by S Block
‘You’ve made it slightly easier, darling. Go and have your bath.’
Laura kissed Erica again and left the room. As soon as she heard Laura go upstairs into her bedroom and close the door, Erica covered her face with her hands and began to sob inconsolably.
I can’t live without you . . .
Chapter 21
Whatever the size of queue she was anticipating when she went to pick up a copy of The Times, Joyce was determined to be at its head. She didn’t usually take The Times, preferring the more digestible Daily Express, the self-proclaimed ‘greatest newspaper in the world’. But this edition of The Times was special. This edition of The Times contained the first instalment of the serialisation of Bob Simms’s new novel. When she arrived at the newsagent Joyce was surprised to see that, in fact, there was no queue at all. Great Paxfordians were buying The Times, as they did on any other day of publication, there just wasn’t any need to actively form a queue for a copy.
Joyce felt a pang of disappointment for Bob, and a marginally smaller pang of guilt for having spent the previous evening assuring him the village would turn out in force to secure their copy of the paper. In truth, the disappointment she felt for Bob was also in part for herself. She had hoped to bask in Bob’s glory in front of other villagers. Joyce hoped they would be green with envy that she was sharing her house with a famous author, and might even offer a gentle ripple of applause as she walked along the high street holding The Times aloft, with Bob’s serialisation within. Her craving for a similar level of status that she had previously derived from being the wife of the village solicitor hadn’t gone away, even if her desire to live with Douglas had. She thought Bob’s presence under her roof might rekindle it. After all, it takes a special kind of person to understand the whims and needs of a creative genius. She – Joyce Cameron – wanted to be regarded as precisely such a person. After this morning she realised she might have to wait a while longer for reflected glory, and the evidence it would herald that her status in the village had been resurrected.
Clutching the paper as she trotted home, Joyce resolved to fib to Bob about the size of the queue to save his blushes, and to admonish her fellow villagers when she got the chance for their lack of support for her gifted lodger. As she walked up the garden path to her front door, she could hear through the downstairs parlour window the sound of Bob already typing. She could barely contain her enthusiasm, calling out, ‘Mr Simms! Mr Simms! I have it, Mr Simms!’ Joyce burst into the house and into the front room, waving The Times aloft with such glee that Bob thought for a moment she must be bringing news of the end of the war.
‘I have it, Mr Simms! The first instalment of your novel!’
Bob looked at Joyce and slowly removed his glasses. Bearing in mind the sales of his first book, Bob had never been a successful novelist. Nevertheless, he had encountered a few members of the public at low-key public events who expected him to behave in the manner expected of a man of letters. The role involved taking all criticism on the chin with a wry smile, and uttering sentences in the form of epigrams that usually sounded cleverer than they were. As Joyce stood before him, he recognised she was hoping for Bob-the-author to speak, not Bob-the-tenant.
‘Well, well. What a nice surprise,’ he said. Understatement was his customary response to public attention. It had the twin benefits of making Bob appear modest while quietly encouraging whoever was bothering him to go away. Joyce failed to take the hint.
‘There was quite a queue for copies,’ she lied.
‘May I see?’
‘Of course!’
Joyce gave Bob the paper and he flicked through the pages to where his work was displayed and furrowed his brow in a ‘writerly fashion’ – as he knew Joyce hoped he would. He was aware he was performing for her benefit, but playing up to her adulation helped keep his and Pat’s rent at a peppercorn level during their stay. Joyce had initially asked for no rent at all, so chuffed was she to be playing landlady to Great Paxford’s greatest living author (and wife). But Bob had insisted they pay their way, so Joyce accepted a nominal rent, to cover food.
Joyce gazed at Bob reading his own words in the country’s most revered organ.
‘You must be so excited, Mr Simms.’
Bob looked up and smiled benevolently, as if his work were published in The Times every week.
‘It’s just part and parcel of being published, Mrs Cameron. All a bit of a game, really. Marketing. You know . . .’
