One Day in May

by Catherine Alliott

  He shrugged, ‘Found it in the bookcase.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  Yes, and one glance at the inside cover confirmed that it was indeed mine: my name in a flamboyant hand in violet ink, when I was going through an exotic phase: ‘Harriet Carrington, 1989.’

  I’d bought it because Hal had recommended it to me. Me, the English student, him being Law, had introduced me to Marvell’s ‘Coy Mistress’, as he had to Bach, and cooking with herbs and garlic, and would have done to so much more. So much more I hadn’t accepted: had shut the door on. I shut the book now, deliberately losing Seffy’s place.

  ‘That Ali G film’s on later. Shall I order us in a takeaway and we can watch it together?’

  ‘Borat. No, it’s OK, I’ve seen it. And I’m not that hungry. I’m going upstairs.’

  And up he went, trailing long ripped jeans, showing plenty of boxer shorts and taking the love poems with him.

  ‘He’s fifteen!’ I hissed down the phone to Maggie later.

  ‘Well, gosh, how lovely, that’s great, isn’t it? Not only does my godson have a great brain, but a wonderful sensitive side too.’

  ‘You don’t think it means he’s at it?’ I chewed the inside of my lip. Shut my eyes tight.

  There was a censorious pause. ‘No, I don’t think it means he’s At It,’ she said drily. ‘And don’t you bloody well read his diary, either.’

  ‘No, no, I won’t,’ I breathed, ashamed.

  And then did the equivalent. Maggie, childless, wasn’t to know this meant Facebook, which, I discovered, I could make neither head nor tail of: lots of teenagers waving their arms and sticking their tongues out. After a sweaty twenty minutes or so, glancing constantly over my shoulder in case he came down, I gave up. But then – oh, Hattie, how low can you go? – his phone. Which he’d left on the sofa as he’d dripped upstairs with his book. I pounced on it. Glanced furtively upstairs. Then tapped into his messages.

  A couple from his friend Will at school: ‘Bad luck, mate, could happen to anyone.’ Another: ‘Yeah, Davis is stressed, but then Davis is a dick.’ This, a reference to the master in charge of the fated trip.

  Then one from my father detailing pick-up arrangements – the wonderful texting grandpa – ending with, ‘All love, my boy, and chin up’ which made my eyes fill. Then nothing more.

  I lowered the phone. Breathed again. Dropped it quickly back on the sofa, feeling like a heel. I walked smartly to the kitchen, hands tucked under my armpits as if to balm where I’d touched the phone – burned them.

  Of course, he could have deleted any messages from her, I thought feverishly later, as I washed up a solitary bacon and egg pan. Seffy hadn’t emerged, even though I’d deliberately billowed doors to waft the bacon smell upstairs. He could have erased her from the memory bank, but he’d be more likely to erase Will and Dad, surely, and keep a sweet missive from a girl? A girl, who, I told myself as I dried my hands, was firmly locked up in her all-girls’ boarding school. Just as Seffy, after this coming weekend, was once again locked in his. Quite.

  I glanced at the clock, ticking too audibly in this empty kitchen, which suddenly had a stagnant, old-lady feel to it. The dishcloth neatly folded over the taps: the single plate and knife and fork drying on the draining board, not enough to trouble the dishwasher. And I never minded that usually, because I knew Seffy was always coming back. That soon we’d be two, or many more, with his friends. But tonight I glanced up towards his unusually silent bedroom; tonight something cold crept over my soul and I had that horrid feeling again, the one I’d had in the French hotel bedroom. The one about being alone.

  It was only ten o’clock and normally I’d watch the news and then go to bed, but it was one thing to watch it alone because your boy is at school, and another to watch it alone because he’s in, but doesn’t want to be with you. Which I suddenly knew, with a sharp intake of breath, was the reality. Feeling something like physical pain, I sat down and bent double. My head was low and my hands clenched as if in prayer, but my eyes wide and staring.

  After a bit, I sat up straight. Breathed deeply to compose myself. Then I flicked off the lights, and went to bed.

  Friday night, for both of us, I felt, couldn’t come quickly enough. We were bidden to Laura’s for the shooting weekend, and yet again the shop was to be left in Christian’s capable hands. Yet again I wondered what on earth Maggie and I would do when his arthritis really did incapacitate him and we had to find someone else to hold the fort. Who? Who could we call upon at a moment’s notice and say – could you do this weekend and then nothing for a month, but maybe three days in November? Oh, and then a couple of weekends? And who else would be so pleased and proud about it, as Christian was when Seffy and I popped in to drop off the keys at his home in Munster Road, en route to Laura’s?

