“‘OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO….”
“With any luck, we’ll exchange contracts within a month. The Lloyds are as keen as we are to get cracking,”
“As you are,” she corrected silently. Not that he could hear. There was too much turmoil in the room.
“Well, I’d better make a start on clearing up the cellar.”
She had no intention of helping him with that. Even a glimpse of the cellar steps made her want to weep. She had fallen down them, thirty years ago, and not only broken her leg but lost her unborn twins. She had never managed to conceive again, despite endless tests and drugs. Since then, she kept her distance from the cellar, which had become Colin’s territory, along with the loft and out-house.
“It’ll take me ages to sort it out. It’s stuffed to the gills with clutter.” He flexed his muscles, as if limbering up, before making for the door.
She tried to imagine the clutter - piles of junk, broken tools, old boxes, all festooned with spiders’ webs, and the odd wasps’ nest in a corner. And patches of grey-green mould on the walls, and a smell of damp and decay. ‘While you’re doing that, I’ll go through all the china and glass and decide what to keep and what to chuck.’ If only she could leave everything exactly as it was - all the cups on their cup-hooks on the dresser; all the tumblers safe in the cabinet; the three china teapots (one in the shape of a house) stacked neatly in the cupboard, along with the soup tureen, the carving platter and the cereal bowls with the cockerels round the rim. She longed to shrink them all to doll’s-house size, so they would fit in the new flat; shrink the three-piece suite, the double bed, her generous desk with its six capacious drawers.
She fetched a pair of steps and started on the highest cupboard, first taking down the avocado dishes, with their matching green-bordered plates.
“Careful!” warned Colin, puffing back into the kitchen with a large cardboard box clutched against his chest. ‘Those steps don’t look too safe.’
“‘What’s that?” she asked, peering down to look.
“My coin collection.”
“Coin collection?” Thirty-four years they’d been married, this November, and he had never, ever, mentioned collecting coins.
“D’you want to take a peek?”
She stepped gingerly off the ladder as he opened the flaps of the box. Inside were scores of smaller containers: tobacco tins, throat-lozenge tins, cigar boxes and jewel boxes, even several spectacle cases, all lined with cotton wool and filled with coins: worn Victorian pennies, dirty threepenny bits, commemorative coins from royal weddings and coronations, farthings, silver florins and a whole stack of coins that meant absolutely nothing to her: coins with holes in the middle, coins from unknown realms.
“That’s a Roman semis,” he said, passing her a small brass coin.
“A what?”
“A semis. It’s one thirty-second of a denariius. They’re actually quite common, despite the fact they’re nearly two thousand years old. Coins were made by hand then, and beautifully made, so they lasted.”
Why hadn’t he told her all this before, shared his knowledge with her? And where and when had he got the coins? Surely he would have discussed it with her when he returned from an auction or a coin-shop?
“And this one’s a beauty, isn’t it? A George III ‘cartwheel’ penny. See the date? - 1797. It’s hardly worn or marked at all. We call that EF, which means extremely fine.”
That casual “we” hurt. “We” meant her and Colin - or had done till today.
“Fleur de coin is the ultimate. It’s the term we use for flawless or unused.”
All these things he knew! She simply couldn’t understand why he hadn’t made her part of it. The ancient coins seemed strangers in her modern pine-clad kitchen, but for Colin they were intimate friends. No - more than friends: his precious little babies, wrapped in cotton-wool shawls. She watched the way he handled them, lovingly and lingeringly; cradling the weight of a heavy silver sovereign in his palm; holding a penny up to the light and admiring the inscription round the rim.
“I’ve been meaning to buy a proper mahogany cabinet, so I could display them properly.”
Display them for whom, she wondered? Would she ever have lain eyes on that ‘proper mahogany cabinet’?
He began carefully packing them back, tucking his cosseted children into their tiny cots and cradles. Once they were safely stowed away, he took the box to the out-house, then went down again to the cellar. She remained sitting at the table, staring at a shred of cotton wool he’d overlooked. Somehow she had lost the will to continue with her own work. Colin’s secret progeny were still whimpering in her mind - he their exclusive father, she barren and debarred.
