Thursdays in the Park

by Hilary Boyd

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ she asked, between mouthfuls of toast.

  George had got up and was wandering aimlessly round the bedroom.

  ‘It’s your day, you choose. You’re not going to the shop, are you?’

  Jeanie shook her head, thought for a moment.

  ‘No, Jola’s got it covered. You know what? Since it’s such a lovely day, I’d like to go to Kenwood, have lunch outside.’

  George nodded approval. ‘Kenwood it is.’

  ‘Wow! You look amazing . . . sooo beautiful.’

  George was leaning against the mantelpiece in the drawing room, avoiding the caterers. He was dressed in his ancient dinner jacket and black tie, his grey hair neatly parted and plastered to his head, monogrammed black velvet slippers on his feet. She thought his evening clothes made him look distinguished, a man who might have been a player but for that withdrawn, neurotic edge. Jeanie twirled round.

  ‘Love the dress.’

  ‘Good.’ She waved her new watch and smiled her thanks.

  George moved forward and took her hands. ‘Jeanie, I want you to have the most perfect evening. You deserve it.’

  She suddenly caught the vulnerability in her husband’s expression. Was this his way of saying he was sorry, that he regretted wasting her?

  The bell rang.

  ‘That’ll be Chanty.’

  The dining room looked like fairyland. As the sun went down the ribbons of twinkling lights and the glow from the long, pale candles took over, bringing the normally dark room to life and enhancing the spotless white linen and crystal, the nests of pale pink roses, the bright party dresses of the assembled guests.

  George caused a laugh when he admitted to the random nature of the seating plan, but it got the conversation flowing. Jeanie realized she was already drunk. Once Ellie had been safely stowed in one of the spare rooms, and the first guests had arrived, something in her snapped. She stopped thinking and allowed the tension of the past weeks to flow away on a gentle current of champagne. Nothing mattered, no one mattered. Tomorrow, in the immortal line, was another day.

  Looking round the tables, she smiled at the strange blending of friends. Alex was doing his best to make nice to Rita; Jola was clearly bored to death by Danny’s monologue; Marlene, her old tennis partner, was booming her right-wing opinions in the ear of their neighbour, Sue. Chanty had lucked out with the handsome husband of George’s cousin. But generally they seemed pleased to be there, and she could sense their enjoyment as the smoked salmon, roast duck and finally chocolate cake with strawberries appeared in front of them.

  ‘Are you having fun?’ Bill, Rita’s husband whispered in her ear. Jeanie liked Bill. He was relaxed and straightforward, a modest man despite the millions he had made from his garden centres. She wondered, fleetingly, if Rita had told him about Ray, but tonight she didn’t care.

  ‘Loving it.’

  ‘Is that the watch?’ He took her wrist in his hand. ‘Good one.’

  ‘You knew?’ she asked, laughing.

  ‘Blimey, everyone knew but you, Jeanie. George’s been obsessing about it for months. He co-opted Rita, Chanty, me, Jola; we all had to opine about what sort to get.’

  ‘Did you agree?’

  Bill laughed. ‘Of course not. George, being the clock expert, pulled rank and insisted on a leather strap. Chanty thought you’d like Roman numerals. I . . .’ he patted his chest, ‘I suggested the link strap. It’s more up-to-date, don’t you think? One doesn’t want to give in to the traditional just yet.’

  ‘What was Rita’s take?’

  ‘Oh, Rita . . . she thought he ought to buy you an Aston Martin.’

  ‘Too right.’ John Carver, the gay and glamorous interior designer who’d helped them with the house, butted in. ‘A girl can never have too many Astons, I always say.’

  ‘I would like to say a few words about Jeanie.’ George’s words accompanied the commanding ring of Aunt M.’s fork against crystal for silence.

