by Angela Huth
By the time Laura finally left, too, to go to Durham, I had noticed the conspicuous change in my figure. I should have taken some strong hold – gone on a diet, changed my eating habits, whatever. But no. One of the pleasures I came to look forward to was a proper three-course dinner alone in front of the television. Plus half a bottle of Jeremy’s nice white wine. He always said, ‘Help yourself from the cellar whenever you want to,’ and I would take him at his word. Another pleasure was breakfast: all those fried glistening things I had cooked for years for the children and never eaten myelf, I now found immensely enjoyable. They gave a good start to the morning. They would keep me going till the chocolate biscuits and coffee at eleven, later followed by homemade bread and soup for lunch.
The children, when they came home, teased me mildly about my middle-aged spread. They found it odd I had put on so much weight considering I seemed to be eating no more than usual. For, out of habit, or perhaps secret shame, in front of them I remained quite abstemious, piling their plates with second and third helpings but toying with just one small helping myself. I contemplated confessing to them my secret vice, but then couldn’t face it. Besides, they didn’t go on about it, accepted me lovingly as always. As for Jeremy – home less than ever despite retirement being only four years off – he made no comment at all.
Jeremy is in shipping. It has always been his job, ever since he came down from Balliol. I’m ashamed to say after twenty-three years of marriage I still don’t know precisely what it is he does in shipping. Sales, I think. ‘Do you have to sell a liner like a man who sells double glazing?’ I once asked, but he was concentrating on something else, or perhaps considered it a question not worth answering, though he would never have been so rude as to say so.
For Jeremy is a very kind man. In matters of consideration, you could not fault him. That is not to say he is a man of declarations. His appreciation is expressed in other ways. Compliments have never sprung readily from his lips, and indeed I’m sometimes unsure he even observes things that might inspire other men to words of praise: Laura’s new short hair, or one of my better soufflés, for instance. And yet he plainly cares deeply for his family. When he is home – and his business takes him all over the world, sometimes for weeks on end, for most of the year – he gives us his full attention. He asks questions, goes for walks with Sam, talks about Renaissance poets to Kathy and the history of politics to Laura, and takes an interest in my herbaceous border and the state of my old-fashioned roses. ‘Sorry I’ve got to go again,’ he says, when his time is up. And I know he means it. He looks full of regret.
Away from us, he sends postcards, calls occasionally at inconvenient hours – though, heavens, the sound of his voice is never inconvenient – from Australia or wherever. I always get a decent warning of his homecoming. Mrs Manns, his secretary, gives a ring saying what time he is due at Heathrow, so there is no chance of my letting him down. A company chauffeur meets him at the airport these days, but I can be sure of having ready his favourite shrimp vol-au-vents, or risotto, or, best of all, baked red mullet. Plus, of course, a bottle of good wine in the fridge.
He always seems to be pleased to be home. Lately, he’s taken to bringing me chocolates. He apologises they have come from the airport, time being very scarce – but they’re invariably very expensive and elaborately beribboned. Particularly good, of course, when he returns from Brussels or Zurich. We have established a funny little routine after our first reunion dinner: I offer him one of the heavenly chocolates: he refuses. ‘You have them all for yourself,’ he says with his generous smile. And once he’s gone away again – I don’t open them till then – that’s just what I do.
I’m sitting now by the study fire, the latest box – a fine assortment of soft centres – by my side. I’ve watched the nine o’clock news, and Panorama, and am quite content. I choose my third – fourth? fifth, perhaps? – and last for the evening: a walnut cluster. The hand that plucks it, I notice, is a plump, puffed-up thing compared with what it used to be. The nails are still a pretty shape, but my wedding ring sits deep beside two banks of flesh. I could never get it off, now: it will have to be buried with me. The ankles and feet, stretched out, match the hands in puffiness. No longer can I wear the pretty shoes that I used to love to find, and which caused people to pay many a compliment. The arms are large and heavy. Once delicate wrist and elbow bones now quite obliterated by fat, and the stomach is swollen to the same size as when I was six months pregnant. None of these things worries me dreadfully, but I do observe them. Thank God we are designed so as not to see our own faces – that was an almighty piece of tact on the Lord’s part. For on the occasions I’m forced to study the face, I admit to a certain desolation. Simply because it doesn’t look like the one I remember best. ‘If you’d just lose a stone or two, Mum,’ Laura said a week or so ago, ‘you’d be exceptionally good-looking. I mean, you’ve got the features. It’s just that they’re becoming obscured.’
