Left and Leaving

by Jo Verity

  Once home, he heated a bowl of mulligatawny soup in the microwave and checked his email. Janey had written demanding to know why he hadn’t got back to Polly. ‘She’s in pieces waiting to hear what you think. What are you trying to do to her? Don’t you care?’

  He was on the point of firing off a reply – ‘Where the hell were you when she was deciding to keep this baby? D’you think it’s a good idea for her to be lumbered with a child?’ But what would that do to Polly if she got a sight of it? And Janey just might make sure she did.

  He took a beer from the fridge and re-read his daughter’s email. She not only expected him to be delighted that she was pregnant but she was also suggesting that he return to Australia, blatantly using his mother’s age and frailty as leverage. It was a big ask and it had come out of the blue. She might be fretting at his silence but it was barely thirty-six hours since he’d received her ultimatum. ‘Don’t bother getting back to me unless you have something nice to say.’ He needed time to think this through because he had to get it right.

  Gil had always made his own decisions and own mistakes. He couldn’t deny that he’d been a flaky dad, yet he’d managed, somehow, to do enough not to alienate his children. He’d been delighted and surprised when Polly had mentioned, six months ago, that she wanted to come to London next summer. He accepted that it probably had more to do with having somewhere to stay on her European travels than missing him, but it proved that she didn’t think he was a complete waste of space. He’d hoped that, spending time with him in London, seeing him in his new habitat, would go some way to validate his decision to come here. But now this.

  Agony Aunt crap wasn’t his forté but he was being pressed for an instant decision on a vital issue. It would be good to talk it through with someone who would understand.

  Feray knew more about him than anyone in the northern hemisphere. When they’d become lovers it had seemed only fair to let her know what she was taking on and, by the same token, she’d told him that her ex-husband had treated her badly and left her mistrustful of men. She’d refused to elaborate but she’d mentioned his foul temper.

  She was his obvious choice as confidante. They’d been together for a couple of years now and it had been good for both of them. They’d agreed, right from the beginning, it would be foolish to look too far ahead but any decisions he made concerning the future couldn’t fail to affect her. Could he suddenly ask her whether he should pack up and head to the other side of the world? It wasn’t fair to dump it on her and expect her to be objective. It would be cruel to get her agitated when nothing might change.

  Who else was there? Kevin? Mmmm. Perhaps not. In fact, definitely not. Mention a baby and, in his post-natal condition, Kevin would start sobbing and book him on the next flight to Brisbane.

  Gil wasn’t short of acquaintances – mates, male and female, with whom he could share an evening at the pub or a curry or a gig. He thought of these as his ‘here and now’ friends. They knew him as the laid-back Aussie bloke who enjoyed a night out once in a while. And that was all they needed to know. All he wanted them to know.

  He finished his beer, shucked off his shoes and stretched out on the bed. Having ruled out the ‘phone a friend’ option he had no choice but to mail Polly, tell her he loved her and explain that he needed more time to get his head around her news. She’d doubtless take his procrastination as a negative response but he’d have to take that chance.

  Vivian Carey flashed into his mind. Now there was one cool woman. She’d been – or appeared to have been – unfazed by last night’s mayhem. While all around her were going to pieces, she’d made notes. He had to hand it to her. It had been good of her to offer Irene a bed too, although he was sure the idea hadn’t crossed her mind until he’d mentioned it. Maybe he’d give her a call. Check how she was making out. She’d done that ‘phone me’ thing when they parted company in Camden Town and she didn’t strike him as the sort who did anything unless she meant it.

  He heaved himself up and switched on the lamp. His jacket was on the floor where he’d dumped it. Scooping it up, he rooted through the pockets until he found the paper napkin inscribed with her number. He checked the time on his mobile. Six-thirty. He thumbed in the digits, not sure what he was going to say if she answered, not even sure why he was phoning.

  ‘Yes?’ Her voice was neutral

  ‘Hi. It’s Gil.’ He paused, giving her time to process the information. ‘From last night?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘You did actually.’

