Wise Follies

by Grace Wynne-Jones

  Mira and I are laughing in the sturdy manner favoured by romantic veterans. We watched the film Truly Madly Deeply on the television last night and sobbed so dramatically it seems to have cheered us up. In fact, we have spent a most entertaining Saturday morning wondering if we should play some prank on Frank and his new love, Alfreda. We’ve even considered telling the members of the South Seas Club that Frank is kindly providing his new apartment as the venue for the next bi monthly beach party. We have also been scouring an erotic catalogue that arrived at the magazine. We thought it might be fun to order their most outlandish items and hand deliver them to his office. They’d be in an unsealed box marked ‘Sexual Accessories – Every Fetish Catered For. Strictly Private and Confidential.’ How the women at reception would titter. They’d peer into it, of course. It would become part of the company’s folklore. I was even prepared to get some friends to keep ringing his personal number. ‘Hello, is Mira there?’ they’d ask. After some days I myself would phone and say, ‘I’m ringing on behalf of Mira. She wants to know if there are any messages for her.’ That would have been a good one.

  In the end, Mira decides not to go through with these pesterings. Instead, she’s going to send him a succinct note in his own handwriting. She’s cut out some words from the many passionate missives he’s sent her. ‘Frank, you are a SHIT,’ they read. The last word has to be cobbled together from individual letters and really stands out. We look at it with considerable gratification, then I accompany her as she posts it. Afterwards, we go to the California Café and have cappuccinos and two large slices of carrot cake. I have to check before we go in to make sure Frank and his new love Alfreda aren’t sitting cosily in a corner. In some way our little escapade has soothed me too. Provided an outlet for some of the anger I’ve been feeling towards Matt. I still can’t quite believe that he whipped James Mitchel from right under my nose. He sent me a huge bunch of flowers the other day and I brought them round to Mrs Peabody. I couldn’t look at them.

  ‘Please don’t hate me’ – he’d written on the note that came with the flowers. I tore it up. I do hate him. At the moment anyway. I’m so used to being able to turn to him. To confide in him. But I can’t very well ring him up and say, ‘Matt, a horrible man has stolen James Mitchel from me at my own dinner party. In fact, now I come to think about it, that horrible man is you.’

  Added to all this emotional baggage is my growing concern about Mira. Matt’s disloyalty and James Mitchel’s defection have made me even more aware that she might feel abandoned if I marry Eamon. We are a couple in a way. A team. I know she’d want to stay on in the cottage if I left. She once said she’d buy it from me if I ever wanted to sell it. I wonder if she’d advertise for a housemate. I wouldn’t like her to be all on her own.

  ‘Mira, would you mind if I married Eamon?’ I ask as we sit in the California Café together. The bluntness of her note to Frank seems to have put us both into a straight-talking mood.

  ‘Of course I wouldn’t. I’d be pleased for you,’ she replies reassuringly. ‘He’s a very nice man.’

  ‘Yes, you’ve always liked him, haven’t you?’ I say, remembering how comfortably they’ve chatted together anytime he’s visited. He’s never silent with her for some reason. ‘What is it you like about him?’ I look at her hopefully.

  ‘He’s sincere, Alice,’ she answers. ‘He’s kind, and attractive. And he can be very interesting.’

  ‘Very interesting in what way exactly?’ I probe, beginning to wish I saw his attributes as clearly.

  ‘Well, he knows an awful lot about cars for a start.’

  ‘Yes, he does,’ I concur disappointedly. I’ve never found discussing the merits of the latest automobiles at all riveting, but Mira does. She’s quite mechanically inclined.

  ‘And he’s very generous. Remember that lovely dinner he treated us to on my birthday? Frank never bought me a dinner like that. The wine was wonderful.’

  ‘Yes, it was,’ I agree. ‘Eamon knows a lot about wine, too. And restaurants.’ As I say this I almost add ‘I wish he knew more about me’ but I don’t. It’s not fair. It’s not his fault that there’s no shorthand between us. You either have that kind of thing with someone or you don’t. ‘He even has a list of the best restaurants in his diary,’ I add. ‘He updates it every year.’

  ‘Does he?’ Mira smiles fondly at this revelation. ‘That’s another thing I like about Eamon. He’s very methodical.’

  ‘I must say I find that side of him a bit irritating at times,’ I sigh. ‘He’s ruled by his Blackberry. Everything is done according to schedule and he insists we arrive everywhere at least ten minutes early.’

