The Alone Alternative

by Linda MacDonald

  He decides a tweet would be inappropriate in the circumstances. He reaches for the phone and dials her old number. There is no response. He lets it ring and ring. Still no answering machine!

  He uses her old email address.

  To: Marianne Hayward

  From: Edward Harvey

  Date: 17th March 2012, 14.41

  Subject: Condolences

  Dear Marianne,

  Am stunned. Words cannot begin to tell you how shocked and sorry I am. Johnny was such a fine person.

  And your marriage was strong. You must be devastated.

  Learned a lot from him about geology, but also about women. Helped me to understand Felicity better, even though not possible to save our relationship.

  What happened? Wish I’d been there for you. Would have liked to pay respects too – but understand why you didn’t contact me. Can be there now if you will let me into your life again, as a friend. Please mail me and tell me more. Or even better, call me.

  love, as ever,

  Edward

  Then he goes for a long walk with Meg, up through the village and across the main road to the patch of grass where two imposing Holm oaks stand sentinel to the road leading to the Red Lion pub and the church. Sheep graze in a small field on the other side of the wall and Edward stops to watch them, noting the roundness of their bellies, remembering his own forays into lambing when Felicity needed help.

  The churchyard is accessed via two lych gates with gnarled old yew trees on either side. Daffodils are beginning to show among the ancient lichen-covered headstones and Edward thinks of William Wordsworth and Cumbria, and his own parents, now both dead, their ashes scattered on the lower slopes of Helvellyn.

  The church is of impressive size for a village, with huge arches of stained glass windows and a mighty Somerset tower rising high. He opens the door, aware of the chill and the silence and the history. His footsteps echo as he goes to sit on one of the old wooden pews at the back, glancing at the carvings and the tombs, Meg at his feet. He doesn’t come here often but when he does, he is overwhelmed by things beyond his understanding and he feels small and insignificant and alone.

  For a while he reflects, conscious that this is his first visit here since Felicity departed. So many things have changed. His vibrant family has fragmented, the animals have all but gone, and now his contemporaries are dying. He must reassess and decide what he wants from the next few years. Harriet is right. He has been drifting and purposeless. He says a silent prayer for Johnny, for the safety of his own children and asks for guidance in his dealings with Marianne.

  8

  The Uncertain Age

  The almost flirtatious tweet exchange caused Marianne to flush, but when she told him about Johnny, her mood changed, knowing she would have to explain.

  Oh Johnny, dear Johnny, I miss you so. She started to cry again.

  She heard the phone ringing and knew it would be Edward. But she wasn’t ready to speak. Not then; not yet. She had been struggling all week to absorb the fact that Felicity had gone and that he was free.

  Free.

  And so was she. There were implications; an altered dynamic. That was why she had taken so long to tell him about Johnny. In the same way as hearing about Felicity had affected the boundaries from her perspective, so too would this knowledge about Johnny affect Edward.

  Attainability causes some to retreat.

  She goes down to the kitchen to wash the dishes before returning to check if he responded to the news via the internet. It is with relief that she reads his email. It prompts her into action. While his tweets and even his direct messages had a distant and casual feel, the email seems a sincere attempt to re-engage at a level they shared many years ago. If she ignores it, she will be treading on a bright orange spark winking at her from the darkness in the depths of her heart. It will forever close that chapter of her life.

  Residual feelings for her former classmate and lodger stir like desert seeds when the rains come. Quickly they spring into life, each contact from him like water droplets softening the tough coatings, providing the stimulus for the roots and shoots to grow. But she is frightened of caring again.

  It wasn’t that she had loved him in a dangerous sexual sense, but her feelings were strong. She likened them to a crush not dissimilar from the one she had on him at school. And after three years of lodging, he had become almost part of the family. She came to care deeply for him as a friend. For her it wasn’t complicated, it was compartmentalised. Johnny was romantic love and sex; Edward was platonic love and friendship. She was careful not to let it get out of hand and Edward stuck to his word and kept his distance, both physically and emotionally. This was why it was such a shock when he said he had to leave. She hadn’t understood the depth of his involvement.