  ‘And don’t feel you have to open dead on nine thirty, Christian. We all know no one buys antiques in London till midday.’

  ‘We all know malheureusement, no one buys antiques at all any more in London. Too busy going to crappy Ikea. But I open normalement. On the dot as usual. Ça va, my boy?’ This, together with a beaming smile and embrace for Seffy, who’d got out of the car to join me on the doorstep.

  ‘Ça va, Christian,’ grinned Seffy, instantly enveloped in a breath-squeezing, rib-crushing bear hug, which normally we’d exchange an amused grin about, but not today, I noticed.

  ‘You come and see me soon and we get that GLC French around your belt, hm? I, Christian Dupont, will teach you more than any fool inexpérimenté teacher, yes?’

  ‘I will,’ promised Seffy. ‘I’d like that,’ he added truthfully.

  Seffy spent a lot of time with his godfather, often choosing to help him in the shop if I wasn’t about. I’d arrive back from a commission in the holidays and find them in the back room together, putting the world to rights, smoking furiously – Christian, I hope.

  ‘And you notice I not ask you why you at home in term time?’ he asked with a twinkle in his eye as we kissed him goodbye and turned to go.

  Seffy turned back, grinned. ‘Yeah, I did notice that. Thanks.’

  ‘Is because I know it’s a long story. And maybe not one for your mother.’ He winked as we got in the car.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, Christian. I know all there is to know,’ I assured him breezily from the window as I started the engine.

  ‘So you think,’ he nodded thoughtfully, keeping his eye on Seffy. ‘But I not so sure.’

  We waved goodbye, but this last remark had the effect of making me breathe more shallowly. My lips tightened as we addressed the predictably heavy Friday afternoon traffic and headed for Hammersmith roundabout.

  ‘Christian’s very French, isn’t he?’ I said airily to my son as we finally achieved it. ‘He thinks any red-blooded fifteen-year-old boy has only one thing on his mind!’

  Seffy shrugged. Looked out of his window at the passing shops.

  ‘Thinks, just because he was chasing girls down boulevards on his Vespa at your age, so are you!’

  He turned back to me slowly: cold eyes letting me dig my hole.

  ‘Thinks everyone is – you know – at it.’ Those ghastly words again. The eyes stayed on me. Watchful. Hateful, almost. I felt prickly with fear. Reacted violently.

  ‘Seffy, it is both rude and intimidating to employ the Death Stare that you young people are so fond of, so kindly cut it out!’

  From friendly banter to vituperation in seconds flat. He turned away. But I wasn’t finished. I would draw him out.

  ‘Seffy – would you please answer me!’

  He came back to me. Under hooded eyes sent me a long flat stare. Then he shrugged. ‘What? I have no idea what you want me to say. You think Christian has a dirty mind. I disagree. I think he has a fine, astute mind.’ It was said lightly, evenly, but it had the effect of rendering my breath even shorter. My tongue flicked out to moisten my lips.

  ‘Right. Well. How marvellous. Christian’s a smart man. Bully for him. Let’s l
eave it at that then, shall we? Unless you’ve got anything else to add?’ Silence. ‘Right, well, then I suggest we do.’

  Rattled, I swung into the empty bus lane, ignoring dire warnings of cameras recording my every move, and with the eye of London Transport and God’s too, no doubt, upon me, lurched off into the traffic.

  Laura was clearly in a Friday night flap when we arrived. She had a shoot dinner for twenty-six that evening, which she loathed. Hugh had gone to collect the girls, but Charlie’s school didn’t have an exeat so he wasn’t allowed out, which she also loathed. Particularly when Charlie knew his sisters were home.

  ‘Why do we send them away at eight?’ she wailed when she’d greeted us in the hall. Seffy trooped off to the playroom to watch the television. ‘What is the point? To make little men of them? To meet the right people, or something equally crapulous?’

  I hadn’t, with Seffy, but knew Hugh had quietly insisted with Charlie. And since he rarely insisted on anything, Laura had given in. But as she wiped her eyes and blew her nose, I knew it was the greatest and hardest expression of her love for Hugh. I suspect he knew it too.

