by Clare Boyd
When he and Dilys had first met, Dilys had been charmed by his brooding, his tendency to overthink everything. He would never forget that first shot of her, weaving through the busy bar. He had wanted to do a cartoonlike glance over each shoulder, in disbelief that a woman so beautiful and sophisticated could be heading towards him. She had been wearing a three-quarter length camel cashmere coat, from which flashed her toned, tanned legs. Her conversation was sharp and opinionated, and she rarely agreed with anything he said, but she didn’t probe him about ‘what he was thinking about’. She didn’t seem to doubt herself, nor did she seem to value the idea of feelings. This was convenient for John. He did not want anyone to press him. There was too much in his head that he wanted to protect. Instead, Dilys had taken him under the wing of her coat and led him out of the bar – and into bed, where he had laid down underneath her for an out-of-body experience. The world had stopped spinning. His worries had flown away. He had never had sex like it. Dilys had been in control from day one.
A text came through from Fran.
Dilys is so lucky to have you in her corner.
He laughed to himself. It meant she had forgiven him. Francesca never stayed angry for long.
The children rampaged around him, still fighting, but he smiled and replugged his phone into the charger.
‘Okay, you three! If you give me that ball now and stop fighting, I’ll shoot some hoops with you before bath time.’
Harry groaned at the prospect of more sport, and loped off.
‘Come on, you two girls.’
Olivia and Beatrice charged down to John’s writing shed, to which he had fixed a basketball hoop for his writer’s block moments.
As he plonked balls through the hoop and into the net, and broke up more fighting, he spotted Dilys striding down the slope from the house. She rarely came to the bottom of the garden. She had his phone in her hand. His heart leapt. She looked angry.
‘What the hell does this mean?’ Dilys hissed, handing him his phone.
‘She was being sarcastic.’
‘Up to the house, girls,’ Dilys ordered. ‘Mummy needs a chat with Daddy.’
The girls knew when to listen to her, and up they ran, leaving the basketball to roll into the stream. His palms began sweating.
‘If you read my text to her, you’d understand.’
‘What’s your code?’
‘I’ll do it.’
‘I’ll do it. What’s your code?’
‘1974,’ he sighed, and watched her nervously while she read it. ‘See?’
She threw his phone at his head. ‘You did blame me!’
He rubbed his ear where the phone had clipped it. ‘It was a joke. I put in that stupid little winking emoji. I wanted to apologise for both of us.’
‘You screwed up, not me.’ Dilys thrust her face right up to his, pointing her forefinger.
John stuck his hands in his pocket, hunching his shoulders resentfully. ‘That’s not true.’
And then Dilys was running, wading into the stream, collecting the dripping-wet ball, screaming at the top of her lungs, throwing the ball. He ran. It missed him, thudding into the door as he ducked inside his shed.
John watched Dilys as she stormed up the lawn, back to the house. He kicked the door, and then he shot a few more hoops to calm himself down.
Stopping for a minute, out of breath, he stared up at their 1960s, single-storey house, aptly named ‘The Round House’. It had always reminded him of a strange, flying-saucer spaceship that had landed on the edge of a hillside, defunct; its uselessness allowing nature to grow around it, like some discarded Victorian china embedding itself into the ground. But it was apparently the envy of everyone who came to visit. The ‘famous architect’ – whom nobody had ever heard of – had built it for himself, lived in it and died in it, but John had the feeling that he had never quite left it. John certainly didn’t feel he owned it.
A wail suddenly rang across the garden, all the way from the bathroom at the back. John ran.
Dilys was kneeling down at the bath, washing Beatrice’s hair, but she was using the strong shampoo that stung Beatrice’s eyes.
‘Stop being such a baby!’ she shouted.
‘It’s okay. I’ll do it,’ John said.
‘Daddeeeeeee!’ Beatrice cried, stretching her arms out to him with her eyes squeezed shut.
‘Suit yourself,’ Dilys said, standing up and handing him the shower head without making eye contact.
