by Barrie Shore
‘So he did. Sixteen years ago, to the very day. Happy anniversary, Jack.’
He’d learned by then how to shut her out. Books, books, think of the books.
But she never let go. ‘What’s that?’
The book in his hand.
‘His prayer book.’
‘The Reverend Tim’s actual prayer book?’
‘Yes.’
‘The very one that he used to marry us?’
‘I expect so.’
‘Let me see…’
No softness in her face, as she leafed through the thin pages; her mouth thin with discontent, like his mother’s had been; her forehead creased in a permanent frown; and her angry eyes.
‘Page two hundred and eighty.’
‘What?’ She looked at him in surprise, amused for a moment, beguiled by him as she’d been when they first met, a quick flash of the old Eva that wanted to smile, snuffed out by the new Eva that made herself not. ‘How do you know what I’m looking for?’
‘Because I know you so well.’ How smug he sounded, how defeated he was. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, I meant…’ What had he meant, what exactly was he going to say? And he was too late, the old Eva was gone in a trice.
‘Methinks you lie, my bald-headed friend. You love the idea of me, a storybook me you’ve made up in your head: Evelyn Carter, neé Higgs… whatever happened to Evelyn Higgs? A fictional account of a misbegotten life, written with little or no regard for the truth, by a failed author by the name of Jack. I’m less real to you than one of your precious books.’
Let me not listen.
‘Listen to this, you’ll like this bit.’ She was dripping with contempt. ‘“And the Priest, taking the Ring, shall deliver it unto the man, to put it upon the fourth finger of the Woman’s left hand.”’
Melchester, Salisbury…
‘“And the Man, holding the Ring there, and taught by the Priest, shall say, ‘With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow…”’
Shaston, Shaftesbury…
‘What worldly goods did you endow upon me, Jack?’
Quartershot, Aldershot…
‘A smelly old shop and your miserable mother.’
Oh, God, please don’t let her start on his mother.
‘Did you worship my body on our wedding night, Jack? For the life of me I can’t remember. I’m sure you did, but you were so subtle I simply didn’t notice.’
Shottsford…
‘Still, it’s not too late, you can worship it now if you want to.’
Blandford.
‘Would you like to worship my body, Jack?’
Budmouth…
‘Shall we go upstairs and worship my body?’
Weymouth…
‘Would you like that, Jack?’
Puddletown…
‘Would you?’
Puddletown…
‘Would you?’
Muddletown…
‘Answer me, damn you!’ She ripped a handful of pages from the prayer book, tore them into tiny pieces. And provoked Jack to anger at last.
‘For pity’s sake, give me some peace.’
‘I can’t.’ She was crying. ‘I try, but I can’t.’ She hadn’t cried for years. ‘What else have I got?’
‘Oh, my sweetheart…’ He scrambled up, took her hands in his over the counter and for once she didn’t pull them away. ‘Can we stop? Please can we stop and start again?’
‘No, it’s too late. I can’t forget Will.’
‘Neither can I.’ He stroked her thumb, the beloved thumb. ‘But we can try, I’ll try for us both if you’ll only let me. I love you so much, and…’
And the shop bell tinkled and they both looked up and, in a rare and wonderful moment of shared panic, crossed their eyes at each other, before Eva let go of his hands, bit on her tears and, in an instant, was as brittle as glass.
‘Hell’s bells and buckets of blood, if it isn’t Mrs Baines.’
Poor Mrs Baines. A woman without side, as Jack’s mother had used to say; a nervous woman, anxious to please; a woman much put upon, whose husband’s eye, so it was rumoured, strayed too often away from home; a woman whose unfortunate chin receded into the folds of her neck, as if it were ashamed of itself; a woman who bore her matrimonial burden with no complaint, except for the small tic that afflicted her left eye, for the sake of the children. Aye, children, there was the rub.
Jack set his face into its professional smile. ‘Good morning, Mrs Baines.’
‘Good morning, Mr Carter.’ Poor Mrs Baines, all of a simper.
‘How can I help you this morning?’
‘I was hoping to find a book.’ Mrs Baines, looking about in a helpless way.
‘Well, you’ve come to the right place.’ Eva with an oily smile. ‘We have oodles of books, as you can see, acres and acres. Take your time, help yourself, we’ll be glad to get rid of them, and if you can’t find what you want in the shop, believe it or not, there are more in the storeroom and the cellar. Although I wouldn’t venture down there, if I were you, rumour has it it’s alive with bookworm.’
