by Maggie Ford
All Monday she went about the house, content that all was well again and waited for Geoffrey to come home from work. Five thirty came and went. Six o’clock. Seven. Susan, watching the clock, the egg and bacon she’d cooked dried up in her efforts to keep it warm for him, began to seethe afresh. There was no reason for him to have been kept at work. It was obvious he had gone round again to where Emma and the boys still lived with her sister. But there was no birthday to celebrate this Monday. And hadn’t she heard from Geoffrey last week that the youngest would be at a friend’s birthday party this evening and that Percy and Malcolm were going off on a school coach trip to Southend and wouldn’t be home until after seven thirty? And didn’t Emma’s sister do evening work in some nearby pub? If Geoffrey had gone round to Emma’s tonight, he’d really blotted his copybook this time.
Sick at heart, Susan waited, put Trevor to bed and waited some more. It was nearly nine before Geoffrey came in. In the ensuing row, he ducked and dived like mad. He didn’t admit it for one second but Susan knew he had been with Emma, really been with Emma; there was something in the look of him that showed he had. When she accused him outright, his protests were too violent to be true, so she knew he had.
It was then she began to be really frightened, knowing just what she had done and how her life could go. Were he to go back to his wife, what would she have left? Geoffrey’s son – that was all. Suddenly she didn’t want to be left just with Geoffrey’s son. She didn’t want to be the spurned mistress saddled with a baby. She could see it all looming before her like a great yawning canyon. She thought voluntarily of Matthew, for the first time in months. It was then that she wrote a scribbled, frantic letter to Jenny Ross in the hope that she would speak for her to him. Jenny had always been a saviour of lame dogs and desperate souls. She would not fail this desperate soul – for once in her life, Susan waxed poetic as she wrote her letter, then sat back to await the results, which she knew could only be to her advantage. Matthew would have her back in the blink of an eye, still madly in love with her as he was.
Susan rather liked that word, desperate. She said it over and over again to herself as she sealed her letter and went to post it. Her heart, though, still ached for Geoffrey and she prayed he’d have a change of heart and carry on their relationship as though nothing had happened. Then of course there would be no need for Matthew and no harm done because from past knowledge of Jenny, the girl would be very careful how she worded her errand and might even delay it in rehearsing the words she would use to him. There would still be time enough to rescind her plea. After all, Matthew had recovered, hadn’t he? He was no longer the sick and ravaged person she imagined he had been after coming home. Look how he’d belted into poor Geoffrey. Geoffrey, the apparently healthier man, had been unable to defend himself. At the time she had hated Matthew, seeing a savage, embittered, degraded man. But thinking about it, his face, at the time twisted and suffused by fury, had still retained much of that which had attracted her to him that first time. Half crouched in rage as he’d been, he still looked tall and slim, a far cry from the sick wretch she had imagined. Memories of what he had been now flooded back. In time he would become that again and perhaps they would pick up the threads of those beautiful if brief months they’d had together before he’d gone away. She hoped so. That was if her and Geoffrey’s affair was over, which in her heart she hoped was untrue. All she wanted in life was a stable, loving relationship with someone, to be looked after, to be loved, to be given security.
Matthew took little notice of the ringing of the doorbell. He and Dad had not long got up; both were washed and dressed and waiting for their breakfast, the nutty fragrance of toast creeping from the kitchen. He listened idly to his mother going to answer the door. Probably the postman. A parcel perhaps?
‘Matthew. It’s Jenny, here to see you.’
He stood up, curious, as she came in with his mother. She seldom came here on a Wednesday, and never in the morning, never so early, her nurse’s coat, spattered by light, early-morning rain, showing she was in fact on her way to the hospital. She was looking a little strained.
‘Anything wrong?’ His first words showed his concern.
‘I can’t stay. I’m on my way to work.’ She sounded breathless as if she’d been running, but the breathlessness seemed to have something to do as well with the strained look on her face. She was holding an envelope, holding it out in a way that did not exactly ask for it to be taken from her. ‘This arrived for me in the post, but it has to do with you rather than me. I was going to pop it through your letter box but it needs some explanation why it was sent to me and not to you.’
