by Angela Huth
‘Why are you here, exactly?’ I asked.
Mary hesitated. I could see her working out an answer.
‘Too complicated to explain, really,’ she replied lightly. ‘I’m just trying to work a few things out. I wanted to be somewhere a long way from home, by myself.’
‘I see.’ I would ask no more, naturally.
‘I rather like being on my own. I really do,’ she went on. ’In fact, if I never got married I’d be quite happy.’ My mother would call that a terrible failure, but I honestly wouldn’t mind at all.’
‘I don’t suppose there’s much chance of your remaining …’
The vicious thought of her being someone else’s wife stopped me. Mary gave a small laugh whose echo was muted by the mud-brown carpet, the soggy grey walls, the thick curtains of stuff like woven bran. By now it was three-thirty. Chilblains had left long ago in a huff. Mary offered me another lift home. But I insisted on walking. There was still energy to be dissipated if I was to get a wink of sleep that night.
‘Very well, then,’ she said. ‘I’ll drive over to you for lunch tomorrow. How would that be?’
That was the only moment she was just the slightest bit flirtatious. My darling, beloved Mary – what do you imagine? And stay for ever, please.
‘Early as you like,’ I said.
At midday I began to imagine that she was snowbound, upside down in a ditch, or had changed her mind. I suffered all the torments of a waiting lover, fretting over the smoky fire, the mud from Ralphie’s paws on the sofa where she should sit, the draught from the windows. Provisions were a little odd, but by now I was confident she wouldn’t mind that sort of thing. I had found one last bottle of port, given to me by my father on my twenty-first birthday, so pretty mature by now. Apart from that, there was a pound of sausages and a couple of stale rolls. The village shop had run out of pickles and cheese.
Mary arrived at one forty-five, by which time my equilibrium was in a wretched state. She had a shining cold face and wore green trousers: she gave no reason for being late.
‘This,’ she said, coming brilliantly into the room, a barren place, then, ‘is marvellous.’ She looked out of the window to the view I’ve lived with for forty years. ‘Imagine when the apple tree is out.’
We grilled the sausages over the fire, burned and abandoned the rolls, and drank most of the port from my mother’s old silver goblets. I put on the Beethoven violin concerto – scratchy old record, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. For the life of me, I can’t remember what we talked about (the erosion of that conversation has been a mental torture ever since). But I do remember we laughed a lot, made tea when it was dark and the wind fretted at the bare windows, and planned a walk together the next day – my last.
Each day with Mary, somehow, was so extraordinarily different, as if the Lord was giving us a chance, at least, to see each other in a variety of weathers. The Tuesday was sunny: great strips of gold slashed across the wind-bitten snow, draining the blue from shadows. Robins shrieked from the apple tree. The hedges, snow-covered chariots, were parked on cobweb wheels of diamond cogs, spun by millionaire spiders. Unable to stay indoors, I set off to the village with Ralphie, thinking I would meet her on her way. I sang ‘Rule Britannia’ very loudly, not knowing the words of any love songs, and found children skating on the pond. I thought: this is my last chance. What can I do? How can I let her go?
An immediate plan came to my rescue. For the first time in my honourable career, I would make some excuse and take two more days’ leave. Thus, before she left, we might have a little more time.
I heard the pooping of a small horn behind me. The Austin Seven was chugging towards me, Mary in her woollen hat, smiling. She was out of the car in a trice, running.
‘I’m terribly early. Sorry! Hope you didn’t – I mean, we mustn’t waste the sun.’
We didn’t waste the sun. We walked for miles. God knows where we went. I remember woods, the creak of snow in the hush of ash trees, the squawk of a frightened blackbird. I remember a lighted village church, women bustling about with clumps of evergreen, preparing for a wedding or a funeral, a smell of paraffin, the organist perfecting ‘Abide With Me’. Wickedly cold, suddenly, when we came out again. The sun had gone. The sky was a starless navy.
Mary was tired by now. We had had a glass of mulled wine in a pub, but had eaten nothing. Time ignored the ordinary junctions of an ordinary day. We were surprised by the suddenness of the evening. In a lane a mile still from the car, Mary suddenly slipped, stumbled. I put out my hand to save her, pulled her to me. Instead of resisting, she clung to me, a childlike hug with the fingers of her woolly gloves spread out on my arms. She gave a small sob. I could feel it against my heart. Looking down, I saw tears pushing under the long lashes of her closed eyes. I kissed her forehead. She straightened up, dabbed at her eyes. In the failing light, a smear of tears glinted on her cheek. I could see a drop of crystal poised under one nostril. We began to walk again. She let me hold her hand.
And, back at the car at last, she permitted me to kiss her on the forehead once more. In retrospect, I am glad, so glad, I was spared from knowing at the time this was our last moment. For, then, I had plans. Tomorrow I would surprise her: turn up in the mended car, take her to London, lunch, the Tate, theatre, dinner, anything. I said nothing of this, however, and shut the door of the toy-like car. She waved, this time, with a smile that I think was rather sad, but I may have imagined that. Working over the same small fabric of memory so many times, the weave plays tricks. Anyway, it was quite dark by now, and tonight no moon replaced the sun.
