Serious Intent

by Margaret Yorke

  ‘Can I offer you a nightcap?’ she suggested, when they drew up at her gate. ‘Though it’s not too orderly inside,’ she added.

  He could not imagine this controlled woman being anything but organised. Probably there were some packed boxes waiting for the van.

  ‘No thanks – I’d better get home,’ he said. ‘I’m going to the office tomorrow.’

  ‘Perhaps you and your wife will come to sherry one Sunday at The Willows,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you. We’d like that,’ said Richard, though Verity would not. She had had plenty to say after Christmas Day about his choice of guest: a boring old crone, had been her verdict. Even Terry had objected, hearing that description.

  ‘She’s all right,’ he’d said. ‘Rather hideous, though,’ he conceded.

  As she let herself into the bungalow, Marigold reflected that now, in her retirement, she had twice within a week been escorted home by a pleasant man. She could not remember this ever happening before in her adult life, not even by a colleague. Everyone had known that Maddie would get home safely; the old nickname coming from her initials had followed her into the civil service.

  Well, she was not too old to enjoy this belated courtesy; she appreciated Richard’s kindness, which was not the patronising false solicitude displayed to older people by some brisk shop assistants. It could be that her time in Haverscot would be the best years of her life: she would be accepted as she was, a plain elderly woman with a good career behind her – she would not be competing in a world where she had never been a starter, the world of the good-looking and attractive.

  The next afternoon, at The Willows, as she stood among her packing cases, a bouquet of spring flowers, sent by Interflora, was delivered. They were from Richard. No one – male or female – had ever sent her flowers before. And flowers, too, not a pot plant; she was overwhelmed.

  Richard did not quite know why he’d done it.

  Caroline was going away for the weekend and she left the office early. He had meant to send her flowers to welcome the New Year but as she was not at home, he had been foiled. Perhaps that was why he had chosen Miss Darwin as the recipient. Well, he was sure that she would like them; she had been a tactful guest on Christmas Day when the tensions in the house must have been apparent. She had not made a fuss of the boys but she had not ignored them, and her presence had prevented Verity from making a scene. The holidays were nearly over: soon the boys would be back at school and the country would tick into action once again. It was amazing how one managed to negotiate each obstacle as it came along, learning not to look too far ahead – unlike the world of insurance where anticipating disaster was part of the job.

  In the train, he began to think about Caroline. It was more than a fortnight since his last visit to her flat. At the office they maintained a certain distance, not wanting their colleagues to divine their relationship, and that had not changed; she was friendly but cool. However, there was no special look for him when they were alone, which occasionally had been the case in the past, though only ever for an instant. The secret had, to him, been quite exciting.

  She wanted it to end: he knew it, with a sense of desolation. She had met someone else and she had not summoned up the courage to tell him. Perhaps she never would. Perhaps she meant it just to fizzle out.

  He’d let her go without a struggle. He had enough of that at home. He’d wish her happiness, if he heard she had a new partner. Perhaps she had met someone who wanted to marry her, a man free to do so, and to whom she could respond.

  Would he have liked to be that person?

  Sitting in the train, Richard admitted that he would. He loved her gently and sincerely: yes, he did, and he had lost her.

  Further down the coach was the thin, dark young woman who travelled regularly on this line, the one who walked away from the station. He looked at her as she read her book. What was it? He could not tell. It was a hardback, perhaps from the library. He’d never met her there – he often called in on a Saturday.

  He tried to think about her instead of Caroline or Verity. Where did she live? What did she do in London? He might get to know her, if he tried.

  But he didn’t want to: he didn’t want a new entanglement, even if she could be persuaded to enter into one. Besides, she was so thin, like Verity. She might snap, like a twig.

  He should be bringing flowers to Verity. Perhaps he’d get some in the morning; the shops were opening tomorrow.