  ‘Jeanie has been my wife for thirty-two years, and in my opinion she’s the best wife in England . . .’ Hear! hears echoed round the room as George pushed his glasses back up his nose and waited for quiet. ‘We met, as many of you will know – but I’ll tell the story anyway because it’s a good one – in a cinema. The Screen on the Green in Islington, to be precise, seeing Julie Christie in Don’t Look Now – my friend was obsessed by her. Halfway through the film there was a panicky shout from the row behind me. “Help! Quick, someone’s collapsed . . .” and someone else shouted, “Is there a doctor in the house?” I didn’t know what to do, so I’m ashamed to say I just sat there while the house lights went up. But suddenly, making her way down the row was this beautiful auburn-haired girl. Everyone else seemed to be paralysed. We all just watched this poor guy slumped and making choking noises in his seat. But without any fuss, she bent over and touched his arm. “Hello . . . are you OK?” she said. “You’ve had a turn.” The man, he was young, immediately opened his eyes and looked around bewildered. “Are you epileptic?” the girl asked, but he shook his head. “No . . . no, I’m OK. I’ll be OK . . .” But he was white and sweating and looked far from OK. She helped him to sit up and wiped away the sweat from his face.

  Anyway, the ambulance had been called and eventually the man was carted away. But Jeanie, for it was she, had been so calm, so kind, so confident with him, and as she went back to her seat, everyone clapped.’ George paused; he looked as if he knew he had their attention. ‘I was smitten. I told my friend I had to know who she was, and at the end of the film I scurried out before the crowd and waited on the pavement outside.’

  Jeanie tried to remember the girl he was talking about. Responsible even then, she thought with a wry smile, realizing that although by the time she met George she was running as fast as possible from the gloomy Norfolk vicarage and its pervading sense of duty, she had never been lighthearted, carefree. It had been her brother Will who was the joker of the family, trying in vain to find the key to his parents’ sense of humour. But he made Jeanie laugh till she could hardly breathe. She blew her brother an imaginary kiss, smiling at what he might have said about Little Sis making sixty had he been here tonight.

  George was still talking. ‘When she came out, me and my friend went up to her and we had a chat about what had happened. She was with another girl: they were both nurses, and we went for a drink nearby. The rest . . .’ he held out his hand towards his wife, ‘is history. This is not to say,’ he went on when the cheering had stopped, ‘that Jeanie is any kind of saint . . .’

  ‘She’s put up with you for thirty years, hasn’t she? Lucky bugger,’ a male voice barracked and George grinned.

  ‘Lucky bugger indeed, but rather her than a saint any day. She keeps me on my toes, she’s feisty and doesn’t suffer fools gladly, but she’s as loyal, true and tolerant a friend as any man could wish for.’ More claps and cheers greeted this statement. Jeanie had hung her head, struck, as if by a blow, by the cruelty of the present situation. She looked up and caught Rita’s carefully neutral glance.

  For a minute there was silence, and George looked as if he had temporarily lost his way. Jeanie could feel everyone holding their breath, when into the silence he spoke, quietly but firmly, looking earnestly round at their friends. ‘I have nothing else to say, except I love her, I’ve always loved her, and I always will.’ And with that he sat down as if the strength had gone out of his legs.

  The silence gave due respect to heartfelt emotion. Jeanie saw Chanty’s eyes had filled with tears, as had many others, including her own. She caught Alex’s eye and saw him looking at her with new respect. She felt Bill’s arm go round her in a hug.

  ‘Let’s raise a toast to Jeanie darling, who, I’m sure you’ll agree, doesn’t look a day over twelve.’ John Carver had stepped effortlessly into the breach and they rose to their feet, glasses in hand. ‘To Jeanie . . . Happy birthday.’

  ‘Speech! Speech!’ She heard shouts for her to respond.

 
Jeanie shook her head, laughing. ‘I’ll let you off, except to say thank you all so much for coming and helping me celebrate, and obviously a particular thank you to George for a beautiful speech.’

  She went over and gave her husband a kiss. He looked drained. ‘That was brilliant.’

  He smiled. ‘I meant it, Jeanie, every word.’

  Alex threw open the French windows in the dining room on to the warm April night, and people began to wander out to the terrace where the caterers had placed lanterns and flares in the garden.

  ‘What a fabulous party, darling.’ Rita came up behind Jeanie and put her arm round her.

  ‘How were your dinner companions?’

  ‘Great. I know you and Alex don’t see eye to eye on much; of course he’s self-obsessed, but he’s not bad company when he makes the effort.’

  ‘Hope you put in a good word for me.’

