Was the chap planning on staying the night? He couldn’t drive back to Aldershot, or wherever it was that he had gone to ground. Amy, of course, was sharing Rosemary’s room and would no doubt be back at some point, so Douggie couldn’t be tucked up there, even if his wife was willing – which, judging by her face, was unlikely. People had expressed their concern about Amy’s disappearance but Buffy wasn’t unduly worried. He had had long experience of film crews and their sexual habits. Amy had probably picked up some bloke in the pub and would creep back as dawn was breaking.
India came in and whispered into Buffy’s ear: ‘We’re ready now. Sorry about the delay.’
Buffy followed her into the kitchen. There was a wet patch on the floor.
‘We dropped the aubergine bake,’ said Voda. ‘Even the dog wouldn’t lick it up.’
‘It was the vegetarian option,’ said India.
‘Anyway, we scraped most of it up and put some more sauce on top and browned it again, so nobody’ll notice the difference.’
Rosemary
It was nearly eleven o’clock and still Douggie and Rosemary had not had a moment alone. After dinner Douggie had suggested, in a low voice, that they pop down to the pub but Rosemary had said she wanted to see the film. So they had sat side by side in their plastic chairs watching Groundhog Day, which was being screened in the bar. They had already seen it twice, once in the cinema and once on a video with their children. Appropriately enough it was exactly the same this third time round, though tonight Douggie’s barks of laughter sounded forced.
Rosemary knew she was a coward, to delay any confrontation, but part of her wanted him to suffer. After he had caused her such pain it gave her a grim satisfaction to see him so uncomfortable among the other guests, unable to speak to her freely. Besides, she was dreading what he had to say. It broke her heart, to fear being alone with the man she had loved so dearly, but she had no idea what bombshell he was going to deliver. Maybe he wanted a reconciliation. Maybe the girl was pregnant. God knew what was going on in the heart of a man who had once been so familiar to her.
She hadn’t seen Douggie for five months and his appearance had shocked her. He looked so gaunt and dishevelled. Nor had he shaved; stubble was all very well on the young, but the middle-aged looked like alcoholics. Maybe he was exhausted by vigorous sexual activity – oh, she mustn’t think about it. Anyway, knowing Douggie, it was really rather hard to imagine. Maybe, when retreating to his bedsitter, he had simply reverted to his slovenly bachelor ways. Maybe that awful girl liked him looking like a homeless person. He was a homeless person. The girl’s flat was just for visits and his bedsitter was rented. Rosemary hadn’t seen it. Apparently it was somewhere behind the Aldershot Sainsbury’s but she hadn’t even driven past to look. She couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t bear it. Nor had the children been there, not to her knowledge. They weren’t speaking to him, they were still too angry.
On the screen Bill Murray lived his life again, trying to get it right this time. Rosemary was conscious of her husband’s body next to hers, a sliver of space between them. The dog, who had taken a shine to her, sat on her other side, licking her fingers one by one.
Now the credits were rolling. Somebody switched on the lights. Douggie leaned over and whispered: ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’
They left the room, people’s heads turning. Rosemary led him upstairs. She closed the bedroom door and sat down on Amy’s bed. Douggie sat slumped on the opposite bed, his hands dangling between his knees like an old man outside a betting shop. He did seem years older than when she had last seen him. But then she felt older too. Funny, she thought, how marriage can keep you innocent for so long.
‘I’ll say what I’ve got to say and then I’ll go,’ he said.
‘What, back to Aldershot?’
‘I just needed to see you.’ He raised his head, his eyes rheumy. ‘Oh, Rosy, I don’t know what to do.’
‘Chucked you out, has she?’
He jerked back, as if stung. A burst of laughter came from the lounge below.
‘Why are you here, Douglas?’ she asked.
The word Douglas startled them both. He ran his hands through his hair and gazed despairingly around the room. ‘Funny that you’re here without me.’
‘Not that funny.’
‘In this place. When we’ve done everything together for so long.’
