Living with Strangers (10 page)

Work at the Moorhen proves far more enjoyable than I imagined. Mike is a reasonable boss, not overloading my shifts with the more unsavoury aspects of bar work – cleaning toilets after a Saturday night lock-in, hauling empty barrels down to the cellar or throwing out unwelcome or over tanked customers. These tasks he kindly reassigns, often to his long-suffering wife Jan, and I’m left, in the main, to serve drinks. Even wearing a skirt is easier than I thought. I pick up as many shifts as Mike can afford; which thankfully means I’m often away from the house. Sometimes after work I’m asked to join a party somewhere – ad hoc gatherings with an abundance of cheap wine and modest amounts of pot.

Weeks become months. When not at work, I spend as much time as possible with Sophie; I love her company – the clear view she holds, where her future lies wide open. At times I can almost share her optimism. Almost. We go to the Proms as promised, racing back for the train as we’ve spent too long afterwards waiting for the orchestra to emerge. At weekends, on days when the weather holds, we take a picnic to the lake and feed the ducks, then come home through town eating ice cream.

I’m now able to pay my way at home with small contributions to the fridge or pantry, much as a lodger might do. I see little of the others; our mealtimes rarely coincide now, which suits me well. For the time being, neither Molly nor Saul make any further reference to my future. The more I keep out of their sight, the less concern they need to exercise. Life settles down, though not for long.

Early one Sunday morning a month or so after Christmas, the phone rings. Following a late shift, I’m still in bed and only faintly aware of the sound coiling up from the hall. I woke earlier, hearing sirens in the distance, then fell back into a deep sleep. Paul’s heavy footsteps bounding up two flights of stairs and a loud knock wake me again.

‘Mad, it’s for you. Someone called Mike.’

Mike. I’m not due to start work until 12. It’s only 9 o’clock now. Wrapping myself in the bedcover, I stumble down to the phone.

‘Hello?’

‘Maddie? Hi, it’s Mike.’ He sounds a hundred miles away. ‘There’s been a problem – you needn’t bother turning up today.’

Is he giving me the sack? If so, why? I can think of no reason – custom is good, Jan has just started to serve lunches on a Sunday, which has boosted the takings. I’ve kept my skirt short. It doesn’t make sense.

‘You mean you don’t need me any more? What’s happened?’

There’s a long sigh at the other end of the line. ‘You’d better come and see for yourself.’

Half and hour later I’m standing on the pavement outside what remains of the Moorhen. A fire engine is parked in front; several firemen and police huddle purposefully, discussing and pointing to various parts of the charred and steaming wreck that used to be the pub. A crowd of onlookers gather in the street opposite; the police keep moving them on.

Mike is sitting on a barrel by the front entrance, elbows on his knees. I go over and touch his shoulder.

‘What on earth happened?’

He looks up, dazed, then smiles bleakly. ‘They don’t know. Gas leak possibly – faulty pilot light. Something not right when they fitted the new cookers.

‘But you’re alright? No one was hurt?’

‘Amazingly, no. Jan and I woke up around three – I could smell something. Then smoke started pouring under the door. We climbed out the back into the car park – the window’s low so we just jumped.’ He shakes his head.

I sit on the wall next to him. ‘Is Jan ok?’

‘Not really. She’s gone to her Mum’s.’

‘So what happens now – what will you do?’

‘God knows. Investigation I suppose. The police are all over it. Then there’s the insurance. How much will they cough up? I’m not even sure Jan’s paid the premiums. Meanwhile, I’ve no pub, no livelihood – and no job for you.’

‘Can’t I do something to help – clearing up maybe?’

‘Can’t touch anything until the investigators have been in. That won’t happen in a hurry. Meantime, we’ll have to secure the place, though God knows how.’

‘Where will you stay?’

‘Jan’ll stay with her Mum. I’ll bring the caravan over and park it at the back. There’ll be squatters otherwise.’

‘What, here?’

‘You’d be surprised.’ He’s close to tears.

I put my arms around his shoulders. ‘I’m so sorry.’

At the back, the garden and car park are cordoned off, but I can see there’s nothing left of the kitchen. The garden furniture, unused in the winter, is covered in ash, the outside walls of the main building, which yesterday were the colour of sand, have turned black – a swathe of dark smudge climbing up over the roof tiles. I go back to find Mike, and sit silently with him until he tells me to go home.

‘Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?’

‘Thanks Maddie – I’ll let you know if there is. My brother’s coming over – he’ll give me a hand. Oh, and Maddie …’ I turn back. ‘Sorry about the job. You were good for the place.’

I walk home, still shocked. Somehow losing the job doesn’t seem very important.

