would no longer be a town that they would recognise. She looks at her guest, and then she returns her gaze to the photograph of her parents. What she cannot tell this man is the degree to which she despises that which has been bequeathed to her. The genetic stain. Cowardice.
It is late. A kiss hangs in the air, but he seems incapable of leaning over and taking it.
“I think I’d better go now, before Mrs. Johnson slams and bolts the door on me.” He stands. They have talked about music. They have talked about travel, and about how he loved to ride the trains on Inter-rail both during and after college. Every summer he did this, skipping from Germany to France, from France to Holland and so on, moving around as the mood took him. Geoff Waverley had experienced many adventures on the road, though none, as far as she could tell, of the amorous variety. She hears the words before she has time to sort and arrange them.
“You don’t have to go. You’re more than welcome to stay here.” Her eyes light upon the clock on the mantelpiece. Again she speaks. “It’s still reasonably early.” He is standing by himself, marooned. She feels uncomfortable leaving him in this position and so she too stands. She faces him, but it is he who reaches out and takes her hand.
“I don’t think we should be doing this.”
“Doing what?” she asks.
They lie side by side. She stares at the ceiling, but his eyes are closed. She lied about her age when he complimented her.
“Fifty,” she said. “Is that too old?”
He laughed in a manner that let her know that her question was absurd. And then he fell silent and closed his eyes, while she stared at the ceiling. She can feel the surge of guilt begin to course through his stiffening body. She considers putting on some music, or opening another bottle of wine so that they can both have a drink. However, she knows that to leave the bed will break the spell. Sharing his body is one thing. Sharing his thoughts is clearly another thing altogether. And then he rolls over onto his shoulder and he faces her.
“I’ve got to go.” Her eyes meet his and she nods. “My head,” he says. “It’s spinning and I’ll just keep you awake all night.”
“I understand.” She strokes his face. “I had a good time. Thank you.” He smiles and then in one movement he rolls away from her and sits on the edge of the bed. She turns her back on him to give him some privacy, and she stares at the blank wall.
The next day she leaves a note for him in his pigeonhole. A simple note, thanking him for coming over to dinner and wondering if he is free this weekend. She reads and rereads the note a dozen times before folding it and putting it into an envelope. The sealed envelope she places between memos and other mail, most of which looks to be of little import. In the staffroom she makes an extra effort to be polite to those she encounters. However, she informs a disappointed Sally that she will not only have to miss next week’s game, but tennis will have to be indefinitely postponed because of her private music lessons. Sally has already anticipated this, although she does her best to seem both surprised and disappointed. Clearly Sally wishes to keep things amicable.
“You’ll let me know when things change, won’t you?”
“Of course,” she says. And so the day begins. It is her heavy teaching day. No free periods, and three classes of beginners. Before the cutbacks there used to be a part-time music teacher to steer the younger classes through recorder lessons and basic music appreciation, but now she has to endure the discordant tones of “Green-sleeves,” and tolerate their blank faces as she explains the difference between a concerto and a symphony. Boy groups, they understand. Girl groups, they understand. Rap. Hip-hop. But this generation has finally forced her to accept the possibility that the pleasures of the classical world are in danger of becoming extinct. After her last class she gathers up her books and then finds some extra chores to do in the classroom. In due course, having exhausted all possible tasks, she makes her way along the semi-deserted corridors to the staffroom. She looks first in her box, but there is no note. And then in his, where her note, together with his other mail, has disappeared. She is dumbfounded. She feels the sap of rejection rise in her throat, but not wishing to be discovered lingering by the mail boxes she turns quickly and walks away.
The following afternoon she goes again to her box. He has had the whole of the previous evening to frame his rejection letter, but there is nothing. Only a letter from the union demanding dues, an invitation to apply for cheap travel insurance, and a note from a parent explaining why Jenny Sommerville will be away for the next three weeks. But nothing from Mr. Waverley. She is tempted to rifle through his box in an attempt to discover any clue as to his silence, but on reflection she decides to quickly pen him another note and leave it for him to discover. In the staffroom only the two new games teachers linger. She sits at a table and writes quickly, urging her friend to contact her. She feels uncomfortable, but she desires no awkwardness between them. Almost anything else she can tolerate, but not awkwardness. She considers making a plea based on the fact that they work together, but she decides against this. After all, he is a supply teacher and he will soon be leaving. She plays the awkwardness card and leaves it at that. As she gets to her feet Sally bursts into the staffroom. She apologises to the games teachers for keeping them waiting. Clearly she is going to help out, probably with hockey practice. Then Sally sees her former tennis partner.
