The Alone Alternative

by Linda MacDonald

  The Alone Alternative

  Linda MacDonald

  Copyright © 2014 Linda MacDonald

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

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  Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

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  ISBN 978 1783066 322

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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  Converted to eBook by EasyEPUB

  To Alain

  a special friend through the dark days

  Contents

  Cover

  By the same author

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  Epilogue

  Also by Linda MacDonald: Meeting Lydia

  A Meeting of a Different Kind

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  Meeting Lydia

  A Meeting of a Different Kind

  About the Author

  Linda MacDonald was born and brought up in Cockermouth, Cumbria. She was educated at the local grammar school and later at Goldsmiths’, University of London where she studied for a BA in psychology and then a PGCE in biology and science. She taught in a secondary school in Croydon for eleven years before taking some time out to write and paint. In 1990 she returned to teaching at a sixth form college in south-east London where she taught psychology. For over twenty-five years she was also a visiting tutor in the psychology department at Goldsmiths’. She has now given up teaching to focus fully on writing.

  Her first two published novels Meeting Lydia and A Meeting of a Different Kind can both be read independently but are the first two parts of a trilogy with The Alone Alternative being the final part.

  Acknowledgements

  As I contemplate the end of the Lydia series of novels, I find I am conscious of how the trilogy came into being; how the past shapes the future and how a moment of impulse set about a chain of events that led to the first book being written.

  Brian Hurn has been tireless in his support for the whole project and I should like to thank him once again for critical comments on the early drafts and for subsequent editing. Grateful thanks also to Ingo Herrmann for insights and eagle-eyed editing of a later draft, and to Pat Hewitson, Rowena Pavlou and my sister-in-law Lindsey MacDonald who acted as Beta readers and plot advisers. I am indebted to Kit Domino for her professional editorial expertise on the final draft and for her patience in dealing with numerous questions. The team at Troubador has once again provided excellent service and support, especially Amy Cooke, Rachel Gregory and Rosie Grindrod.

  I should also like to thank several people who have helped with research queries and other matters: Robert Bewley, Andrew MacDonald, Modjeh Shirazi, Tina Tapster and Helen Trebble. I am especially grateful to Rosemary England for assistance in conducting research in Broadclyst, and to the villagers who made me feel most welcome.

  Author’s Note

  The University of Devon, Stancliffe University in London and North Kent College are fictional institutions at the time of writing. The characters are fictitious with the exception of Pam and Julian Beresford-Smith of the Parsonage, St Agnes, Isles of Scilly.

  L.M.

  Prologue

  April 2011

  The Deer Orchard, Broadclyst, Devon

  ‘There is no easy way to say this, Ted,’ says Felicity. ‘But I’m leaving. I’m going to Italy. I’m selling the Retreat and we’re taking over a restaurant in Siena.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘I’m going with Gianni. It’s his parents’ place. They’re retiring. I know he’s a few years younger than me, but these things happen. You must’ve known.’

  He didn’t.

  Until this moment, it seemed to Edward to be a normal evening: supper eaten, dishwasher filled, animals settled. He was about to retire to his office to do some work on his latest paper about the archaeology of St Martin’s, Isles of Scilly. Instead he sits down again at the kitchen table, lost for words; stunned. If she had said she was running away with Brad Pitt, he couldn’t have been more surprised. Gianni … He’d been so focused on watching her every move with Rick Rissington, the gardener, he hadn’t paid any attention to Gianni, the chef. And of course with him living in a flat above her restaurant … It is so obvious now she mentions it. What a complete idiot he has been.

  Felicity is standing by the double hob, a safe distance in their enormous extended kitchen. ‘I don’t want a fuss, Ted. You can stay here. The Deer Orchard’s all yours. I’ll just take the proceeds from the Retreat, and my own money.’

  ‘Very generous, I’m sure.’

  ‘It’s a fair deal, give or take. And Chris is coming with us.’

  He registers pain. ‘No.’ His youngest son is only sixteen. ‘Don’t take Chris away from me too.’

  ‘Yes, Ted. Not negotiable. He wants to go into either food production or catering so it will be perfect for him. His choice.’

  ‘He knows? Before me?’

