Bells

by Jo Verity

  Jack had placed their lovemaking in a sealed box which he’d eased into a shadowy corner of his mind, where it could harm no one. But, lying on the bed, relaxed and receptive, the lid slipped off the box and the memories of that weekend spilled out, mingling comfortably with those of his superb day in Llangwm. It was all very pleasant and he was content to be in the company of such agreeable people. It was enormously encouraging to recall that once, twenty-odd years ago, he’d had the guts to do what his heart told him was right.

  The bathroom door opened and a shaft of light cut through the darkness of the bedroom. Fay, wrapped in a bath-sheet, crossed to the bed and took her night-dress from beneath the pillow. ‘I’ll sleep in Caitlin’s room.

  12

  Fay watched the rain bouncing up off the decking and splashing the patio doors. With Bank Holiday approaching, a change in the weather was inevitable. She closed her eyes and eased her head back, unsure if the headache which had been lingering for days was due to atmospheric pressure or to the row fermenting between her and Jack.

  Jack had offered no satisfactory explanation for his visit to his parents. She was only too happy for him to go on his own, but it made her look ridiculous when it emerged that she knew nothing about it. All she asked was to be told what was going on. By the time Cassidy had turned up to collect Laura, last Sunday afternoon, she had been furious with the both of them, too. From Cassidy’s manner – half mocking, half flirting – she felt sure that he was aware of the effect he was having on her. Laura, simply by being her easy-going self, made Fay seem hoity-toity; unbalanced; school-ma’am-ish, even. Why on earth had she wanted to take photographs of Jack’s parents? It seemed like everyone in the world was hell-bent on visiting Vi and Harry.

  And yet another week had gone by without word from Kingsley.

  The phone rang. It was Jack, from work. ‘Hello, love. I’ve just had a message. From Stan.’ He hesitated. ‘No practice this evening—’

  ‘So I expect you’re popping up to see your parents.’

  ‘No. Unless you want to go of course.’

  Fay snorted.

  ‘No? Only I wanted to let you know that there’s no rush for supper.’ He paused. ‘We could go out for something if you like.’

  ‘I’m defrosting some fish.’

  ‘Lovely. Sounds great. See you about the usual time then.’

  The roses which she had picked at the weekend were dropping their petals and she lifted the vase to take them in to the kitchen. Looking up, she caught sight of herself in the gilt-framed mirror which hung above the sideboard. She appeared to be carrying a huge bridal bouquet, her white shirt and pale trousers reinforcing the effect. She allowed herself a few moments to reflect on the failed dreams of her wedding day.

  Probably like most brides, she’d assumed that her marriage would be ‘different’. She knew that Jack’s unpromising image concealed, amongst other virtues, a sharp intellect, a dry humour and a real sense of justice. She’d imagined that only she was capable of peeling away the outer layer of dullness to reveal his true sparkle. But the task had been virtually impossible – like getting corned beef out of a tin once the twisty strip of metal has snapped. If the metal hadn’t broken, they would be living in Surrey or Buckinghamshire now and Jack would be a senior consultant, or even a professor, at a teaching hospital, with several text-books to his name. Dafydd Morgan had managed it so it couldn’t be that difficult.

  She sighed and was watching another shower of petals tumble onto the carpet when the doorbell rang. ‘Just a minute,’ she shouted and took the vase through to the kitchen before returning to open the door.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Waterfield.’ Someone, a man judging by build and voice, in a dark green nylon waterproof – although it obviously wasn’t – stood in the porch. The fabric clinging around his face and shoulders gave the impression that he was wrapped in cooked spinach. ‘It’s Neil.’

  ‘Neil?’

  ‘Neil Bentley.’ He shifted from one foot to the other, surges of water bubbling from his sodden trainers. ‘I was passing so I thought…’

  ‘Good gracious. Neil. Come in.’ She tried to ignore the puddles forming on the hall carpet. ‘Come through.’

  He followed the trail of rose petals into the kitchen, then stood, legs slightly apart, arms a few inches away from his torso, like a child coming out of the sea, waiting for a grown up to sort things out. She unzipped the cagoule and peeled it off. The white tee-shirt and denim jeans beneath were wet through. He began to shiver.

