He reappeared in half an hour wearing her bathrobe. Voluminous on her, it sat on him like an outgrown coat on a gangly schoolboy, exposing long muscular legs and arms, and an expanse of hard brown chest.
‘No sign of a man up there,’ he commented as he threw himself down on the leather sofa. ‘I could have borrowed his razor.’ He sounded faintly aggrieved.
‘I suppose you’re hungry?’ Zara ignored his remark loftily. She was indignant to find that her heart had started to bang rather hard beneath her ribs as it had, she distinctly remembered, when she first knew him.
‘I’m starving, lady. Not eaten since the day before yesterday.’ He reverted to his whine. She ignored it.
‘I hope you don’t still expect oysters for breakfast,’ she commented sarcastically from the kitchen as she filled the kettle, remembering some of his more extravagant tastes. Her hands were shaking.
‘A crust will do, lady, just a crust.’ He appeared immediately behind her suddenly, and put his hands gently on her shoulders. ‘I suppose you want an explanation?’
‘I think I do rather.’ She gave a small laugh.
‘You could say I’d been down on my luck.’ He looked at her hopefully, then on second thoughts shook his head. ‘No, I know. It’s not me is it. Would you believe that I did it on purpose?’ He paused. ‘You’d never credit the things people put in their dustbins, Za-Za. Someone ought to write a monograph on it: The world’s great untapped source of wealth.’
‘I’m sure the dustmen tap it successfully,’ she commented acidly, slipping two slices of bread into the toaster. ‘Judging by the things they nail to the fronts of their vans.’
‘Teddies,’ Gerald said reflectively. ‘Your dustman here nails teddies to his van. I saw him as I came up the road. How anyone could bear to throw their teddy out I shall never know. It’s worse than homicide.’
‘Gerald! You never kept yours!’
‘I did!’ Her perched on the edge of the breakfast table to take the toast as it popped up, snatched his fingers away and blew on them hastily. ‘Didn’t you even search my trunks and the things I left?’
‘Of course not. They were private.’
Gerald stared at her. ‘You are truly a wonderful woman Za-Za. I wonder why I left you?’ He buttered the piece of toast thoughtfully. She was also, he noted, slimmer, taller, if that were possible, and overall a thousand times more stunning than he remembered her.
‘You couldn’t stand me, dear.’ She smiled. ‘It’s a shame because I really rather liked you.’
‘Liked?’ He raised an eyebrow.
‘Loved, then.’
‘Still in the past tense?’
She smiled. ‘Stop fishing Gerald and tell me what you’ve been up to.’
The black coffee had steadied her, and she sat down opposite him, elegantly crossing her legs, waiting for him to begin.
For a few minutes he ate in silence, giving every impression that he really hadn’t eaten for days, then he sat back with a sigh and reached for his own cup.
‘One morning on the way to office, I thought, Gerald, old chap, what does it all mean? You know, the way one does? I couldn’t find a convincing answer. So I thought, Right. If there’s no reason for doing it, don’t.’ He grinned and reached for the sugar.
‘There’s always the need for money, Gerald.’ She tried not to sound prim.
‘Money for what?’ You earn a damn good salary, so you don’t need it. I don’t need it. You had a house, I had a flat, did we need both, for God’s sake? Why should I risk a coronary for the sake of a subscription to a golf club full of bores and for the Inland Revenue?’
‘Gerald, that’s a very trite and short-sighted remark, if you don’t mind my saying so. And how,’ she flashed at him suddenly, ‘do you know how much I earn?’
‘I own your company, dear. No,’ he raised his hand as she put down her cup indignantly, about to speak. ‘No. You got your job on merit alone, and I am totally uninterested in policy. Now, as I was saying, I thought, Why don’t I drop out like all those delightful chaps one sees singing in the underground. The trouble is, I can’t sing. I expect you remember that. I can’t paint, or pot or woodcarve, to earn enough money to subsist, so I had to resort to begging. More coffee, please.’
