Suddenly apprehensive, she sat in the car wondering if it would be wiser to turn back. What was she going to say? How could she appear casual and not betray any emotion? He might well be annoyed that she’d turned to him only in a crisis, after avoiding him for months. She checked her reflection in the rear-view mirror and tried to rub off some of the lipstick. She didn’t want to look as if she’d spent ages on her appearance – which she had.
A complete waste of time, no doubt. In fact she might as well leave the stuff in the car. No point lugging glass dishes through the slush if nobody was in.
She squinted at the list of names beside the bells. His was the only one neatly typed.
She rang, then negotiated the narrow steps to the basement, catching her breath as the door opened a crack.
‘Lorna!’
She too was shocked – by his pallor and by the amount of weight he’d lost. Last night, in all the confusion and the darkness, she hadn’t really noticed. And afterwards he’d fled, evidently unable to face her. Thinness apart, though, he still looked distinguished, dressed in dark cords and a navy sweater. ‘I just wanted to thank you,’ she said, ‘for yesterday.’
‘Come in.’
She followed him into the hall. It was dark and smelt of damp.
‘May I take your coat?’
‘Thank you.’ They might be strangers: stilted language, stiff formalities. Should she reach out and take his hand?
But he was already standing aside, ushering her into a poky room with sludge-green walls and bars at the window. ‘Do sit down. I’m afraid it’s a bit of a mess.’
In fact it was meticulously tidy, just impoverished and bare. She sat on the edge of a chair, recognizing a couple of pieces from Queen’s Hill Drive: a small mahogany writing-desk and an antique carriage-clock that had stopped working years ago. Throughout their marriage it had said ten past ten. Both items looked incongruous here, and seemed to recoil from the hideous sofa and scrappy rug. When the house-sale was going through he had offered her the pick of the furniture, but she had refused to take anything, determined to break all ties. Impossible. The ties were extraordinarily strong.
He picked up his pipe – another familiar object: the Peterson with the straight-grained briar and the silver band at the base of the stem. A number of other pipes sat on the writing-desk – a source of comfort, perhaps, in this prison. The room was disconcertingly quiet: no sound from the other flats or even from the street. She felt a sudden sense of shame that all this time she’d had no idea where or how he was living – her husband of eleven years. Kathy had advised her not to meet him, to cut contact to a minimum, just brief phone-calls about the finances. Kathy wasn’t always right, she realized now.
She cleared her throat. ‘I, er, hope you know how grateful everyone is. You were the hero of the hour!’
He shrugged. ‘It wasn’t difficult. I told you – there was an airlock in the system and I just had to bleed it through.’
‘All the same, it saved our bacon. Or turkey, I should say!’ She flushed at the trite joke. Nervousness was making her gabble. ‘And the whole thing was such a drama I think the residents rather enjoyed it – once it was over, anyway. They were reminiscing about the Blitz and the General Strike and what have you, and it created quite a festive mood.’
He refilled his pipe and tamped it down with his thumb. ‘It’s a lovely house.’
‘Mm.’ Was he bitter about their very different circumstances? The coach-house was a palace compared to this slum. But he didn’t have to live in such surroundings – what had happened to the money she had given him? ‘What are you doing at the moment, Ralph?’ she asked. ‘Did you manage to find a job?’
‘Of sorts. I’m using the van to do light haulage work. It’s a bit sporadic, but it pays the bills. And before that I worked as a minicab-driver.’ He gave the ghost of a smile. ‘But the pipe didn’t go down very well with customers. I’ve sold the car now, in fact.’
‘Oh, Ralph …’ He had loved his car almost as much as the house.
Forestalling protestations of pity, he stood up and moved to the door. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’
‘Well, if it’s no bother.’
She too got up, and en route to the kitchen had a quick look round the flat. There was only a tiny bathroom and one other room, his bedroom. Warily she put her head round the door. Would there be evidence of another woman: a photograph? belongings?