He knew she didn’t know, but also knew that just leaving the word ‘marketing’ hanging in the air would create the effect of seeming above the concerns of Mammon.
‘You really are shockingly modest, Mr Simms.’
Bob looked up at Joyce and smiled modestly.
‘Not at all,’ he said, even more faux-modestly. ‘I just have a gift – or is it a curse? – for seeing things for what they really are. Any post?’
Bob asked Joyce this question every morning, establishing in her mind that all post addressed to himself or Pat should be offered directly to Bob. It was his way of intercepting any correspondence from Marek Novotny intended for his wife. Having ruined Marek’s departure from the village for Pat, this ensured any remaining connection between them could be permanently severed.
‘No post today, Mr Simms,’ she replied.
Joyce came out of the front parlour to make Bob a celebratory pot of tea as Pat started to sweep down the stairs.
‘I’ve finished upstairs,’ she said.
Since Joyce had taken them in, Bob had insisted Pat act as a glorified housekeeper for the duration of their stay. This wasn’t to thank Joyce for her kindness in sheltering them, but to offset a portion of their rent by paying it in kind. Pat had tried to argue against the idea of being turned into Joyce Cameron’s skivvy, but Bob’s logic was ruthlessly cold.
‘You’d be doing the same for me at home, wouldn’t you?’ And then for good measure, ‘We’re not here on holiday.’
Pat knew she was being punished for her affair with Marek. Offering Pat to keep house for Joyce was his version of hard labour. It also kept Pat within sight and earshot. With Marek departed from the area with the rest of the Czech troops there was no reason to do so. But it amused Bob to treat her as a woman who might commit adultery with any man if she were let out of his sight.
Joyce looked at Pat sweeping the stairs.
‘The serialisation of your husband’s novel has started.’
Pat continued to sweep.
‘Has it?’
‘You don’t sound very excited.’
Please, Mrs Cameron, it’s bad enough I have to live with Bob. It’s a hundred times worse I have to live with him under your roof, pretending to be happily married. I feign so much in your presence, every minute of the day. Please don’t force me to feign interest in his published dross.
‘Of course, I’m pleased for Bob if it means more people will read his book.’
‘Success of this order doesn’t knock on everyone’s door, Mrs Simms. This is a significant moment in both your lives.’
‘Perhaps more Bob’s than mine.’
‘Not at all. As the wife of a successful man you share in his success. You helped him do it, without question. People in the village will change the way they perceive you.’
‘I do hope not.’ Pat couldn’t think of anything she’d like less.
‘This is your moment to shine, Patricia! Enjoy it!’
Joyce hurried away from the bottom of the stairs towards the kitchen to make tea, leaving Pat standing halfway down, the sound of Bob pounding away at his typewriter hammering in her ears. She would give up any share in Bob’s ‘success’ to spend a minute more with Marek. Or just to know he was still alive.
I don’t think I can do this much longer. It feels like I’m watching my life die in front of my eyes.
Chapter 22
Teresa cycled towards the RAF station at Tabley Wood wondering if she was, in fact, doing the right thing. Nick had forgotten t
he packed lunch she had made for him that morning and Teresa had initially considered it an oversight on his part. He was, after all, a tremendously busy man with the weight of an RAF station on his shoulders, and all the young lives it contained. Who could fault him for forgetting a packet of sandwiches and two apples picked from a tree in their garden?
Teresa had initially thought nothing of it and continued to prepare for school. But a nagging thought had insinuated its way to the forefront of her mind.
What if Nick has deliberately left his packed lunch because he doesn’t want it?
Teresa didn’t mind in the slightest if Nick didn’t like her sandwiches. What niggled was the worry that Nick didn’t feel able to tell her that he didn’t.
What would that say about their marriage? What would it say about her prowess as a ‘wife’?
Teresa had just finished packing her school bag when another thought struck her.
What if this was a test? What if Nick deliberately left the sandwiches to see what she’d do?
