by Jo Verity
Jack x
As an afterthought he added two more kisses, one for each of them, and left the note on top of the chest of drawers, along with a cheque to cover this and his previous visit. Finally he placed the customary clean hanky in the drawer and drove back to Cardiff
11
Fay explained to Jack’s mother that she was taking an old school friend for a sight-seeing tour and, as they would be more or less passing the door, it would be a good opportunity to drop off the wedding photographs which Jack had ordered for them. Vi’s responses were monosyllabic and brusque, making it impossible to gauge her reaction to the proposed visit, but that was no different from usual.
‘It’ll do them good to see a fresh face,’ Fay said. ‘They sit in that little house, reinforcing their prejudices, soaking up all that prurient rubbish from the tabloids.’
‘Aren’t you being a bit harsh?’ asked Laura.
‘Yes. I am. They’re not unintelligent people but it’s as if they’re just whiling away time until they die. As if they’ve outlived their usefulness and they’ve got no right to be alive. And I’m terrified that Jack will go the same way.’
Laura shook her head and smiled. ‘No chance with you in charge.’
‘I’m not joking, Laura. He never had much get-up-and-go but he’s doing less and less. He’s perfectly happy to fall asleep in front of the television every night. He never reads anything apart from his work stuff.’
‘He still dances though, doesn’t he?’
Fay grimaced. ‘Don’t start me on that.’
‘Well, I think it’s rather romantic. Brave. Singular.’
‘You’ve obviously never seen the Wicker Men in action.’
They turned up the steep street and Fay parked outside the house, yanking the handbrake hard. Many of the front doors stood wide open and children, some no older than three or four, were out on the pavement playing in the afternoon sunshine.
Laura had a camera on a strap around her neck and, as soon as she got out of the car, she started to take photographs. ‘It’s wonderful. Timeless, apart from the cars and the trainers.’
‘“Wonderful” is pushing it a bit, don’t you think? Deprivation is more the word I would use.’
‘Maybe. But these children are lucky to be able to play out in the street. They must feel very secure. Where I live, parents don’t let the kids out of their sight.’
‘Could that be because they care what happens to them?’
Vi answered the door and, after the introductions and mutterings of ‘there was no need’ to Laura’s gift of luxury chocolate biscuits, she ushered them into the tiny sitting room. It was packed with furniture, leaving little room for human occupants. There might have been a view of the street had not a swathe of net curtains obscured it, along with most of the daylight. An ugly clock ticked on the sideboard and ranks of relatives, past and present, stared out from the photograph frames clustered around it. ‘We had the new TV from John and Marion. Last Christmas.’ She turned to Fay, ‘You haven’t been up to see it, have you?’
Fay ignored the snipe. ‘Shall I make some tea?’
‘You won’t know where to find anything. I’ll do it. You stay where you are.’
Left to themselves, Fay whispered, ‘See what I mean? She does it all the time, making out that I never come here. But can you blame me?’
Laura squeezed past the sofa to look at the photographs and was studying a picture of two children, sitting neatly on a garden wall, smiles fixed, when Vi returned with the tea tray. ‘That’s Marion on the right, John on the left. We were visiting my sister in Swansea. You can just see her in the background.’
Fay looked on, amazed at the ease with which the two women chatted. Laura put up a valiant show of being interested in the rambling details of the Waterfield and Price families, saying little but, with quiet prompts now and again, encouraging Jack’s mother to talk. Anecdotes emerged, some of them quite fascinating, which Fay had never heard before.
Fay, a little miffed at their casual intimacy, watched them, noticing that her mother-in-law was wearing the navy blue dress and matching shoes that she’d bought for the wedding. It affected her – touched, surprised, irritated her – that Vi had made such an effort for, what was after all, an informal visit.
Laura, maybe feeling Fay’s scrutiny, looked up. ‘Haven’t you brought some wedding photographs for Mr and Mrs Waterfield?’
Fay produced the fancy cardboard wallet. ‘Where is…Dad?’ She never called Harry Waterfield ‘Dad’ because he wasn’t her father but, without the children or Jack around, she couldn’t use ‘Grandad’ or ‘your Dad,’ the devices she generally employed.
