by R J Gould
‘I’d love to understand them more. I got some information about Open University at the library today. You can do a Literature course without any qualifications.’
‘University. That’s not a thing for people like us, Carol.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, you haven’t got the time for a start, what with working and looking after me and Lil.’
That comment had grated and she felt like walking out of the room there and then. She did have the time, and what a cheek expecting her to do all of the looking after. Lil would quite possibly be off somewhere soon to study, and then there’d be even more time. It wasn’t the things he mentioned that were stopping her, it was more a fear that she wouldn’t be good enough, that the teacher and other students would laugh at her. Not speaking proper, for a start. And she hadn’t written much beyond a shopping list or a birthday card for years. Mr Singh used all those long words in their chats, and she didn’t even have the courage to ask what some of them meant. Jack was probably right after all – university wasn’t for someone like her. But that didn’t mean that The Sun or Big Brother or EastEnders or Match of the Day were enough to keep her happy, and they were the total of Jack’s cultural interest – apart from the magazines full of naked women that he hid under his jumpers on the third shelf of the cupboard. He wasn’t interested in cinema, he’d told her, because the darkness and heat made him fall asleep. Way back, soon after they met, when they’d seen Mamma Mia and people were up dancing he’d snored his way through it, waking up just as the final titles were rolling down. Then he’d had the nerve to tell her how much he’d enjoyed the film. No theatre either, because he thought that was for toffs. He’d laughed when she had mentioned going to the theatre. Concerts were a waste of money, he’d declared, ‘why not just buy the albums?’ He still called them ‘records’, even though they only had CDs. It wasn’t even as if he ever bought any music, all they had were hers.
Things were not good, but there didn’t seem any way to improve matters.
Carol tidied up in the kitchen, put on her coat, and opened the lounge door. Jack was sprawled over the sofa, two squashed and three unopened cans of lager on the coffee table by his side. He was watching the horse racing on Channel 4.
‘Just poppin’ out to see if I can get something nice to wear for next Sunday, Jack.’
‘Ain’t you got enough clothes already, Carol?’
‘I haven’t got time to stand here discussing it, they’ll be closed in less than an hour. Come with if you want, you can get something new, too.’
‘No, I’m all right with what I got. Anyway, I’m watching this.’
‘See you later then.’
He didn’t reply.
So off she went to Marks and Spencer, past the Per Una and Autograph collections to where she knew she’d find the more suitable clothes. The Classic Range, they called it. She liked that name, it was just like the books she was reading. The first thing she picked up looked fine, a bell sleeve dress in black. She already had shoes and a jacket that would go with it, and being black, any of her jewellery would match nicely. She tried on a size 12 and it was perfect. The price was decent too, only £29.50, and she’d be able to bung it in the washing machine as it was mainly viscose. With just a little bit of Lycra it would keep its shape as well. Absolutely perfect. So that was her and Lil sorted and Jack could just wear what he liked.
Henry Derbyshire
Like. Like. Like. Like. Even Clarissa misused it, abused it. ‘It was, like, so hot’, he mocked, extenuating the ‘like’ with his impression of a Californian drawl. His stepdaughter had been to a top independent school – embarrassingly, for some of her time there it had been he who taught her English. And yet she was still unable, or perhaps just unwilling, to speak properly. The richness of centuries of English language was being destroyed in one generation. The anger built up as Henry faced the full-length mirror and began to recite, emphasising the correct use of the word.
‘“Let me see: marry, ill, to like him that ne’er it likes. 'Tis a commodity that will lose the gloss with lying; the longer kept, the less worth.”’
He raised his left arm as he considered Parolles might have done. His towel slipped to the floor, exposing a flabby, brilliant white torso with a prominent waist. He continued. ‘“Virginity, like an old courtier, wears her cap out of fashion: richly suited, but unsuitable: just like the brooch and the tooth-pick, which wear not now. Your date is better in your pie and your porridge than in your cheek; and your virginity is like one of our French withered pears; it looks ill, it eats drily; marry, ’tis a withered pear; it …”’
An unusually speechless Fiona, standing at the bedroom door, was unable to listen – or for that matter, watch – any more. ‘Henry, what in God’s name are you doing?’