She jumped as he banged back in, carrying another box, full of wine, this time - a good two dozen bottles, filmed with dust. As he placed it on the table, she did a quick check of the labels. Although they were badly stained and faded, she could make out the word “Château” on almost every one. Superior stuff, apparently.
“God knows what I’ll do with this. It may be past drinking. Or on the other hand, it could be worth a fortune. I wouldn’t know.”
No, he wouldn’t. Colin was woefully ignorant about vintages or varieties of grape, and anyway preferred a pint of bitter to a glass of premier cru. “Why did you buy it?” she asked.
“To drink, of course.”
“But we never drank it.”
“No. I was saving it for a special occasion.”
Like the twins’ twenty-first birthday, she thought, picking up a bottle and tempted to open it there and then.
“I suppose we should have had it for our Silver Wedding but, to be honest, I clean forgot it was there.” Colin glanced at the clock “God! Is that the time? I must get to the dump before dark.”
“The dump?” She shielded the bottle protectively. “Don’t tell me you’re chucking this lot out?”
“Course not. It’s the other stuff I’ve got to dump. Fishing tackle, diving gear…”
She stared in disbelief. Colin had never learned to swim, and was less likely to go diving than to stand on his head in a peat bog. As for fishing, he had often told her he regarded it as cruel. “I’m sorry, Colin, but I just don’t understand what you’re doing with either fishing tackle or diving gear.”
“It’s not mine, it’s Jasper’s.”
“Who’s Jasper?”
“A mate of mine at work.”
“You’ve never mentioned him.” A name like that would have hardly slipped her mind.
“Why should I? He’s no one special.”
“Then why are you storing his stuff?”
“Because he asked me as a favour. His wife divorced him a couple of years ago, and she got the house and everything. He had to move to a bedsit, and there just wasn’t room for all his gear.”
She glanced at Colin curiously, trying to fathom his expression. Although he was often busy in the daytime, they invariably spent their evenings together, chatting about this or that. Wouldn’t he have told her about the divorce; asked if she minded housing Jasper’s possessions? “Surely you can’t get rid of someone else’s stuff without asking if they object?”
“I’m afraid the poor chap’s dead. Heart attack. Last month.”
Even more extraordinary not to have said a single word about the sudden death of a colleague. He must be lying, covering something up.
He took the bottle from her and wiped it clean with a rag. “Look, Do you want to try this, darling, or shall I take it to an expert and see if it’s worth a bob or two?”
She shrugged. “Please yourself.”
“Well, I’ll leave it here for the moment, until we’ve made our minds up. I must get the cellar completely cleared, so I can give it a damned good clean.”
Once he’d gone, she sorted through the bottles, selecting a Cabernet Sauvignon 1999. Having found a corkscrew and wrenched out the cork, she took a cautious sip, then swilled it round her mouth. It was good - remarkably good, full-bo
died and fruity, with a hint of mingled blackcurrant and plum. But why hadn’t her involved her in its purchase, knowing her love of wine?
He was back in a few minutes, loaded down with fishing rods, shrimping nets, a Neoprene wetsuit and pair of yellow flippers, and a large black cylinder flung across his shoulder. He took the load directly to the out-house, puffing from the weight of the cylinder. Had Jasper brought this stuff to the house, and, if so, where had she been? Why hadn’t they been introduced, shared a drink, a chat?
She watched Colin cross the kitchen, empty-handed now, on his way back to the cellar. This was the person closest to her, her next of kin, her so-called nearest and dearest. Yet did she know him at all? - apart from obvious things like his voting habits or favourite foods? She shivered suddenly, keeping her hands cupped round the wine-glass, as if its vibrant red might warm her. If your husband was a stranger, then you were on your own, isolated, living behind a soundproof wall. If she didn’t know Colin, then she didn’t know anybody - there wasn’t anyone else.
