The Girl Next Door

by Rendell, Ruth

  They had met only once before. Rosemary would have passed her by with a vague sense of having seen that woman somewhere, but Helen, who was more observant than she and had better sight, greeted her with a ‘Hi, Rosemary, how are you?’

  Rosemary said she was fine, thanks, thinking what else can you say and why do people ask?

  ‘What a coincidence,’ said Helen. ‘I haven’t seen either of you for years, and then all of a sudden I see your husband’ – she had forgotten his name – ‘in the tube on Thursday night and you in the High Road on Friday. I’d got in at Bond Street and he got in at Oxford Circus.’

  Rosemary said nothing. She gave a vague nod. The other woman – was she called Helen? – began telling her about George, poor George, and his heart, which he never took care of as he should. Rosemary excused herself by saying she must get on and went to buy her tights in a kind of daze. This Helen must be wrong, of course. She probably drank, she looked as if she did. Alan was at home. She took the new pair of tights into her bedroom and came out to find him on the balcony, reading something. It might be poetry or some classic; she took little interest in what he read, it always seemed such a waste of time. He looked up, smiled at her and said something about how nice it was to be able to sit out here in the sunshine.

  ‘Whatever were you doing getting into the tube at Oxford Circus last night?’

  Instead of blushing, which wasn’t his way, he turned white. She didn’t notice but he did, or rather, he felt it happen, a shuddering withdrawal of blood from his cheeks. Unable to speak, he clenched his hands, then managed, ‘I went to Robert’s club, left him there. Cavendish Square.’

  ‘I thought Owen was driving you out to the Norfolk Show.’

  Why would he ever have wanted to go to an agricultural show, and why would their son, living and working in Winchester, have driven him there? It was the feeblest and most unlikely excuse. But he had made it and she remembered.

  CHAPTER TEN

  POSSESSING NO GRANDER clothes, Alan had worn a suit for the wedding, probably his best suit if you categorised such garments, but the first man he saw when they arrived was in morning dress. It was a beautiful day, very warm and sunny. He hadn’t envisaged a garden but the hotel had one, large, with lawns, rosebuds, a shrubbery, tall trees and a river frontage.

  A man dressed like a Yeoman of the Guard who Rosemary called a master of ceremonies was ushering guests in through a kind of tent or marquee attached to the back of the hotel. Taking their places in a queue, Alan was conscious of women ahead of them, and soon behind them, dressed very elegantly compared to poor Rosemary. He suddenly felt enormous pity for her along with his guilt. If only someone would come up to them and tell her how nice she looked, even ask her where she had bought her suit. But no one did and they were soon shaking hands with David and kissing Freya. Rosemary, who had already told Alan how odd it was to see the bride and, come to that, the groom before the ceremony had taken place, said, ‘Happy is the bride that the sun shines on.’

  Alan doubted that he would have winced at that six months ago. He did now. Was he imagining the look Freya gave him? There she stood in a white lace creation, cut very low, her left arm full of white roses, her eyes penetratingly on him for no more than a few seconds but narrow with condemnation. Or so he thought, his guilt thinking for him. Back in the garden, Rosemary had spotted Judith and Fenella and Fenella’s husband Giles and homed in on them. It would have been better to have approached people they didn’t know and introduced themselves, but Alan knew Rosemary would never do that. He thought, perhaps again imagined, that his other granddaughter gave him a look that was not exactly hostile but rather of the reproving sort a mother reserves for her disobedient child. Judith, on the other hand, had an ironical smile on her face, sheltered by a cartwheel hat. He dipped under the hat to kiss her, thinking, they know. My daughter and my granddaughters know. Just as Helen Batchelor knew.

  A net was closing in. He felt a real shiver of fear. Not for himself but for Rosemary and what she might do, something he couldn’t envisage. He was realising that it is impossible to imagine how someone, however well you know her and for how long, when confronted by a situation quite alien to her, quite outside her way of life and that of everyone she knows, will react. It could be with tears, with screaming, with loud-voiced threats, with – please God, not that – the declared intention of suicide.

