A Different River

by Jo Verity

  ‘I know how much you love the house,’ Bing said one evening when they were getting ready for bed, ‘but I can see it’s preying on your mind.’

  ‘You’re saying I should sell?’ she said.

  ‘If you think that’s best.’ He shucked off his socks. ‘Or we could sell this house and move in there. Just a thought.’

  His suggestion brought her up with a start. It was the first time he’d mentioned moving but to come up with this plan… he must have been considering it for some time.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It’s a possibility, I suppose. I’d have to think about it.’

  ‘Of course. I was thinking that, with winter coming on and all that… Anyway, it’s up to you.’

  ‘It is,’ she said, perhaps a little too sharply.

  She did love the place. Its dipping roof, elegant chimneys, bay windows. Its burnt-red bricks and crisp pointing. It looked solid, as if it would endure. But it would always be their house. If she and Bing took it on, it would be like slipping into their shoes. When Sam’s creditors came knocking, she’d had no option but to sell. This time she was beneficiary not victim. This time she had a choice.

  Their clothes hung in wardrobes and filled drawers. She made a couple of attempts to sift through them but each shirt, each ‘cardi’, each pair of shoes – particularly slippers – brought her to a tearful halt. Perhaps she’d gone at it too soon. Bing offered to bag the lot and take it to Tenovus. Sensible, maybe, yet disrespectful. Cowardly. She considered asking Hazel to give her a hand but decided it might not be a good idea for two of her worlds to collide, especially in such highly-charged circumstances.

  ‘I’d come and help,’ Naomi said, ‘but I’d be useless. I only have to think about them and I’m in shreds. Have you thought of asking Frankie?’

  They’d exchanged a few words after the funeral. Frankie had been rushing off to meet someone – or so she said. Miriam guessed she was in one of her pickles but it hadn’t been the time or place to talk and since then she’d had other things on her mind.

  Bing was dubious. ‘You know how needy the woman is. How she likes holding centre stage. You’ll end up listening to her problems.’

  ‘That mightn’t be so bad. It would be a distraction. And there’s another reason to ask her. She spent a lot of time with them over the years. I don’t like the idea of a stranger going through their things.’

  This time Frankie came by bus explaining that she was ‘between cars’. She was more subdued than usual but Miriam put this down to her making an effort not to rub Bing up the wrong way. First thing next morning, equipped with a packed lunch and a supply of large carrier bags, they headed over to the house.

  Standing in the hall, sniffing the air, Frankie said ‘If I were blindfolded, I’d know exactly where I was. It’s always smelled comfortable here.’

  ‘Is comfortable a smell?’

  ‘Don’t be picky. Every house has its own a smell.’

  ‘Does ours? Bing’s?’

  Frankie frowned. ‘Mmmm. Can’t say it does. Maybe it hasn’t absorbed enough history.’

  They made a start with things that held the least emotional charge – towels, bedding, table linen – keeping the best, assigning anything grotty to a black bin bag. As they went through the cupboard, she noted with sadness that many of the items were brand new, still in their wrappers. Packs of pillow cases. A mattress cover. A set of Christy towels – peach-coloured to match the bathroom – given them by Naomi a couple of Christmases ago.

  She held up another new towel. ‘It makes me mad. What were they thinking?’

  ‘They were proud,’ Frankie said. ‘They were keeping them in case they ended up in hospital or bed-bound. They’d have hated strangers seeing them with manky towels and tatty sheets.’

  When they’d finished sorting the linen, they turned their attention to the spare room and the clothes her parents kept for ‘best’.

  ‘I can’t stop seeing their clothes as second skins,’ Miriam said. ‘Those coats in the hall, those dressing gowns on the back of the bedroom door… hanging there, waiting for them to come back and slip into them.’ She buried her face in her mother’s camel coat, the brooch on its lapel scratching her cheek. ‘This still smells of that awful scent she loved.’

  They worked their way through the wardrobe and moved on to the tallboy. The clothes were dated – wide lapels, unnecessary buttons and belts – but top quality and made to last. Someone might find a use for them and they folded them into carrier bags. Shoes were a different matter. They were intimate. Slip a hand inside, and she could feel the indentations made by their toes. Her father had had a thing about his feet. The only time they appeared naked was on a beach and, even then, he squirmed them down into the sand away from public gaze. Their shoes – every last one – would go to landfill where they could slowly and privately rot away.

  It was a one of those twinkly October days, the low sun accentuating the yellows and ochres of the foliage. The lawn was flecked with fallen leaves and the chrysanthemums were hanging on, bold and scruffy. Really it was too chilly for a picnic but, needing to escape briefly from their melancholy task, they found a sheltered corner of the garden and took out their sandwiches.

  ‘We haven’t talked about you,’ Miriam said. ‘You’re still at the pub with your sister-in-law?’

  Frankie shook her head. ‘It’s been taken over by Wetherspoon’s. Cath’s moving to Spain with her boyfriend.’ She laughed. ‘Boyfriend. He’s getting on for seventy.’

  ‘So…?’

