by Jenny Harper
Jane watched her daughter flounce across the kitchen and out of the door. If she hadn’t been feeling so agitated about – well, about everything at the moment – she would find it quite funny. But since the other night, since the moment when Marta’s front door opened and Tom Vallely appeared, her sense of humour had vanished.
She pulled out a chair and slumped down. The good times had been thrilling, a ride on a wave that seemed to have no crest and would never break. From the day he’d appeared at her door they’d become a possibly the most unlikely couple in the whole of Guildhall, and yet inseparable.
That first room they’d rented together ... she’d thought she’d died and gone to heaven. They’d stood, stunned, in the middle of the huge bedroom, staring at each other, gawping at the high ceiling. The bed was huge, a massive ship of a bed, an ocean liner of a bed.
‘How much did you say she’s charging?’ she’d whispered.
‘It’s affordable. Just. I may have to pimp your body on the streets of Soho to pay for it, but you can put up with a little prosti—’
‘Tom!’ She’d swung a pillow at him, laughing. He’d retaliated, seizing her wrist and wrestling her to the bed, where they’d made love like it was the first time.
It had just been a room in a shared house, but it had been their kingdom and Jane had felt like a queen.
Just before her final examinations she was offered a place with the London Philharmonic, and Tom, even before he’d graduated, landed a sizeable part in a film. His performance attracted the attention of other producers and for a spell he was regarded as one of the biggest new talents around.
Had it started then? Was that when, unnoticed by her, the wave had started to curl at the top, its momentum fading? He’d been the toast of the town and starlets and wannabees were drawn to him like bees to exotic flowers. She had never believed she was pretty enough, funny enough, glamorous enough for Tom and she’d been surprised but profoundly thankful that their relationship had held fast. They had more money and they moved to a comfortable flat in unfashionable Battersea, but with a fine view of the river. Her future seemed secure while Tom’s career, though patchy, had more ups than downs. She floated through the months on a cloud of euphoria.
And then, the wave broke, as waves do, and her world collapsed.
She’d been touring up in Leeds, doing a Christmas extravaganza of popular classics. She had hidden a small store of carefully wrapped and thoughtfully chosen Christmas gifts for Tom in the bottom of the wardrobe in the light-filled riverside bedroom in Battersea, behind a pile of shoes. On Christmas Eve, when she was due to get back, all she’d have to do was arrange them under the tree. The next day, Tom’s parents were coming over to share lunch with them.
She called Tom before the last concert, excited at the approach of Christmas and the idea of being home again very soon.
‘Hello, Wiz.’
The nickname has grown from that first wonderful night they spent together. Weaver of magic spells. Wizard.
‘Hey, Witchy.’
Tom wasn’t working. In January, he was due to start in a new production in the West End. For the last couple of weeks he’d been in rehearsal and learning his lines – the boring bit. That hadn’t changed since college.
‘Learnt them yet?’ she asked.
‘What? Oh, the lines. Yeah.’
He sounded odd. The achievement of memorising usually made him euphoric. ‘Are you okay, Tom?’
‘Yeah. You?’
They were playing the concert that night in Santa hats – ridiculous, but fun. Everyone was in a festive mood and it was catching.
‘Yes. Dying to get home, sweetheart, to be with you. Have you got the food sorted?’
She’d left Tom a shopping list, knowing that she wouldn’t be home in time herself.
‘Shopping?’ Tom sounded vague. ‘Oh sure, yes. Shopping.’
He didn’t sound too sure. Jane pressed him.
‘The turkey? You remembered to drop by the butcher’s? The queue wasn’t too long? I ordered a big one, with your folks coming and everything.’
‘Turkey? Yeah.’
‘And the sausage-meat stuffing?’
‘Mmm. Listen Jane, I’ve got to go. Hope it goes well tonight.’
‘Are you sure you’re okay, Tom?’ she asked, but he’d already rung off. She was perplexed and disappointed. There’d been none of the usual silly farewells, ‘Bye Witch’ or any of the dozen other ridiculous phrases they had adopted into their personal language and privately found so hilarious.
