An Enormous Yes

by Wendy Perriam

  Despite the late hour, neither Amy nor Hugo was back from work, so she went up to her flat and, having extracted her suitcase from under the bed, started on the packing. She spent some time selecting her most sexy bra and pants, and a couple of exotic tops; only breaking off when her mobile rang. Felix, probably – he’d said he would phone tonight, to confirm the final arrangements.

  But it turned out to be Carole, ringing from Northumberland – to report on the cottage, no doubt, or on any village gossip or scandal. ‘Hello. How are you, love?’

  ‘Never mind how I am. I’m afraid I have bad news.’

  ‘Not Eddie?’ Maria asked, worried by her serious tone.

  ‘No, Eddie’s indestructible! Look, I don’t know how to tell you this – in fact, I feel almost responsible. I mean, it is my fault in a way, for not having checked on the cottage since last weekend.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’ she asked, with a prickle of alarm.

  ‘There’s … there’s been a break-in, Maria, just a few hours ago. They smashed a window and got in round the back. They’ve taken your Kenwood Chef, I’m sorry to say, and the radio, and your mother’s clock, and that lovely silver photo frame, with the photo of your dad. The worst thing, though, is they’ve made a god-almighty mess – peed all over the place, would you believe, and even pooed, the filthy buggers!’

  Maria leaned against the wall, feeling sick and shaky to think of her mother’s treasures stolen, her home defiled. Never mind the Kenwood – it was pretty old, in any case – but the clock had been her parents’ only wedding gift, and the framed photo of her husband had meant more to Hanna than all her other possessions put together.

  ‘I was about to clear it up, but the police told me to leave everything exactly as it was.’

  ‘Oh, they’ve been already?’ she asked, still finding it near-impossible to digest this shocking news.

  ‘Yes, I called them right away and they were there within the hour. They suspect it’s the work of a group of yobs who’ve been up to no good, apparently. Another house was burgled recently, and the police also found empty beer cans in a hide-out near the river, and needles for injecting drugs. Anyway, they want you to come up as soon as possible, so they can check what else might be missing from the cottage. Obviously, I couldn’t tell them, as I don’t know what’s kept where. But I said it shouldn’t be a problem because I knew you were intending to visit very soon, and that I’d ring you right away. So shall I tell them you’ll be coming up tomorrow?’

  Maria slumped down on the bed, beside the half-packed case; the sexy knickers and lacy bras seeming to deride her now. ‘Yes,’ she said, in a flat, defeated voice. ‘I’ll catch the first train in the morning.’

  Chapter 21

  THE POLICE OFFICER snapped his notebook shut and leaned forward in his chair. ‘Right, Miss Brown, I’ve noted all the details of the items you’ve reported missing, but what I need to do now is—’

  ‘No, wait,’ she said, aware of the catch in her voice. ‘There’s something I haven’t mentioned.’ Desolate about its loss, she hadn’t found the courage, yet, to put it into words. ‘We … we called it our Treasure Box. It wasn’t actually valuable, although it might have seemed so to burglars, because it was carved wood, painted gold, and looked very old and precious.’

  The policeman picked up his pen again. ‘And what did it contain?’

  ‘All my … father’s stuff – everything we had left of him. His Gallantry medal, his letters home from Normandy, photographs, and other letters …’ She paused, fighting for control. She had so little of her father as it was, and had planned to keep the box as a keepsake for her grandchildren. ‘Do you think there’s the slightest chance we might get it back?’

  The officer shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t hold out much hope, Miss Brown.’

  Did he have a father? she wondered: a man who had been there since his birth, watched him grow up, maybe still lived close by; a father so substantial and secure, his son wouldn’t need mementoes to prove he had once existed?

  ‘Do call me Maria,’ she said, suddenly wanting to dispense with the formality, crawl over to his chair and simply curl up on his lap. He looked so solid and dependable; a burly man, too big for the small sitting-room, with a weather-beaten face, strong, capable hands, and kind, blue, crinkly eyes.

  ‘Well, only if you call me Glynn.’ He gave a friendly grin.

