The Simple Rules of Love

by Amanda Brookfield

  Perhaps in recognition of the inherent gravity of the meeting, Helen led the way past the kitchen and den and into the formal elegance of the sitting room at the back of the house. Opening the drinks cabinet, she pulled out a bottle of wine and two glasses from the set Charlie and Serena had given them as a wedding present. Watching her place the glasses on the coffee-table, fighting the urge to offer to open the bottle, Peter wondered if the selection of these particular items had been deliberate. It would be typical of Helen to have thought through such a detail.

  She filled both glasses and pushed one towards him, saying airily, ‘Oh, Theo will come round. Our offspring are so much more adaptable than we think, so much more forgiving.’

  Surprised, grateful for the reassurance, Peter dared a half-smile. ‘Unlike us, eh?’ Her self-control astonished him – impressed him too. What other wife in the world could have sat there so cool-as-you-please, as if the pair of them had nothing more serious to discuss than plans for Christmas and whether to visit the exhibition of their nephew's art in one car or two? For a brief moment, Peter wondered if it was all going to be easier than he had thought, that Delia's remark about forgiving wives had been true and that the only remaining obstacle to his happiness was persuading Helen that they should pick up the pieces of their marriage in Sussex rather than Barnes. He tried another gentle smile, one designed to communicate all the regret he truly felt. He might not be able to un-wish Delia but he was certainly sorry for the pain he had caused.

  Helen responded with steady, unsmiling eyes, then said, in an equally steady voice, ‘I think it's the physiotherapist. I checked your phone bill and looked up the number in your address book… So many hours, so many texts. Who would have thought a stiff shoulder could require such a barrage of attention?’

  Peter blushed violently, cursing himself for having underestimated her. When he spoke his voice was hoarse. ‘As I've tried to tell you several times, Helen, it's over.’ He paused, aware that, out of a combination of shame and some dim, protective reflex towards Delia, he could not bring himself either to say his lover's name or to acknowledge the veracity of Helen's statement. ‘Over,’ he repeated, startled, despite his discomfort, by how she had worked it out. Typical Helen, always right, even about being wronged. Taking a sip of wine to steady himself, he stole a glance at her, noting that her usual string of pearls had been replaced by a small crucifix, which dangled between the buttons of her shirt like a tiny dagger.

  She nodded slowly, twirling the delicate stem of her glass. ‘So it's all in the ast then?’

  ‘Yes.’ Peter had to force out the word, partly because he wanted the torture to end and partly because, even amid the unspeakable stress of the interrogation, part of him resisted the huge renunciation this small word entailed. Of course it was over, his brain knew that, but his heart continued to put up a fight.

  ‘Your mother has been supportive, I expect.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Peter was alarmed by the remark and the new icy calm of her voice.

  Carefully, Helen set down her glass on a coaster and interlaced her fingers. ‘Well, she had that affair, didn't she, with your uncle Eric? She must understand, presumably, the difficult time you're having. Hey,’ she slapped her thigh with a sharp, triumphant laugh, as if she had stumbled upon a universal truth, ‘maybe it runs in the genes, infidelity, passed down through the great Harrison line like Huntington's or sickle-cell anaemia. What do you think?’

  Peter stood up. ‘I haven't come here for this.’

  ‘Oh? And what have you come for exactly, Peter? Forgiveness?’ She had gripped the little cross and was twisting it round her fingers. ‘Lucky we're rich, isn't it? What with the girls to educate and two houses to run, you're going to need every penny. Lucky, too, that Serena and Charlie have had such a ghastly year, wanting you to take over the family jewel. It's all so perfect.’ She clapped her hands together. ‘Really, I couldn't be happier for you.’

  ‘Helen, stop this, please,’ Peter muttered, backing behind the sofa.

  She laughed wildly. ‘Oh, indulge me a little.’

  ‘I came here under the illusion that we were going to have a sensible discussion –’

  ‘Oh, we are, we are,’ she exclaimed – clearly, in some hysterical way, enjoying herself. ‘I'm good at that, aren't I, being sensible? Good old sensible, boring Helen. Let me see… What else?’ She held up her fingers and began to count. ‘Predictable, organized, loyal – let's not forget that.’

