by Dominic Luke
‘Are you sure?’
‘It was all my fault. I was the one who stayed with him.’
‘You are making excuses for him. What was he really like?’
‘He was….’
‘Yes?’
‘He was …’ Face it. Say it. Confess. ‘… violent. A bully.’
‘A Tory,’ said Terry nastily.
That is his worst insult, thought Lydia, experiencing an unexpected and destabilizing emotion that she could not quite put her finger on. She wanted to laugh – or was it cry? Poor Terry. He was not sophisticated like Nigel. Nigel’s insults had been more telling. She shuddered as a long-ago scene resurfaced in her mind, a certain restaurant, a certain waitress – little more than a girl. What was it she had done: brought the wrong mustard, spilt the wine? Nigel had eyeballed her. ‘Are you congenitally incompetent, or is it something you’ve had to practise?’ His aim had been sure, certain, deadly: it always was. Tears had sprung in the girl’s eyes. She had crumbled in front of them. I was naive, thought Lydia, young and naive. I laughed, I thought Nigel’s remark witty, I disliked the waitress who was younger, prettier. I didn’t realize that, looking at her as the tears sprang, I was looking into a mirror.
‘I thought he would change,’ Lydia said out loud. ‘I had changed, being with him. I was more confident, I felt worthy.’
‘You were young?’ suggested Terry. ‘Inexperienced?’
‘But I was not stupid. Yet I thought I could tap into the inner man, bring his gentler side to the fore.’
‘I bet he didn’t have a gentler side,’ said Terry bitterly. ‘I wish I’d met him. I’d have punched him on the nose.’
‘Oh, Terry…!’ She found herself laughing. It made her feel incredibly sad. ‘Nigel would have flattened you. He was a big man, he played rugby.’
‘I rather get the impression he is the sort of man who only picks on women.’
‘He said it was because he cared: it showed how much he cared. You only get that worked up when it’s something that matters.’ He had said a lot of things, very reasonable things, the voice of authority. He had said she was wasting her time painting. He had told her it would never amount to anything. Those who can, he said, do; those who can’t, teach. ‘Which explains why you are a teacher, darling.’
‘It is high time you forgot about Nigel.’
‘Nigel is not my only error of judgment. I got embroiled with Richard Collier. I am old enough to be his mother.’
‘That is what I like about you.’
‘That I am old? That I slept with a man half my age?’
‘That you dared to.’
‘But there’s the baby, too.’
‘Our baby.’
‘It is not your baby. Nor is it Richard’s. It is—’
‘That doesn’t matter. It belongs to us.’
‘There is no us.’
‘Not yet.’
‘How can there be when I am nothing, nobody, an empty shell?’
‘You are not nobody. Look how you created that Exhibition. Look at the way you got people to rally round. You are an inspiration. That is why I like you. That is why I … I love you.’
‘But Terry, I don’t love you.’
‘Not at all? Not even a bit? Is there nothing…?’
‘Your beard,’ she conceded, whispering. ‘I like men with beards.’
‘That is a start. We can—’
‘But your anorak. That anorak.’
She could hear him taking it off as she emerged from behind the sofa, feeling her way now that it had grown completely dark. Her groping hand met his. He gripped it.
‘This could be a terrible mistake,’ she said. Like Richard, like Dean, like Nigel.
‘Look on it as an experiment. Two inert substances, coming together. Will there be…?’
‘Will there be what?’
‘A reaction … a chemical … reaction….’
His pullover was prickly against her cheek, his chest was heaving. Her fingers sought his face, as if to prove to herself that he was really there. She touched his bristly beard, his soft lips, felt his lips part as he spoke.
‘Oxygen,’ he muttered indistinctly.
‘Oxygen?’
‘Oxygen started as a waste gas. It was poison. Now we can’t live without it. That is how things change. You see, we would not be here at all but for microscopic cyanobacteria millions of years ago, building stromatolites, excreting oxygen, paving the way for … for…. What’s so funny?’
She was rocking with laughter. ‘Oh Terry, Terry! Is this the way you sweet-talk a woman?’