When he next appeared, he was holding a stuffed parrot in an elaborate gilded cage. “Meet Polly,” he laughed, putting the cage down in front of her.
She shrank away from the creature. It seemed alive, its grey beak open, as if about to speak, its bold black gaze impertinent. “What I’m wondering, Colin, is why I didn’t meet Polly months ago, or years ago, or whenever it was you bought her?”
“Well, you never go near the cellar,” he said, wiping his hands on the dish-rag. “Understandably,” he added quickly, seeing the look on her face.
“That’s not the point. You could at least have shown me all this stuff, before you actually took it to the cellar.”’
“‘I did - I’m sure I did.”
“I’m sorry, Colin, you did not.” She snapped her lips shut on the ‘not’, suppressing a sudden urge to slap him.
“Well, it’s not important, is it?”
“Yes, I think it is. We’re meant to be married, which means sharing everything.”
“Not everything.”
“Most things.”
“Look, I must get on. It’s already half past four. Why don’t you go upstairs and have a lie-down. You look tired.”
“I’m perfectly all right.” Clearly he wanted her out of the way. If she stayed here in the kitchen, he couldn’t avoid her on his route from cellar to out-house, loaded with more of his booty. She took a sip of wine, but its rich bouquet seemed to have entirely disappeared. It tasted bitter and salty now, as if she were drinking tears.
“Gazooks! On guard!” Colin burst into the room once more, waving a long, thin, rusting sword-like thing in circles round his head.
“For heaven’s sake, be careful! You could kill someone with that.”
“You’re telling me! It’s lethal.” He gave a mock thrust and parry, battling an imaginary enemy with the vicious, stabbing blade.
“‘What is it?”
“A rapier. We got it for that fancy dress party.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” As far as she could recall, they had never been to a fancy dress party all the years they’d been married.
“Ages ago. Up in Berwick-on-Tweed.”
On no account would they travel such a distance for a party. Unless - the thought appalled her, swingeing into her consciousness with savage, sword-sharp force - she was losing her memory She’d read a terrifying statistic just a week ago: one in twenty people her age suffered from dementia.
“You must remember, surely. I went as a Cavalier - hired the whole costume from that theatrical place off Tottenham Court Road. And Douglas got me the rapier.”
Douglas she did remember - Colin’s madcap cousin. But, Douglas or no, she would never have permitted Colin to handle such a dangerous weapon, or take it to a public place. Distraught, she drained her wine, seeing her face distorted in the glass. “So what did I go as at this party?”
“Florence Nightingale. You wore a sort of crinoline thing, with a white apron over it. And carried lots of bandages and medicines. I don’t know how you can have forgotten.”
Perhaps he was trying to frighten her. People did that sometimes - undermined you, sapped your confidence, suggested you were depressed, or living in the past. But that was different altogether from suffering from dementia. Anyway, how could she be gaga when she did the crossword every day, and read The Times from cover to cover? “Look, Colin,” she said, adopting a brisk, businesslike tone, to counteract the image of a grim high-walled Institution, which had suddenly reared up between them. “I don’t know what you intend to do with that thing, but you can’t just chuck it out. It could do serious damage, if someone were to stumble on it. It might even kill a child. I suggest you take it to the police station and ask them to dispose of it. And I suggest you go now - this minute.”
“No fear! I’m far too busy. They’ll make me fill in all those stupid forms, which’ll waste the rest of the day.”
Could he be scared of the police? He might have acquired the rapier not for a fancy dress party but to do away with someone. To do away with her. Most acts of violence took place in the home, or so she’d read in the paper. The bleak grey walls of the mental Institution turned into a prison, with Colin handcuffed in a cell, begging for release. “So what are you going to do with it?”
“I’ll put it in the out-house for the moment. Then I’m off to the dump with Jasper’s stuff.”
Once she heard the car door slam, she crept out to the cellar and stood at the door, paralysed with fear. She could see herself spread-eagled on the floor, one leg twisted grotesquely back on itself, the tiny unborn twins reeling with the shock of the fall. Although she hadn’t actually miscarried until she reached the hospital, she always visualised their pathetic little bodies lying shattered on the cellar steps. Those babies already had names then: Anthony and Anna. Every July, she still remembered their birthday - what would have been their birthday - still filled imaginary stockings every Christmas Eve.