  ‘There’s a lot to be said for it,’ Mira comments. ‘Frank was so higgledy-piggledy.’

  ‘What a strange expression that is,’ I remark, but Mira does not reply. She is staring softly, dreamily into her cappuccino. Talking about Eamon seems to have comforted her for some reason. ‘Of course, if I did leave the cottage I’d come back and visit regularly,’ I find myself saying. ‘I’d really miss you, Mira, and dear Mrs Peabody and…’ Who else was I going to add to that list? Cyril? ‘I wouldn’t want to sell it immediately,’ I add, ‘though you’d be the first person I’d offer it to.’

  ‘Thank you, Alice,’ Mira smiles.

  ‘I’d pay for someone to help with the garden.’

  ‘Oh no – I’d like to look after it myself.’

  ‘Really?’ I glance at her gratefully. ‘That would mean a lot to me.’

  ‘What about Tarquin?’ she says suddenly. ‘Would you want to take Tarquin with you?’

  ‘I don’t know if he’d want to move,’ I reply. ‘Cats can be very fussy about that kind of thing.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose we’ll have to leave it up to him,’ Mira says. ‘I’d be getting more cats anyway. Eccentric spinsters need plenty of them. One isn’t enough.’

  ‘Are you always going to be an eccentric spinster, Mira?’ I look at her concernedly. In fact I am looking at her the way my parents used to look at me when I told them, yet again, that I hadn’t found my Mr Right.

  ‘Probably,’ she replies. ‘Unless I find a deeply eccentric bachelor who likes motorbikes. Did I tell you I want to get a motorbike, Alice?’

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ I smile. I’m getting used to her varied enthusiasms now; in many ways I find them cheering.

  ‘I myself am taking up a new interest, Mira,’ I say as we leave the café.

  ‘Oh, what kind?’

  ‘Golf,’ I say softly.

  ‘Really!’ Mira exclaims. She looks most surprised.

  ‘It was Eamon’s suggestion really,’ I explain.

  ‘Mmmm,’ Mira says thoughtfully. ‘I used to be rather disparaging about golf, but I think you see its charms as you get older. In fact, lately I’ve sometimes wondered if I should take it up myself.’

  I look at her. Though she’s often advised me to ‘simplify’ my days, she certainly isn’t following her own suggestion. Still, these new hobbies do seem to stop her brooding. Boyfriends take up a lot of time and now she’s ditched them she’s leading a very multi-faceted life. Almost an enviable one in some ways. ‘I’m sure Eamon would be happy to give you some lessons, Mira,’ I say. ‘In fact we could all go golfing together. I’d like that.’ I look at her eagerly.

  ‘Oh, you know what they say about three being a crowd,’ she sighs.

  ‘Oh, no – three wouldn’t be a crowd with us. We wouldn’t be that kind of couple.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Absolutely,’ I reassure her. ‘In fact, to be honest, I wouldn’t even mind if you came on our honeymoon.’

  Mira splutters with mirth. ‘What a funny suggestion!’ she giggles.

  ‘I’m not joking, Mira. I mean it.’

  She grows solemn. She kicks a stray pebble on the road and looks away from me. A bleakness has strayed into our silence suddenly. I must say something. Maybe it’s time I revealed that Laren Brassière has turned out to be an old sc
hoolfriend of mine. Yes, that would certainly distract her.

  Mira is so ecstatic about my knowing Laren that we talk about it the whole way home. ‘Can I meet her? Will you invite her round?’ she asks.

  ‘Well, I’d like to meet her on my own first,’ I reply. ‘I’ll be interviewing her for the magazine soon. I’ll see how that goes before inviting her to dinner.’

  ‘It could be lunch,’ Mira suggests quickly, obviously remembering my last dinner party.

  ‘Yes, I suppose it could be lunch,’ I smile.

  Back in the cottage Mira gets on with her weaving. It’s not her windsurfing night and she’s completed her motorcycle maintenance classes. ‘Fancy a glass of wine?’ she calls out.

  ‘Oh, OK,’ I reply as I stand at the kitchen window. I’m looking out into the garden, and then my gaze drifts upwards, almost hopefully. What am I looking for? Am I looking to see if Tarquin is slumbering on the boundary wall? No, I’m not. I am looking at Liam’s upstairs room. It’s as if I want to see him there, watching me. Dear God, where did this wish come from?