  ‘A penny for them,’ said Rosemary merrily. A woman had just approached her, been introduced by Fenella, and remarked on her ‘beautiful suit’.

  Alan said nothing. What could he say? Certainly not the truth. Another introduction followed, Fenella presenting the woman’s husband. ‘Grandma, Grandad, I don’t think you know Sir William Johnson. He’s my godfather.’

  Had he and Rosemary been at Fenella’s christening, thirty-five years before? He had no memory of it, nor of anyone before that or later mentioning this tall, distinguished-looking man in a morning coat with a gardenia in the buttonhole. He had a fine head of curly hair, close-trimmed and white as snow. There was something about him, something distant and remote, that rang, as Rosemary would say, a bell. He tried to put his finger on that bell, make it ring again, but the faint recognition was gone. All he could think was that Sir William (now addressed by Fenella as Uncle Bill) was about the same age as himself.

  They were filing into the hotel for the ceremony, to be performed by a registrar. Alan hadn’t been to anyone’s wedding for years, perhaps Fenella’s had been the last. That had been in a church, an unfamiliar service certainly and probably from the Alternative Service Book, but this was, while of no great interest to him, a ‘travesty’ according to Rosemary’s whispering. He was relieved when the very limited vows had been made and the last poem written specially by a relative or friend had been read.

  Lunch soon followed, not a help-yourself affair, but a series of courses of the stuffed-courgette-flowers-black-pasta-with prawns-roast grouse variety served at tables each for four. Alan felt a heavy depression begin to settle on him, a condition he was occasionally subject to but hadn’t experienced since his reunion with Daphne. It was coupled with a sensation of horror that he might never see her again, that his own relations at this wedding, his son, his daughter, his granddaughters and their husbands, would close round him and, uniting with Rosemary in consolidated love, crush his and Daphne’s joy or dismiss it as an unsuitable fling already over.

  Sir William and Lady Johnson were the other guests at their table, this placement arranged probably by Freya because all four were much the same age. Again Alan felt he knew William Johnson, though the deep, rather slow voice was unfamiliar. Lady Johnson, younger than her husband and addressed by him as Amanda, was thin, blonde and beautifully dressed in a gown of much the same colour as Rosemary’s suit but bearing, to Alan’s untutored eye, the unmistakable stamp of Paris. Her small head-clinging hat he thought a wise choice at a gathering where obstruction of the view of the principal players was unfortunate. It was upsetting to realise that he had begun comparing Rosemary with other women, most of whom he was now seeing as more attractive and better dressed than she. This unpleasant reverie was interrupted by Sir William saying, ‘I believe I know you from somewhere, but it’s a long time ago.’

  His voice was cut off by the master of ceremonies announcing a speech to be made by a friend of the bridegroom’s, a man who would once have been called the best man. Alan glanced at Sir William and nodded, but no more talking was possible. The speech was short and without facetiousness or obscene jokes. It is hard to make arch sexual references when the couple you are toasting have been living together for five years. Everyone wanted to start eating but no one was averse to champagne first. Apparently, apart from a rejoinder from the bridegroom and a rather surprising raising of glasses to the Queen, there were to be no more speeches. A bottle of white and a bottle of red wine arrived at their table and Alan said, ‘I know you from somewhere too. I knew you as Bill. Your voice deceived me but I realise it must have broken a c
ouple of years after we were all in the’ – he hesitated – ‘the qanats.’

  Bill Johnson began to laugh. It was the kind of laughter that arises not from amusement but from appreciation of a question answered.

  ‘The qanats, yes. A long time since I heard that word. We were only there a couple of months but I often think of the qanats. I even dream of them.’ His deep voice sounded deeper but, strangely, more like the tones of the boy of long ago. ‘My family lived on The Hill at the top and you in Shelley Grove, I think. I remember you now, and one or two others. There was a rather glamorous girl called Daphne something and a boy with difficult parents and all the Batchelor family.’