‘He’s in the garden, talking to his vegetables.’ Vi shook her head in mock despair.
‘D’you think he’d mind if I went and picked his brains?’ Laura asked. ‘There’s something horribly wrong with my tomatoes.’
‘Carry on, lovely. A word of warning. If you get him started he might never stop. It’s through the kitchen.’
Lovely. Laura had certainly made a hit.
Now that Fay was alone with Vi, the usual awkwardness returned. They looked through the wedding pictures, Fay describing each one as they went along. ‘Dylan and Nia. Dylan, Nia and both sets of parents. Dylan, Nia, best man and bridesmaids.’
‘We were there, you know,’ Vi chipped.
‘Sorry. Of course you were. I wasn’t thinking.’ Why was it always like this?
‘What did you think of those snaps we gave John last week?’
They hadn’t seen Jack’s parents since the wedding. The old woman must be confused. ‘Snaps?’
‘Yes. The extra set we got for John. And you. And Harry gave him some tomatoes, too. It must have been, let me see, last week. His regular Thursday visit.’
Was Vi losing it or was Jack up to something? Fay, unwilling to let her mother-in-law see her confusion, played for time, ‘They were great. Some really nice shots. And the tomatoes were delicious.’ She waited, hoping to pick up a few clues, but none were forthcoming and, whilst Vi wittered on – something to do with a cardigan she’d ordered from her catalogue – Fay tried to work it out. Her mother-in-law’s horizons might be narrow, her life prosaic, but she wouldn’t have made a mistake about a visit from her precious John, or miss an opportunity to point out an unacknowledged gift.
They went through to the immaculate back garden, with its black soil and tidy rows of lettuce and beetroot. Laura and Harry were in the greenhouse, surrounded by shoulder-high tomato plants. Out of earshot, it was nevertheless apparent that they were already friends. Fay stood with Vi, unable to think of anything to talk about, wondering how Jack could possibly have visited his parents on a Morris practice evening. And, if he had, why he’d not mentioned it to her.
Before they left, Laura took several photographs of Harry in his greenhouse; Vi, in front of the row of runner beans; and one of them, side-by-side, on the front doorstep.
‘You were a big hit,’ Fay accused as they drove away. Laura’s success held an implicit criticism of her own inability to connect with her parents-in-law.
‘Probably because it makes no odds to me. Like when we were teenagers. Don’t you remember how reasonable other people’s parents seemed? But you couldn’t bear your own?’
‘There’s one flaw in your argument, Laura. Vi and Harry aren’t my parents.’
‘Okay. But you’ve got a high stake in the relationship.’
‘The way I look at it, just because I’m attached to Jack, it doesn’t mean that I have to like his family. They all disliked me from day one.’ Fay shot a glance towards the passenger seat. ‘What was that all about, anyway?’
‘About?’
‘Why did you want to visit them? Something to do with the photos you took?’
‘Kind of.’
Fay left it for a moment then prompted, ‘Anything to do with your Dad?’
‘Sort of, I suppose.’
‘As I said, whenever you need to talk
about it…’
It was clear that Laura didn’t want to talk about her father or discuss her mystifying project. Her friend had always been one to keep her own counsel, and Fay doubted whether anyone knew more about Laura than she allowed them to know.
They drove on, discussing the cruel events which had, over the centuries, shaped the humble valley towns.
Before Jack got out of the car, he knew that there was no one at home. Despite the heat, the windows were shut and Fay’s car wasn’t on the drive. He was disappointed. Having given his speech he’d manage to sneak away from the conference and come home to keep her company – at least that was his story – but without her here to greet him and be grateful, his early return lost its impetus.
He checked his phone, but there was no explanatory message, then went into the house to see if there were any clues as to where she might be. From the utensils and glasses dotted around, it seemed that some sort of a party had taken place, but he was sure she hadn’t mentioned anything like that to him. Hang on. Wasn’t what’s-his-name calling? Maybe he’d brought a crowd of his mates.