  ‘You’d think I was your agent, darling.’ Rita looked round to see if they were overheard. ‘Are you OK? . . . that can’t have been easy.’

  Jeanie shook her head. ‘I feel like a total shit.’

  ‘He really meant it,’ Rita commented.

  ‘Don’t . . .’

  ‘Mum . . .’ Chanty hugged her tight. ‘Wasn’t that wonderful? Didn’t you love Dad’s speech?’

  Jeanie held her close. ‘I did. I’ve loved the whole thing. Thanks, darling, I’m so glad you made me have a party.’

  Chanty made a face at Rita. ‘I can’t tell you the problems I had persuading her. “I hate parties . . . I don’t want to celebrate . . . it’ll be a palaver . . .” ’

  Rita laughed. ‘She’s a stubborn old thing but we love her.’

  Much later, she and George were on their own again, sitting in their quiet kitchen, the doors still open to the cool night air, one solitary candle burning between them. The table was laden with plates of cling-filmed leftovers and boxes of glasses the caterers would pick up in the morning. George nibbled at a cold duck leg.

  ‘This is the bit I like best,’ George commented.

  ‘When they’ve all gone?’ Jeanie smiled, kicking her shoes off under the table. ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘It went well, don’t you think?’

  ‘It was wonderful. You can never tell, but I think everyone enjoyed themselves.’

  ‘Jola’s boyfriend looked a bit baffled, and I’m not sure it was Bea’s scene.’

  ‘She probably can’t hear what people say in all that noise. I’m glad she came, though.’

  Bea was another neighbour, now in her nineties. They had known her for as long as they’d known each other.

  They talked for a while, then George got up and took Jeanie’s hands, pulling her to her feet.

  ‘OK . . . bed.’ Jeanie yawned, but George held on to her.

  Suddenly he leaned down and kissed her on the lips. A lingering kiss. Jeanie froze. No, she thought, no, please . . . not now. She felt his arms go round her, his hands stroking her, pulling the strap from her left shoulder and kisses being pressed to her bare skin. His breathing was quick and uneven.

  ‘George . . .’ She pulled away slightly, but he paid no attention.

  ‘Jeanie . . . come upstairs . . . please.’ He kissed her again, a terrible, desperate passion in his mouth that made her wince. It was as if he were doing something he knew he must, and gritting his teeth to get it done.

  He was pulling her towards the door, his hand firmly on her wrist, then seemed to change his mind and made for the drawing room, pulling her down on the sofa. Ten years she had longed for him, but this was wrong. Ray wasn’t the problem, she hardly thought of him; no, she felt furious, outraged that George should consider even for a single second that he had the right.

  ‘George, stop it . . . please . . . not like this . . .’

  And when he continued, ‘George!’ This time it was a shout.

  She pushed him hard in the chest and pulled herself up off the sofa, breathing hard.

  Her husband was slumped on the cushions, his glasses crooked, his face crumpled into the bleakest expression she had ever seen.

  ‘Sorry . . . sorry . . .’ George muttered as she stared down at him. ‘You looked so beautiful tonight. Oh, Jeanie, I thought . . . after so long . . . it was what you wanted.’ He blinked up at her.

  Jeanie felt the strength go out of her and sat down again beside her husband. ‘Not like this, George. Not suddenly. It’s been ten years . . .’

  George’s owl-like eyes stared at her sadly. ‘Ten years, is it . . . ? I didn’t realize.’

  There was silence.

  ‘So you don’t . . . you don’t want to any more?’

  ‘I do . . . of course . . . although it’d be odd after all this time. It was never my choice not to.’ She sighed in frustration. ‘But George, you still haven’t explained what happened, why you suddenly didn’t want to make love to me.’

  She watched as her husband fiddled with his right cufflink, trying to push it through the buttonholes in his folded shirt-cuff. It was a heavy gold monogrammed disc, given to him by his father when he was twenty-one, and almost too big for the holes. She leaned over and did it for him, waiting for him to speak.

  ‘Why, George?’ she finally asked into the silence.

  His eyes lighted on hers fleetingly, then flicked nervously away.

  ‘There wasn’t a reason.’ His response was childlike, sulky.

