She stood up now, walked slowly back to her seat, her head carefully bowed, taking in nonetheless the fact that the church was three-quarters empty and, apart from a few—a very few—teenagers, she was the only person there who could be called young. How could her father do this week after week, year after year? How could his own faith withstand what seemed to Martha the humiliation of knowing that his life’s work was for the large part rejected by the community? She had asked him once, and he had said she didn’t understand: St. Andrews was still the centre of the parish, it didn’t matter that the congregation was so small, they turned to him when they needed him, when illness or death or marriage or the christening of a new baby required his services, and that was enough for him.
“But, Dad, don’t you want to tell them they should have done a bit more for the church before expecting it to do things for them?”
“Oh, no,” he said and his eyes were amused. “What good would that do? Alienate them, and fail them in their hours of need? Martha, I believe in what I’m doing and I’ve never regretted it. And it enables me to do some good. Quite a lot of good, even. I like that. Not many professions allow it.”
“I suppose you mean mine doesn’t,” she said irritably.
“I didn’t. I wouldn’t dream of drawing such a comparison.” But she knew he would.
She had come down this weekend very much from a sense of duty; her sister had called her to say that her parents were a bit low.
“Mum’s arthritis is bad, and Dad gets so upset because he can’t help. I try to cheer them up but they see me all the time, I’m not a treat like you are. You haven’t been for months, Martha.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been—”
“Yes, I know how busy you’ve been.” Her sister’s voice was sharp. “I’ve been quite busy too, actually, trying to cope with work and the children. Even Michael gets down more than you do.”
“Yes, all right,” Martha said. She was tempted to say it was easy for Michael, their brother, who was in his first year of teaching, and had a great deal of spare time, but she didn’t. In any case, Anne was right: she didn’t come down much.
“I promise I’ll come very soon,” she said finally. “I really do promise.”
“Good,” said Anne and rang off.
Martha wished she could like Anne more. But she was so—so sanctimonious, so much too good to be true. She was married to a very hardworking, poorly paid social worker, and they had three children, no help in the house, only one car, and Anne had a job as a special needs assistant at one of the local schools to make ends come a little nearer to meeting. On top of that she did a lot of volunteer work and even helped her father in the parish, now that their mother was finding it difficult to cope. To Martha it looked like the life from hell; especially being married to Bob the Social Worker, as she thought of him, rather like Bob the Builder. Martha actually felt Anne would be better off with Bob the Builder; at least he would be some practical use around the house. Bob Gunning added acute unhandiness to his other shortcomings, and all the DIY jobs were done by poor Anne. There really did seem to be very little joy in her life.
Martha could see how excessively irritating her own gilded existence must seem to her sister, not just the apparently limitless money, with only herself to spend it on, but the way she did find so little time to visit, to help their parents—other than financially, which in any case they would accept only under extreme pressure. And although she had come down this weekend, it would be the only one for some time, she knew; the general election was looming and that always resulted in a lot of work, as the money markets became jittery and the big corporations swung into action to accommodate any changes.
Not that they would be very remarkable; Blair continued to sit high in the polls, smiling purposefully, making empty promises. He would get in again; there was no doubt about it.
“Things are pretty bad around here,” her father said.
“In what way?” She took his arm as they walked back.
“The countryside has been dreadfully hit by the foot-and-mouth business. There’s an air of depression over everything.”
“Really?” said Martha. She had read about the foot-and-mouth tragedy of course, but sheltered as she was in her glass tower in Docklands, it had somehow lacked reality.
“Yes. Poor old Fred Barrett, whose family’s had a farm just outside Binsmow for five generations, has struggled on until now, but this has finished him. He’s selling up. Not that anyone will buy the farm. And then I’ve got God knows how many parishioners waiting to go into hospital. Poor old Mrs. Dudley, waiting eighteen months now for a hip replacement, in real pain, and still they tell her another six months. It’s criminal, it really is.”
“Everything’s a mess,” said Martha, thinking of Lina and her daughter Jasmin. “Absolutely everything.”
She walked into her mother’s bedroom; Grace was lying in bed, looking pale.
“Hello, dear. I’m sorry I’m not seeing to breakfast. I slept so badly; the pain wakes me, you see, and then I get back to sleep around six and don’t hear the alarm.”
“Oh Mum, I’m so sorry. Can I get you anything, tea, coffee…?”
“I’d love a cup of tea. I’ll be down in a minute.”
“No, I’ll bring it up,” said Martha. “Spoil you a bit. Is the pain very bad?”
“Sometimes,” said Grace. “Not always. You know. Grumbles away.”
“What does the doctor say?”
“He’s referred me to a consultant, but there’s a year’s waiting list at least. In the old days, when we still had the local hospital, it would have been much quicker. But it’s gone, of course. Dr. Ferguson gives me painkillers, which help, but they make me feel sick.”
“Mum, won’t you let me pay for the orthopaedic consultant at least? You could see him so much more quickly. This week probably.”
“No, Martha. We don’t believe in private medicine. Or jumping the queue—it’s immoral.”