He changed out of his conference suit. In Machiavellian mode the previous week, he had gone into W H Smith and purchased a pack of clip-on badges, printed his own name and qualifications on a piece of paper and slipped it into the see-through sleeve. So that his effort had not gone to waste, he jabbed this in to the cork-board, next to his appointment card for the opticians.
Wandering around the garden, he dragged himself back to being Jack Waterfield, suburbanite, but he hankered after Llangwm. Iolo and the gang would be in the school playground after the parade, sharing jokes and reminiscences as they undecorated the trailer and returned the rainbow to Harriet’s shop. The kitchen of The Welcome Stranger would be pungent with the smell of sausage rolls and apple pie, as Zena prepared food for the after-show party. Non and her partner would be watering neat rows of marjoram and thyme, then counting the day’s takings, before falling into lavender-scented sheets in their little cottage.
After a miserable hour failing to settle to anything, he made himself a cup of tea and a bowl of cornflakes. He took his tea upstairs and, as he headed for the bathroom, noticed that there was a shabby holdall on the bed in the spare room. Feeling almost an intruder in his own home, he knocked quietly on the door and, when there was no reply, tiptoed in. A jacket, constructed from patches of different coloured velvets, hung over the back of the chair, a pair of well-worn Birkenstock sandals stood on the floor beneath it and ‘A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush’ lay on the bedside table.
It was almost eight o’clock when Jack, sleeping in front of the television, was woken by car doors slamming and female laughter. He remained in the chair.
‘Jack?’
‘Yes, love.’
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ Fay pushed the living room door open and he saw that there was someone standing behind her.
‘I managed to escape.’ Jack looked past Fay at a woman whom he knew that he knew.
‘Hello, Jack.’ She came out of the shadows and stood, hand extended.
‘Laura?’ She grinned confirmation. ‘Laura.’ Ignoring the hand, he hugged her.
‘Aren’t you supposed to be at some high-powered conference?’
‘I did my bit this morning so there was no real need for me to stay. More to the point, how come—’
‘Cass dropped me off. He’s collecting me tomorrow afternoon.’
They followed Fay into the kitchen where she was filling a bowl with a large quantity of tomatoes. ‘I hope you’ve had your supper.’ Fay pushed an empty carrier bag into the dispenser on the back of the larder door ‘We’ve eaten already, haven’t we Laura?’
‘Yes. Where was it, Fay? Somewhere unpronounceable, but the food was delicious.’
Fay said nothing as she clattered the crockery which Jack had carelessly left on the worktop. Something about her was different. Not just the new hairstyle – he was getting used to that. She was wearing the outfit she’d bought on their trip to Bath. That was it. But the blouse seemed too tight and the skirt too long, making it look as though she’d borrowed the clothes from a tall, skinny librarian. She continued to ignore him with antagonistic disdain, making it clear that he was in the dog-house for something or another.
Laura had changed in the seven or eight years since Jack had last seen her. She was plumper. Her hair, flesh and eyes were less colourful – probably because she didn’t bother with makeup and hair dying. Laura had never been like other women he’d come across, that is until he’d stayed at The Welcome Stranger Guesthouse.
They sat in the scented evening garden and, wanting to gain membership of the secret society that the two women appeared to have formed in his absence, he went flat out to amuse them with tales of the dental conference. Fay remained icy and detached but Laura giggled at the faux pas made by the chairman when he announced the guest speaker, and was entranced by the titles of the lectures – ‘The Best Dentures are made on a Friday afternoon’ was one she found particularly amusing. How easy it was to invent details of the phantom meeting. He simply cobbled together bits and pieces from a lifetime of dental conferences, stopping only when Fay butted in: ‘I’m amazed you came back early if it was so hilarious.’
‘I’m glad you did though,’ said Laura. ‘It would have been a shame to have missed you.’ She patted his knee.
‘We called on your parents when we went out for our drive,’ Fay snapped.
‘Oh.’ Now Jack had the explanation for Fay’s coolness. ‘How were they?’
