Bells

by Jo Verity

  She opened her underwear drawer. There, at the back, beyond the wholesome cotton bras and briefs, behind the folded petticoats and thermal vests, lurked scraps of slippery satin. She snatched them up, holding them at arms length as if they were gobbets of decaying meat and, rushing downstairs, she shoved all ninety-eight pounds-worth into the rubbish bag, concealing it beneath chicken skin and tea bags. If she were out to seduce her husband, or anyone else, she’d do it without Moll Flanders.

  By the time Jack came home, everything was back where it belonged and the half-filled charity bag contained two floral blouses, a pair of pale green shoes, a cotton jacket and – she remembered seeing a delightful charcoal-grey replacement in Robertson’s – the camel coat.

  Jack kissed her forehead. ‘Sorry I’m late. Neil turned up so we had a bit of a chat.

  ‘Any problems?'

  ‘No. He’s full of it. There’s something quite surreal, though, having him tell me about my own parents. What my father watches on television. What my mother’s cooking tastes like.'

  ‘Has he heard from…?

  Jack put his hand on hers. ‘Caitlin’s probably right. It could all be a wind-up.

  37

  If Fay were a fanciful woman, she might have studied the purplish-red scar on the palm of her hand, noting how close it ran to her life-line, seeing it as symbolic of something or another. She and Jack were still occupying separate bedrooms but, oddly enough, their physical separation was making it easier to re-connect, as if they were two sections of broken bone, knitting together nicely because the weight had been taken off. During the past week they had rediscovered the knack of being in each other’s company – chatting about nothing in particular, reading or watching the television, making each other laugh. Jack had described a very funny incident, concerning an old lady and one of those ranting lunatics that preach doom and gloom. When Friday evening came, they celebrated the start of the weekend by preparing a meal together and washing it down with an expensive bottle of red wine which had been overlooked during the wedding festivities.

  ‘Delicious.’ Fay popped the last spoonful of crème brulée into her mouth. ‘I’d forgotten how much I love Friday evenings. What shall we do this weekend?’

  ‘Aahh,’ Jack looked sheepish. ‘The Wicker Men have got a booking tomorrow. I think I probably mentioned it but, what with all the toing and froing—’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Llangwm, I think. Yes. Llangwm.’

  If they were to set things straight, she would have to make some concessions and this was the moment to start. ‘Shall I come along? See what it is you get up to every Thursday? Where is Llangwm, anyway?’ Her suggestion appeared to have deprived him of the power of speech and, when he didn’t reply, she prompted, ‘Jack? Don’t look so flabbergasted.’

  ‘It’s not far from Brecon. I believe.’ He started clearing the table, clattering the plates and scraping leftovers into the waste bin.

  ‘Leave that for a minute. What d’you think? Shall I come?’

  ‘That’s very thoughtful, but I don’t really think it’s your cup of tea.’

  For years she had at best, ignored, at worst, ridiculed his hobby and could understand his caution. ‘Well, someone thinks Morris dancing is worth watching or they wouldn’t have booked you. Anyway, I fancy having a look round somewhere different.’ She rubbed her palms together and smiled. ‘That’s settled, then.’

  Jack went to the shed to clean his shoes and prepare his kit, whilst Fay, eager to tell someone about her conciliatory gesture, phoned Caitlin. ‘Guess what? I’m going to watch your father dance tomorrow. At Llan-something-or-another.’

  ‘That’s nice.’ Caitlin didn’t sound impressed but was plainly keen to inform her mother that she’d booked two tickets for The Magic Flute, and that Cassidy was driving down the following afternoon. ‘I thought we might go to Gower on Sunday, if the weather’s reasonable. Cass is bringing his surfboard.’

  It was a long time since her daughter had taken this much interest in a man. Cassidy and Caitlin. Cass and Cait. It would be as well to get used to it. ‘Might we be seeing you?’ She felt the idiotic fizz of excitement in her stomach as she waited for a reply.

  ‘I shouldn’t think we’ll have much time. Anyway, you two go and have some fun. Oh, nothing from Kingsley I presume?’