  ‘I was there too,’ said Rosemary.

  Alan detected a note of resentment in her voice, but more than that, something of anger at the mention of Daphne’s name. Bill Johnson’s wife heard it too. She looked concerned, glanced at her husband, and Bill responded with the tact Alan associated with the diplomat he later learned his old friend had once been. ‘Of course you were. Rosemary, the only girl who was a regular attender. Did you two meet there?’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said, none too pleasantly. ‘We’ve known each other all our lives. We were inseparable, weren’t we, Alan?’

  Although it had very little to do with the ceremony they had just witnessed, a line from the old marriage service came into Alan’s mind. ‘Whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.’ It wasn’t comforting.

  They ate their lunch, an unsuitable time to raise the matter of the hands discovery. But Bill Johnson mentioned it afterwards. He also said that he had been at Cambridge with Daphne. Alan felt a surge of jealousy, quietened a little when Bill said they had had almost no contact while at the university but hers was a face you would never forget. Amanda Johnson, who had taken very little part in the conversation but listened pleasantly and occasionally exchanged a word with Rosemary, said that they must all meet again. Dinner perhaps. She would phone. Alan had no faith in that kind of promise of invitations and reunions. They were always forgotten. Rosemary would veto it anyway.

  They parted for more walking round the gardens and watching Freya and David depart for their honeymoon flight to Morocco. The usual lowering of spirits that always comes at weddings when the couple have left settled on the company. People began to leave. Alan found himself and Rosemary close to Judith, and he asked her about Bill Johnson.

  ‘When Maurice and I were in Sudan, Bill was our ambassador in Khartoum. We were very much thrown together; there weren’t many English people there then, probably thousands now. Maurice asked him to be godfather to Fenella. He’s been a very good godparent, always remembered her birthday and whatever.’

  ‘A godparent,’ said Rosemary repressively, ‘is supposed to bring the godchild before the bishop at a suitable age for confirmation.’

  ‘Oh Mum. No one cares about that sort of thing any more.’

  ‘We all knew each other slightly as children.’ Alan knew he had spoken of ‘all’ and ‘slightly’ to mollify Rosemary and despised himself for it. ‘You never mentioned him before.’

  ‘I did, Dad, but you weren’t listening. I never knew about you all being mates as kids, did I?’

  It hadn’t been a successful day, not at any rate for some of the guests. To his shame, Alan thought that the one thing he had got out of it was the chance, perhaps, to use Bill Johnson as a future alibi. He felt his phone in his pocket, the smooth rectangular shape of it, and thought, let me have a moment alone and I will phone Daphne, but there was to be no moment of solitude. Fenella ran up to them just as they were leaving.

  ‘Oh, Grandma, I’ve got an appointment in Epping next Wednesday afternoon and I thought I might pop in and see you on the way back.’

  Rosemary said that would be lovely, darling.

  ‘And you too, Grandad?’

  No one ever had appointments in Epping, Alan thought, not unless they lived there and went to the dentist or to have their hair done. And why ask if he’d be there? Because she wanted him to be or didn’t want him to be?

  He nearly said he didn’t know. But no, he wouldn’t be there, he’d go and see Daphne. ‘No.’ His voice was chilly. ‘I won’t be there. I won’t be back till late.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  WHEN HE THOUGHT about it, which wasn’t often, Michael told himself he got on very well with his children. If he had to think of a word to describe Jane and Richard’s attitude towards him, he would have come up with ‘dutiful’ and his to them with ‘undemanding’. They always seemed to be in different parts of the world, and since they communicated by email, it was difficult to tell where they were. He never asked them to come home, but part of their dutifulness was that occasionally they did, usually bringing him a present, once an iPod (Jane) because he liked listening to music in private, and on another occasion half a dozen hand-made silk shirts from Seoul (Richard). Both were in their forties. Jane, divorced, had two children, both grown up now. Richard had never married. Michael supposed he was gay but the subject had never been discussed. Many subjects were not discussed between them, such as life and death and family relationships. When they came back to this country for four or five days at a time, they invariably stayed in hotels, dutifully visiting him every day of their stay. This time, for Jane, it was different. She said so in an email.

