Hartsend (18 page)

‘‘That's what I thought.''

He liked to see her smile. She was so sensible. And sympathetic, although he wasn't sure he liked the thought of her being involved with Mrs Flaherty and her problems. Whatever those were, exactly. It wasn't a matter of not caring. Anyway, women were better at that kind of thing. Take piano lessons, she said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a man his age to be queuing up beside five year olds. It would never happen, but it was kind of her to think it could. She'd called him an idiot. He didn't mind being called an idiot, not when it was said that way. And he'd made her smile. It was a long time since he'd seen her smile.

His mother was standing in the kitchen.

‘‘We're wondering whether you and Lesley might like to join us for supper,'' she said.

How long had she been away from the sitting room? Had she stood in the hall outside his study, trying to listen in?

‘‘I'll mention it,'' he lied.

She went back towards the lounge.

He made a mug of tea, and poured mineral water into a glass for himself. He studied the underside of a dessert plate. Of course Mother wouldn't have tried to eavesdrop, he rebuked himself. And yet, this taking orders from Lesley, being told by her to do something and being able to, made him feel … How did he feel? Reflected in the Gaggia's polished surface, his face looked squat and untrustworthy. It was the face of a man who could tell lies.

It was a small conspiracy. He did not feel in the least guilty. He felt cheerful. It was the only word he could come up with. Yes, cheerful.

Sadly, there was, and it was Ruby.

Walter watched his TV programme without seeing. Deception was not really his forte. He would have fared badly as a spy, or a member of the resistance in enemy-occupied territory. It was one thing to eat Dairy Milk en route to work, quite another to do what he was about to do.

He could hear Ruby moving about in the kitchen, making their suppertime cup of tea. Later she would go upstairs and run her bath. Twenty minutes with
My Weekly
in the hot water would follow. Walter Junior had got into the habit of sending expensive oil each Christmas. This year it was something to do with oranges, Mandarin Muse or some such name. The smell was not unpleasant: it drifted through the house each evening, and the association of the gift and the giver gave Ruby some comfort. He looked towards the kitchen. She'd driven him to it, really. Driven him into Lesley's arms, you might say.

He had given her every chance on that earlier night. He'd begun, as usual, by complimenting her cooking.

‘‘Lovely soup, Ruby, is there something different in it?''

‘‘It's organic celery,'' she said. ‘‘I told you the organic tastes better.''

Harmless, these little compliments each night. His own father had done it all his married life. ‘‘A small price to pay, son.'' The thought that he might now be prevented from getting his heart's desire in spite of all such payments over the years was almost unbearable.

Would it have been different if they'd met and married earlier, or if Ruby had been younger than him instead of the other way round? More children might have helped. From time to time Ruby had asked him to speak to Walter Junior, to tell him that a personal visit was in order, instead of phone calls and the odd card from some exotic holiday, but he'd said no. They couldn't force him, Walter said wisely. The boy had to live his own life. At work he would now and then mention how Ruby seemed to have forgotten how much the boy's erratic comings and goings had disrupted their life, how his appeals for money had been such a drain on the budget, how he'd refused to even consider working in the family firm, and how often he, Walter Senior, had had to ferry the boy and his pals home when they couldn't get a taxi. Every one of the fathers agreed with him. They loved their sons, dearly, but life was a lot easier without them on the premises.

‘‘Ruby, I think it's time we cleared out the back bedroom,'' he'd begun, ‘‘We'll get a nice new wallpaper. New curtains.''

‘‘Why?''

‘‘We're not using it. I don't know how long that paper …''

‘‘It's Walter's room.''

‘‘He's got three rooms of his own in Croydon. And when,'' (just in the nick of time he changed ‘‘if'' to ‘‘when'') ‘‘when he comes back for a visit, we've got the fold down settee in the front room.''

Now, watching her put the cups and the plate of biscuits on the low table in front of him he reproached himself. Any other man would have grasped the nettle, produced a large box of Kleenex, and instructed his wife to phone the Salvation Army or whoever else uplifted unwanted furniture.