  ‘No.’ There had been nothing from Kingsley but, since it was no longer a forbidden topic, the disabling ache had eased slightly and she almost believed it when she replied, ‘I’m sure he’ll turn up, sooner or later.’

  Safe in the shed, Jack bolted the door. He could drive a six-inch nail through his foot – that would solve the problem but it could also lead to terrible complications, like blood-poisoning or gangrene. How about a car-crash? He wasn’t confident that he could stage a harmless crash and it wasn’t fair to put Fay’s life in danger merely because he’d got himself in this pickle. There were less flashy options, of course – a tummy bug or a bad back – but these were hackneyed excuses and teachers were dab hands at spotting sham illness.

  And it was a shame, because things had been going well. The pact between his parents and Neil Bentley could work, enabling them to remain independent for a while longer and giving Neil somewhere to call home. If it came to a point where his father needed in-patient treatment or – he had to face the possibility – died, the lad might be prepared stay on as his mother’s lodger and companion. Whoa. There was no point in thinking too far ahead. Neil might even make it as a funky folk-rocker and abandon them for the rock ‘n roll life-style. But, as things stood, there was no one whom he trusted more than Neil to keep a watchful eye on his parents.

  He’d spoken to Laura a couple of times – vague, Kafka-esque conversations which left him feeling that he’d come in three-quarters of the way through a film, where something pivotal might – or might not – have happened. In the end, all he could do was tell her that he was there, if she needed him – an offer which was twenty-eight years too late. It was all so precarious. If only Caitlin hadn’t taken up with Cassidy Ford, if only they hadn’t gone to visit Sadie in London,if only Caitlin hadn’t been so on-the-ball, none of it would have come out. Had he not asked, Laura would never have disclosed that he was a contender in the ‘who fathered Sadie’ stakes, and now he would have to learn to live with that uncertainty.

  He polished his shoes and, by the time they were gleaming, he’d made up his mind to speak to Non. Now that he’d come clean and told her about his family and his difficulties, it was possible that she would agree to help him out. All he could do was ask and then, if she weren’t prepared to do it, he’d drink enough salt-water to guarantee authentic vomiting.

  He rang Coed Melyn Cottage, crossing his fingers that she wasn’t involved in a concert or a dance as part of the weekend festivities, but she answered, not seeming at all surprised to hear his voice. ‘Hello, Jack. Ruth and I were just talking about you. I’m taking an early lunch break tomorrow ’specially to watch you dance. You are coming, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Probably. Possibly. It’s in your hands, actually.’

  ‘How’s that, then?’

  ‘It’s tricky. You see, completely out of the blue, my wife’s decided to come with me. And…I don’t know how to put this…’

  ‘And I’ve never seen you before in my life?’

  ‘Exactly. But it’s more complicated than that…

  ’It only took her a few seconds to work it out. ‘And my parents haven’t seen you before, either. Is that it?’

  ‘I feel really bad—’

  ‘Shh. It’s okay. Remember what I said?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ A place to catch your breath. The exquisite phrase had been hard-wired into his brain from the moment she’d uttered it.

  ‘But wait a sec’, Jack. You met quite a few people on carnival day, didn’t you? What are we going to do about them?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I think I’ve got it covered.’

  In the utility room, Jack ironed t
he white pleated shirt, moleskin breeches and large white handkerchiefs. Next he pressed the red and yellow satin ribbons, attached to the bindings that encircled his wrists and elbows; he rolled the red braces and balled the white, woollen socks; he placed the black shoes, still smelling of polish, inside a carrier bag before putting everything into the holdall. Finally, in went the bells, shining and chinking, and he gave the bag a spirited shake – for luck.

  Fay must have heard him coming upstairs and called out, ‘What time are we off in the morning?’

  He pushed the bedroom door open and stood, half in, half out of the room. She was in bed, reading, and, despite having had the opportunity to colonise the whole mattress, seemed to be keeping to her own side. ‘Well, we don’t want to get there too soon, so, let’s say about ten? And if the weather’s foul, or you think of something you’d rather do, or anything crops up, that’s fine with me.’ Simply by standing there at this time of night, he felt ill at ease, not sure if he was supposed to come or go, so he did neither. ‘Good book?’