‘I am no good at it. There is not much that I am good at. Clueless, my ex-wife called me.’
‘Hush,’ said Lydia, pressing her fingers against his lips. ‘Hush.’
It was not the femme fatale talking. It was not even Miss Taylor from school. It was ordinary Lydia in her little old cottage, the Lydia who couldn’t do and had to teach.
By the looks of things, she was going to have to teach Terry a thing or two.
The daylight woke her. She had forgotten to close the curtains. With spring getting on and the days drawing out, it got light early. Normally she’d still have been fast asleep at this time, but now she was wide awake and there could be no more hiding in her dreams.
She stared up at the sloping ceiling, aware of Terry sleeping beside her, snuffling slightly in a way that was reminiscent of Prize. But Prize was not here: Prize had gone, would never come back. It was Terry who was here.
She was still making up her mind if this was a good thing or not when she remembered what day it was. Thursday, the day of the election. If it was not one thing, it was another, she thought with a sinking feeling. Surely there was no real possibility of her becoming a parish councillor? It was the last thing she needed after the trauma of the Exhibition. She had enough on her plate with the baby, with Terry—
You’re the most wonderful woman in the world.
Had he really said that? But Richard had said similar things in his cack-handed way, spinning a line, using fancy chat to get her into bed.
But what about that day in his flat? You don’t realize how fantastic you are, so droll and original and sexy.
He couldn’t have been talking about her. He couldn’t have.
She thought of the suitcase under the bed where she’d shoved it last night, hoping Terry wouldn’t notice. Perhaps the suitcase still offered the best way out. What had she got left, what was there to stay for? She felt comfortable with Terry, that was true; she had never made any pretence with him. But that was a long, long way from love. You couldn’t build anything on that … could you?
She stretched her legs and wiggled her toes, feeling the unborn child stirring inside her, making its presence felt: a presence she was – dared she say it – slowly getting used to.
You’re the most wonderful woman in the world.
Perhaps, she said, testing the waters, feeling trepidation, perhaps I really am.
She listened. No snort of derision. No disparaging comments.
There had been nothing now for days.
Her mother’s ghost wasn’t there. Her mother’s ghost had gone.
THIRTY-THREE
‘MUM, MUM! WHERE are you? The results!’
It was past Amanda’s bedtime – it was past everyone’s bedtime – but one had not liked to leave her behind when even Dean had expressed an interest in coming to the count. Amanda had been especially enthusiastic, too, these last few days: a late convert to the cause. She had made a placard, Vote For My Mum, had paraded round the village with it. Gwen had been resigned to her fate by then. The damage was already done. Amanda’s placard would not make much difference. One had always known that people had misgivings, but those misgivings would now harden into indisputable truths. Gwen Collier is getting too big for her boots. Who does she think she is, putting herself forward for the parish council? Not to mention that Exhibition, and flaunting herself on the local news! She needs cutting down t
o size, there’s no two ways about it.
Gwen faced facts. What little standing she had ever had in the village was gone for ever. Her struggle to be respectable – to be accepted – was just as futile as her fight against dust and dirt and the unstoppable creepy-crawlies.
‘Mum!’ Amanda was pulling at her sleeve.
‘Yes, I’m coming!’ Gwen allowed herself to be led out of the little lobby where she had gone for a moment’s peace and back into the main room, a vast chamber in the leisure centre in town: some sort of sports hall, one presumed. It was packed this evening. (Evening? It was almost morning: would be, by the time they were finished.) A great concourse of people was milling about. There were officials (Basil was in his element), candidates, the press, hangers-on. Tellers were sitting at long lines of tables. The untidy mounds of ballot papers tipped from box after box had been sifted, sorted and arranged into nice, neat piles. But the process was taking for ever; and it didn’t help that votes were being counted from across the entire district. The parish election was just a sideshow to the more important district council seats. That Terry-person was here. (What was his surname again? She could never remember. She must ask Dean). He was up for re-election, standing in one of the town wards. Lydia was with him. (Were they a couple or not? One liked to be clear about these things. But it would never last, either way: it just wouldn’t … would it?) Lydia looked more striking than ever this evening, positively blooming. That was what pregnancy did for you (it couldn’t be down to Terry, he was far too dull). The way she was dressed, too: it put one’s neat grey skirt and smart blouse rather in the shade. Could one really get such clothes from a charity shop, the wonderful flowing skirt, the shimmering, flared blouse? With all that dark hair, Lydia looked startlingly exotic, like a flamenco dancer—
Gwen took a breath. I am gabbling, she thought. I must slow down, take one step at a time. Oh, how I wish I was tucked up in bed!
