On their way home, they had held hands and necked for a while in the bus shelter, and that was as far as things had gone that night. Banks remembered it all vividly as Kay arranged herself next to him in the car: the warm, slightly hazy evening smearing the city lights; noise from a nearby pub; the fruity, chemical taste of her lipstick; the softness of her neck just below her ear; the way it made him tingle and turn hard as he touched her; the warmth of her small breasts crushed against him.
“Any ideas?” Kay asked.
“Ideas? What ideas?”
“About where to go. I’m almost as much a stranger to these parts as you are.”
“Oh, that. I thought I’d just drive out Fotheringhay way. It’s not too far, and we ought to be able to find somewhere decent to eat.”
Kay laughed. “It’ll probably be called the Mary Queen of Scots or something.”
“She certainly did get around, that woman.”
“Didn’t have much choice, did she? What a miserable existence.”
“Never wanted to be royalty?”
Kay shook her head. “Not me. I’m happy being a commoner.”
Banks slipped the Blind Faith CD he had bought that afternoon into the stereo and Steve Winwood’s “Had to Cry Today” came out as crisp and heartrending as the day it was cut.
“That’s not—” Kay began, then she put her head back. “My God, I haven’t heard that in decades. You still listen to this sort of stuff?”
“A lot of old sixties and early seventies stuff, yes,” said Banks. “I reckon those eight or nine years or so between ‘Love Me Do’ and the time everyone died produced about the best rock we’ll ever hear.”
“That’s a very sweeping statement. What about punk?”
“Too much noise and not enough talent. The Clash were all right, though.”
“Roxy Music? Bowie? R.E.M.? The Pretenders?”
“There are exceptions to every rule.”
Kay laughed. “And what else, these days?”
“I’m a hip-hop fan, myself. What about you?”
Kay nudged him in the ribs. “Seriously.”
“Mostly jazz and classical. But I still listen to a fair bit of rock and folk: Sheryl Crow, Lucinda Williams, Beth Orton.”
“I’m afraid I don’t listen to much at all these days,” said Kay. “Don’t have the time. I have the radio on sometimes while I’m in the bath, but I hardly notice what’s being played. I suppose if I had to pick something I’d choose a string quartet or some sort of chamber music. Schubert, perhaps.”
“Nothing wrong with old Franz. What about this place?”
By the time the band had got to “Can’t Find My Way Home,” one of Banks’s favorites, he had wandered off the main road, and they were passing through a small village of gray-stone, thatched cottages clustered around a broad green. Lights shone behind curtains, and here and there a television set flickered. The pub was not called the Mary Queen of Scots but a far more lowly Fox and Hounds. Banks parked the car out front and turned off the music.
Banks and Kay ducked as they walked under the low beam of the door. Already the place was busy, emanating that rosy glow of a village pub popular with the city crowd. They went up to the bar, where Banks ordered a pint of bitter and Kay a vodka and tonic, then a young girl, who looked no more than about sixteen, seated them in the dining area and pointed out that the evening’s menu was written on the blackboard by the window. Just one glance told Banks they’d come to the right sort of place: a wide selection of real ale and good food beyond basic pub fare, but nothing too ambitious. The noise level was perfect, only the buzz of conversation from other tables, the thud of darts in the board at the opposite end, sometimes accompanied by a mild oath or a cheer, and the sounds of the cash register.
“Cheers,” said Banks when they’d sat down and had a good look at the blackboard. “To—to—”
“To times gone by,” said Kay.
“To times gone by.”
They clinked glasses and each took a sip. Banks felt the need for a cigarette, partly from nerves and partly from habit—he was in a pub, after all—but he rode out the craving and soon forgot about it.
“Do you remember that concert?” he asked.
Kay’s eyes sparkled. “Of course I do. Well, not so much the music . . . I mean, if you asked me I couldn’t tell you what they played or who else was on . . . but the occasion . . . yes, how could I forget? My mother wouldn’t let me out of the door for a week afterward, except to go to school.”
Banks laughed. “Mine, too.”
On June 7, 1969, earlier on the day Kay had bought Lady Chatterley’s Lover at a secondhand bookshop on Charing Cross Road, Banks and Kay had taken the train to London for the free Blind Faith concert in Hyde Park. Through a combination of circumstances—partly to do with going off to smoke dope in a flat in Chelsea with some people they met—they had missed their train back and ended up getting home very early the following morning. Needless to say, parental recriminations had been severe.
“So,” said Kay, “tell me about the last thirty years. I suppose you’re married? Children?”
“Two children: one girl at university, and one boy in a rock band. And don’t say it serves me right.”
Kay laughed. “Heaven forbid. Maybe he’ll make enough money to keep you in your old age.”
“That’s what I’m banking on.”
“What about your wife?”
The waitress came over, notepad in hand. “Have you decided yet?”
Banks glanced at Kay, who nodded and ordered the sole and salad. Banks went for venison medallions in port-and-mushroom sauce.
“More drinks?”
Banks looked at his half-full glass and shook his head. Kay asked for a glass of white wine with her meal.