“You might not believe in it,” said Martha briskly, “but it would stop you being in pain. Wouldn’t that be worth it?”
“Martha, we can’t be beholden to you. It’s not right.”
“Why not? I was beholden to you for all those years. And suppose it had been me? When I was a little girl. In pain, not able to see a doctor for more than a year. Wouldn’t you have thought anything was worth it to help me? Wouldn’t you have set your principles aside?”
“Possibly,” said Grace with a feeble smile. “I suppose…”
“Good,” said Martha, seeing victory. “It’s no more than you deserve. I’d much rather spend some of that disgraceful salary on you than on some new Manolos.”
“What are they, dear?”
“Shoes.”
“Oh, I see. Some new style, is it?”
“Something like that,” said Martha.
After lunch her sister called. “My next-door neighbour, she’s a widow”—she would be, Martha thought—“needs help. Her son’s car’s broken down and he needs a lift back to London. I said I was sure you wouldn’t mind taking him.”
Martha felt disproportionately outraged. She did mind, very much. She had been longing for the peaceful drive back to London, with her stereo playing, catching up on phone calls, having the time to think…and of course not to think. She didn’t want some spotty lad sitting beside her for three or four hours, requiring her to make conversation.
“Couldn’t he get the train?”
“He could, but he can’t afford it. Martha, it’s not much to ask, surely. He’s quite sweet, I’ve met him.”
“Yes, but—” Martha stopped.
“Oh forget it,” said Anne and her voice was really angry. “I’ll tell him he’ll have to hitch a lift. You just get on back to your smart life in London.”
Martha promptly felt terrible. What kind of a cow was she turning into? Anne was right, it wasn’t a lot to ask. She just didn’t want to do it…
“No,” sh
e said quickly, “all right. But he’ll have to fit in with me time-wise and I’ll drop him at an Underground station, all right? I can’t spend half the night driving round London.”
“You’re so extremely kind,” said Anne. “I’ll tell him then. What time exactly would suit you, Martha? Fit in best with your very heavy timetable?”
“I’m leaving at about four,” said Martha, refusing to rise to this.
“Could you make the huge detour to pick him up? It would take at least fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll pick him up,” said Martha.
Anne came out of her house as Martha drew up; her sniff as she looked at the Mercedes was almost audible.
“So good of you to do this,” she said. “He’s all ready. We’ve been chatting, haven’t we, Ed?”
“Yes. Hey, cool car. It’s very kind of you, Miss—”
“Hartley,” said Martha. She had been fiddling with the dashboard, not looking at him; she took in only the voice, the classless young London voice, and sighed. It was going to be a terribly long drive.
Then she got out, took off the sunglasses she had been wearing—and found herself staring at one of the most beautiful young men she had ever seen.
He was quite tall, over six foot, with messy short blond hair and astonishingly deep blue eyes; he was tanned, with a few carefully scattered freckles on a perfectly straight nose, and his grin, which was wide, revealed absolutely perfect white teeth. He was wearing long baggy shorts, a style she hated, trainers without socks, and a rather crumpled white shirt; he looked like an advertisement for Ralph Lauren. Martha felt less resentful suddenly.
“Mum’s at church, but she said I was to thank you from her,” he said. “Shall I put my bags on the backseat?”
“Yes, do,” said Martha. “Well, Anne, sorry not to have seen more of you. Next time, perhaps.”
“Perhaps,” said Anne. Her tone was still chilly.
“This really is very kind of you,” said Ed again as they pulled down the road. “I do appreciate it.”
“That’s all right,” said Martha. “What happened to your car?”
“It just died,” he said. “It was just an old banger. Present from Mum for my twenty-first. She said I shouldn’t take it on long journeys. Looks like she was right.”
“So what will you do?”
“Goodness knows.” He looked round the car. “This is really cool. Convertible, yeah? I don’t suppose you use this much in London.”
“Not during the week, no,” said Martha. “Not much use for a car where I live.”
“Which is?”
“Docklands.”
“Cool.”
“Quite cool, I suppose,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound like some pathetic older woman acting young.
“And you’re a lawyer?” he said. “Is that right? Do you get all dressed up in a white wig?”
“No,” she said, smiling against her will. “I’m not a barrister. I’m a solicitor.”
“Oh, right. So you do people’s divorces, help them buy their houses…”
“No, I work for a big city firm. Sayers Wesley.”
“So—you work all night, see big deals through, that sort of thing.”
“That sort of thing.” She glanced at him; he had put a baseball cap on back to front, another thing she hated; impossibly, it suited him.
“And earn a fortune? Yeah?”
“I don’t know how you would define a fortune,” she said coolly.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound rude. I just get interested in people.” He turned to smile at her, an astonishing, beautiful smile.
“So I see. What do you do?”
“I’m just temping at the moment,” he said, “doing IT stuff. It’s pretty boring. But I’m going away in a couple of months. It’s paying for that.”
“Where are you going?”
“Oh—Thailand, Oz, all that stuff. Did you do that sort of thing?”
“Yes I did. It was great fun.”
“Yeah, hope so. I should have done it before uni, really.”
