‘Pleased to meet you,’ replied Felix, a little put out at finding himself reunited with a member of the institution from which he had been only too happy to celebrate his departure.
‘Are you enjoying it then? The course and so on?’ His companion accelerated back into the main flow of traffic, settling into such an outrageously high speed that Felix began to consider the possibility of enjoying the journey after all. ‘Let me see now, politics…that would bring you into the world of George Englefield and that lot. He’s supposed to be rather good, as is the infamous Joanna Cathargy. Both of them getting almost too important to teach these days – spend their time on lecture tours in America. They pay better on the other side of the Atlantic,’ he added dryly.
‘No, I don’t get taught by either of them, and to be honest I’m not mad about the course either,’ Felix confessed, drawn in spite of himself to be honest. At a guess the man was in his mid to late twenties. With his casual clothes and relaxed air, he looked rather as Felix had hoped his own tutors might look. His hair was thick and dark, cut so short that it stuck up in spikes around his crown, and matched by heavy eyebrows that moved when he smiled. His eyes were deep set and strikingly brown. Kind eyes, Felix decided, thinking wistfully of the grey-faced unsympathetic creatures manning his own faculty and adding, ‘The politics is OK, I guess, if a little uninspired, we’re just ploughing through ancient history at the moment, but the economics is dire. I had no idea so much maths would be involved. It was by far my worst subject at A level,’ he conceded ruefully.
‘Seen anything you’d rather be doing? Switching courses is naturally discouraged’ – he lowered his voice in a show of mock gravitas – ‘but by no means unheard of. Those prepared to tough it out usually get their way in the end. My best finalist last year began life as a geologist.’
‘I hadn’t really thought about it to be honest…’
‘I should have a look around, see if there’s anything else you fancy. My name’s Daniel, by the way. Daniel Groves.’
‘Mine’s Felix. And thanks for the advice.’
‘No problem.’
They continued driving in silence for a few minutes, both screwing up their eyes at the sun, which was shining directly into their faces and showing up all the smears on the windscreen.
‘Got any wild plans for the next four weeks then?’
Felix had been lost in a sudden confusion of excitement and apprehension about Sally. Since her impromptu visit, their exchange of letters had been neither as frequent nor as effusive. It felt as if they had taken a wrong turn and he wasn’t sure how to put it right. Caught a little off guard, he stammered, ‘Me? Er…not really…in fact, I’m rather dreading going home. My father died in the summer and my mother is still pretty cut up about it.’
‘That’s bad luck,’ said Daniel quietly. ‘What did he die of?’
‘Heart attack. Playing tennis.’
‘Always knew it was a sodding dangerous game.’ The moment the words were out Daniel feared he had gone too far. It was a relief to see his passenger smile cautiously and then laugh out loud. Daniel laughed too, thinking all the while that the boy looked pretty cut up himself, his face all eyes and his mouth tight as if he had got out of the habit of laughing. It made him glad he had done him a good turn. It was unusual for him to take pity on a student. By the end of term he had normally had quite enough of them and of the university scene in general.
‘Play any sports then?’
‘Rugby. Scrum half.’
‘Lucky sod. Used to play myself until a bad concussion a few years back. I run now, which is dull but does the job. The bike’s mainly for convenience,’ he explained, glancing at its image which was blocking most of the rear-view mirror. ‘Saves me a fortune in parking tickets.’
Sport continued to provide a conversational refuge until Daniel pulled into the forecourt of a small service area, explaining that it was the best stop-off point before the turnoff to Farley. ‘Good luck, mate,’ he said, offering his hand for a farewell shake. ‘See you around sometime.’
After thanking him warmly, Felix slipped into the Happy Eater, going first to the toilets where he slapped water on his face and combed his hair before ordering a full English breakfast. He was just debating whether to ask for a second round of toast and coffee when a woman sitting at the table next to his pointed a long pink nail at the cardboard sign propped on his rucksack and said, ‘I’m going that way. I’ll give you a ride if you like.’ She was clearly well into her forties. Her skin had the heavy weathered look of overexposure to the sun. Her hair was long, heavily bleached, and flounced a little theatrically round one side of her neck. ‘Don’t look so alarmed, I don’t bite, you know.’
