A Crack in the Glass (Telling Tales Book 1)

by Charles Owen

  ‘It's the very last word I should use to describe–’

  ‘It's the only one, I assure you. And it is very chastening.’ She put a hand to the heavily permed grey hair. ‘I have never worried unduly about what people thought of me. Not until now. I have always been happy, proud even, to be written off as the typical army wife. Stolid in my way, rather limited but loyal to a fault.’

  ‘Not written off, surely, Marion?’

  ‘Well, if people think of me like that, I'm not ashamed of it. Helping Ted with his career was a job I enjoyed. I think I was good at it.’

  ‘I'm sure you were, Marion.’

  ‘I can hear you smiling, Barbara. Watch out! I'm developing an ear in my old age.’

  Barbara was smiling. She could never quite understand why people, who in the ordinary way wouldn't dream of discussing their problems, poured their hearts out to her. Perhaps it was something to do with her invincible cheerfulness, undimmed even after ascending the bathroom scales every morning. Perhaps it was because she listened carefully and said very little, long experience having taught her that with gentle prompting, people will usually give themselves the good advice for which they come to others.

  ‘Were you and Ted separated from Nicola for long periods?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. It was inevitable. It went with the job. She was here for nearly all her schooling but we tried to get her out to us for Christmas and the summer holidays. Even that wasn't always possible and she would have to stay on with my sister. But as Ted became more senior it became a little easier. He finished as a lieutenant-colonel, you know.’

  ‘I can see that you and he made a good team.’

  ‘I used to think so but when something like this happens...’ There was a constriction in her throat and she couldn’t go on.

  Her companion turned to her anxiously. ‘You mustn't blame yourself for what happened, Marion. Gino is a lovely child and Nicola has the character and the resolution to make a life for both of them.’ She raised her eyes to the lonely figure up on the hill. There were no trees in the churchyard, nothing but a low, dry-stone wall to provide a little shelter from the wind.

  ‘But when Nicola got into trouble she didn't come to us ... she didn't talk to us ... not until it was too late. I come back to that again and again. I try to get past it but it's as if there has been a rock fall and the road is blocked – I can't.’

  ‘You mustn't let this come between you and Nicola. Isn't this the real test of your love for each other – that you can put that behind you and go on from here?’

  Marion shook her head slowly, wearily. ‘I don't know, Barbara. I don't know any more. There are other things besides love – things that are just as important, perhaps more important – like honesty. There is no trust between us. We live in the same house but we watch each other like suspicious neighbours. Every morning I listen for her, hear her creeping downstairs before Ted and I are about.

  ‘She draws the curtains in the sitting room and sits by the window until she hears the postman. Then she opens the front door quietly and runs down to the gate to pick up the letters. When she turns, I hide behind my curtains in case she sees me. I don't mean to spy on her but I find myself behaving like her. She doesn't make her telephone calls from the house – she goes to the end of the street and rings from a public telephone box. When she comes back she goes straight up to her room as if she was frightened that I would stop her and question her. It makes for a horrible atmosphere in the house.’

  ‘Do you think she is in touch with ... Sergio?’

  ‘Of course I do. I resent his behaviour more than I can trust myself to say. But in his defence, I have to admit that Nicola landed him in a situation that he can never have bargained for.’

  ‘When Sergio knew that Nicola was pregnant, did he–’

  ‘I know what you are going to ask. Were both of them of the same mind – determined to have this child?’ Marion stared bleakly through the window. ‘I don't know, Barbara. Nicola won't talk about it. But the way she looks at me sometimes ... pityingly ... as if I couldn't begin to comprehend what it was that she and Sergio felt for each other.’

  There was silence between the two women for some moments before Barbara spoke again. ‘But you have tried to talk it through with Nicola – sympathetically?’

  ‘Yes. I have tried. But it's pointless. That's what she tells me. “It's pointless, Mummy – you wouldn't understand.” And, Barbara, the awful thing is that she may be right. Who am I to judge?’ She snapped open the clasp on her bag and shook a cigarette into her hand, ‘You don't mind? I have been trying to give it up but today has set me off again.’

