A Different River

by Jo Verity

  ‘All the same…’

  ‘Don’t forget I was very young. Everything was black or white. Paul was out of my life forever and I had to find a way of living with that. I simply took that fact to its logical conclusion.’

  Hazel wrinkled her nose. ‘I still don’t get why you had to give him up.’

  ‘Three years of parental disapproval wore me down.’

  ‘I don’t have you down as a Miss Mouse. Quite the opposite.’

  ‘It was different in those days. Parents called the shots. And you have to bear in mind there was other stuff going on. My brother had walked out and it was pretty clear he wasn’t coming back. My mother was heading for a breakdown. My father was permanently angry, ready to lash out at anything. Their hopes were pinned on me and I did everything I could to please them apart from give up Paul. Their constant disapproval – the permanent look of disappointment – it was truly awful.

  ‘I was barely coping then, in my second year, I went down with glandular fever. God, I felt lousy. Student Health sent me home to convalesce. I was starting to pick up when my aunt turned up and proceeded to fill me in on missing bits of family history. Long story short, it explained why my parents were desperate I stay in the fold. I had no option but to give him up. We’d call it emotional blackmail now.’

  ‘That’s tantamount to abuse.’

  ‘Maybe. But it wasn’t as if Sam was an ogre. To be fair, he was kind, funny, patient. And my parents loved him. Really loved him.’

  ‘He wasn’t marrying your parents.’

  ‘No. But he was replacing their son. They caught me when I was feeling low and it was a massive relief to be welcomed back into the family. I’ll never know what they would have done had I married out.’

  ‘You didn’t have to marry anyone,’ Hazel said.

  ‘No, but they were never going to change their mind about Paul, and I’d been introduced to enough of what they considered “suitable” candidates to realise that Sam Siskin was as good as it was likely to get.’

  ‘Well, whatever excuses you’re generous enough to make for them, I say it was barbaric.’

  The shop bell jangled and an elderly man came in with a list in his hand.

  ‘Looks promising,’ Hazel whispered and they set about selling books.

  Whenever the children came, Miriam went flat out to ensure they had a good time. Bing was a natural, ready to down tools and play with them, interested in whatever they had to say. They adored him. When they stayed for a weekend, they went swimming or bowling or went to the cinema and, although it wasn’t top of their list, they visited her parents – their great grandparents. A little wary of each other, they were all on their best behaviour. Her mother stoked them up with sugary snacks and her father told them meandering stories, irrelevant to their young lives. When the youngsters became fidgety, Bing was there ready to take the strain.

  With the summer holidays looming, she asked Naomi how she would manage six weeks’ childcare. She’d always been on the spot, able to lend a hand, but now she was a hundred miles away with a job and a partner. ‘It’s all under control, Mum,’ Naomi said. ‘They’re booked in for a drama course. David’s taking them camping. Then his parents are having them. I’ll take a couple of weeks and we’re almost there.’ She hated the idea of her grandchildren waking up, confused as to where they were or who would be looking after them. Bing told her she was being silly. ‘If Naomi says she can manage, you must assume she means it.’

  17

  On warm afternoons, HER PARENTS were content to sit on the patio making the most of any late summer sunshine, her father with his Telegraph, her mother with her library book. Miriam noticed how much time they spent dozing. How their appetite had faded. How they talked less and less, as if speaking demanded too much energy. She’d watched Mopsy, their old cat, go through a similar process until finally she’d curled up in the grass in a corner of the garden and quietly, without any fuss, died.

  August rolled into September. Dewy cobwebs and chilly mornings. Schoolgirl, student, schoolteacher – Miriam’s life had been measured in Septembers. Despite her disengagement from that world, the ‘back-to-school’ frisson – nervousness, anticipation, hope – was ingrained and she found herself wandering into WHSmith’s, ogling notepads and pencil cases and bumper packs of felt tips, coveting leather briefcases in Debenhams.