  ‘You’ll have to get out of those things, Neil.’ She thought for a moment. ‘And you need to warm up. Have a hot shower and I’ll dig out something for you to put on. The bathroom’s at the top of the stairs. Jack’s bathrobe’s hanging on the door.’

  She half expected him to answer ‘Yes, Miss,’ but he did as she instructed without question or discussion. The latch on the bathroom door clicked across and she heard the shower running. Picking up the wet cagoule, she draped it on a hanger, putting it to drip in the utility room, then went up to their bedroom. She went through Jack’s wardrobe, searching for something for the boy to wear. What sort of thing could she offer him? Sweatshirt and socks were straightforward but Jack was thinner than Neil, and taller, so trousers posed more of a problem. It was possible that Jack wouldn’t care to have a stranger borrowing his clothes and equally possible that the young man might object to looking like a middle-aged dentist.

  The answer lay in the room next to theirs. Kingsley’s room. It was five years since her younger son had used it but it would always be ‘Kingsley’s Room’. She hadn’t preserved it in every detail, as mothers sometimes did when a child died, but neither had she done anything to make it look or feel different. The furniture was the same. Double bed. Desk. That plastic chair he’d insisted on hauling out of a skip. The books on the shelves. And his clothes, still in the fitted cupboards. When a charity bag came through the door, she often got as far as cramming it with his tee-shirts, jeans and jackets, telling herself that it made sense for someone to benefit from his absence, but the bag never made it to the doorstep.

  She heard the latch go on the bathroom door and smelled the herbal tang of shower gel. ‘I’m in here, Neil.’

  Neil hovered in the doorway, Jack’s bathrobe wrapped tightly around him.

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Waterfield. I think I was going a bit hypothermic.’ He looked around the room. ‘This was King’s room.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘We used to spend hours up here. Writing lyrics. Talking about girls. Making plans. I loved it in this house.’

  ‘Plans?’ She remembered how irritated she used to get when Kingsley brought home streams of gormless friends. How they would shut themselves in the bedroom for hours, making a lot of noise and ignoring her offers of coffee or suggestions that they would be better off out in the fresh air. It had never crossed her mind that they might be making plans.

  ‘Yeah. Plans for the band. We were going to be more successful than Oasis. And we weren’t going to let success ruin our friendship. The usual stuff.’

  She noticed his large, pale feet, tufts of wiry hair sprouting from the flesh of his big toes. His thin hairy legs. The last time she’d seen him he was looking like something from a fashion magazine, with spiked hair and trendy black clothes. ‘Look. Why don’t you have a dig through Kingsley’s things? Find something to put on.’ She waved in the direction of the wardrobe. ‘Just until we can dry your stuff out.’

  ‘I don’t want to be a nuisance.’

  ‘You’re not a nuisance. And then come down and I’ll make us a cup of tea.’

  She closed the door and went into the bathroom. His clothes lay on the floor where he had stepped out of them. Tee-shirt. Jeans. Underpants – the tiny posing-pouchy things that Dylan favoured. Trainer socks. She took them downstairs.

  The kitchen suddenly seemed too silent and sterile. No crockery on the draining board, no clutter on the table, no piles of papers or library books. Exactly how she liked it in fa
ct but maybe, to an outsider’s eyes, it looked lifeless, as if the people who lived here had tidied up before going away for a long holiday, leaving only two pieces of fish defrosting under cling-film.

  She took a few mugs and plates from the cupboard and dotted them about on the work surface then pulled yesterday’s newspaper out of the recycling box under the sink and tossed it on to the table. The digital radio, Jack’s recent present to himself, stood on the window sill and she put it on, pressing the button marked ‘1’. The pounding bass beat echoed round the kitchen, frantic and disturbing. She tried ‘2’ and recognised the voice of Elton John. She had no idea what twenty-somethings were listening to these days but was sure it wasn’t Elton John and she switched it off.