  Verity was in the kitchen when he reached home. A savoury smell came forth: she’d chopped up ham and turkey and made a spicy sauce; there was a pan of water boiling on the stove, ready to receive the pasta that was waiting to be cooked. She’d washed her hair and wore clean patterned leggings and a white sweater. She even had some scent on: not Chanel, of course. He caught a whiff of it as she came towards him, smiling grimly, lifting up her face to receive a kiss.

  He brushed her cheek with his lips. So this was to be her role for the next few hours – or minutes. She was playing the devoted wife. Such intervals never lasted long. Was she sober?

  He decided that she might have had one or two drinks, but no pills. That meant she would soon be manic, tearing round, wanting to rearrange the furniture or play charades or some other noisy game. Such ventures always ended in a scene.

  ‘How was your day?’ he tried, and heard that she had cleaned the house from top to bottom and remade all the beds with fresh linen.

  ‘And the boys?’ he asked, when she ran out of breath. He was longing for a drink. Perhaps he could slip out to The Red Lion after supper. Maybe he could copy her and start keeping a bottle in his workshop, which he always locked because of his tools; the boys might hurt themselves if they went in there and began messing about.

  They’d been out all day, she said. She didn’t know where. She supposed they’d been down to the river as they’d come home soaking wet.

  Richard thought about their safety in the flooded fields. He wondered if they’d had any lunch. Well, they were her children, not his, if she chose to let them drown or starve. He wouldn’t provoke her by suggesting she should have some idea of where they spent their time. They were here now; the beat of Justin’s pop music was redounding dully in the background.

  ‘Terry had that friend of his, Mark, over for the morning,’ said Verity. ‘They came in and got crisps for lunch. Then they went out again.’

  ‘And Mark’s gone home now?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Verity shrugged.

  Richard went off to the playroom where he spent some seconds trying to get the boys’ attention and an answer to his question.

  Mark had left at about five, they said. They’d been to the river doing nothing much but splash about, all three wishing they had a canoe; that would have been brilliant today.

  ‘It would have been dangerous,’ said Richard, sounding like a killjoy to himself as he added, ‘The water is flowing very fast; you could have been swept away or tipped over.’

  ‘Well, we can swim,’ said Justin. ‘Anyway, why are you steamed up about it, Cat? We haven’t got one.’

  Richard thought he should check up on Mark. He dialled Susan Conway’s number, and had an answerphone response. That was new: there had been no reply when he rang the night Terry was missing.

  He gave his name and said that he hoped Mark had got back safely: he was simply checking.

  Mark saw the light blinking when he returned and he listened to the message. It was therefore not revealed to Susan when she came back later.

  Richard had been rather hoping that she would return his call, but she didn’t. While he was telephoning, Verity had a few quick slurps from a bottle hidden behind cereal packets in the store-cupboard. This caused her to let the pasta boil too long and the sauce to catch. Even so, her husband and her sons found the meal much more palatable than was usual when she undertook the cooking.

  Afterwards, they played Monopoly. The game became rowdy but even Verity seemed to enjoy it; perhaps they could find some contact a
fter all, thought Richard, if only through these sorts of activities. His head began to ache, but he played on doggedly, doing his bit for the cause of domestic harmony.

  When the boys had gone to bed, Verity accused him of being patronising.

  ‘You weren’t enjoying it. You looked bored to tears,’ she said.

  ‘I did enjoy it. I thought it was good that we were all getting on so well,’ said Richard.

  ‘You kept looking at your watch. You couldn’t wait for it to be over.’

  ‘It’s a long game,’ he said. Then, suddenly, he lost his temper. ‘I’ve had a hard day at the office, I’m tired and I’ve got a thumping head, but I’ve done my best to be a good stepfather – a role model – that’s what’s thought so necessary today, isn’t it? I might as well save myself the effort.’

  He had been going to pack the game up and put it away, a small task he’d told the boys to do, only to have their mother countermand the instruction and tell them to hurry off to bed, she’d see to it. Now, he pushed the board away from him, leaving the scuffed piles of money on the table, walked out of the room and found his coat. Verity heard the front door bang behind him.

