by Janet Ellis
Bobbie was standing in the front row of the Senior Choir when I first saw her, facing away from me. When she turned round, she was singing and smiling at the same time because the girl beside her had made her laugh. I’d never thought a girl was attractive before. Me and Lizzie make loads of lists of boys we fancy but we wouldn’t ever dream of writing down any girl’s names. I didn’t fancy Bobbie, either, I just thought that I wanted to be her friend. I knew that I’d like to make her laugh like that. Now I can’t remember when she didn’t matter to me.
If you want to be with someone enough, you can make it happen. I started looking out for her, waiting to see which classroom she left at what time and where we crossed in the corridor. I didn’t even want to speak to her, but I liked the silvery feel of a day with her in it. If she was away from school, if I didn’t see her dark head in assembly, I felt as if everything were smudged and spoiled. Even Lizzie noticed after a while. She asked me if I actually wanted to be in the Upper Fourth with all those snobs. I said of course not, but I made sure I was more casual about getting closer to Bobbie after that. It was like playing Grandmother’s Footsteps, no one could know I was creeping up.
Eddie was so annoying on the way to school yesterday morning, as usual. He’s always dawdling or singing to himself or running ahead of me. Today he kept going on about wanting me to teach him to ride. I said I’d think about it, to shut him up, but then he wouldn’t stop saying when and asking which pony I’d put him on. He yelled out that he wanted to ride Caramac or Nell. I said I’d put him on Rebel, which would serve him right. That pony hates everyone. When we got to the crossing, I walked off really quickly without saying goodbye. Then a car honked its horn behind me, and I turned round and saw it was because he’d nearly stepped into the road without looking. I ran back and really shouted at him. I know perfectly well that if anything happened to him, she’d never, ever forgive me.
They’d obviously had a row the other night because Daddy was looking very upset the next morning. The softer he seemed, the harder she got. She acts as if she’s his mother sometimes and as if he’s always in trouble. It’s really easy to imagine him as a little boy. I’ve seen pictures of him and he still has the same round face as he did when he was young. His hairstyle hasn’t changed either. He wouldn’t need to look in the mirror when he combs his hair because the parting probably makes itself, even when he’s just got out of bed. The only time I’ve ever seen him without it was when he went swimming on holiday. He dived under the water and when he stood up, his hair was slicked off his face, flat as sealskin.
I can’t imagine her as a child at all.
I’m glad I didn’t hear them arguing. What’s worse, though, what’s the absolutely vilest of all, is when I have to listen to them together. The first time it happened, I was reading in bed when I shouldn’t have been. I was supposed to have my light out, so I flicked the switch off really quickly when I heard them. At first I had no idea what the noise was. I actually thought she was in pain, she made this little whimpering noise like an injured cat. Then I heard piggy grunting. When I realised what they were doing, I felt as if I were going to explode with embarrassment. No matter how hard I stuffed my fingers in my ears or hugged my pillow to my head, the sounds got in. Even thinking about it now makes me feel sick.
She nearly caught me reading once. I didn’t have the light on because I’d heard her coming upstairs but she held her hand over the top of the lampshade so she could feel the heat from the bulb. She didn’t say anything, but she was looking as smug as if she was the cleverest detective, solving a crime.
Chapter 44
I took Michael’s route to the station. I suspected that he followed exactly the same path every single day. His footsteps would wear a groove in the pavement by the time he retired. He had hardly ever taken a day off work. I could clearly remember the only time he’d been really ill. He’d shaken with cold one morning as his forehead burned and he keeled over on to the sofa, without saying a word. I was unnerved by his decline, he was so seldom unwell. I’d nursed him without much tenderness, tiptoeing into the bedroom to replace jugs of orange squash or provide aspirin. He was an undemanding patient, even as he convalesced: he didn’t request so much as a newspaper and just lay staring at the ceiling. When I’d asked if he wanted anything, slightly exasperated by his passivity, he told me he liked just being in the house, listening to me go about my tasks or chatting to the children. It was delightful, he said, he could feel it doing him good. Perhaps he was trying to tell me that he loved me. Neither of us would ever have said it aloud.