It’s true. (Laura has always been the most loving and most honest of the children. She’s the one who minds most about this metamorphosis.) I did have fine eyes: but as the cheeks have swollen their size has diminished. And the once pointed chin is now indeterminate, mingling with underchins that ripple down to a doughy chest. My hair still shines from time to time, I think. But I’m not attractive any more. I’m fat, fat, fat.
Perhaps if Jeremy were to complain, I would make a serious effort to do something about it. This I reflect on sometimes: I am so much less busy now and have time for introspection. (A dangerous pastime, I always think. I don’t indulge too often.) But as Jeremy does not complain, and remains as considerate to me and appreciative of home life as he is able in the brief times he is here, why make the effort? As it is, I am peaceful, lazier these days, and happy. And it’s time to go to bed.
It’s a windy night. Draughts slightly move the curtains. The weather forecast warned of tempestuous autumn days ahead. Well, if it rains tomorrow I shall stay at home with bean soup for lunch, and make a list of ingredients for the Christmas cake. Some people might be daunted by my solitary days of trivial pursuits. I like them. Besides, it’s not a barren life. There is always Jeremy’s next return to look forward to.
Yesterday he rang from Tokyo to say he doubted if he could get home by the weekend. He would ring again if plans changed. I stir, meaning to get up. The telephone on the table beside me rings. It can only mean that plans have changed.
‘Hello?’ says a woman. I do not know her voice. ‘Is that Ada Mullins?’
‘Avril,’ I say.
‘Sorry. I knew it was something beginning with A. Couldn’t for the life of me remember what.’ She gave a small laugh, but not a friendly one.
‘Who are you?’ I ask.
‘I’m Richenda Gosforth.’
Silence.
‘Richenda …?’
I do not know a Richenda, I’m almost sure. Perhaps she’s a friend of one of the children.
‘Gosforth.’ Silence for a moment or two. ‘I’m the mother of Jeremy’s baby. Your husband Jeremy.’
‘Yes, yes. I know Jeremy’s my husband,’ I say. My fingers fiddle with the velvet ribbon twisted into a multi-looped bow on the lid of the chocolate box. I feel very calm.
‘Look, Av – Mrs Mullins,’ says Richenda Gosforth. ‘Jeremy wanted to keep all this from you. He’ll probably be livid with me when he finds out I’ve rung you. But I think you should know the truth.’
‘Really?’ I say, but is isn’t really a question as I’m not sure what she’s talking about.
‘Well, the truth is, Jeremy and I have been together for nearly two years now. I’ve been like a second wife to him in a way. I suppose you could say I’ve had all the glamour but none of the real advantages.’
‘None of the real advantages?’ I echo.
‘Absolutely not. I mean, yes, I’ve had the trips abroad, the first-class flights, the champagne, the hanging about in hotel suites while he’s in his conferences. But what I’ve neve
r had with Jeremy is a base. That’s been your privilege. You’ve got the base with Jeremy.’
‘That’s true,’ I say. ‘Jeremy and I have certainly had a solid base for a good many years now. Man and wife.’
‘Exactly. And you hold the trump card, being his wife.’
‘I am his wife, yes.’ Another pause.
‘You’re being very nice,’ continues Richenda Gosforth. ‘I thought you’d be screaming mad at me. I had to have three whiskys before making this call. Anyhow, about the baby. I thought you should know about the baby. When I first told Jeremy, heavens, was he put out! Wanted to whizz me off to an abortionist straight away. He didn’t want anything to rock the boat, as he put it.’
‘That’s always been a concern of his, not to rock the boat,’ I reflect. We give a small, clashing laugh. When the laughter dies, Richenda Gosforth goes on with her story.