She froze. The woman in the photographs was her. There were four in all. The one beside his bed showed her sitting on the lawn in a halter top and shorts. The second, on the chest of drawers, had been taken at the company dinner-dance soon after they’d met. The third was just a snapshot, propped against the clock, and on the window-sill stood their wedding-photo, resplendent in its silver frame. She turned away from her smiling faces. The room was practically a shrine to her, whereas she had assumed he would throw her photos out, if not destroy them. This was surely proof that Olu hadn’t approached him.
‘Lorna?’
‘Coming.’
‘D’you mind tea instead? I don’t seem to have any coffee.’
‘Tea’ll be fine.’
The kitchen was little bigger than a cupboard and again depressingly bare. When he opened the fridge to get out the milk, she saw there was nothing else in it except a carton of orange-juice. While she’d been tucking in to a splendid Christmas dinner at The Cedars, he had probably made do with a liquid lunch.
His hands weren’t quite steady as he made the tea. She had no idea what he was feeling – pleasure at seeing her again, resentment, even anger? ‘I … I’ve got a few things for you, Ralph. They’re in the car. I’ll fetch them.’
He didn’t offer to help. Perhaps he just wished she’d leave. Certainly she hadn’t been prepared for the effect the visit would have on her: desire and distress in equal proportions. She wanted to hold him, kiss him, yell at him, comfort him – all dangerous reactions. She would leave – it was safer. But at least he must have the trifle. She had taken great pains with it: begging the ingredients from Marco, borrowing a cut-glass bowl from the kitchen, decorating the top with holly made from glacé cherries and angelica strips, and spelling out ‘Happy Christmas’ in silver balls.
She carried it carefully in from the car and placed it on the worktop. ‘I put in lots of almonds and ratafias. And masses of sherry of course!’
‘This is for me?’ He was gazing at it with an expression of disbelief.
‘I always make you a trifle at Christmas.’ Used to make, she should have said. ‘And Kathy sent you a token of thanks.’ She drew the bottle of single malt from her shoulder-bag and held it out to him.
‘I don’t drink.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t drink any more. Not since you left.’
‘You mean … you’ve kept off it all that time?’
‘You seem surprised.’ Now he did sound bitter. ‘A lot of things have changed, Lorna.’
‘So I see.’ She was more than surprised, she was stunned – that he had found the strength to give up drinking during such a stressful period. When he had quit before it had lasted two days; this had been nine months. What will-power it must have taken. She couldn’t walk out – not now.
She took the tea-tray into the sitting-room. A surreptitious glance confirmed the absence of glasses and bottles – there wasn’t so much as a coaster.
He gave an awkward laugh. ‘Actually, I did it for you.’
For her? She was dumbstruck. They weren’t even in contact; he might never have seen her again. She sank down on the sofa, suddenly angry with its broken springs, angry with the sagging curtains and grimy ceiling-tiles. ‘Ralph, this place is a dump. The whole point of Agnes’s money was to help you get a decent flat.’
Without speaking, he poured the tea. The cups were thick white china; the teapot lid was cracked.
‘Ralph, did you hear?’
‘If you honestly imagine I’d take your money …’
‘Look, we’ve been through all that already. You know I wanted you to have it.’
‘It’s not what you want, it’s what’s right. Agnes left it to you.’
‘Yes, to do what I like with.’
‘Well, the same applies to me. If it’s mine I can do what I like. I’ve put it in an investment fund, in your name. With your share of the proceeds from the house. Then, if anything should happen, you’ll have some security. For instance, if you decide to leave The Cedars –’
‘I shan’t,’ she retorted.
He stirred his tea with enormous concentration.
How brusque she must have sounded, and ungrateful. Ralph had always been generous. He had never asked her for a penny; never would. And his concern about her future when that future didn’t include him was genuinely unselfish. But he mustn’t harbour the illusion that she might leave The Cedars. ‘I love it there, you see, Ralph. It’s the perfect job for me, living in a community. And I especially like the coach-house and sharing it with Kathy. We often have friends over and …’
Enough said, or she would seem smug. ‘Ralph, thank you – honestly. It was a lovely thought, and I’m touched. I just wish you’d spent the money on yourself. And as for your giving up drinking, I’m incredibly impressed.’