The station platform was almost deserted. One other woman sat on the wooden bench, making her way through a large sandwich. The greaseproof paper on her lap was dotted with dropped tomato slices. You shouldn’t eat anything in the street, I thought. Ice-cream cones or lollies were the only exception and then only in high summer. The woman compounded the breach by licking each finger in turn when she’d finished. She caught my eye and returned my gaze with some hostility. Beside her sat a small, plain child. My father would have said she had the sort of face that even the tender appointments of youth passed by. He had a good way with words before he drowned his conversation. There was one open carriage, already quite crowded, but I headed for the partitioned coach and found an empty compartment. I wanted to sit alone.
Walking through the town in the still-early morning made me feel as if I hadn’t been there before. No one really knew where I was. Normally, I was so accountable. I hummed under my breath and walked quickly, ignoring the fact that I was wearing headmistress shoes and had a plaster on one heel.
The escalator to the first floor of the store was absurdly slow, moving at less than a walking pace. It was also narrow. I couldn’t move past the two women already in front of me. They chatted loudly, undeterred by the restriction of being one behind the other. From time to time, the escalator stopped for a second then resumed its unhurried climb with a jolt. The women squealed in delight as they were jerked and thrown about. They thrust their hands dramatically on to the handrail and gasped with relief, as though they were being rescued from a shipwreck.
The racks of dresses looked as if they’d given up on ever being worn. They slipped low on their hangers. Two assistants stood near the till, engaged in conversation. Their voices were several notches above sotto voce. They registered my presence with a small shrug of their shoulders. ‘I said to him,’ one said, pressing on the already flattened edge of a ream of tissue paper, ‘I’m going to look the length of the counter before making my selection. You’re practically the first person I’ve had it off with, so I’m not going to stick with you, am I? Can I help you?’ she said.
I was trying to prise a reluctant hanger from its moorings. ‘Can I try this?’ I said.
Like a successful miner, I’d spotted the golden seam of the dress beneath the silt. It had a print of tiny yellow flowers without stems. The front was ruched and smocked like a child’s party dress. It was the new longer length, falling to mid-calf. The girl had a thick swipe of frosted brown eyeshadow on each lid, which gave her the look of an animal recently roused from hibernation. She gestured with half-hearted weariness to an area of little cubicles, their curtains held back on hooks. She hung the dress on the rail. The sense of sleepy despondence was infectious. The task of taking off my coat, never mind my skirt and top, now seemed Herculean, but I put my bag on the small stool and unhooked the curtain. The curtain stuck to my elbows as I shed my clothes. The girls’ conversation sounded louder from in the cubicle than when I’d stood next to them.
There wasn’t a mirror. I padded about in my bare feet to find one. I’d shucked off the headmistress shoes. The only mirror was in a far corner next to some wilting anoraks, but I stood transfixed the minute I saw myself. The gathering of the fabric over my chest had an extraordinarily flattering effect, which both softened and enhanced my shape. I was reminded of a book of fairy tales I’d had as a child. One of the stories was illustrated with a young woman, hal
f fairy, half flower, rising out of the ground as though she were growing in a field. And here I was, half fairy myself, in a corner of Temple’s, smiling at my reflection.
The girl approached. ‘It looks lovely,’ she breathed, but I didn’t need her approval.
I thought of the other, the real, purpose of my visit. He wouldn’t be there. I could have a cup of tea in the café, anyway, couldn’t I? The whole store was covered with a layer of gloom, as if it had been draped with cellophane, as shop window displays are protected from harsh light. People moved without purpose between the counters and rails. It seemed ridiculous that Adrian, who could choose anywhere at all, would decide to come here. Perhaps I had misheard Sheila.