  ‘Sorry. I was just wondering how you’re feeling today.’

  ‘Tired. Jittery.’

  She used words sparingly as though she thought they were a commodity not to be frittered away and it was impossible to gauge whether she was pleased or annoyed to get his call.

  ‘Did you go to work in the end?’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘How did it go with Irene?’

  ‘It went.’

  ‘As a matter of fact she rang me at lunchtime. She suggested we three get together for a coffee sometime,’ he said. ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘I’ve had enough of Irene but I’d like to have coffee with you.’

  From most women this might have sounded like a come on but from Ms Carey it sounded no more or less than the truth.

  9

  Next day, when Vivian suggested they get on with sorting out the Cologne trip, Howard insisted on leaving it until the following week. Ottilie kept foisting cups of coffee on her and asking if she ‘fancied anything to eat’. Ralph offered to give her a lift home although it was miles out of his way. Everyone at the Elephant House treated her as if she were recuperating from an acute illness. Their relentless consideration irritated her. She neither expected nor needed this pastoral care and she was thankful when it was the end of the day.

  Vivian and Nick had spoken several times since his return from Manchester. In the course of these conversations she’d given him a fairly full account of Wednesday evening. She hoped that, having satisfied his curiosity, they could put the incident behind them but when he arrived at her flat on Saturday morning with a bouquet of lilies she feared that he, too, was going to treat her like an invalid.

  ‘God. A few more seconds and…’ He hugged her and she wanted to hit him.

  She was searching for a tall vase for the lilies – had he forgotten how much she disliked their cloying scent and unnatural perfection? – when he came into the kitchen holding up a postcard card, the text in its centre surrounded with a wreath of roses and forget-me-nots.

  ‘“I am the way, the truth and the life.” He pulled a face. ‘What are you doing with this sentimental tat?’

  ‘Irene left it for me. It’s scratch-and-sniff.’

  He drew his thumbnail across the card and held it to his nose. ‘Phew. That’s rank. You assured me she wasn’t a weirdo.’

  Vivian pictured Irene, waving a bandaged hand as she disappeared down the escalator. She’d intended consigning the mawkish object to the bin but Nick’s suggestion that anyone with religious conviction and poor taste was deranged seemed arrogant and callous.

  ‘She’s not a weirdo,’ she said, pinning the tract to the notice board, making a big thing of getting it perfectly straight. ‘She’s lonely. Devout. Sad, I suppose. That doesn’t make her weird.’

  ‘Maybe not.’ He folded his arms. ‘So what was the guy like? The one who was with you?’

  ‘Like? Oh, I don’t know. Australian. Middle-aged. Thoughtful.’

  ‘A good match for your Irene, perhaps.’ His comment was unnecessary and tinged with spite.

  Making out that Irene was weird was one thing but she couldn’t have Nick sniping at the man who, spotting that she was going to faint, had given her his crisps. ‘Actually, he’s rather interesting. He’s a medical photographer. I liked him.’

  Maybe sensing that it was unwise to continue on this tack, he changed the subject. ‘What does your fath
er make of it? He must be relieved you weren’t hurt.’

  ‘What is this? The third degree?’ She glared at him. ‘If you must know, I haven’t told him.’

  He looked surprised. ‘Don’t you think you should?’

  Her father would certainly have heard about the explosion by now but, as it had no bearing on his life (his criterion for assessing the relevance of anything) he wouldn’t give it a second thought. What was the point in telling him she’d been there? He’d simply get steamed up which would do his blood pressure no good at all. Worse still, it would give him the perfect excuse to vent his racial prejudices.

  ‘Why?’ she said.

  He held up his hands in submission. ‘Only asking.’

  Overnight, clear skies had given way to racing clouds and, although the thermometer had risen, a raw wind was blowing from the east. Despite the weather, they wrapped up warm, deciding to go ahead with their planned visit to the Heath, Vivian hoping that a brisk walk might dispel her restiveness.