  ‘Not very.’

  ‘Anything I can get you?’

  ‘I don’t think so, thanks. D’you need anything?’

  The dialogue was absurdly Noel Coward-ish, clipped and polite, and suddenly he wanted to hurl himself, whooping, across the room and bounce on the bed, simply because he’d never, ever done it before. ‘Me? No. I’m fine.’

  ‘Goodnight, then.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  38

  Fay spent a frustrating half-hour fiddling with her hair. The new style was proving to be high-maintenance and she was debating whether, with colder weather ahead, it was going to be worth the bother. Two minutes under a hat and she’d be back where she started. Anyway, who was she making all this effort for? Cassidy? Did he give two hoots what his mother’s best friend’s hair looked like? To emulate Isabel? The woman hadn’t even managed to hang on to her husband so why adopt her as a role model? And besides, Fay doubted she’d be seeing much of Isabel. That left Jack, and he’d never commented on it, apart from suggesting it needed brushing.

  When she went downstairs, there was no sign of him but, assuming that he would benefit from extra calories to get him through his strenuous day, she began preparing a cooked breakfast. While the bacon sizzled, she called upstairs, ‘Jack? Breakfast in five minutes.’

  She was lifting the eggs out of the frying-pan, when a stranger entered the kitchen.

  ‘Morning, love.’ He sounded like Jack and was wearing Jack’s clothes. ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘What on earth have you done?’ She could see what he’d done. He’d shaved off his beard. For the first time ever, she looked at his unadorned face; thinner than she expected and dotted with razor-nicks. He’d had a go at his hair, too, which he appeared to have given a rough trim, before brushing the ragged clumps forward, losing the neat side-parting. ‘Gosh.’

  ‘I thought it was time for a change.’ He glanced at the stove. ‘The sausages are burning, love.’

  Whilst they ate, Fay studied her new-look husband. In accompanying him today, she was showing him that she was prepared to compromise over a thorny issue. She hoped that he would recognise this concession and, in return, examine his own conduct. He could sharpen up; be more assertive; take the lead now and again, instead of leaving everything to her. She hadn’t, however, expected his first gesture to be so immediate and so tangible but she’d done more or less the same thing in setting about her own reconstruction, hadn’t she?

  ‘You haven’t said what you think.’ Jack looked up from his plate and smiled. His lips seemed fuller than when they’d been surrounded by bristles; his nose more prominent and his chin less so; his cheeks were an entirely different colour from his forehead – paler and pinker – not surprising as they hadn’t seen the sun since he’d been a schoolboy. The overall effect wasn’t so much a younger as a more refined, more subtle, man.

  ‘You’ve got to give me time to get used to it. But why did you choose today? Wouldn’t it have been better to let the barber do it?’

  He ran the palms of his hands over his face and down his neck. ‘Probably. But you know how it is.’

  Did she?

  When they reached Llangwm, she stayed in the car while Jack chatted with Stan Colley and the others. From the pointing and laughing, she guessed that they were teasing Jack about his beardlessness but he didn’t appear to be taking it too hard.

  He came back to the car. ‘We’re going to get changed in the pub, then do a half-hour session. Kick off – actually ‘Morris On’ is the correct term – at noon. It’s a pity none of the other wives—’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. You carry on. I shall enjoy having a little look round. There’s bound to be a coffee shop somewhere.’

  ‘There’s the Corner Café and they do excellent bacon baps in the second-hand bookshop … or so they tell me.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Okay? See you later.’ Grabbing his bag from the back seat of the car, he rushed off to join the rest of them as they ambled towards the main road. Anyone who didn’t know might have taken them for train-spotters on their annual outing.

