by Helen Kitson
‘No.’
‘Do you mind?’
‘Perhaps, when I was younger. When there was still a chance I might meet someone suitable, have children. But I haven’t really minded for a long time, not until I met Simon. And even then… I knew there was no future in it. I accepted that, or thought I did.’
‘You get used to having someone around the place, don’t you? It’s the company as much as anything.’
‘It’s not even that. Not company for the sake of it. I’m not sure I even liked him very much.’
‘Oh, I see. Well – being in love with someone – that’s another thing altogether. That’s something that just has to run its course.’
‘But what if it doesn’t? What if I feel this way for the rest of my life? I couldn’t bear it!’
Viv patted my hand and topped up my tea. ‘We’ve all been there, lovey. It does pass, and even if it doesn’t, you learn to live with it.’ She opened her eyes wide. ‘What other choice is there? I know everything is harder as we get older – not as easy to bounce back – but we also have the wisdom of experience. We know that no one ever died of a broken heart.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘Play some sad records. Have a bottle of wine and a good old weep. It’ll do you the power of good, I promise.’
She said the right things, the sensible things, but I was too desolate to be convinced.
‘Shall I come back with you?’ she offered. ‘Just so you have someone there with you. Help you tidy up, if necessary. Remove the traces.’ Hearty, reassuring, just the sort of person I needed. But wasn’t it cowardly to need someone? And was that thought the result of misplaced pride?
‘We can pick up a bottle of wine and some chocolate on the way, if you like,’ she said. ‘Look, I don’t want to force myself where I’m not wanted, and I’ll probably get on your nerves very quickly, but if I can be any help, I’m more than willing.’
I accepted, putting myself in her hands. She chose a bottle of wine and a box of chocolates (“Cheap and cheerful – quantity’s more important than quality in this instance, I feel”) and escorted me home. While I tided up downstairs, I told her which room had been Simon’s and gave her a carrier bag in which to throw anything he might have left behind.
‘There wasn’t much,’ she reported, sweeping past me to put the bag in the bin. ‘Are you all right? Not too harrowed?’
I shook my head, though I still felt dreadful.
‘Worse in the evening, perhaps.’
‘I’ll be fine. Honestly.’ Suddenly I knew I couldn’t stand to have her in the house with me, as if we were holding a wake. I wanted to be on my own, to get used to how the house felt without Simon in it. Viv would want to fill the house with sounds – TV, music, her own voice endlessly chattering. She meant well, but she was right – she would get on my nerves, and we didn’t have the kind of relationship that would have enabled us to sit around in pyjamas getting tipsy and laughing at the stupidity of life.
‘Well, if you’re sure… Remember, I’m only a phone call away.’
‘I will. And thank you. You’ve been an absolute brick.’
She smiled sadly. ‘I wish I could do more. I wish I didn’t feel so useless.’
‘You’re not. I’m not very good at accepting help. I think I need to be alone for a while. Get used to it, you know?’
‘Yes, I understand,’ she said with a sigh. ‘You’re not an easy person to get to know. I’m gregarious, but you’re not. But I mean it, about phoning me if you need someone, for anything at all – a chat, whatever. Well, I’ll love you and leave you.’
Viv deserved better than my aloofness, but it was too late for me to start relying on other people. I supposed it was possible to make new friends at my age, but inevitably I would compare any friendship with the fraught relationship I’d had with Madeleine. I wasn’t sure it was possible to have a true friendship with someone who didn’t understand the complicated bond that had existed, that still existed, between Madeleine and me.
I felt more comfortable with Mr Latham. When I told him that Simon had gone and it was unlikely I would ever see him again, his first comment was to wonder whether or not Simon would ever write his thesis on Mary Webb.
‘I’m sorry,’ he added, ‘I daresay that’s fairly low on your list of concerns. You will miss him.’
‘I will.’
And that was that – no tea, no sympathy, no advice. But when I removed my striped tabard prior to leaving for the day, he came to speak to me.