  ‘Anything I can do?’ He stood in the doorway, and she caught her breath when she saw that he had chosen Kingsley’s navy-blue sweatshirt, John Lennon’s picture on the front and ‘Imagine’ in swirly lettering across the back. She’d bought it for him in Liverpool when she attended a conference on ‘Shakespeare for the ethnic minorities’. When she’d told him she was going, he’d been appalled at the arrogance of the British education system. But he’d still accepted the sweatshirt. He must have been about sixteen then and they were already having those dreadful arguments which went on for days, poisoning the very air in the house.

  ‘I hope it was all right, turning up like this.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I told you to call, didn’t I? Tea or coffee? Or hot chocolate?’ Young men couldn’t resist something chocolatey.

  He grinned and licked his lips, ‘Chocolate sounds good.’

  She heated the milk and opened a packet of shortbread biscuits while he wandered around the kitchen, inspecting the photographs and postcards pinned neatly on the noticeboard.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  She knew that he was looking at a photograph of the wedding which one of Dylan’s friends had sent them. ‘That was at Dylan’s wedding. A few weeks ago. Did you know him? He was probably at college about the time you used to come here.’

  ‘No. But I do remember King’s sister – Katy was it? She used to terrify us.’

  ‘Caitlin. Yes, she can be quite sharp.’

  ‘I used to love coming here.’

  He dunked the chunky biscuit in his steaming mug and noisily sucked the liquid from it. ‘I packed in the perfume job last week.’

  Avoiding mentioning the dunking, she nodded. ‘I have to admit, you did look a bit…it was an odd get-up.’ She pointed to his hair, drying to a mousey brown. ‘And that’s a definite improvement.’

  ‘I dyed it back to what it should be.’ He took another biscuit. ‘After I saw you in the shop, I started thinking about King and the rest of them. They would’ve thought I was really pathetic, poncing around in yellow braces…’ He stopped. ‘Sorry, Mrs Waterfield.’

  ‘Fay, please. And I’m not your teacher any more, Neil.’ She waited a moment, watching him stir the drinking chocolate. ‘Have you had a lot of jobs?’

  ‘When I left school I joined the army. It was okay. I got through basic training and did a couple of years but we were on exercise once, up in Yorkshire, and I passed out. Woke up in hospital. They did all the tests. Didn’t find anything but that was that. I was out.’

  ‘That’s dreadful. Did you appeal?’

  ‘No. No point. It’s all there in the small print. If they think you might be a liability or a danger to the rest of the lads, they can turf you out.’

  Fay had always been affronted by the idea of guns and fighting but nevertheless, if Neil was foolish enough to put on combat gear and risk his life for some ridiculous cause, he shouldn’t be banned from doing so on the basis of one fainting fit. ‘What did your parents think?’

  He shrugged. ‘They moved to Spain just after I signed up so they weren’t really involved.’ He stated this without a hint of self-pity or anger. ‘I don’t see much of them.’

  ‘You’re on your own?’

  He laughed. ‘I am twenty-three.’

  ‘Brothers and sisters? Girlfriend?’

  ‘An older sister. Married. Couple of kids. Lives in Neath. No girlfriend.’

  ‘Where do you live, Neil?’

  He didn’t seem to mind the interrogation. ‘Off City Road. I’ve got a room in a student house. It’s okay. Handy for town.’

  Student houses, sinks crammed with greasy plates and bathrooms festooned with grubby washing were places to grow out of. A living proof that you couldn’t laze about being a student all your life – it’s far too depressing. Visiting Caitlin and Dylan, when they were at college, caused her so much anxiety that she and Jack took to meeting them in a park or a restaurant.

  ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘But you are looking for a job?’ The unspoken criticism was out before she could stop herself. ‘Sorry. It’s nothing to do with me.’

  ‘No. I need a kick up the arse. I keep meaning to sort out a CV. Not that there’s much to put on it.’

  The newspaper that she’d tossed on the table happened to have fallen open at the ‘Jobs’ page, and they worked their way through the adverts. He pointed out one for a warehouseman and another recruiting call-centre staff but Fay was dismissive. ‘I’m sure we can do better than that. Can you drive?’

  ‘Yeah. But I haven’t got a car. Can’t afford one.’

  ‘How about money? Can you claim anything?’

  ‘Not entitled. But I’m okay for a couple of weeks.’ The kitchen clock caught his eye. ‘Four o’clock. I’d better be going. Thanks for the chocolate.’