It was Christmas Eve when she turned her key in the lock and opened the door in excited anticipation.
‘Hello?’
The flat was dark and empty – Tom must be out doing some last-minute shopping. She propped her cello carefully in its corner in the hallway and flicked on the light in the kitchen. The place felt chilly. She had been dreaming about a cup of tea for at least the last two hours. Crossing the room, she spotted an envelope propped against the kettle.
JANE..
It was Tom’s bold writing, dashing, confident, stylish, the J a flourish, the word underlined by an curving line that ended in two dots, his trademark. JANE..
She dropped the envelope as though it was on fire. It fell lightly to the floor and lay JANE.. side down.
She backed away from it. Walked around it. Retreated to the other side of the kitchen and looked at it as though it might explode if she went any closer. Why did she have such a bad feeling about this? Ridiculous. It would just announce he’d gone to a party, or out for some last-minute gift shopping.
She should call him.
Two or three times she did dial his mobile, but it was off.
The bad feeling persisted and grew stronger. He should be here. It was Christmas Eve. She had been away for ten days.
He liked cooking, while she was hopeless at it. Usually, if he wasn’t working, he’d make a nice meal, have the table set and a bottle of wine open.
No matter how often she tried, Tom’s phone remained stubbornly off. At last she dashed at the envelope, swooped down to pick it up and tore it open frantically, as though energy and determination might ward off whatever lurked inside.
Hey Witch, I didn’t know how to tell you this, so I’ve taken the coward’s way out. The truth is I have met someone else. I don’t know how else to say it and, you know me, I like everything straight, so there, that’s it, time to move on. Thanks for everything. Tom..
She spent Christmas Day alone. There was no food. The cupboard yielded little more than tinned spaghetti, which she hated, and porridge oats, ditto. After twenty hours without food, she finally made a pot of porridge and forced down a small bowlful, leavened by the addition of some tinned evaporated milk.
She didn’t talk to anyone except, briefly, her parents. She forced a smile into her voice and told them Tom had gone out for a walk. Her mother adored Tom.
Anger took the place of desolation. How dare he! How dare he break up with her like this, after all they had shared together?
She thumped her fist into a pillow then, dissatisfied, slammed it into the kitchen wall, again and again, until her knuckles bled.
Jane was shaking. How could memories make you shake? She’d put it all behind her, years ago. She jumped up to drain the pasta. It had overcooked and looked horribly gloopy.
Damn Tom Vallely! She would not let him get to her.
Ian barrelled into the kitchen full of angry energy.
‘Mu-um. Em and Ross are fighting and Ross won’t let me in to my room.’
‘Oh, Dumpling.’
She scooped him into her arms and buried her face in his soft brown hair, inhaling the scent of him as if it might magically bestow sanity.
‘We’re just about to have supper. Never mind about them.’
She hugged his sturdy young body like a talisman and prayed.
Tom was back, unchanged in all his dangerous charm. Worse – he brought with him the undreamed of possibility that the cover u
p she had so successfully maintained for all these years might unravel. And then what would happen to the life she had constructed?
Chapter Ten
Portobello was blanketed by damp fog.. Jake called it haar.
‘Sea mist to you,’ he said to Tom.
He was wearing joggers and a T-shirt and looked rumpled and tired, his skinny body oddly childlike. Tom, already dressed in pressed navy chinos and a striped Duchamp shirt, was drinking coffee and reading yesterday’s paper, which had been abandoned on the kitchen table.
‘Get it a lot, do you?’
Jake seemed reluctant to admit any defect in his home city. ‘More than I’d like.’
‘Are you off to get the brew? That’s what they call the dole here, isn’t it?’
‘Not in Edinburgh, no,’ Jake said shortly, refilling the kettle. ‘And I’m not claiming it.’
‘Really?’ Tom was genuinely surprised. ‘Why ever not?’
‘Because, it may have escaped your notice, I am actually working. Where’s the coffee?’
Tom waved at a crumpled packet by the sink.
‘Oh sorry, I finished it. You’ll need to get some more.’
‘Shit. Couldn’t you have left a spoonful?’
