by Jo Verity
‘You’re so much more patient with them than I am,’ she said.
‘I don’t know about that. I simply don’t think it’s worth getting steamed up about.’
Theoretically, Christmas had nothing to do with them, nevertheless Harold and Freda Edlin embraced it with great gusto. Cards dangled from red ribbon looped along the picture rail and an array of candles, wicks still pristine after donkey’s years, were dotted along the mantelpiece. The tree was ‘first generation’ artificial and the decorations had seen better days, but that was no different from half the households in the country. They drew the line at a crib – that simply wouldn’t have done – but Miriam’s mother had managed to sneak a string of glittery camels along the top shelf of the dresser.
All things considered, the turkey transfer went smoothly. They forgot the brandy butter and Christmas crackers, and the festive tablecloth which Miriam had bought when she last visited Naomi. But, having caused the disruption, her parents were in no position to criticise her failings. And they didn’t. They seemed, if anything, invigorated by the modified arrangements, quipping about ‘meals-on-wheels’ and ‘flying doctors’.
After lunch, they exchanged gifts – ‘smellies’, chocolates, diaries – making obligatory noises of surprise and delight. Miriam and Bing had left their gifts to each other under their tree to be opened when they got home.
Whilst the men were inspecting the slipped tiles on the garage roof, Miriam took the opportunity to ask her mother if she were feeling better. ‘Better?’ she said. ‘That’s a funny question.’ And a funny answer – unless her father had been mischief-making again.
The phone rang and, in a flash, her mother was there, grasping the cumbersome old handset with both hands. ‘Who’s speaking, please?’
And seeing the frail figure, expectant, voice wavering, the penny dropped. They wanted to be at home in case Danny called.
Her mother’s face slumped into a disappointed frown. ‘Who is that?’ Miriam held out a hand, offering to resolve the mystery, but her mother shook her head. ‘Frankie? Sorry, dear. I didn’t recognise your voice. It’s very noisy at your end. Of course it would be…. Merry Christmas to you too…. Yes, we’re having a lovely day.’
Miriam waited, expecting her mother to pass her the phone but instead she turned away. ‘Thank you for your card, and the letter. We always enjoy your letters.’
Letters? Always?
The tête-à-tête continued. ‘She’s with us if you’d like a word…. Alright. I will. I’ll let you go. You must be rushed off your feet. And don’t forget. Anytime. Goodbye dear.’
‘Frankie sends her love,’ her mother said as if holding a long conversation with her best friend were the most natural thing in the world.
‘She writes to you?’ Miriam said.
‘Now and again. She knows we like to hear what she’s up to.’
Miriam had heard from Frankie only once since her visit. She was living in Birmingham where her ex-sister-in-law was managing a pub. It seemed she had a room and job there, doing a bit of ‘this and that’ which ‘would do for the time being’. (She hadn’t mentioned the two hundred pounds which Miriam had sneaked into her suitcase.)
Her parents’ acceptance of Frankie Slattery had always baffled her. Initially, they’d discouraged the friendship. Frankie embodied everything that alarmed them. Smoker, truant, with self-inflicted tattoos and one outrageous hairstyle after another, she came from the kind of chaotic family they despised. But her humour…or candour…or sheer exuberance had eventually breached their defences. At the time, Danny had been occupying a great deal of their attention and perhaps they’d lacked the energy to police two wayward offspring. Later, when Danny was long gone and the thing with Bing came to a head, had they allowed her Frankie as a consolation prize?
The men came in from the garden, shucking off muddy shoes and asking whether it was time for a cup of tea. When she finally got a few moments alone with Bing, she hissed her exasperation at her father’s determination to have things his way. ‘There’s nothing wrong with Mum. What the hell’s the matter with him? Why does he always have to call the shots?’
‘I understand why you’re cross with him,’ Bing said, ‘but you have to remember he spent years and years running the show. Suddenly everyone’s telling him what to do, how things should be. He feels emasculated. Mind games are all he has left.’
‘I’m his daughter, not his chess opponent. And I don’t know why you’re so chipper. What if he starts playing his mind games on us? Don’t laugh. It could happen.’
She glanced at her watch. Three more hours and they could go home.
Leon and Bente would be with them for barely twenty-four hours – and in bed for eight of those. A walk along the ridge overlooking the town would take care of a few more hours. It was the bits in between that bothered her. ‘What if we have nothing to talk about?’ she said. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Bing said, ‘as long as we all rub along.’
They arrived on the dot of midday bearing potted hyacinths, wine and chocolates. Bing had shown her recent photographs of his children, but only when Leon was standing in front of her did she realise how like his father he was. Not only his face but his voice and the way he stood, head tilted to one side. It was as if she were looking at Bing when he was a boy – although Leon was thirty-two. They stood in the hall, muddling through introductions, covering their awkwardness with prattle about routes and road conditions. Eventually they managed to get themselves out of the hall and into the kitchen, where Bing poured glasses of sherry and everyone relaxed.
