Second Time Around

by Marcia Willett

  Overnight the weather had changed from summer to autumn. Late in the afternoon clouds massed in the west and, as the sky darkened, so the sea turned a dull lightless grey. During the evening the wind increased in strength and the waves rode in, high and white-flecked, to crash against the rocks. Towards dawn rain fell in torrents, drumming on the roof, filling the rutted holes along the track and flattening the sea. With the first light the storm passed away to the east but the wind was still high and the water poured down from the moors in a thousand streams and issues.

  Mathilda Rainbird paused to watch the brook bubbling over the beach, stepped across the slab and continued her early morning walk. As usual she carried an old plastic bag over her arm and, as she strolled, she kept an eye open for driftwood. It was neither parsimony nor poverty which prompted Mathilda; merely that she liked to watch the blue and orange flames that flickered over the bleached and salty wood. It was a habit formed in childhood. She bent to pick up a piece which was whiter and smoother than her own old fingers and put it into the bag which already had a very satisfactory bulge. The fruits of the storm; that was what her father had called their gleanings. Sometimes the previous eighty years merged together for Mathilda and she was both child and middleaged woman at one and the same time. She remembered running along the beach, shouting for the sheer pleasure of the feel of gritty sand beneath her bare feet and the wind tugging at her hair; and, too, she was the older woman who had walked more sedately beside her father’s research assistant and protégé, discussing his work as they watched the fishing boats heading out to sea.

  She missed Nigel. She had loved him, not with passion but as she might have loved a brother. Their minds chimed together; their habits were similar; each was completely at ease in the other’s company. He was in love with a married woman and was content to admire and languish from afar and, after Mathilda’s father died, he had continued to spend all his vacations with her at the house in the cove. She had known the fulfilment of hard work and the contentment of a quiet mind. Inexperienced as she was, she knew that no man could ever replace Nigel. She had not the temperament for passion or jealous scenes nor was she disturbed by sexual urges. She enjoyed the companionship of a man who thought as she did but she neither desired him physically nor did she have any tendencies to mother him. She more often than not left him to fend for himself; debating and discussing with him as they prepared their separate meals in the big warm kitchen; reading aloud to him to underline some point as he washed his clothes at the deep ironstone sink. When he died of a brain tumour she felt truly alone for the first time in her life.

  It was he who had suggested that the cottage should be renovated so that she could offer accommodation to someone in return for some care and attention. He had worried about her as she grew older; concerned that she seemed unaware of damp or cold and was liable to forget to eat. Often she had nothing in the larder even if she had remembered. She had shrugged at the suggestion, prevaricating about cost. Knowing that Professor Rainbird had left her with sufficient income to put the house in order, and seeing this as the only method of protecting her, he bullied her until the job was done and a woman installed. To his relief the system worked. The young woman, a widow, was hardworking and grateful for a roof for herself and her small child. She and Mathilda rubbed along well enough although in almost all respects each might have belonged to a different planet. Then the young widow met a man and was lured away.

  By now, Nigel was gravely ill. Mathilda left the cove for the first time for twenty years to travel to Oxford. She was with him at his end and, at the wishes of Nigel and his sister, brought his ashes back with her. On the first clear night following her return she took the boat out of the boathouse, chugged quietly into deep waters, switched off the engine and cast what remained of Nigel upon the smooth silky bosom of the sea. For some while she sat quite still, the boat drifting on the gentle swell, and made her final farewell to her oldest, dearest friend. He had been the last link with her past and now there was no one with whom she could share the mild jokes that had grown up over the years; no one who had known her parents or remembered her as a girl. For the first time Mathilda felt truly old.