‘Gracious.’ Mrs Baines, with a titter that gritted the teeth.
‘What sort of book do you have in mind?’ Shopkeeper Jack, hiding his heart.
‘I’m not quite sure, a history of the town, perhaps?’
‘I think I can help you there, Mrs Baines.’ Jack, rigid with smiles. ‘We keep a large selection of local history.’ Fetching his ladder.
‘The fact is,’ Mrs Baines, hunching her shoulders up to her ears, ‘my husband has recently been elected to the Town Council.’
‘Well, I never.’ The oil of Eva’s smile froze into a sneer. ‘Councillor Baines. I can think of no man worthier of such an honour. Can you, Jack?’
‘No, indeed.’ Jack, climbing up to the history shelves.
‘How proud you must be, dear Mrs Baines, of your husband’s outstanding achievements. Speaking of which…’ Eva swam round the counter, an obsequious manoeuvre retained from her days at Swan & Edgar and reserved now for customers she particularly disliked. ‘Do tell me, Mrs Baines, how are the dear children?’
‘Oh, quite well on the whole, thank you, Mrs Carter, although little Barney is rather a handful.’ Mrs Baines, abeam with maternal pride. ‘Still, boys will be boys, you know how it is.’
‘No, Mrs Baines.’ Eva tucked a chummy arm through that of Mrs Baines. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have that happy experience.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Mrs Baines’s eyelid starting to twitch. ‘Oh, dear, Mrs Carter, I’m so terribly sorry, I…’
‘No, Mrs Baines, I must stop you there. You and I are destined to become the greatest of pals, don’t you think?’
‘Well, I…’
‘So from now on, you must call me Evelyn.’
‘Yes, well…’
‘And you are?’
‘Bettina. My name is Bettina.’
Eva’s repellent gasp of delight. ‘Bettina Baines. How euphonious, how melodious, how singing of songs, how suggestive of passion, simmering gently, yet quietly controlled. Bettina Baines. Only two words but such poetry in them.’
‘Eva…’ Jack, searching the top shelf of the History Section, gently warning.
‘Yes, dear?’ Eva, sweetly innocent.
‘Enough.’
‘Yes, dear. Whatever you say.’ She gave Mrs Baines’s arm a cosy squeeze. ‘Isn’t he wonderful? I do so admire a masterly man, don’t you?’
‘Oh, yes, I like a man to be…’ What a twitter of pink Mrs Baines had become. ‘Well, a man should be a man, if you know what I mean.’
‘I couldn’t agree with you more, Bettina dear. On the other hand, husbands can be such a trial, don’t you agree?’
‘Yes, I
suppose they can.’ Mrs Baines’s eyelid, all of a twitch.
‘So difficult sometimes to…’ Mrs Baines was a short woman, the top of her head scarcely reaching Eva’s chin. Eva bent to her ear and whispered aloud. ‘To accommodate them?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Mrs Baines, shrinking away.
Eva holding her tight. ‘Quite revolting, in fact. And yet, dear Bettina, you have accommodated Councillor Baines so often over the years. How many children is it you have? Nine, ten? The round dozen?’
‘Six, actually.’ Mrs Baines’s eyelid, flickering fast.
‘Only six? How disappointing. And yet what a triumph of rectitude over rampant libido.’
God Almighty. Jack, frozen on top of his ladder.
‘Tell me, dear Bettina,’ Eva, relentless. ‘May one enquire whether you follow Dr Stopes’s Rhythm Method of contraception? Or does Councillor Baines favour withdrawal?’
Sunday, 3rd December, 2006
‘The defacing of books.’ The Great Man’s magnificent forehead is criss-crossed in a maze of disapproval. ‘I can think of no other crime that I find more shocking.’ He inspects Eva like a judge about to pronounce sentence on the prisoner at the bar and disinclined to mercy. ‘And what on earth had she got against poor Mrs Baines?’
‘I don’t know. When I asked her later, all she said was, “I don’t like her chin.”’
‘Tee,’ says Eva, swinging the teddy bear by the ear in a riot of circles. ‘Tee-hee-hee.’
Poor Mrs Baines with her innocent chin. And Councillor Baines, a man whom Jack used to know but can’t recall how, or why it was that Eva disliked him so much. All he remembers is the shame and disgust he felt that day, his actual hatred of Eva in that shocking act of cruelty, and his guilty connivance in it.