‘Actually, I’m having a lovely time,’ said Rosemary. ‘And I’ve got very fond of my room-mate, I don’t know what’s happened to her, I hope she’s all right.’
She saw now that Douggie was sitting on her nightie – the pink, brushed-cotton one she had bought after he’d buggered off because it was so cosy. Already she had garments with which he was not familiar. She hoped he hadn’t noticed it; there was something of the care home about its Peter Pan collar.
‘I miss you,’ he said. ‘I miss the children. And the grandchildren.’ He tried to smile. ‘I even miss mowing the lawn.’
She didn’t reply. Outside, the church clock struck eleven. They waited for the beats.
‘We’ve never really talked about stuff, have we?’ he said.
‘What sort of stuff?’
‘Us.’
‘Bit late now.’
‘Is it?’ he asked, raising his face.
‘You threw away everything,’ she said. ‘All of us, everything you’ve loved, to go and live with what’s-her-face.’
‘Agnieska.’ He paused. ‘Do you want to know why?’
‘No.’
He took a breath to speak, and stopped. ‘Fair enough.’
Footsteps padded along the corridor. The bathroom door slammed. People were starting to go to bed.
‘Let’s just say . . .’ He paused. ‘It’s something about being your silly old sausage.’
‘Sausage?’
‘Part of the furniture.’
‘You weren’t,’ Rosemary said. ‘You were the centre of my life. You were the point of everything.’ Tears filled her eyes. ‘I know you hated Joni Mitchell but it’s true. You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.’
‘I don’t hate Joni Mitchell. I just think she’s a bit lacking in the humour department.’ He gave Rosemary a thin smile. ‘That’s never been our problem, has it?’
Rosemary shook her head. Suddenly she was crying helplessly – great heaving sobs. Douggie reached across to her. She was too far away; he slid to the floor and worked his way across the carpet on his knees.
‘Darling, I’m so sorry,’ he said.
She heaved him up and now he was in her arms. She smelt his familiar smell, the one thing that hadn’t changed.
‘I’ve been such an idiot,’ he muttered into her hair. ‘Will you forgive me?’
And now he was kissing her keenly, kissing her in a way she had forgotten, if indeed he had ever kissed her quite like this. She thought: Has he learned it from the Polish girl?
Rosemary squeezed her eyes shut, squeezing out anything but the two of them, she and her husband, her beloved. Who cared where the passion came from? They keeled over onto the bed and now he was unbuttoning her blouse. She thought: I hope he’s taken his blood-pressure pills.
Douggie clambered to his feet and switched off the ceiling light. Then he was back with her on the bed, kissing her neck, her throat. She pulled up his shirt and felt his dear, soft midriff. Once he had been so firm and muscular. So had she. In army quarters around the world they had battled it out on the tennis court. He had the serve but she had the guile.
Oh God, she thought, what if Amy comes in? Two middle-aged people on her bed, half naked, not a pretty sight. It’ll put her off sex for life.
And now Douggie was pulling off his trousers. He flung them on the floor, to join the rest of the strewn clothes. Usually, he hung them on a chair before they went to bed.
She whispered to him: ‘I’ll have you back if you stop criticising my driving.’
Amy
‘You two go home,’ said Shirley, pro
pped against the pillow. She turned to beam at the doctor. ‘I’m in good hands here.’
Amy thought: She’s enjoying this. Lying there, the centre of attention, a nurse checking her pulse, wires stuck to her chest and, best of all, a handsome young doctor telling her it was nothing life-threatening, a minor arrhythmia, but they would keep her under observation for a couple of days. Amy thought: She’s a pig in shit.
The colour was back in Shirley’s cheeks, her eyes bright. Within the bloated face, she was really rather pretty; Amy could see where Nolan got his looks. There was no denying she had had a shock, but Amy wondered just how much she had played up to her own symptoms. From long experience in her job, Amy could recognise a drama queen and it turned out there had been several such incidents in the past. ‘Hello, love, it’s you again,’ said the nurse as Shirley was wheeled in.
Nolan leaned over to kiss his mother goodbye. She flung her arms around his neck, dislodging the wires, and pinioned him to her.