Embarrassed, he started fiddling with his pipe again. After a long silence he leaned forward, frowning. ‘There’s something I ought to tell you, Lorna.’
She tensed. He’d been offered a job. Up north. Abroad. He was about to say goodbye.
‘Since last night I’ve been debating whether to mention it or not. I don’t want to land your maintenance man in trouble. On the other hand …’
She put her cup down. ‘Ralph, what are you talking about?’
‘Well, when I was mending the generator I could see that the diesel line had been tampered with. And of course that would account for the airlock. I have a strong suspicion that someone’s been stealing fuel.’
‘Good God! You mean … Eddie?’
‘Yes, it looks like that. It’s highly unlikely that a new generator would break down otherwise.’
‘I can’t believe it!’
‘Well, the signs were pretty clear. And it would be easy enough to do. No one could see what he was up to in the cellar. He may be using the diesel in his car.’
‘What a shit! And to think his wife had the nerve to say he was overworked.’
Ralph banged his pipe out on the ashtray. ‘And, while we’re on the subject, I noticed a few other problems. The fuse-box is far too small for a house that size. In fact the wiring looks a bit dodgy altogether.’
She grimaced. This was worse and worse. ‘But the entire place was rewired before we opened.’
‘Well, they seem to have made rather a mess of it.’
‘Bloody hell! Chris will go berserk. She spent a fortune on the conversion. And I don’t know what she’ll say about Eddie – she interviewed loads of people before she took him on.’
‘Staff do tend to take advantage, though. It happens all the time.’
Not at The Cedars, she thought. After their insistence on high standards, she felt deflated and betrayed. ‘Ralph, would you mind terribly if …?’ She bit her lip, unwilling to ask more favours.
‘If what?’
‘Oh … nothing.’
‘What were you going to say?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘For heaven’s sake, don’t start and then clam up.’
‘Well, I was wondering if you could possibly come round again some time and show me this diesel line or whatever it is. Then I can explain the situation to Chris when she’s back. And you could let us know exactly what needs doing in the house.’
‘Yes, if it helps, why not? I could make it tomorrow if you like. Just tell me who I’m meant to be.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, am I your husband or an odd-job man? Have you said?’
‘Not really. Well, Kathy knows, of course, but no one else. They’re not aware I’m married.’
‘But isn’t that a wedding-ring you’re wearing? – on the wrong hand. Whose is it?’
‘My … mother’s. Agnes gave it to me.’
‘And where’s the one I gave you?’
She flushed. She had taken it off when she went to work at The Cedars, then somehow managed to lose it – on purpose, Kathy said. In fact Kathy kept urging her to press for a divorce, since it was obvious she wanted to be free of Ralph. ‘I … don’t wear it now.’
‘But you wear the bracelet.’ He leaned across and touched it.
‘Yes.’ Kathy was mistaken: she didn’t want a divorce. She could never go back to him, she knew that. And yet …
‘Remember what I said to you in the hospital? – diamonds are for ever.’
‘For ever’ – engraved on the ring she’d lost. A double loss, she saw now. The men she’d been out with recently were pleasant enough, but of no lasting significance. Like most of the men in her past. Tom, who had stayed the longest, was basically a good-time guy who distrusted the word commitment. Only Ralph had felt able to promise ‘for better, for worse’. She stood up. ‘Look, I … I think I ought to be going …’
‘What for? You’re not still on duty, are you? At least let’s have the trifle. I don’t want to eat it on my own. I’ll go and get it.’
‘No, let me,’ she said, escaping to the kitchen. Her mind was in a turmoil: fury with Eddie and worry about The Cedars mixed up with her emotions over Ralph.
She stood leaning against the oven, a monstrosity with rusting claw-legs. On the opposite wall hung the Castles of Britain calendar they’d had in the kitchen at Queen’s Hill Drive, open not at December but at May – the month she had left.
‘Need any help?’ he called.
‘No, it’s OK. Won’t be a sec.’
