by Jo Verity
‘Harking back to your time apart. Doesn’t the forty-year hiatus present difficulties? In effect, you’re a couple of bookends but without the books. So much of a relationship depends on shared stories.’
‘If I stop to think about it, it makes me sad. We’ve both seen the Taj Mahal but with somebody else. We’ve become parents but of different children. We have no friends in common – well, only Frankie and that’s a mixed blessing.’
Hazel shrugged. ‘Maybe I’m making this too complicated. Look at it another way. If you’d met Paul for the first time last January, would you two have got together?’
‘Yes, I think we would.’
‘So, regardless of how you reached this point, you’re with the right person.’
Miriam smiled. ‘Yes. I’m with the right person.’
‘Just now, you mentioned feeling adrift. That’s not surprising. You’ve been widowed in appalling circumstances. You’ve lost your home, your savings and the job you loved. You’re missing your grandchildren. That’s a lot to deal with even if you have rediscovered your soul mate.’
Miriam had not seen the children since term started, and when Bing went up to London for a few days (a symposium on sexually transmitted diseases), she rescheduled her sessions at the shop and headed off to visit them. The timing wasn’t ideal – midweek, the children in school – but Naomi agreed that, whilst she was there, she’d do drop-offs and pick-ups as she used to do.
When Max spotted her across the playground, he launched himself at her, flinging his arms around her waist, not at all embarrassed to be kissed in front of his classmates. Rosa was torn. Walk home with her friends or her grandmother? (Friends.) She was going through a growth spurt, all knees and elbows, sallow-cheeked as if she hadn’t slept. Miriam recognised her nine-year-old self in Rosa’s gaucheness. Before too long, that wayward hair would be the bane of her life, those bold features defy make-up. She was obstinate, quick to fly off the handle. She’d make heavy weather of her teenage years. She’d fight with Naomi who’d never had much patience. In a couple of years she’d team up with her own Frankie – or, considering her insubordinate nature, become someone else’s. That’s why it was so important David be there, steadying the ship.
She slipped effortlessly back into the teatime routine. The remains of yesterday’s casserole were in the fridge but the children weren’t keen and, without putting up much resistance, she gave in to their request for fish fingers and baked beans. There weren’t many advantages to being an absentee grandmother but one of them was that she could break the rules.
They were finishing their tea when Naomi came in from work. ‘Could you bear to babysit? David’s asked me to a private view. We won’t be late back.’
‘Where is it?’
‘You know those gloomy old houses near the hospital? One’s been converted into an art gallery. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it.’
Callum had mentioned a new gallery. Something to do with Lottery funding but she couldn’t recall the details.
‘It’s work from the art students’ degree show. You ought to pop over and take a look before you go home.’ Naomi checked her watch. ‘I should get changed.’
There had always been the possibility that Naomi would, through some casual encounter, establish the connection between her mother and the woman who’d been the college life model. But Miriam’s time there had been brief and, as the months passed, her anxiety had faded. Tonight’s private view, coming without warning as it did, rekindled her disquiet.
When David let himself in, she was clearing the table, struggling to persuade herself that, were Callum and Naomi to meet, he wouldn’t blow the gaff. Rosa and Max, who were at the kitchen table playing Hangman, glanced up, said hi, and carried on with their game as though his turning up were a regular occurrence. He kissed her, told her she was looking as lovely as ever, asked after Paul, and put the kettle on. Everything pointed to the restoration of the family.
After their bath and two chapters of The Witches, the children went to bed without a fuss. Bing had phoned, but she’d been up to her elbows in soapy water and she didn’t get round to returning his call until later. She apologised, explaining that she’d been getting the children to bed, exaggerating a little to account for her delay.
‘I was beginning to worry,’ he said. ‘I pictured you skidding off the road and—’
‘Have you been drinking?’
‘What else is there to do?’
‘You poor thing. London’s such a dreary place.’
‘Every where’s dreary without you.’
She laughed. ‘Now you’re being pathetic.’
‘What will you do tomorrow?’ he said.
‘Not sure. I might drop in at the college. See how they’re coping without me.’
The idea had been gathering shape. It would be good to see Callum. He’d been a true friend when she needed one and she missed his wry take on life.
‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘I know you enjoyed working there.’
She felt a pang of guilt. Callum had been right. She should have been straight with Bing. But now, ten months on, the moment had passed.
‘What time will you be home on Friday?’ he said.
They’d been through it several times and she tried to keep the irritation out of her voice. ‘I’ll set off as soon as I’ve dropped the children at school. So, all things being equal, I should be back by lunchtime.’
‘Let’s do something special on Saturday,’ he said.
‘I’m working, don’t you remember? I have to make up my hours?’
‘I’d forgotten. What a pain.’
‘We’ll do something on Sunday,’ she said. ‘The weather looks settled. Let’s take a picnic and a Thermos and go for a walk.’
It was the kind of placatory tactic she employed with the children but it appeared to cheer him up.