  ‘Ted, don’t kid yourself that you care. We’ve been drifting since Mummy died. It’s not going to happen now.’

  ‘I’ve tried.’

  ‘You’ve never been interested in the restaurant; never wanted to be involved. Gianni’s been there for me when you’ve been buried in your mazes and your research and what-not. And those years you were in London, he was a sounding board and a great support.’

  ‘You never said you minded me being away.’

  ‘You never gave me an opportunity to mind, if you remember.’

  ‘I came back.’

  ‘Too late.’

  ‘So this is it? A fait accompli?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘There’s nothing I can do or say that will make you change your mind?’

  ‘I’ll speak to the girls and James. Harriet will keep an eye on you for the time being. The divorce shouldn’t be a problem, irretrievable breakdown and so forth. I’m sure you won’t want to drag Gianni into
it. But there’s no rush. We can deal with that at a later date.’

  She says all this in her usual commanding tone and Edward knows it isn’t worth a fight. But it doesn’t stop him from being shocked and a mix of emotions jostle as he tries to retain composure. He is angry with her for cheating on him, furious with himself for not noticing and above all, hurt, sad and confused. They have been married for thirty years, have four children, made a life and a home – the usual. They were happy until Felicity’s inheritance, seven years ago. Seven years of trying to make it work against a tide of impossibility.

  Now, seven wasted years.

  1

  March 2012

  Fanclub

  ‘You should contact Fanclub,’ says daughter Harriet.

  Fanclub! There’s a name Edward hasn’t heard in a while. He pauses by the stile at the bottom of the paddock, scanning the wide expanse of crop fields, a shimmering green and brown chequerboard in the early morning sunshine. Meg, the Border collie, is taking them both for a walk before they go their separate ways to work.

  Harriet continues, ‘You never properly explained why you lost touch with her anyway. Did you fall out? Is it irreparable? She may be able to give you some of her psychological advice to get you back on track.’

  ‘And how exactly am I not “on track”?’ Edward thinks he knows the answer, but wants to hear Harriet’s opinion; to see how well his penultimate and now twenty-three year old offspring knows the workings of his midlife mind.

  They climb the stile and set off down the narrow lane that borders the Molwings’ land, Meg trotting ahead of them, stopping every minute or so to turn and check they are still following, diving into the grassy verge when she catches scent of something interesting. A mist is floating above the distant fields giving the landscape the appearance of a watercolour painting with the diffused and blended colours of wet on wet technique.

  ‘Oh Dad, you lack purpose. Yes, you work and write like you always did, you hop on a train to give the odd lecture around the country, but you go through the motions like a robot. You lack drive, your old ambition. You seem content to drift towards retirement. And then what? What’s happened to dreams of that TV programme you were going to do about sustainability and the Isles of Scilly?’

  ‘The idea was never taken up by Patrick’s contact at the BBC.’

  ‘But you could try to regenerate interest. It’s not like you to give up. Write the book. It’s even more valid now than it was five years ago. Even I’m starting to worry about food prices and whether there’ll be enough for the next generation.’

  ‘The book is a possibility, but it isn’t only my idea. Patrick was part of it.’

  ‘Then call him. Be proactive. You could produce the programme with an independent company and then approach the major networks. But it’s not just your work that needs overhauling. You don’t seem to enjoy yourself any more. It’s nine months since Mum left and over a year since she said she was going. It’s time you rediscovered the plot. You hardly ever go out. I mean, “Out” out. You’re still young enough to live, even to love.’

  ‘Harriet, please.’

  ‘Even my old school friends thought you had charisma. And they used to say, “Your dad’s quite good-looking, isn’t he?” Of course, I couldn’t see it myself. But there’s no chance if you don’t get yourself sorted and liven up. I know you used to listen to Fanclub. I know she used to try to help you when Mum was being difficult.’

  ‘And much good that did.’ This wasn’t strictly true because even though Marianne’s advice didn’t save his marriage, it helped him to understand what was going on and to employ strategies that were less confrontational. For a second he hears her words from the Taoist philosophers, about flowing like water round a boulder, and his heart does that indefinable thing whenever he remembers.

  ‘Once Mum sets her heart on something, she doesn’t waver. I’ve learnt that. It wasn’t your fault that she left.’