  For the past few days her appetite had deserted her and she’d been getting by on coffee and toast, but by the time they’d stomped up Haverstock Hill she was famished and they stopped at The Coffee Cup for brunch. A copy of the Daily Mail had been left on the window sill and, while they waited for their omelettes, she flicked through it. On page two there was an interview with a ‘survivor of Wednesday’s atrocity’, a certain Irene Tovey, who praised (and named) her ‘two guardian angels’.

  ‘Are they allowed to do that? Without getting my permission?’ she said.

  ‘Aren’t you being a bit naive? Look, Vivian, I honestly think you should talk to your father. He’s going to find out that you were there and he won’t be happy that you kept it from him.’

  ‘Dad doesn’t read the Mail.’

  He squeezed her hand. ‘Maybe not. But I bet his neighbours do.’

  Vivian wasn’t surprised that Irene had talked to the press. It was clear that the woman craved attention, something the journos would have latched onto straight away.

  She sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right. I’ll go down and see him tomorrow.’

  She glanced at Nick, expecting him to look disappointed and to reveal that he’d planned something special for their weekend. At the very least to offer to go with her but all he said was, ‘Good idea.’

  Almost as soon as they got onto the Heath, it began raining, icy raindrops slanting down, numbing Vivian’s cheek and dripping off her waterproof onto her jeans. The paths were fast becoming etched with miniature rivulets, the backs of her jeans splattered with mucky grey shale flicked up by her boots. Only dog walkers and joggers were committed enough to be out here in the numbing wind. They marched on, up towards Kenwood House, pretending for a while that they were finding the weather invigorating. ‘The last time we were up here was for Die Fledermaus,’ she said, only remembering when she saw his puzzled expression that she’d come with Howard and Cara.

  Before long they fell into silence. There was no reason for this. Nothing had happened. Yet they had somehow, by tacit consent, become joined in a battle of wills, each determined not to speak first. It was a futile, hazardous contest. Vivian knew she could put an end to the nonsense in seconds. All she had to do was grab his hand and admit to being a moody cow. But she didn’t do this because she couldn’t bring herself to touch him.

  Was she having some kind of breakdown? She did feel wretched. Ottilie had warned her that she would probably suffer delayed shock. ‘You’ve had a horrid experience.’ Vivian had shrugged it off. ‘I’m fine. Honestly.’ Perhaps Ottilie was right and this rawness, this certainty that, were she to speak she would start crying, was a result of Wednesday night.

  In the end, Nick broke the silence. ‘Jeez. I’m freezing to death. C’mon. Let’s go home. I’ll cook supper. Or we can get a takeaway if you’d prefer.’

  ‘Indian?’ she said, that one word demolishing the ridiculous barrier that had sprung up between them.

  They walked off the Heath and on to Hampstead Lane, picking up a cab which had stopped at Kenwood House to drop off a couple of tourists. On the way back, they apologised to each other for being grumpy – even though it was clear that whatever had caused their silent falling-out was more than grumpiness.

  Vivian inspected the selection of ready-prepared meals. A salad would suit her but it was Sunday and her father would expect something traditional for his midday meal. So. Bangers and mash or shepherd’s pie? She chose the pie, adding a pack of frozen peas and a strawberry trifle to her basket.

  ‘You made the second page, I see,’ her father said before she was over the threshold.

  ‘I didn’t know you read the Daily Mail.’

  ‘I don’t, but every other bugger seems to. Three neighbours have already knocked the door and donated their copies. They seem to think I’m keeping a scrapbook.’ He indicated the neat pile of newspapers on the kitchen table. ‘I didn’t let on that you hadn’t told me. Wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction.’

  She waited for his reprimand and when it didn’t come she said, ‘I didn’t want you fretting.’

  He shrugged. ‘Well, you weren’t hurt so there was no need.’

  Feeling a surge of gratitude for his unsentimental reaction, she gave him a rundown on her part in the affair. She could see from his face that he wasn’t much interested. She wasn’t hurt and Warren Street was a foreign country to an octogenarian living in Tooting.