Baines… Baines… Councillor Baines…
Eva throws the teddy bear up in the air and catches him neatly. ‘Tee-hee, tippety-tee.’
She’s finished undressing the bear and is fitting his mittens onto her thumbs. The Great Man watches her with detached curiosity.
‘I confess myself at a loss to comprehend the extreme nature of her reaction,’ he says, nibbling his hangnail. ‘She is not, after all, the only woman to have a lost a child. My own dear mother suffered the death of a child in its infancy and bore her bereavement with admirable fortitude.’ He nips the hangnail between his teeth and chews reminiscently.
‘But your mother had other children to comfort her. Eva had none.’
‘Yes, indeed.’ The Great Man, regarding his thumb with a tender frown. ‘Indeed so. My mother had four surviving children of whom I was the eldest and her favourite by far. I fear that she spoiled me more than she ought, but then I was not, at the moment of birth, expected to live.’
‘Eva had nothing. No comfort, no children, no further chance of having them at all.’
‘Come now, she was a young woman still, not even forty, if memory serves.’
‘Forty-one.’ Jack turns his back on the Great Man and sees, with something like paternal sorrow, that Eva has managed to knot the cords of the mittens together and is trying to disentangle them with the tip of her nose. He struggles down to kneel at her feet, and is almost moved to tears when she holds out her hands and graciously allows him to take the mittens and unmuddle her muddle.
‘My mother,’ continues the Great Man, with odious smugness, ‘gave birth to her last child at forty-three. She was a remarkable woman, not one given to emotional display.’ His expression changes to one of alarm as he sees that his thumb is bleeding.
‘Age had nothing to do with it,’ says Jack, uncommonly tart. ‘Eva had a hysterectomy after our son was born, another child was out of the question. No wonder she grieved, not just for the baby, for the future. She was mourning the future.’
Eva gives him an impish look. ‘Mourning,’ she says, waggling her thumbs. Or is it morning she means? Good morning, my thumbs.
The Great Man is entirely wrapped up in himself and his wound. He puts his thumb to his mouth as if to kiss it better in the way, perhaps, that he had wished his mother might have done when he was a boy had she been given to emotional display.
‘Sadly, my mother had uneasy relations with both my wives, especially the first, who found her particularly trying.’ He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at his thumb. ‘A difficult situation, one that I took pains to address in the early years of my first marriage, although by the time of the second I had long since concluded that internecine war between mother- and daughter-in-law was inevitable and best ignored.’
‘I did the same.’ Jack allows himself the false relief of acknowledging guilt, as if by admission he is acquitted. ‘Neglecting my wife in favour of my mother. It was unforgivable.’ He puts the mittens back on her thumbs, ties the cords into neat little bows, lingering over the left thumb, the one that was damaged during the war that still has a dent below the cuticle; tries to keep hold of her hand, to kiss it gently, as if to atone for his sins. But she seizes her baby by the leg and swipes him away.
‘Gitty,’ she says, giving the teddy a playful shake.
The Great Man finds the flow of his precious blood to be staunched and, thus relieved, bestows on Jack the momen his knees and the knees are shouting: ‘Get up, get up, tell the old fool to get out of your house.’
He tries to obey, goes down on all fours to give him some purchase and finds himself utterly stuck. Eva shouts encouragement, bats him over the head with the bear till Jack cringes away in mock fear, rolls onto his back, waves his arms and legs like a helpless beetle making her crow with delight. And oh, the pleasure of making her laugh.
The Great Man is not amused. ‘My dear boy,’ he says, retrieving his handkerchief and shaking it out, ‘your sense of humour does you credit, but I confess myself at a loss to understand the joke. Indeed, I begin to fear for your sanity.’ He blows his nose with a trumpeting sound. ‘Have you considered making alternative arrangements for your wife?’
Jack stops laughing at once. ‘What?’
‘There are private establishments, are there not, that provide discreet care for those no longer able to look after themselves? The physically infirm, the mentally bewildered? Such as your unfortunate wife?’
It is no easy thing to present a dignified stance if one is lying on the floor, unable to get up, but Jack does his best. ‘Have you been talking to Margaret?’ he says, in a censorious tone that the Great Man entirely misses.
‘Who?’
‘Margaret Last, Eva’s carer.’