The following day I put on a suit and my regimental tie, polished my shoes. The Wolseley, full of new life, deposited me at The Black Swan at eleven-thirty precisely.
I asked for Miss Jay at the reception desk, as the lounge was empty. But she had gone. Checked out. No forwarding address. Nothing.
No need to remind myself of the pattern of my despair that followed, the struggle to heal a broken heart. I cursed myself for the stupid risk surprises mean, drove wildly to the Knights to make enquiries. They had left for Canada the day before. I skidded home to ring every Jay in the Borders’ telephone book, but no one had heard of Mary. I wanted to end my life. I returned to being a soldier.
Six months later, almost to the day, I read in The Times the engagement was announced between Miss Mary Jay (address supplied, too late) to Mr Vaughan Robert Macdunnald of the Isle of Skye. (Oh God, had she waited six months for me to give some signal?) On one of Petronella’s unwelcome visits, she mentioned that Mr Vaughan Macdunnald was a friend of her husband Henry, and the whole family would be going up to the wedding. Later, she tried to tell me about the nuptials. I told her that I had briefly met Mary Jay, but was not interested in hearing how her wedding day had passed. Petronella gave me one of her horribly knowing looks. I assumed, rightly, that I would have to avoid years of scraps of information pertaining to the Macdunnald household.
Three years after Mary’s wedding, the Knights returned home. One evening I asked them, in a nonchalant manner, if they had ever heard of her again. They had not, though they had written to her at the time of her marriage. I went on, in casual fashion, to describe the nature of her departure.
‘Well, it must have been very difficult for her, mustn’t it?’ said Janet. ‘She’d come down here to try to persuade herself she couldn’t go through with it, the marriage to Vaughan. But there was so much pressure on her. They had known each other since childhood, and he’d been trying to marry her for years, you know. Apparently he had a wonderful castle on the sea – everything you could want, if you loved Scotland, which Mary did. But he was blown up in ‘42 – helpless invalid for life. I think Mary believed that if she said no, that would be the end, for him.’
In the event, the end took forty years. Poor bugger. Poor Mary.
Mrs Cluff, I see, is coming up the garden path, basket over her arm, mind on the pork chop and baked apple she will cook for my lunch. She�
�s a good soul, Mrs Cluff. And over those years, what for me? The odd fling, the casual affair, no thoughts of marriage: the saving discipline of army life, the pleasure of retirement here. I can’t complain.
But, ah, what might have been? Should any old man ask himself that question? What might have been, with Mary Jay?
‘Morning, General.’ Doors bang. She’s inclined to bang doors, Mrs Cluff.
‘Morning, Mrs Cluff,’ I shout back. We never come face to face until the dishes are on the table.
‘Chill wind this morning.’ Another bang.
And now she’s free, my Mary Jay, and here am I still waiting. Still waiting, in the real sense? Has the hope never died? Is the love of my life still intact in my heart? What do you think, Jacob old boy? Would I be a fool to risk getting in touch again, now – or a fool not to? Is it too late? Are we too old?
The morning has flown in cogitation. Damn sight more interesting, as a matter of fact, all that sort of thing, than the military side. Daresay Petronella and Co would be fascinated. But they’ll never know, because it’s not for publication, of course. Nothing private for publication.
I’ve taken my time balancing up the pros and cons, though the summing up needs another hour or so’s reflection. Wind on the Common’ll clear my mind. Then I’ll make the decision, ‘snappy’, like my wise old CO said. By this evening, I promise myself. By 1800 hours, to be precise. Cheap dialling time. Quiet time to write a letter.
‘Jacob,’ I say, giving him a slight kick to wake him, ‘Jacob, old man, it’s an important day for you and me today. Come on, now. Stir yourself. It’s almost time for lunch.’
This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London
WC1B 3DP
First published in Great Britain 1989 by William Heinemann Limited
Copyright © Angela Huth 1989
The moral right of author has been asserted
‘The Fuchsia Auberge’ originally appeared in London Daily News, ‘Ladies’ ‘Race’ in Winter’s
Tales and ‘Sudden Dancer’ in Woman’s Own. ‘The Bull’ and ‘Irish Coffee’ originally appeared
in Good Housekeeping. ‘Balloons’ originally appeared in Male and Femail, ‘A Matter of
Diplomacy’, in Cosmopolitan and ‘The Weighing Up’ in Harpers & Queen. ‘Donkey Business’,
‘Mother of the Bride’ and ‘The Weighing Up’ have been read on the BBC’s Morning Story.
The quotation on p. 141 comes from The Real Thing by Tom Stoppard. Reproduced by
permission of Faber & Faber Ltd.
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ISBN: 9781448200290
eISBN: 9781448201617
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