Once he was sure Ruby was in the bath, he called upstairs to say he was going for fuel. ‘‘Will you be all right, love? I'll lock the door when I go out.''

He switched on the back porch light. As if in reply, Lesley's back door opened. Walter waved. Lesley nodded.

He looked back from the foot of the garden, but the Venetian blinds were down and closed at the bathroom window, small lines of light escaping at the bottom and sides.

Lesley's back gate was unlocked as promised. He put on his work gloves, manoeuvered the first tank from the back of the van onto the trolley and following the strong beam of Lesley's torch, walked up the path. It had whin chips, not slabs like theirs. His shoes seemed to crunch more loudly with each step.

She had helpfully moved her back-room furniture closer to the fireplace wall and laid a strip of sheeting all the way to her front room. Painter's sheeting it was, judging by the dried-in stains. Not that anything had been painted recently, from what he could see. It wasn't dirty, just old. In his opinion, and he'd seen a lot of houses, there was ‘lovely old' and there was ‘ugly old.' This house was a mixture of both. And there was far too much in it. He'd grown up in a cluttered house and been glad to get out of it.

Ruby liked a good clear out each spring. Sometimes he rescued a few things when her back was turned, but on the whole he felt she was right. He looked round him at the anaglypta. A bit of pressure on those whorls and he could have picked it off with his thumb nail.

Another trip to the van, and the second tank was placed safely in its new home, beside its fellow on the sheeted carpet. Nice cornice though – he looked at the ceiling – quality plasterwork. If Ruby saw that, she'd want something similar.

‘‘Just as well I didn't get the filters and fluorescents,'' he said. ‘‘I hadn't decided on the best ones.'' He peered through the plastic wrap once more. Nothing had been damaged.

‘‘I can't return them, you see. It's the nature of buying fish tanks in the sales. ''

‘‘I've been thinking about your difficulty,'' Lesley said. ‘‘Would it help if you told your son all about this, and he told Mrs Robertson he was well and truly settled in London? You might have him suggest you go there for a visit. Wouldn't that help?''

Walter scratched the back of his neck. ‘‘It might.''

It might not, he thought. Common sense was not always in plentiful supply where Ruby was concerned.

‘‘You could stay nearby,'' Lesley suggested. ‘‘You wouldn't have to stay with him. That might be easier.''

It touched him that she had thought all this through.

‘‘She likes to get her own way, you see,'' he said. ‘‘No reason why not, as a rule.''

‘‘But if she knew how much you wanted this …'' Lesley patted the rumpled plastic on the edge of the nearest tank.

‘‘People think it's easy, breeding guppies, but it's not. You need to get the water quality just right. It's like, you have to keep them happy, but not too happy. I mean, if you overfeed them, they get constipation, just like us …''

She was looking at her watch. He remembered that he was on borrowed time.

He crunched down the dark path with a heart less troubled. It was a pity they'd not become better acquainted with Lesley years ago. She was quite different from the mother. There was more to her than met the eye, so to speak. Her encouragement, her suggestion about speaking to Walter Junior, her acceptance of his dream as something normal, all served to make him feel that what he wanted so desperately was possible.

It was a clear night. To the left of his roof, Orion's belt twinkled in the blackness. The only other constellation he knew was the Plough. He turned and there it reassuringly was, just where it ought to be.

It was hard to find much to rejoice about. In the moment before full wakefulness, his right arm had reached towards where his wife's warm, naked back was not. After breakfast he drove a silent Harriet to the station in the next village, his expressed hopes that the Geography exam would go well being met with a grimace.

His next task was to take Morning Assembly at the Primary school. For some reason it went well. He was forced to conclude that Miss Calvert, though lacking in subtlety, had a kind heart. He'd felt himself in danger of being quenched in the early weeks and months, but he had worked hard, prayed much, and, judging by the fact that chocolate biscuits were offered for the first time with his customary cup of tea, she seemed to be warming to him at last.