  ‘OK,’ she said, although Glynn seemed wrong for him; too effeminate for his broad shoulders and brawny arms, the bristly-dark moustache.

  ‘I’ll keep in touch, of course, and let you know if we find the culprits – or, indeed, the missing items. But, before I go, Maria, I must advise you about security. There are several things you could have done that might have prevented this incident, and which I urge you to do right away, especially as you plan to return to London and leave the house empty again. I suggest you invest in a couple of timers, one for the lights and one for the radio, and programme them to switch on and off at set times – that will give the impression somebody’s at home. And I’d recommend some good, strong window-locks. You could also fix up security lights outside the property. It’s quite lonely round here, on the edge of the village, which makes the place more vulnerable.’

  His words induced another surge of guilt. It was her own carelessness and lack of foresight that had resulted in this outrage. Her mother might be dead but she could well imagine her horror and distress at the thought of the cottage ransacked – even used as a public toilet – and, worse, of Kenneth’s intimate letters now in some vandal’s hands.

  Glynn replaced the notebook in his pocket and rose to his feet, his bulk blocking out the light from the small window. ‘If you need any further help, don’t hesitate to phone. You’ll come through to the central switchboard, but just ask for me – Glynn Cunningham. Here’s my card, and also an information pack on home and personal safety, which I’d like you to study once I’ve gone. And I’ll jot down the crime reference number, too.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, ushering him to the door, which she opened to the full force of the wind, a boisterous south-westerly that swept in a flurry of debris: broken-off twigs, stray wisps of grass and straw.

  ‘Wild weather for June,’ he observed, with a smile, before striding out to his car; head down against the gale.

  Wild, maybe, but apt for Pentecost. Tomorrow’s Whit Sunday Gospel was nudging somewhere in her consciousness – and suddenly there came a sound from heaven, as of a mighty rushing wind – and it struck her, all at once, that perhaps the break-in was a punishment. After all, she had planned to spend the second most important Feast of the Church naked in her lover’s arms, instead of attending Holy Mass.

  Arrant nonsense, Felix would say, but it was impossible for him to fathom the depth of her conditioning; the way her mind was steel-etched with Catholic teaching; her calendar still imprinted with all the Church’s Feasts, its Holy Days of Obligation and Days of Special Prayer, its alternating periods of penitence and jubilation. Still less could he understand her belief that every action had a consequence, and thus loss of faith, or extramarital sex, were bound to bring retribution.

  But why torture herself with thoughts of sin and punishment, when she was already tired and shocked? What she needed was a cup of strong, sweet tea, to help her through the remainder of this long, exhausting day.

  As she walked into the kitchen, she was aware of how small and shabby it looked compared with Amy and Hugo’s. Indeed, since her return here, a few hours ago, she had felt caught between two worlds; no longer seeming to quite belong in either. And the whole cottage brought painful reminders of her mother’s Alzheimer’s. Here, in the kitchen, the cupboards still bore the brightly coloured pictures she had put up years ago, to help Hanna, in the earlier stages of her dementia, remember what was where: a carton of teabags, a jar of Maxwell House, a can of soup, a biscuit tin – all cut from magazines. And she had raided mail-order catalogues to find similar pictures for the bedroom: pho
tos of cardigans and petticoats, stockings, knickers, shoes, which she had stuck on all the appropriate drawers. But, as Hanna slowly deteriorated, even the pictures meant nothing and, later still, she became so frail and befuddled she could no longer enter the kitchen at all, let alone go upstairs. Yet, deliberately, she hadn’t removed the ‘signposts’, for fear it might appear that she wished to oust her mother from the cottage and snatch it for herself. Now, though, she began ripping them down, preferring to remember Hanna in her prime, rather than in her dotage.

  As the front door slammed, she tossed the crumpled pictures into the bin and went out to greet Felix, who looked dishevelled from the wind.