  However one aspect of the story did take his fancy. ‘This woman,’ he prodded the newspaper, ‘she sounds like a lunatic.’ Squinting through the lower part of his bifocals he read, ‘“I was terrified. I thought I was going to die. I prayed to God and he sent me two guardian angels – Vivian Carey and Gil Thomas.”’ He put the paper down. ‘What did you do? Fly in wearing a halo?’ He chuckled at his own joke.

  Vivian suggested that, for a change, they eat lunch in the dining room, a cramped little room that smelled of dusty carpet and which her father rarely used. For once, it didn’t feel damp in here and she touched the radiator. It was tepid, the thermostat set on 2, but it had been on recently which was something. Whilst he wasn’t looking, she tweaked the valve to maximum, gurgling pipes confirming that the heating was on. The outlook from the window was restricted by the wall of her father’s kitchen on the one side and his neighbour’s on the other. Consequently next to no daylight penetrated the room and, in order to lend it some cheer, she switched on a table lamp.

  ‘It’s nice and warm in here today, Dad,’ she said when they sat down to eat.

  He gave her a shrewd smile. ‘Ahhh, well. I knew you were coming.’

  The pie had been a good choice. She took only a small portion whilst her father steadily ploughed his way through the rest.

  When she was growing up, he’d been a stickler for good table manners, fastidious to the point of obsession, changing immediately if one speck of food found its way onto his clothing. She watched him now, scooping up the soft food with his fork, lowering his head towards the plate. She noted the splashes of gravy on the front of his shirt, the peas that fell from his fork and rolled across the table cloth, leaving a faint trail in their wake. She shouldn’t find the sight and sound of an old man enjoying a hot meal distasteful. But she did.

  ‘Now if I had a guardian angel she might like to change my bedding before she flies off again,’ he said after they’d cleared the table.

  Generally, if he had something to say he came straight out with it and she found this unexpected whimsy irritating.

  ‘You only have to ask, Dad,’ she said.

  He’d laid out clean linen on his bed – the double bed that he’d shared with her mother. Thinking about it now, it seemed not quite…nice for a woman in her mid-fifties to sleep with an old man of eighty. On the other hand, how did a couple get round to agreeing that they no longer wanted to sleep in the same bed? Perhaps when one of them was ill? Sleeping with someone was the cipher for romantic love, so what did it signify when a couple exchanged one be
d for two? That the physical side of the relationship was no longer important? Her parents had always slept in the same bed. Did that mean her mother had loved her aged husband – in every sense of the word? It was hard to believe.

  She stripped the bed. The linen smelled musty and, when she removed the bottom sheet, a shower of tiny white flakes drifted to the floor. Dried skin? Ughhh. She bundled the sheets into the laundry basket. When she came to put on the pillowslips she discovered that she was one short but had no idea where her father kept them.

  How little she knew of his day-to-day routine. He employed a cleaner – a Polish woman called Teresa who worked for several people in the neighbourhood and whom she had never met. Teresa came every Wednesday morning but Vivian wasn’t sure exactly what her duties were. Washing? Ironing? The place wasn’t immaculate, there was only so much anyone could do in three hours, but the kitchen, bathroom and his bedroom – the rooms he used most – were always presentable. On the whole, he was managing remarkably well for a man of eighty-seven who, until five years ago, had depended on her mother to service his needs.

  When she came downstairs, he was dozing in the kitchen. She wanted more than anything to go home but she couldn’t sneak away whilst he was sleeping. She filled the kettle and took two mugs from the cupboard, clattering about, making sure to rouse him.

  ‘Tea?’ she said, watching whilst he surfaced.

  ‘Yes, my darling,’ he said, eyes still closed, voice slurred. He reached out his hand as if expecting someone to take it then, when no one did, let it drop back on the arm of the chair.

  My darling? His words stopped her in her tracks. He’d never, not even when she was a child, called her anything but ‘Vivian’.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Dad?’ She spoke louder this time.

  When he opened his eyes he seemed confused and she realised that, half asleep, he’d thought she was someone else. ‘Yes, please,’ he said.