  When the young woman went away with her lover, Mathilda advertised again. She accepted, now, that it was sensible to have another human being close at hand. To begin with she was unlucky. The first tenant had three noisy children and an estranged husband who would appear from time to time, the worse for drink, and create scenes on the beach or in the cottage—if he could gain access. One day an inspector from the social services arrived in the cove to make certain enquiries; there was a matter of payments for five children and a claim for rent allowance on the cottage. A puzzled Mathilda explained that there were only three children, not five, and that the woman worked in lieu of rent. She pointed out, however, that the three children seemed like five. The inspector, who lacked a sense of humour, made notes and went away. A week later, mother and children had disappeared and the cove was restored to its erstwhile serenity. The next occupant was a pale, thin, earnest woman in her thirties who had a passion for practising the Alexander Technique stark naked on the beach each morning. This predilection came as rather a shock for Mathilda, taking her first early morning walk after her new tenant’s arrival, but she decided that a polite ‘Good morning’ was all that was required and passed on her way merely hoping that the woman might not take a chill.

  She took more than a chill. It seemed that she had eschewed what she referred to as ‘death-dealing’ foods—with which, she claimed, the supermarket shelves were packed—and had taken to feeding on the fruits of the hedgerows and the beach. Mathilda found her collapsed on the kitchen floor, vomiting, and silently blessed Nigel, who had insisted that a telephone should be installed. The ambulance carried the woman away and she, too, was seen no more.

  Cautiously Mathilda advertised yet again. When Isobel arrived, Mathilda was relieved to note that she looked reassuringly normal and appeared to have no dependants or strange habits; no children to be drowned if not watched; no husband waving cans of beer and bellowing drunkenly; no tendencies to dance unclothed upon the sand. It was apparent from the shopping which she brought home in the elderly Morris that she believed in good old-fashioned death-dealing food and what was more—and this was a tremendous bonus—she could hold an intelligent conversation and play a mean game of Scrabble. Mathilda relaxed and began to enjoy life once more. During the ensuing months life in the cove settled down and the two women became easy in their companionship.

  During the winter evenings a closer relationship developed. This was because Isobel was lonely and had a need to talk to someone rather than because Mathilda was a natural confidante. The fact that she had been so much alone meant that she had lived through few of the experiences which Isobel described and she listened with surprise as Isobel explained how she had felt and the recent dramas she had undergone. Mathilda, who was used to a more cerebral approach to life, began to be interested in these emotional outpourings. It was impossible for her to enter into Isobel’s feelings but she listened to her intelligently and reserved her conclusions until Isobel demanded them.

  This was a whole new procedure for Isobel. Her friends were only too ready to join in, cite their own similar cases, offer advice. Her mother argued, but not necessarily constructively, and Simon gently but firmly stonewalled any discussion which became too personal. Mathilda took these outpourings on to a completely different level which forced Isobel to think more carefully than usual.

  ‘Surely you can see,’ Isobel would cry, banging pans about upon the Rayburn—she had taken to cooking for Mathilda, fearful that she would fade away entirely if left to fend for herself—‘surely anyone can see why I left Simon! Isn’t it natural to seize happiness when it’s offered?’

  At this point her mother would have talked about duties and responsibilities and her divorced friends would have muttered sympathetically. Mathilda, huddled in the Windsor chair beside the Rayburn with
the inevitable book upon her lap, would remain silent until Isobel looked at her.

  ‘Honestly, Mathilda,’ she would say pleadingly, ‘don’t you think that happiness is the only thing that matters in the end?’

  Confronted, Mathilda would raise her still beautiful slate-blue eyes from the pages of her book.

  ‘It all depends on what you mean—’ Mathilda was a disciple of Professor Joad—‘it really all depends on what you mean by “happiness”.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Isobel would groan, bashing about with a spoon in the soup. ‘Not that “it all depends what you mean” stuff, Mathilda.’

  ‘But how do you define happiness? Do you mean joy? Or do you mean contentment? If you mean some kind of ephemeral excitement bound up with physical gratification, then I must reject your values. It certainly is not all that matters in the end.’

  Sighing deeply and rolling her eyes in frustration, Isobel would ladle the soup into bowls.

  ‘How would you know?’ she’d grumble. ‘Stuck down here for most of your life.’

  ‘Why ask me then?’ asked Mathilda serenely, standing up and moving to the table.