  ‘The car’s fine now,’ he reported, putting down his clutch of bags, so he could give her a quick hug. ‘I checked the tyres in the local garage, filled it up with petrol and oil, and gave it a good run. And, while I was about it, I stocked up with more food to keep us going for the next few days. I know Carole did the basic shopping, but I thought I’d treat us to some goodies. Oh, and I bought you these.’ He rummaged in one of the carriers and drew out a sheaf of flowers. ‘I’m afraid they’re only cheap carnations, but I couldn’t find anything better.’

  ‘They’re gorgeous, Felix, but, honestly, there’s no need for flowers. You’ve done so much already, I just don’t know how to thank you. I mean, coming with me here and having to change the plans, right at the last minute, and running all these errands and—’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Anyone would do it.’

  Not Silas, she thought. He would have gone to Cornwall on his own; left her to cope, alone. ‘Well, the least you deserve is a cup of tea. I’ve just put the kettle on.’

  ‘Fine, but it’ll have to be a quick one. I’m off to Hexham next and I must get there before the shops shut. I reckon I can fix that broken window, so long as I find a glazier who can cut the glass to shape.’

  ‘The only glazier I know of,’ she said, taking the flowers into the kitchen, while he followed with the shopping, ‘is usually out doing emergency repairs, and certainly won’t be open on Saturday afternoon. But, don’t worry, it’s all in hand. While you were out, I phoned this builder’s merchant – someone I’ve used in the past, who knew my mother well – and he’s promised, as a favour, to have the glass ready if I fetch it before five. He’s only a couple of miles from Hexham, so while I’m there I’ll pop along to Argos and get some security lights and time-switches and stuff – you know, to prevent another burglary.’

  ‘I’ll get those – I’m an expert on security. My studio’s so well protected, it’s not far off a fortress! And I can pick up the glass, as well, if you tell me where to go. That’ll save you a journey and I know you’re pretty tired.’

  ‘Felix, you’re a saint, but why should you do all this?’

  He put his arms around her; held her so close she could smell the soap on his skin and feel his prickly jersey pressing into her face. ‘Because I love you, Maria,’ he whispered through her hair. ‘I know I haven’t told you before, but I suddenly feel now’s the time.’

  Stunned, she was reduced to silence; torn between elation and dismay. With so many emotions already churning in her mind, love seemed too complex to add to the curdled mix. In any case, the experience with Silas, so early in her life, had left her almost scared of love; its irrational, all-consuming nature, its close link with obsession. Yet Felix was still passionately embracing her, presumably expecting her to say ‘I love you, too’. Flustered, she kissed him on the mouth to prevent the need for words. Then, tenderly but firmly, she withdrew from his embrace and busied herself with warming the teapot and getting out the cups.

  The awkward silence continued for a moment; broken only by the whistling of the kettle and the soughing of the wind, outside.

  ‘Well, the place certainly smells better now,’ he said, at last, moving bathetically from high romance to the mundane.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, seizing on the change of subject. ‘Carole did a heroic job, but shit-smells tend to linger. So this time I used a really strong disinfectant, which has almost done the trick.’

  ‘Mm, now it smells of pine and poo!’ he laughed.

  Thank God he was so amenable and showed no sign of being hurt by her failure to respond. Although she couldn’t declare her love – not yet, anyway – she could express her gratitude and, once they had moved into the sitting-room, she poured out her thanks again.

  ‘You’ve thanked me twenty times already but, honestly, it was no big deal. Naturally, George was disappointed, but he completely understood and just told me to reschedule any time that suits. Don’t worry, darling, I intend to show you Cornwall one way or another!’

  Relieved that they were back in safer waters, she unstacked the tea-tray and passed him his cup and the plate of shortbread fingers. ‘God, it was so embarrassing, though, having to blurt out all my private life to Hugo. But I didn’t have any choice. I mean, when he offered to drive me up north next morning, I just had to admit your existence and tell him you’d already booked the train tickets. And I’m still worrying about what Amy thinks.’

  ‘But we went over all that on the journey, and I told you then, it’s simply not her business. And, anyway, it still beats me why she should object to your having a sex life.’