‘Last,’ says the Great Man, polishing his nose. ‘Yes, I did know a fellow called Last once upon a time, now you come to mention it. He played second fiddle in my father’s band; fine pizzicato but his bowing action was truly shocking. He developed tennis elbow in the end, or some such affliction, was obliged to abandon the violin in favour of the one-handed flute.’
These are the spurs that drive Jack at last to get to his feet: a fiddle, a one-handed flute, a tale of bungling musical amateurs, all of them dead. ‘I will never,’ he says, achieving all fours, ‘put Eva in a home. I don’t care what she does,’ he says, struggling to his knees, ‘how much she growls or sings or smells.’ He grasps the arm of the wheelchair and hauls himself upright. ‘I will never, ever abandon her.’
‘My dear boy,’ says the Great Man, ‘I am merely offering my friendly advice. I don’t care to see you wasting your last years in thrall to your wife’s every whim, especially when she seems to enjoy your servitude. It’s almost as if she were punishing you.’
‘Well, of course she is. Who else has she got?’
‘I can’t think why.’ The Great Man uncrosses his bony knees and takes up his hat. ‘The child’s death, after all, was entirely accidental, one of those small tragedies of life that are impossible either to predict or prevent. It occurs to me, therefore,’ he says with a roguish smile, ‘bearing in mind th
e adage of a woman scorned and the resulting hell of her fury, that your crime might have been of a conjugal nature?’ He puts on his hat and tips it to a rakish angle. ‘A straying, if I may so term it without causing offence, from the marital bed?’
Jack’s eyebrows are no longer pale and skimpy in the way that they were when he was a child. They’ve grown more abundant with age and are now as white as his hair, giving him the distinguished look of a retired professor, one whose life has been spent in academic pursuit, who has had no truck with baser matters such as conjugality or marital arrangements. In other words, Jack is as pleased with his eyebrows as he is with his hair, and although they cannot compete with the magnificence of the Great Man’s, he lowers them now in a scowl of such ferocity as to be worthy of the Great Man himself.
‘I have never,’ he says, at his most grandiloquent, ‘been unfaithful to my wife. Never, ever.’
His ears are hissing.
‘Nor she to me.’
The hissing becomes a threatening growl.
‘We’ve been entirely faithful, each to the other, throughout our marriage.’
The growl explodes in a deafening roar. Eva, ugly with anger. You lie, you flea, you twenty times trillion flug-ridden flea. I despise you with my bottomest breath and the wishes of hell in my soul be upon you. She seizes the teddy bear by the heels and with, a shriek of rage, hurls him at her husband’s head.
The grandfather clock ticks the time at the top of the stairs, a little bit slower than heretofore, a touch erratic, fighting the compulsion to sleep; jerking awake with a hiccup of guilt, making a small spurt to catch up with itself, before settling back into steadier rhythm. Minding the time, ticking the present into the past.
The lift judders its way downstairs, letting out a creak at every third step as if in protest at its unlikely passengers. Eva’s suitcase is upended on the seat, the teddy bear perched on top, a little lopsided, a trifle confused – as who would not be after forty-six years of incarceration followed by his startling new role as substitute baby.
Jack waits at the bottom of the stairs, watching the lift, counting the creaks. He should be feeling pleased with himself; after all, he’s achieved twin goals: acquisition of teddy bear and eviction of Great Man. But Jack is decidedly out of sorts, angry (not with Eva, he’s used to her outbursts, rather misses them in fact) but with everyone and everything else: the lift for squeaking, the clock and its accusatory tick, even the innocent teddy bear for masquerading as baby. How tired he is from the morning’s work, and how depressing that the day which began so well has failed to fulfil its promise, the barometer turned from sunshine to rain with the threat of another storm to come. In the person of Dorothy Jones who, at this very moment, is pounding down the motorway hell-bent on disrupting his Sunday. And as for the Great Man… this the man he considers to be his greatest friend – his only friend, the man he admires more than any other, whose good opinion he has always sought… that he should dare to comment on the state of his marriage, to suggest that he, Jack, might ever have betrayed his wife, or she him. The very thought fuels the fire of his anger. And as for punishment… what he, Jack, would very much like to know is what precisely it is that he’s ever done wrong? To love his wife too much, to look after her too assiduously? A fault that could scarcely be laid at the Great Man’s door. Well, to hell with him and his filthy aspersions: he has taken the hint, made his final bow, departed the stage, vowing never to reappear, no matter how loud the calls for an encore.