Basil was now taking to the makeshift stage at one end of the hall. He looked rather resplendent in his best suit. Very stiff and formal, of course: pernickety, one might say, if one had been the sort of person who used such words (one wasn’t, thank goodness). Amanda was right: he was ready to give out the results.
All round the district first, in alphabetical order. People began clapping, cheering. (Was there any need for it? Wasn’t it rather like gloating? One could not imagine Basil doing it. Basil was a stickler. One tended to overlook his magnificent sense of decorum.) Flash bulbs were going off, reporters were busy scribbling. Wasn’t that girl over there the one from the local paper, the girl Imelda Darkley had sent flying on the day the Exhibition opened? Nearby was Imelda herself. One couldn’t really miss her. Those shoulder pads on her sturdy frame put one in mind of that bull-headed monster, the name of which escaped one (Dean would know). Imelda’s hair was done up, too, soaring high like a vast conical mountain (that mountain in Brazil, the one with Jesus on top: where was Dean when one wanted him?), and her habitual green wellies had tonight been swapped for shiny flat shoes. (One wasn’t the sort of person who used words like grotesque; one never passed comments on the size of people’s feet.) Margaret Pole was, of course, in attendance, as was old Smithson who’d decided to stand after all, deferring his retirement once again.
‘Yoo-hoo, Gwen! Over here! Isn’t this exciting, ha ha ha!’
The Stasi came bulldozing through the crowd, waving and shouting (one wished her voice wasn’t quite so piercing). Her husband followed in her wake, fiddling with the collar of his shirt. He looked distinctly uncomfortable in his ill-fitting suit, not a patch on Basil.
‘I haven’t had so much fun in ages!’ cried the Stasi. ‘It shouldn’t be long now until— But wait a minute, this must be Terry’s result!’
The first of the town wards. Basil’s lugubrious tones. ‘Armitage, Mr Terence Alan….’ Of course, that was the name: Armitage! To hear Basil announce it so courteously, one would never guess the choice epithets he had for Terry: buffoon, demagogue, that man.
So, Terry had scraped home. Did he look pleased? Relieved? Well, not really. He only had eyes for Lydia. Such an odd combination, really, those two. Would she take him for walkies and fondle his ears?
Oh, you are cruel, Gwendolen: so cruel!
‘And now….’ Basil, solemn, impartial.
‘This is us, Gwen! Oh, I can’t bear it, ha ha ha!’
The Stasi was gripping her arm, jumping around like an excited child. All that pulling of pints had given her some strength. One wished she would—
But one couldn’t think straight. One’s mouth was dry. One’s heart beating. One just wanted to get it over with.
‘Collier, Mrs Gwendolen Elizabeth….’
There it was: the first name to be announced. Bottom of the list.
Gwen let out a long breath. So. How did one feel? Relieved, naturally: relieved that it was all over. But…. Well, would it have been too much to ask to have come second from last? One would have liked a sop to one’s tattered pride. Really, though: what else could one have expected? (…newcomer … couldn’t keep her husband … married twice…does her best, poor dear….)
‘Your face, Gwen, ha ha ha! Anyone would think it was a catastrophe!’
‘But last place….’
‘First, Gwen: you came first. He’s reading them top down. You got more votes than anyone, you got over two hundred and – oh, there’s my name! He just said my name!’