  Out of the blue, Callum rang, asking how she was, grumbling that his current model – a young man – was incapable of standing still for more than five minutes. It was good, if a little unsettling, to hear from him.

  ‘Moat dropped in the other day,’ he said. ‘He was singing your praises. In fact he wanted me to ask if you’d consider modelling for him again.’

  She laughed. ‘You’re joking. I live a hundred miles away. I have a job here. How’s that going to work?’

  ‘You could make it work if you had a mind to.’ He paused. ‘I’ve seen Moat’s painting. It’s – well – it’s the best thing he’s ever done. At least promise you’ll give it some thought.’

  Her parents took it into their heads to go on a coach holiday to the Cotswolds with their bridge-playing pals. Three nights. She was dubious but Bing said she should leave the decision to them. ‘Sitting at home, monitoring every ache and pain – it’s like being on a self-imposed life-support machine. The stimulation will do them good.’

  When she asked her father whether he was sure they were up to it, he stuck out his chin and countered, ‘Paul thinks it’s a terrific idea. That’s good enough for me.’

  ‘Well, as long as you’ve thought it through.’

  ‘Miriam. We’re travelling for three hours in a luxury coach with on-board facilities. We’ll be taking a comfort break at a service station. We’re staying in a four-star hotel. Someone will carry our bags, cook our meals and make our beds. No one will force us to do anything we don’t feel up to doing. If we die, we’ll die in luxury and I’m sure they’ll find someone to say Kaddish. Now let’s talk about something else, shall we?’

  A few days before they set off, she received a text from Frankie Slattery saying she would be ‘passing through’ and asking whether she could drop in. Miriam had kept her friend abreast of events with Bing and Frankie had responded with a sentence or two expressing surprise and delight, as vague as ever about her own situation, promising to ‘tell all’ next time they met.

  ‘How long since you’ve seen her?’ Bing said.

  ‘A couple of years? She was supposed to come to Sam’s funeral but she didn’t show.’

  ‘That’s a bit off. I can’t imagine why you’ve stuck with her.’

  Sam hadn’t been keen on Frankie either. On their first few encounters, she’d flung herself at him – but there had been no reason why she shouldn’t. Sam Siskin was simply a bloke who turned up at the house occasionally. Frankie’s blatant attempts to ensnare him were embarrassing but in no way a betrayal of the girls’ friendship. By the time Miriam and Sam became a couple, Frankie was out of the picture but, once in a while, when she failed to follow through on a promise, Sam would remind Miriam to be wary.

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ she said, ‘but you two were quite close at one time.’

  ‘Briefly. And we weren’t that close.’

  She tangled her fingers through his. ‘You will be nice to her won’t you?’

  He kissed the back of her hand. ‘I’ll do my best to be civil but please don’t ask me to like the woman.’

  Her father dug out his ancient AA maps of the Cotswolds as if he might be called on to take over navigation duties. They sought advice on what clothes, toiletries, medication, books to take and she had to stop herself pointing out they weren’t going on a trek through the Himalayas. Their suitcases were collectors’ items – built like tanks and without wheels. She was sure she’d taken one of them on her trip to America the year she left school. Once packed, they were impossibly heavy and she persuaded them to slim down their loads and lent them her lightweight wheel-along cases. �
�I can’t take you to the coach station but I’ll organise a taxi if you like,’ she said. Her father instructed her to get a quote from a couple of taxi companies but the coach station was less than three miles from the house and Miriam had drawn the line at that.

  ‘I’ve barely seen you for days,’ Bing said when she returned from another session with her mother who’d decided most of what she was taking needed dry-cleaning.

  ‘They’re off first thing tomorrow,’ she said, ‘so we’ll have a few days’ peace and quiet.’

  ‘But you’ll be at work and then Frankie’s coming, and before we know it they’ll be home again—’

  ‘And we’ll have to go for dental check-ups and to the supermarket and the tide will go out and come in.’ She held out her arms. ‘So let’s make the most of our evening.’