  ‘Charlie’s fine, you said so yourself,’ I soothed, giving her a hug. ‘Having a ball. Rioting in the dorms, in all the teams – loving every minute of it.’

  ‘Boarding school mothers always say that,’ she said miserably. ‘So no one can accuse them of being a heartless witch. If I said my baby loathes being away from home and cries down the phone to me you’d say, well, what the bloody hell are you up to, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘And if I said every male in Hugh’s family since the Domesday Book has gone away to school at eight and I didn’t have any choice, I’d go from witch to doormat in moments.’

  I sighed.

  ‘Anyway,’ she sniffed, ‘I might drive across on Sunday, and just spring him. Tell them I need my boy for the day and that’s that.’ She stuffed her hanky up her sleeve. Gave another almighty sniff. ‘You didn’t bring yours then? Speaking of boys.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ivan. I sent you an email since you never answer your phone. I thought you might like to ask him down this weekend.’

  ‘Oh!’

  A few weeks ago I’d have been thrilled. Touched she’d taken him seriously, delighted to be in a position to ask. But… would he have come? To meet the family? In my heart I knew the answer. Could see the amused gleam in his smokey grey eyes. ‘What – meet the parents? I thought we said we wouldn’t do that?’

  ‘Um, no,’ I mumbled to her now, turning to mount the stairs with my luggage. ‘But, thanks. He’s busy this weekend.’

  We had said that, months ago when Ivan and I had first met. On that first, sexy, steamy night, after a dinner party at my friend Eliza’s house where I’d sat next to him, then dragged him, literally, back to my place. Over breakfast in bed, we’d established some ground rules. I didn’t want to meet his pretty young mum in the patisserie in Soho, whom I imagined was probably about my age, and he didn’t want to meet my ageing Ps in their smart house in Primrose Hill. This was to be a fun, frivolous relationship with no strings attached, and we’d cemented the deal with another bout of frenzied lovemaking.

  We’d also decided no texting during the working day. I didn’t want that silly schoolgirl heart thump when the phone vibrated in my pocket, and he was delighted not to go through the motions he felt obliged to do with younger women. That’s not to say my heart didn’t still leap when he rang in the evenings or at weekends, so with that in mind, these last few days, I’d gone one step further. I’d turned the whole blinking lot off. The answer machine was on permanently at home, the mobile was off, and I only answered my work phone when I could see who was calling. One or two clients had commented in surprise, ‘I did try your mobile’ but no business was lost, and on the whole, life went on. The world, I discovered, continued to rotate on its axis. No one died. But I hoped, as a consequence, that whatever Ivan felt for me, which I knew to be largely sexual, would dwindle. I hoped he’d take the hint. So that when I eventually told him – as of course I would; I knew the rules – the deed, effectively, would already have been done.

  He’d rung my landline once – left a breezy message. Rung the shop too, left a similar one there. I hadn’t exactly been inundated, though. And I must admit, I’d expected a bit more. But as I sat on the edge of Laura’s spare room bed and finally allowed myself to turn on my mobile, as I’d promised myself I would when I was away from Lonely Old Home and could trust myself, a few hours before a smart dinner party, not to ring him back, my hands, I noticed, trembled slightly.

  I knew my inbox would overfloweth. It did indeed. With all manner of people – work, friends, Laura, as she’d said – but only one from Ivan.

  ‘Ring me when you’re about.’

  I stared. Looked at the date. Four days ago. Well, that said it all, didn’t it? I raised my eyes slowly to the pale green silk, stretched across the walls on batons, which I dimly recognized as being a nice touch by Mr de Granville. Casual, nonchalant, offhand. Hardly renting his hair. I realized I was severely taken aback. Downright shocked. I absolutely knew we hadn’t been a serious item, nothing special, with no longevity inherent; knew, when I took up with Ivan, I was dipping my toe in the peripatetic London singles scene, but I hadn’t realized quite how disposable I’d be. But then again, that was what I’d wanted, wasn’t it? It made the split so much easier for me. Which was marvellous.

  I got up off the bed, quelling the lump in my throat. I put my things mechanically in drawers: hung up my dress for tonight. Then I went quickly downstairs, in search of company.

  I found Laura running through the front hall to the dining room. She was bent double clutching a huge pile of plates, looking harassed.

  ‘Bastards,’ she muttered. as she went.

  ‘Who?’ My voice was tinny.