  Seated opposite—it had been agreed that, since Isobel had taken over the cooking, she should feed with Mathilda and at her expense—Isobel wondered why. She recognised that there was something tough in Mathilda, some unchanging point of reference, against which she could measure her own ideals. It was rather odd, and she would never admit it, but she felt as if she were growing; developing in some vital manner. She’d grinned at the old woman across the table—a misused and mistreated mahogany Georgian breakfast table on a carved pedestal leg—and sighed with a curious contentment.

  ‘I don’t know why,’ she’d answered.

  Remembering this conversation on the quiet grey morning after the storm, Mathilda glanced up at the windows of the small cottage perched on its rocky plateau. The curtains were still tightly drawn. Isobel was not an early riser and it was a while yet until she needed to be off to the bookshop. Mathilda reached the furthest point of the cove and stood for a moment staring out to sea, thinking about Nigel. She was beginning to realise how lucky she’d been to have shared such a satisfying relationship with him; lucky that he’d been content to adore his beloved from afar. To one of Mathilda’s temperament, Isobel’s life sounded too fraught to contemplate.

  She turned back across the firm wet gleaming sand at the water’s edge, her bag bumping gently against her leg. It had been in her mind to suggest that Isobel should move into the house for the winter but something prevented her; some inner conviction that it was wise to preserve that small measure of independence and privacy that existed between them. Privacy had always been a necessary part of Mathilda’s existence and she was never lonely. It was fortunate that the cove could only be reached by the track from the landward side and although boats occasionally anchored off the beach during the summer and people swam from them and picnicked, few ever ventured ashore.

  She entered the house by the side door and, dropping the bag of firewood at the bottom of the stairs, went on into the kitchen to prepare some breakfast. This was the one meal of the day which the two women rarely shared, both agreeing that early morning was a time for silence. Even when Isobel stopped overnight with Mathilda they still breakfasted separately simply because Mathilda rose so much earlier. Now she took some bread from the crock and, dusting off the green mould which adhered to its crust, she placed it on the bread board and proceeded to hack two uneven slices from the parent loaf. She was too indifferent to food to make any effort to make a meal attractive or appetising. Pushing the slices with difficulty into the toaster she rooted around for the butter and found a plate and a knife. She shoved aside the usual muddle of letters and papers and books, which lived permanently on the once beautiful table, assembled her breakfast and sat herself down.

  However hard she tried, Isobel was quite incapable of keeping Mathilda’s living areas tidy but at least everything was clean. The old cream-coloured Rayburn had cost her some despairing moments but the kitchen looked welcoming, even if it was not the modern idea of a work station. She had realised that Mathilda liked to live in the kitchen as well as to cook and eat in it and that the shelves of books, the aged sofa by the French windows which led on to the balcony and the ability to use the table as a desk were far more important to Mathilda than dishwashers, microwaves and high-speed mixers.

  Mathilda finished her breakfast, put the plate and knife in the deep old sink and, collecting her bag of wood, began the climb upstairs to the study. Here she was working on an idea which had occurred to her very recently and she went at once to the large kneehole desk, with its scratched green leather inlay, which resided opposite the fireplace. She stood for a while, looking at papers, studying her notes, frowning a little. It was a large room with glass-fronted bookcases in each of the alcoves on either side of the fireplace whilst the remaining areas of faded wallpaper were almost hidden by the paintings which covered the walls; some originals, some prints. Above the fireplace hung a tapestry which Mathilda’s mother had worked nearly eighty years before. The floor was carpeted by a thick Turkey rug whilst several sagging but still comfortable armchairs were placed strategically about the room. Here Mathilda was happiest.

  Presently she crossed to the French windows and, pushing them open, went out on to the balcony. There was a brightness now to the morning and she saw that Isobel’s curtains had been drawn back. Even as she watched, Isobel came hurrying out, almost running, the long skirt flapping round her bare ankles, a silk scarf floating at her throat. Mathilda watched her leap across the brook and disappear behind the house. She heard the sound of the Morris’s engine start up and gradually fade as it bumped its way up the track. As it did so, Mathilda remembered the rest of the conversation she’d been thinking of earlier.