  There wasn’t much to Llangwm, making it all the more surprising that its Harvest Celebrations were so ambitious. According to the programme pinned up in the window of the odd little craft shop, the main attractions were ‘The Annual Dahlia and Chrysanthemum Show’, a ‘Tramps’ Supper’, a brass-band concert with a bingo session in the interval and, of course, ‘All the way from Cardiff – The Wicker Men’.

  Fay’s gaze wandered from the programme, across the chaotic window-display – ghastly chunky-knit jumpers, ridiculous felt hats, clumsy mittens and garish bags –things grandmothers bought as ‘fun’ presents for teenage granddaughters and which sat in the back of wardrobes for years, until the moths got to them. Despite this, something drew her inside. The woman in the corner, who to Fay’s astonishment was half-way through Ulysses, smiled but said nothing, leaving her to browse the cluttered shelves, undisturbed.

  A rotating stand stood in one corner of the shop, displaying assorted craft booklets and a few postcards. One card caught her eye. It showed a cross-stitched sampler – ‘the original can be seen in Norwich City Museum’ – with the simple declaration, worked in dark red letters;

  BLESSED ARE THE PEACEMAKERS

  Annie Lewis: Aged 9 years: 1869

  These wise words were surrounded by a border of virtuoso stitches, depicting leaves and flowers. She bought two copies of the card and, with plenty of time in hand before the Wicker Men were due to start, went in search of the bookshop.

  Jack was right. The bookshop doubled as a café and half-a-dozen tables, jollied up with bright tablecloths and jars of pom-pom dahlias, occupied the area next to the poetry section. She slung her jacket on the back of a chair, then went to the counter and ordered a filter coffee from the middle-aged woman, who, wearing frilly blouse, a gathered skirt and hooped earrings, would have looked more at home in a Romany caravan.

  Whilst her coffee cooled, she wrote one of the cards.

  Llangwm - Saturday

  Dear Geoffrey,

  I’m here watching Jack dance.

  So how many Brownie points do I get?

  Thanks for the advice. Fay

  The aroma of coffee and grilling bacon stirred up memories of her sausage-sandwich breakfast. If the incident were written as a short story – ‘Raj’s Recommendation’ perhaps or ‘The Newsagent’s Daughter’ – she would tell the writer that, without a beginning, middle and end, and lacking a revelatory moment, it didn’t comply with literary convention. But the encounter continued to pop into her head at the oddest times, as if some truth had been revealed but she had failed to spot it.

  A crowd was gathering outside The Fox. From the banter it was clear that the majority of them were locals. ‘I’ll budge up.’ The offer came from a stocky young woman with an open, but rather plain, face. Her dark hair, plaited and fastened with knitting wool, could have done with a decent cut and her clothe
s – a droopy skirt, creased tee-shirt and battered clogs – were rather unflattering. ‘Plenty of room.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Fay perched beside her on the low stone wall.

  ‘Here for the day, are you?’ The girl’s voice dipped and rose.

  ‘Yes. I’ve never been to Llangwm before. It seems a very go-ahead place.’

  ‘It’s like anywhere, I suppose. We have a bit of fun, now and again, and the rest of the time we just get on with it.’ She nudged Fay and pointed. ‘Look, they’re coming out.’

  To the strains of accordion and fiddle, and much applause from the onlookers, the Wicker Men processed from the door of The Fox to take up position on the pub forecourt. Fay was surprised to feel her throat tighten, the way it had when she’d watched the children in their end-of-term concerts, and she craned her neck, looking for Jack. There he was, in the middle of the row facing her, almost unrecognisable in the outlandish outfit and without his beard.

  The Wicker Men began to dance, handkerchiefs and ribbons flying, whacking the tarmac with thick-soled shoes, stamping out the beat, kicking and twisting and leaping as they executed intricate progressions. All the while the chink-chunk-chink-chunk of the bells reinforced the rhythm. The spectators were soon hooked, clapping and stamping too, infected by the spirited performance and eager to join in. Fay didn’t resist, clapping and tapping her feet.

  ‘Look at those calf-muscles. They must be incredibly fit.’ The young woman was standing on the wall to get a better view. ‘It’s ever so sexy, don’t you think?’