by Gillian Best
I shook my head. ‘I don’t see how I could, there’s nothing left.’
Blowing steam off my drink, I sipped at it slowly. It was a relief to feel liquid on my lips and tongue. ‘I would have thought the sickness would have passed by now.’
‘It can’t last much longer, now the treatment’s finished.’
We stayed like that until mid-morning, communing in the commode as the sun shone brighter through the window, talking intermittently. It had all the makings of a good day.
John said, ‘I’d like to take you out.’
I turned to look at him, his head resting between the soaps and shampoos, to see if he was having me on. ‘Take me out where?’
‘It’s been ages since we went out together.’
‘We went to the doctor last week.’
‘That’s not what I mean,’ he said.
‘I know.’
‘We don’t have to, if you don’t feel up to it.’
Sometimes, it’s the unpredictability of life that makes it wonderful. The expression on my husband’s face was irresistible and reminded me of his more youthful self: the sharp cheekbones and sly look in his grey eyes that meant he was ready to have a little fun.
I felt awful but the winter had lasted too long and I had felt like death warmed over for ages.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Let’s.’
‘Good.’
‘Where will we go?’
‘I have an idea.’
I smiled: it was my John who was here today.
‘Fine, I’ll get dressed.’
An hour later we were standing in front of the door ready to go.
‘You look lovely,’ he said.
I had pulled from the depths of my wardrobe an old navy dress that reminded me of one I used to wear when we started to date.
‘Stop,’ I said, as I ran my hand over my stubbly hair that hadn’t yet begun to grow back before putting on my wig.
He grinned and moved closer, putting a sprig of myrtle through my buttonhole then he held my shoulders and kissed me on the mouth, as though we were still young.
‘Do you remember?’ he whispered.
‘I could never forget.’
He sighed happily. ‘I haven’t, yet.’
‘I’ll remember for both of us.’
‘I had planned it so much better.’
‘It was a perfect night.’
‘Was it?’
I took his hand in mine. ‘I said yes, didn’t I?’
He opened the door and led me outside where Henry was waiting by the car.
‘You didn’t think I’d make you walk, did you?’ John said.
We got in the backseat and Henry pulled out of the drive, piloting the car toward the centre of town. I rolled my window down and felt the warm late spring breeze on my face, with the smell of the sea pulling me close. I hadn’t seen it since the chemotherapy and I felt like I had abandoned an old friend. It had been nearly three months but when we turned the corner and it came into view it was exactly as I had left it: gleaming, swirling, teeming with life.
Henry turned the car again and we entered the dull, cement backstreets, which to me were only capable of being gloomy even on the sunniest days. We pulled up to the curb and John came round to help me out.
‘We’ll get a taxi back later,’ he said.
‘Enjoy yourselves, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ Henry called as he drove away.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked.
John was obviously pleased with himself and wouldn’t tell me. ‘It’s not far,’ was all he said.
We walked slowly along the pavement and I was surprised at how much the town had changed. If I came this far, it was only ever to see the sea. The city was full of shadows and dust, pound shops and boarded up doorways covered in peeling paint, shops that shut early and shops that had shut permanently. Where I remembered there being a green grocer there was a betting shop, and where the sewing shop had once traded there was a charity shop that seemed down on its luck.
John stopped in front of a restaurant with a rolled-up, tattered white awning. In green lettering it said Dino’s established 1975 but it did not look open. We peered in the window and all we saw was the dining room, empty except for a table with a stack of unopened post, waiting for someone to return.
Though he tried not to show it, I could tell he was upset and I tried my best to keep the mood light; if he got too upset the day could quickly slide into disaster.
He smiled weakly. ‘This is where I’d planned on going.’
‘How were you to have known it was shut?’
‘No, I mean before. When I proposed. This is the place where we missed our reservation. It doesn’t look like much now, but back then…’
‘A friend of mine went once. She said it was the nicest place she’d ever been. Linen napkins.’
‘I thought,’ he said.
‘It’s the thought that counts.’
He looked around nervously and I could see he was getting anxious, but then he took my hand and asked if I could manage to walk a short ways and so he led me down the street and back towards the sea.
The sea. My own true north.
We walked along the parade, arms linked, with the sun shining on our faces and it was glorious. The copper-coloured pebbles glowed making the water even more brilliantly blue, not a tropical hue – the sea here was not a lazy colour, it was cold and sharp. The contrast with the pebbles made it look like a high winter sky in a northern climate: crisp, clean and pure. And the longer I looked at it the more inviting it felt.
Slowly we shuffled towards the pier. The promenade was dotted with benches and out of necessity we stopped frequently. The chemotherapy had weakened me and I was not myself.
I eased myself down onto a bench, John sat next to me and when I turned to him, intending to rest my head on his shoulder, I noticed something. Mounted on the wooden boards was a small, black plaque:
In memory of Mrs Ann Martin
There’ll be love and laughter and peace ever after
‘John,’ I said, running my fingers over the words.