‘I’m not…’ faltered Felix, ‘I mean I’m very grateful, a ride would be great.’
‘Spirit of goodwill and all that,’ she drawled, reaching for her handbag and casting him a sly smile as she set off in the direction of the Ladies’ toilets. ‘Back in a tick.’
It was the sort of opportunity eighteen-year-old men were supposed to dream about, Felix reminded himself, quickly settling his bill and gathering up his things. When the woman returned he could see that she had brushed her hair and attended to her lips, which looked pink and faintly gooey.
‘Shall we go then?’ she said, pulling the fake fur collar of her overcoat up round her ears, and leading the way out to the car park.
Chapter Eleven
It took until mid-morning for Libby to remember why she hated Christmas Day. Misjudging the present wrapping the night before meant she hadn’t got to bed until past one o’clock. By which time Alistair, full of festive punch from a works drinks do, was snoring so ferociously it had taken her another hour to fall asleep. The queue for an empty bathroom the next morning had resulted in her abandoning plans – already postponed from the evening before – to wash her hair and style it into something a little more spectacular than the asymmetric mess which she presented to the world on every other day of the year. Tugging on her apron to protect her outfit, a paisley, wine-coloured dress which she had worn the year before and to every meagre social engagement in the interim, Libby felt washed out, irritable and unattractive. Frequent and increasingly worried ministering to the turkey had raised the temperature of the kitchen to such furnace proportions that she resorted to opening every window in the room, even the warped stiff one above the fridge. She had just finished when Alistair, back from the eleven o’clock family service with Beth and the two boys, burst in beating his hands against the cold and singing the Gloria chorus from ‘Ding Dong Merrily on High’. At the sight of the windows he gave a theatrical shiver and began reaching for the latches to close them all again.
‘Alistair—’ Libby had meant to explain about being hot, but at the sight of the trail of muddy brown footprints leading from behind her husband’s feet across the kitchen floor and out along the hall carpet, she emitted a shrill scream instead. ‘Bloody hell. I’ve only just put the mop and hoover away. The turkey is refusing to cook and won’t be ready till teatime at the earliest. I’d opened the windows because I am expiring with heat and if you don’t know why, take over the sodding cooking and find out.’ She slung the oven gloves at him and marched towards the door.
Alistair managed to catch her by one arm. ‘Happy Christmas, sweetheart. A day of joy, remember? A day for relaxing in the bosom of your family –’ he lowered his voice, ‘a day for saying bollocks to the turkey and all who sail in it.’
Libby relaxed a little, dropping her head onto his shoulder.
‘Our children certainly appear to be getting into the festive spirit. Three volunteers for church has got to be a record. I’m sorry Sally clearly saw fit to avoid the kitchen, but I did catch her humming “O Come All Ye Faithful” when she thought she was safely out of earshot. And so what if we eat lunch at teatime? It’s only Jack and the Copelands, hardly a critical audience. Poor Frances is just glad to have somewhere to be other than home and Jack would be happy with bre
ad and soup.’
‘Your brother adores his food,’ she corrected him, ‘he eats four times more than anyone else and is one of the best cooks I know…’
They were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. Alistair kissed her forehead. ‘I’ll lay the table and then start despatching drinks. Beginning with you, my love. A large gin, doctor’s orders.’
Felix and Frances stood clutching parcels on the doorstep, their breath coming out in little clouds. Daisy had rung the day before to explain that she would not be able to make it over the Channel for Christmas after all, due to some ill-defined, last-minute demands on the part of Claude’s family. She had been very apologetic, but also faintly aloof, promising to make up with a telephone call to the Taverners’ house on Christmas Day.
As Libby was beckoning her guests inside, the sound of a roaring engine heralded the arrival of Alistair’s brother, in a sleek black vehicle with glinting silver wheels and a sun roof. The three of them turned to watch as he hoisted his portly frame out from behind the cubicle of a driving seat and bellowed cheery greetings across the drive.