Teresa couldn’t help wondering if this was the sort of thing newly married men did: set their new wives little trials of love, loyalty and devotion to assess who exactly they had hitched their lives to. Teresa certainly didn’t feel compelled to do the same to Nick, but then, she wasn’t a man. Also, she had very little experience of being in a relationship with one, from which to make an informed judgement. She wondered if Nick was sitting in his office right now, waiting to see if Teresa would dutifully bring him the sandwiches. If she did: tick. If she didn’t: a black mark.
What if he suspects I’m not like other married women?
Teresa suddenly felt deeply anxious. She had no other way to gauge whether she was successfully playing the role of a dutiful wife than by Nick’s attitude towards her. He seemed happy enough, but what if he was masking some deeper concern? Had she ever given anything away? They had settled into living together easily enough. The sex they had was enjoyable under the circumstances, though Teresa could do with a bit less of it. Nevertheless, she threw herself into it. Was very passionate, and voluble. Yet what if there was something about the way she made love with Nick that gave away the fact that she would rather be in bed with another woman? Would Nick say anything? Was his leaving his packed lunch a sign that he cared less about hurting Teresa’s feelings than he would have weeks ago? It felt to Teresa that the honeymoon period that people spoke of was over.
As she approached the barrier at Tabley Wood’s entrance, Teresa recognised the sentry as one of Nick’s men who had attended their wedding. She hoped she wouldn’t have to fish her ID card out of her bag, and squeezed the brakes long enough for him to get a good look at her. He recognised her instantly, and raised the gate to let her through.
‘Morning, Mrs Lucas!’
Teresa almost looked over her shoulder to see who he was addressing, before realising he was referring to her by her still unfamiliar married name.
‘I’ll be very quick! He’s forgotten his packed lunch!’ she freely offered, as she cycled through.
Why did I tell him that? He doesn’t need to know. Now I’ve made Nick – his boss – seem absentminded. I’d be a terrible spy.
She entered the station, cycling across the quad towards Nick’s squat, single-storey office block. She dismounted and set the bike against the wall.
‘Teresa?’
Teresa froze and momentarily stopped breathing. She turned and found herself face to face with Annie.
‘How nice to see you, Annie. Nick didn’t say you were coming up this way.’
‘Orders change all the time. We don’t always know until the last minute where planes will be needed.’
Annie smiled. Her long, fair hair was tied in a loose bun on top of her head. Her cheeks were tanned where sunlight had caught the skin below her flying goggles. Her forearms were nut brown from extended exposure to the sun at altitude. She stood with her hands tucked casually into her coverall pockets. Tall and slim and always with the same expression of wry amusement, she seemed unlike any woman Teresa had ever met. Always perfectly composed. Never hesitant, or caught off guard for the right thing to say at any moment. Always clever without ever sounding superior. Always effortlessly comfortable in her own skin. Breeding. Teresa had always hated the term, but what Annie had was good breeding.
As much as Teresa resented it, she felt intimidated by Annie. She knew this was ridiculous in a grown woman who could instantly silence a classroom of thirty rowdy children with the raise of an eyebrow. Teresa knew it had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with social class. Growing up in the class Annie had, had enabled her to learn to fly a plane, which was as likely for someone from Teresa’s background as learning to ride an elephant in Assam, or sailing a yacht into the marina at Monaco. Not that Annie flaunted her background. She didn’t have to. It infused every single thing about her, causing Annie to be what Teresa thought of as ‘wholly herself’. Ironically, the only other person Teresa had met who fitted the same description was Nick. That Annie had not ended up marrying Nick, and Teresa had, only confirmed Teresa’s belief that Annie was ‘wholly herself’, while she was not.
Teresa suspected that Annie’s preference for women excluded any sexual attraction towards men. Teresa had never seen her so much as glance at a man with interest, and her attraction to Nick was purely platonic. Teresa had always lacked the confidence to be wholly herself. It meant that for some time after they had first met, Teresa wasn’t sure whether what she felt for Annie was because she liked her, or because she wanted to be her.
‘I just rode over on my way to school because his nibs left his lunch behind.’
‘I can take it into him, if you want?’