Breakfast time was the inevitable scavenger hunt. Games kit. Reading records. Yoghurt pots and egg cartons. The permission slip for Max’s class trip. And Rosa’s elusive left trainer. They arrived at school with seconds to spare, the children darting into their classrooms with barely a backward glance. They loved her, of that she was sure, but she doubted they gave her a second thought when she wasn’t standing in front of them. That was as it should be. Their young lives shouldn’t be weighed down with missing and fretting.
She wandered back to the house, weighing up whether to visit the college or the new gallery. Naomi had said the refurbishment of the old house was stylish, the exhibition within it, uninspired. ‘Many people there?’ she’d asked. ‘Quite a crowd,’ Naomi said, ‘the usual arty types. We spent the evening with the architects. David thinks they might offer him a job.’ So she needn’t have worried after all. Why would anyone remember her anyway? She’d worked at the college for two mornings a week over a period of less than six months. Outsiders might find it hard to credit but, within that environment, a life model was no more noteworthy than a bowl of fruit. But there was the possibility that a visit to the college might throw up an unforeseen problem and, with that in mind, she plumped for the gallery.
Naomi’s assessment was spot on. The interior of the house had been transformed into something rather wonderful. Pale wooden floors. Off-white walls running up to midnight blue ceilings. Clever lighting that showed the exhibits off to advantage. One space flowing effortlessly into the next. (Scandi-meets-Quaker? She must ask David about it.) Everything came together in an arresting yet unobtrusive setting for what was, on the whole, mediocre work. She meandered around spending longer than she would had she not felt a certain allegiance to the work on show.
The young man on the desk was pretending to be busy, shuffling pieces of paper and peering at a screen. He even managed to look surprised when she approached the desk. ‘Oh, hello.’
‘It’s a beautiful gallery,’ she said.
‘Isn’t it just?’ he said. ‘We have a loyalty scheme, if you’re interested. Do you live locally?’
; ‘Until recently but I regularly come back to visit family.’
He gave her a leaflet. ‘This gives all the details. Shows. Talks. Members are invited to private views.’
‘Sounds good.’ She dropped the leaflet into her bag. ‘I’d best be off.’
‘We’ve a visitor book if you’d care to leave a comment.’
He slid a hefty book towards her, flipping it open to a page headed with the day’s date. The previous pages listed endorsements from last night’s private view. Halfway down the first page she recognised David’s architectural handwriting, a little further on Naomi’s careless scrawl. No sign of Callum or Moat’s signatures. It was amusing to note how visitors had avoided commenting on the art, praising instead the renovation and wishing the gallery success. She added her name and a woolly ‘A great asset to the town.’
Not yet midday, she had several hours before she was due at the school. She could go back to Naomi’s and do something useful but, while she’d been in the gallery, the wishy-washy clouds had given way to jewel-bright skies. The grand houses, high on this ridge, were surrounded by handsome trees planted, she guessed, when they were built. The trees had lost most of their leaves but the low sun enhanced the colours of those that remained. On the way here, she’d passed a modest shopping parade which included a deli-cum-coffee shop. It was too pleasant a day for housework and she pulled in to the parking space immediately outside. Having collected her flat white and lemon drizzle cake, she perched on a stool at the high counter near the window and folded her newspaper to the crossword.
She was doodling with an anagram when someone tapped her shoulder. ‘Miriam?’
Turning, she came face to face with Moat, resplendent in duffle coat. ‘Good gracious.’
She slid off her stool, unsure whether a handshake or a kiss was appropriate. He clearly felt equally bewildered and they ended up in a self-conscious hug.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said.
‘If you recall, this is my home town. You?’
She explained that she was visiting her family and had been to inspect the new gallery. ‘Have you been? It’s very smart.’
‘I’m on my way there now. I popped in here to stock up on olive oil. It’s the best in town.’ He pointed towards her cup. ‘Another coffee?’
‘Thanks.’ She didn’t need a second cup but she was overtaken by an unanticipated fondness for this tubby little man.
They ordered two coffees and relocated to a corner table, and she recalled their first meeting in the museum café when he’d demolished the Danish pastries.
‘Can I treat you to a cake?’ she said.
He grimaced. ‘I’m on a diet. My sister—’
‘You have a sister?’
‘Is that so hard to believe? Barbara insists I lose two stone. Says she doesn’t relish the prospect of nursing me when I’m struck down with something unspeakable.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d take advice from anyone.’
‘You don’t know my sister.’
‘Is she an artist too?’
He rolled his eyes. ‘She’s an aeronautical engineer. Psychopathically health-conscious. Terrifying woman.’
Moat lived in his late mother’s house and she’d leapt to the conclusion that he was an only child. Now he had a sister – a clever one at that – who bossed him about.
‘Where does Barbara live?’ she said.
‘Hampshire, thank God. She lectures at Southampton University. I keep out of her way if I possibly can.’ He turned to study the cakes on the counter. ‘Oh, to hell with it. I’ll have a slice of coffee and walnut.’
