Encounters (14 page)

Only when we had been driving for about half an hour did Tim tell me what had really happened. Jocelyn had convinced them that there was nothing they could do about Simon’s activities. Davina was implicated too far and Simon too clever, so they had not called the police. Simon’s only punishment would be a few hours’ sweating until he realized that he had got away with it. Men like Simon always win.

‘Davina’s leaving him and I’ve told her she can come to us, Celia, do you mind?’ Tim’s hand groped for mine on the seat beside me. There was a long pause as we both peered through the windscreen wipers at the road ahead. I could feel the tears pricking at my eyes. ‘I didn’t sleep with her you know,’ he said at last. ‘You do believe that, don’t you? It’s you I love, and always will.’

I believed him.

The motel we found was small and shabby and the most beautiful place on earth. We were soaked from running from the BMW into the chalet and we had no luggage save my handbag with my passport, and we were both deliriously happy.

J
ackie looked at her watch and then at the phone. Another half hour and Sue would be home from the cinema to relieve her, unless Bob and Phil were back by then. She glanced at the message pad. Two addresses so far this evening. Not bad, considering how hard it was raining!

The twenty-four-hour plumbing service had been her brother Phil’s idea when she had joined the firm. The only rule was that she didn’t go out on night jobs alone, which was fair enough by her. Instead she took it in turns to mind the phone with Sue.

She drained the dregs of her coffee and looked regretfully at the paperback on the table, finished twenty minutes before. If only it had lasted the evening because there was nothing worth watching on the box and if she made any more coffee she would begin to look like a Beautifully Blended Bean …

She took the phone call with her usual slight sinking feeling. Nightcallers were always dodgy: on the defensive for ringing late; or desperate; sometimes hysterical; sometimes downright abusive as if it were her fault; almost never what you would call routine. She picked up her pencil and waited.

And for the first time in her short career as a plumber it happened. The customer the other end of the line was someone she knew. She kept her voice carefully impersonal as she repeated his name and address.

‘Someone will be there within half an hour, Mr Peters,’ she said reassuringly.

She was smiling as she hung up and tore the page off the pad, folding it into her jeans pocket and when Sue appeared she was ready to leave.

‘Only the two calls tonight, Sue,’ she said happily. ‘And the boys should be back soon, so I’ll be on my way. I’m exhausted.’ And she was out of the house and into her mini van before Sue could delay her another minute.

Stamford Avenue was much as she remembered it, quiet, respectable, really rather pleasant houses, not all that far from the school where John Peters and she had been sixth formers together. Number 35 was different though. Shabbier, not quite so imposing – or had it seemed so marvellous then because she had always seen it through rose-coloured spectacles?

Stupid, to feel her heart thumping again after all this time, just at the sight of his house. It wasn’t after all as if she had even given him a thought in ages.

She pushed the gate and heard it squeak slightly on its hinges. Then she rang the door bell.

He was obviously waiting for the ring for the door opened almost at once. ‘Thank God,’ he said, ‘come in quick!’ Then his mouth dropped open. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was expecting the plumber …’

She was used to it. Her bag of tools and the flat tweed cap she wore over her long chestnut hair usually convinced people in the end though. She walked on. ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘I’m the plumber. Now, where did it happen?’

She kept her face straight with difficulty. He was wearing jeans rolled up to the knees and his feet were bare – and obviously wet. He looked distraught.

‘Upstairs in the bedroom. I was nailing down the carpet and one went through this pipe under the board.’

‘Have you turned off the water?’

He had not recognized her yet. And why should he? After all it was what, five years, and the light in the hall wasn’t too good. She realized suddenly that there was no furniture. Just a ladder and some paint cans.

He was staring at her, but not with recognition or adoration. Just plain horror. ‘I didn’t think,’ he said. ‘I was trying to seal it off with towels …’

They found the main stop cock reasonably fast – not fast enough, she noticed sadly, to prevent a nasty brown stain appearing on the immaculately decorated ceiling of one of the rooms, but if a man didn’t know where his own stop cock was then really she could not wonder if his house came to rack and ruin.

She followed him up the stairs.

The bedroom was a shambles. He had at least rolled the carpet back and torn up the boards. But the cavity beneath was full of soggy towels. Shaking her head she began to pull them out and pile them in a dirty revolting heap beside her on the floor.

‘Nice new installation,’ she commented critically. ‘Been doing the house up I see.’ She opened her bag and brought out the blow lamp and some spare lengths of copper pipe. Then she glanced up at him under her cap. Some stray wisps of hair had escaped and hung around her ears. He was staring at her.