  Marion wound down the window to feel the cool air on her cheeks. ‘Ted and I have not had a very ... physical sort of marriage. Things changed after Nicola was born ... I had to get up nights ... Ted needed his sleep ... it happened slowly, gradually ... sometimes when I think about it I feel sad. It does seem to me that we allowed something rather precious to slip out of our lives but...’ For a moment she was unable to continue and Barbara rested a hand on her arm.

  ‘This is distressing you, Marion, you mustn't–’

  ‘I must, I must ... I can't tell you what it's like living with your own thoughts going round and round and round like smoke that is trapped in a room and can't get out.’

  ‘Marion, my dear...’ Barbara pressed her hand gently. ‘I should have done more. You must think me a very poor friend.’

  Marion shook her head. ‘You have nothing to reproach yourself for.’ She took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. ‘It may sound strange to you, Barbara, but friendship is something I have never found easy. I am impatient with people who are incompetent and disorganised, whose lives are untidy, people who are always trying to extricate themselves from some tangle or other – but I notice that they are the ones who have all the friends.’ She leaned forward and pulled open the ashtray under the dashboard. ‘I used to believe that self-reliance was a virtue, but it often brings loneliness and that is a high price to pay.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Should we not–?’

  ‘Yes, we must go.’

  Marion nodded but she was only half listening. She smoothed her skirt in an abstracted way. ‘It has been an anxious time. One cannot live on love – even Nicola's prodigious version of it. Unfortunately it doesn't pay the bills.’

  Barbara fastened the buttons of her overcoat. ‘It must be very worrying. Is there any hope of Sergio or his family being able to make a contribution?’

  ‘None. I doubt whether Sergio can do more than feed himself and keep a roof over his head. His parents have no money – he cannot look to them. He must stand on his own feet now. All I ask is that he stays out of Nicola's life since he can do nothing for her – and gives her a chance to salvage something from all this.’

  ‘And Mr Channing? I don't want to pry, Marion, but–’

  ‘Will the knight come galloping to the rescue?’ A hint of humour glinted from her eyes. ‘I must say, Mr Channing makes a rather improbable St George.’ She drew deeply on her cigarette and stubbed it out half smoked. ‘Nicola has thrown away the sort of life we wanted for her, the sort of life she would have wanted for herself when she is older. Edward Channing seems to me the best that Nicola – or any of us – can hope for.’ Across her wide cheekbones the skin seemed to slacken like a tent in the process of being folded. She reached into her coat for a shawl and tied it around her head. ‘I didn't think it was a day for hats,’ she said, pushing open the car door.

  Together they walked through the swing gate. ‘Do you want to take my arm, Marion?’ asked Barbara. ‘I had no idea it was blowing so hard.’

  Marion seemed not to have heard the question. She walked slowly up the path, her head down. ‘It probably sounds ridiculously old-fashioned, Barbara, but I would like to know – do you think that Edward Channing is a good man?’

  ‘I think he is a kind man. I believe he loves Nicola.’ The wind made little rushes at them, nudging them, buffeting them a
s if they had been caught up in a throng of mischievous children. ‘Do you think that Nicola is being ... quite fair to him?’

  ‘I have told Nicola that she cannot go on exploiting Edward, treating him like some sort of unpaid servant and buckshee chauffeur. I'm sure he does loves her in his way and he adores the child.’

  ‘He has helped her over a very difficult time. Whatever one may–’

  ‘Edward is the last person I ever expected to entertain as a prospective son-in-law but it breaks my heart to see him turning up at the house on Saturday afternoons in his best suit, all brushed and polished and ... Nicola so cold towards him ... so disdainful. I tell you, Barbara, sometimes I feel like picking her up and shaking her, telling her that she doesn't deserve him, that she should go down on her knees and thank God he is prepared to take on the pair of them.’

