by Jo Verity
Rosa and Max quibbled and quarrelled non-stop. They refused to do their homework and, when she badgered them, they deliberately made a hash of it. They pestered for treats and sobbed for no reason. She knew why they were behaving this way. She felt cranky and weepy too, and did all she could to keep confrontations to a minimum.
Bing, on the other hand, was persistently upbeat, like a vicar at a funeral who insists the dear departed is ‘moving on to a better place’. Her feelings on leaving Naomi’s were never going to be clear-cut, couldn’t he see that? This little family, this house, had provided sanctuary when she was at her most vulnerable. Without doubt, she was doing the right thing yet it didn’t rule out the occasional jitters – even the temptation to bolt.
Saturday came. Bing had offered to drive down and give her a hand but she’d dissuaded him, saying he’d be more useful at his end, directing the removal men (which was true). She’d hoped this last breakfast with the children would be like any other morning but David turned up to say goodbye which further intensified emotions. Rosa – in tears – took herself off to her bedroom, and Max came near to hysterics when the removal men began loading her possessions into the high-sided van. The only thing to do was get in the car and drive.
Before she’d gone far, a headache settled at the base of her skull. She pulled in at a petrol station, and swallowed a couple of Paracetamol. Wandering over to the picnic area, she sat at one of the shabby tables, checking her phone. The log showed a couple of missed calls from Bing and a text saying he’d booked a table at a restaurant for this evening. When she rang, his line was busy and she left a message telling him not to worry, she’d stopped for a coffee and should be with him in a couple of hours.
Next she texted Naomi, apologising for leaving so abruptly and saying she hoped the children were okay. A text pinged straight back. They’d already perked up. She and David were taking them swimming then to Pizza Express for lunch. Clearly Naomi and David were making progress which had to be good news. And yet she couldn’t help feeling a little miffed that the children had recovered so quickly.
There was a whiff of diesel fuel in the air but the sun was breaking through and the shrubs around the garage forecourt were budding up, hinting at spring. The van would be well ahead of her, hauling her bits and pieces towards her new life. It was time to be on her way.
16
Bing’s house was three years old, a modern, brick-built box – the sort of prosaic place Miriam had never imagined she would live in. According to the neighbours, the previous owner – a single man whom they thought had worked ‘overseas’ – had spent hardly any time there. He’d certainly done nothing to stamp his mark on the house, or the garden which consisted of lawn, decking, drive to the garage and panelled fencing – each component rectangular and unadorned. The estate agent had identified these failings as selling points. A virtually new property, decorated throughout in stylish neutrals. Easy to maintain garden with great potential. ‘Stylish? It’s like living in… a bowl of porridge,’ Miriam said. ‘Tell you what,’ Bing said, ‘you choose a colour scheme, I’ll find a painter.’
She had fun doodling around with colour charts and trial paint pots. One of Bing’s patients recommended a decorator who, thanks to a cancellation, was able to start immediately. The three-man team were in and out in ten days and by the time she’d trawled TK Maxx for throws, cushions, towels and curtains, the house had been transformed from porridge to fresh fruit salad.
So what next? At Naomi’s, she’d been in perpetual motion – pairing socks, screwing tops on toothpaste tubes, searching for vital bits of Lego (she missed the children) and, more recently, there had been her session at the college and with Moat. Life here couldn’t be more different. By mid-morning she’d done all that needed doing and with no one undoing her good work, once plumped, cushions stayed plumped; once tidied, drawers stayed tidy. Her greatest problem was finding excuses not to call in on her parents who would have liked her to visit every single day.
When she announced her intention of finding a job, Bing said there was no need but if she were bored, how about charity work? She wasn’t yet ready to join that worthy band and she checked the local rag and the small ads pinned on the board in the supermarket. But nothing grabbed her. She was starting to lose heart and, yes, confidence. ‘Sign on with an agency,’ Naomi said. ‘That’s what people do.’ All well and good but at sixty-one the prospect of selling herself to some agency woman with fake nails and a fake smile, who would ask all sorts of intrusive questions, gave her the heebie-jeebies. She was delighted, therefore, when, meandering down Angelgate one morning, she spotted a ‘part-time help needed’ sign in a bookshop window. Without hesitating she went in. The woman tidying the shelves was the owner, Hazel Nesbitt – a no-nonsense woman, ten years her junior, with a dry wit (and her own fingernails). The hourly rate was less than that for a life model, and a fraction of what she’d earned as a teacher, but she loved the idea of being amongst books again.
Angelgate Books, which specialised in books on ecclesiastical architecture, new and second-hand, did well for a small indie bookshop. Its bow-fronted window and brass door bell were charming, its location a cobbled passageway running off the cathedral green picturesque. When Hazel’s husband had left her, her response had been to take voluntary redundancy and embark on a new project. Using her redundancy money and some of her divorce settlement, she’d opened the bookshop. The shop had a loyal clientele who valued her expertise and reasonable prices. Although she stocked contemporary and children’s fiction too, she wasn’t terribly up in it – one of the reasons she’d offered Miriam (who was) the job. The other reason was that her new venture – www.angelgatebooks.com – was proving more time consuming than she’d bargained for. The two women took to each other immediately and after only a few weeks, they’d laid the foundations of a firm friendship.