‘Jackie?’ he said at last. ‘I don’t believe it!’

She grinned. ‘You’d better. For the first time in your life you need me, John Peters.’

‘But you went to university. You were going to teach …’

She made a face. ‘Didn’t anyone tell you that teaching jobs are hard to find?’ she said, rummaging in her bag. ‘You’ll probably find lots of plumbers with English degrees these days. I did an apprenticeship and went into partnership with my brother.’ She laid out her tools in a neat line. ‘Do you live here with your parents?’ she went on.

He seated himself on the end of the bed, still staring at her. ‘No. They’ve retired down to Bournemouth. I’m buying the house off them. I teach at the old school now …’ He looked down, suddenly abashed. ‘Pure luck I got the job I expect …’

He had asked her out for the first time in the spring term of that last year at school. There’s an exhibition I’d like to see at the Hayward Gallery. I thought we might go up by train and have a meal afterwards,’ he had said. He was quite the best looking boy in the school then; tall, broad-shouldered, with a shock of fair hair and was considered by the girls of the top forms the supreme catch of the season.

Jackie was stunned by the invitation. Quiet and shy by nature she would never have dared so much as hope. She did not realize then the impact her coppery hair and green eyes could have on the opposite sex. Her eyes were nearly always fixed on her thumbed copies of Keats and Chaucer, so to raise them and find the smiling figure of John Peters standing before her was a considerable shock.

The day in London was a success. She had adored the exhibition and forgetting her shyness had blossomed under his attention. By the time they were ordering the horsd’oeuvres she was madly in love.

Her work suffered of course, but not a lot. Being in love can help with the art of unravelling Keats or the sonnets of Shakespeare. Only John didn’t see it that way. She was fun and a good doubles partner at tennis. That much he did not dispute. She was the right person to take to the cricket club dance at the end of term and fitted well with his old red MG but she did not particularly inspire his work; he was studying pure maths and physics.

He never asked her to his home. She knew where it was because once or twice she had quite by chance, of course, walked the dog down Stamford Avenue. That was how she knew the immaculate front garden with the row of standard roses and the shiny blue front gate.

To celebrate the end of A levels they had gone together on a picnic in the MG. He had prepared the food, in a real hamper; chicken, salad, wine, and they had stopped by the edge of the river and spread their rug on the bank. The water was cool and gentle against her toes.

‘Where will you go if you don’t get into Cambridge?’ she asked him, lying back lazily, her arm across her eyes to keep out the sunlight.

‘Cambridge,’ he replied.

‘You’re pretty confident,’ she retorted. Her own first choice was Bristol, a million miles away from Cambridge.

‘There’s always the vacations,’ he said softly, for the first time since she had known him, reading her mind.

But vacations had come and gone and she had not seen him again. The anguish was lessened by the new faces, new places, by lectures and by the theatre, but always somewhere in the back of her mind she had kept alive the memory of John Peters and his old red MG.

‘I never thought I’d see inside this house,’ she said cheerfully as she wielded her hack-saw.

‘I didn’t bring people home.’ He was watching her, fascinated. ‘It was too distracting.’

‘You were a real pig, you know,’ she went on, neatly lifting out the damaged piece of pipe. ‘I broke my heart over you that summer we left school.’

He gave a sheepish grin. ‘Me too. But I was afraid you’d come between my work and me. I was always terrified I’d run into you in the vacations. One look at you and I’d have been a gonner again.’

She sat back on her heels. ‘Should I be flattered?’ She had never even guessed he felt as strongly as that.

‘You should. I saw you as a
femme fatale. Fatale
to my career that is.’

‘As a teacher? Here!’ She was incredulous.

He pulled a face. ‘No. I had something a bit more exciting in mind then. Research. The States. That sort of thing.’

For a moment they stared at each other. Then she burst out laughing. ‘Looks as though we both came down to earth with a bump!’ she gurgled. ‘Poor John. Always so impractical!’

‘You’re married now, I suppose,’ he said after a minute.

She shook her head. ‘A career girl me. And you?’

‘No. No one would have me.’ He was surveying the shambles around them despondently.

‘Not even for your good looks and your cooking?’ She was teasing him now, remembering how he had grudgingly admitted that it was he and not his mother who had put together the food for their picnics. He was, she had heard later, a notable chef. But he never washed up.

She carefully measured out the new length of pipe.

‘You,’ he said, retaliating at last, ‘couldn’t boil an egg in those days.’

‘Still can’t,’ she said cheerfully unabashed.