  Jeanie got up. ‘I’m too old for this,’ she muttered tiredly, feeling suddenly that she was indeed too old, as from today, to listen yet again to this ancient lie.

  Her husband’s look was dogged. ‘There wasn’t . . . I can’t explain.’

  ‘ “Won’t”, you mean.’ She snatched up her pale-blue wool wrap that lay over the back of the armchair. Making one last try, she stood with her arms crossed and addressed him as he sat, still slumped against the cushions. ‘Look at it from my point of view, George. Suppose we’d had sex tonight. I think, “That’s good, we’re back on track.” I don’t ask any questions, just assume whatever it was that got in the way has gone. Then you leg it again.’ She looked at him questioningly. ‘I don’t think I could cope with that.’

  George nodded slowly.

  ‘What I said about you tonight was true, Jeanie. I love you. I always have and always will.’

  She nodded agreement because this, at least, was true.

  ‘We’re solid, aren’t we . . . you and I?’

  Jeanie just looked at him.

  ‘I mean, I know the sex thing . . . isn’t great . . . but apart from that. I couldn’t bear to lose you.’

  Jeanie turned away. She suddenly felt too tired to say one more word. They didn’t seem to be on a level playing field any more. She knew he was still hiding something: she’d seen his eyes flick. And now so was she.

  ‘Night, George.’

  ‘Night.’

  ‘It’s like buses, nothing for years then two come along at once.’

  Rita strode up the hill, Jeanie keeping pace. They reached the top of the path, buffeted by the wind, and drew breath, the landscape of London stretching ahead of them, panoramic, beyond the Heath.

  ‘It’s not funny,’ Jeanie retorted, although they both began to laugh.

  ‘Honestly, darling, we should be oiling our bath chairs, not fighting off the lustful hordes!’

  Jeanie had texted Rita as soon as she thought it fair that morning. Despite her tiredness, she’d spent a sleepless night after leaving George. At five she’d gone down to the kitchen and watched the sunrise, picking at some of the strawberries left over from the night before.

  ‘Should I have let him?’ This was the question that had tormented her all night. ‘If I had, maybe it’d simplify things . . . get us back on track.’

  Rita took a long slug of water from the bottle she carried, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Even at short notice she looked immaculate in tight grey tracksuit bottoms and a pink lycra vest.

  ‘If it felt wrong, it was wrong. End of.’
r />   ‘That simple? Can we sit down for a moment?’ Jeanie suddenly felt faint. The bench was damp and she wondered fleetingly if it had rained in the night.

  ‘This is really getting to you.’ Rita eyed her friend with concern as she brushed a twist of cellophane fastidiously off the seat before sitting down. ‘It wasn’t about Park Man last night, was it? You comparing them?’

  She considered this. ‘It didn’t seem so at the time. It seemed like an attack I was fending off.’

  Rita raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I know, it’s George we’re talking about, but you didn’t see him, Rita, he was in a frenzy.’

  ‘Of desire?’

  ‘Not really . . . more desperation.’

  ‘Not a good look. But Jeanie, what do you feel for George? Do you still find him attractive? Did you feel any desire when he kissed you?’

  She shook her head. ‘I used to, but I’ve stopped thinking of him in that way. And last night he didn’t give me a chance to feel anything.’

  ‘Except anger. So what did he say this morning?’

  ‘I didn’t wait. I couldn’t face him.’

  ‘Oh, darling.’ Rita saw the tears almost before Jeanie was aware of them. ‘Are you going to talk to him about it?’

  ‘I don’t see the point.’

  ‘What, so you’ll just go on as you were, as if nothing’s happened?’ Rita’s look was incredulous.

  ‘What else can I do, Rita, if he won’t talk to me?’ Jeanie snapped.

  ‘OK, OK, don’t get shirty.’

  ‘Sorry, but you don’t understand. You’d never get yourself into this ridiculous situation in the first place.’

  Rita’s silence seemed to confirm this.

  ‘And Park Man?’

  Something softened in Jeanie at the thought of Ray, and the hold she had kept on herself since George’s attack seemed to fall away.

  ‘He’s separate from all this, Rita . . . he’s just Ray.’

  Her friend looked sceptical, taking another long swig from her water bottle, wiping the neck and offering it to Jeanie.