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t very forthcoming about Simon,’ he said. ‘One hardly knows what to say in the circumstances—’
‘Nothing would help,’ I told him, folding my tabard. ‘I saw Viv Evans after I saw him off. She was very kind.’
He winced. ‘I suppose she’s the sort of person… That is, she means well. A little overpowering sometimes.’
‘I was quite happy to be overpowered,’ I said with a smile. ‘But now I just need to be very quiet for a while. Even if I hadn’t… Even if I hadn’t loved him, it would still take me a while to adjust, having got used to having someone else around the house. Someone to talk to other than the cat.’
Because he frowned, I added, ‘I don’t mean to sound self-pitying. I’m really not. I can take quite a lot on the chin. It’s just… Oh, I don’t know. I just don’t know what the point of it all is.’
He still looked concerned.
‘Ignore me,’ I said. ‘Too wrapped up in my own nonsense, that’s all. Too aware that it is nonsense. Maybe I just need someone to tell me to get over myself.’
He smiled. ‘Isn’t that what the young people say? They can be brutal. There’s nothing wrong in admitting we can’t always cope with everything life throws at us.’
‘I shall be perfectly all right again in a few days. Weeks, possibly, but I’ll get there.’ I spoke brightly, afraid of imposing too much, taking advantage of my employer. If he were a doctor, I wouldn’t trouble him with my aches and pains. I had no right, especially as I didn’t believe in the God Mr Latham served.
‘Well… Be kind to yourself, won’t you?’ he said. ‘You’re allowed to grieve, you know.’
‘Yes – yes, I will – thank you. I’ll be off now.’ I hurried away before the tears started, back to my silent house. I threw open the windows so I could hear something, anything: birdsong, the squeals of children; a distant revving engine. Ordinary noises; proof that the world still turned, and I was along for the ride. I’d cook something comforting for dinner and I’d allow myself a small glass of wine. Then I’d read some old favourite novel, telling myself this was the sort of thing I liked doing, that small pleasures were like seed pearls, worth treasuring. I liked my home, I liked my job; I’d never had to struggle to make ends meet. Everything I wanted was under my roof.
Except Simon. Except him.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I opened the safe, expecting to find the blank pages masquerading as a typescript. Nothing could have prepared me for the shock of discovering the safe to be empty except for my poor pieces of jewellery. For a long time I simply stared, unable to believe what I was seeing – or rather, not seeing. I felt all around the cavity as if the papers could possibly have slipped into some crevice I hadn’t known was there, my fingernails scraping against metal as it dawned on me what he’d done.
I cursed myself for assuming Simon wouldn’t be able to crack the code. I’d made it memorable for my own sake, but the numbers were those Simon must have smiled over as he pressed the buttons on the keypad. The date on which we had first met.
I understood what he’d done. He hadn’t burned Madeleine’s novel at all. He’d burned something, but the pages must have come from the bin in his room. Her novel had remained in the safe where I put it after I’d snatched it from his room. He’d won. He had my confession, which might not have meant much on its own, but with the manuscript of Madeleine’s first book he had everything he needed to crush me if he chose to do so. I groaned at my foolishness and the horror of knowi
ng I’d never be free of him. I’d wanted him to stay with me for ever, and now I wished I’d never met him.
After I finished work at the vicarage, I rang Viv and asked if she’d like to come round for coffee. I didn’t want to rely on anyone, but I knew I’d kept myself too distant, unwilling to get involved with the concerns of other people, disinclined to share anything of my life.
Viv turned up with an apple cake she’d baked herself. ‘Too much cinnamon, but tell me what you think.’
‘It’s very nice,’ I said, taking an exploratory bite. ‘Very moist.’