After the children were tucked up in bed, John wearily made his way into the kitchen, anxious about what was in the fridge for supper, fearing the lack of food would be another flashpoint for her.
He was amazed to see that Dilys had laid the table with candles and flowers, and napkins in silver rings, and a bottle of red.
‘Sorry,’ she said, turning to him. ‘I just hate it when you blame me for stuff I didn’t do.’
‘I wasn’t blaming you,’ he insisted.
‘It’s okay, I know you didn’t mean it, and I know I can be hard on you, sometimes,’ she said, caressing the long gold necklace that dangled at the deep V of the neckline of her short, tight dress. ‘It’s just I love you so much and I want you to be the best person you can be.’
He was distracted by her appearance. In the candlelight, with a strand of hair falling into her eyes, she looked astonishing. He kissed her lips and held her, knowing she had been right to be angry with him, knowing he had not been honest with her, knowing that Francesca was a distraction.
‘I do try to keep everyone happy,’ he murmured.
John did not know how to be the person she wanted him to be.
‘Try harder.’ She smiled, winking at him and grabbing his crotch.
Before he had eaten a bite of the risotto she had cooked, she had hitched up her dress and climbed on top of him. Everything was forgotten. Even Francesca.
Chapter Nine
16 years ago
‘There he is,’ Robert said, tightening his grip on Francesca’s hand.
They walked towards a tall figure bathed in the warm, dim glow of the pub’s lighting.
‘Nice to meet you,’ John said, shaking her hand. ‘So, you’re the girl who stole my plane ticket to Mumbai.’
Francesca couldn’t believe that this beautiful man, with terrible taste in paint names and an awkward shyness, whom she had guessed she would never be lucky enough to meet again, was standing there in front of her: her new boyfriend’s brother.
She looked confused. ‘Didn’t you work on The Anniversary?’
‘Yes!’ Robert cried, slapping John on the back. ‘He was my dogsbody, weren’t you, bro?’
John nodded and pushed his crop of blond hair back, making no reference to their meeting, acting as though he had never before laid eyes on her, in the golden rain of the film set.
‘What can I get you?’
The three of them sat down at a small table in the corner, with three pints of Guinness and a pint of prawns to share.
Francesca sat between the two men, tearing pieces off her slice of brown bread and butter. Torn in two, she listened to Robert regaling John with their stories of Waheed’s wedding – of dancing to bhangra and the flow of warm orange juice and the torrential downpours – while she wanted to climb inside John’s brain, get to know his every thought. The whirlwind of Mumbai, and the exhilaration of Robert’s energy, was nothing compared to the thrill of seeing John again.
Throughout the evening, Robert’s arm was heavy around her shoulders. She convinced herself that Robert was right for her and that John’s beautiful face could deceive and beckon; that sexual attraction should not be confused with love at first sight. His exceptional, gentle handsomeness was out of reach, out of her league. His unreadable presence was too alluring to trust.
At one point, she saw John glance over at a pretty girl at the bar and she was jealous of the girl, and jealous of any girl who could win his heart, even before he had met her.
After the meal, when
they said their goodbyes, John kissed Francesca on the cheek and she grabbed his hand, and squeezed it. She had wanted to tell him something through her touch: she and Robert had been seeing each other for a few weeks, they weren’t married, it wasn’t too late.
Later that night, Robert yanked Francesca’s jeans down, and thrust himself inside her, coming quickly, holding her possessively, insistent and intractable. Afterwards, Francesca wondered if Robert had recognised John as a threat. And, in spite of how much she liked Robert, Francesca considered waking him and telling him it was over.
Chapter Ten
Francesca
Upstairs, in the blue bedroom of the cottage, I stood staring at the varnished monstrosity that took up half the room and sucked up all the light.
I turned the little key to look inside. The hangers clanged and a stench of mothballs made my eyes water, but today this wardrobe was my friend. It had been the perfect excuse to get John here, alone, to ask him about the pills. I wanted to find out whether John knew more than I did, from Robert, or from his mother.
