That Was Then Read online

  ‘And how,’ I enquired, ‘do you feel about that?’

  ‘You want the truth?’ We indicated fervently that we did. ‘I am not looking forward to it in the least.’

  ‘It might be fun,’ suggested Ronnie. I always wished I had a daughter. Someone to talk girl-talk to.’

  I thought about Mel, whom I loved dearly but who did not somehow fit Ronnie’s picture. ‘Have you met her?’ I asked Sabine.

  ‘Once or twice when she was at Bedales. A sweet, shy, plump little English dumpling,’ said Sabine, causing Desma to tweak at the legs of her cycling shorts. ‘And I’m sure she is still sweet, but that doesn’t mean I want to have her around the house for months on end.’

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ said Ronnie. ‘Nineteen-year-olds aren’t around the house. They’re either out, or in bed.’

  Sabine lifted a cynical eyebrow. ‘Why am I not able to take comfort from that?’

  ‘Why’s she coming, anyway?’ asked Desma. ‘You need to know that.’

  ‘She’s going to work on Martin’s farm out at Hawley before going to vet school.’

  Ronnie and I exchanged a look. This, at least, was familiar territory. The English dumpling ceased to be the overstated product of Sabine’s waspish tongue and became instead a distinct probablity.

  ‘What’s her name?’ I asked.

  ‘Sophie,’ said Sabine, adding graciously: ‘Pretty name.’

  As our pasta-seafood bakes hove in view I thought: poor Sophie … poor little vet.

  On the way back through town I had to pick up some cleaning, left before I went away, and dropped in at HMV. It was chock-a-block with the usual Saturday mob of teens and twenty-somethings with wads to spend, and a sprinkling of harassed older people in search of birthday presents (‘Have you got – er – hang on, I’ve got it written down – have you got Get It On by Mona and the Plastic Mac Company? Oh thank God … what? Oh, tape I should think – or no, has he got CD on that thing of his? Golly, I don’t know … Sorry, you’re busy, how much is the CD? Dear God, I’ll take the tape …’) and so on.

  The reason I knew I’d be able to grab a word with Ben was that he was on videos at the moment, and that counter was never as busy. He and Nozz were sharing a joke by the till. I feared the joke was at the expense of a neat couple in Dannimacs – pale blue and beige respectively – who were walking away empty-handed, their quest for the Vince Hill Songbook, or perhaps James Galway Live at the Point, redirected to the gulag of Easy Listening.

  ‘Hiya,’ said Ben. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Nothing, just a social call. Hello Nozz.’

  ‘How you doing.’

  It was a greeting, not a question. ‘She doesn’t always dress like this,’ explained Ben, ‘she’s been playing tennis.’

  ‘Did you win?’ asked Nozz.

  ‘No, but it was a good game.’

  ‘A very sporting attitude,’ he told me kindly. Nozz was an art school graduate who had got the job at HMV on Ben’s recommendation, having so far failed to secure any commissions in his chosen field of ceramics. Privately I thought this state of affairs suited him down to the ground, allowing him to feel that he was only slumming, while waiting for something more suited to his gifts, and making a very adequate buck while doing so. Ben had given me one of Nozz’s pots (doubtless purchased at an advantageous price) for my birthday the previous year, and it was actually rather pleasing: I kept foreign coins in it.

  ‘Dissatisfied customers?’ I asked, nodding in the direction of the Dannimac couple.

  ‘They wanted Glass.’

  ‘Did they ever come to the wrong place!’

  ‘No,’ said Ben. ‘ The composer.’

  ‘She was joking,’ said Nozz kindly. They slipped in and out of this third-person mode with unsettling ease, as if I wouldn’t notice.

  ‘I know that,’ replied Ben. ‘I just decided not to give her the benefit.’ He now addressed me directly. ‘So Mum, what’s occurring? There’s no such thing as a social call.’

  ‘I was passing anyway. I wondered if everything was – you know – OK.’

  ‘What can she mean?’ Nozz asked.

  ‘Girlfriend trouble,’ explained Ben.

  ‘Pearly put-out?’

  ‘The same. Don’t worry,’ he added soothingly, ‘I sent her on her way with a smile on her lips and a song in her heart.’

  ‘If you did it’ll be a first,’ said Nozz.