  They could see Nicola quite clearly now. She was very pale, impassive, expressionless, her head to the wind, her dark hair streaming behind her, still looking out over the Levels, the child motionless in her arms.

  In some places steps had been cut, shored up with lengths of rotting wood; in others it was little better than a muddy track. Marion raised her head to wave at the small group of people fretting, it seemed to her, under the porch. Someone waved back. She paused for breath. ‘Ted was so proud of Nicola. He had this little dream that she would marry into his regiment. When I think of the trouble he went to – arranging tennis parties in the summer, getting the young officers over from the depot, jugs of Pimms on the lawn, Ted in his best blazer ... all that effort over that withdrawn, rather ordinary girl ... oh, Barbara,’ she gave a little gasp and the wind swept a tear from the corner of her eye, ‘it was so transparent, so futile and, if you think about it, so very, very funny.’

  Barbara gave her companion an anxious look and would have taken her arm but they both turned at the sound of a car approaching.

  ‘That will be Edward,’ said Marion.

  There was something in her voice which Barbara could not let pass. ‘Have you and Nicola made a decision?’

  ‘We have reached ... an understanding. Edward called round last night. He asked if he could talk to Ted and me in private. Things were obviously coming to a head. I had to temporise. I asked him to come to tea next weekend. I couldn't tell him anything. When he had left, Nicola confronted me. She had overheard part of the conversation. She said that I had no business to interfere in her life. I told her that Ted and I would do what we could to help her but that all the fantasising about Sergio had to stop. I was very firm with her. I said that things were very difficult and she should think seriously about accepting love and support where it was offered. She couldn't have it both ways. It wasn't fair on Edward. He had to know where he stood. She made me promise to wait until after the christening. I told her that she was being absurd.’

  Edward Channing emerged from his car. He bent down and straightened his tie in the wing mirror. ‘Don't you think that we should wait for him?’ Barbara suggested.

  They took a few steps off the path and stood in the lee of a large rock while Mr Channing made his way up the hill towards them.

  Marion pointed to the solitary figure standing in the corner of the churchyard. ‘Look at her, Barbara. That's just the way she looked. I said that we quarrelled but I was the one who was upset. Nicola was very composed. She has this way with her. As if she knows more than she's telling, which I find so irritating. She might have been the queen herself the way she faced me. Standing very erect ... her chin held high ... not insolent but ... but proud. Do you know what she said, Barbara?’ Nicola's mother closed her eyes and her lips moved silently as she recited to herself. ‘She said, “I will marry the man who stands beside me tomorrow.” Of course it was preposterous but she spoke the words as she would her marriage vows.’

  Barbara's attention was distracted by Mr Channing calling to them. ‘I do believe Edward Channing has bought himself a new suit, Marion. And look at that bunch of daffodils he is carrying.’ There was colour in his cheeks and a light in his eye. ‘Look at him now – waving at Nicola. Trying to get her to turn her head.’

  A cry from Nicola was borne to them on the wind. It seemed to eddy around their heads and then fade slowly as if a horseman had shouted over his shoulder before riding away. Nicola cried out again and now they saw her run through the lychgate to the shoulder of the hill. As she stood there looking out over the Levels, shading her eyes with her free hand, the church clock tolled the hour. It was exactly midday.

  A narrow shaft of sunlight sliced through the clouds. It was so unexpected that the two women turned from watching her to follow the direction of her arm. The Roman road shone as if the blade of a sword had been laid flat along its length. A shadow hurried along the road and when it came abreast of them, changed direction, flitting towards them over the flat fields and watercourses. The shadow of a man. A man running. Then the clouds closed over once more.

  A SENSE OF OBLIGATION

  I used to see Arthur once a year, always in the first week in December, when he came up to London to do his Christmas shopping. We had both retired from the City after the Stock Exchange moved over to electronic trading. Of course, the bowler hats and rolled umbrellas went years before that but he and I always wore a bowler. We didn’t feel dressed without it. Old habits die hard.