“You were saying?” Kay went on when the waitress had gone away. “About your wife.”
Banks paused. “I’m divorced.”
“How long?”
“Two years. She’s already remarried.”
Kay whistled. “That’s pretty fast. Usually you’d expect some sort of . . . well . . . I don’t know . . .”
“Period of mourning?”
“That’s not the term I was looking for, but I suppose it’ll do.”
“It took me by surprise, too. I can’t say I’m in any hurry to get married again.”
“Is there someone?”
Banks thought of Michelle and Annie, and experienced another pang of guilt as he said, “No one serious. It’s too soon for that.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You?”
“Me? What?”
“Are you still married?”
“Not for the past five years.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You needn’t be. He ran away with his secretary.”
“That must have been tough.”
“At the time, yes, I’d say it was a bit of a blow to the old self-esteem. She was much younger than me, of course. But I’m over it now.”
“Someone new?”
“No one special.” Kay smiled and gave a slight blush as she picked up her glass and sipped. It was the same smile and blush Banks remembered from all those years ago when he had first asked her out. What had happened to them? he asked himself. Why had they split up? But he knew the answer: it had been his fault.
Their meals arrived and Kay’s glass of wine soon followed. Banks stuck with his one pint, as he had to drive. “How are you coping about your mother?” he asked, after they had both eaten a couple of mouthfuls.
“Not bad. I think. I’ve got most of it done except the cleaning.” She smiled. “Never was my strong suit, not even in my own home. I’ll probably do it tomorrow. Anyway, a local dealer’s coming to take away the furniture on Monday morning. Didn’t offer much for it, but what the hell . . . The rest is already packed and ready to go to my house.” She shook her head. “It was difficult going through someone’s life like that. Your own mother’s memories. Do you know, I found let
ters to her from a young man—this was before she and Dad met, of course—but they were love letters. Quite spicy, too, one or two of them.”
“It is hard to imagine your parents having lives of their own, isn’t it?”
Kay nodded. “There was lots of other stuff, too. Old photos. Me when I was a kid at the seaside. Letters from me, too, when I was at university. Full of energy and ambition.” Tears glistened in her eyes.
“And now?”
Kay wiped away the tears. “Oh, I suppose I’m still ambitious enough. I work practically all the hours God sends. I know I neglected Mum, especially after Dad died.” Banks remembered hearing that Kay’s father had been killed ten years ago in a car accident, an accident her mother survived. It had been the talk of the estate for weeks, so his mother had told him. Kay laughed and made a dismissive gesture. “I don’t know, maybe there’s something Freudian about it—I always was Daddy’s little girl—but my career really started to take off around then, too. Life was exciting at last: lots of travel, parties, financial success. I hardly ever made time to come home and help Mum, even when she was ill. For crying out loud, I was in Zurich when she died. I barely managed to get back in time for the funeral. Some daughter. Some mother, too. Even my kids say they never see me.”
“Kids?”
“Three girls. All married. I’m a grandmother, Alan. Can you believe it? A bloody grandmother.”
“It’s hard to believe, looking at you.”
She blushed and smiled again. “Why, thank you. I’ll tell you, though, it takes a lot of hard work and a lot of investment in potions and salves these days. Remember when we were kids? We thought we were immortal, that we’d be young forever.”
“True enough,” Banks agreed. “I’m still waiting for the wisdom that’s supposed to come with age.”
“Me, too.”
They paused to eat in comfortable silence. Banks watched Kay break off flakes of moist sole with the edge of her fork. His venison was good, tender and tasty. He decided he could risk one more drink and asked the waitress to bring him a glass of red wine.
“How are your parents?” Kay asked.
“Fine. Oh, that reminds me: Mum asked me to invite you to drop by tomorrow, if you want.”
Kay nodded slowly. “Yes. All right, that would be nice.”
“About six, OK?”
“Fine. Just for half an hour or so.” Kay frowned. “You know, there is one thing that puzzles me a bit about Mum,” she said.
“Oh?”
“It’s nothing, really, but I was going through her finances yesterday, and I noticed she’d withdrawn a hundred pounds from the cash machine the day she died, but I can’t find it. There’s only about six or seven pounds in her purse, and she wasn’t the type to hide her money under the mattress.”
The little scar beside Banks’s right eye began to itch. “Maybe she had bills to pay, or she owed it to someone?”
“Neither a lender nor a borrower be. That was Mum’s motto. And all her bills had been paid. No, it’s a mystery. What do you have to say, O great detective?”
“I still think there’s probably a logical explanation.”
“Probably. The other thing that puzzles me, though, is how did she get it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, she was bedridden for the last few days. There was a nurse on call twenty-four hours a day, of course, and Dr. Grenville dropped by quite often, but . . . I just don’t see how she could even have got to the cash machine.”
The itch got stronger. Banks scratched the side of his eye. “Have you ever heard of a fellow called Geoff Salisbury?” he asked her.
Kay frowned. “The name sounds vaguely familiar. I think he introduced himself to me at the funeral. A neighbor. Why?”