The doorbell rang and I ran downstairs. The estate agent had already opened the door to John.
‘Hi. I’m Alistair from South Downs Properties.’
John shook his hand.
I wiped the dust off my hands and peered over Alistair’s shoulder. ‘Thanks for coming.’ I smiled.
‘I’ll let you two get on with it. I have a few calls to make down here,’ Alistair said.
‘Oh. Are you staying?’
‘Sorry. Until completion I have to be here.’
My plan was ruined.
‘No worries,’ I said, hiding my irritation, thinking of a new plan. ‘It’s up here, John.’
John followed my lead, up the stairs. The treads creaked as we went up to the first floor.
‘Do you think you might have time for a quick cuppa afterwards?’
‘I have to be back at one for a call.’
‘Great,’ I enthused. It gave me enough time, if we hurried with the wardrobe. ‘Dilys has recommended The Bakery to me before, for tea—?’
‘Sure.’ John pointed to the embossed shell-pattern wallpaper. ‘I like what you’ve done to the place.’
‘I think it’s got potential.’
He peered around the door to the bathroom. ‘Snazzy.’
‘You know, I’ve got a view.’ I climbed into the calcified pink bathtub, with my shoes and clothes still on, and lay with my head back, gazing out of the little window above the taps. I wanted him to see the potential, or get a smile out of him, at least.
‘It’s very small,’ he said, looking away, up at the bowed ceiling, clearing his throat and darting out of the room and down the stairs.
‘The wardrobe is up here!’ I called down to him.
‘What’s the garden like?’ he called up.
‘It’s got potential.’ I laughed. But he did not respond.
I searched for him downstairs, interrupting Alistair on the phone in the sitting room, before nipping through the galley kitchen, past its orange Formica units and white Aga, and out of the back door. John was already at the bottom of the narrow strip of grass.
‘You have a shed? Can I see inside?’
The bi-fold doors were stiff and I grunted when opening them. ‘The old lady who lived here had a son who was an artist.’
Inside, I took a moment to again admire the walls and floor that were splattered with paint. There were some old tubes of acrylic lying in the corner and a battered, one-legged easel discarded in the other corner. The sunshine from the skylight beamed a large rectangle patch onto the wooden floor.
John was scanning the room like a prig. ‘Will you have to pay rates?’
‘Nope. It’s got electricity but no running water.’
‘You’ll have to get a heater fitted. They’re quite expensive.’
‘Can we get on with the wardrobe?’ I asked tersely, folding my arms across my chest. My fingers fiddled nervously with my watch.
‘Now you’re moving here, I’m warning you, Mum will force you to visit Uncle Ralph for tea. None of us escapes that fate.’ He was trying to make me laugh. I did not laugh.
‘You haven’t said a positive word since you arrived.’
‘I’m trying to be practical.’ He scuffed his trainer on the floor, hitting a tube of paint, which was catapulted across the room to clatter against the back wall.
‘Practical is a good way of putting it.’ I tutted. We stepped out of the shed and I locked it up. ‘Pissing on my bonfire is another.’
‘Sorry.’ We walked back up the garden, the two small back windows of the cottage eyeing us.
I shunted him with one shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about me so much.’
‘I’m not worried.’ John stuck his hands in his pockets and stole a sideways, shy glance over at me.
‘Come on, let’s shift that wardrobe,’ I said, aware of the clock ticking.
I led him to the blue bedroom. We stood staring at the large wardrobe.
‘Will it fit in your car?’
‘If the seats are down, it’ll be fine.’ He rolled his shirt sleeves up, like an old-fashioned boxer. ‘Let’s do this.’
We began shouting orders at each other, this way, that way, not so fast, slow down, lower, lift it more, careful of the banisters. It was lighter than we expected but awkward to carry.
Alistair emerged from the sitting room. ‘Are you guys okay there?’