  We always met at midday and at the same public house a short walk from Liverpool Street Station. The bar was tucked away in the basement of an old building among a maze of alleys that had escaped Hitler’s attentions. You could smell the beer as you descended the flight of stone steps and at the bottom there were rows of beer barrels, stacked one upon another, and sawdust on the floor to mop up the spillages.

  Arthur was always out of breath when he arrived. He was overweight and puffing and his cheeks went in and out like a pair of pink balloons. We sat on bar stools and knocked the same old reminiscences back and forth, prompting each other when memory failed and laughing as hard as if we were hearing them for the very first time.

  We had worked in the same stock-broking firm for ten years and then Arthur moved to Wexlers, the merchant bank, but he didn’t stay long. He reminded me of my first few weeks with the stockbrokers. I was in the general office and it was my first real job.

  Whenever a piece of paper that I did not understand appeared on my desk – and there were many of them – I was too timid to seek advice and simply crumpled it up into a tiny ball and placed it in the waste-paper basket. ‘Within a month, the administration of the firm had sunk into chaos!’ Arthur guffawed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘You were lucky not to have been sacked!’

  Then there was old Herbert. He worked with the firm’s dealers in the ‘Box’, a small outpost close to the floor of the Exchange. This is where we took the orders from the partners to buy or sell stocks and shares for clients. Arthur was a Blue Button. His job was to record the changes in the prices of the most important shares every hour and telephone them to the main office.

  ‘Herbert had been a fireman during the Blitz,’ Arthur recalled. ‘The poor devil was hit on the head by a piece of falling masonry. Ninety-nine days out of a hundred, he was as right as rain but once in a while he would have one of his turns. His face would go very white and he would brush his moustache between finger and thumb and stride onto the trading floor as if he owned it. Herb would march up to the jobbers and buy or sell a million pounds worth of stock. Without instructions! Bargains were struck verbally in those days but–’

  ‘They had the force of Holy Writ,’ I added, coming in on cue.

  ‘That’s right.’ Arthur nodded solemnly. ‘The jobbers could have insisted that we honoured the contract but they knew Herb’s little quirks and they always cancelled the deal.’

  One story followed another and so did the pints of ale. Punctually at one, we went off to a small restaurant that we had used for years. In the old days you could have soup, bangers and mash and then apple pie and custard for a few shillings.


  The menu was much the same but the prices made me blink and reach for my glasses. ‘Arthur,’ I said, as I speared a Cumbrian sausage, ‘do you remember Ned?’

  ‘Do I remember Ned?’ Arthur’s broad shoulders started to shake. ‘The funny thing about Ned was that he was born without an ounce of ambition.’

  Ned joined the firm just after the war. He was quite well connected and brought in just enough business to keep his job. ‘At two o’clock in the afternoon, regular as clockwork,’ I said, ‘Ned would come back from lunch, sit at his desk and snap his fingers at the clerk in the desk behind him.’

  ‘Sometimes that was me,’ Arthur chuckled. ‘I had to wake him up when the partners came back from their lunch. That was about four o’clock if they had downed a second glass of port. I used to tie a thread of cotton around his little finger and give it a tug when I heard them coming up the stairs.’ And we laughed and laughed and then the sight of each other’s faces would set us off again.

  We left the restaurant and, as always, we did not take the shortest way back to the underground station but walked a little out of our way so that Arthur could buy a copy of the Evening Standard from the newspaper seller on the corner of Cannon Street.

  The man was sitting on an upturned orange box with a pile of newspapers on a makeshift table. His coat was worn but his shoes were polished and he held a woollen scarf tightly against his throat. At the sight of Arthur he raised a pair of bushy grey eyebrows and forced his pinched features into something like a smile.

  ‘Hello Steffen!’ Arthur took his hand. ‘How is life treating you?’

  ‘Not badly,’ the man replied. He started to cough. ‘Not badly at all.’

  Arthur took a paper. ‘Steffen, promise me you will let me know if there is anything I can do to help?’