  I turn away and sit dejectedly at my distressed-pine table. ‘How lonely I must be,’ I think. ‘Wanting near strangers to take an interest in me. James Mitchel didn’t take an interest in me. He was only concerned with ceramics really. He never fancied me at all. How silly I was about him. How very immature.’

  Mira comes in and pours out a large glass of wine for me. ‘Thanks,’ I murmur dully.

  ‘What is it, Alice?’ she frowns. ‘You look doleful.’

  ‘I was thinking, yet again, how silly I’ve been about James Mitchel,’ I reply.

  She pats my shoulder comfortingly. ‘No, you weren’t, not really,’ she says. ‘I can see why you liked him. He’s very attractive and…and I think he likes you too.’

  ‘Thanks, Mira, but there’s no need to say that,’ I reply. ‘It’s not true. You know it isn’t.’

  ‘Yes, I think it is, Alice,’ she says earnestly. ‘He has an affection for you. I could see it in his eyes. It wasn’t a passionate thing. It was more paternal. And he meant what he said about your paintings. He wanted to encourage you.’

  ‘Yes, he is an encouraging person,’ I say a bit more brightly. ‘He said wonderful things about my coil bowl.’

  ‘Well, that’s something isn’t it?’ She looks at me tenderly.

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ I agree.

  ‘And you still have Eamon,’ she adds consolingly as she turns to leave the room. ‘He’s much nicer than James Mitchel, Alice. Really he is.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I mumble then I glance at Tarquin, who is looking at me most sympathetically. He’s very intuitive is Tarquin. When I marry Eamon I hope he decides to move with me. When I marry Eamon… Goodness, have I actually made the decision to accept Eamon’s proposal without realizing it? I must have known it all day. I have my answer. It’s just as well since Eamon will be returning home in ten days – he emailed all the details of his arrival to the office. He obviously wants me to meet him at the airport. I must say I do rather wish my decision to marry him hadn’t happened in such a muted, practical manner. Maybe I should get a bottle of champagne – have a small party. I could send Eamon an email too. Mel Nichols and Julia Robbins do that in the film I worked on – I saw it in the script. He proposes in a letter and she telegrams him one word, ‘Yes’. They’ll probably use great music in the background when he reads it. It will swirl around the cinema and everyone will feel incredibly moved. That’s what I need right now – good background music. Something to lend this moment the significance it deserves. I know, I’ll go out and buy a Snickers bar at the corner shop. That’s by far the easiest option.

  By the time I return to the cottage I have eaten my Snickers bar. I tore the wrapper off as soon as I’d paid for it and munched it greedily. I took big mouthfuls – its naughty, sticky sweetness melting on my tongue.

  Now I’m padding into my bedroom in my new furry slippers. I bought them the other day. They’re pink and soft with a little bow at the front. I love them but I won’t wear them to the corner shop. I’ll leave that kind of thing to Mira.

  In my room I frown at the huge teddy bear Matt sent me. He’s got a sly look to him. Matt’s been sending me lots of presents lately. Chocolates, Badedas bath oil, books about contemporary art. I haven’t acknowledged their receipt. They’re dumped in a corner of my room. Maybe I should give them to Oxfam.

  I decide to get on with a bit of sorting. I found a big box of oddments from my parents’ house at the back of the cupboard the other day. I can’t keep them all. I’m just about to lug the box out of its hiding place when I notice The Road Less Travelled lying under a chair. I still haven’t finished reading it. I should. I’m beginning to suspect that it is rather wise.

  I pick it up and curl up on to my duvet. I’ll read a bit of it now. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. But for some reason I don’t open it. I find myself staring at the cover instead. The Road Less Travelled – yes – maybe life is a journey. And if it is how have I ended up where I am? Didn’t I see the significant signposts, notice the right turnings? How did I miss love along the way – wasn’t I watching closely enough?

  Oh well, Eamon is a very nice man, as Mira says. And if we have children I could love them. That’s why I’m marrying him really. To have a family. I wonder if I’d make a good mother. I’d try my best at it. I really would. Louise L. Hay says we’re doing our best in her self-help books. We’re all doing our best with the information we have garnered. That’s why it’s so important to keep an open mind, I suppose. To keep learning, exploring. To understand everything is to forgive everything, that’s what the French say. Just as I’m thinking this I hear the doorbell.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ I call out, leaving the snugness of my duvet. I walk towards the door as quickly as my soft furry slippers will allow. It’s probably Annie. She said she might call round this evening. But it isn’t. It’s Liam.