‘Oh, good. Now, call me an interfering old such-and-such, but I was chatting in the library to Lisel the other day – you remember her? Sharp old lady, astonishingly well-read. Anyway, your name cropped up when we were discussing the book group. I’d very much like to broaden its scope and set up a sister group for writers and would-be writers – workshops, readings, library-based initiatives. Someone like you, with your background, would be a valuable asset to us.’
I wanted to back away, resist any attempt to involve me, and I was sure this was simply a ruse she’d cooked up to “take me out of myself”. It smacked of good intentions and I was surprised Lisel would be party to anything so crass.
‘It’s thoughtful of you to ask—’
Viv shook her head. ‘Don’t think I’m asking out of the kindness of my heart. There aren’t enough young people in the library, and I fear if we’re not careful we’ll be closed down as no longer viable, along with too many other libraries. If I can show the powers-that-be we have a vibrant reading and writing community, we might get a stay of execution. But I can’t make that happen on my own. So how about it?’
I remained dubious. What she said was doubtless true – libraries, like post offices, were a dying breed. The timing, though, was a little suspect.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said, blithe and to the point. ‘You think I’m giving you this opportunity because I feel sorry for you, because I think it might mend your broken heart. And maybe it will, but frankly my priority is my job – which I love, by the way, and I’ve no desire to trek into Shrewsbury every day, if they offer me a role there – and you’re the nearest thing we’ve got to an actual proper writer. The only other writers I know are authors of books on local history, all fine and dandy, but it doesn’t get anyone’s juices flowing, does it? Not like your remarkable story.’
I wasn’t sure if she meant the book was remarkable or my own personal story.
‘I’m thinking about writing another book,’ I said. ‘I might not have much time for extra-curricular activities. Not that I’m saying no, but I would like some time to think about it.’
‘But you will think about it, won’t you?’
‘Yes, I promise. And it was good of you to ask.’
She shrugged and passed me another slice of apple cake. ‘We need all the help we can get, frankly. It’s no longer enough for a library simply to offer books for people to borrow. We have to become multi-media experiences or accept our inevitable death.’ She heaved a dramatic sigh. ‘Too many books, not enough readers, that’s the problem. We need to catch ’em young and keep ’em. Anyway, how are you bearing up?
‘So-so,’ I said. Could I believe everything Simon had told me about his father’s coldness and Sophie’s rages? Perhaps he’d exaggerated, but to what purpose? I hoped he had exaggerated, for his sake. As much as I loathed the distress he’d brought into my life, I hated to think of him growing up knowing he was unwanted and resented by the people who should have protected and comforted him.
I realised Viv was gazing at me expectantly. ‘I’m sorry – I missed what you said.’
‘You looked as if you were miles away. Thinking about this book you’re going to write, I expect.’
‘Yes; that was it. I’m afraid writers do tend to wool-gather.’
Perhaps, I thought, I might write a book about Simon, about his life as I imagined it panning out. Perhaps a tempestuous and impossible romance with a faded aristocratic beauty who might threaten to kill herself when he announced he intended to leave her, and then… Well, there were many possible routes he could take. But how would I weave in his backstory? I should have to invent one for him in case the book was ever published and he picked up a copy and recognised himself. It might amuse him, but it might not, depending on the path he actually took.
But I could never publish it, could I? Easy to imagine Simon gleefully contacting the publisher, demanding an interview, self-righteously brandishing my confession before presenting them with the coup de grâce: Madeleine’s first novel. A son cheated out of his rightful inheritance. A writer who’d been denied her place in the canon.
‘My dear, you really are very abstracted today!’
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ I said with a shake of my head. ‘I’m having one of those days when memories won’t leave me alone.’
‘Ah.’ A knowing look. ‘I’ve always thought “Better to have loved and lost than never loved at all” a foolish saying. It’s something you don’t realise until it’s too late – until you’ve already had your heart broken.’