“Oh, nothing,” said Banks. “Nothing important. Dessert?”
12
“Would you like some music on?” Kay asked. They were back at her parents’ house, and Banks had accepted her invitation to come in for a nightcap—a half bottle of “medicinal” brandy that Kay had found while tidying out the kitchen cupboards. They drank it out of cracked teacups that she had been about to put in the dustbin.
“Sure,” said Banks.
Kay walked over to the old stereo system. “Let’s see,” she said, flipping through a box of LPs. “I packed these last night but I didn’t really pay much attention. There’s probably not a lot of choice. Dad only liked the stuff he used to listen to in the war, and Mum wasn’t much interested in music at all. As you can see, they don’t own a CD player. I think the last LP they bought was in 1960.”
Banks went over and joined her, looking at the old-fashioned covers. At least he could read what was written on the backs of them, unlike the tiny print on CDs. “That’s after 1960,” he said, pointing to Beatles for Sale.
“That must be one of mine,” Kay said. “I didn’t even notice it.”
Banks flipped open the cover. Written inside, in tiny blue ballpoint over the photograph, were some words. They were hard to make out, but he thought they said, “Kay Summerville loves Alan Banks.” Banks passed it to Kay, who blushed and put it away. “I lent it to Susan Fish,” she said. “The sneaky devil. I didn’t know she’d done that.” She pulled out another LP. “Ah, this will do fine.”
The needle crackled as it hit the groove, a sound that gave Banks an unexpected frisson of delight and nostalgia, and then Billie Holiday started singing “Solitude.”
“Couldn’t do much better,” he said.
“Dance?” Kay asked.
“I don’t know,” said Banks. “Remember the vicar wouldn’t allow dancing at the youth club because he said it led to sex?”
Kay laughed. “Yes, I remember.”
Then she was in his arms, Billie was singing about solitude, and they were doing what passed for dancing.
13
“A wise man, that vicar,” said Banks about an hour later as he lay back on the sofa, Billie Holiday long finished, a naked Kay half on top of him, her head resting on his chest, fingertips trailing languorously over his skin. It had been good—no doubt much better than their youthful fumblings, which he could scarcely remember now—though there had been something a little melancholy and desperate about it, as if both had been straining to capture something that eluded them.
“What happened to us?” Kay asked. “All those years ago.”
“We were just kids. What did we know?”
“I suppose so. But have you ever wondered what would have happened? You know, if we hadn’t—”
“Of course I have.”
“And?”
“I don’t know. It’s hard for me to imagine a life without Sandra and the kids.”
“I know that. I mean, even though it ended badly, me and Keith had some good times. And the kids are marvelous. It’s just a game. Imagining. You know, sometimes I’ve been places or experienced things and thought I’d have liked you there to share it.”
“You have?”
“Yes. Haven’t you ever felt the same?”
“I can’t say I have,” said Banks, who had.
She nudged him in the ribs. “Bastard.”
“There’s something I never told you before,” Banks said, stroking her silky blond hair and touching the soft skin on her neck, just below her ear.
“And you want to tell me now?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“The timing seems right.”
“Why?”
“No particular reason.”
Kay shifted position. “OK. Go ahead.”
“You know that first time when my parents were out and you came over to the house? The day we’d decided we were finally going to do it?”
“How could I forget? I was about to lose my virginity. I was scared silly.”
“Me, too. On both counts. Nervous as hell.”
Banks remembered that, as the months went on, he and Kay had graduated from kissing in the bus s
helter to touching above the waist, first with clothing intact, then under her jumper, with only the thin bra between his hands and her bare, swollen flesh. After a few weeks of that, and much trouble fumbling with the clasp that held the thing on, he got beyond the bra to the unimaginably firm and tender mounds beneath.
They had been going out nearly a year before the subject of moving to below the waist came up, and both were understandably a bit nervous about it. This might have been the swinging sixties, when kids were making love openly at Woodstock, but Banks and Kay were young, unsophisticated, provincial kids, and the antics of drug-taking pop stars and free-loving hippies seemed as fantastic as Hollywood films.
But they had done it.
“Well,” Banks went on. “I had to go and get some . . . you know . . . Durex.”
“Rubber johnnies? Yes, I suppose you did. Do you know, I never really thought about that.”
“Well, I couldn’t very well go to the local chemist’s or the barber’s, could I? They knew me there. Someone would have been bound to tell my parents.”
Kay propped herself on one elbow and leaned over him, her nipple hard against his chest. He could smell white wine and cheap brandy on her breath, see sparks of light dancing in her dark blue eyes. “So what did you do? Where did you go?” she asked.
“I walked miles and miles to the other side of town and found a barber’s where I was certain no one would recognize me.”
Kay giggled. “Oh, how sweet.”
“I’m not finished yet.”
“Go on.”
“Do you know how the old barbers’ shops had a sort of hallway with a counter between the outer and inner door, nice and private, where you could buy shampoo and razor blades and stuff?”
Not Safe After Dark: And Other Stories Page 39