She poured it for him without a word.
‘I told James to stop the car. I told him to take a month’s salary in lieu, drive the car home, lock it up, turn off the gas and the electricity in the flat, stick the keys back through the letter box – oh and empty the fridge. I thought of that. Then I called the office and said, “I’ll be away for a year or so,” and gave my solicitor a ring, about power of attorney and that sort of thing. I bought a large cream doughnut, simply oozing cholesterol, and a can of beer, put all my loose change in the hat of one of those pathetic young men you see sitting leaning against walls with their dogs beside them and started walking. Right then and there, in my city suit.’ He threw back his head and laughed. ‘I bet you didn’t recognise it when I came in.’
‘Did you enjoy yourself?’ Zara tried not to sound shocked or angry.
‘Marvellously.’ He reached for the breadknife, cut an enormous wedge of bread and began heaping butter onto it. ‘I’ve been all over the south of England and right down to Cornwall, to all the little off the road places one misses in a beastly car. I’ve stuck it for eight months.’
‘Why did you come back here then?’
‘For one thing I was hungry this morning. For another, I wanted to see you again.’
‘Gerald. How could you afford the stamp and the paper for that letter?’ She was suddenly suspicious.
He looked embarrassed for the first time. ‘Well, the trouble is Zara that I’ve begun earning money again. First it was only casual jobs: car cleaning, fruit picking, even potato lifting once – God! What a job that was. Then one night in a pub, I happened to recite one of the poems I’d been making up on the road as I walked along. They passed the hat round and I made about seven pounds fifty. A fortune! Well, I’ve gone on from there. Each town and village I visited after that I’d chat up the landlord and stick a notice in his pub saying I was going to give a recital. Then afterwards I’d pass round the old hat.’
‘Gerald, you’re not serious!’ Zara looked at him with real admiration.
‘Well, the truth is dear,’ he looked down at the cup, half embarrassed. ‘I think I need an agent or something. You see I want to have them published. I know it’s silly, but I’ve got ambitions for them. I’ve found out what life is all about, you see. For me, it’s poetry.’
‘And you’d like me to act for you?’
‘Would you?’ He looked up eagerly.
‘Of course.’
Zara enjoyed dressing her husband as a poet. She spent the morning buying him jeans and shirts and a rather expensive-looking leather jacket. She even debated whether he would wear beads or a necklace, or a thong around his neck with a bead on it, but decided finally against it. He had after all been in the habit of wearing a pinstripe suit.
She had left him before setting out on her spree, reciting his poems to her dictating machine. When she got back, her cleaning lady was standing open-mouthed at the drawing room door, listening.
‘It’s filth, Mrs Lennox, real filth,’ the woman complained, jumping guiltily when she saw her employer. ‘But it’s beautiful. I could listen for hours, so I could.’ She giggled skittishly.
Zara stood beside her and together they heard Gerald reciting. It was indeed beautiful.
After a moment he swung round, microphone in hand, and saw them. To Zara’s amazement he broke off abruptly, blushing. ‘I didn’t know there was anyone there,’ he murmured and then he laughed. ‘They’re not really for ladies’ ears.’
‘Nonsense. They’re damn good.’ Zara went in and reaching up planted a quick kiss on his cheek. ‘I’ll start putting them on the word processor for you this afternoon.’
They decided they would call him Noxel, which was Lennox inside out. No
other name. It looked right in print, and would sound good, Zara thought, on the radio. She ignored his comment that it made him sound a little like a lavatory cleaner.
Gerald Lennox had been, they both agreed, a bore.
She took him round London, showing him off to her new, trendy friends, and she bathed in reflected glory as Gerald’s exquisitely metred adjectives and highly coloured phraseology assailed their ears. She had always suspected they cultivated her acquaintance for her money and contacts. Now she had produced someone who belonged to their world. More than belonged. He actually did things. Most of them, she now discovered, claimed themselves passive rather than active participants in the arts. Zara felt herself to be one-up at last and was very pleased with her eccentric, wandering poet.