‘But I said: no way, Jeremy. I’m not going to be pushed about for your convenience. My baby’s not going to be murdered just to suit you. I’m going to have it.’
‘Quite right,’ I say, being anti-abortion myself, and to end another silence.
‘Jason was born three weeks ago,’ says Richenda, ‘and when Jeremy saw I had no intention of changing my mind, I must say he was very decent about it all. He set me up in this flat near Richmond Park, and he’s paying for a part-time nanny so I’ll be able to go back to work. He was in Canada for the actual birth, but he comes to see us as often as he can. I’m expecting him for the weekend when, I’ve told him, we’ve finally got to thrash things out.’
‘He’ll be with you, this weekend?’ I say. ‘To thrash things out?’
‘Exactly. Unless, that is, his plans change, and he can’t make it.’
I feel the merest smile twitch the corners of my mouth. ‘His plans do change,’ I say.
‘I’m sorry if all this is coming as an awful shock to you,’ says Richenda. ‘But I thought if I could tell Jeremy I’d spoken to you, although he might be angry, it would make things easier.’
‘I hope so,’ I said.
It might not make things much easier, I think, Jeremy not being a man who thrives on confrontation.
‘The thing is this. In a word, Mrs Mullins, Jeremy is the love of my life. I want to marry him. I think, to be honest, he feels the same.’
She is silent again. I feel I should help her out.
‘And I’m the stumbling block,’ I say.
‘Exactly. You’re the stumbling block. Jeremy’s told me a million times he can’t leave you, break up the family. Yet, anyway. Some time, he says, perhaps. But he says he can’t bring himself to leave you at the moment, whatever he feels for me and Jason, for reasons he can’t explain. You’re a taboo subject, actually. So I don’t know anything about you. I don’t know if you’re old or young or middle-aged, fat or thin, whether you work or not, whether you’re a good wife and mother. I don’t know anything about you. Jeremy goes all blank if I ask any questions. He simply won’t talk about you – ‘She breaks off with a sob in her voice. I wait for her to recover. ‘Mrs Mullins, forgive me for saying this, but although he keeps his silence I get the impression that there’s not much going on between you and Jeremy. Would you mind if he left you?’
I see my dimpled fingers twirl faster through the pretty loops of the velvet bow. Would I mind if he left me? It is a question I have never asked myself.
‘It’s a question I’ve never asked myself,’ I tell Richenda Gosforth, ‘and a question I trust I shall never have the need to ask myself.’
I glance down at my feet, slumped inwards upon themselves, conveying the weariness that seemed to be congealing my veins, making me hungry. I lift the lid from the chocolate box and rustle through the crisp, empty, pleated brown-paper cases that once held the delicious collection of soft centres.
‘Oh,’ says Richenda Gosforth, eventually. ‘Really?’
She does not sound deflated. She’s obviously a determined young woman (I presume young, anyway) out to get her own way.
‘Well, I think you should think about it all, if you would. I mean, after all, nothing’s ever going to be quite the same again, now, is it? Knowing Jeremy has a mistress and baby tucked away somewhere. As you can imagine, Mrs Mullins, I shall be insisting on no less for Jason than your children had -private education, holidays with Jeremy, all that sort of thing – ’
‘Quite,’ I hear myself interrupting. I am still thinking calmly. The impertinence of the girl. The weariness turns into a heavy, physical thing that clouds my whole body.
‘So you think it over and I’ll ring you back,’ she suggests in a bossy voice.
‘Oh no, don’t ring me back, if you don’t mind,’ I say, wanting this insane conversation to end, now. I put down the receiver.
The wind still shuffles the curtains. The silence is broken only by the small cracking sounds of the empty chocolate papers as my hand despairs through them in hope of a last one: but no, there are none left. But Jeremy, when he comes early next week, I must now suppose, will not let me down. Jeremy is a loving man. He will bring me new chocolates, lovingly chosen by himself. He is not the sort of man to hurt his wife and family. If there is a complicated side of his life, he will protect us from it. Perhaps he has always done this. Perhaps there have been other … complications over the years.