  Some time ago, her father had purchased a rudimentary mobile phone ‘for emergencies’. He kept it on his desk, located in its holder-cum-charger and, when she checked, the five calls logged were those she’d made to demonstrate how to use it. As part of the pre-Cotswolds preparations, she’d gone over it all again and, in addition, shown him how to send and receive texts, writing step-by-step instructions on a piece of stout card. Throughout the morning, much to her dismay and Hazel’s amusement, texts pinged into her inbox, the intimation of calamity never far away – ‘Taxi £8’, ‘So far so good’, ‘Coach driver proficient’, ‘Arrived safely’.

  At lunchtime, she spotted Bing peering through the shop window. She raised her hand but he pressed a finger to his lips and came in, joining the handful of customers.

  ‘Maybe you can help me,’ he said. ‘I need a gift for someone special.’

  She played along, wondering where this was leading. ‘What sort of thing did you have in mind?’

  ‘Something modern. Poetry maybe.’ He lowered his voice a fraction but it was still loud enough for all to hear. ‘It’s for my mistress.’

  Hazel was at the back of the shop, packing orders, and Miriam heard a barely-suppressed snort of laughter.

  ‘This is very popular,’ she said, selecting a slim volume with a blood-red cover.

  ‘Rapture. Carol Ann Duffy.’ He flicked through the index. ‘Would you be pleased if your lover gave you this?’

  She blushed, beginning to regret playing along with his nonsense. ‘Yes. I would.’

  He offered it back to her with a flourish and a dip of the head. ‘In that case, it’s yours. How much do I owe you?’

  ‘What was that all about?’ Hazel whispered when he’d gone and his attentive audience had returned to their browsing.

  ‘You tell me.’

  Hazel nodded towards a man who was clutching the remaining copy of Duffy’s poems. ‘Tell him he can repeat his performance any time he likes.’

  18

  They hugged, MURMURING NONSENSE AS they easedback into their friendship. Frankie had been a redhead when Miriam last saw her, now she was implausibly blonde. When she shrugged off her leather jacket, Miriam noted its torn lining. ‘You look very… rock ’n roll,’ she said.

  Frankie tugged at a clump of hair. ‘A DIY job. Big mistake.’

  She found a vase for Frankie’s offering of flowers. ‘Tea? Coffee? Have you eaten? I could make you a sandwich.’

  ‘Coffee sounds good.’

  Frankie settled on a chair and glanced around the kitchen. ‘This is nice. You always had a good eye.’

  ‘It was wall-to-wall beige when I moved in,’ Miriam said. ‘It sucked the energy out of me although Bing didn’t seem to mind it.’

  ‘So he’s still “Bing”?’

  ‘Only to me.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  Miriam shrugged. ‘That’s the way he wants it.’

  ‘Surely your parents…?’

  ‘When I told Mum we were back together she recalled “the boy with a funny nickname” but that’s as far as it went. Dad treats him like a recent acquaintance. It suits them not to remember.’

  ‘Well, I’ll do my best but I can’t guarantee anything.’ Frankie flashed her eyes. ‘Is Paul still devastatingly handsome?’

  Miriam nodded towards the pin-up board and the recent photograph of the pair of them sitting together in Naomi’s garden. Frankie took down the photo and studied it. ‘Blimey. He’s worn well. So have you. Look at your beautiful hair. You make a good-looking couple. Is he still sports mad? Oh, God, please tell me he doesn’t play golf?’

  ‘He swims a couple of times a week, and plays the odd game of badminton, but no golf.’

  ‘Look,’ Frankie said, ‘about Sam’s funeral. I still feel terrible. I should have been there but to put it bluntly, I was a bit of a mess. The last thing you needed was some screwed-up friend showing up.’

  ‘I knew there must be a good reason for your no show,’ Miriam said. ‘To be honest, I was barely there myself.’