  ‘I think it would be better if I went.’

  ‘Do you know?’ she continued brightly, pointing at him as she advanced upon the sofa. ‘I think you might be right. But, please, one more answer before you do. That night, the one of our boring, sensible dinner party, when you brought me all those heavenly flowers, when you so clearly didn't want to fuck me, was it because you had been fucking her? Oh, don't frown, darling, it makes you look so old. And, on second thoughts, don't worry about answering because I know… I know,’ she repeated, her voice shrinking to a dry, deathly whisper, her eyes like knives. ‘I have a good lawyer. I suggest you get one too. In the meantime you can see the girls whenever you want – just call,’ she added, striding towards the hall.

  ‘Helen –’

  She kept her back to him as she tussled with the lock and latch on the front door, which had always been stiff. ‘Give my love to everyone at the old homestead, won't you? I'd have been no good at it anyway, you know, running that place, playing nursemaid to your dear mother…’

  ‘Mum is leaving,’ mumbled Peter. ‘She's made up her mind to go to some sort of country manor of a home. Which means that once Charlie and Serena go I'll be living there alone… unless you… we…’

  ‘Pamela's leaving Ashley House?’ Helen turned to him, clapping a hand to her mouth in genuine amazement. ‘Really? Goodness… how unexpected. Well, give her my best, anyway,’ she continued, resuming a tone of false, belligerent cheerfulness. ‘And Charlie and Serena, of course.’ She opened the door a little, then paused, leaning on the handle. ‘Funny, don't you think, how just a few months ago we actually pitied your brother and his wife for the trouble caused by that errant son of theirs, when all the while some equally puerile,’ she spat the word, ‘behaviour was driving our own family to collapse? How did you feel about that, by the way? How did you really feel? Did it occur to you to make any sort of connection between your nephew's fall from grace and your own?’

  Peter stared at the floor, noticing for the first time that, beneath its polished surface, each tile was scored with thousands of little scratches. He wondered idly if there was anything that could be done to get rid of them, whether the guarantee on that particular job had expired. ‘A connection?’ He frowned, reluctant to engage with so discomforting a line of questioning, wanting only to get out. ‘I'm not sure I follow…’

  ‘Oh, never mind.’ Her voice had found yet another gear – trilling and sing-song. ‘It doesn't matter.’ She tugged open the door. ‘And pass on my best to Cassie, too, when you see her. I know I've never been close to your younger sister, but to pull out of the wedding when she wanted a child so badly, not to mention, one assumes, a husband, means she must have been feeling…’ Helen found suddenly that she could not complete the sentence. The cold night air was creeping up under her trousers. The word she had wanted to use was ‘desolate’. But to release it, she knew, would unleash all that she was trying so hard to hold in check. She jerked her head in the direction of the street, an icy black rectangle framed by the open door between them. “Bye, then. I'll call you.’

  ‘Helen –’

  ‘Goodbye, Peter.’ She dropped her gaze as he stepped past her. The letters WELCOME, etched into the doormat, heaved and blurred. Only when the door was properly closed and bolted, when the sound of the car had receded down the road, did Helen sink to her knees, her mouth opening and closing in a form of weeping that was too deep for sound.

  ‘There we are. One white wine, one packet of pork scratchings and a list
of their bar snacks. Are you sure you wouldn't like to eat somewhere else – somewhere a bit more… substantial?’ There was a note of pleading in Bill Jackson's voice, as if he sensed Elizabeth's reluctance to commit wholly to the business of sharing her evening.

  ‘Oh, no, I love this sort of food, don't you? One gets so fed up of square meals, don't you think?’ Elizabeth, aware that she was talking nonsense, that she was struggling with the normally instinctive business of being herself, opened the little packet and offered it across the table.

  Bill shook his head ruefully. ‘My teeth can't take them these days.’

  ‘Oh, bad luck,’ she replied gaily, popping one of the dry, salty nuggets into her mouth and endeavouring to chew it in a way that suggested no comparable fear on her part. Her teeth proved robust enough but the cracking noises did little to ease the lurching progress of their conversation.