Bing glanced up from his newspaper. ‘Off somewhere?’
‘I’m taking Mum to the hairdresser’s,’ Miriam said. ‘The parking’s tricky and Dad’s losing his nerve although he’d never admit it.’
Remarkably, her father still held a driving licence but they didn’t venture far afield. On Thursday mornings, they drove the short distance to Waitrose to do the weekly shop but the rest of the time the car, polished and topped up with fuel, stood in the garage.
He folded his paper. ‘How long will you be?’
‘No idea. Why?’
‘I was hoping we might take a stroll along the tow path. Maybe grab lunch at The Pheasant.
She scooped her keys from the bowl on the dresser. ‘But you’re working today. I checked the rota.’
‘I swapped with Kasha,’ he said. ‘She needs Friday off – something to do with her son’s school. Damn. Any chance you could reschedule?’
‘Not really. Mum’s been stuck in the house for days. I don’t want to disappoint her.’
He looked downcast and she bent to kiss his forehead. ‘I’ll tell them I have to be back for lunch.’
‘We’re in here,’ her father called from the kitchen.
She found them standing shoulder to shoulder, for all the world as though they were propping each other up. ‘What’s the matter?’ she said.
Her father pointed at an envelope sitting in the centre of the otherwise bare table. ‘This is the matter.’
She could tell from the banding on the blue envelope that it was from Danny. ‘Is he okay?’
‘Of course he’s okay,’ he said. ‘We’d have heard soon enough if he weren’t. I’ve been telling your mother that for months.’
‘May I?’ She reached for the envelope.
It contained a single sheet of paper covered with Danny’s rangy scrawl. Considering the few words he’d written, he might have made an effort to make them legible. She put on an elaborate show of reading it, trying to give the impression there was more to it than a couple of sentences.
‘That’s nice,’ she said.
Her father snorted. ‘How can you say t
hat? We write letter after letter – God knows how much we’ve spent on postage over the years – and he never replies. When he does, he avoids our questions. We don’t know where he’s living. We don’t know if he has a job. We don’t know whether—’ He pressed his hand to his mouth as if holding back a flood of unspeakable misdemeanours whilst, inexplicably composed, her mother placed a hand on his forearm and tapped it absently with her fingertips.
What she didn’t tell them was that Danny had emailed last week, the first communication from him since she’d sent that spiky note. What with the move, and the bookshop, and visits to Naomi’s, she’d had enough to keep her busy. All the same, his extended silence had niggled and nagged, once in a while, erupting in a panic. She’d been on the point of writing again when an email from an ‘unrecognised sender’ (Danny, using a new address) landed in her inbox. Its tone was polite, not to say distant. He was glad to hear that she and Bing had reconnected although he didn’t mention her moving in with him. He asked to be ‘remembered’ to Naomi and the children as if they were passing acquaintances. She was accustomed to his tirades against religion and capitalism and global warming. And, of course, his persistent sniping at their parents. At least those angry letters gave the impression he was connected to the family whilst this was as near as dammit a pro forma.
Secrets were empowering. In the early days, when the hurt had been at its most crippling, keeping news of Danny from them had been her way of punishing them for their part in her break up with Bing. By the time her anger had subsided to a chronic ache, secrecy had become a consoling habit, an invisible defence.
She made tea and dropped a handful of biscuits onto a plate, and they sat drinking tea whist the wall clock flicked away the seconds. Her mother looked paler than ever, the skin around her lips puckered in tiny wrinkles like the opening of a drawstring bag. That will happen to me and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
‘Why don’t I change Mum’s appointment,’ she said. ‘We can go next week.’
‘No.’ Her father’s hands were clenched, his fists a delta of purple veins. ‘He’s not going to spoil your mother’s day with his… his piffle.’ Her father slammed his fist on the table, rattling the cups. ‘He’ll get nothing when we go.’
Danny had always made it clear that he neither expected nor wanted anything from his parents. Despite this, they’d included him in successive wills and made sure he knew it, until their unwavering generosity had become a weapon. Exclude him now, and he’d probably consider it a victory.
This outburst brought her mother back from wherever she’d drifted. A smile settled around her mouth. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ she said.
‘How was it?’ Bing said when she returned.
‘Exhausting. Sad. Pathetic. It takes Mum forever to do the simplest things. She used to be so sprightly. Now she’s not with it half the time.’
‘She’s pretty good for her age,’ he said.
‘You’ll say that about me one day.’
‘You’ll never grow old,’ he said. ‘I won’t allow it.’
He set aside the sheaf of papers he was feeding into the shredder. ‘I love you, Miriam Edlin. If anything happened to you, I couldn’t go on.’
‘Of course you could,’ she said, kissing his chin. ‘And I haven’t been Edlin for a long time.’