‘Nothing, dear,’ he replied, as if reciting Shakespeare naked was the most natural thing one could do on a Saturday morning. He picked up the towel and struggled to place it around his pot belly. ‘All’s well that ends well.’
‘What on earth …?’
‘That’s the play I’m reciting from, but, of course, a double entendre now that my towel is back in place. Rather amusing, don’t you think?’
‘Just hurry up and get dressed, Henry. I’d like to beat the crowds.’
‘It was, like, so crowded,’ he responded in a high-pitched, mocking twang.
‘You know you can be very annoying sometimes, Henry,’ she declared as she turned and left the room.
Fiona Derbyshire
Yes, Henry could be very annoying. In fact, he was more often annoying than anything else, Fiona thought as she frothed the milk on the new Gaggia. Henry didn’t drink espresso or cappuccino – in fact, he rarely drank coffee except for the occasional milky instant. ‘We have a tea heritage, Fiona,’ he’d declared several times, his ridiculous implication being that whereas you had to import coffee from thousands of miles away, you could easily just nip out to the garden to pick your own tea leaves. And by “tea” he meant bog standard tea in a bag – Earl Grey was too flavoured, Russian Black too strong, and mixing fruit with tea an impossibility as it prevented the addition of milk. Such an infuriating man.
She spooned the perfect combination of froth and milk into her cup. Her determination to remain a size 10 got the better of her desire for a biscotti. She sat at the kitchen table and flicked through The Independent Magazine, more looking at pictures than reading. There were some fun things in an article on the fifty best storage ideas, a beautiful metal and glass spice rack, and a very peculiar Perspex construction for storing shoes, made all the more strange by the choice of shoes they had put inside each cubicle.
She couldn’t fathom why she was so angry. After all, Henry had hardly done anything wrong. No, he was a very caring, considerate husband, rather different to Husband Number One.
It had been the 24th June, over eighteen months ago and just three days after her fiftieth. Things weren’t brilliant with Reginald, but she had expected some plan to celebrate her birthday. Rome, Paris, Cuba, New York, surely some grandiose surprise. But no, just a card, a bunch of red and white roses, a meal at Green Onions, and an announcement that he was off on a short business trip the next day. Actually, there had been a surprise after all. She’d guessed there was a mistress, and if she was honest to herself she’d been pretty certain that there had been other women for years. But this time his behaviour was blatant. He’d abandoned sex with her and she was too set in past routines to take the lead. He was hardly at home and the excuses were increasingly absurd. Non-stop crises at work, a recurring electrical fault on the brand new Merc, last minute requests to play golf. During rare visits home he seemed forever in the garden on his mobile. ‘My most difficult business deal ever, Fiona.’ Bloody liar.
That morning Clarissa had texted to ask if she could make a belated birthday visit early evening, so Fiona called Reginald’s office to get him to come home on time for once. His new PA answered. ‘Hello, Mrs Montague, how was Ro
me?’ Rome. Top of the list for her birthday surprise. He had told her that his two-day visit was to Newcastle.
She called Clarissa and lied about having forgotten that they were playing bridge with the Stirlings that evening. Then she sat waiting in the lounge, planning how to extract the truth from him, and was on her third gin and tonic by the time he got home. But no extracting was needed – as soon as she told him she knew about Rome he replied that he was in love with Suzie, a new member of his management team.
‘How old is she?’ was the first thing she asked.
‘Thirty-two.’
That said it all, really. A newer model. No further questions. She couldn’t be bothered to ask how long, how serious, how is she in bed, how could you? She no longer remembered the exact details. Had she told Reginald to leave or had he walked out that evening? It hardly mattered which way round it happened. He had stood by the front door, suitcase in hand, turning to speak but remaining speechless. Both of them emotionless, indifferent.