‘Shall I take your coat?’ His mother eyed the rain-spotted garment with concern for her furniture lest Matthew’s visitor sit herself down. Jenny shook her head quickly.
‘I can’t stop.’ She was looking at him, her expression apologetic in a way, her high brow furrowed with concern the way it used to furrow when she had tended him in that first hospital in England.
‘What is it, Jenny?’ He ignored his father, who had also stood up sociably at Jenny’s entrance, and came round the table towards her. Perhaps being nearer she might hand him the letter she said so concerned him.
‘This isn’t possible to break to you gently, Matthew. It’s from your wife. I was supposed to explain, tell you what she wants. I suppose what she is hoping me to do is to …’ She broke off with an impatient tut. ‘Well, read it yourself. I can’t be … I don’t want to be her go-between. It’s nothing to do with me, anyway.’
Thrusting the letter into his hands, she turned and with a little nod and a thank-you to his mother, allowed herself to be conducted out.
Left holding the envelope, he instantly recognised Susan’s laboured handwriting. By the time his mother came back, eager to see what it was all about, he had the letter open, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown.
‘What is it, dear?’
‘As Jenny said,’ his father’s deep voice was deadened by the well-furnished little breakfast room, ‘it’s from Matthew’s wife.’
‘Well, what does she say? What does she want?’
‘She wants to come and see me. I shall have to see her.’
‘Matthew.’
‘I want to hear her say this to my face.’
‘You can’t. You can’t see her. The divorce case …’
‘I have to.’ Screwing the letter up, he thrust it into his trouser pocket and made out of the room.
‘Your breakfast,’ she called after him, but received no reply.
The night he’d attacked Crawley, his first glimpse of her in years had been a fleeting, distorted one, seen through a mist of rage. Now as he opened the door to her knock, she stood before him, as he remembered she had done years before that, still with the same petite build, the same blue eyes wide and timid. Perhaps she looked a fraction more mature but still vulnerable and unsure of herself, prompting a natural reaction in others to take her under their wing.
‘I got your letter telling me to come here,’ she began tremulously. ‘I’m glad you wanted to see me.’
He didn’t smile. He dared not. He stepped back to let her in and she followed him into the sitting room like a small, subdued dog at his heels. He closed the door and they stood facing each other in the filtered light of a drab September afternoon. The room was very quiet. They were alone, his mother reluctantly and full of disapproval of his request leaving them to themselves. It occurred to him that he hadn’t yet asked Susan to sit down, but to do so would be an acceptance of her and he was wary of betraying how he felt looking at her. Seeing her again had resurrected that surge of adoration the sight of her had always brought and it alarmed him.
To cover the discomposure her nearness aroused, he said stiffly: ‘You said in your letter you weren’t happy.’
She nodded, catching the fuller part of her lower lip briefly between her small teeth, an endearing little habit that had always stirred his emotions to see. Matthew clenched his
hands against them.
‘So what did you want from me?’
She came forward a fraction, a small movement of appeal to that love he’d once had for her, an attempt to awaken it if it now slept. She couldn’t know how easily the single movement could awaken it, for its sleep had never been total. Her eyes were glistening.
‘I’m so sorry, Matthew, for everything I’ve done. I know I was wrong, but you were so far away and I didn’t know if you was … oh, Matthew.’
Tears had begun trickling gently down her cheeks. He was in danger of being disarmed by them. He didn’t want to look at them, so lowered his eyes, remembered all the crying he too had done; the pain remembered was becoming insufferable.
‘Matthew, don’t turn away. Look at me. I’m sorry. I really am.’
Now he looked up, surprised at his own reaction. What did she expect of him? That he’d take her in his arms, soothe away all the sorrow she was displaying, tell her it was all right, that he forgave her and wanted only to take her back as though nothing had happened? His whole being cried out that that was what he wanted to do. He felt his lip curl contemptuously with the knowledge of how easily he might, contempt for himself that he knew how close he was. But he had grown embittered. Her tears, they weren’t for him. She wasn’t hurting for him, only for herself, had always only ever thought of herself.