There were plenty of free seats. I chose a little stool right against the counter; it felt less obvious that I was alone if I faced the cake stands and sandwiches instead of an empty chair. There was a menu positioned at an angle in a small metal stand, its cover featuring a sketch of a cup with an elaborate rising coil of steam. ‘Tea, please,’ I said to the woman. She wore a green nylon overall. Embroidered over her left breast was the same cup and steam motif. She was large-bosomed, the cup was prominent, but the steam went backwards towards her sternum at an acute angle. I tucked the carrier bag against my ankles. I didn’t really want to put it down. I held my handbag to my chest. The only other customers, a mother and daughter so alike it was comical, sat at a distance from me.
The overalled woman produced a small, stainless-steel teapot and miniature jug of milk, then clattered a cup and saucer in front of me. ‘Cake?’ she said, waving a pair of tongs over the Victoria slices and jam tarts.
I shook my head. The handle of the teapot was already too hot to hold. I gasped and rubbed my fingers in pain.
‘Marion?’
When he spoke, I felt the world lift and settle, the movement of a small earthquake. Nothing was broken. It was awkward twisting round on my small stool with my bag clutched in front of me like a shield. Adrian seemed on the point of leaving, as though he had been looking for something he didn’t expect to find. I blinked; it was hard to focus on him, since the fluorescent light behind his head made a halo of his hair. He looked at once in the right place and entirely at odds with it. He was wearing the same large, loose coat as before.
He spun the little stool beside mine and sat down. Our knees touched. ‘Who is this tiny furniture made for?’ he said.
I could smell the scent of him, sweet patchouli mixed with soap and smoke.
‘Have you had any of this tea?’ He peered theatrically into my empty cup. Then he looked at me. ‘Have you had any lunch?’
‘No. But I have to go soon,’ I said.
‘What time is it?’ he said. ‘I don’t wear a watch.’ His coat sleeves were pushed back from his wrists, rolled up into a thick band. He was wearing a watch.
I flushed, embarrassed for him.
He looked amused, seeing my quick, awkward glance away. ‘This?’ he said, extending his wrist and twisting it to show every side of the watch. ‘This was my grandfather’s. It hasn’t worked for years. I wear it because I like it. It’s right twice a day.’
I wanted to touch his arm, to turn the watch’s face towards me. His knees were still against mine. ‘It’s twenty past twelve,’ I said. ‘There’s enough time for lunch, if we’re quick.’ I gestured towards the counter. ‘A sandwich or something?’
Without answering, he waved at the woman in green and beckoned her over. ‘The bill,’ he said. ‘You are coming with me. We’re not going to have sandwiches.’
‘Where?’ I said. ‘I’ve got to get a train later, so I can’t go too far.’
‘What time do you need to be home?’ He counted coins on to the saucer and added a tip so generous that I winced.
‘Half past three,’ I said, offering the absolutely latest time I could. ‘The trains are every half an hour, so—’
He actually put one finger to my lips, to silence me. I felt the slight pressure.
‘I am going to give you a lift,’ he said. I thought of the return ticket in my bag, his extravagant tip. He spun his stool away from the counter with a flourish. ‘Come on,’ he said, taking the carrier bag from me. He feigned an effort, as though it were heavy. ‘What have you got in here? Coal?’
I laughed. Outside, the streets were almost empty. ‘Is it far?’ I knew I sounded nervous.
‘It’s just beyond the ends of the earth,’ he said. ‘Or – it’s just here.’ He halted in front of a café. It was covered in scaffolding. Through the window, partly covered with a whitewash, I could make out chairs covered in dustsheets and pots of paint on trestle tables. A large banner reading ‘Business as Usual’ hung over the door.
‘Good name for a caff, isn’t it?’ Adrian went in ahead, full of a confidence that suggested he’d been here many times before. ‘Graham!’ he said to the man approaching us, which dispelled any lingering suspicions.
‘Mate.’ The Graham man clapped Adrian on the shoulder. ‘Hell-oo,’ he said to me, rolling his eyes and drawing out the words in a Terry-Thomas sort of way.
‘This is Marion,’ Adrian said. Did he even know my surname?