She hunted through the cupboards for some bowls. There seemed to be a minimal supply of crockery and glassware, but what she did find was the old handwritten recipe-book started in the first year of their marriage. She had laboriously copied out recipes for banana-bread, steak-and-oyster pudding, apple fritters – and of course trifle. But why had he kept it? Clearly he did no cooking and seemed to be existing on thin air …
Because he loves you, you fool, and misses you. Why else has he got those photos in his bedroom? And you love him – admit it. You didn’t have to come here. You could have written him a note.
‘If you can’t find bowls, use cups.’
‘Right. Coming!’ Hastily she closed the tattered recipe-book, spooned trifle into two mugs and carried them in. ‘It looks as if you could do with a little more china,’ she said, handing him a mug and a teaspoon.
‘I could do with a lot of things.’
He ate slowly, yet with unaccustomed enthusiasm, taking his time to savour every raspberry and nut, to relish the flavours in each spoonful of sherry-rich sponge. As she watched, an idea began to take shape. The Cedars needed a new maintenance man – someone honest and reliable. And Ralph needed a new job – something stable, with paid holidays, a pension scheme, a decent midday meal. It wasn’t high-grade work, admittedly, but no worse than driving a van. And it would mean they’d be together again – together on her terms; together yet apart. She would remain at the coach-house while he lived here, or somewhere more salubrious. They’d stay married, which was important. More important than she’d realized. When she’d sat with James Tate, sipping vintage claret, she had felt nothing for the poor man. And nothing for Ian or David or Andrew, although she was flattered that they’d asked her out. She’d assumed she was becoming more like Kathy, developing a taste for being single, permanently perhaps.
But Kathy would have no conception of what she was feeling now, faced with the man she’d married: the value of continuity, the pull of memories. Nor would Kathy understand that you could love someone for what they might have been if life had treated them better; someone with whom you shared a bond because you’d both missed out on childhood; someo
ne who’d stuck by you through panics and miscarriages. There would be no more miscarriages, and she had learned to handle panic on her own – last night was proof of that. She didn’t need a protector. She needed someone special. And Ralph was special. Still.
But would he want the job at The Cedars? The long hours didn’t matter – he was used to working round the clock, although being surrounded by old people wouldn’t have great appeal. However, a well-dressed, well-spoken maintenance man would appeal to them, considerably, and since he was bound to be superior to most potential candidates Chris might agree to a higher rate of pay, maybe even create a new post for him as an on-site engineer.
‘Get real, woman! Kathy wouldn’t want him within a mile of her. Anyway, what’s in it for him? He’d just be your poodle and everyone else’s too.’
‘Heel!’ she snapped, but the Monster paid no heed this time.
‘It’s all too pat – pure fantasy. You think you can have your cake and eat it. But life doesn’t work like that.’
It could, she thought, refusing to be cowed. Ralph had changed so much that anything was possible. Even now he was gazing at her intently, whereas he used to find it difficult to look into her eyes. And going on the wagon after years of serious drinking; savouring his food, which before had been mere fuel …
‘Don’t be an idiot! If you’re not careful you’ll end up at his beck and call again, even if he has changed.’
The Monster had touched a nerve. The last thing she wanted was to return to her old dependency. Besides, perhaps she was deluding herself that she could have the best of all worlds.
‘Any chance of some more?’ Ralph asked almost bashfully.
‘Of course. You can eat the lot if you like!’ The Ralph she knew had rarely finished what was on his plate, let alone asked for second helpings. How might he react if she put her arms around him? Would he savour her, like the trifle?
She took his mug out to the kitchen and stood looking at the cream-swirled custard. Although ‘Christmas’ had been eaten or dislodged, ‘Happy’ remained intact, spelled out in silver balls. She lifted them off with a spoon and crunched the word down. Happiness was new, and far too precious to risk losing. She would say nothing to Ralph until she was absolutely certain that she was acting from strength, not weakness. Yet already new ideas were springing to mind. She and Ralph could pool their resources and use Agnes’s money to buy a share in The Cedars. That would enhance their status and security.
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