Rationality seemed to spear through his body, but its searing pain was his only salvation. He kept hearing Jenny saying, ‘It’s nothing to do with me.’ But it was everything to do with her, rationality, security, trust. He could trust Jenny. He could never trust Susan – ever again.
When he did speak his voice seemed to be conveying every vestige of that agony spearing him. It was an effort to talk at all.
‘I’m sorry too, Susan. I can’t … I can’t have you back. I know I can’t. You see …’ He stopped as her eyes opened wide with terror. His immediate instinct was to grab her to him to stop that awful look of desolation. Fighting it, he shut his own eyes so as not to see how she was looking at him.
‘I need to trust someone,’ he heard himself saying. With an effort he pulled himself together, willed himself to look at her while trying to keep the mirror of his soul closed to her. It made his stare harder than he intended. He saw her shrink back a little, the gesture almost destroying his resolve until he remembered again the agony she had caused him over the years of wanting her.
‘You see,’ he began again. ‘It wouldn’t be any good – not now.’
‘Matthew, no!’
He pushed on, ignoring the cry. ‘The first sign of anything not going your way, any inconvenience, any outside temptation, and you’d be off again. It’s not your fault. It’s how you are. When we married, I’d no idea. All I knew was I loved you, adored you, thought you could do no wrong, that you were perfect. But it wasn’t enough, was it? I couldn’t hold you. I’ll never be able to hold you.’
She had been gazing up at him, the dawning of what he was saying growing apparent in her gaze, but her protest came in a wail of disbelief. ‘I don’t know what you’re saying, Matthew. I know I was wrong. I am sorry. I’ll make it up to you. I will. I still love you. I’ll make everything up to you.’
He wanted to counter, ‘What about Crawley?’ But that would be dragging it down to the level of a slanging match. Suddenly he wanted to be rid of her. He was beginning to feel unsteady, shaky, a dull nausea in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to sit down but he dared not.
‘I want you to go.’ His voice sounded hoarse, strangled.
‘Matthew …’ Her eyes suddenly hardened, narrowed with suspicion. ‘Is it someone else?’ He almost laughed. ‘It’s that Jenny Ross. You’ve fallen in love with her, haven’t you? You don’t want me now.’
He didn’t reply. Every word she said seemed to be driving her further from him. He couldn’t believe that he could ever not be in love with her. It would hover inside him, a small devil, to the end of his days ready to resurrect itself the second his guard was lowered. But at this moment he was merely beginning to feel sickened. That she could say Jenny’s name with such contempt! Jenny could make six of her, ever willing to take on his burden of fears, his indecisions, and not complain. Yet his fear was that he’d burden her too much, more than she could stand. Not for himself, but for her. Was that true love? If it was, then Susan paled into insignificance beside it.
‘I might’ve known.’ Her words pierced through his thoughts, her tone contemptuous, covering the fear that consumed her.
He blinked. ‘I think you’d better go, Susan. Back to Crawley – try to make the best of it. You can use your charm on him, Susan. You know how to do that, don’t you? You’re good at it. He won’t be able to resist. As I once couldn’t. You’ll be all right. You’ll always be all right.’
Bitterness rose up inside him without bidding, like some other self. He was astounded by his own words, their harshness. All at once the past had become another country. He held her look of disbelief, aware that his was arid.
She took a step or two towards him, her expression still one of abject pleading, but his arid stare remained a wall of glass. Realisation began to dawn on her and she gave a small defeated sob, turning from him like a rabbit released from a car’s headlights. She had no idea how near she had come to shattering that fragile barrier.
Making blindly for the door, her sob breaking into full-blown weeping, she pulled it open, fleeing past his mother whom he saw standing just beyond. A bitter grin twisted his lips that she had been there listening to it all.