She was looking for her matches. They weren’t in her pockets, or her bag or her jacket. He was watching speculatively.

‘Lost something?’ he asked at last.

She could feel herself blushing slightly. ‘Matches,’ she said. ‘For the blow lamp.’

‘Oh. I see.’ He didn’t move. ‘I’d have thought a really efficient plumber would have had several boxes.’

She glanced up at him under her eyelashes.

‘I’ve a confession to make. I shouldn’t really be here,’ she said.

‘I thought not. What are you? A secretary or something?’

For a moment she was speechless with indignation.

‘No, John, I am a plumber. A real plumber with a piece of paper to prove it. The reason I shouldn’t be here is because Phil and Bob don’t let me go out on night jobs alone.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ He was watching her closely. ‘So, how come you’re here?’

‘I didn’t log it in the book.’ She bit her lip, trying not to laugh as she saw the knowing look on his face. ‘I’m willing to trade, Mr Peters,’ she said softly. ‘You cook me a meal and I’ll fix your central heating for free. How does that sound to you.’

‘Pretty good,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I can fault that bargain.’ He stood up. ‘Providing that you take off that appalling cap when you’re eating!’

It was five minutes later that she found him in the kitchen. He was whistling.

‘John,’ she said. ‘You’ve forgotten something.’

‘Oh?’ He turned and looked at her enquiringly.

‘Matches.’

‘Oh yes, matches.’ He reached a box down from the dresser. Then he put his hands behind him. ‘Not included in the bargain, of course. Matches are extra.’

She stuck her tongue out at him. ‘It’s your central heating. I can always go away and leave you to freeze.’

He grinned. ‘I’d complain to your boss. Come on. They’re not too expensive. One small kiss. For old times’ sake.’

She thought for a moment. ‘Payment deferred till after supper?’

Nodding he held them out to her. ‘Payment deferred. Though there might be a bit of interest accruing by then of course.’

She laughed. ‘I’ll risk it,’ she said.

O
nce when Celia was about eight years old, her mother had said: ‘You’ll never keep your boyfriends, darling, if you look as grouchy as that when they speak to you,’ and she had laughed and fondly punched the boy in question on the shoulder to comfort him for her daughter’s disdain. Her cousin Michael it had been, Celia thought, frowning as she probed the memory.

Strange that she should think of that now, so many years later, as she walked slowly from the post office up the village street. Her mother’s voice was vivid in her ears as was the memory of her own anguished embarrassment and her burning hatred of the unfortunate Michael.

But she had been right, her tall distinguished mother; Celia hadn’t been able to keep her boyfriends and now, true to form she had lost her husband as well.

‘It’s not your fault, Cee,’ he had said ruefully as slowly he packed his cases. ‘I blame myself. Something went wrong somewhere. Perhaps it would have been OK if I hadn’t met Louise. We might have struggled through and made it work but now there’s no point. I’m sorry.’

And he had gone.

Bruised and alone she had refused to cry, to question fete. She continued to exist; to light the autumn-bitter driftwood fires in the cottage grate, to feed the cats, to collect the mail and the groceries every week at the village post office and walk the two miles back along the saltings home. But now there were seldom any letters; the post had always been for Don. For a week or two after he had gone they had continued to come, the letters and the packets and then abruptly they had stopped almost overnight. So presumably now they all went to his new address, his and Louise’s, and all his colleagues and his friends knew that he had left Celia and no longer lived in the cottage at the edge of the ocean. The post which had accumulated she put into a drawer unopened. He had left no forwarding address.

She stooped beneath the heavy rucksack full of tins and packets and eased the shopping bag from one hand to the other. Soon now the winds would come, lashing the tides higher and higher up the beach, tearing the surface sand in spindrifts from the path, hurling rain and spume against the windows. That was when in any other year they would have put up the shutters and ruefully left their home for the worst three months or so of the year and gone to stay with Celia’s mother in the town. But not this year. Celia was not going to tell her mother that Don had left her. She deliberately stopped her weekly phone call from the post office and wrote instead, a stilted, hearty little note which she knew would fool no one, and she posted it in the little box in the pebble wall beneath the shop window before turning for home.

Already it was growing dark and grey clouds were scudding in across the sea, trailing icy showers in their wake. Behind her the young man who had been buying stamps in the post office came out and banged the door, pulling the collar of his jacket round his ears before setting off after her up the street. His boots rang on the stone echoing beneath the blank walls of the cottages. The holiday-makers had gone now and most of them were empty. The fishermen lived further back in the lanes and alleys out of reach of the corroding air of the sea.