  Puffing out her cheeks, Frankie exhaled noisily. ‘Wow. That’s a weight off. I wish everyone were as forgiving. I still find it hard to credit. Sam came across as Mister Sensible. Captain Cautious.’

  ‘He did, didn’t he? I’ve been over and over it and the conclusion I’ve reached is when you’ve been married as long as we were, you see what you expect to see. Or rather what it’s convenient to see.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that. He certainly turned out to be a conniving, cowardly bastard, that’s for sure. He lured you away from Bing and then he sold you down the river.’

  ‘It wasn’t quite like that.’ Miriam stood up. ‘Come on. Let me show you where everything is.’

  After they’d finished the tour, she told Frankie about her job at the bookshop, and how Naomi and David were talking again, flicking through photos on her iPad to prove how Rosa and Max had grown. How beautiful they were.

  ‘Your brother?’ Frankie said.

  ‘Nothing’s changed. Your brothers?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  Miriam made a second pot of coffee. ‘Last time we had a proper chat you were working for a letting agency.’

  ‘I was. And I learned a lot. Mainly not to mix work and pleasure.’ Frankie raised her cup. ‘You wouldn’t have something to pep this up?’

  Before Bing returned it would be prudent to establish what had prompted Frankie’s visit and digging out a bottle of cooking brandy, she added a splash to her friend’s coffee. ‘So what are you doing now?’

  ‘Not a lot. I won’t bore you, but it boils down to job, skills, savings, hope – none of which I have.’ She gave a mirthless laugh. ‘I swore I’d never get bogged down in that dreary stuff. So I guess you’re right. We see what it suits us to see, and, ridiculous as it sounds, I never saw myself growing old.’

  ‘Oh, come on. Sixty-one isn’t old.’

  ‘My mother only made it to fifty-one.’

  Frankie poured another splash of brandy into her cup and downed its contents. ‘What happens when I meet Mum in heaven and she’s younger than me? How’s that going to work?’ She frowned. ‘I’ve forgotten. Does your lot believe in heaven?’

  ‘In principle. Do you?’

  ‘Some days I do, and other days I… What was the name of our scripture teacher? Permed hair. Glasses on a chain.’

  Miriam smiled. ‘My lot were excused scripture.’

  ‘You were lucky. You are lucky. You will be lucky. See. I still remember my tenses.’

  ‘You’ll stay?’ Miriam said, noting how the level of brandy had dropped, picturing a wrecked car and screaming sirens.

  ‘Tempting but I’m not sure Bing – sorry, Paul – would be too thrilled.’

  ‘Tosh. He’d love to see you. Let’s get your things.’

  The last time Frankie visited, she was driving a sporty, red number. Today it was a Jazz, bodywork scuffed, nearside mirror held in place with gaffer tape. The back seat had been levelled to accommodate a hodgepodge of holdalls, boxes and bin bags. A suitcase occupied the front seat, belted in like a dumpy passenger.

  Frankie was right. Yesterday, when Miriam had mention
ed inviting her to spend a night or two, Bing had been dead set against it. The more they discussed it, the more entrenched he became until finally he’d stomped out of the house. Miriam left it half-an-hour before ringing him only to discover his mobile was in the living room, on the arm of the chair. Time went on and she grew anxious. He’d gone out without a jacket and his keys were in the bowl on the hall table. She set about the ironing pile. When that was done, phone in hand, she watched the ten o’clock news followed by a documentary on… something or another. He’d returned after midnight, cold and contrite, bearing chocolates and a bunch of flowers from the all-night garage. They’d kissed and he’d apologised for behaving like a child, but it had shaken them both and done nothing to resolve the issue.

  Frankie manhandled her suitcase onto the pavement. Miriam anticipated a joke or at very least a reference to the contents of the car, but nothing was said as if it were normal to travel with all one’s possessions. Frankie insisted on hauling the cumbersome case upstairs unaided and, in the doing, took a chunk of paint off the newel post.