‘I remember that song,’ he said with pride.
He put his hand on my knee.
‘Do you remember? One summer, after Harriet was born, but before Iain. We danced here. I think it was here.’ He looked up and down the promenade. ‘There was a fête and a band. And I swung you around.’
I closed my eyes and could see it all. ‘I wore that red blouse, with the bows on the sleeves.’
‘That was one of my favourites, the red.’
‘We had Harriet in the pram, and you put it to one side so we could have a dance.’
‘I always did like dancing with you.’
‘But I’m clumsy,’ I said. ‘Terrible dancer.’
‘You always held on tighter than the other girls.’
I opened my eyes and his face was so close to mine our noses nearly touched. He was grinning like a schoolboy. I slapped his arm.
‘How many other girls?’
‘Loads,’ he said. ‘Too many to count.’
We laughed.
‘John,’ I said. ‘I want a bench, with a plaque.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘To mourn me,’ I said. I gave him a sly look and he struggled to keep a straight face. ‘I absolve you of three months wearing black, but I insist on a bench with a plaque.’
‘What makes you think you’ll go first?’
I opened my blouse a bit and pointed to my mastectomy scars.
He squeezed my knee and looked up to the sky, and I looked ahead at the water, thinking there could be no better final resting place than between the two things I had known most intimately.
He stood up and held his hand out for me. I took it, thinking we were going to head back home, but he steered us toward the pier.
‘The tearoom will be open,’ he said with confidence.
We passed other couples as we strolled down the pier including a couple of teenagers clutchin
g one another, hands in each other’s back pockets looking furtively for a quiet spot where they could remain unseen.
I nodded my head at them.
‘Do you remember?’ I said.
John blushed.
It had been shortly before he proposed. There had been some tame fumbling in his car, the cinema and on my parents’ doorstep, but nothing more than that.
That summer though, there had been stretch of days when the weather had been so glorious it was almost as if we didn’t live in England. The grey was gone and it was finally hot.
It had been a Saturday and I had not elected to wear one of the dresses my mother insisted on. These ensembles she intended to convey to John, and any other potential suitor who might make himself known, that I was a young lady and would make a wonderful mother, delightful wife and competent homemaker. How all of that could have possibly been emitted through fabric and frills was a mystery to me, but then my mother looked at clothes with an eye I never developed. She said it was important to show off my best assets, so when I tried on a frock that hit just below the knee, where my calves had developed nicely – “shapely” my mother called it – that dress was purchased immediately.
The real issue was when we had to consider necklines and straps. My mother favoured thin, dainty straps but on me they made my broad shoulders appear even more masculine, and coupled with the tan lines from my swimming costume, I wound up wearing a lot of dresses with sleeves and a high neck. They made me feel caged.
It was too warm that evening for anything with sleeves and a high neck so I wore a navy blue dress I had selected myself. It was one of the few dresses I have ever had that I truly enjoyed wearing. A halter neck tied with a bow at the nape of my neck and the shape was A-line, gently flowing out at the bottom with what my mother called an empire waist. There was an eyelet detail along the hem. My mother pointed out all of these things to me, but what I liked was that it looked like the sort of thing a chic Parisian might wear. When I put that dress on I felt as though I could have been my mirror self, but French, not English.
When John pressed the bell that evening, I answered the door in that navy dress and a pair of yellow sandals. He was silent as he looked me up and down and it was the first time I had properly felt like a woman. I twirled around for him and was thrilled that he was lost for words.
I called goodbye to my parents and linked my arm in his.
‘Where shall we go?’
‘Anywhere you like,’ he said.
Around the bend in the road, out of sight of my mother who had a habit of peering out the front window, John took me by the waist and drew me close, kissing me the way he did when we didn’t want the evening to end.
‘You’re terrible,’ I said, when our noses were nearly touching.
‘I’m not the one in the dress,’ he replied, grinning.
There was no one else on the road and he moved behind me.
‘What are you doing?’
I felt his finger on my back and it sent a shiver through my body as he traced the outline of the straps on my swimming costume. He kissed my bare shoulder and I swatted him away – a pretence to modesty, but I didn’t want him to stop.
‘What if someone sees us?’
I felt his lips brush my neck when he said, ‘I’m sure they’ve seen much worse.’
We went to the White Horse Inn which was our favourite pub due to its back garden where we could sit in the shadows of the crumbling remains of the old St James the Apostle Church and be assured of as much privacy as was possible in public in a small town. Dusk crept over the top of the crumbling yellow bricks of the church and John and I had a drink and then another, but I was restless in the muggy air which was so unusual for us on the coast. I wanted to walk so we went along the parade, which had been full of people: couples, families, and children all out looking for a cool breeze to relieve the sticky stupor from the heat.
It seemed reasonable to think that the sea would have a cooling effect, but there was no breeze, not even a gust, off the water that night. The sea was calm, lapping gently away at the pebbles on the beach and providing a delicate tinkling background soundtrack.