  She stopped, turned, wild-eyed. ‘Oh. The bloody bin men. They come on a Friday, but if I forget to take the rubbish to the bottom of the drive, they won’t come up. Now I’ve got a fortnight of stinking ordure waiting to greet my guests in all their finery tonight.’

  ‘But surely it’s round the back?’

  ‘Trust me, the slightest breeze and it’s round the front. They’ll be asphyxiated on the spot. I’ll be scraping them off the doorstep. I’ll have to take it all down to the tip.’ She hurried on to the dining room.

  ‘I’ll go, if you like.’

  She stopped. Turned back. ‘Oh, Hattie, would you?’ Relief cleared her face. ‘But you’ve just driven all the way from London.’

  ‘It’s fine, I’d like something to do.’ True. ‘Just tell me where to go.’

  ‘Maybe Seffy could go with you?’

  ‘No, no, don’t worry,’ I said quickly, ‘I’ll go on my own.’ I strode off towards the back door. Really on my own. No Ivan now, no Seffy… no. That way madness lay. Breathe. Just breathe. ‘Where do I go, Laura?’

  ‘I’d ask Maggie,’ she was saying, following me to the back door, ‘but she’s gone to collect Kit. His car’s broken down again.’

  ‘She’s still here?’ I was feeling raw, and couldn’t keep the incredulity from my voice. Disingenuous too, for I knew. Had spoken to Maggie – had obviously spoken to my business partner. But I realized I’d wanted to say it. Say something harsh.

  ‘Oh. Yes.’ Laura looked flustered. ‘Just finishing off, and she’s been invaluable. Such a help with this party, doing the flowers and everything, and I asked her because I felt it was a way of thanking her – and you, of course – for a job well done.’ She regarded me anxiously.

  I was such a cow. Trying to make my sister feel guilty for still housing my friend, when for years it was what I’d wanted? What was wrong with me?

  I gladly buried my face in my handbag, delving for my car keys.

  Outside, I helped her heave the shiny black bags into the boot of my car, thinking I might just drive it into a handy ditch, or a wall. Have done with everything. Go t
o the devil, as well as the tip. Instead, minutes later, I was bouncing down the back drive with five huge sacks of rubbish as baggage, which, I felt, was entirely appropriate.

  As I drove I narrowed my eyes to the sunset. I remembered him watching me over the balcony: Ivan, I mean. Bare-chested, cigarette dripping from his hand as I scurried off to the ferry. Amused, chilled. An expression that reminded me… yes, of Seffy’s, in the car. And something else too… pity. I froze. Clenched the wheel. That I didn’t need. From anyone. I was the one who needed to grow up. I was the fool. A thumping great one. A meal ticket too. I swallowed: put my foot on the accelerator and roared down the lane. And as the saying went, there was no fool like an old fool.

  The tip, when I reached it, was empty. It also threatened to be on the point of closure, according to an angry notice in red capitals warning six o’clock sharp and no later. There was no one about to enforce this, though, so I drove on through the menacing spiked gates and parked. Then I set about the glamorous task of heaving the heavy bags of rubbish out of the boot, across the yard, up the flight of steps, and throwing them over into the vast skip. Yuk, yuk and yuk. Face screwed, I tossed the last one in. Laura was right. Two weeks in the sun had rendered the contents ripe, rank, and threatening to spew. Even though nothing had actually split, I couldn’t wait to get back and wash my hands. But as I got back in my car, I witnessed one of those moments that, in retrospect, you really wish you hadn’t. Wished that you’d arrived ten minutes earlier, or later, so the quandary wasn’t yours.

  A frail, white-haired couple, beige clothes flapping around thin limbs, were struggling up the steps, fresh from their Nissan Cherry, a huge bag of rubbish between them. They’d managed to get it to the top of the steps, but couldn’t raise the muscle, or the energy, to throw it over into the skip. They tried again, failed. Discussed. The old lady stood back to let him try alone, as instructed. Still no good. I could bear it no longer. Taking the keys from the ignition, I got out, nipped up the steps in my stripy Converse shoes, and aware of a vicarious thrill of now being comparatively young, as opposed to comparatively old, muscled in with a breezy, ‘Here, let me.’ In a trice I’d taken the sack from their bony hands, and like a chieftain in some Highland Games display, swung it, and hurled it, so it sailed right out to the middle of the skip. Along with my car keys. Which had also been in my hand.