Celia hesitated, conscious suddenly of the hurrying steps behind her.

‘Excuse me?’

She stopped and looked back. He had pleasant wavy hair and a shy grin which reminded her of someone: Michael. Of course, he was like cousin Michael who had complimented her on her pink dress all those years ago and been so rudely rebuffed. That’s why the memory had returned unbidden. She smiled uncertainly. ‘Can I help you?’

He grinned, pushing the fair hair out of his eyes as the first cold shower swept over them.

‘I hope I can help you actually. Can I carry something? It is Celia Scott isn’t it? I’m Brian Fraser, a friend of Don’s. Did he tell you?’ He was too busy lifting the pack from her shoulders to notice the smile freezing on her lips.

‘Did he send you?’ She stayed turned away from him, gazing out across the salt grass towards the sea.

‘Send me? No, I haven’t seen him in years actually. I thought I’d surprise him. How is he?’

She began walking again. Her shoulders straight now, not flinching as the rain misted across her face. The terns were wheeling and crying over the tide beside them. Brian walked beside her, the heavy bag swinging easily from one shoulder. Glancing at her he grinned.

‘It’s some place you’ve chosen to live! Trust Don to find a hide-out like this.’

She forced herself to smile. ‘We love it here.’ She had to tell him, make him turn back, send him away.

She walked on. ‘It’s a long way from the station. Did you take a cab?’

He grinned. ‘I hitched. Not affluent enough for anything else I’m afraid. Actually,’ he stopped and faced her, his face suddenly troubled. ‘Actually I’m on the scrounge. I wondered if you and Don might be able to put me up for a few days and …’ He looked down at his scuffed canvas shoes. ‘It’s a long story,’ he added quietly.

A squall of wind grabbed the rain and flung it at them threateningly, moaning across the shore line. Celia shivered. The stove would have gone out and the cats would be huddling disconsolately by it, waiting for her to come and light it, waiting for her to talk to them. She talked to them a lot now; there was no one else to talk to.

She grinned at Brian, wiping the streaming rain from her eyes. ‘Course you can stay. Come on. Let’s hurry.’

He lit the stove and stacked away her tins and took Linnaeus on his knee and drank hot soup as the shutters rattled and the lamp smoked. Then he looked at her and smiled. ‘Where’s Don?’

‘Not here.’

‘I can see that. Where is he?’

She shrugged. ‘He left me for another woman. It’s the oldest story in the book.’

‘Do you care?’

She opened her mouth to protest, to assure him, to emphasize her love and then she stopped, watching the black paws stretch and flex on the rough denim on his knees. ‘He likes you,’ she said irrelevantly. ‘He won’t go to many people.’

Brian went on staring at her and she knew she had to answer. ‘I’m numb without him,’ she said at last.

His long gentle fingers were playing with the fur behind the cat’s ears. ‘You can’t stay here on your own surely.’

‘I have Linnaeus and Kizzy.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘I talk to them. And then I have my painting.’

He did not turn to look at the half-finished seascape on the easel. ‘You’re quite famous, I believe.’ He did not make the statement sound sarcastic. He was stating a fact.

‘I’ve had a few exhibitions,’ she replied, guarded.

‘And Don was still studying the seaweeds and the crabs?’

She smiled for the first time since they had seated themselves beside the stove. ‘As usual. So this place suited us both.’

‘Where has he gone, do you know?’

She shook her head. ‘Her name is Louise.’

He stood up then, putting the cat down in his place on the chair, went over to the easel and stood looking at the painting on it. For a long time he said nothing then he turned, his eyes narrowed. ‘Have you touched a brush since Don left?’

She could feel herself colouring. She bent and fed some sticks into the stove. ‘I’ve done some sketching,’ she said at last, defensively.

She watched as he walked around the room, turning canvases to face him, flipping over the sketches in the portfolio under a chair.

‘You said you’d explain what you were doing here,’ she said at last into the silence. Her voice was brusquer than she intended.

He straightened up abruptly. ‘You’re entitled to that.’ He fumbled in the front pocket of his jeans and brought out a flattened pack of cigarettes. He did not offer her one. ‘I would rather have told Don,’ he said after a pause, his back to the shuttered window.

‘Well, you’ll have to make do with me.’

‘I knew Don at college.’ He struck a match and held it out for a moment, staring, waiting for the flame to steady. ‘We were good friends once. I liked him.’

‘And since?’ She was watching him closely.

‘Since, he went his way and I went mine. He went on to do a doctorate and became an expert on seaweed, I became a drifter.’

‘You must have kept in touch, to have known about this place.’