  She burst into tears. She’d intended to be nice tonight, to be the good little wife and mother, not to quarrel. She’d played the boring game as well as she was able and hadn’t lost her temper. The sherry she’d had before dinner had helped to calm her down and Richard hadn’t made a fuss about the meal, though the boys had complained that it tasted burnt. She’d woven a fantasy in which she and Richard made rapturous love; surely it had once been like that between them? Yet again it had all gone wrong and he, this time, had been angry, at last reacting to the provocation she applied whenever she had the opportunity. She’d thought him like a piece of dough, impervious to needling; tonight, he’d proved otherwise, and the discovery unnerved her. Where was her safety now, if even Richard had a point at which he might explode?

  She’d say that she was sorry. She’d done that before, when she’d gone too far and been frightened that she would lose him, and then what would happen to them? He had stroked and calmed her, then made love, silencing her tears with kisses. The last few times, however, he’d simply said ‘I accept your apology,’ and left the room.

  This time, she’d really make him listen: she’d cry and even go down on her knees. He’d have to turn to her, after that.

  But he didn’t come back. She waited up for a long time, feeding the fire with logs, sitting by it, shivering. In the end she went to bed, where she swallowed several of her pills, recklessly, with no firm intent to harm herself beyond vaguely thinking, ‘If I die, that’ll show him.’

  But she didn’t die. She sank into a heavy sleep and did not hear Richard stumble in, late and rather drunk. He had been in The Red Lion until the bar closed.

  14

  Mark had had a good time with Terry. Later, he and Mum were returning to The Golden Accord for another weekend, with a New Year’s Eve party and a big wedding on the Saturday. His mother was quite pleased for him to go to Merrifields that morning, after Terry telephoned to see if he was free. She let him ride his new bike round; David had brought it back for him in his Mitsubishi Space Wagon. Mum had been in a happy mood, but then she was nearly always cheerful, though often in a hurry. She didn’t sit about in tears. Mark didn’t associate tears with mothers; Ivy never cried, not even – or at least when he was there – after Joe died.

  So when he saw Terry’s mother crying, he was most surprised.

  His own mother had made him promise not to join in any mad schemes Terry might be planning, and if it began to rain hard, he must come home, unless he sheltered in the house waiting for it to stop. In any case, as they had to leave at three o’clock, he must be back well before then.

  ‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘I won’t forget.’ He had his watch, which Mum had given him for his birthday.

  She hugged him. He was growing up so fast. He would never run off foolishly, like Terry.

  The boys had climbed into the tree house to survey the area from its branches. Terry did not tell Mark he had hidden there the night he ran away; he didn’t want to hear Mark tell him he’d been stupid. From their high perch, the water-covered meadows looked inviting, like a lake.

  ‘Let’s go down there,’ Terry suggested.

  Mark agreed. He was wearing his rubber boots. This was not a silly scheme. Terry had his football with him; he seemed attached to it. Mark hadn’t noticed that it had been in the tree house, lodged in a corner, when they clambered up. Terry threw it over the fence before crossing himself. There were strong nails to tread on to climb the solid structure.

  ‘Cat doesn’t know about these,’ Terry said. ‘He doesn’t know we go across like this. He thinks the fence is strong enough to keep intruders out. Mum knows. She saw Justin banging them in. She goes over sometimes; she likes walking in the fields.’

  Mark thought that Cat would find the nails one day. He didn’t say so; it was handy to get across like this instead of walking down the road to the path near the church. The two boys kicked the ball about, aiming to send it near the water, and then Terry began throwing it in at the edge, to make a splash. It was a good game, and while Mark found bits of stick which he flung out to float with the tide, pretending they were boats on their way to join the Thames, Terry went on doing it until the ball dropped rather too far out, and he fell in when he collected it. He got drenched.

  ‘Your mum’ll kill you,’ said Mark unsympathetically.

  ‘We need a canoe,’ said Terry. ‘I’ll ask Cat to give us one.’

  That sounded good to Mark.

  ‘Will he?’ he enquired.