She forced herself to open the door, casting a panicked glance at the flight of steep stone steps, plunging down to peril and decay. Already she was sweating with fear, wrinkling her nose against the smell of rotting remains. “Don’t be stupid,” she told herself, “there’s no smell whatsoever, no trace of blood on the steps.”
She took them one at a time, clinging to the banister rail, and ready to plunge back any moment to the safety of the kitchen. At last, she reached the bottom step and looked nervously around, astonished to see not piles of junk and swathes of dirt, but a clean and well-swept room - cluttered, yes, but cluttered with intriguing things. A model railway was laid out on a table, its metal tracks gleaming, the carriages liveried in smart maroon. On another table was a half-completed jigsaw puzzle of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, in radiant yellows and golds. And underneath the table was a row of Gro-bags, each boasting a crop of healthy-looking mushrooms.
The mushrooms she used for cooking were poor things in comparison: supermarket mushrooms, plastic-packed. Yet here was Colin’s own private home-grown supply, unrevealed, unshared. And she, too, loved jigsaw puzzles, especially challenging ones with a limited colour range. Couldn’t they have done it together - upstairs? And there was room for the model railway upstairs - plenty of space in Colin’s study, or even in the lounge.
She tiptoed over to inspect it, still feeling an intruder here, and thus trying to make her movements unobtrusive. Crouching down at eye level, she saw it was more than just a railway - a whole model village, in fact, with houses, shops, a church and pub and, in the centre, the railway station itself, complete with platform, level-crossing, goods yard and signal box. The detail was amazing. There were passengers on the station: perfectly proportioned little people, dressed in coats and hats, and holding miniature cases and umbrellas. Each railway carriage was meticulously constructed, even down to the interiors. One boasted a luxurious restaurant car, its tables laid with snowy white cloths and lit by tiny gold lamps. The others had plush upholster
ed seats, topped by minuscule luggage racks, and containing more small but lifelike passengers reading papers or smoking cigars.
What in heaven’s name had all this cost? Not to mention the price of that château-bottled wine; those rare coins in mint condition. Was this the reason they’d been forced to sell their house? - not, as Colin claimed, because of the rising costs of running it, but because he had poured their money into this subterranean treasure-vault.
She sank into his easy chair. Even that was cosily set up, with cushions and a tartan rug. One easy chair, not two, though. Yes, that’s what hurt, and much more than the cost - the way he had excluded her. Why should he mind losing their house when he had a village-full of houses here - a romantic little Happy Valley, entire in itself, and his alone?
And his empire spread well beyond the village. Wherever she looked were more of his possessions: a dartboard on the wall, flanked by two model ships, a pile of encyclopaedias, a brass telescope, an exercise bike. This was Colin’s other life, which he had totally concealed from her. Oh, of course she knew that he was often in the cellar, but he always told her he was mending things: soldering an old radio, repairing a vacuum cleaner, stripping and varnishing a damaged grandfather clock. And when she queried the hours it seemed to take, he would go into laborious detail about other time-consuming projects - he was re-plastering the cellar walls, re-laying the concrete floor. Yet there was no sign or smell of fresh plaster, and the floor was neatly covered with off-cuts of their bedroom carpet. Yes, another bedroom, for his adulterous affair. This was worse than another woman - this was another universe.
“Elaine! Elaine! Where are you?”
She sprang to her feet. He was back, and looking for her. She darted behind an old workbench as she heard his feet tramping down the steps. Too late. He’d seen her, grabbed her arm.
“Darling, you mustn’t come down here. You know how dangerous it is.”
She shook him off. Of course she knew - all the more so now.
He seized her by the shoulder, trying to usher her back upstairs. Wrenching free, she ran back up unaided. She wanted to escape, now that she had discovered his betrayal.
Wendy Perriam Page 5