‘Well, say the word and you can be Crosby.’
‘I know,’ she said.
‘You’re not having doubts?’
‘No, no, no.’ She slipped her hands up inside his sweater.
‘What is it then? Is it the religious thing? D’you want me to convert?’
She’d never told him but, when she was at university, she’d spent an afternoon in the reference library reading up on the procedure for conversion. To an impatient nineteen-year-old it was a series of daunting hurdles which would take years to complete. Even then there was no guarantee it would win her parents over, and it would certainly alienate the Crosby family who were fervent agnostics.
‘Of course not. It’s perfect as it is, don’t you think? Mum and Dad are very fond of you. They’ve no problem with our living together. It seems daft to rock the boat by getting married.’
He shook his head. ‘Mim, my love, you’re not making sense.’
‘I know. But can’t you humour me?’
How could they marry when she’d not met his children? And why didn’t she come out and tell him how uneasy that made her? Naomi kept saying ‘it’s a bit rum’ – and it was. They might disapprove of the liaison but weren’t they just a teeny bit curious about her? Was it money? Did they fear their inheritance would be whipped from under their noses? It was up to him to let them know his estate would go to them.
Naomi’s main concern was that she might be feeling isolated in her new home. ‘Why don’t I set you up on Facebook? I can’t bear to think of you being lonely. There must be dozens of your old schoolfriends still in the area.’
The news of her moving in with Bing had filtered through to Angela Terry who was quick to phone, clearly delighted to have been instrumental in the reunion. Angela was easy to talk to, bright and funny, precisely the sort of friend Naomi wanted for her. Yet lurking in the back of Miriam’s mind was Angela’s confession that she’d once hated her and she decided to tread warily before getting too chummy.
Miriam put it to Naomi that she might not want to make contact with people she’d not given a thought to in years, a concept which seemed alien to her daughter.
‘How about new friends?’ Naomi said. ‘What are Paul’s workmates like?
‘They seem a nice enough crowd,’ she said.
And they did. Whenever she had occasion to call at the practice, everyone was welcoming. They seemed to be aware that she and Bing had been at school together although they didn’t know the details of their reunion. They probably weren’t terribly interested. Why should they be? He was a newcomer, and childhood-sweetheart stories weren’t unusual these days.
As for lonely, Miriam had always been content with her own company and, when the weather was good and she had nothing pressing to do, she took herself off for a walk, meandering where the fancy took her. She and Bing used to cycle out this way before the rash of housing developments nibbled away at the farmland, rendering swathes of it unrecognisable. They’d bring an old army blanket and, if there was no one around, make love under cover of a hawthorn hedge. The risk of discovery. The fusty smell of old blanket. Summer breezes on damp skin. Even after all these years, the memory of it roused her and she could barely wait for him to get home from work.
‘Now we’ve got the house straight, let’s invite your children to visit,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t like them to think me stand-offish.’
‘It’d mean a lot of extra work for you,’ Bing said.
‘Not necessarily. We could eat out. And they’d probably only stay a night or two.’
‘Well, as long as you’re sure.’
She removed the Sasco planner from the fridge door and spread it on the table and they identified a couple of possible dates. She was both excited and nervous at the prospect of meeting them.
Bing appeared unfazed by his children’s negative response to their invitation.
‘They must have given reasons,’ she said.
He checked them off on his fingers. ‘Pascale says the trip’s too much with the baby. Leon’s going to be working away. Camille can’t spare the time.’
‘How can you be so sanguine?’
‘What choice do I have? My children believe everything Eloise tells them. Always have. And, as I told you, she has it in for me. You’ve seen what happened with your brother. Families are a combat zone. You mustn’t let it get to you. Onward and upward.’
Their rejection of the invitation was hurtful and, whatever he might say, threatened to cast a shadow over the future. ‘Maybe I should talk to them,’ she said. ‘Convince them I’m not a threat. I couldn’t bear to be the cause of a rift.’
‘And I couldn’t bear it
if they were spiteful. Look. Let’s give the dust time to settle then try again in a few months.’
When there were no customers in the shop, she and Hazel chatted. Sometimes they discussed strategies for boosting sales. Author talks. Competitions. Themed displays. As time went by, she grew to trust Hazel and felt comfortable discussing personal matters. Her parents. Danny. Sam’s suicide, and the breakdown which had ended her teaching career. On the brighter side, how she and Bing had lost and found each other. ‘You must think we’re crazy.’
‘You’re certainly brave,’ Hazel said. ‘What seems extraordinary to me is that, in all those years, the two of you never tried to get in touch.’
When she’d accepted Sam’s proposal, she’d vowed never to see, speak or write to Bing ever again. Sam hadn’t demanded it, but if the marriage were to stand a chance, a clean break was the only hope.
‘Were you never tempted?’ Hazel said.
‘Yes, of course. In the beginning it was unbearable. But then I found a solution. I killed him off. Not literally, but I pretended he was dead.’
‘Good Lord. That’s radical.’
‘When I put my mind to something, I can be quite determined.’