But her calm state didn’t even last that first night. Positive thoughts about starting a new life, at last doing what she wanted when she wanted, dissolved. The mix of gin and sleeping pills did little to help and she woke feeling desperately lonely, a deep and uncontrollable anguish. It was such a big house to be in by herself, full of echoes, shadows, and memories of better times. She had lived there for over thirteen years, almost half of her married life.
She called Clarissa at work, something her daughter strongly discouraged. She’d done well for herself since leaving university and was a valued member of staff at a fashion magazine publisher. Clarissa immediately made it clear that she didn’t intend to get involved. Or even to offer just a little bit of sympathy and support.
‘It’s happening to all my friends’ parents, Mum.’
‘That doesn’t make it any easier for me.’
‘Dad’s finding it hard, too.’
‘You’ve already spoken to him about it?’ Fiona felt jealous rage and a rising bile.
‘Just a bit.’
‘How much of a bit?’ Her fists were clenched and her head was pounding. ‘Clarissa, are you still there?’ And then the obvious struck her. ‘Clarissa, you’ve met her, haven’t you? Bloody Suzie.’
‘Mum, I’ve got to go now, I’ll call you later.’
And she was gone. Was there no such thing as loyalty, not even from your own daughter? Once again Clarissa had let her down and she’d openly admit to anyone that it was par for the course. For years, Clarissa’s company had hardly been pleasant, with frequent arguments – the ridiculing of any of her opinions, the disdain for her lifestyle. Scant reward for the dedication that Fiona had given to motherhood with play groups, endless adventure playgrounds, the best schools, museums and art galleries, flute, dance, drama. Anything her daughter wanted, she’d got. There had always been an edge to Clarissa and it worsened to become intolerable during the teenage years. Fiona had hoped it would wane post-teens, but no – if anything, it intensified. After university, Clarissa had made it clear that she wouldn’t be coming home, and Reginald, always the parent who allegedly understood her, had stumped up a £40,000 deposit for the St John’s Wood flat. His desire for her to learn how to stand on her own two feet stretched to Clarissa having to make a derisory £300 contribution towards the £1,500 a month mortgage.
Perhaps just as well she was no longer at home, but at least there had been noise and movement; singing, friends coming in and out, the occasional flute practice. Even the untidiness, laziness, and loud music would have been preferable to the isolation Fiona felt in the days after Reginald’s departure.
Her friends, quite a few separated or divorced themselves, advised her to get out and find new activities to kick-start her independent life. They were sympathetic and prepared to advise her when she expressed the yearning for a new partner so soon after Reginald had left. During the discussions she omitted mention of her renewed libido. This had come as a surprise and she had taken to masturbating while reading Harlequin erotic novels for women, top shelf stuff even at Waterstones. She was far too embarrassed to tell, though some of her friends were remarkably open about sex. Sally Bowman happily informed her that her ex-husband had been ditched by his younger model and was desperate to rejoin her. Revenge took the form of telling him that she found him old, boring, and dull in bed and that she was enjoying a promiscuous life with a series of younger men. Apparently, when she started giving explicit details he had slammed down the phone.
‘Where do you find your young men?’ Fiona asked. ‘Do you go to pubs looking? By yourself? Is it safe?’
‘No need to go out, I use the computer.’
‘How?’
‘Online dating, Fiona, surely you know that everyone’s doing it. Georgina’s getting into all sorts of relationships behind Stuart’s back.’
‘Georgina! How? Why?’ She paused. ‘I don’t want that, I just want one nice man.’
‘Not a problem, you can get that. It’s like shopping. Look at the photos and profiles, select who you want to meet, then place your order.’ Fiona frowned as Sally continued. ‘Email for as long as you like before you meet up. Or you can decide you don’t want to see them at all, or if you don’t want to see them after the first time. Anything goes.’
Fiona favoured the more traditional route that had been suggested by Stephanie – getting out and joining in on anything that seemed remotely interesting. She registered with the Kew and Richmond Singles Ramblers Group and enrolled at a badminton club, the local history society, and a French for Beginners evening class. They’d take her well away from her current circle of friends, who she was confident wouldn’t choose such activities.