  ‘This exhibition of your son's work,’ said Bill next, ‘it sounds fantastic. You must be very proud.’

  ‘Oh, yes, even though it's only two paintings in someone else's exhibition – someone quite famous, apparently, which, of course, makes it more exciting.’ Elizabeth did her best to inject a note of warmth into her voice. He was trying so hard. He had even substituted contact lenses for his thick-framed glasses – to draw attention to the appealing soft brown of his irises, she supposed. Instead she had found her gaze returning again and again to the deep pink ridge on the bridge of his nose and the pouched too-white circles round his eyes. It all looked painfully raw somehow, as if he was exposing things she had no right to see.

  ‘Lovely pubs round here, aren't they?’

  ‘Lovely,’ Elizabeth agreed, putting her fingers to her mouth as another scratching exploded – impossibly, absurdly loud – between her teeth. ‘Lovely,’ she repeated, making a big show of looking appreciatively at the stone walls, the sepia photos of fishing and hunting, the horse brasses studding the dark beams. The pub to which Keith had taken her after their cup of tea had been soulless in comparison, with big modern lights, pot plants and varnished pine tables. Yet as they sat side by side on one of the velveteen banquettes, with their orange juice in front of them, Elizabeth had thought it beautiful. Even after everything had gone so badly wrong, when he had slammed down his empty glass and told her that the business of the little Pakistani girl was his history not hers, that she should back off with all her high-flown talk of honesty and leave him to his loser-life, there had seemed to be a trace of magic about the place. It was Keith's local, after all, where he had said he came several times a week to give his sister a bit of space, to sip soft drinks and play darts.

  ‘Do you play darts, Bill?’

  Her companion looked over his shoulder, wondering with good reason, what had triggered the inquiry. ‘Only very badly. Why? Do you?’

  ‘No. I… just wondered.’

  ‘I see.’ He smiled and nodded, clearly determined to find such inanity charming. ‘What do you like doing, other than teaching maths?’

  Elizabeth made a renewed effort to focus. Getting to know someone took time, after all, and hard work, she reminded herself. ‘I like swimming and I'm learning Italian…’ She gripped one of the bunches into which she had tied her hair and wound it round her fingers, racking her brains for what else to add to this meagre list but managing only to think of the time in the barn with Keith when, at her suggestion, they had made a similar attempt to short-cut the business of getting to know one another. She had reminded him of it in the pub in Hull, probing gently, doing her best to prepare him for what she had really come to say. She had told him about Cassie and Stephen too, and then about Roland, trying to explain how such brave confessions had made her certain that honesty was the only sure defence against anything.

  Keith had been deeply concerned, tender, understanding, until she had reached the heart of her quest. The table had wobbled badly when he slammed down the glass. Outside, parting awkwardly, the wind had lashed at their clothes as if bent on pulling them apart. Next to them a chalkboard, advertising a live band later that night, lay on its side, rocking with each gust. Keith stood facing her, his hands in his pockets, his eyes as full as hers. There was no point, he said, speaking more gently now but with a firmness that put paid to any last faltering hope she might have had about him changing his mind. There was no point in keeping in contact, no point in dragging Serena and Charlie down, no point in anything. The demands – the geography – of their families meant they had to be apart. There wasn't even the wedding to worry about any more. But even without those things, he said, he would never acquiesce to her suggestion that he tell Charlie and Serena about the little girl. They had thought well of him and he could see no sense in ruining that good opinion along with everything else. He hoped she understood. He was sorry. He would think of her often. Often, he had repeated, stroking the side of her face one last time. Then he righted the board and walked off down the street.