He squinted at her as if he were sizing her up before starting a drawing. ‘You look well, Miriam. This liaison obviously suits you. Callum tells me you have a job in a bookshop.’
‘It does. And I do.’ It didn’t take a mind reader to know where this was leading. ‘Callum tells me you’d like to paint me again.’
‘I would. And he told me you were making all sorts of excuses.’
‘Oh come on. It’s not practical, is it? I can’t see how it could possibly work. There must be a host of models who’d love to do it.’
‘Models are ten a penny. As I told you before, I’m looking for more than that. I found it in you.’
‘I’m flattered.’
‘Flattery is not my style, Miriam, as you well know. As far as practicalities go, where there’s a will, and all that. Will you answer one question for me?’
Red shoes.
‘If I can.’
‘Did you get anything at all out of working with me? Honestly now.’
‘You mean apart from fifteen pounds an hour?’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Miriam, Miriam.’
‘I was in a weird place when I met Callum.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘I had no zest for anything. You know the apathy that follows a bout of ’flu? Even my grandchildren were too much at times. I was starting to think I’d never shake it off. To be honest I was on the verge of panic. Then I met Callum and – well, I don’t know how or why but the job at the college set me back on an even keel.’
‘You’re avoiding my question.’ He dropped two sugar lumps into his coffee. ‘Did you get anything out of working with me?’
She imagined climbing the stairs to his studio, each tread, each riser, distancing her from the banality which had been bogging her down. The uncluttered studio. The smell of paint and coffee. Spring skies racing across the skylight. Peaceful, easy silence. Innocence.
‘I did. I found it restorative,’ she said. ‘Interesting. Calming. I went to meditation classes after I was widowed. People said it would help. I didn’t take to it, yet my sessions with you came as close to meditating as I’m likely to get.’ Where was this coming from? Was she trying to please him? ‘Paul reappeared around that time too, don’t forget.’
They were interrupted by the waitress bringing Moat’s cake and while they jiggled plates and cups, her thoughts flipped to Bing at his conference. She slipped her phone out of her pocket. One message. ‘Love you. B xx’.
‘Have you told him about our enterprise?’ He nodded towards her phone and raised his eyebrows, and she felt she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t.
‘I haven’t,’ she said, ‘and I’m not going to. He cares so much – too much. I know modelling’s a job but he might find that impossible to accept. Things are good with us. Life is good. I see no reason to rock the boat.’
‘That’s a real shame but I respect your decision. Should you change your mind, or if you’d like to call in and have a look at what I’m doing, you know where I live.’
She guessed he didn’t invite many people to his house and she was touched by his offer of friendship.
They shook hands and went their separate ways, Moat and his can of olive oil to the gallery and she back to the house to make a cottage pie and pack her bag ready for an early getaway next morning.
20
Living with a doctor ALERTED MIRIAM to the extent of winter’s treachery. Vomiting, coughs and sore throats were rampaging. The red-tops threatened ‘killer ’flu’. Most days Bing returned from work exhausted and crabby, exasperated at his patients’ failure to understand that antibiotics did nothing to combat viruses. Whilst other doctors caved in to demands for them, Dr. Crosby’s patients were treated to a lecture on global antibiotic resistance, and sent home to tough it out.
Her parents regarded winter as a personal affront. They dosed themselves with vitamins and cod liver oil. They broke out flannelette pyjamas and nighties washed so many times the pattern on them had faded to nothing. They draped heavy-duty curtains across front and back doors. They refused to venture out if it was ‘too cold’ or ‘too wet’ or ‘too dark’, then got in a right old state if, through these self-imposed curfews, they missed their weekly shopping trip. Miriam suggested setting them up with an Ocado account. They were dubious, fretting over delivery charges and the possibility of missing out on special offers. She won them over by
explaining that there were even better online deals, and agreeing to add items from her own list if their total spend failed to meet the criteria for ‘free delivery’.
Christmas had begun showing itself in October but Hazel held out until the second week in December before decorating the shop – and then so minimally it was barely noticeable.
‘Our regulars will shop here, regardless,’ she said. ‘They’ll be relieved to get away from fake snow.’
‘How are online sales doing?’ Miriam said.
‘Dismally. I can’t compete with Amazon when it comes to those trashy celebrity books that appear at Christmas and get remaindered by February. Anyway, that’s not what I’m about.’
‘Can retailers afford to be judgemental?’
‘I’m not a retailer – I’m a bookseller.’
As if to prove her right, a middle-aged woman came in and congratulated them on the shop’s serenity. She browsed for twenty minutes and left with a second-hand copy of The Work of Grinling Gibbons and a poetry anthology.
‘What are your Christmas plans?’ Hazel said. She was closing the shop from Christmas Eve until after New Year. Her sister ran a B&B in Newlyn and her entire family convened there every Christmas.