  ‘Something will turn up. It always does.’ She delved into her bag and produced a half-bottle of brandy, adding a dash to their mugs of coffee. ‘We should drink to your parents.’

  They chinked mugs – ‘Mum and Dad’, ‘Harold and Freda’ – and Frankie lit a cigarette.

  Miriam pulled her collar up around her ears. ‘Remember skiving off behind the bike shed for a fag?’

  ‘What are you on about, Miss Goody Two Shoes? You didn’t smoke.’

  ‘No, but hanging out with the infamous Frankie Slattery, gave me street cred – or whatever we called it back then.’

  Frankie tilted her head back and exhaled, a plume of cigarette smoke curling in the breeze. ‘How did they manage to make school so deadly dull? I reckon they were trying to bore us into submission, don’t you?’ She took another pull on her cigarette. ‘I had this friend who let me copy her homework. Full marks every time. The suckers must have thought me a genius. Of course it all went tits up when exams came around.’ She brushed ash off her sleeve. ‘I’d enjoy school now. I’d see the point of it. Maths. History. Maybe not Scripture. But that’s the trouble, isn’t it? Everything comes at the wrong time.’

  A stiff breeze was getting up, whipping the pampas grass and driving them, shivering, inside. Frankie found a radio channel playing sixties pop and singing along to the vacuous, unforgettable tracks, Miriam almost forgot that the cardigans and skirts and jackets she was shoving into bags were her parents’ second skins.

  They worked steadily and, by mid-afternoon, they were done. ‘That’s it,’ Miriam said, tying the top of the umpteenth bin bag. ‘The rest can stay for now. Thanks for helping, Frankie. Not exactly a fun visit for you but I couldn’t have tackled it on my own.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. So what next for you? There’s nothing to keep you here.’

  ‘There’s Bing’s job.’

  ‘He could work anywhere in the world.’

  ‘I suppose he could, but he’s happy at Monkton Square.’

  ‘I expect he is, especially now he has you all to himself.’ She hesitated. ‘Is this how you imagined it would turn out?’

  ‘This?’

  ‘You know what I mean. When you told me you were back with Bing, the first thing that came into my head was at least someone gets their happy ending.’

  ‘I am happy.’

  Frankie raised her eyebrows. ‘Or are you just happier? Not that difficult when you consider the crap you’
ve had dumped on you.’

  ‘It’s not that simple.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘I love being with Bing. It’s as if I’ve found the missing bit of me.’

  ‘And when you’re not with him? Let me guess. You don’t know what the hell you’re doing here.’

  ‘I’ll soon find something interesting to do.’

  ‘Interesting? Here? Come on, Mim. The world’s your oyster.’

  She laughed. ‘I’m sixty-three.’

  ‘So? You’re clever. Gorgeous-looking. Fit and healthy. Think big. You could go travelling. Or start a business. You could write a bestseller. Or learn Chinese. You could…’ Frankie waved her arms around as if the very air were filled with possibilities waiting to be grabbed.

  ‘Funny you should mention writing. I was sorting through the stuff I’d put in storage and I did unearth the first few chapters of a novel I started years ago. I’d forgotten all about it. It’s probably rubbish but—’

  ‘There you go. And it won’t be rubbish. You were brilliant at English. Get stuck in. It’ll probably win the Booker. But getting back to you and Bing. At school, you were the golden couple. Scarlett and Rhett. Posh and Becks. What’s gone wrong? Where’s the thrill? It’s all so bloody safe. It’s like he’s got you back and he’s determined to clip your wings.’

  ‘You’re being melodramatic.’

  ‘No, I’m deadly serious.’ She took Miriam’s hand. ‘You’ve been at everyone’s beck and call for as long as I’ve known you. Your parents. Sam. Naomi. Not to mention me. This is your time. Use it wisely. With your genes you could live another twenty-five years.’

  ‘Bing and I love each other and always will so it’s not my time but our time.’

  ‘Okay. Message received if not entirely understood. I’ve said my piece.’

  Miriam wasn’t relishing what could easily be a challenging evening but Bing was on his best behaviour and Frankie at her least confrontational. As dinner progressed, she found herself relaxing. Thinking how pleasant it was to be with her oldest and best friends. Mellowed by food and wine, they fell to talking about their school days, and she dug out the photograph of all of them outside the coffee bar. She passed it to Frankie. ‘I meant to show you this last time you were here.’

  ‘Oh. My. God.’ Frankie ran her finger along the row, calling the register. ‘Colin. Judith and Lisa. I don’t think I ever saw them apart. D’you think they were gay or just wet? There’s Little Pete. And us. Wow.’ She angled the frame towards the light. ‘If we’d known then what we know now, we wouldn’t be looking so pleased with ourselves.’

  ‘Would you like to know what lies ahead?’ Miriam said.

  ‘God, no. Who in their right mind would?’

  ‘Shall Bing get a copy done for you?’

  Frankie handed the photograph back to Miriam. ‘Thanks, but I’ll pass. It’s too sad.’

  Next morning they returned to the house and loaded the bags into the car – some to go to the charity shop the rest for the tip.