‘Marion. Oh, hello!’ This time, he was more Kenneth Williams. ‘This way, stop mucking about,’ he said, steering us to a table. The surface was covered in a fine layer of white powder.
‘Flour,’ said Adrian, seeing me inspecting it. ‘The whole place is quite tediously themed. Isn’t that right, Gray? Random ladders and poles dotted here and there, pots of paint with their lids off scattered about, that sort of thing.’
‘Oh no, oh no no no.’ Graham offered this as Frankie Howerd. The chair was mercifully free of dust or nuts and bolts, at least. I sat down. The menu looked as if it were written on a jagged piece of torn cardboard. I picked it up. It was.
‘Two omelettes, old thing,’ Adrian said, not looking at the menu. He cleared a space on the dusty table in front of him and planted his elbows. ‘And some red wine,’ he said, without asking.
I smiled at him, not wanting to let him know that I seldom drank alcohol in the daytime. One other couple sat at a nearby table, their arms entwined in front of them. The man stroked the woman’s bare elbows in large, sweeping circles. The white powder speckled their clothing. Adrian shucked his coat backwards off his shoulders, heedless of how it fell to the floor. Underneath, he wore a velvet jacket with bone buttons. The collar of his shirt was huge and spread out wide to his shoulders. The two top buttons were undone. He leaned back in his chair and swept his hair off his face with both hands.
‘Have you been painting?’ I said. I regretted the question instantly. Of course not, he’d hardly have wandered into Temple’s dressed for a party if he’d been out in the woods.
He rubbed his scalp with his fingertips. ‘No, I haven’t,’ he said. ‘Ask me something else.’
‘How many children have you got?’
‘Unexpected.’ He laughed. ‘Three. You?’
‘Two. You met them. Eddie. And Sarah.’ I watched him, to see if he reacted to her name. Nothing changed in his expression. He stretched his arms behind his head and the fabric of his shirt clung to him. Sarah was miles away, trapped behind a school desk, imprisoned by timetables and rules. I am here, I thought. I am here.
‘Course I did. My turn. What did you want to be when you grew up?’
‘A teacher.’ I wished I had a more exotic answer, but the truth would have to do.
He ran his tongue over his top teeth. ‘That fits,’ he said. ‘And were you?’
‘No. I was a nurse. For a while. Until I got married . . .’ I said. ‘It gave me somewhere to live, because . . .’ I hesitated, wondering if I should tell him anything he hadn’t asked. ‘Because my mother had died when I was thirteen and my father sold the house.’
‘Marion.’ He righted his tilted chair and leaned towards me. ‘The poor little motherless nurse. There is something of the orphan about you. Or are you still fathered?’
‘He’s dead n
ow, too, but I don’t think you’re really an orphan when you’re adult, are you? Are both of your parents still alive?’
‘God, yes,’ he said, sitting back again. ‘Horribly. Both sides of the family seem to go on for ever, worse luck. Ah!’ He greeted the arrival of our food with an expansive opening of his arms. ‘Omelette, merveilleuse. Merci. Scusi.’ He got up and went to the entwined couple’s table. ‘May I? Thank you so much.’ He took their salt and pepper without waiting for a reply. I watched them enjoy his charming carelessness.
When I sliced into the omelette, its centre was still wet and raw. I separated a small cooked portion from the very edge and chewed it nervously.
Adrian put a dripping forkful into his mouth. ‘Ta,’ he said as the wine arrived. ‘Cheers,’ he said, holding up his glass. ‘Let’s drink to – adventure.’
‘Adventure,’ I said, clinking my glass to his. ‘What sort of adventure?’
‘Ours.’ He looked straight at me. ‘We’re going to have one.’
‘Are we?’ I felt light-headed after only one sip. I watched him demolish his food with gusto. I swallowed some more wine, trying to keep up with the rapid tempo he set. My head already buzzed.
‘I think we are. Don’t you?’ Adrian tore a bread roll in two and swiped one half over his plate; strands of clear albumen swung from it as he lifted it to his mouth. ‘You’ve hardly touched yours,’ he said, seeing me flinch.