  ‘And did you find happiness?’ she’d asked Isobel at length. There had been a long silence.

  ‘No,’ said Isobel at last. ‘But it was worth trying for, surely?’

  ‘That rather depends,’ replied Mathilda, ‘on what you lost in the attempt.’

  There had been a longer, deeper silence and finally Isobel had risen to fetch the cheese and had begun to talk about something entirely different.

  Mathilda stood for some time on the balcony, lost in thought. The golden glow behind the cloud brightened and the sun’s warmth began to shred the mist, drawing it up, dissolving it. The small wavelets broke decorously against the sand and the brook gurgled cheerfully in the combe behind the house. Mathilda went back into the study and settled herself at the desk.

  Three

  A WEEK LATER THE autumn made its presence known with a more determined ferocity. The equinoctial gales roared in from the west bringing heavy rain. The trees bowed beneath their passing and the last plums and apples were shaken from the boughs. Sailors hurried to secure their boats or take them off the rivers and estuaries for the winter and the locals put away their espadrilles and placed gumboots in readiness by back doors. The swallows had left for the south and only the martins were still to be seen, swooping and diving for insects, their second brood still in the nest.

  The pub car park was nearly empty. Isobel halted the Morris beside Simon’s hatchback and switched off the engine. She felt the usual uprush of excitement at the thought of seeing him and she altered the angle of the driving mirror so as to peer at herself in the gloomy light of early evening. She’d dragged her dark hair back, securing it with a clip at the nape of her neck, and she still could not decide whether this made her look sophisticated and distinguished or merely older and rather severe. Perhaps her face was too thin, too bony to take such a style? She grimaced at her reflection to give herself courage, collected her bag and slid out of the car with her coat round her shoulders to protect her from the rain. As she locked the door she bent to peer through Simon’s window. His car was both clean and tidy, inside and out, and she sighed as she remembered how she’d teased him about his habit of cle
aning it every weekend.

  He was sitting in a corner, well away from the bar, but got to his feet the moment he saw her. She experienced the familiar shock of seeing as a stranger he who had been her lover, husband, father of her child. This knowledge lent an underlying excitement to all her dealings with him and sometimes she felt almost breathless with longing for him. He bent his head to receive her kiss and she was seized with a desire to hold him and shout at him. ‘Let’s stop all this politeness and pretence!’ she wanted to cry. ‘It was a silly mistake. It’s all over and I’ll never do anything like it again. It’s cost too much! Please let’s go back to how we were.’ Instead she sat down and smiled at him.

  ‘Spritzer, please. Everything OK?’

  ‘Everything’s fine.’

  He turned away to the bar and she watched him order the drinks. He looked easy and relaxed in his jeans and sweatshirt, his greying hair a little longer than when they had been together. He was head of the English department at one of Plymouth’s comprehensive schools and he was both popular and effective. Isobel mentally prepared the questions she would ask about Helen—the supposed reason for this meeting—and wondered why he had never invited her to his new home at Modbury. It had been a tremendous shock when he’d told her that he wanted to sell the house in Plymouth. Still in thrall to Mike she’d made no protest and had signed the forms obligingly but it had come as an unwelcome surprise to see Simon make such a decision without her advice. That was when she’d realised that; although she was happy with Mike, she was still counting on Simon being there.

  I wanted to have my cake and eat it, she thought, watching Simon pocketing his change and picking up the two glasses.

  It had hurt when he had chosen the house in Modbury without consulting her, although he had asked her which pieces of furniture or ornaments she would like to take. She knew then that she’d wanted her erstwhile home to stay exactly as it was and, after some reflection, she’d taken only one or two small special things of her own and suggested that he kept the rest himself. Since the Modbury house was smaller than the town house certain items were now superfluous and, having decided between them what was no longer required, it was agreed that these things should be sold or taken to the dump. Later, Isobel decided that she was glad that Simon had made the move. It might be easier to start again in a new place … except that there was no suggestion that a new start was desirable to him.