  She would like to stay with him. It seemed ridiculous, he having this big house and she staying miles away in a ‘soulless’ hotel. She didn’t mention the expense, she wouldn’t. Neither of his children ever spoke of money in his presence. When he had read the email, he went upstairs and had a look at the bedroom on the first floor, next to the one he slept in. It was quite all right, rather small, with a single bed and a tiny free-standing cupboard for clothes. The occupant would have to share his bathroom. He went on up the stairs and into Vivien’s room. Naturally, Jane would expect to sleep here.

  Removing his shoes and carefully folding back the white silk quilt, he lay down on the bed on the side that had always been his, and with his eyes closed put his arm round her ghostly body, imagining he felt her warmth. He seldom spoke to her, but he did now.

  ‘Shall I let your daughter sleep here, my darling?’

  Of course she would. There was no question. And Jane would take it for granted, perhaps not even noticing the shrine aspects of the room, the peculiar care that had been lavished on it. His children were not observant, they were not sensitive. He blamed himself, reflecting that he hadn’t been sensitive with them. Kind enough, yes, indulgent and generous, but not understanding. He had kept all that, as well as love, for their mother. Yet he could easily be hurt. He foresaw how he would feel when Jane marched into this room and exclaimed that it was just like it was when it was Mummy’s and why didn’t he sleep there?

  Jane’s reaction was in fact very like that. She stepped over the threshold and, having inhaled the scent of the white roses he had put in a vase to greet her, flung her arms round him and cried, ‘Oh, Daddy, am I intruding? You’ve made this your private place for communing with Mummy.’

  Later, when she had settled down in what she called ‘the sacred room’, he took her out to dinner, not being willing to cook for her and sure she wouldn’t welcome it. They talked about her children, whom he barely knew, and about her new job. She was a doctor, a paediatrician and a high-powered one. He told her about Zoe, and she made him wince by saying she was surprised ‘the old dear’ was still alive.

  ‘Then you’ll be even more so when I tell you that my father is.’

  ‘Too right I will. He must be a hundred years old.’

  ‘When people say that, they think they’re exaggerating, but in fact he is. Well, ninety-nine.’

  ‘You never see him, do you?’

  ‘I almost never see him,’ Michael said. ‘Ever since his wife died, he’s been living in a luxurious old people’s home where everyone has a personal butler and a Jacuzzi.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘I’ve never seen a
ll this, of course. I get it from Zoe.’

  Next morning, Brenda Miller phoned to say Zoe was ill and had gone into hospital. She had pneumonia.

  ‘I’ll come straight away.’

  Jane said a brisk ‘What a shame when I’ve just come,’ but seemed quite resigned to his absence. She had lots to do, she said, and hundreds of people to see.

  ‘I won’t stay there,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back this evening.’

  ‘Mind you say hallo to her from me.’

  Zoe would be beyond greetings of that kind, he thought, but he promised he would. Pneumonia, once called the old man’s friend because without drugs, painless and slow, it gently carried him to his end. They would try to keep Zoe alive and no doubt succeed for a while. But perhaps she had asked not to be resuscitated.

  She had said he was her son and she his mother. Those emotive words brought the tears to his eyes that had been withheld while he was with her in her house. He wept in the back of the taxi on his way to the hospital. She was conscious, propped up on pillows, and Brenda was with her.

  ‘I’ll go,’ Brenda said. ‘I’ll leave you alone together.’

  He held Zoe’s hand. Her voice had sunk to a whisper. She was lucid but forced to be sparing in what she said.

  ‘Your father. When I’m gone, he will be quite alone.’ She paused, looked searchingly at him. Her eyes were still clear. ‘I have said harsh things of him. Maybe I have been wrong. The alibi – did I dream it?’

  ‘No, no, Zoe, of course not.’