‘Your kitchen, I like it. It’s so homely.’ Bente’s perfect English had just enough Scandi twang to make it appealing. Miriam had pictured her as a fresh-faced, big boned girl – patterned jumper and fur-lined boots – unshaven legs. She couldn’t have been wider of the mark. Bente was petite and dark-haired with brown eyes behind round spectacles. She wore jeans, a black polo neck – cashmere by the looks of it – and elegant ankle boots, no bigger than size four. In fact not far off her mental picture of Eloise – a photograph of whom she had yet to see.
‘I’ll show you your room,’ Bing said, ushering their visitors into the hall.
She put the pan of minestrone on the hob and counted out the cutlery. Overhead she could hear the rise and fall of voices. Footsteps moving from room to room. Easy laughter as if they were all more comfortable when she wasn’t there.
Throughout lunch, Leon was civil enough, yet he didn’t seem interested in her, directing most of his conversation to Bing. She’d worried that he might subject her to the third degree but, if anything, it was the opposite. Was he embarrassed? Whatever his reason, it cast her as the odd one out. As the meal progressed, she detected an underlying competitiveness between father and son. A dig here, a jibe there – sparring – testing each other. Maybe this behaviour was unavoidable as one generation gave way to another and the balance of power changed. Her father and Danny had been at each other all the time. But that was in an era when children were expected to defer to their ‘elders and betters’, something which Danny had refused to do.
After lunch, the breeze got up and the mist which had hung around all morning cleared. Bing suggested a walk along the towpath but Bente had forgotten her walking boots and, as Miriam’s footwear was several sizes too large for her, it was decided ‘the girls’ would stay at home.
‘It’s a shame you had to miss the walk,’ Miriam said as they settled in front of the fire with cups of coffee.
‘Yes, but it’s good that Leon spends time with his father,’ Bente said. ‘They don’t talk enough. Men are bad talkers, don’t you agree?’
She nodded, not entirely sure what she was agreeing with. Now she had Bente to herself, she had a chance to find out more about Bing’s family but the young woman was canny and she must tread warily. ‘Tell me about you. I know you’re a surveyor but that’s all.’
‘Me? I was born and raised in Roskilde. You know it? We have a big music festival eve
ry year. My parents work in the biomedical research unit at the hospital. What else can I tell you? I’m thirty-seven. I have an older brother – Mads – he’s a dentist.’
Bente didn’t beat about the bush and this encouraged Miriam to continue. ‘So how did you and Leon meet?’
‘Friends of friends. They thought we would get along. Not so romantic, perhaps, but better than looking for a partner on the internet.’
‘You have perceptive friends. How long have you been together?’
‘Two years.’ Bente pulled her knees up to her chin. ‘Now it is my turn. I think you and Paul were childhood sweethearts?’
‘Yes. Well. We weren’t children. We were in the sixth form.’
‘Ahhh. It was puppy love. And then you grew out of it. I understand.’
‘I don’t think you do. We didn’t grow out of it. It was simply a matter of meeting the right person at the wrong time.’
‘You believe there is a “right person”?’ Bente hooked the air with her fingers.
‘Don’t you?’
Bente shrugged. ‘It makes no sense. There are seven billion people on the planet. What are the chances?’
‘Leon isn’t the right man for you?’
‘It’s good with us now but when it stops being good we will shake hands and call it a day.’
‘That sounds a little… clinical.’
‘No. It is realistic. We’re not robots. Time passes and, naturally, we will change. The important thing, is to identify what is right for us as we are, not as we once were.’
‘That sounds, dare I say it, rather selfish.’
She shrugged. ‘It is the truth.’
Bente’s forthright words felt like a reproach and Miriam was compelled to defend herself. ‘Paul and I were young but what we had was very special. But there was a lots of other stuff going on – particularly in my family. We were students, and living in different cities made things difficult. We’d go months without seeing each other and keeping in touch was much harder then. A few things went wrong. There were misunderstandings. People interfered. I won’t go into details but we allowed it to slip through our fingers.’
‘That is sad,’ Bente said, ‘but maybe not unusual. Then what happened?’
‘A man – a family friend – asked me to marry him. He was kind and funny. He cared more for me than I did for him but he didn’t seem bothered by that. We had a reasonably happy marriage. I didn’t forget Paul but I’d made choices, and promises and, after my daughter was born, life without him became easier.’
Miriam took the poker and jabbed at the fire, sending sparks spiralling up the chimney. ‘My husband died a couple of years ago. It was a tough time. In fact I had a breakdown. I was quite ill. A year ago a friend told me Paul was divorced and living back here.’
‘You must tell all this to Leon,’ Bente said.
‘I’m not after Paul’s money if that’s what he’s afraid of. All I want is to spend the rest of my life with him. We messed up first time around. We deserve another try.’
To her dismay, she was crying.
Bente fished a pack of tissues from her bag. ‘Here.’
She blew her nose and tossed the tissue on the fire, watching it blacken and burst into flame. ‘I don’t know what they’ve been told but we were out of contact for forty years. Not one single letter, or phone call, or message. Nothing. That sounds unbelievable but it’s true.’
‘All those years. Were you not interested to know what happened to your “right man”?’ Bente raised her phone which had been on the arm of the sofa. ‘It is very easy to find out.’