Together they giggled over the raised eyebrows of the neighbours. It seemed no one recognised him.
Then Zara’s lover came back from two months in Cape Town. He let himself in half an hour before she was due home from the office and found Gerald sitting at her computer.
‘My dear chap,’ Gerald glanced up and then rose, his hand outstretched. ‘I knew you must exist, but she never admitted it, bless her.’ He grinned amicably.
The other’s mouth fell open, and he felt uncertainly for the nearest chair and sat down heavily. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met?’
Gerald leaned back in his seat. ‘I’m Zara’s husband, actually. But not to worry –’ as the other man rose abruptly to his feet, Gerald lifted his hand to reassure him. ‘I’m off. I’ve been wanting to move on for some time now, but I didn’t like to leave her on her own. She’s been a brick these last few weeks.’
He shuffled his papers together and collected the pages he had been printing. ‘Give me ten minutes old chap. We’ll manage the turn-round before she gets home.’ He took the stairs two at a time.
The new arrival sat, looking rather stunned, for a moment. Then, a trifle wearily, he rose to his feet and went to pour himself a drink. When Zara came home he was in the bath with a large gin.
She saw the note from Gerald on the hall table and knew without reading it that he had gone. She considered for a moment and then breathed a deep sigh of relief. It had been an interesting interlude, but not one she had wanted prolonged. It spoiled her concentration at the office.
Moment of Truth
Steve and I had known each other since we were children, brought up in the same village, growing together, and at last, realising that we were in love, we became engaged on my eighteenth birthday. Then began our struggle to save enough money for a deposit on our own home. Steven didn’t want us to marry until, as he put it, he could support me properly, or at least put a roof over my head, and in spite of my pleas that it didn’t matter, our engagement stretched out for one and then two years. Steve was a mechanic at the local garage in the village and was hoping desperately to be offered a partnership by the owner, so the future looked good, if only we could save enough for that deposit. And then something happened which was to have a profound effect on our lives together. Steve’s great aunt Irene who had looked after him when he was a little boy suddenly had a stroke and they said that she would never be able to manage on her own again; even when she was strong enough to leave the hospital she would have to go into a home for elderly people where she could be properly looked after.
As soon as she was well enough to have visitors she called Steve and me to her bedside. She could hardly speak, and her poor withered hand lay paralysed on the sheet but she made it clear, with tears in her eyes, that her cottage was ours. It was to be a wedding present.
Six weeks later we were married. The cottage was tiny, but it was our own home at last and I adored it. The low oak-beamed parlour had two rocking chairs and a table and there was room for little else. The bedroom window opened out under the thatch and wisteria and honeysuckle climbed round it. I remember I leaned out of that window on the first morning after we moved in and took a deep breath of the fresh air and I could have cried for happiness.
I worked as a waitress at the local Tudor Tea Rooms before we married and I kept on my job. For one thing I enjoyed it; for another we were still saving all we could. The cottage needed modernising badly and we wanted to start a family of course, so it seemed sensible to work all the hours we could fit in, putting every penny we earned into the bank. Although we were both tired and strained more often than not, we stayed happy. Or I thought we did. But perhaps without our realising it, earning money had by now become for us both an end in itself, more important even than our love for each other.
The trouble started in the summer two years after we were married. We were always very busy at that time of year in the café, for hundreds of tourists crowded into our tiny Cotswold village to see its beauties and its famous manor house, and often I would come home too exhausted even to give Steve his supper before I tumbled into bed, falling asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow. I was much too tired to make love.
It was about then that Steve started working overtime in the evenings. ‘I might as well, for all I see of you,’ he said rather bitterly. ‘And besides, I can’t bear to see you so tired.’ And he had weighed my heavy blonde hair – the same colour as his almost – in his hands, and kissed me rather wistfully on the cheek. ‘If I work extra perhaps soon you can give up the waitressing altogether.’