Being in the midst of the crowds had made me feel even warmer than before, so I hopped down onto the pebbles and turned to gesture for John to follow, but I needn’t have bothered, he was right behind me.
I made a beeline for the sea.
‘But Martha,’ he called. ‘I can’t swim.’
I paid him no attention as I strode across the beach, heading under the pier where it was cool and dark and we could be alone.
Near the back we were mostly hidden from view and though there were people on the beach, we were secluded enough. John put his arms around me and we kissed the way people do when they’re first in love: quickly and greedily. I couldn’t get enough of him.
The feeling was mutual because he was bolder than ever that night, his hand ran up my leg, lifting my dress, moving steadily up my thigh. I didn’t think I could hold out much longer – we were young, it was a hot summer, and everything felt natural. If swimming had taught me anything – and it had taught me a great deal – it was that our bodies were made to be used. They had purpose beyond whatever our minds dictated.
I heard the pebbles moving around us and I thought it was our shifting feet as we tried to move closer and closer to each other. I thought we were alone under the pier, and then I heard soft voices and a cough, but I ignored them. John didn’t appear to have noticed and all I was interested in was him.
But then we heard a whistle coming from the shoreline and John turned to see two men standing only a few feet away from us, cans of beer glinting in the moonlight. He didn’t say anything to them, just grabbed my hand and we dashed off in the opposite direction.
‘Come back!’ one of them shouted. ‘We want to see the show!’
I giggled and John was mortified.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘For what?’
He gave me a look that I took to mean, for embarrassing you.
‘They didn’t ruin my evening,’ I said.
‘They’ve ruined mine.’
‘Don’t be like that.’
He glanced nervously at his shoes. ‘My landlady is away.’
‘Is she?’
He nodded. ‘Would you like to come to mine, for a drink?’
He held out his hand and led me to his house and I stood in his bedroom as he untied the bow at the nape of my neck and my dress fell to the floor.
John traced my tan lines with his fingers. ‘You have a second skin,’ he said.
We managed to shuffle to the end of the pier and John held the door to the tearoom open for me. We selected a table and assumed our natural positions: I faced the water and John faced the land.
‘Cake?’ he asked.
‘No, just tea.’
‘You should try and eat something. Ice cream?’
I shook my head. ‘Tea is fine.’
‘Good job the restaurant was closed.’
He brought two cups of builder’s tea in paper cups to the table and I curled my hands around the drink. It was warming and I was glad of it, even though it was a beautiful day, I was still prone to chills.
We faced one another and as I stared at my husband’s face, which was now the face of an old man, I remembered how I had wondered about people our age when I was young. I hadn’t understood why they spent so much time sitting and not speaking. They seemed to be everywhere: on benches, in pubs and in tea houses like us. I had thought it must have been so sad to be them, sitting in silence, having run out of things to say, but now I wondered if maybe they had just enjoyed looking at one another, if that had actually been the point of it all along. That the point of life was to get to the moment where all you needed was to gaze at another person’s face, one you knew better than your own, reading the lines and wrinkles that marked out the years spent together.
The room was empty except for a family with small children wh
o were perched near the door, the mother fighting exhaustion, the father hiding his irritation, and the children bursting with sugary energy, desperate to be allowed back outside where they were free to run.
‘You know, it was built in the 1160s,’ John said.
‘What?’
‘The castle.’
‘Finally, something older than us.’
‘It’s been standing watch and keeping us safe all these years.’
I sipped my tea.
‘You know, everything here is built with one purpose: to protect us. Even the seawall. It’s kept you safe all these years, holding back the worst of the storms.’
His talk of protecting was making me feel frail.
‘What did you want to do?’ I asked.
He closed his eyes and shook his head the same way he always did when he didn’t understand and felt I was being difficult for the sake of it.
‘What do you mean, Martha?’
‘What did you want from life?’
‘What kind of a question is that?’
‘One I’d like to know the answer to.’
‘You know the answer.’
‘Tell me.’
‘What’s the point if you know what I’m going to say?’
‘Because hearing is different than knowing,’ I said. ‘Hearing is better.’
He reached across the table and put his hand on mine. ‘I got everything I wanted.’
‘Nothing was missed out?’
‘No.’
‘Not one thing?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Well,’ he said, pausing. ‘I would have like to have owned a red MG.’
I nearly spat my tea out, I laughed so hard. He was pleased with himself and it showed.
‘I have to see a man about a dog,’ he said.
I finished what was left of my tea, burped, and pushed my chair back, the legs scraping loudly against the lino, and went outside. I walked past the public toilets, and a mother trying to wipe the chocolate off her son’s hands and thought of my children whose younger days had been full of similar moments. Children were sticky, tricky things, needy and independent simultaneously, but there was something endearing about the way they clung to their mothers that I found myself missing. It was a much simpler need, pure and direct, with no subtext, unlike the needs of a husband.