‘Of course. But I had a husband and a daughter to consider. It wasn’t their fault. I couldn’t risk destroying their lives.’
Bente was silent for a while. ‘I’m flattered that you tell me this but I do not wish to get involved. Leon is a grown man. Pascale and Camille are grown women. It’s up to them to sort this out with their father.’
22
The visit was by nomeans a roaring success but it was a start, and they left promising to ‘do it again soon’. Bente was a self-possessed woman and Miriam had gleaned no real sense of her links with, and attitude to, Bing’s family. (The only time they’d been mentioned – at least in her presence – was a passing reference to the baby.) She was crossing fingers that, despite her refusal to get involved, the essence of their fireside conversation would filter back to Pascale and Camille and, with luck, temper their mindset. She waited for Bing to reveal what he and Leon had talked about on their walk and, when nothing was forthcoming, she asked. ‘Oh, the usual,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure what that means. Football? Holidays?’ ‘We didn’t get into our situation.’ ‘I didn’t realise we’re a situation.’ ‘I mean it seemed wise to keep it light. Gain his confidence.’
Invitations to several New Year parties had arrived including one from her parents’ ‘over-the-road’ neighbours but, having spent Christmas with her mother and father, they were off the hook and she was content to go along with Bing’s plea that they batten down the hatches and have their own celebration. In the afternoon, she texted Hazel, Frankie and Callum with cheery greetings, and had a long chat with Naomi who was in nostalgic mood. ‘Remember that brilliant New Year trip to Utrecht, Mum? I was thinking David and I ought to take the kids next year. They’d love it.’
When Naomi wasn’t much older than Max, they’d driven to Holland for New Year. She couldn’t recall why – something to do with Sam’s cousin who lectured at Utrecht University. The city had been a picture. Trees festooned with lights. Musicians on every corner. The canal bustling with decorated boats. Exquisite window displays. A pervading smell of roasting chestnuts. As midnight approached, streets and squares had become thronged with families singing and celebrating into the early hours. It did no harm to be reminded of the good times.
Bing returned from afternoon surgery – the last of the old year – and they meandered into town to check all was in order at the shop. They spent half an hour browsing the shelves, buying each other a book and selling another to a passing regular, leaving an I.O.U. next to the empty till. On the way home, Bing bought her a bouquet of wintry flowers from the florist at the bottom of Angelgate and walking home, flowers cradled in the crook of her arm, she remembered that this time last year she was holed up in her parents’ spare room, cooking up excuses to avoid going to the party.
As part of their stay-at-home pact, Bing was cooking dinner. Miriam offered to act as sous-chef but he would have none of it.
‘In that case I’ll have a bath,’ she said. She turned on the tap and trickled bubble-bath into the flow, swishing it around with her new flannel – part of her Christmas gift from the children. She undressed, caught her hair up in a scrunchie and climbed into the fragrant water. She lay back and closed her eyes. It was raining, pattering on the windows, pinging off the porch roof. It was a relief not to be going out. Doubtless this was a symptom of ageing but, for as long as she could remember, the turn of the year had filled her with apprehension. Ramped up by the media, expectations were impossibly high, outcomes invariably disappointing. Yet there was no denying, for her this had been an annus mirabilis. Against all odds, she and Bing had found each other, something she’d long ago stopped dreaming could happen. As Bente had pointed out, these days, tracking people down was dead easy. The miracle of their reunion was that it had come about by chance, at a time when there was no obstacle, no reason why they couldn’t be together. And now, if that weren’t wonderful enough, Naomi and David appeared to have come to their senses. Yes, life was sweet.
Yet there were still matters to be resolved. This ongoing stand-off with Camille and Pascale for starters. It must be resolved, one way or another. And she needed to find something stimulating to do because, to be honest, there were times when she felt she was marking time. When she broached this with Bing, he’d told her that she mustn’t be impatient, the right thing would turn up.
After Sam killed himself, when she’d been petrified
that she would never get back on her feet, everyone – medics included – banged on about it being ‘early days’ and ‘giving it time’, like parrots, squawking the same vacuous phrases over and over, as if their repetition would eventually bring about an epiphany. Good gracious.Why did I not think of that? Their well-meaning attempts at encouragement belittled her plight. Only David – dear, insightful David – came close to understanding that time had the power to kill as well as cure.
Somewhere miles above, a plane murmured as it headed into or away from the coming year. It would be early afternoon on the East Coast – or breakfast time in California. Christmas had passed without word from Danny. It had been heartbreaking to watch her mother flinch each time the phone rang. The fact was, her brother was drifting further and further away. Soon he would be out of sight, and this made her feel both angry and sad. But she mustn’t be greedy. She was happy and she was loved.
It was tempting to slip back into jeans and sweater but today was significant in the chronicle of their reunion. She chose a dress bought for an interview four or five years ago. She hadn’t got the job but the dress was flattering and, Naomi assured her, made her look younger. She wore her hair down, the way Bing liked it, and dabbed his favourite perfume at the base of her neck. There.
‘My God,’ he said when she returned to the kitchen, ‘I’d forgotten how beautiful you are.’