  ‘Okay if I have a little wander before you lock up?’ Frankie said.

  Miriam went into the garden to pick the last few chrysanthemums. The tattered blooms bore no resemblance to the perfect specimens found in M&S but her mother had been very proud of them. Seeing them in her precious cut-glass vases, would make her happy.

  ‘Would you like to choose a keepsake?’ Miriam said when they were back in the kitchen. ‘Sooner or later everything will have to go. There are some bits of costume jewellery in the dressing-table drawer. Or maybe a photo?’

  ‘I would like a memento if you don’t mind,’ Frankie said. ‘I loved coming here. It was a real oasis. They were so kind to me even though I wasn’t their cup of tea. Maybe it’s easier to tolerate flaws in the people you don’t have a stake in. Your mum was a sweetie. My idea of what a mother should be. She used to feed me up and send me off with a bag of leftovers. Kept me going for days. And your father. He was a force to be reckoned with. Dogmatic. Bombastic. Extremely clever. I can see where you got your brains from. He could be very funny – very caustic – but he had a real soft centre where you were concerned.’

  ‘If he did, he managed to hide it most of the time. We had our moments, he and I. Poor Dad. The Sam business knocked the stuffing out of him. He blamed himself for bringing him into our family. I’m sure he saw Bing’s reappearance as a chance to salve his conscience. Only a few months ago, he and I reached a kind of resolution. I’m so glad we did.’

  Frankie chose the marcasite brooch which had been pinned to the lapel of Freda Edlin’s coat. It depicted a swallow in flight. Miriam couldn’t be sure but she thought it had been a present from Aunt Bea.

  28

  Her parents were constantly IN her thoughts but the trauma of their loss was fading, leaving her feeling as if she were recuperating from a prolonged bout of ’flu. But she was unquestionably on the mend. Her appetite improved. She suffered fewer violent dreams. She was able to concentrate long enough to read a novel – something she’d failed to do since their death. And – a real indication of improvement – she felt well enough to return to the shop.

  Her rehabilitation was, however, tainted by the old whisper. Is that all there is? Determined to tackle this, she scoured the internet, looking for jobs or courses or anything that fired her imagination and fitted her capabilities. She forked out twenty pounds on How To Write An Impressive CV (complete with DVD and templates) but no matter how she tarted it up, her employment history boiled down to teaching English at a couple of run-of-the-mill comprehensive schools. It didn’t help that most job specifications were pumped full of jargon and even after several readings, she had little idea what the wretched job entailed. She made the mistake of mentioning to Naomi that she was looking for something which would stretch her and her daughter deluged her with details of outlandish posts in exotic places, obviously reflecting her own fantasies.

  Naomi brought the children for a weekend. Rosa, full of her new school, insisted on showing them every one of her textbooks. Max seemed delighted by his sister’s elevation to ‘big school’ which Miriam guessed had a lot to do with his no longer being labelled ‘Rosa Garrett’s kid brother’. When asked if there was anything in particular they wanted to do whilst they were there, they reeled off a list. Swimming (with Bing). Football in the park (with Bing). A takeaway Chinese (in a box shaped like a house). It was their first visit since the funeral and Miriam thought Naomi might want to visit the house or the cemetery, but she mentioned neither.

  As they sat around the kitchen table, juggling foil containers and struggling with chopsticks, Miriam recalled Hazel’s question. What’s most important to you? It was a no brainer. She wanted – needed – to be embedded in her family’s daily lives, not parked on the periphery, morphing into an ageing relative to be dutifully visited a couple of times a year. As Frankie had insisted, doctors could work anywhere. People relocated all the time. So what was the problem? If Bing’s goal was to keep her to himself, he was the problem. His track record with his family wasn’t encouraging. Why would he want to integrate with hers? Besides, if she were to talk him into moving, she would be duty bound to be deliriously happy every minute of every day – a ghastly and unrealistic prospect.

  Torrential rain and ferocious gales swept the country taking out bridges and railway tracks and bringing floods to Cumbria, Scotland and Wales. The city escaped the worst of it but it was bad enough. Water surged up through storm drains. Traffic had to be re-routed to avoid low-spots where surface water collected in menacing pools. The river burst its banks in several places, creating lakes complete with bobbing gulls. When she checked the empty house, leaves had blocked the drains and the patio was under a couple of inches of water. There were puddles on the sills in the living room and a wet patch on the bathroom ceiling. The bedding felt damp.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said to Bing, ‘whatever we finally decide to do, it would be better if the house were occupied through the winter months.
’

  ‘You want to let it? Mmmm. That might work.’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘Wouldn’t that involve safety certificates and contracts and heaven knows what else? No. I was thinking more of an informal arrangement. Offering it to someone for a few months. They could keep an eye. Be a sort of caretaker.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘I take it you mean Frankie.’

  ‘Well, yes. She knows the house inside out. She’d be my first choice.’

  ‘And your second choice would be…?’

  ‘Don’t be so grumpy. It’s just a thought. It’d mean we needn’t fret about damp and frozen pipes and intruders.’ She paused. ‘I wouldn’t have to spend so much time there.’