He shook his head, absently putting the spent match back in the box. ‘Someone gave me the address a year or so back; I never followed it up.’

‘Till now.’

‘Till now.’ There was a long silence. ‘I’m in trouble, Celia.’

‘I thought perhaps you were,’ she said softly. ‘What sort?’

For a moment she didn’t think he was going to answer. He threw the cigarette unsmoked into the stove and went back to perch on the edge of his chair. Behind him Linnaeus began to purr.

‘Shall we say I borrowed some money? I need to pay it back.’

Celia stared at him, her stomach tightening. ‘How much?’

‘A hundred quid.’

She closed her eyes, feeling the heat from the stove beating against the lids. Don would have given it to him, would have shrugged and cursed him and given it to him without any questions. But Don was not here and she had no money.

When she opened her eyes he was looking at her. He smiled. ‘No, Celia, I couldn’t take it from you anyway. Don’t worry. I’ll think of something. I usually do.’

He was still like Michael. The hair, the smile, that disarming, gentle smile. ‘Are the police after you?’

‘I don’t know. I shouldn’t think so. It wasn’t quite that bad. I didn’t rob a bank or anything. If I had I hope I would have done a bit better than a hundred lousy quid.’

She stood up jerkily and picked up the coffee pot which stood on the stove. ‘They would never find you here. No one would.’ She swung round to face him. ‘Don’t tell me any more, Brian. I don’t want to know about it.’

He reached down at his feet for his mug and held it out to her to refill. ‘I’ll go. If you want me to.’

She straightened up and stared stiffly past him at the shuttered window, listening to the scream of the wind, the crash of the waves against the sea wall beyond the saltings. There wasn’t another human being for two or three miles.

‘No. I’d like you to stay.’

Kizzy liked him, purring and flirting her tail as she wove intricate patterns around his ankles.

‘I like coquettish females,’ he said laughing as he bent to stroke her and Celia, watching, felt a sharp pang of jealousy.

‘Most men do,’ she said, unconscious of the longing in her voice.

He glanced up. ‘You don’t find it easy, talking to men, do you?’ It wasn’t a question.

She shrugged. ‘Is that how it seems to you?’

‘That’s how it seems.’ He grinned. ‘We’re only people, you know.’

She knew. Only too well. ‘You’ll never keep your boyfriends, darling,’ the phrase came back again echoing in her head, the words pounding against her skull. Her mother had kept her boyfriends all right, after her father had died, flirting, giggling, simpering at them, hiding her brain, her talent, her ability. Anything to keep her escorts attentive, producing even now a new one every winter for her and Don’s inspection. Celia at the age of seven had vowed never to be like that. She would giggle and flirt for no man. Ever. And she glared at Kizzy who had closed her eyes in ecstasy as she was tickled under her chin.

‘I expect I drove Don away,’ she said suddenly, her eyes meeting his in defiance.

And it was then, amazingly, that he had kissed her lightly on the mouth, his hand on the point of her chin, his eyes open and laughing. ‘I doubt if you did,’ he said softly. ‘All you need to do is smile occasionally. I’ve seen you do it. I know.’

Perhaps it was the fact that he was not perfect which gave her the confidence she needed. She saw him not as a male, to be challenged and defied, but as someone who needed her help. As he himself had said he was, after all, only people.

She relaxed and unchallenging and unchallenged she did, almost without realizing it, begin to smile. The wind did not seem so cold now with someone else to share the blaze from the wood stove and she ceased brooding about Don, concentrating instead at last upon the beauty of the present, not the disasters of the past. Brian taught her that.

‘Treasure what was good, forget what was bad,’ he said, as together they watched an aquamarine sunset. ‘That way, when he comes back you’ll have a future together; something to build on. Otherwise you’ll only destroy and tear down what is left.’

‘When he comes back?’ she turned and looked at him, her face illuminated by the pale light from the sky.

‘When. If.’ He was still trying to sound impersonal. Take what comes as it comes, Celia, and draw on it. Use it to make you strong.’ He reached for her hand and held it and suddenly he could not pretend indifference any more. ‘You know what I want. I’m hoping he never comes back.’

And he kissed her again.

Was it months or was it only weeks he stayed with her? She lost count in her new strange happiness, pouring out her confidence on canvas after canvas, not thinking at all of the decision she might have to make if Don returned. For the time being there was no word from him and that was enough. She no longer thought of him as her husband. Perhaps she never had, properly. Only now, for the first time in her life, was her whole being centred around a man. And it was not humiliating or servile. It was fulfilling. She felt complete at last.