  ‘Of course,’ said Terry. ‘I’ve only got to ask.’ If Cat said no, he’d make a scene, like Mum and Justin did, and Cat would soon give in.

  After his ducking, Terry decided he was too uncomfortable to stay longer in his sopping clothes, so they went back to the house. He left his boots and jacket in the rear lobby by the kitchen door. Mark put his boots there, too, and hung his jacket on a peg. Then they went into the kitchen, where Verity was sitting at the table, crying. She looked at them as they entered but she did not speak, not even commenting on Terry’s dripping jeans and socks. Mark thought she had not noticed them; she simply went on crying.

  ‘Oh, Mum,’ said Terry. He did not ask her what was wrong but picked up a roll of paper towels, pushing it over to her, and tearing off a sheet which he thrust into her unresponsive hand. ‘She does this,’ he told Mark, turning away from her and heading for the store-cupboard. He left a trail of water as he crossed the floor. ‘Come and help yourself,’ he hospitably invited, opening the cupboard to reveal packs of crisps and canned soft drinks.

  Mark did as he was bidden. He was hungry. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was two o’clock. He’d have to go soon. There was just time to have a little meal. Laden with his selection, he followed Terry to the playroom. Wet footprints marked the polished floor on which were several handsome rugs.

  ‘You’re soaked,’ Mark said. ‘Hadn’t you better change your jeans and socks?’ He’d make such a mess if he didn’t.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Terry. He put down his can of Tango and, carrying a pack of crisps, went upstairs eating them and leaving crumbs.

  Mark settled on the sofa, eating his. He wondered briefly where Justin was. Out writing on walls with Greg Black or his friends, perhaps. Mark had seen him doing just that, with an aerosol near the scout hut. They’d written a lot of words which Mark knew were very rude; he understood what most of them meant. Ivy, hearing Steve use some of them, had got extremely cross and said that saying them was silly. Mark knew his mother wouldn’t like to hear him say them, either.

  Poor Mrs Gardner seemed so sad. What could be wrong? Perhaps she had a pain. He spared her quite a lot of sympathy before turning on the television to watch till Terry came downstairs again.

  She was still in the kitchen, sobbing quietly into a wad of paper towelling, when he w
ent past to get his boots and jacket before rescuing his bike from where he’d left it, leaning against the wall of Richard Gardner’s workshop. She never noticed him pass by, and Mark decided she’d be most embarrassed if she knew he’d seen her crying. He crept out on tiptoe, almost silently.

  Marigold was very busy in the house. The solicitors had employed a firm of cleaners to go through it after the contents were removed, and it was spotless, but she could see where the paintwork was flaking, and the walls were marked where pictures had hung and furniture had stood. The whole place must be redecorated, but meanwhile nothing was offensive to her, and she had slept soundly in her own bed, released from store, the mattress warmed through with an electric blanket.

  Sinbad was enjoying the garden. He flapped about in the flood puddles and got very wet, the long feathery hair on his legs saturated. Marigold fussed over him and kept a special towel in the back porch to dry him.

  She found some vases where the men had left them on the dining-room floor after unpacking their boxes, and arranged the amazing flowers in two of them. There were so many! Instantly the place seemed brighter, more her own. A glow of pleasure lifted her spirits, which, when she was in the bedroom where the children’s books had been, had fallen. Empty, it looked so bleak, though bright patches marked the walls where posters had been fastened. It seemed the disinherited son had been interested in aviation; the posters had shown aircraft, she remembered. What had happened to him? Why was he disowned? Had he vanished?

  If she were to disappear, who would notice?

  The sudden thought made Marigold shudder. When she died, there would be none who mourned, no one to lament. Oh, a few old colleagues might put on a show of respect, if they knew, but who would tell them? Not her godchildren, who would wonder only what she had left them in her will. She had divided everything between them; what else should she do?

  A charity, she thought, but what? One that aided children? Famine relief? Battered wives? A mixture of good causes? She’d think about it, after she was settled in.