  ‘Give over.’

  ‘I mean for her. That has to be one of the most congenitally disconnected mares it’s ever been my misfortune to come across.’

  ‘Actually you’re right,’ agreed Ben with the greatest good humour. ‘I think you may just have put your finger on the source of our problems.’

  I was also sure Nozz was right, but I knew from experience that this consensus on Pearl’s character deficiencies wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference to the status quo. Ben rather liked a hard time.

  Walking back to where I’d parked the car I saw Pearl across the street, talking to a girlfriend outside New Look. Both were smoking in the manner of women dishing serious dirt. They were very much on display, standing in the middle of the pavement, tapping out their ash in such a way that passers-by had to take evasive action. Most of the male ones, I noted, gave Pearl not just a wide berth but a phwoah look.

  Pearl looked round and caught my eye. I knew she’d not just seen but identified me, the beam of mutual recognition hummed unmistakably between us. But she looked away at once, and went on talking to her friend. I had seen her moment of weakness, and now she was cutting me dead.

  In spite of this I felt, as I returned to the car, that this small victory had been all mine.

  Chapter Four

  There was always that sense when I returned from having been away, that everything to do with my life back home crowded round me crying pitifully ‘Me, me, me!’, reproaching me for my heartlessness in having bunked off for a couple of weeks. And, to be honest, that was how I preferred it. I liked to hit the ground running; to feel that even if I wasn’t exactly indispensable, that I had been missed. I found the recognisable rhythms and restrictions of life in Littelsea a comforting security blanket after the heady and unsettling freedom of abroad.…

  All the same I was a bit taken aback, when settling down to omelette fines herbes and a well-known Cop on the Edge on Sunday night (Ben was out), to answer the doorbell and hear Ian’s voice over the intercom.

  ‘It’s me!’

  ‘Good heavens.’

  ‘Can I come up? I’ve got Clive with me.’

  ‘Well – yes, all right.’ I stabbed the button. The buzz of the downstairs door opening went nicely with the grinding of my teeth. I put my own front door on the latch and stalked back into the living room. The ravaged features of the Cop on the Edge wore an expression nearly as grim as my own. I zapped the TV, picked up my plate and carried it back to the kitchen, shovelling down omelette as I went – there was something wince-making about being found eating on one’s own, even more so when one had made a bit of an effort, chopping fresh herbs, sprinkling Parmesan and so on.

  Back in the living room I stared irritably at the view from my window – the wide sweep of the shingly Littelsea bay, the sturdy lines of breakwater, the battered shelter with its attendant group of bored, trouble-ripe teenagers, the distant dignity of the Martello tower. It had been a fine day and there were still some people on the beach, one or two were even breasting the gentle swell. A tanker rode at anchor in the bay. And I could hear Ian’s and Clive’s voices on the stairs.

  ‘Shop!’

  ‘In here.’

  The front door closed and Ian came in, followed by Clive. Ian came over and we exchanged a chaste, respectful salute. In an attempt to blast my own grumpiness out of the water I embraced Clive, who held his arms away from his sides to keep contact to a minimum. He was panting, as the more ample were prone to do after an assault on the Cliff Mansions stairs, and his cheek felt hot.

  ‘G
ood holiday?’ asked Ian. ‘I bumped into this chap and he was asking after you, so I said I knew you’d like to see him.’

  I couldn’t imagine where my husband had got that idea from, at eight-thirty on a Sunday evening, but it was too late now.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Who’d like a drink?’

  ‘Are you sure it’s no trouble?’ asked Clive with a look that was both anguished and, as Ben would have said, gagging for it.

  ‘None at all – whisky? Ian?’

  ‘No thanks, I’ve got to get back to town in the car – do you have some fizzy water?’

  ‘Sure. Take a seat.’

  Clive muttered something about not wanting to disturb me, and the quality of the view, and sat down in the red, wing-backed chair which I had come to think of (I was getting set in my ways) as mine.

  Ian followed me into the kitchen. ‘ Is Ben about?’

  ‘He’s not actually.’

  ‘Any idea when …?’

  ‘Not really. He’s at the pub.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Ian. As I got out the glasses and poured he stood near the fridge, absentmindedly brushing the worktop with his hand and then staring at his fingers. To stop him I handed him his tumbler of Highland Spring.