‘I’ve brought the Stilton, stinking and divine.’ He waved a white parcel, the size of a small wheel, ‘the higher the better, don’t you think? The children are getting cheques – I gave up on presents long ago.’
Although Frances had met Jack on several previous occasions, she still found herself marvelling at the differences between the two brothers: one so quietly spoken, the other larger than life, with the kind of noisy cheerfulness that was as hard to ignore as a gale-force wind. He was wearing a green velvet bow tie and Father Christmas socks, which had been pointed out and waggled at them long before his arrival on the doorstep.
‘Dearest Lysbeth, thank you for taking me in.’ He kissed her on both cheeks, slapped Felix on the back and then gallantly seized Frances by the hand, kissing her knuckles, his beard prickling her skin.
In spite of Libby’s culinary concerns, the lunch was a splendid affair. Seated in the middle between Jack and Charlie, the eldest Taverner boy, Frances was given little opportunity to indulge in surges of nostalgia. The only fraught moment came when Alistair raised his glass for a toast to absent friends. A hush descended in an instant, intensified by the almost tangible ripple of guilt that accompanied it. For managing to have a good time, Frances supposed, glancing across the table at Felix, who seemed to have developed an intense fascination for a stray Brussels sprout. ‘And here’s to the future,’ she announced firmly, a little thrilled at her own composure, her ability to release them all from the moment. As she delivered the comment, she chinked glasses with Jack. Everyone else followed suit, an edge of relief to their tender murmurs of acquiescence.
With the teenagers delegated to clear up, the adult party retreated into the sitting room where the floor was still awash with wrapping paper from the morning. Frances bent to gather up an armful, but Libby stopped her, gaily kicking a clear path through to the sofa and flopping down with a sigh. Frances stuffed what she had picked up into an empty box and sat down next to her.
‘That was perfectly lovely, thank you Libby. Felix and I would have been utterly downcast at home.’
‘Shame Daisy couldn’t come.’
Frances made a face. ‘Everything’s always last minute with her. She lives in a state of perpetual chaos. I wish now I’d gone to see her.’ She hesitated. ‘But it still feels…hard to leave home.’
‘Of course it does.’ Libby patted her hand. ‘I think you’re doing marvellously. Grief is like convalescing, it takes time.’
They sat in silence for a few minutes until Frances, wary of becoming morose, made a deliberate bid to switch the subject to woes other than her own. ‘Sorry to hear about Jenny, leaving you in the lurch with the shop like that. I did suspect from a couple of exchanges we had on the day of that drama with Sally, that certain dissatisfactions were brewing. I should have warned you, but hoped it might blow over. From what I could gather she’s got all sorts of boyfriend trouble too, which can’t have helped.’
‘The trouble is I can’t afford to pay a wage decent enough to attract anyone who’s any good.’ Libby picked at a stray shred of wrapping paper, rolling it into a ball between her thumb and forefinger. ‘December’s been better, but still down on last year.’ She flicked her pellet of paper across the room, aiming it at Alistair who was sitting in an armchair next to the fireplace, but managing to hit Jack instead, who was sprawled on the carpet like an overfed Roman, piercing dates from a box with a cocktail stick.
‘Got me,’ he groaned, writhing as if he had been struck by a bullet, until a brotherly kick in the ribs alerted him to the fact that it was his turn to make a move on the chess board Libby had given Alistair for Christmas; a set of marble carved men in pink and blue and grey, with hollow sombre faces and flowing robes.
‘What about if I were to step into Jenny’s shoes?’ ventured Frances, broaching a matter which she had already given some considerable thought.