  Maria sugared her tea and stirred it meditatively. ‘I suppose it’s a mother-daughter thing. And also to do with my age. I mean, it must seem rather gross to her that I’m still … doing it at sixty-six. I just thanked my lucky stars that she and Hugo were both late back from work, so they were probably too knackered to wonder why I hadn’t told them about you before. And, of course, the whole business of the break-in diverted their attention. It was a dreadful shock for Amy, though. After all, this was her home for twenty years, and she’s obviously concerned about how safe it’ll be in the future.’

  ‘Well, tell her we intend to leave it as impregnable as Fort Knox!’

  Maria nodded vaguely; still focused on her discomfiture last night. ‘And then there was Carole, of course. I felt really awkward having to confess that I’d be coming up with a bloke in tow.’

  ‘So you said on the train.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Felix, I’m boring you.’

  He put a conciliatory hand on her arm. ‘It’s not boring; it’s unnecessary. I mean, that word “confess” makes you sound like a criminal, yet, as I’ve told you over and over, sex is perfectly natural and normal, regardless of your age. And, as for Carole, she couldn’t have been friendlier when she met us at the station.’

  ‘Yes, all she said on the phone was, “Good on you!”, so I guess she can’t have been that bothered.’

  ‘Sensible woman! Anyway, here we are, safe and sound, despite all your fears and worries. Oh, I know there’s a lot of practical stuff to do, but once it’s sorted out we can still enjoy our mini holiday and make glorious love, as we planned.’

  Again, she resorted to silence. He’d been so decent, so supportive, he deserved sex day and night, yet in point of fact she felt not the slightest spark of lust. And it wasn’t just anxiety about Amy’s disapproval; infinitely worse was the thought of making love in what was still her mother’s house, and with her mother’s shade hovering over the bed. Besides, the burglary itself had left her with a sense of violation, hardly conducive to desire. The reek of the vandals’ faeces, still lingering in the air, kept reminding her of all she’d lost – not just her father’s things, but the old, friendly mantel-clock that had ticked out every second of her life. Even her awareness of Pentecost added to her sombre mood. Indeed, the angry wind rampaging round the cottage seemed to threaten further punishment if she dared profane this sacred season with full-throttle, flagrant sex, whatever Felix might say about it being ‘natural and normal’.

  ‘There’s no double bed, I’m afraid,’ she said, at last, and limply.

  ‘Oh, that won’t put me off,’ he laughed. ‘We manage fine in my studio, so why not here as well? But I’d better get off now or Argos will be shut.
’ He jumped to his feet, leaned over her chair and kissed the top of her head. ‘Keep the single bed warm for the minute I get back!’

  ‘Will do,’ she promised, feigning a smile to conceal her deep unease.

  Grappling with the wind, Maria made her way round the back of the cottage, where Felix was still working on the window. His hair was tousled and there were flecks of putty on his hands, but he was whistling cheerfully as he smoothed the edges with the putty-knife.

  ‘Felix, why not call it a day? It’s already ten past eight, and you’ve been slaving since the moment you arrived.’

  ‘It’s almost finished – this stage, anyway. I’ll paint the frame tomorrow, once the putty’s dry. Tell you what, though – be an angel and open that bottle of wine I bought. This is thirsty work and I’m dying for a drink.’

  Once he’d washed and changed, they settled themselves on the sofa, with the bottle of Shiraz and the home-made venison pie Carole had delivered earlier, to save them cooking supper.

  ‘It’s not often I eat venison,’ Felix said, appreciatively. ‘Carole’s certainly done us proud.’

  ‘Well, a friend of hers shoots roe deer on his land and keeps her well supplied and she makes pies for him in return, as well as for herself, of course. She had this one in the freezer, so she only had to defrost it. But, listen, Felix, however busy we are tomorrow, I insist on showing you something of the countryside. The forecast’s surprisingly good. This wind should drop tonight, they say, and there’ll even be some sunshine. So what I suggest is we start out on the Pennine Way, go up to the top of Hareshaw – where there’s a really wonderful view – then make our way back down Hareshaw Linn. The landscape’s pretty impressive, so I’m hoping it’ll inspire you. You might want to make some sketches to develop into a full-scale work in London.’