Glyn is trying to sort out the years, but to no great effect. He could do with pen and paper, but that would hardly be appropriate just now. What was he doing in ’87 or ’88? Which was the year he was up in the north for much of the summer—did this take place then? More accurate dating will be necessary. And there is a sense in which Elaine has failed him. She did not know, which removes the biting thought that he was the sole innocent, that all around were wise to what was up, and tacitly pitying, or jeering. She did not know, but others may have done. Oliver, patently. He will see to Oliver all in good time. For now, first things first.
“You think ’87 or ’88?”
Elaine puts down her coffee cup. She is silent, staring at the table. She is considering the query, it would seem.
But no. “Does it matter?” she says.
“It does to me.”
She shrugs. “Sometime then.”
“Can’t you be more precise?”
“No.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Elaine—”
“And don’t snap at me.”
He is contrite. “I’m sorry. Sorry, sorry. Look, I’m not snapping at you, I’m snapping at . . . at what apparently happened.”
“Retrospective snapping will get you nowhere,” says Elaine. And furthermore, she thinks, let’s be clear about this—we don’t have a common cause, you and I. All right, we’ve both been wrong-footed, we’re both outraged, but that is the beginning and the end of it. Whatever comes next is a personal matter, for each of us.
“Why Nick, one asks?” Glyn’s contrition has evaporated; this is speculation with a note of insistence.
“Why indeed?”
“And if Nick, who else?”
“Is this wise?” says Elaine.
“Is what wise?”
“Questions.”
“Possibly not. But what else can I do?”
She meets his eye. “Nothing?”
“I am not a do-nothing man. I am conditioned to ask questions. Will you do nothing?”
She inclines her head. No answer.
“I’m sorry you had to know this,” says Glyn.
“I didn’t have to know it, strictly speaking.”
This takes effect. There is compunction, but also defiance. “Right. OK. You’ve got a point there. But you might well have done the same.”
“And you had to know if I knew.”
Does this mean he is exonerated? No way of telling. He is evasive, now. “Whatever . . . Here we are. There it is.”
“There it was,” says Elaine.
“A fine distinction, to my mind. If a distinction at all.”
She considers, apparently concedes the point. “Perhaps. But asking questions won’t change that. Could even make it more so.”
“So be it,” says Glyn.
Determination, or perversity? There is a pause, both of them possibly weighing this up.
Elaine steps in. “I suppose there is one question that springs to mind.”
Glyn waits, wary; something in her tone has him on his guard.
“Did Kath ever know?”
“Know . . . what?” Glyn is prevaricating. Both of them are well aware of this.
Elaine gives a tiny shrug, a steely glance.
“Well, there wasn’t so much to know, was there?” He shoots up his eyebrows, that Glyn expression of deprecation, surprise—whatever is appropriate.
“Maybe not,” says Elaine. “But did she?”
“No. She had no idea.”
Elaine reflects, and decides that this is probably true. There is silence between them. Something has been let loose; she has broken a taboo.
“Long time ago . . .” says Glyn. He avoids her eye. Is this necessary, for heaven’s sake? An aberration, after all, surely that has long been understood?
Yes, indeed—time out of mind ago. But not entirely out of mind, and that is what is at issue. We were both there, after all, thinks Elaine; nothing can change that. We are the same people. Up to a point. She watches Glyn; it is astonishing to her that, once, she burned for this man.
Glyn is experiencing something of the same sensation. Before them both there hangs that time of the Bellbrook garden project. Both shed eighteen years, and see one another again for the first time.
Elaine sees a muddy wasteland, girdled with Portakabins, littered with bulldozers, piles of bricks and planks. She sees the aerial photograph of the same site before this invasion, which has been handed to her, with its provocative patterning of lines and depressions. She sees the television team that is here to record the shadowy presence of the gardens of a vanished Jacobean mansion discovered on the building site of a new housing estate. And especially she notes the talkative personable presenter of this program in the making. A landscape historian, she has been told—the first time she had heard of such a trade.
Glyn sees the inviting potential of this unusual site. He assesses the contractors’ crane, from which it is proposed that he should make the opening commentary, with the camera panning away to a bird’s-eye view of the garden’s outlines disappearing beneath the geometry of suburban streets and crescents. And he turns from consideration of subsequent shots to inspection of this expert on garden history and design who has been called in to elucidate the visible evidence. “This is definitely a parterre,” she is saying. “And it looks to me as though the vista runs along that axis. . . .” He steps across, hand outstretched: “Glyn Peters. Great to have you with us. Now. Tell me—”
She tells. She gets out pencil and paper and sketches a possible design for this extinguished landscape. “Assuming that this pattern is complemented by an identical layout on the other side of the central path, which it must have been, you’ve got the whole thing extending—oh, a couple of hundred yards or more, most of it built over already. I do feel that some sort of central basin and fountain is implied. . . .” Glyn eyes her. He rather likes what he sees. Something in her eyes, and the curve of her mouth. He feels a distinct flare of interest. He is all exuberance and enthusiasm. He lays a hand on her arm: “Wonderful! Thank goodness they brought you in. Listen—let’s take off to the pub while they set up the cameras and then we can really talk.”