I glanced up at him gratefully and tried not to feel guilty as I noticed, for the first time, that he too was tired, and his face pallid from lying all day under cars when everyone else in the village was deeply tanned from the summer sun.
And so it happened that we had hardly seen each other for the last three months or so at all. We were saving, yes; but without my realising it, our marriage was fading away.
I was feeling especially tired and depressed when one day, as I was serving at the front tables, the ones which looked out of the mullioned windows across the green, a young man came in. He was of middle height, not terribly good-looking, rather swarthy, but he had the most incredible eyes. Light grey, so light they were like silver streaks in his tanned face. He beckoned me over.
‘What’s your name, sweetheart?’ he asked in an American accent.
I smiled at him easily, whisking crumbs off the table with my cloth. I was used to this.
‘I’m Linda,’ I smiled. ‘What can I get you, sir?’
‘Tea. An English tea with cream cakes and scones please, Linda my love, and later perhaps you can show me the town?’
‘Sorry sir, my husband will be expecting me home,’ I answered with a practised smile. I turned to get his order.
Usually I dismissed passes like this man’s without another thought, but something about his eyes, and the way his face fell when his gaze rested on the wedding ring which I waved under his nose, tugged at my heart.
When I took the tray to his table I asked casually, ‘You all on your own then?’
He nodded. ‘I’m over from the States for a few months. I’m a photographer and I’m doing a series on beautiful old England.’
There was something so wistful about his smile that I felt my heart do a quick bump.
As I moved quickly round the tables with my tray I could feel his gaze following me and every time I re-emerged from the kitchen with a new plate of scones and clotted cream, there he was watching.
When I took his bill to him he grabbed my wrist. ‘Honey, wouldn’t your husband spare you for half an hour – just to have a drink with me at the pub? I hate going alone.’
I felt my stomach lurch. I had told him Steve expected me. It wasn’t strictly true, of course. He had told me that there was a rush job on at the garage again that night, and he might not be back until even later than usual. As I said, I was depressed, and bored.
I took a deep breath. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I could manage a very quick drink, but not here.’ I thought of the prying eyes and quick tongues of the village folk. ‘Have you a car?’
He nodded.
&nbs
p; ‘Then pick me up outside the post office.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘I’m on till we close this evening, at six. I’ll see you then.’
His name turned out to be Graham, and he told me at once he had a wife and two kids in Wisconsin. We spent a couple of hours driving round the leafy lanes and then went to the fifteenth-century pub in the next village. He brought me home and dropped me at the end of our lane before going back to his hotel.
It was a perfectly innocent and very enjoyable outing, and so was the next, three nights later when Steve was again especially late. After that Graham took to dropping in at the tea rooms every evening as we were closing and I would tell him whether or not I would be able to spare an hour or two.
Steve was more and more regularly late at the garage as they seemed unusually busy so I saw more and more of Graham. I never mentioned Graham at home. The first time, Steve had come home in a temper from work, very unusually for him, and I knew it had not been the right moment. Then after that it became increasingly difficult.
Then came the time, inevitably, when Graham kissed me.
It happened so gently, so naturally, I hardly noticed it coming and before I could help myself I had returned it, passionately allowing him to draw me against his chest till I could hardly breathe.
‘Oh no Graham. No!’ I pushed him away suddenly. ‘No, don’t. I love my husband.’
‘Sure, honey.’ Gently but firmly he drew me back again. ‘He won’t miss a kiss or two, for a lonely man.’
But I was scared. I turned my head away and pushed with my fists against his chest. ‘Don’t Graham. No. I want to go home, please.’
Reluctantly he released me. ‘Okay Linda, if you’re sure that’s what you really want.’ He looked at me closely and as those silvery eyes met mine I felt my heart give a disloyal little lurch. It wasn’t what I wanted at all.
Distant Voices Page 3