  ‘Help yourself to ice.’

  As he did so, splashing and banging cackhandedly in the sink and dislodging all the cubes at once, he said: ‘If I’m gone when he comes back, will you tell him I was here? I’ll call during the week.’

  Ian was a conscientious father, but it was wasted on Ben, who was too indolent to award brownie points for good behaviour. Ian was also the source of the lady-killing looks, though the genes had found a subtly different expression in father and son. My husband’s dark hair was regularly subjected to an expensive Jermyn Street haircut and gold spectacles lent a hint of severity to his even, serious features. His chin was never less than baby smooth and he almost always changed his shirt in the late afternoon – a habit which I was delighted not to have to service any more. Ben had taken the raw material and made it his own – stubble, greasy gypsy curls, sunken cheeks and all. The one feature that put the tin hat on it was the eyes. Ian’s eyes were grey, but Ben’s were a wicked, roving, merry brown.

  ‘How was Mel?’ he asked.

  ‘In good form.’

  ‘I may get over there myself some time. Business, if I can wangle it.’

  ‘She’d like that.’

  ‘You’re disgustingly brown.’

  ‘Is that good at my age?’

  ‘Now, now, don’t come the old soldier, you suit a tan. Always have.’

  We returned to Clive, who at once pointed at the oil tanker to show he hadn’t been bored in our absence.

  ‘A veritable behemoth. One careless seaman and we’ll all be plunged into eco-hell.’

  I gave him his Scotch. ‘True.’

  ‘But not very likely,’ said Ian. ‘Those things are safe as houses.’

  ‘We’ll have to take your word for it,’ I said, sitting down opposite Clive.

  Clive took a big slurp. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘So what on earth brought you two into the middle of Littelsea on a Sunday evening?’ I asked. It was odd, the three of us sitting there, old friends, separate but connected, unable quite to gauge the mood and the weight of the meeting, unsure of what to say to one another.

  ‘Oh, I’ve been at a thing in Brighton and thought I’d drop in on the off chance … as I drove through the centre of the town by Memorial Gardens there, I happened to see Clive at the autobank.’

  I got the picture instantly – it was easier to turn up with someone else in tow, and gave evasion the appearance of a kind deed. Clive’s presence meant that if, as was the case, Ben wasn’t around, Ian wouldn’t have to engage in too much heavy talk with me, and also had an excellent pretext for leaving in good time.

  ‘It’s always nice to see you, Clive,’ I said politely.

  He chortled nervously. Ian hailed me from the car. Made me jump. One feels so furtive about getting money out of the hole in the wall – I’ve come to the conclusion that’s because the posture one adopts is exactly the same as using a urinal.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ said Ian.

  ‘No, I notice it in others as well – the backview with the slightly hunched shoulders – a striking similarity.’

  ‘So – how are you Clive?’ I asked, with what I hoped was the correct mixture of casualness and concern.

  ‘Top-hole, thank you for asking.’

  I pulled a reproving face, and Ian said: ‘He’s shot to hell.’

  ‘No, no, no …’ Clive shook his head vigorously. ‘ OK, not wonderful, but not hellish either. I’m afraid I’ve no experience of this, so I’ve no idea how I should be under the circumstances.’

  ‘Of course not.’ I was sorry to have asked such a crass question, and was debating whether to mention Helen, when Clive leaned forward, his Bunterish features contorted, and blurted out:

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen Helen?’

  ‘I have as a matter of fact.’

  ‘And how is she?’

  This, like ‘How old do you think I am?’ was a catch question. Would it be good if she were happy, or good if she were sad? Neither, clearly. But I decided that on balance sad was probably better, and had the advantage of being true.

  I felt the eyes of both of them upon me as I answered, ‘She was absolutely wretched.’

  Caught in a storm of conflicting emotions, Clive snatched at his drink again. It was something no actor, however brilliant, could have reproduced, this complex, stifled mix of anguish and gratification. I felt quite awestruck to have been the cause of it.

  ‘She’s terribly confused,’ I went on. ‘ She’s not comfortable where she’s living and she can’t see the way forward.’