‘She’s gone then?’ The stiff statement reached his hearing, but he found himself incapable of answering her. What in hell’s name had he done? Susan had been in his grasp and he’d thrust her away. For a moment there came an urge to run after her, but he let the moment pass.
Chapter 30
It was the dim light of October making her feel low. The days had begun rapidly to shorten, the promise of a long winter already dulling the sky. It had to be; people were usually affected by the weather. Even so, she should have felt brighter than this. After all, Matthew was now a free man.
Jenny looked across the dinner table at her mother. ‘Matthew Ward’s divorce came through last week, did you know?’
Mrs Ross smiled as she chewed, her fork engaged in selecting a piece of potato. ‘He should feel easier now. I suppose you do too.’
Jenny’s knife and fork lay idle each side of her plate, although she gripped them as though gripping a pair of lifelines. ‘I suppose I do in a way.’
‘You and he might spend more time with each other.’
‘We already do.’
‘You know what I mean.’ Her mother hadn’t once lifted her eyes from her plate. Jenny knew exactly what she meant. It was a pity Matthew didn’t.
For days he had been moping indoors. Off duty this weekend, she’d gone over to his house yesterday, been heartily welcomed in by his parents, invited to stay for a bit of tea with them. But seeing Matthew’s obdurate expression of moodiness, his apparent lack of joy at seeing her, wrapped up as he was in his own sullen grief of his lost marriage, she had felt a flush of anger at him and excused herself, saying she didn’t want to leave her mother on her own on a Saturday night.
She hadn’t gone across today at all. He could stew in his own morass of misery if that was what he wanted. Of course she ached to see him but she was no longer prepared to be his whipping boy whenever he felt like it. She had made up her mind about that. He was free now. Divorced. Nothing he could do about it. It was up to him to get on with his life. But she wished she was included in that life, and still had no idea whether she was or not.
‘I’m sure I don’t know what he’s going to do,’ she said to her mother, a little sharply.
‘Are you going to see him after dinner?’
A ring of the doorbell interrupted an awkward denial. Jenny leapt up from the table. ‘I’ll go.’
She left her mother murmuring that she couldn’t think who that could be on
such an overcast Sunday afternoon and hurried to the door.
For a split-second her mind wouldn’t work, having a problem placing the face. But already the name had burst from her lips in disbelief.
‘Ronald!’
He looked awkward, a man faintly aged since she had last seen him. ‘I remembered your address,’ he began. ‘I was going to write, but I was in the vicinity, attending a medical seminar, and I thought before going home I’d look you up. Hope you didn’t mind.’
She could only stare at him. ‘Er … no.’
He gave her a somewhat silly grin, slightly apologetic. ‘I was at a bit of a loose end.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m a free agent, you see. Nothing to rush back home for. Of course there’s surgery in the morning, but it only takes a few hours in the car to get back to Bath, so I thought why not look up an old friend?’
‘Oh.’
‘My marriage broke up,’ he continued by way of explanation for his unexpected appearance.
Jenny heard her mother’s voice filter faintly from the dining room. ‘Who is it, dear?’
Hastily she called back over her shoulder. ‘An old friend, Mumsy.’
‘Well, ask her to come in, dear. Don’t let her stand on the doorstep.’
Jenny ignored the invitation but any moment her mother would come to see why.
‘Look,’ she said quickly, lowering her voice so that Mumsy wouldn’t hear. ‘Can you wait outside while I get my coat?’ Somehow she didn’t want to go through lots of introductions and explanations to Mumsy. ‘We can take a walk and you can tell me about yourself and why you’re here.’
He was looking embarrassed. ‘Perhaps I’d better go, Jenny. I didn’t mean to …’
‘No,’ she cut in. ‘I’ll only be a tick. I’d like to know how you are.’ After all, it was only polite. She couldn’t turn him away.
She closed the door, gently so as not to seem rude, and hurried back along the hall. She felt flustered, not from renewed affection but by the fact that Matthew might have seen him at the door. Silly really – it could have been anyone. But he might see her walking with Ronald. What would he think? She felt suddenly unaccountably rebellious. What the hell did it matter what he thought?