  Fay took his clothes out of the tumble dryer and tested them against her cheek. ‘Still a bit damp. I’ll put them in a carrier. Bring those back,’ she nodded at her son’s clothes, ‘and we’ll have a go at your CV.’

  She wrote their phone number on a piece of paper and folded his clothes. The rain had stopped and, as he walked away from the house, watery sunshine was reflecting off the wet paviers.

  13

  The beginning of the week was difficult for Jack. Fay continued to sleep in Caitlin’s old room, insisting that it was too hot to share a bed. To be honest, this suited him. The curtailed trip to Llangwm and Laura’s visit, with the memories it dredged up, unsettled him. There was something steadying about the solitary night-hours, when he could let his mind wander without fear of Fay’s heat-seeking interrogation.

  He knew things would have to change. Covert Thursday evening visits to his parents were definitely off and Fay would be likely, for the foreseeable future, to keep tabs on him, whatever day of the week it was. But soon they would be into September and Fay’s return to work, along with the resumption of his bona fide dance practices. Unfortunately, if Fay were in detective mode, escaping to see Non, would become much trickier.

  And it wasn’t only Non who beckoned, but Iolo and Zena, too. Over the preceding days, affection for the whole Evans family had overwhelmed him. Iolo – zany and spontaneous; Zena – earthy and nurturing; and Non – the embodiment of wholesome womanhood. It was as if he’d been lost on a beach and the rising tide, creeping across the warm sand, had lifted him and carried him home to his long-lost people. Jack Evans – what a great name.

  The most pressing task was to plant the seeds of weekend absences to come. The dental conference had been easy to concoct but he must put his mind to other plausible reasons for spending a night or two away from home, and this would be a great deal simpler if he had an accomplice. Sheila was the obvious candidate and there were several moments when he came close to confiding in her. It would be a great release to tell someone about The Welcome Stranger, and, at the same time, allow him to relive every golden moment. Furthermore, he was pretty certain that, were he to go for the full, soul-bearing confession, Sheila would understand, maybe applaud, his reasons for making love to Laura all those years ago. After all, it had only happened once and had hurt no one. The idea of getting it all off his chest became unbearably appealing, and he made up his mind to tell her
everything, but each time he plucked up the nerve, the phone rang or a patient turned up.

  It rained for most of the day, the first rain for three weeks and, when he went out for a lunchtime sandwich, he shivered in the chilly air. What excuse could Fay possibly dream up for spending tonight in Caitlin’s room? Would they ever sleep in the same bed again? Or the same room? He’d noticed that old people invariably slept apart, but he’d never been curious enough to wonder how and why they’d arrived at this arrangement. Were they disentangling themselves from each other in preparation for the inevitable parting? He was only fifty-something – if he and Fay were disentangling it had nothing to do with intimations of mortality.

  He arrived home to an absence of cooking smells and Fay nowhere to be seen. The kitchen was in bit of a mess, too, by Fay’s standards. Newspapers on the table and dirty mugs on the worktop. Should he be alarmed?

  A door banged upstairs. ‘Fay?’ he shouted from the hall.

  ‘Up here.’

  She wasn’t in their bedroom or the bathroom and he called again. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In here.’

  He tried the door to Kingsley’s room but it resisted.

  ‘Hang on. Let me move these.’ There was a slithering noise and the door opened to reveal his wife surrounded by black and green bin liners, an assortment of carrier bags and several suitcases. She was holding a pair of frayed jeans. ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Seven. Just gone.’ He held his wrist out to confirm that he was telling the truth. ‘You okay, love?

  ’‘Fine. Why shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘No reason. Just …’ He pushed the door wider. The bed was piled high with Kingsley’s clothes and the posters had gone from the walls. There were several stacked boxes of books and CD’s and a half-deflated inflatable gorilla sagged in the corner.

  ‘I’m having a sort-out.’ She glared at him, chin thrust forward. ‘It’s ridiculous keeping this room as a shrine. You only have shrines to saints. Anyway, everything’s full of moth-holes.’ To prove her point she pushed her finger through a hole in a black tee-shirt.