  Bill was saying that he spoke Spanish; that he liked swimming too, but only in tropical climates, preferably with a cocktail bar to hand. Elizabeth watched his mouth move, noting the inner pinkness of his lips. Once upon a time, not that long ago, the Keith business would have left her in pieces, she knew. Since her return from Hull, however, there had been a new emptiness to her life but also a new determination. She had phoned him just once to relay the news – reported to her by Cassie soon after Keith had strode down the street – that Stephen had merely been hiding out of embitterment at their broken engagement. For once Elizabeth had been relieved to be greeted by his answering-machine. In the process of trying to accept the reality of her own situation, she had no desire to subject herself to the ordeal of a proper conversation. Then she had got out her current diary and the new one she had bought for the following year. She had riffled through the weeks and months, wanting to remind herself of how much there was to look forward to – the exhibition, the Christmas holidays, a plan to visit Maria in the spring. Turning back to January, seeing the entries referring to Cassie's wedding and the due date of her nephew's baby, Elizabeth had concluded that, for once, her own life was more ordered than her siblings’. Peter's banishment by Helen, all the talk of Charlie and Serena leaving Ashley House, not to mention her mother's continuing resolve to spend her last years alone – it was as if the planets were trying to spin out of their orbits. All except her. She had had her share of shaky times that year, but had come through them, healed by the knowledge that she was lovable, that she had a son who wasn't afraid to tell the truth, that fifty-four was not too old to make new friends…

  ‘Can I get you another?’ Bill stood up, tweaked his trousers and straightened his jumper.

  Elizabeth pushed aside the half-eaten packet of pork scratchings and looked at her still unfinished glass of wine, which had grown warm in the heat of the pub's open fire. She didn't want another drink – nor a man with small, delicate hands and filed nails, who tweaked his clothes into symmetrical angles. Bill was nice, but she didn't need him. She smiled as kindly as she could. ‘I'd like a glass of water, please. And, Bill… I'm not good at this sort of thing, but could we just be friends – not that I want to appear presumptuous?’

  ‘Of course.’ He had stood up and was holding their glasses.

  ‘I'm sorry if I… only there's a lot going on in my life at the moment, family things, I just don't –’

  ‘Please – no need. Understand. One water coming up.’

  He held himself very upright as he walked past the fire and ducked through the low doorway towards the main bar. Watching him, seeing the damaged pride in the rigid set of his back, Elizabeth felt both sad and proud. She would drink the water, then go home. She might be in time to join in with the pasta and salad she had left out for Roland. She would email Maria and catch up on her marking. She would get an early night and think about Keith, remembering his touch, missing him, but drawing comfort from the fact that she had tried her best.

  Skirting-boards, Cassie decided, were the most interesting thi
ngs, when one looked closely enough, covered with flecks of dust, hairs, scuffmarks. A small grey spider had set up home in the corner nearest her nose, stringing out its web across the angle like some busy miniature housewife pegging out a zigzagging clothes line. Normally Cassie didn't like spiders. Years before, on Stephen's first visit to Ashley House, a particularly large, hairy specimen had startled her as she stepped from the cloisters into the music room. Stephen had rushed to tell her how he hated them too, how his sister had planted them in his bed when he was a boy. He had stepped towards her as she ducked under the web, clearly ready to set aside his own fear and leap to her defence, should the creature choose that moment to abseil towards her hair.

  Looking back, Cassie could see that this small first exchange encapsulated everything that had brought them together, then driven them apart: the sympathy, the closeness, the illusory sense of being protected, even that first veiled reference to his miserable childhood every single element, good and bad, had been there. Which was horrible, she decided, as if her life-story had been written before it started; as if each life was just an unravelling ball of string.

  Watching the spider now, a few inches from her face, Cassie could muster nothing stronger than indifference. The phobia was still there, all right, she simply couldn't access it. Just as she couldn't access other, more obvious things, like feeling sleepy or hungry, or caring who owned Ashley House, or whether Helen forgave Peter for behaving like a middle-aged arse. Checking the finishing touches to her final ongoing job that day, she had felt only relief that, thanks to a deliberate winding down of her commissions in the approach to Christmas and the wedding, nothing else required her attention.

  On getting home she had kept her coat on rather than bothering to turn up the heating and then, because it was nearly seven o'clock, had eaten a piece of bread and an apple standing up next to the sink. Afterwards she had stared into space for ten minutes at least, wrestling with whether to watch television or have a bath, only to jettison both options in favour of lying on the sitting-room floor.