*

With my funding cut off, I’m back in limbo. There’s little choice but to hang around at home again, as discreetly as possible, not wishing to incur despair, wrath or, most likely, indifference from Molly and Saul. The schoolroom becomes my sanctuary as it so often has in the past. I lie around and read, or when the house is empty, play music on the old record player. Paul has rigged up some sort of ‘stereo’ system, which involves a large number of wires and two loud speakers the size of tea chests. Since most of our records are mono, the effect is somewhat lost, but I have to admire his ingenuity.

One day, a week or two after the fire, Molly comes in as I’m sprawled on the sofa, reading. She starts collecting mugs and plates covered in toast crumbs.

‘So,’ she says, ‘what now? What’s next?’

I swing my legs to the floor and sit up.

‘I realise it’s a shame about the pub – but then, how long had you expected to stay there, really? It wasn’t exactly…’

‘Worthwhile?’ No, I want to say, maybe it wasn’t. Not in the altruistic, life-plan meaning of the word. But then I did earn some money, earned a breathing space from decision-making and Mike is one of the nicest people I’ve met for a long time.

‘I was going to say long-term,’ Molly says. ‘You can’t just sit around doing nothing, can you?’ She sits down next to me, stretching out her legs. I notice her ankles, how swollen they’ve become, blue veins showing through her stockings. I pluck at the frayed arm of the couch.

Molly tries again. ‘What about a different course – secretarial maybe – something that could use your languages?’

I have a sudden image of a room full of women, all permed, wearing cardigans and pearls and high heels. ‘I don’t think so somehow.’

‘Well, what then? Madeleine, you need to do something. It’s not… healthy to be idle.’

I look down at the stack of books I’ve read in the last couple of months, even with my shifts at the Moorhen. I think I’ve been far from idle. I sit sullenly next to her, wanting her to go. Eventually, she does, heaving herself out of the sofa with a long sigh.

‘Think about it,’ she says. ‘You’re not doing yourself any favours like this.’

When she’s gone, I think with familiar regret of the closeness we’ve never had, the confidences never shared. I think of how we muddled through those painful years, unable to connect, of how I floundered and she did so little to help. I know that her reserve towards me lies with the events of 1963, but there’s nothing I can do about it now. When I see her with Sophie and with Paul, how she welcomes their chatter, responding to their needs, something inside closes up again, putting itself away. Rivalry is not the issue; I don’t crave the affection that Paul and Sophie unwittingly siphon off. It’s not their fault – simply an accident of birth. Before and after. Before Josef, after he’d gone. It’s not their fault that Molly, and to some extent Saul, have chosen to channel their despair into catering for their uncomplicated needs. My needs have just been too much.

As much as possible, I keep out of Molly’s way. I visit the library every morning, scouring the papers for inspiration – job vacancies, courses. I even consider voluntary work. But everything I see requires something I don’t have – different A levels, experience, shorthand, three languages when I scarcely have two. Receptionist or filing clerk seem to be the best on offer, unless I can find another pub.

Then, after weeks of effort, something does turn up. A hotel group based in London is looking for a reservations clerk – there’s no mention of any necessary experience, but the advert says something about a knowledge of French or German. At a pinch I could manage that. Ignoring any concerns that this job might be too secretarial, I ring them to ask for an application form.

‘Well, I could send one out to you,’ the girl on the other end hesitates, ‘but since we’re so short staffed, could you come straight for an interview? If things go well, we can sort out the paperwork then, to save time. How about Thursday – are you available?’

Available is an understatement.

‘Good,’ she says. ‘10.30 on Thursday – we’ll talk then.’

I keep this piece of news to myself. On Thursday I leave the house as usual, but catch the train to London. The offices are housed on two floors above a large new clothes store in Tottenham Court Road. In reception I’m shown into the reservations department – a large open-plan area overlooking the street with half a dozen desks arranged informally round the room. One end is completely taken up with a Xerox machine and something I later learn is a teleprinter.

The interview amounts to little more than a chat with Kate, the office manager. She has a team of five clerks, I’ll spend most of the day on the phone, they have an office in Stuttgart, sometimes I might have to call Germany. It all seems very straightforward. Kate asks me a little about my experience, such as it is. I manage to cope with the questions she throws at me in German – relieved she’s not chosen to quiz me in French. She’s friendly and smart and shakes my hand as I leave, with a promise to let me know very soon. I come away more hopeful than I’ve been for weeks.

My optimism is not misplaced. A couple of days later a letter arrives, offering me the job – I can start the following week. I take the letter and go to find Saul in his study. He’s bent over his desk as usual, marking books.

‘Papa, have you got a minute?’

He looks up, distracted, but seeing me wave a piece of paper, he puts down his pen. ‘Maddie?’

‘Papa, I’ve got a job – a proper job in London. The letter came this morning.’ I hold it out for him.

Saul takes the letter and looks at it briefly. ‘This is good, Maddie, very good. At least it’s a start.’ He hands the paper back. ‘Does your mother know? She’ll be pleased.’

I didn’t get a job to please Molly, but I did just hope it might lift the weight that’s descended on the house again. When I tell her later she’s guarded, echoing Saul with ‘at least it’s a start’, and carries on peeling potatoes.