He talks. He is an exhilarating and refreshing companion. They are noticed in the Crown and Cushion of some unmemorable high street. He recounts entertaining anecdotes of filming experience, he is compelling about field systems and drove roads, or so it seemed at the time. Elaine remembers thinking with approval that this is enthusiasm bolstered with the authority of knowledge. This is a man who knows what he is doing. She likes that Welsh intonation too.
And thus by the time they return to the site there is a definite rapport, an alignment firmer than that required by this transitory professional association. Glyn wonders if he might pick her brains at some point about early park plantings; Elaine finds that she would have no objection at all to this. Addresses are exchanged. “Are you married?” Glyn inquires. “Of course,” comes her brisk reply. “Aren’t we all?” He laughs: “In my case, no, as it happens.”
The filming takes place. Glyn holds forth from the contractors’ crane; at ground level he strides around this scene of devastation, conjuring up the elegant formality of another century. He describes clipped topiary, fountains, graveled paths. In between takes, he rejoins Elaine: “You’re a magician! I’m reinventing the text as I go, thanks to you.” Elaine observes with amusement and fascination. This beats client meetings any day, she thinks.
In due course, a week or so later, she sees Glyn again. He is anxious to show her the grounds of a derelict mansion in Northamptonshire that he has come across. She drives many miles to this assignation, which for some reason she describes to Nick, dismissively, as a consultation with turf suppliers. Glyn and Elaine trespass the grounds of the mansion by way of a crumbling wall and a thicket of brambles, with much laughter and exclamation. When Glyn puts both hands on her waist to jump her down from the wall she realizes that, should the question arise, she is likely to c
ommit an infidelity for the first time in her married life.
All the signals were there. No doubt about that. It was not a question of if, but when—when this undeclared interest would tip over into an admission. She had thought that Glyn did not seem a man to hold back. And she had known that, when the time came, she would not either. She is astonished by this now. She feels as though it were some other woman who was caught up in that flurry of sexual interest. Which is made more mysterious by the fact that in all the subsequent years of their association, she never saw Glyn in that way again. It was as though his allure withered the moment he was with Kath.
There had been other meetings. Two? Three? Not many more than that. All are hitched to the lingering background of some significant place. Maiden Castle: they climb the grassy ramparts, he takes her hand to help her up the steep slope, meets her eyes, the tension sings between them. They are on an ancient stone bridge over a little river, leaning on the parapet while Glyn talks. She no longer hears a word of this, but sees his face still as he turns to her, stops talking, puts his hands on her shoulders, kisses her on the mouth. She feels the flick of his tongue.
But he had come to the house, also. Had he not . . . Well, had he not, we would not be here today on this freighted occasion, thinks Elaine.
Glyn visits Elaine at home. He wants to see a book Elaine has mentioned that has early photographs of the grounds of Blenheim Palace. When the suggestion is made Elaine notes that he could quite well consult this book at some library. On the day that Glyn comes to the house Nick is out, by coincidence, and Polly is of course at school. Glyn and Elaine spend hours together—eating lunch, talking, looking over those convenient photographs. The tension is there again—enhanced, wrung tight. The air crackles with what might be, what may be.
And somehow Glyn does not leave but stays on into the evening. Polly returns, and so does Nick, who easily digests an unanticipated visitor, as always. Elaine is just putting together a meal for everyone when the door bursts open and here is Kath, on one of those unheralded surprise visits.
The evening is prolonged and convivial. Nick is in high spirits. Glyn scintillates. He turns frequently to Kath. And when at last he leaves, Kath leaves with him. He has offered her a lift to the station.
Elaine stands at the window, watching the retreating lights of Glyn’s car. She thinks, So that’s that. He had only to set eyes on her. Wouldn’t you know?
Glyn’s voice jolts her back to the restaurant table and the matter in hand. “That has nothing to do with this,” he is saying emphatically.
She looks at him.
“If you are suggesting that Kath took up with your husband because briefly, long ago, you and I . . . eyed one another . . . then I’m telling you that she had no idea. No idea at all. Not from me.” His return look is a challenge.
“Nor from me,” says Elaine. “All right, she didn’t know. I’m merely noting a symmetry.”
For Christ’s sake! thinks Glyn. What did she have to drag this up for? Irrelevant. And symmetry be blowed. I hardly laid a finger on her, as I recall. All that was wrapped up when I married Kath. Never referred to again. Why revive it now? Surely there’s no question . . . He shoots her a glance, but it seems to him that Elaine’s expression is one of controlled dislike rather than latent interest.
In fact, Elaine’s somewhat wooden look is the product of distraction rather than dislike. She is assessing her own condition. Within the last hour her perception of the past has been questioned, her understanding of three people has been shown to be faulty; yet she is surprised to find that, far from feeling diminished, she is filled with a sense of grim purpose. Glyn is rapidly becoming superfluous.
