“Are you listening to me?” he asks. She turns back to face him.
“You know,” she begins, “I really don’t need your anger or your hostility. You come to me when you’re in trouble and you need help, and I stay up all night worrying about you, trying to find a way to help you. If I made a mistake, I’m sorry. But I want to help. That’s all.”
“So you call my wife? And where did you get the number?” She laughs now.
“For heaven’s sake, Geoff. These days you don’t need to be a detective to find things out.” He stares at her with a malevolence that she knows she has elicited. But he shouldn’t have slept with her if he couldn’t face the consequences. Maybe his past escapades have involved having a quick roll with whoever happened to take his fancy, but if this is what he’s bargaining for, then he’s made a terrible mistake.
“You have no right to call my wife, and you have no right to enter my life in this way. Have you any idea how much damage you’ve caused?” She realises that at the present time there is nothing that she can do or say to defuse his anger. However, she will continue to be there for him. He will need to come and see her, and she will help him to understand that although he has begun this relationship by being led by blind desire, it doesn’t mean that he’ll end up being trapped. She’s not that kind of woman, and after all he will need somebody to take to La Spiaggia. He will need somebody to guide him. A firm hand. This will be her role. Although tempted to smile, she understands that such a gesture will be misinterpreted, so there will be no smile. Suddenly she is conscious of her blank expression, so she turns back to the blackboard and wonders just why the prophets are listed in alphabetical order.
“Are you listening?” She nods, but without turning her head. “You and I are finished. I want you out of my life.” She waits until she hears him storm purposefully out of the classroom, and only now does she turn around. The truth is, there is something comforting about hearing that they are finished, implying as it does that they were actually started.
Her letter is short and to the point. She reminds him that abandonment is a state that is not alien to man. That throughout the ages people have voluntarily or involuntarily left behind people in their lives and gone on to higher and better things. There is nothing unusual about this. She stops short of rehearsing her own story with Brian, but it is all implied. She is making a plea for him to see himself in a bigger context and move on. She does not say who he should move on to, but again this is implied. She reads the letter through, correcting the odd ambiguity in the shaping of her letters and making sure that it is absolutely legible. Then she reads the letter through for grammar, and once she is satisfied she folds it neatly and tucks it into an envelope. She stands and walks to the door, where she unhooks her coat and steps into her walking shoes. His lodgings are easy to find, for on their first “date” he had described them as a big corner house on Manor Farm Road overlooking the park. There is only one big corner house, and it has the look of a place that takes boarders, for the front garden has been dug up and replaced with gravel. Guests can park off the street behind the hedge. She stands by the gateway and realises that she will have to be stealthy, for the house is ablaze with lights.
She walks back by a different route, aware that she is simply killing time. At this time of night the streets are relatively empty, and even pleasant to walk through, but at 10:30 p.m. there will be a sudden rush of people from the twin-cinema complex, some making their way home, but most dashing to the city-centre pubs for a final drink. Of course, these new pubs with their security staff, and sawdust on the floor and loud thumping music bear no resemblance to what she recognises as a pub, but mercifully she is under no obligation to enter such hovels. At 11 p.m., when the places finally close, the unwashed rabble will slouch out into the streets, full of drink and spoiling for trouble, but she will be safely tucked up in bed. However, at the moment everything is quiet; the lull before the storm. And then she sees him. In the window of La Spiaggia with a woman. She stands across the road and looks at them, sitting at the table right next to the one that they had sat at. She should have brought the letter here. Delivered it to him personally, in front of this woman. She steps back into shadow in order to gather her thoughts, then her mind is clear and she knows what to do. She steps out and crosses towards them. When she is halfway across the road, he looks up and stares directly at her. The woman follows his eyes and turns and looks out of the window. The woman sees her, then looks quickly across at her date, then back at her. He looks angry, and moves as though he is going to get to his feet, but he remains seated as she walks by with her head held high. She is going home. She just happened to be passing La Spiaggia. Nothing planned or premeditated. This is a genuine coincidence. She just happened to be passing by. She continues to walk on her way and she wonders how Geoff Waverley will explain this to his friend. In fact, the more she thinks about it, the more she realises that this could not have turned out much better for her.
She is telephoned before she leaves for school.