‘Oh Frances, thank you but no, I couldn’t possibly expect—’
‘Let me finish, will you? I don’t want money, I mean obviously you should give me a bit, but I’ve realised that I need an…occupation, so that I can start thinking about something other than the fact that I’m on my own. I’ve begun to see that one of the reasons the last four months have been so terribly hard is because of the extent of my dependence on Paul. I mean, obviously I miss him because I loved him,’ she faltered, ‘but there’s more to it than that. It’s like I’ve forgotten who I am, who I was…when I went to London the other day I felt so pathetically inept, like a tiny, useless nonentity who had let her world shrink to a pin-head. I saw a street where I used to live and I couldn’t even remember what I was like without Paul…’
‘Nonsense,’ declared Libby stoutly, wanting to cover up for the fact that she agreed with every word. ‘You’ve just devoted yourself to your family, instead of neglecting them madly like the rest of us. And you’ve put in countless hours for that children’s charity shop. And what about your lovely drawing—’
‘Libby please stop. Those things are nothing. I have been doing nothing.’ Frances smiled to show that such confessions were not intended as a reprimand. ‘I suppose it’s one of life’s lovely little ironic twists that I’ve felt even less inclined towards philanthropy or creativity since I found myself drowning in the time with which to take up such pursuits. I tried the other day, to draw…’ She broke off, pained at the memory. ‘It was hopeless. No, what I want is something to get me out of the house.’
‘Are you sure this isn’t the wine talking, that you won’t regret this in the morning?’ Libby, aware of the throb of having drunk too much at the back of her own head, noticed suddenly that Frances’s eyes were faintly bloodshot. The meal hadn’t finished until five thirty by which time they had broken into the third bottle.
‘Promise.’ Frances smiled reassuringly. ‘I mean every word.’ They were interrupted by the sound of the telephone ringing followed by Beth shouting, ‘It’s Daisy.’
Frances carefully set her glass down on the lamp table next to her and stepped over Jack’s legs to get to the door.
Beth was standing in the hall holding out the receiver. ‘She wants to talk to Felix as well, but he’s disappeared – probably on the computer eradicating goblins. I’ll root him out and send him down.’
‘Thank you Beth.’ Frances took the telephone and sat down on the hall chair, noting as she did so that soggy snowflakes the size of large breadcrumbs were beginning to drift against the hall window, collapsing on contact with the glass. Taking a deep breath she put the receiver to her ear. ‘Happy Christmas, darling. We’ve missed you.’
Daisy slowly replaced the telephone and picked up the hand mirror lying next to it. The bruise on her cheekbone was flowering exotically, unfurling into her eye socket with petals of crimson and dusky blue.
Talking to her mother was like treading on eggshells, trying to read her mood between sentences, wanting to say ap
propriate things but in a way that sounded natural and which revealed none of the new troubles festering in her own life. Telling herself she had no right to expect motherly intuition or sympathy at such a time, did not prevent Daisy from hoping for some sign of it all the same. She had spoken to Felix too, but only briefly. He sounded somewhat preoccupied, speaking so quietly she had missed some of the words. He was in the middle of a computer game he said, and evidently keen to get back to it. By the end of both conversations Daisy had the strong impression of the three of them floating away from each other, like the slow-motion scatter of splinters after a crash.
Behind her, she was dimly aware of Claude entering the room. A few seconds later he was at her side, gently taking the mirror and laying it face-down on the table. Cupping her cheeks between his hands he began to kiss her face, beginning with her hairline and forehead and working downwards, lingering tenderly round her eyes, licking the tears spilling through her closed lashes.
‘Ma petite…pauvre.’ His mouth was on her neck, brushing her skin with kisses between words.
Daisy took his head in her palms, trying feebly to push him away, fighting the urge to luxuriate in this penitence, to sink into the sheer relief of it. It was so good to be wanted for forgiveness, to be cherished again. It took a conscious effort to check herself, to force her mind back to the horror of the previous morning, the shouting, the accusations, the slow steady spiral towards the release of violence, coming so fast and so furiously that there had been no time even to raise her hands to protect herself. Thinking back, Daisy even found herself struggling to recall the pain, the rag-doll weakness which had overcome her under the hammer of his fists. Already it was receding, drowning in the pleasure of this new submission, on his knees now at her feet, begging to be forgiven like a doting child. Slowly she relaxed her hands, letting her fingers run through the silky strands of his hair to the soft vulnerable spot in the nape of his neck. He dropped his head to her chest with a groan, tightening his arms around her waist, biting her skin gently through her clothes.
The Lover Page 8