“Hi, you’re here late. Waiting for anyone?” Before she has a chance to shake her head and deny that she is waiting for anybody, Sally laughs and continues. “Mr. Waverley is on a field trip, if that’s who you’re looking for. Quite like the look of him myself. Half my Shakespeare class have gone with him.” Again she laughs. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining.” The games teachers are becoming impatient and they hover by the door. “Look, I’ve got to rush. See you.”
Sally leaves the door open as she disappears down the corridor. She waits until Sally is out of sight and then she steps outside and puts the note into Geoff Waverley’s box. She does not bother to close the staffroom door.
At ten o’clock that night the doorbell rings. She goes to the door and sees his dishevelled person standing before her. His hair is rumpled and he looks as though he has not slept for days. She wonders if he is angry with her for leaving a second note, but as she scrutinises his face she can see that he is more tired than angry.
“Can I come in?”
She steps to one side.
“Of course. What happened?” She pours a glass of red wine and sets it before him at the table. He takes a mouthful and then looks up at her.
“Do you have any food?” She makes him some pasta while he in turn pours himself a second and then a third glass from the bottle. He eats quickly and then pushes the plate away. “Thank you.” She pours herself a half-glass.
“Do you want to talk?”
He looks at her.
“My wife. I’m not sure if it’s going to work.”
“You mean the reconciliation?”
“I went there yesterday. And then again today after the field trip.” He reaches over and makes contact with her hand. “Can I stay here? Just for tonight, I mean.” She nods. “On the sofa. I don’t think we can do that again, not if I’m still trying to go back with her.” Again she nods.
“I’ll make you up a bed.”
As she puts a fresh pillowcase on the pillow she looks over at him. He is exhausted and he sits with his left elbow on the table top, his face cupped into his left palm and his tired eyes closed. As much as she wants to go to him and slip an arm around his shoulders, she knows that she cannot. This is his misery. By respecting this she hopes that she will, of course, make herself necessary.
The next day, after school, she pours herself a cup of tea and then she calls his wife, Vivian. Her voice is young, and thin; a blonde voice full of good cheer mixed with bemusement. “Who am I speaking to?”
“I am a colleague of your husband’s and I’m slightly worried about his behaviour.” There is silence on the other end of the telephone, and for a moment it is difficult to determine what this silence means. She continues. “Mrs. Waverley?”
“Ms. Ford.” The voice fizzes with indignation. His wife continues. “What exactly do you want?” She draws a deep breath.
“I suppose I just want to let you know that your husband’s behaviour is causing many of us some concern. He seems to be upset all of the time.”
“And what is it that you want me to do?”
“I’m not sure. I just thought you might like to know.”
“And so now you’ve told me.” The silence lingers in the air for a few moments, then she hears the click and the irritable burr of an open line. Ms. Vivian Ford has hung up on her. For a few moments she holds the telephone in her hand. She strikes a pose, as though performing before an audience, and then she runs a hand carefully back through her grey hair and gently replaces the telephone on the receiver. Dignity has been restored.
He waits until most people have left the staffroom before speaking to her. The few who remain can see that this is an encounter that is fraught with tension.
“Don’t you have some explaining to do?”
She looks surprised, as though not sure what he is talking about. She deliberately keeps her voice lower than his. This will be her tactic. Whatever he says, she will reply in a whisper.
“I thought I was helping. You seemed so helpless the other night, and I was worried.” She sees the anger flare on his face, and she worries now, for she has no desire to have a public confrontation. He stares at her. She is aware that others are watching them and there is a sense of relief when he utters his one word, “Outside,” as though he were a schoolboy inviting her into the playground for a fight. They go into an empty classroom. Religious studies, judging by the writing on the blackboard. The names of the prophets are listed, somewhat strangely, in alphabetical order.