“I’m afraid I need to speak to you on a matter of some urgency.” She waits for Mr. Jowett to go on. “This morning, after assembly, in my office.” He pauses and clears his throat. “I’m sorry for disturbing you so early, but as I’m sure you understand, I would not do so unless it was important.” She finishes her cup of tea and dresses slowly, as though for a funeral. Why would he do something like this? It’s between the two of them, and it doesn’t concern anybody else. It’s nobody else’s business. She draws the curtains and can see that it is a grey, overcast morning, the type of day that will refuse to change its character. Across the street she sees that the paper boy is doing wheelies on his bike and it occurs to her that she could always have the
Daily Mail
delivered. She misses her morning paper, and there’s really no reason why she should have to go without. Especially if the paper boy stops messing about and can actually be bothered to stuff some of the papers in his bag through people’s letterboxes.
When she gets to school Miss Arthurton, Mr. Jowett’s tall angular secretary, ushers her into the head’s office and pulls in the door behind her. Trapped. The deputy-head, Miss Mitchell, is seated to one side of Mr. Jowett’s desk. It is an awkward place to sit, for she has no place to rest her papers, which she balances uncomfortably in her lap. However, she knows that this suits Miss Mitchell, for she’s the type of career woman who likes to cross and recross her legs in the hope that she might accidentally reveal a bit of stocking top.
“Please.” Mr. Jowett gestures to the single chair in front of the desk. She sits and looks at him in his smug little cardigan and corduroy jacket, with not a button under pressure. “I’ll get straight to the point, although I suspect that you know what this is about.” He waits for her to reply, but she says nothing. “Very well. I arrived at school this morning to discover Mr. Waverley outside my office. I’m afraid he has lodged some very serious complaints at your doorstep and they will have to be fully investigated. Luckily we have a local-authority code of behaviour and Miss Mitchell here has brought a copy of the guidelines.” Miss Mitchell fishes through the pile of papers in her lap and hands her a flimsy document. “Now what two consenting adults do outside of this school is, quite frankly, none of my business. Mr. Waverley informs me that you two have had a full relationship, but this is not the point. At issue here is harassment, which is preventing a fellow member of staff from doing his job.”
Miss Mitchell coughs. And then she speaks.
“The charges are that you have repeatedly left Mr. Waverley notes in his box. That you called his wife and, on behalf of all teachers at this school, expressed concern over his mental and physical health. That you have visited his lodgings and left him abusive mail. And that just last night while he was having dinner with his sister, you stood outside the restaurant window and stared at them both. All of these transgressions have contributed to a climate in which Mr. Waverley feels he can no longer carry out his work here, and he has asked Mr. Jowett to relieve him of his duties.” Miss Mitchell’s speech is over and she leans back in her chair. But then she remembers one other thing. “If you have anything to say, I think that now would probably be the time to say it.”
She looks at this woman, then at the benevolent, avuncular figure of Raymond Jowett. Do they seriously believe that a fifty-five-year-old divorcee can terrorise a forty-year-old grown man? She begins to laugh. Mr. Jowett sighs.
“I’m afraid this is no laughing matter. These days there are laws and guidelines that protect the individual’s right to peaceful coexistence with colleagues in the workplace. Unless you categorically tell me that you did not leave inappropriate messages either at his home or in his pigeonhole; that you did not call Mr. Waverley’s wife; that you did not stalk him last night, then I’m afraid I will have to suspend you from your duties for two weeks while we take statements from all parties concerned, including colleagues of yours with whom you work closely. I’m afraid it’s the law.” She shakes her head in disbelief.
“Are you serious? This has to be a joke.” But nobody is laughing. Miss Mitchell stands up. She turns to her superior.
“Mr. Jowett, if I may.” Mr. Jowett nods surreptitiously, but with sadness. Miss Mitchell turns to face her. “You have a copy of the code. Either myself, or somebody from the district office, will be in touch regarding your interview. This should take place in the next ten days or so. As of now, as the head says, you should consider yourself on a two-week leave with full pay. This will, of course, be kept strictly confidential.”
She looks from the upright Miss Mitchell to Mr. Jowett, but he merely nods in helpless agreement. She gets to her feet.
In the evening she calls her sister in London. Sheila is surprised to hear from her, and she knows immediately that something is the matter.
“Nothing,” she says. “I just thought that I’d come and see you, if that’s all right.” There is a short pause. She knows that Sheila is trying to decide whether it is best to have the discussion now, or save it until they are together, for she knows that her impatient sister does not like to be lied to.