This whole daft matter is, in fact, scarcely worth thinking about, because nothing can ever affect us. The solid base Richenda Gosforth seemed so to envy cannot be disturbed by an outside force. When Jeremy comes, I shall welcome him. He will be pleased to be back, as always. I shall offer him the chocolates he has brought me. He will refuse. We will laugh, exchange news. Naturally, I shall not mention the silly business of Richenda Gosforth’s telephone call. I would never dream of intruding in that way. Where there is trust, there is no place for intrusion. I would rather not have known about this squalid girl, of course, but Jeremy will deal with her. He is very competent at sorting out all manner of things. Never will he know, from me, that I know about his son. That is the least a wife can do, keep her silence, if she is to practise her real love for her husband.,
I shall lash out on Monday evening: I shall lash out on turbot and a mousseline sauce, and he’ll chide me a little for my extravagance, but really be pleased at the effort I’ve made. We will have one of our quiet and peaceful evenings together -happy, easy with each other as is our custom. As usual, he will be suffering from jet lag – funny how after flying so many thousands of miles it still affects him – and fall asleep instantly his head touches the pillow. Sometimes I watch his sleeping face for hours. Good, kind, searingly familiar. Oh Jeremy. I think I know you well. I do know you well.
Somehow it is nearly midnight. Long past my normal bedtime. In the circumstances, I think I shall treat myself to a mug of hot chocolate and a piece of toast and dripping, the stuff of midnight feasts as a child. Now, standing, in anticipation of such pleasure the weariness has quite fled. I am large and strong and Jeremy’s wife. I am warm with trust.
After a while, I go to the kitchen, pour boiling milk into the mug of chocolate powder, and stir the creamy bubbles. I choose a pretty tray for the drink and toast and dripping, and make my way, quite sure of our unchanging love, to bed.
Irish Coffee
It was Magda McCorn’s custom to holiday alone. There was not much choice in this matter, but even if there had been she would probably have preferred it that way. She was well acquainted with the many conveniences of the solitary holiday and in the bad moments (which she would scarcely admit to herself, let alone anyone else) remembered to appreciate them.
Last year Mrs McCorn had gone to Sweden. The year before, Norway. Now, she was sick of fish, and twilight afternoons. A yearning for her late husband’s country of birth had assailed her one April afternoon, admiring the bilious sweep of King Alfreds in her Cheltenham garden, and within the week she was booked into a first-class hotel in Parknasilla, Co. Kerry.
Mrs McCorn did little at random, and it
was only after thorough research that she chose Parknasilla. As her efficient eye swept through the brochures, the name came back to her with a sparkle of nostalgia. It was not her husband, Patrick (born in the shadow of Croagh Patrick, a charming Co. Mayo man), but Commander Chariot, eligible bachelor on a spring cruise to the Canaries some years back, who had recommended the place most warmly. They had been drinking sherry at the ship’s bar: the scene was an indelible picture in Mrs McCorn’s mind. Commander Chariot wore his panama, despite the overcast skies, while Mrs McCorn had undone the top button of her floral bolero, which would indicate, she felt, a nice distinction between normal reserve and long-term possibility. But if the subtleties of his companion’s dress made any impression on the Commander, he did not show it. His bleak grey eyes hovered on the horizon which tilted a little perilously, for Mrs McCorn’s sherry-flushed stomach, through the window behind the bar. He chatted on in his charming, impervious way, about Parknasilla (often visited in July) and other places he had enjoyed over the years. All the while calling her Mrs McCorn.
But then the Commander was a not an easy man to get to know. The very first evening aboard, Mrs McCorn, well-trained antennae highly tuned for potential companions, sensed his reserve. Reserve, however, was a challenge rather than a deterrent to the good widow. On many occasions she had found herself quite exhausted from exercising her sympathy on shy fellow holiday-makers and often, as she wore them down, she had recognised the breakthrough, the light, the reward: sometimes it was the offer of a drink or a game of bridge. On other occasions there were confidences, and it was these Mrs McCorn liked best. For in persuading a stranger to ‘unwind his soul’, as she called it, she felt of some real use, and the satisfaction kindled within her in the bleaker months of the year between holidays.