“My dear Elaine,” he is now saying, “that really is water under the bridge”—a propitiating smile—“we both know that. Not that I haven’t always had a great affection for you. But it has no bearing on . . . this other thing.” He changes tack. “This would seem to be . . . Well, the evidence suggests a great deal. But there is only one person now who can tell us exactly what.”
“Are you planning to have a word with Nick, then?” Elaine is icy.
“Perish the thought. That is your prerogative, if you so wish.”
Quite, thinks Elaine. But you’re not going to leave it alone, are you?
“Nick is your concern,” he continues, dismissively.
“He is indeed. And what is yours?”
Glyn stares at her. He has the intense and concentrated look that she remembers from those times when he would be expounding some new theory, holding forth on a current investigation. He does not reply.
Nick is oddly insignificant, Glyn is finding. He is puzzled himself by this. An initial urge to seek him out and punch him on the nose has given way to a kind of indifference. His business is with Kath, not Nick.
The restaurant has emptied. At the edge of the room, staff loiter.
Elaine folds her napkin, puts it on the table. Glyn cocks an eyebrow in the direction of a watchful waiter. The bill arrives.
“Well,” she says, “thank you for the lunch.”
He grimaces. “I wish the circumstances could have been different.”
“It seems that they were decided a long time ago.”
Except, of course, that they were not. The photograph might have lain unrevealed in Glyn’s landing cupboard; Glyn might have found it but chosen to remain silent. Alternative scenarios flicker in their minds—significant but, now, irrelevant. I know, thinks Elaine, and that’s that. Now for what is to come.
“Just one last thing,” says Glyn. “Can you let me have Oliver’s present address?”
Oliver
Glyn?
Oliver has not set eyes on Glyn in years. He seldom thinks of him, except in a subliminal way in which past acquaintances can sweep briefly into the mind, and as rapidly evaporate.
But now here is Glyn, fair and square in the office, sprung by Sandra’s terse remark: “Someone called Glyn Peters rang—left a number. Please call back.”
“Right,” says Oliver. He sees Glyn now: that square face, the thick brown crop of hair. He hears the voice, with its tinge of Welsh. Assertive, confident, but always rather compelling. The man addressing you as though you were a seminar, but you listened.
Something in Oliver’s voice has evidently alerted Sandra. “Who is Glyn Peters?”
“Glyn?” says Oliver casually. “Oh, Glyn was Elaine’s brother-in-law. You know . . . Elaine, wife of Nick, my erstwhile partner. Can’t imagine what he wants.”
And, indeed, he cannot.
Sandra has picked up on a point here—the professional eye for detail. “Was?”
“Kath . . . died,” Oliver explains. He gets busy at his screen. “We need to have a talk about the new layout for Phoenix.”
“OK,” says Sandra crisply. “Right away, if you like.” He has got her back on course; she is now applying herself to the design problems of the alumni magazine of an Oxford college.
Precision is the name of our game, thinks Oliver. He thinks this with pride. Accuracy. Every comma and full stop in the right place, each paragraph correctly indented. Footnotes, indexes, contents pages. Not a letter out of place. The discovery of a typo in one of his publications can give him a sleepless night. He is more satisfied than ever in his life. Desktop publishing was made for him. No tricky editorial input, no headaches about marketing and distribution. Just take the commission from the client and set about creating the immaculate product. He loves the screen on which he can conjure this precision: the compliant technology, the wonder of being able to twitch lines and letters this way and that. He is always reluctant to delegate; he surreptitiously checks and rechecks the work of even their most reliable operators. Even, it must be said, that of Sandra herself, who is a bird of his own feather. When they are alone together in the office they sit before their screens in companionable absorption, and Oliver knows that Sandra is experiencing a pleasure complementary to his own—creating text, marshaling text, positioning headi
ngs and notes. They are both getting the same buzz. It is almost like sex, he thinks.
Which is perhaps how their alliance came about, the reason that a business relationship shifted into something more, so that here they are now together by night as well as by day, in amiable conjunction, an agreeable conjugality. Oliver thinks of Sandra as friend rather than lover. Best friend. Friend with whom he makes friendly love, in the king-size bed in the first house that he has ever owned. No more seedy flats. No more fridges in which lurk nothing but a wedge of moldy cheese and a pint of sour milk. Clean shirts to hand. Spare lightbulbs and loo paper.
Oliver is still astonished to find himself one half of a couple, at this relatively late point. After the long bachelor years, the occasional forays in halfhearted pursuit of someone, the withdrawals into not especially discontented solitude. Sex on tap is indeed a luxury, though, truth to tell, both of them are somewhat less inclined these days. The cheerful roistering of their early time together is pretty well a thing of the past. But, in any case, lust was never really the driving force where his gathering interest in Sandra was concerned. More affection, appreciation—and along with these the realization that, yes, it would be rather good to go to bed with her.
And thus it was that one day he put a finger on Sandra’s knee—a nylon-clad knee from which her skirt had ridden up as she sat bolt upright in her desk chair. “I’ve been wondering . . .” he said.
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