“How old are you, Ed?”
“Twenty-two.”
“And what did you read?” she asked. “At university?”
“Oh, English. My dad wanted me to read classics because he did. But I couldn’t face it.”
“I’m not surprised,” she said and was reminded suddenly and sharply of Clio, pretty plump little Clio, saying almost exactly the same thing, all those years ago. Clio who had wanted to be a doctor, who—Enough of that, Martha. Don’t go back there.
“I kind of wish I had,” he said, “it would have made him so happy. Now that he’s died, it seems something I should have done for him.”
“Yes,” she said, “I can see that. But you’re wrong, you know. You have to do what’s right for you.”
“Yeah,” he said, “that’s what I think, really. But just sometimes…”
“Of course. I’m sorry about your dad. What—what was it?”
“Cancer. He was only fifty-four. It was awful. He kept putting off going to the doctor and then there was a long waiting list to see someone, and—well, the whole thing was a mess really.”
“It must have been very hard for you. How long ago was this?”
“Three years,” he said. “I was at uni and it was really hard for my mum. Your dad was so good to her. She said he helped her get through. He’s all right, your dad. Your sister’s pretty nice too.”
“I’m glad you think so,” said Martha.
He turned to look at her consideringly.
“She’s not too much like you, though,” he added, and then blushed. “Sorry. You’ll be putting me out on the road next.”
“If you’d told me I was like her, I might,” said Martha, smiling.
“Yeah, well you’re not. Of course, she must be much older than you.”
“Actually,” said Martha, “she’s two years younger.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I’m not.”
A silence, then: “That is just so not possible,” he said.
“Ed,” said Martha, “you just made my weekend. Tell me, where did you go to uni?”
“Bristol.”
“Oh really? That’s where I went.”
“Yeah?” He turned to smile at her again, then said, “I bet you were in Wills Hall.”
“I was,” she said. “How did you know?”
“All the posh people lived there. It was a public-school ghetto. When I was at Bristol anyway.”
“I’m not posh,” she said indignantly, “and I certainly didn’t go to public school. I went to Binsmow Grammar School. When it was a grammar school.”
“I went there,” he said, “but it was a complete dump by then.”
He must be very bright, she thought, to have got into Bristol from a bad comprehensive. And it was bad; her father was on the board of governors and often talked despairingly of it.
They reached Whitechapel about eight thirty. “This’ll do fine for me,” he said. “I can get the tube.”
“OK. I’ll just pull over there.”
“It’s been really nice,” he said. “Thanks. I’ve enjoyed it. Talking to you and so on.”
“Weren’t you expecting to?”
“Well, not really, to tell you the truth. I thought you’d be—it would be—”
“What?” she said, laughing.
“A bit of an ordeal. Actually.”
“Well, I’m glad it wasn’t.”
“No, it absolutely wasn’t.” He got out, shut the door, then opened it again. He looked at her rather awkwardly. “I don’t suppose,” he said, “you’d like to come for a drink one night?”
“Well,” said Martha, feeling suddenly very uncool indeed, almost flustered, angry with herself for it, “yes, that would be nice. I’m afraid I—well, I’m afraid I work very late quite often.”
“Oh, OK,” he said. “It was just an idea.”
He looked mildly dejected and very awkward.
&
nbsp; “No, I didn’t mean I couldn’t,” she said quickly. “I’d—well I’d like that. But I’m a bit hard to get hold of. That’s all.”
“I’ll try and manage it,” he said and smiled at her. “Cheers. Thanks again.”
“Cheers, Ed. It was my pleasure.”
“And mine.”
He shut the door and loped off, pulling a Walkman out of his rucksack; she felt quite sure she would never see him again. Especially if he was going travelling.
And she started thinking, as she had not allowed herself to do in church, of those first heady days, the ones when it was still all right…
She had decided to go down to the islands after all. After two more days, Bangkok had become claustrophobic, and everyone she met talked about the islands, the beauty of them. What was she doing, missing so important a part of the grand tour?
She travelled down to Koh Samui alone by train overnight. The train had cabins, sleeping six, with small lights; it felt rather colonial, a bit like an economy version of the Orient Express. A uniformed attendant made up the beds and urged them into bed almost as soon as the train left the station. Martha had already eaten—a smiling Thai had taken her order as the train stood at the station and cooked her a delicious meal on the platform—and she lay down obediently and fell asleep almost at once, waking at some time in the middle of the night at Surat Thani where she was transferred by bus to the ferry and a four-hour journey by sea to Koh Samui.
She had made friends on the boat with a girl called Fran who’d been told the best beach was Big Buddha and, for want of any further information, they took the taxi bus there—and felt the world had entirely changed.
Martha never forgot not just her first sight of the long tree-lined sweep of beach but her first feel of it, the soft white sand, the warm air, incredibly sweet after the gritty stench of Bangkok, the tenderly warm, blue-green water. She and Fran found a hut, rather grandly referred to as a bungalow, for two hundred baht a night and thought they would never want to leave it. It had a shower, a veranda, and three beds. Time slowed; they drifted through it.
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