‘Love you,’ she said. ‘Will you bring in my nightie tomorrow, and my make-up and my iPhone –’
‘Mum, I have to teach.’
‘I’ll do it,’ said Amy.
They both looked at her in surprise.
‘I’ve missed one class already, I might as well miss two.’ Amy turned to Nolan. ‘You can give me a catch-up later.’
As they walked out of the hospital, the doors sliding open, Amy thought: Was it really only yesterday that I met him? It was hard to believe. Yet here she was, thrust into the hot centre of his life. Bella didn’t have a chance – in fact, she herself had forgotten that Bella was the trigger for all this. So much had happened that she could hardly catch up with herself; it seemed a week ago that she had made the mad dash to Llandeilo, and yet, unbelievably, it was only that morning.
It was late, eleven o’clock, and the car park was empty. Her Punto looked lonely under the arc lights. ‘Do you want to drive?’ she asked Nolan.
It felt intimate to give him the keys, as if they were married. He slid his long legs into the driving seat and they set off through the sleeping suburbs of Hereford.
Something had been released in Nolan. On the journey home he talked non-stop. He told her his dreams of opening his own garage, how he’d missed his chance due to the bank’s refusal to give him a loan. How he had ended up working for the council repairing the roads, a dead-end job but at least a job until they had made him redundant. How as the months passed he felt the energy draining out of him, that he was on the scrapheap. Many of his mates were in the same position, he said. ‘I should be grateful that I don’t have any little mouths to feed.’
Amy felt a jolt in her womb. Little mouths to feed. She should be used to it by now but every time it took her by surprise. Was she becoming a hysteric, like Shirley? A tree loomed up in the headlights and was gone. They drove through a village, one bedroom window lit. She was filled with despair. Soon Nolan would be gone; she herself would be gone. They were both basically cheerful but life had defeated them. If she ever worked again – and she might not – she was doomed to the occasional, arid one-night stand. A quick grapple with men like Keith, the motorbike bloke, up in Lincolnshire or wherever it was. No roots, nothing. Just a shifting from place to place, bunging on the slap for movies she would never see. Movies that disappeared into the ether, the stuff of nothing.
Nolan drew up outside Myrtle House and switched off the engine.
‘What a night,’ he said. ‘Thanks a lot, you’ve been a real pal.’
Was he going to kiss her? No.
‘How are you going to get home?’ she asked. ‘Shall I drive you?’
‘It’s only up the road,’ he said. ‘I can walk.’
He opened the door. At that moment Buffy appeared, cigarette glowing, walking his dog round the block.
‘Hello, stranger!’ he said. ‘We’ve been worried about you.’
She explained that Nolan’s mother had been taken ill. As she got out of the car Buffy said: ‘Er – this is rather awkward.’
‘What’s awkward?’ she asked.
Buffy cleared his throat. ‘There’s somebody in your room. Rosemary’s husband. I think there’s a bit of Truth and Reconciliation going on.’
There was a silence. They watched the dog cock his leg against the recycling box.
‘I can’t go to bed?’ Amy said.
‘We’d better go and kick him out,’ said Buffy, moving towards the door. ‘It’s your room, he’s no business being there.’
‘Wait,’ said Nolan.
They both turned to look at him.
‘Come back to my house,’ he said to Amy. ‘You can sleep in my mum’s room.’ Nolan stood there in the lamplight, his thick eyebrows raised. ‘Please. I’d be glad of the company.’
So she did.
12
Buffy
‘GARDENING FOR BEGINNERS’ was planned for early October, before the cold weather set in. Spring would have been preferable, being the growing season, but if this was a success they could always set up another one then.
‘I’ll concentrate on pruning, weeding, plant identification, autumn sowings, division of perennials, soil types, planning your garden from scratch, plants suitable for shade, for cities, for window boxes, for containers. Plus basic vegetable-growing, of course.’ Lavinia Balcombe, the course tutor, looked at Buffy. ‘How does that sound?’