She will rip my sleeve, break my arm, if she grips much tighter, thought Gwen. What did she mean, first? She must be mistaken. But then she so often is. She does tend to get hold of the wrong end of the stick.
The Stasi let go of her. For the moment, all Gwen could think about was how much her arm was hurting. She rubbed the place where the Stasi’s fingers had gripped, watching as the Stasi became involved in a fierce contretemps with her husband.
‘I don’t know if I’m in or not.’
‘You should have been listening.’
‘I was listening.’
‘Not properly.’
‘Yes I was! Were you listening? No you weren’t, or you’d know if I’d got in.’
Whack, crack! Gwen flinched, holding her arm close to her chest, as the Stasi launched a few deadly strikes on her husband.
Over the loudspeakers, Basil’s voice had developed a tone of peroration. ‘… Pole, Mrs Margaret: fifty-eight votes. And Darkley, Lady Imelda Ann: forty-three votes. That concludes….’
Gwen shook her head. The result was topsy-turvy, it couldn’t be right. If it had been anyone but Basil one would have assumed there had been a miscalculation somewhere, but Basil didn’t make mistakes.
Lydia appeared at her side, all dazzling smiles (one almost expected her to start clicking some castanets).
‘I believe congratulations are in order,’ she said, ‘for both of you.’
‘Who’d have thought I’d get more votes than you, Lydia, ha ha ha! But it’s a shame we didn’t all get on. It would have been like old times, the old Exhibition committee back together.’
‘Unfortunately,’ said Lydia, ‘I was pipped by Smithson.’
She did not sound unduly upset, but Gwen was dismayed. ‘Oh, Lydia, are you sure?’
‘Quite sure. Basil was most definite.’
‘But it’s not right! It’s not fair! None of this would have happened without you! We wouldn’t even be here!’
‘I’m a troublemaker, Gwen. A snake in the grass. That is how people see me, anyway. I was never going to be popular.’
‘But you were going to change things! You were going to make a difference!’ (You were going to change things for me, make a difference in my life.)
‘I’ve done my bit. I have other fish to fry. This, for instance.’ She laid a hand on her stomach. ‘And a new painting. I thought, after my masterpiece was burned, that I wouldn’t have the heart to ever paint again, but already I feel ideas and inspiration bubbling up inside me. My next painting will have a snake in it. I have developed quite a
liking for snakes. The parish council I leave to you, Gwen. You must continue our good work in shaking up the village and making people think.’
‘Me?’ Gwen trembled. She could almost feel the weight of expectation pressing down upon her. How would she cope, when she couldn’t even keep her own house clean, when no one in the village respected her?
‘You will be elected leader, I have no doubt,’ Lydia continued, ‘now that Lady Darkley has been ousted.’
‘Me!’
‘Of course. Who else? Don’t you realize, Gwen, how popular you are? I’ve never heard a bad word against you. It’s rather heartening, I think, in this cynical age, that people still sometimes get their just deserts.’
Gwen could hardly hear Lydia above the noise in the hall – or was it a buzzing in her ears? She felt dizzy, come to that, and she couldn’t breathe. It was suffocating in here.
‘I must just … some air …’
She desperately needed a moment to herself, but as she made her way through the crowd, smiling people greeted her on every side, and her hand was shaken again and again. ‘Well done, Gwen! Congratulations! So very glad!’ It was like Waitrose on a bad day, familiar faces at every turn: one sometimes felt that one would never reach the checkout, and even when one did, one couldn’t help wondering, as one waited in the queue, what they were all saying to one another up and down the aisles. ‘There she goes: Gwen Collier … her husband ran off with another woman … her house is full of dust, teeming with creepy-crawlies … she tries so hard, but …’
Don’t you realize, Gwen, how popular you are? I’ve never heard a bad word against you.
A fresh wave of dizziness overtook her as she reached the lobby. There was a side door open for smokers. Gwen stepped thankfully through it, gulped in the cool night air. Not so cool, actually: it had been a glorious day, and another was forecast for tomorrow. The night sky was clear, stars glinting above the black silhouettes of Basil’s monstrosities.