‘Much as they were last Thursday week when you visited, I should imagine.’ She glared at him and stood up, brushing the creases out of her skirt. ‘I’m exhausted. I think I’ll have a bath and an early night, if that’s okay with you, Laura. See you in the morning.’
She stomped across the lawn to the house and he felt a rush of sympathy for her, and extremely sorry for himself, as he anticipated the difficult night ahead.
The light went on in their bathroom. ‘Go and talk to her Jack, before she gets too entrenched. You know how stubborn she is.’ Laura spoke softly.
‘Is that what she wants me to do?’ How much pleasanter it would be to stay here talking to Laura.
‘Yes. I think she does. The trouble with being strong, like Fay, is that no one allows you to be anything less. When did you last see her cry or not quite know what to do?’ She was right. He’d never thought of it like that. ‘Go on, Jack. I’ll sort myself out.’
As he crossed the lawn, memories of post-natal Fay, pushing him away, and grieving Laura, longing for human contact, lurked in the purple shadows.In thirty years of marriage, Jack had never walked into their bathroom without knocking. When there was no response to his gentle tap he tried the door. Locked. He knocked a little harder. ‘Fay. You okay?’
‘Of course I am.’
‘Sorry. As long as you’re okay.’ From the bedroom window he peered down into the garden but, as far as he could make out, Laura wasn’t there. No longer convinced that Fay would appreciate his attention, but also knowing that the next hour could be critical to whatever was festering between them, he stayed where he was.
First he sat in the bedroom chair until, the unyielding wickerwork digging into his flesh, he shifted to the bed. From beyond the locked door came the occasional swish of water, but there was nothing to indicate his wife’s state of mind.
Eleven o’clock. The celebrations at The Welcome Stranger would be in full swing. There would be loud, wild music, dancing in the streets and snogging on the front steps. He should be there himself, dancing with Non and getting drunk with Iolo and Gareth. Bloody Stan Colley. And now Fay had found out about his visit – maybe visits – to his parents. What rotten luck that Fay and Laura had called in on them.
Laura. It was reassuring to see her again. Jack had never felt bad about what had happened between them, all those years ago. It certainly did not fall into the ‘being unfaithful’ category. A more accurate clas
sification might be ‘bereavement counselling’ or ‘faith healing’, although he was pretty sure counsellors or healers didn’t offer love-making in their treatment plans.
He and Fay had gone to David’s funeral but, assuming that a happy couple would be the last people a young widow would want to see, they had thought it kinder to keep out of Laura’s way, for a while anyway. Then one evening, a few months later, she had phoned, begging them to visit her. ‘Everyone’s avoiding me. I feel unclean. If it goes on like this, I’ll not only have lost David but all my friends, too.
They had driven to London the next day.
Fay had been continually exhausted after Caitlin’s birth, showing no interest at all in lovemaking and, although he was besotted with his daughter, he’d begun to wonder whether celibacy might be the price of fatherhood. That Saturday evening, tired from the journey and the demands of Caitlin and Cassidy, Fay had gone to bed, leaving him with Laura, for whom sleep, even with pills, was proving impossible. They had been sitting side-by-side on the sofa, watching television, when she had asked in a very matter-of-fact tone ‘Can you hold me Jack? Tight. I’m disintegrating.
He drew her to him, realising how much he was missing the warmth and softness of a female body. He pushed his nose into her dark hair, smelling lemons and a hint of perspiration. He sighed and settled lower into the sofa, ‘It’s wonderful to touch someone.’ The problems that Fay and he were having came tumbling out, amidst apologies for burdening her, when she had so much to bear.
‘No. Thank you for not treating me like a pathetic invalid.
Hugs had turned to caressing and kissing then they had, without discussion, gone up to Laura’s room and made gentle, tender love as an offering, each to the other. When it was done, they agreed that physical satisfaction could, indeed, be a healing force and the act of making love had helped them both feel whole once more. But it would never happen again. On subsequent meetings over the years, neither of them mentioned what had taken place. There was no need.