‘Splendid,’ beamed Buffy. By God, the woman was terrifying. She was an Hon., the owner of some vast pile over the border in Shropshire whose grounds were open to the public under the National Gardens Scheme. Heaven only knew why she wanted to teach the course. Maybe, like many toffs, she was on her uppers. Or maybe she just liked bossing people around.
‘Will there be some hands-on stuff?’ asked Buffy. ‘You could use the garden here as your guinea pig. So to speak.’
Lavinia didn’t smile. Glancing out of the window, she gave a brief nod. Buffy was relieved. This, of course, was part of the original plan. Though he had got the lawn mowed during the summer, the rest of the place was still a shambles. Now he had got his car sorted out it was time to get to grips with the garden. The beauty of it all, of course, was that people paid him for doing it.
And the first course had been by and large a success. It hadn’t gone entirely according to plan, but then what in life did? On day three Rosemary had decamped with her husband on a second honeymoon in the Brecon Beacons; Des, instead of falling in love with India, had been found in bed with Bella; Amy had decamped to Nolan’s house, reappearing each morning sated with sex and tenderly stroking his bottom when nobody was looking. Then there was the breakaway jewellery group, who had given up on the course altogether and who had gone home festooned like Christmas trees. But they had all enjoyed themselves and the course had made a modest profit.
And now he and Voda were preparing the house for the next influx. All the rooms were booked, with the overflow accommodated in local establishments. The alarming Balcombe woman had submitted her teaching plan for the week in spread-sheet form, each topic itemised and boxed into its allotted half-hour slot, with ten minutes for questions. He wouldn’t be surprised if she turned up in jackboots.
And India was arriving, yet again, to help. This, of course, was welcome – during the last course they had been run off their feet, she had been a godsend. Besides, Buffy always enjoyed her company. But didn’t the girl have better things to do than be a dogsbody to her stepdad? He had actually rung Jacquetta to ask her opinion but his ex had been her usual vague self. ‘India has issues,’ she had said, and gone on to tell him about her own experiments with driftwood sculpture. At what point, in his marriage, had he realised the depths of Jacquetta’s self-absorption? Later than he should, but such is the treachery of desire.
Now India was there, helping Voda make up the beds. Buffy had a bad back, he couldn’t perform the heavier tasks. His job was to replenish the tea bags. As he did so, India told him about the imminent arrival of his grandchild.
‘The
baby’s due any day now,’ she said. ‘Bruno’s having kittens.’
It was about time Buffy became a grandfather. Though several of his children were middle-aged, none of them had yet reproduced. Quentin had the excuse of being gay, but what about the others? Had their parents’ shenanigans destroyed their faith in becoming parents themselves? Nowadays people were putting it off until later, of course – women like Nyange, with her high-flying career. But the old clock was ticking and though Buffy found Bruno’s girlfriend a whiny little creature he was grateful to her for knuckling down and getting on with it.
Buffy fancied himself as a grandfather and had been rehearsing the role for years. Everyone said that it was so much easier than being a parent. God knew he had made mistakes in that department but by all accounts a grandchild would be different. Less responsibility, more fun, that sort of thing. To some extent this was also true of stepchildren. His affection for India was unmuddied, even during her teenage years, by the complex and guilt-inducing relationships he had had with the fruit of his own loins. He exempted Celeste from this. Having appeared in his life aged twenty-three, a fully-formed adult, the two of them had picked up from there with a clean slate, and how delightful that had been.
‘They’re going to text me if anything happens,’ said India.
‘I thought your mobile didn’t work here,’ said Buffy.
‘I’ve switched from Orange,’ she said, glancing at Voda. ‘I’m on Vodaphone now.’
Buffy chuckled. ‘How appropriate.’
‘What?’ said India sharply. For some reason, she blushed.
He turned to Voda. ‘Talking of which, I’ve always wanted to ask –’
‘Don’t.’ Voda held up both hands, as if to ward him off. ‘Mobiles weren’t invented then. I was named after some Norse god, but they got the spelling wrong. That’s Mum and Dad in a nutshell.’
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