I have two days to find something suitable to wear. For the interview I let down the hem on my pub skirt and found a jacket that I’d swapped for a sweater at university. Now I rummage through the rest of my sparse collection of clothes, but find nothing else suitable. This one outfit will have to see me through the first week until payday. I realise too that travelling to London will eat a large hole in my earnings, but if I move there, much of my income will go in rent. Wedged, it seems, between two stony places.

I also have to get up at some silly hour of the morning. Student hours to pub hours were a seamless transition but this is new. Saul is an early riser too. He ambles about downstairs making tea and toast, which we eat together, amicably enough, as the sun comes up. Most days I manage to leave the house by seven, but even at that hour of the morning the station platform is packed and I don’t often get a seat on the train. At least the walk from St. Pancras to the office does much to shake up my reluctant body.

The job itself offers little by way of a challenge. Most of the day is spent at a desk, taking hotel bookings by phone and filling in forms. Once I master the phone system and learn which buttons to press, the rest is easy. For a few days I have a tendency to cut people off at the wrong time, but the business doesn’t suffer unduly.

There are six of us in the office, all women. No one has permed hair and there are no pearls, though everyone except me wears high heels. What spare time there is between bookings seems to be spent discussing the exploits of the night before, anticipating those that are to come and which items of clothing have to be bought in readiness. I endear myself to my new colleagues with a show of interest, thankful that my low-key dress sense and lack of funds don’t require me to spend my lunchtimes shopping for clothes. I buy some basic items – another skirt and some shirts – enough to add a little variety to my otherwise limited wardrobe.

There are a few men in the company; they tuck themselves away in the offices above ours, doing all the important jobs. Whenever I venture up there for a signature, any one of them seems to be engrossed in a personal phone call with their feet up on the desk. But they are friendly enough, and don’t work us too hard.

The months pass and I begin to settle into the rhythm and routine of my working day. Apart from train fares and books – lovingly acquired at lunch times in Charing Cross Road – there’s little I want to spend money on and I start to save a small amount each week. Sometimes after work I have a drink with others from the office in a small pub in Ridgemont Street. It’s a way to gather myself before going home.

I try to interest Molly and Saul in my job by embroidering the details of what I’m doing: I regularly speak German to the Stuttgart office, I’m expecting a bonus for exceeding the target number of bookings in a month, the sales director has personally asked me to deal with a new client – all of which have happened, but not exclusively to me. They greet it all with familiar indifference and carry on with their lives, which leaves me free to get on with mine.

Summer comes. Saul finishes marking exam scripts and goes off to the Midlands to teach a summer school. Sophie and Paul, on their long holiday, are often out with friends and the house is even quieter than usual. Molly I continue to avoid, a task made easier by the fact that she too makes no effort to seek out my company.

When commuting becomes unbearable in the heat, I realise it’s time to exchange one stony place for another and begin to scour the
Evening Standard
for rooms to let. It’s a time-consuming, disheartening process – affordable rooms in a good area are taken before the paper goes to press and even though travel costs would be reduced, anything decent is beyond my budget.

One evening as I sit with the paper spread out at my desk, Kate comes over and hitches herself up on the corner, swinging a plump leg.

‘It’s not easy is it?’ she says, nodding at the page. ‘Finding somewhere.’

‘How did you manage?’ I know she’s recently moved in with her boyfriend, Rob. They have two rooms at the top of a house in Finsbury Park.

‘Friend of a friend,’ she says, ‘it’s the only way. I’ll keep an ear open if you like – Rob has contacts.’

‘That would help. I’m not getting anywhere with this.’ I close the paper and put it in a drawer.

‘There may be something coming up next door to us – I know one guy’s being kicked out. Dope conviction or something.’ Kate examines the shoe dangling off the end of her foot. ‘Shall I find out?’

‘Money’s a bit tight. How much would it be – roughly?’

‘Probably about the same as ours. Rob and I pay £6 a week each.’

That’s almost half my wages. Perhaps if I don’t eat, or stop buying so many books, it might just work.

‘Then there’s electricity, of course.’

Of course.

‘But it’s all done on a meter, so we just feed that when it’s empty. Not very fair, but nothing else is organised.’ She eases herself off the desk, pulling down what there is of her skirt. ‘Leave it with me,’ she says, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ She isn’t office manager for nothing.

Kate is true to her word. A week later I find a slip of paper on my desk with a name, address and phone number. I look across at Kate who smiles and gives me a thumbs-up. By the evening it’s all sorted out – seemingly so simple. I have a first floor bedsit, a shared kitchen and bathroom and I’ve handed over a month’s rent to the lead tenant. Although my receipt is nothing more official than a scrawled signature on the back of an envelope, Kate assures me this is normal. Relief far outweighs any doubts I might have had, and I go home to pack.