‘’Ello, love,’ a man with a very un-Kewlike voice had greeted her on the Wednesday afternoon when she had called to book in for the Sunday Thameside walk that had been advertised on the ramblers’ group website. ‘Not on, I’m afraid. It must be the time of the year, all the kids starting their summer holidays.’
‘I thought this was a walking group for singles.’
‘It is, but most of us ’ave had kids. Maybe we should call it the Seperateds Ramblers Group.’ He chuckled. ‘It’s not often we cancel. Just keep looking at our website, find a walk, and give us a call to confirm it’s on. Hang on, though, I’m free Sunday, fancy meeting up for a walk just with me?’
‘Thanks for the offer, erm …’
‘William.’
‘William. I think I’d rather wait until a group event.’
‘Suit yourself, love.’
How many men are out there, ready to pounce on lonely women, she wondered as she put the phone down. Maybe William was in his twenties or thirties – she’d have to tell Sally and Georgina.
At 6.30 p.m. on the Thursday evening she arrived at the Orleans Park School Sports Centre. Instead of the dilapidated gym she had expected, there was a large, attractive glass and steel construction with a plush reception area. She was directed to the locker room but deviated en route to the spectators’ gallery. She looked down as four females and four males whacked shuttlecocks at each other with astounding force and accuracy. She had last played badminton during sixth form at school, and apart from the highly infrequent, guilty attempts at swimming, running, and yoga over the last thirty years, she had done little physical activity since. She felt more inclined to applaud than join in, and after ten or so minutes of viewing, departed.
Including the local history society on her list of must-dos was a last minute decision. It was the ‘local’ that attracted her more than the history. Perhaps the opportunity to meet intelligent, cultured men. What a contrast to Reginald that would be. She’d received an email reply by return to her own, inviting her to the final event of the academic year. And why not? She would attend a lecture on gin drinking (irony of ironies) in late eighteenth-century London.
St Luke’s Church was a large Victorian building on The Avenue. She’d read something a while back about the plans to retain the chancel as a smal
ler church and redevelop the nave area as a social space run by Kew Community Trust. She’d driven past it many times but had never been inside the church or its social annex. Now as she entered the building she admired the impressive conversion, and thought it highly appropriate for a history lecture to be in a room with towering vaulted ceilings, dark oak panelling, and an overriding austerity that demanded seriousness.
She sat alone on the back row just as the Chairman of the Richmond and Kew Local History Society was stepping up to the podium at the front of the hall to give an introduction to the speaker. She recognised Henry Derbyshire – he had been Clarissa’s A-level English teacher. On termly reports he had consistently stated that her daughter was an able girl who at times lacked commitment. There seemed little point in hearing the same message at the parents’ evenings she religiously attended since no suggestions were made as to how to improve the situation. On the one occasion that her husband had joined her she’d felt sorry for Mr Derbyshire, as Reginald had gone on and on about how it was up to the teachers to sort things out bearing in mind how high the school fees were. Henry had blushed, and with eyes down claimed, ‘We do our best, we do our best.’
‘Well, best is not good enough,’ Reginald had persisted.
As Henry began his conclusion he looked up from his notes for the first time. ‘I am delighted to see so many attending tonight’s lecture and cannot help but wonder whether some of the audience misinterpreted our promotion of after-lecture refreshments, believing it to incorporate an offer of gin. Indeed, just a glance around this room indicates people who would certainly be able to present an impromptu lecture on Gin-drinking in Early Twenty-First Century London.’ Fiona reddened, she was convinced that he was looking at her. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Professor Bradley Holden of King’s College, London.’
There was as much applause as can be expected from a group of approximately fifty middle-aged Richmond and Kew citizens. Within ten minutes Fiona wished she was drinking gin rather than hearing about it. But the planned walk had been cancelled and she had chickened out of badminton – she couldn’t desert this activity.