‘‘Was that all right this morning?'' he asked.

She nodded. ‘‘I was happy to hear you include the Royal Family in your prayer.''

‘‘I was happy to include them,'' he said, keeping his face solemn.

‘‘Thank you.''

Was that the key to acceptability? He'd assumed it was some deep-seated flaw in him she objected to. How strange people were. With all her enthusiasm for foreign travel, he'd never have guessed she was such a fervent Royalist.

‘‘Will you be replacing the gerbils? I heard there were many tears yesterday.''

‘‘I suppose we must. Mrs Gibson diverted the children by suggesting they chose new names, which was rather unfortunate.''

He nodded sympathetically. ‘‘Well, that tea was most welcome.'' He got to his feet.

‘‘There was something I wanted to mention,'' she said, as they walked to the front door. ‘‘I'm hoping it's not going to turn into a problem. Some of the children have been chattering about a man hanging about, offering sweeties. You haven't heard anything?''

‘‘No. Nothing at all. ''

‘‘We get these rumours every so often. When parents call us, we pay much more attention, of course. The children would believe you if you showed them a tinfoil hat and told them Martians had landed in the playground.'' She pushed a button to release the outer door. ‘‘We're not sending notes home yet. But naturally we're keeping our eyes open.''

‘‘I'll let you know if I hear anything,'' he said, zipping his jacket higher against the cold. ‘‘I tend not to ask questions when this kind of thing happens, in case it fuels the fire, but I'll call you if anything comes up.''

The High School stood across the playground, behind a tall wire fence. Just in time he stopped himself from saying how hard it must be for Lesley, being on her own. But of course she and Miss Calvert were very different women.

‘‘Have you spoken to Miss Crosthwaite recently? Is she back at work yet, do you know?''

‘‘I'm sure she's fine,'' Miss Calvert said. ‘‘She's her mother's daughter.''

‘‘I never met her mother.''

Mrs Crosthwaite had withdrawn her lines from the church years before, as had Lesley, but if Miss Calvert didn't know, it wasn't his business to tell her. When Lesley had asked him to conduct the funeral, he'd felt obliged to say yes.

‘‘She was a fine hard-working woman. She married late and Mr Crosthwaite was much older, so she had all the work of bringing up Lesley when he died. She chaired the Friendship Club committee for twenty eight years. ''

‘‘Yes,'' he said, remembering that he himself had mentioned the fact at the funeral. He waited for some reference to fruit scones, for which the woman had been famed, but enough had apparently been said.

He had arranged to meet Lesley in The Sunflower. He assumed she would feel comfortable there. The Dirty Duck public house was not her style. If Jean had been at home, he would have suggested she do the counselling. She was far better at it than he was.

He arrived first. He was wearing his clerical collar so that all and sundry would know this was the minister meeting a member of the congregation. One of the lecturers at Divinity College had wanted to make all the male students swear never to be alone with a woman not their wife in a room with the door shut. Some laughed, a few booed, but most had taken it to heart.

The front of the place offered a mixture of gifts and cards. He studied the nick-knacks on sale. There was some jewellery Jean might like. He was doing his best, but his misery at her absence was getting worse as he scored off the days.

The tearoom had originally been a house. The old fireplace remained, with a proper coal fire burning. The Van Gogh reproduction hung above. There was something mildly disconcerting about a vase of sunflowers above a coal fire. Each table had a small white vase with three fake miniature sunflower heads stuck in it. The plastic covers were white with a pattern of bunches of pale green grapes. He recalled a sunny vineyard they'd visited near Sirmione, their last holiday before Kerr arrived. Picking some grapes when the guide wasn't looking, he'd been momentarily shocked to find them warm. All he'd known were grapes cold from a supermarket shelf, or at room temperature in a bowl on the sideboard. It had been a small but profound epiphany, as his tongue gently rolled the warm illicit fruit.