  ‘Any more than I can,’ muttered Clive, his face bulging with emotion. ‘I mean, Eve, for God’s sake what is going on? What are we doing to one another? We were so happy, we had such a lovely life together until she took up with this fellow. Can she have forgotten so completely about all that?’

  I was stumped for an answer. He just didn’t get it. His misery was painful to witness, but there were no comfortable words. Fortunately Ian stepped in. He didn’t really get it either, but there were certain bland, formulaic responses which for some reason seemed perfectly appropriate between men.

  ‘She’ll come round,’ said Ian. ‘She’s gone off the rails for a bit, but left well alone she’ll be back. Especially if she’s not happy.’

  ‘You think so?’ Clive’s brow furrowed. He turned to me. ‘Eve?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘God.…’

  Ian gave me a reproving look. ‘You said she was unhappy. I wish Helen nothing but good, but that has to be a sign of returning sanity.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I agreed. He was right. What was the point of striving after honesty? Clive wanted warm cuddly towels, not a brisk scrub down with wire wool.

  Ian looked relieved. ‘ Brave and calm’s the thing,’ he said. ‘She’ll be back.’

  Clive rolled his tumbler between his plump, cushiony palms. ‘I’d like to go and see her …’ He screwed his face up. ‘ Should I do that? What do you think?’

  I said ‘No’, and Ian said ‘I wouldn’t’, both at the same time. My turn now to look relieved: I could think of nothing more likely to prevent Helen’s return than the presence on her doorstep of her painfully needy and rotund spouse. In his present state everything about him would remind her of why she had fallen so heavily for the mean, lean Kerridge.

  ‘But,’ went on Clive, ‘she may think I simply don’t care, that I’m indifferent, when—’ he wavered, got a grip, and wobbled on – ‘when the opposite is true.’

  ‘She won’t think any such thing!’ This was one point on which I felt fully confident. ‘She absolutely knows that you adore her, and miss her, and want her back. But there’s nothing more you can do for the present. You’re better off keeping your d
istance and giving her plenty of time to reflect.’

  ‘Being cruel to be kind,’ Ian weighed in with another cliché, and a wildly inapposite one.

  ‘Maybe you’re right …’ sighed Clive tremulously.

  We both declared heartily that we knew we were, and I got Clive and me more drinks.

  It was ten o’clock when they left, and Ben still wasn’t back. As we waited in the hall for Clive to emerge from the bathroom, Ian suddenly said:

  ‘And you – you’re all right?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I think about you a lot, you know.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised.’

  I wondered what he would have said if I’d told him I hardly thought about him at all.

  ‘There’s no need to worry,’ I reassured him. ‘I’m enjoying life.’

  Was it my imagination or did he look a touch crestfallen? Clive emerged, to the flushing of the cistern. He’d combed his hair, and he smelt of soap.

  ‘This has been nice, Eve,’ he said. ‘You create such a tranquil atmosphere.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I kissed him warmly to prevent myself from catching Ian’s eye. ‘You must come over properly next time – have dinner and stuff.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that …’ He shuffled towards the door, a lost cause, who couldn’t contemplate a social engagement without the help and support of the woman he loved.

  ‘How are you getting back?’ I asked him.

  ‘If Ian will very kindly drop me off at Town Centre P, I shall make my way.…’

  ‘No problem,’ said Ian. ‘Au revoir then.’

  I opened the door. ‘Bye.’

  ‘Give the prodigal my best.’

  ‘I will.’

  They trotted down the stairs. On the bend, Ian raised a hand without looking up. How did he know I was still standing there I wondered, as I went back in and closed the door. Collecting up the glasses, I decided it was just the pre-programmed response of more than two decades of marriage.

  I had no idea whether there was another permanent woman in Ian’s life, but I assumed not, firstly because I was sure he would tell me if there was and, secondly – perhaps arrogantly – because I reckoned I would know anyway. No third party had been the cause of our separation, and at the time we had characterised it as an experiment, a trial period. One of the reasons I was so comfortable with my semi-detached status was that I had the best of both worlds: I enjoyed a greater financial security than my job at Bouvier’s alone could have provided, the emotional support of a man who was nothing if not loyal and responsible, plus the freedom to live my own life without fear of censure or resentment. I had never been to his London flat, but I pictured it as orderly and comfortable, the home of a middle-aged man happy, as I was, to be a free agent once more.