Hard to imagine Viv with a broken heart; she seemed too practical, too resilient. Too insensitive, even, though that was unfair. What did I know about the workings of her heart? As little as she knew about mine. Garrulous though she was, I hardly knew her, and very likely never would. I had my secrets and I daresay she had hers. There’s no reason why we should unburden ourselves to everyone who shows a kindly interest in us. She thought me aloof, but my reserve was my protection. It prevented me from revealing too much: things no one needed to know.
‘You will get over it,’ she added. ‘One simply has to.’
Brisk, rational, her sympathy would extend only so far. At some point I was expected to pull myself together, put the past behind me, or else be accused of self-indulgence. I would have agreed with her had Simon been nothing more than a fling, a genuine brief encounter.
Viv stood and stretched with her hands in the small of her back. ‘Do try not to dwell too much, you’ll only upset yourself. I’ll leave you the rest of the cake, if you’d like it – No, don’t argue, I’m quite sure. I made it for you.’
An act of kindness that made me regret every snarky thing I’d thought about her. I tried not to be too effusive in my thanks in case she thought me strange, but I wanted to hug her.
She gave me a kindly smile. ‘You look done in. You’ve been through the wringer and I’ve been impatient. Forgive me, dear, won’t you?’
‘Nothing to forgive,’ I said. ‘You’ve been a tower of strength. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’
Clichés, but I meant them. With Viv’s help, maybe I’d learn how to do the friendship thing.
‘Call me whenever you want,’ she said as she let herself out. The friendship model Madeleine had left me with wouldn’t do any more. The intensity of teenage relationships can’t be replicated in middle age, and that’s probably just as well. I accepted that between Madeleine’s death and Simon’s arrival, I’d effectively absented myself from life, drifting from one dysfunctional relationship to another. Afraid of falling in love, afraid of not falling in love; afraid of making a friend who meant as much to me as Madeleine had done. The risk of loss and rejection.
I wasn’t going to be afraid any more. Pain, I decided, was preferable to numbness. To feel something is better than to feel nothing at all, else how do we even know we’re alive?
Simon sent postcards. I ripped them up. He sent me a letter from Venice, but made no mention of the papers he’d taken from my safe, instead confining himself to gossipy stuff, telling me he was “getting friendly” with an American lady of a certain age with money to burn. This claim I took with a generous pinch of salt. He had charm, yes, but of a limited kind. Still too wet behind the ears, surely, to appeal to an American sophisticate. But who knew? He might not even be in Venice at all. Madeleine had faked a long succession of postcards apparently sent
from all over Europe.
I miss you, he wrote. Does that sound crazy? It does to me. I’ve thought about coming back. My dad and Sophie barely even noticed I’d been away. All they said was that they were glad I’d finally come to my senses. Nothing has really changed between us. At least in books you get a proper ending, but life just goes on. Don’t you think life ought to come with a built-in satnav? Venice is beautiful – all those pastel-pink scabrous palaces – but it stinks like hell.
At the bottom of the card he wrote his home address in block capitals. Write to me sometimes, he added.
No, Simon. No. Not even to beg.
I half-hoped he would ditch the American lady for an aristocratic Venetian and enjoy a life of ruined luxury. His golden, boyish looks might appeal to an Italian princess in the autumn of her years. Lacking parents who were willing to support and guide him, he might simply drift through life, though more elegantly than I had done. With time and experience he might hone his charms, make them work for him. Equally, he might choose to do the sensible thing: return to university, throw in his lot with the world of academia.
A part of me still refused to believe that Simon was Madeleine’s son. But how else could he have known about her, stumbled upon her manuscript? The dates added up and Madeleine had vanished from sight for months. Whoever he was, Simon existed, and he’d blown a hole in my life almost as large as the one Madeleine had created.
If I told Viv that Simon was Madeleine’s son, if she knew… But of course she mustn’t know, and I must therefore dissemble, and bear the pain occasioned each time a postcard arrived with its brief, pointless message, its brutal reminder that his life was going on without me. I would never be allowed to forget him. I couldn’t put the past behind me; he wouldn’t let me.