  ‘I could have joined in with her schemes, shown more interest, been more supportive.’

  ‘You have taught me that you have to be true to yourself. If you had joined in, it wouldn’t have lasted and you would’ve been the one to feel resentful. You didn’t have time to be more involved.’

  ‘I should have stood up to her when she started doing things behind my back. At least I could have been part of the decision-making process, even if not the practical support.’

  ‘Easy to say in hindsight. I think you would have ended up arguing more. And none of us suspected her and Gianni. I thought he fancied Rachel.’

  ‘And I thought she fancied Rick. What with his reputation.’

  ‘Rick’s changed.’ Harriet flushes slightly. ‘The rumours are ancient history. Why not call Fanclub or send her an email?’

  Despite the fact that Harriet is now a young woman, she still refers to Marianne as Fanclub, the nickname from a time when she and sister Rachel were silly teenagers and thought Marianne Hayward, erstwhile classmate of Edward when aged about ten, had once had a crush on him.

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  This is an understatement. Since Felicity left, he often thinks about Marianne. Five years of regretting his decision to break contact after three years of midweek lodging with her and her husband in Beckenham. This was when he was in charge of the archaeology department at Stancliffe University in London; when he was still climbing rungs and still ambitious. But he does not know how to undo it, especially after so long. They should have remained friends.

  He has her old address, email, landline, mobile, any one of which might open the door again. But he can’t intrude because his life has changed, because he is lonely, because he misses her. There is still her husband, Johnny. They had been unquestionably happy. Edward was a potential spanner. His existence had been a complication to Marianne, albeit subtly, and her warm and loving relationship with Johnny had become impossible for him to observe, especially as his own marriage was slipping into the mire.

  And he can’t bear to hurt her again.

  ‘In any case, I am going out. I’m seeing Jessica on Wednesday evening.’

  ‘Jessica Hennessy? The witch?’

  ‘I detect disapproval.’

  Harriet gives him one of her role-reversal sideways stares. Since Felicity left, it often seems that she is playing the parent and him the child. She has become quite a nag. In some ways he hopes she will find a husband soon and settle down in separate accommodation. But she appears to play the field, never staying with a boyfriend for more than a few months. At the moment he isn’t aware of anyone in her life. He thinks she probably frightens them away with her acerbic nature. She isn’t bad-looking, just a little scary with her dyed black hair, pale complexion and several piercings in her ears. At least she ditched the one in her nose when she took up teaching. If she leaves the Deer Orchard, he will be even more alone.

  He offers some justification. ‘Jessica makes a good stew. And it’s not a date. But it is “Out”. She wants to know about planning permissions for a wind turbine. Not as big as ours, of course. That was your mum’s extravagant madness. But Jessica suggested having a chat over a meal, and I said it would be my treat because of all the food she brings me when you are at your evening class—’

  ‘It’s a date, Dad. That’s how she will see it. You really have no idea how women think.’

  ‘I’ll make my position clear, if required.’ This is easier said than executed, but Harriet doesn’t need to know that.

  It is early spring and an exceptionally warm one. Such a beautiful time in Broadclyst and a poignant time for Edward. It was Felicity’s favourite time, her seed-sowing time. He walks briskly in thoughtful silence with Harriet tagging along like she did as a child, finding it hard to keep up.

  He thinks about what she said, about living and loving, and about Marianne. He is bereft of intimate female company. Perhaps this is why he has accepted Jessica’s suggestion for a meal instead of merely talking through the issues over the phone.
But Jessica isn’t Marianne and he hasn’t considered her as a romantic prospect. Indeed, he hasn’t contemplated that anyone might want to start a relationship with a fifty-five year old man, scarred down his cheek and on his hand, wrist and chest from a mugging attack some eight years earlier; separated but not yet divorced and with a twenty-something daughter still in tow. He has more than enough baggage to sink a relationship before it has a chance to gather momentum. Marianne is different because she knows him. He has lived with her, albeit platonically and part-time. They know at least some of each other’s ways and foibles. And she knew him when he was ten years younger. He remembers her once saying to him that scars can be quite attractive on good-looking men. But the problem with Marianne is that she is happily married.