“What time are you arriving?”
“I haven’t checked on the buses yet, but I’ll call you from the station tomorrow.” Again there is a short pause, and then Sheila remembers her manners.
“Good. It’s been too long.”
“Yes, it has.” After she has spoken with Sheila she pours herself a glass of white wine. Then she sits at the piano, her fingers resting lightly on the keys, but she cannot summon the energy to disrupt the silence. Instead she stares at the score, and sees small anecdotes and exclamation points of advice that over the years she has scratched in the margins. It would appear that back then she was afraid of nothing, for difficult passages are circled in a manner which suggests that one should be aware of the upcoming problem but tackle it nonetheless. But this evening she cannot find it within herself to do anything other than lightly brush the keys with the tips of her fingers.
She wakes early the next morning. The sky is still dark, but she knows that the day will soon arrive. She sits in bed and brushes her hair with idle strokes, transforming her grey locks into a flowing tail. Then, once she sees the first rays of dawn, she gets up and showers and then dresses herself with quiet anxiety coursing through her veins. She has made no preparations. There is no booked seat, no bag standing by the door. She has not cleaned the house, or cancelled the milk. Nothing. It is all very unlike her and it serves to remind her of how unsure she is about what she is doing. She locks the door and steps out into the street as daylight begins to brighten the sky. As she walks to the bus stop she notices that the bold circular disc of the moon is still visible, which leads her to wonder whether night has lingered too long or morning arrived too soon. Once she reaches the main bus station she buys a return ticket on the first coach to London, and then she calls Sheila and tells her what time she will be arriving. Sheila is still asleep, she can hear it in her voice, but her sister tries to pretend otherwise. She buys a copy of the
Daily Mail
, plus a couple of women’s magazines, and then she boards the coach and finds a seat behind the driver and close to the front. There are still twenty minutes to go before the scheduled departure time, but her efforts to settle in are undermined by the driver’s conversation with a young man who stands by the door to the bus clutching his bicycle. He wants to put the bike in the luggage space underneath the coach, but the driver is pointing out to him that unless the bike folds up flat, then this cannot happen. Soon the young man is shouting at the driver, then cursing him in foul language. The driver looks at the abusive youngster, who could be his son, with a look of sad bemusement etched on his face. The young man continues to jab his finger in the driver’s direction and bellow at the top of his lungs. She looks away, ashamed and puzzled. It is one thing to be frustrated by rules, but it is another thing to flout authority in such a vulgar manner. These are not happy times for anybody.
About halfway to London they stop at a motorway service station. She has been sleeping, and as she opens her eyes she finds herself peering out at the bleak scene of unappetising fast-food places, an RAC stand, rows of unused telephones and neon-lit petrol pumps. Most choose to leave the coach, but she decides to stay on board. It is only a fifteen-minute stop, and if she needs the bathroom then there’s one on the coach. The man across the aisle begins to make a performance out of loudly munching an apple, and then salting a hard-boiled egg and taking a bite, before switching back to the apple. She looks away in dismay, and then thinks of Sheila, who could never live up to her big sister’s exam results. In fact, she fell comfortably beneath them and eventually took off for London where she found work as a secretary in a law firm. Within six months, she had met Roger who, having finished his time as a trainee in music and arts at the BBC, was now dipping his toes into the world of documentary film-making. Whenever she and Brian would travel to London from Birmingham, either to attend a play or a concert, or on one of Brian’s business trips, they would generally take Sheila and Roger out for a meal. Then, as Roger’s career began to flourish, the young couple moved into a flat of their own in Maida Vale that was in the middle of a bland neighbourhood of crushing respectability whose tedious streets neither gained nor changed character. It all seemed so unlike Sheila, but she thought it best to say nothing to her sister. On a few occasions, Sheila and Roger had them round and insisted on cooking for them, although Brian usually objected to this as he claimed that vegetarian food made him sick. However, never once did Sheila mention marriage, or, more puzzlingly, children. When she got the letter from her sister announcing her split with Roger (who was by now winning awards for his documentary films) and informing her that Sheila was now setting up home with a Maria Kingston “across the river,” she was shocked. After twenty-five years with a man, her sister was only now discovering that she wanted to be with a woman? Brian smirked, and then began to laugh. He claimed that he had always had his suspicions.