‘Hey, mate.’ Tom held his hands in front of him in a protective gesture. ‘Not my fault if there’s not enough.’
He saw Jake’s lips tighten and backtracked quickly. He was going to be at least another week and experience had taught him that charm was an effective tool. He turned the defensive hands into placatory ones and said, ‘I’ll buy another packet when I’m out, okay? My contribution.’
He needed to get to the pawn shop first, though, so he caught a bus into Edinburgh, where the haar was still hanging miserably over the streets. He put his fedora back on his head and stepped off the bus in Princes Street into the dampness. He had donned a soft leather jacket, a present from Angela after a particularly intense weekend of screwing, and he turned up the collar, enjoying the feel of the skin under his fingers. It was a good jacket – though by God, he’d earned it.
The girl in the pawn shop was a dumpy brunette with a surprisingly sweet face. Two attractive dimples appeared as she smiled hello.
‘You’re looking delightful on this depressing day. Love the blouse.’ He gestured at the vulgar floral top she was wearing and added a touch of lust to his gaze. Easy meat.
She blushed and giggled. ‘Have you come to pawn or redeem?’
‘I’ve brought something in today.’ He opened his jacket and felt inside the inner pocket. The heavy brooch he’d found in Marta’s drawer was resting there safely.
‘It was my grandmother’s. I’ll be back for it in a week or two. After pay day.’
‘Sure.’ The girl looked at it curiously. ‘That’s pretty. I’ve never seen anything quite like that.’ She took out an eyeglass and studied it closely in the light of a lamp. ‘Gold. Hallmarked. The stones look real. I’ll have to call Mr MacFarlane.’
‘Fine.’ Tom feigned indifference and busied himself by looking in the display cabinets. He’d done this so often that really he should be more relaxed, because he’d never yet been challenged. Even so, he could feel his heart rate rising as the manager examined the brooch.
‘Your grandmother’s, you say?’
‘Yeah, mate, that’s right. Hard to believe, I know, but my grandmother was in service. Many years ago, of course, she’s been dead now for twenty years or more, bless her. The brooch was a gift from one of the grand ladies she worked for, before the first war, of course.’
‘Not stolen then?’
‘Stolen, mate?’ Tom looked hurt. ‘Why d’you say that?’
‘Seems odd. A man like you, carrying round a brooch like this.’
‘Tell you the truth,’ Tom leant on the counter confidingly, ‘I’m an actor. Up here for the Festival. You know what it’s like – money’s always tight. I need a bit to tide me over till the end of the run. Pay day. Always carry the brooch with me. Can’t tell you how many times it’s seen the inside of a pawn shop. Always come and reclaim it as soon as the old pay packet hits the bank.’
‘Hmm. I don’t like lending outside of the city, certainly not on something like this. It’s a bit risky.’ He laid the brooch on the counter. ‘It’s a fine piece. Old. Scottish.’ He squinted at Tom. ‘The hallmark dates it to the late eighteenth century.’
‘Yeah.’ Scottish. His brain was racing. ‘My dear grandma, she was Scottish.’
‘Hmm. Have we done business before?’
‘Last week. My signet ring.’
‘I thought I remembered you.’
The manager made his decision. He reached for a pad of papers and named a valuation figure. It was much higher than Tom had anticipated. Was there a risk? Might the absence of the brooch be noticed and traced to him? Maybe he’d have to come and redeem it, slip it back in Marta’s drawer. Usually he only took small things, the kind of stuff that wouldn’t be noticed – perhaps taking this brooch had been a mistake?
‘I can’t give you a fraction of that, of course, especially not with you not being local. The risk’s too high.’ He made a considerably lower offer. ‘That okay? How long for?’
Gradually, Tom’s heart began to slow.
‘Seems fair. A week should be fine.’
Surely Marta wouldn’t miss it quickly. He’d be able to redeem it as soon as his run finished.
At last the formalities were completed.
‘Your ticket, sir. Fine piece, if I may say so.’
‘Thanks.’
Tom took the documentation, folded it carefully and placed it neatly between the pages of his pocket notebook. He smiled at the girl, simpering in her silly blouse, and left the shop with an idea – he would go and visit Janie. Why not?