‘Everything’s under control,’ John grunted.
Alistair waved his phone at us, darting off, saying, ‘I’ll just take this call in the garden.’
The wardrobe began bumping down the stairs at alarming speed.
I tried to keep a grip of one of its feet, but it had gained momentum.
‘Hold it!’ John cried.
It continued to slip out of my hot, sweaty hands and slide downwards. John lost his balance and, as he frantically tried to stay upright, the wardrobe knocked him onto his back and mounted him.
He moaned. ‘Ouch.’
I began to laugh, edging around the wardrobe to get to him. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Not wounded, sire, but dead,’ he croaked, quoting Frank Sinatra in High Society.
I clamped my hand over my mouth and spluttered into it. ‘It could have killed you.’
‘Help me get it off!’
As I yanked at it, we both burst out laughing, tears rolling down our cheeks. The wooden door of the wardrobe rattled as John’s body juddered.
‘Stop making me laugh!’ I begged, gulping for breath, holding my stomach.
Just then the letterbox in the front door flapped open and a voice rang through it.
‘Darlings! Cooo-eeeee! Hel-looooo!!’
‘Mum?’ John said.
Still grinning, I let her in.
‘What in heaven’s name is going on here?’ Camilla barked. She was standing over her prone son with her hands on her hips.
‘It fell on him!’ I snorted, which set John off again.
‘I’m not sure how funny this is. How are we going to get you out?’ Camilla looked from her son’s face to mine with a disapproving frown. She was so like Robert when she was cross.
I pulled my features into a sensible face, trying to stifle my laughter and kissed my mother-in-law on the cheek. ‘It’s not that heavy,’ I sniggered, staring down at John.
John’s lips were quivering, his shoulders shaking. ‘It bloody well hurts!’
I was unable to fight back more laughter. ‘Sorry, I’ve got the giggles.’
Unmoved by our mirth, Camilla dumped her handbag on the floor. ‘You take that end, Francesca, and I’ll pull here. John, darling, you push it this way if you can.’
The laughter was sucked out of me by his mother’s distaste and good sense. I did as she said and John managed to shuffle out from under the wardrobe.
‘Aren’t you supposed to be the one helping Francesca with this damn thing, John?’ Camilla asked, as she picked up her handbag.
‘Never mind. I can’t stay. I was just passing on my way to the supermarket and thought I’d check on you,’ Camilla said, picking out a piece of brown wrapping tape from John’s hair. I bit my lip to stop my hysterics from bubbling up again. ‘Lucky I did. You’re sure you can you handle it from here?’
We were like a couple of teenagers being told off by the head teacher, and I felt guilty for my display of happiness. Since Robert’s death, laughter always had a sting in its tail.
‘Yes, Mum,’ John said, tucking in his shirt.
He was like a little boy in front of her.
When I looked at the two of them, mother and son, I thought about how little I really understood the family I had been married into for so many years. And how badly I now wanted to understand them.
* * *
The Bakery was empty and chilly. On the wall, an orange neon sign spelled out the aphorism: ‘Life is Sweet’.
‘We could sit outside—?’ John suggested.
An imposing oak tree shrouded the four metal tables on the terrace with a grey shadow.
‘Inside’s fine.’
The chairs scraped loudly in the silence. It felt awkward between us, like before a job interview. I was the potential employer and John was the unwitting interviewee.
‘Dilys always has the lime and chili poppy-seed semolina cake.’
‘Sounds lovely,’ I fibbed, scanning the menu for something that would not make me want to hurl. Meringue macaroons with pistachio foam or salty-caramel triple fudge quinoa cake?
A tall, pretty teenager appeared. ‘What can I get you?’ she asked, in a boredom-infused home counties accent.
‘I’ll just have a cup of tea, please.’ I put the menu down, not tempted by any of the cake choices.
‘Darjeeling, lapsang souchong, Earl Grey, chai or green liquorice?’
‘Do you have a normal one, please?’