Annie extended an arm, her hand already open, as if the question was already settled. Teresa had no choice but to agree.
‘Would you mind? I’m pushing it to get to school on time as it is.’
She took Nick’s packet of sandwiches and the two apples from her bag and placed them in Annie’s hand.
‘Aside from forgetting his lunch from time to time, how are you finding married life with Nick?’
‘I didn’t forget Nick’s lunch. I made Nick’s lunch. Nick forgot it.’
Teresa had been irritated by the implication that she had been somehow misfiring as Nick’s wife, and then felt immediately more irritated with herself for seeming so sensitive about it. She knew why she felt this way. It was because she knew Annie believed Teresa was only pretending to be Nick’s wife.
‘Sorry,’ Annie said with genuine sincerity. ‘My mistake.’
‘I’m finding married life wonderful.’
‘That’s . . . wonderful.’
‘Yes.’
Teresa couldn’t think of anything else to say, and felt momentarily compelled to start listing all the ‘wonderful’ things she loved about married life, but the sheer charade of her life with Nick overwhelmed all else, so she said nothing.
‘I’ve never seen Nick happier,’ Annie said. ‘Which is a tremendous testament to you, given his work pressures.’
Teresa couldn’t tell if Annie was being sarcastic. She didn’t sound sarcastic, but Teresa had encountered women of Annie’s class before who were sarcastic without ever sounding it. It was another product of breeding.
‘I’m doing my best,’ Teresa said.
‘Whatever it is, it’s working!’
‘I’m glad.’ Teresa looked at Annie for a few moments. ‘Thanks for taking in his lunch.’
‘No problem.’
‘Very kind of you.’
‘Not at all.’
Teresa realised she had no idea how to bring this chance meeting to a close except by suddenly jumping on her bike and cycling away as fast as she could.
‘I would have gone in and we would have started a conversation and I’d be late, and—’
Annie stepped forward and kissed Teresa on the cheek, silencing her instantly. She stepped back and looked at Teresa with her clear blue eyes. Teresa fe
lt her heart pound in her chest like a little kettle drum, and looked at Annie’s face.
Even the way you blink – unhurried, wholly yourself.
Annie smiled, as if she had just read Teresa’s mind.
‘Go.’
Teresa nodded, mounted her bike and cycled away. As she pedalled, she felt compelled to turn back to see if Annie was looking at her. But she was also conscious of not wanting to look as if she was looking to see if Annie was looking at her.
Stop being so bloody adolescent and keep riding.
When she reached the gate Teresa squeezed the brakes to give the sentry time to raise the barrier. But instead of squeezing the brakes just enough to glide through without stopping, Teresa squeezed them a little too hard, forcing the bike to stop, requiring her to put a foot on the floor. It gave her just enough reason to casually glance over her shoulder towards Nick’s office block, and see Annie still standing where Teresa had left her. There was no question about it. Annie was watching her. Teresa’s heart leapt a little in her chest.
‘Have a good day, Mrs Lucas,’ the sentry said.
‘Thank you, Pilot Officer,’ she replied, smiling. ‘I shall.’
Teresa put her foot on the pedal and cycled away at speed. She wanted to look back once more, but forced herself not to. Instead, she pressed harder on the pedals, doubling her speed in her panic to get away from the RAF station.
Keep away from her. You’re married. Keep away . . .
Chapter 23
The taxi to take Noah to his new boarding school stood patiently on the gravel drive of the Barden house. The driver leaned against his door and enjoyed a quiet smoke while he waited for the party he was conveying to come out of the house.
Inside, Frances stood at the bottom of the staircase in the large, wood-panelled hall of her house and listened to the sound of Noah sobbing upstairs. Between Noah’s sobs, Frances could hear Claire’s and Spencer’s voices, though not what they were actually saying to try to calm the child. Their tone was clearly soothing and encouraging. Frances had wanted to go up and try to help Claire and Spencer comfort the boy but Sarah, who was standing beside her, suggested she leave the young couple to it.