The dampness was lifting at last and some warmth was creeping into the day. Removing his jacket, Tom hooked it onto a finger and trailed it over his shoulder. He would walk.
‘Mrs Porter. And looking not a day older, I swear.’
A dog was playing round the elderly woman’s feet, a yappy, shaggy creature.
‘Benji! Hush!’
Evelyn Porter bent to scold the dog. Tom could see the pink of her scalp through the thinness of her hair, but lying cost him nothing. He took off his fedora and smiled.
‘Tom? Tom Vallely?’
Her eyes had aged too. A pale ring lurked round the iris, but her expression had brightened considerably.
‘How wonderful. But how—?’
He stooped to take her arms firmly in his hands and turned his head to air kiss lavishly beside each of her furrowed cheeks.
‘Didn’t Jane tell you I was here? I’m desolated.’
‘She’s met you?’
‘Last week. We had dinner at Marta Davidson’s. Am I to be invited in or must I stand forever in the garden?’
‘I’m so sorry, Tom. Of course, do come in. I was just surprised – Jane, look who’s here to see you. What are you doing in Edinburgh? What have you been doing all this time? I’m sure Jane – here she is – Jane, dear, it’s Tom.’
‘Hello, Janie.’
‘I’m astonished that you’ve got the n-n-nerve to come here.’
‘Just wanted to see you, Janie. You won’t deny me that, will you? Hey? Just a quiet chat? Last week there were so many people around.’
‘Of course you want a wee talk together,’ Mrs Porter was muttering to Jane. ‘I’m just away now, in any case.’
‘No!’ Jane’s voice was vehement.
‘You haven’t seen him for such a long time, dearie. I’d love to stay and catch up with all your news, Tom, but I’ve got a hair appointment in twenty minutes.’
‘T-Tom. Go.’
She was holding firm. Maybe she had changed, then.
‘I’ve walked all the way from Princes Street, Jane. Surely you’ll offer me a cup of tea, after all these years? Witchy?’
He could see the hesitation – the merest fraction of a beat, but it was enough. H
e laughed softly.
‘I don’t take sugar any more. But I did bring you some biscuits.’
He tossed the fedora onto the coat rack and felt in the pocket of the jacket. Coming through Morningside he’d passed a deli and spotted the Leibniz dark chocolate biscuits that had been Jane’s passion.
‘There, Jane, isn’t that lovely. He’s remembered. Now Tom dear, I must go, but I’ll see you before you disappear, now, won’t I? I want to hear all your news.’
‘Of course, Mrs Porter. I’ll come round again, just say the word.’
‘Bye Jane. I’ll collect Ian from school.’
Jane still hadn’t moved.
‘Where’s your kettle?’
As he moved towards her, she jumped aside.
‘Hey. What’s this? Witchy?’ He stopped a few inches in front of her and looked at her searchingly. ‘No need to be afraid, Janie dearest. Life’s moved on, hasn’t it?’
Tom could feel tremors. She was like a rabbit, trapped and fearful. What fun. There it was again, the old feeling of power. Even the stirring of desire.
No. That would be unwise.
‘There.’
He kissed her forehead and stepped into the kitchen.
‘Nice. Bit shambolic, perhaps. Not like your friend Marta’s house. Now there’s a woman who likes to be organised, don’t you agree? Kettle? Oh yes, here it is. Mugs? You’ll have tea too, I hope ?’
‘What do you want, T-Tom?’
He swung round and looked at her.
‘Want? Just to see you, Janie, that’s all. Talk about the old times. Here. Shall we sit down?’
She sank onto a chair obediently. Already she was a servant to his will, no longer mistress of her own home.
Old patterns replaying themselves. Learned behaviour. Remembered ways. He’d always loved the way she bent so pathetically to his will.
‘So. Tell me. What’s new in your life, Janie? Or no, I think I can tell you that. Let me see. The husband. Solid man you have there, Witchy. A bit unimaginative, I reckon, not the creative type, more of a plodder, hardly sex on legs but loyal, I would guess. Am I right? Quite unlike me, in fact, in almost every respect.’