  ‘Hello, Liam,’ I say, rather warily.

  ‘Hi there, Alice,’ he replies. His normally calm face seems slightly tense. He’s just standing there. Is he waiting for me to invite him in?

  ‘So, how are you then?’ I ask, stalling for time.

  He ignores my question. He’s staring at the ground. What’s wrong with him? He’s not usually like this. ‘Alice, I – I think you’d better call in on Mrs Peabody,’ he says at last.

  ‘Why?’ I ask, feeling a slight tremor of panic.

  ‘Because – because – oh dear, I’m sorry to have to tell you this.’

  ‘What?’ I demand, by now almost jumping with agitation.

  ‘Oh, Alice,’ he reaches out and touches my shoulder gently. ‘I think your cat has just eaten Cyril.’

  Chapter 28

  Poor old Cyril has shuffled off this mortal coil and ended up in Tarquin’s stomach. I wish he’d had a more dignified departure. It’s so sad. He was a very nice budgie in his way. Now that he’s gone we seem to discern his positive attributes more clearly. He always had a lovely plumage. And he did enjoy his birdseed. Though he could only say one word, his diction was perfect. Maybe his spirit is soaring over the Australian outback. That’s what I told Mrs Peabody anyway. I hoped it might cheer her up.

  Mrs Peabody is very distressed. She blames herself. She left the sitting-room window open when she was out in the back garden. Tarquin must have climbed through it because when she returned she found the cage on the floor and Cyril had gone. Tarquin had some feathers in his mouth and Dora was squawking plaintively on the top of the dresser.

  I feel so angry with Tarquin. I know cats do this kind of thing, but it’s awful. ‘You horrible cat,’ I tell him. ‘We should have called you Fred. You won’t be getting those tuna chunks you like for dinner. Cats who eat poor little budgies don’t deserve haute cuisine.’

  I must say, Liam has been very kind to me about Cyril. I suppose you could say we are united in our grief. Mira hardly knew him. Apart from Mrs Peabody we were probably his closest ‘friends’. Dora
and he never really hit it off. She is certainly not in mourning. In fact she’s looking far more contented these days. Being single obviously suits her.

  ‘You mustn’t feel guilty,’ Liam said the other day when we met each other at the corner shop. ‘There are lots of cats in the neighbourhood. Mrs Peabody shouldn’t have left that window open when she was out.’ As he spoke Elsie came in to buy a newspaper. He introduced us. She smiled at him most tenderly. They do seem very fond of each other. As they left I heard her saying, ‘So that’s Alice, is it?’ in a rather pointed manner. I don’t know why she said it like that. Maybe I misheard her.

  When I got back to the cottage that evening I discovered that James Mitchel had sent me a letter. In it he thanked me for the ‘lovely’ dinner and said he wondered if I’d like to exhibit some of my paintings in his new studio. In normal circumstances I would have been over the moon, but the suggestion was so obviously prompted by his defection with Matt that I almost dismissed it. However, Annie and Mira have been adamant that I should grab this offer. ‘Remorse can be very useful sometimes,’ Annie commented rather ruthlessly. ‘Go for it, honey. And get him to print the invitations.’

  ‘I know Matt would want you to do it,’ Mira added. ‘He’s so fond of you, Alice. It’s a little fig leaf.’

  ‘Fig leaves are frequently used to cover genitals,’ I told her. ‘And I doubt if Matt needs that kind of foliage when he’s with James Mitchel.’

  ‘I think she means olive branch,’ Annie interrupted. ‘Look, I don’t know what I’ll tell James, OK?’ I glared at them. ‘Now, please, excuse me. Eamon will be returning tomorrow and I need to wash my hair.’

  Eamon is home. I met him at the airport earlier this week. I stood at the arrivals area and rather envied the cosmopolitan folk who had just disembarked from various jumbo jets. Even though most of them looked solemn, there was still a tinge of adventure to them. A touch of the exotic. There was a nonchalance about their recent peregrinations that was deeply impressive – especially to someone whose most recent trip abroad was a short shopping trip to Chester via ferry. I watched the way their faces suddenly transformed when they saw their loved ones. The broad smiles, the relief, the laughter. I began to wonder what face I should prepare for Eamon, but in the end I didn’t actually see him arriving. I’d gone to check whether the flight was on time and when I returned it was he who tapped my shoulder.