In a Good Light
Page 42
‘Did you love her very much?’ I asked, as we stood in the churchyard afterwards, waiting for the photographer to set up a shot without the wheelchair: Christian and Elaine sitting on a bench in front of the West Door.
He shook his head. ‘I can’t remember. Probably not. Does anyone know anything at seventeen?’
‘Tactful reply,’ I said, but I’m not sure I believe in the myth of youthful ignorance, or that we acquire wisdom incrementally, year by year.
The reception was held in the back room of the Fox and Pheasant. When Elaine realised how few people they wanted to invite she had scaled down her search for a venue. The men, following Christian’s lead, whipped off their jackets and ties as soon as they were in the pub, and we sat down to a beer and a ploughman’s and it was all so relaxed and informal and unlike a wedding, that I caught myself thinking: that’s just how I’d do it, hypothetically speaking, in the unlikely event . . .
There was no best man and no father-of-the-bride, so the only after-dinner speaker was Christian. ‘I won’t stand up, if you don’t mind,’ he began, and then he made this extraordinary speech about the significance of the number three – the Trinity, the three states of matter, and the stability of tripods, for example – until I started to wonder if he hadn’t had too much Guinness. But he ended by saying, ‘I’m very fortunate indeed to have the love and support of, not one, but three exceptional women: firstly, someone who has never put herself first: my mother, secondly, my sister, Esther, who has been the best friend and companion I could ask for, and finally my wife’ – he paused to acknowledge the collective murmur of approval, and to subdue the lump in his throat – ‘who has brought me the sort of happiness I often dreamed of, but never expected to find . . .’ Here he lost it completely and had to wag his hand to let us know he was done. The assembled company responded with noisy applause and much thumping on tables, and then the music came back on and Christian withdrew gratefully from the limelight.
When it was time for the newlyweds to leave Elaine made a point of throwing me her bouquet, then, two minutes later, wound down the car window and said that on second thoughts could she have it back as she wanted to press the flowers.
I moved out of the Caterham house three months ago, and I’m renting a tiny cottage in Ardingly at present, about two hundred yards from Donovan. I’ve quit the job at Rowena’s to give some proper attention to my illustrating work. After mature reflection, I’ve decided it was only my indiscipline and lack of application that made it unviable as a career before. The quality of my stuff was never a problem, just the quantity, but Donovan’s work ethic has inspired me to greater industry, and I’ve finished Jack’s Journey and fired off a dozen letters to different publishers offering my services as a jacket artist, while I try to get a commission for an illustrated book of my own, without Lucinda Todd and her forty per cent. Christian’s money won’t last for ever, so I’m giving myself two years, and if I’m not making a living by then it’s Teacher Training College for me. Now there’s an incentive.
I still see Christian quite frequently, or we talk on the phone, but not by arrangement: only when the mood takes us. We’ve agreed not to fall into a fresh set of routines. The main casualty of my new situation is the weekly swim with Dad. It’s just too far to be viable on a regular basis. He’s been fine about it: apparently, my lack of technique in the pool was holding him back, and now he can clock up his thirty lengths in half the time.
One person I don’t see as much as I’d like to is Penny. She’s not exactly on the doorstep, and her weekends are taken up with Cassie, I suppose. Maybe she sensed that a resumption of a close friendship would have made Christian uncomfortable, or maybe she never intended any such thing once her task, as she saw it, was done.
Donovan has repeated his offer to accommodate me under his roof at least once a week. It’s crazy, he says, paying for two places. We’re in and out of each other’s houses and beds all the time. He’s offered to build me a studio at the bottom of the garden, overlooking the reservoir, so I can have some space and peace to work. His onslaughts of charm are hard to resist, so maybe one day. But for the moment I’m quite enjoying the novelty of having a place of my own. It makes me feel that at last I’ve left home and joined the ranks of grown-up people who know how to turn the water off at the mains, or bleed their own radiators. We have an arrangement where we switch on the light above the front door to let each other know if we’re in and want to be disturbed. It’s supposed to safeguard our privacy and our rights as individuals not to be drawn in by the mere force of passion to a relationship that might become all-consuming.
I leave mine on, mostly.
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Published by Century in 2004
Copyright © Clare Chambers 2004
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This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
First published in the United Kingdom in 2004 by Century
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