  To: Edward Harvey

  From: Marianne Hayward

  Date: 17th March 2012, 15.37

  Subject: Re: Condolences

  Dear Edward,

  This has been the worst year of my life. It was so unexpected – a massive heart attack near Lulworth Cove. One day he was here and the next he was gone. I went into shock, onto autopilot, somehow muddling through the arrangements and the funeral. Holly was the strong one. She said that having had to deal with Dylan’s death enabled her to cope in a way she wouldn’t have expected. But Johnny was her dad and she was very shaken. As soon as she saw I was coping, she let go and grieved.

  Since you left, life has been hard. First my mum died, then Dad, then Johnny. I have been numb for such a long time, but with the anniversary and the coming of spring, I have resolved to try to snap out of it. As you have seen, I am at the point of publishing Lydia – which is why I’ve been building a Twitter following. In some ways it has been my saviour. Work also keeps me occupied, but doing both has left me even more exhausted and depleted.

  I am yearning to do something different with the rest of my life. After what happened to Johnny, I don’t want to leave it too late and am considering early retirement from teaching.

  love,

  Marianne

  She has dropped her guard and she relaxes. Love Marianne …

  To: Marianne Hayward

  From: Edward Harvey

  Date: 17th March 2012, 21.54

  Subject: Re: Condolences

  Dear Marianne,

  Thank you for replying with details. Am also shocked and so very, very sorry.

  Glad you have Lydia to distract you. Looking forward to reading it!

  Think early retirement is a great idea. The teaching life is physically and mentally demanding. I have been treading water since coming back here. Harriet tells me I need a new challenge too. Hope to discuss further!

  Do keep in touch.

  love,

  Edward

  During the next Monday at college, Marianne goes to see the Principal to talk about her future. Malcolm Prowse has something of the American bald eagle about him, a sharp hooked nose and pale staring eyes, a ruffle of white hair on the horizontal plane from ear to ear. She suspects he will be relieved to be able to replace her expensive experience with cheap young blood. The college is undergoing a budget squeeze.

  It is therefore no surprise to find he is receptive and understanding, appreciating both her personal circumstances and her desire to invest more time in her writing. He alludes to her financial situation and she confirms that the benefits she received from Johnny’s death help to compensate for her years of part-time working and an actuarially reduced pension. He runs through the timeframe of what needs to happen, tells her to speak to Angela, the woman in charge of personnel. She says nothing yet to her friends and colleagues.

  Back home, she is eager to mail Edward to tell him about setting the retirement wheels in motion. Before doing so, she checks Twitter and finds another DM from him.

  @marihay1 Why don’t you come to stay for a weekend? Would love you to see Deer Orchard.

  She is taken aback by the speed at which this offer has been made. So u
nlike Edward to be rash. But she smiles to herself. It would be wonderful to see his home, yet she is frightened of the implications.

  @Edward_Harvey1 That’s very forward of you!

  She replies to several other book-related tweets and is about to go to make supper when an email informs her of another DM.

  @marihay1 We could catch up properly.

  @Edward_Harvey1 When you were here, there was always Johnny.

  @marihay1 Harriet will act as chaperone!

  @Edward_Harvey1 Do I need a chaperone?

  @marihay1 Alternatively, I could come up to London and meet you for lunch in town.

  She does not reply. She is at a loss as to what to do.

  First, she must deal with Johnny.

  She goes upstairs and finds a box in the bottom of the bedroom wardrobe. It contains all Johnny’s remaining personal effects and her throat catches at the sight of his glasses and wallet, still in the plastic bag the hospital put them in when he died. She takes the items out and lays them on the bed, stroking each one, trying to recapture the man to whom they belonged. There is something so sad about these pitiful reminders of a life. But what to do with them? She is not yet ready to dispose of them and she replaces them in the bag. Perhaps if and when she moves she will find courage.

  She has kept a shirt of his to wear when she is at her lowest, but it no longer holds his scent. It is pale blue, the colour that suited him so well. And she remembers him wearing it in summer with jeans, with the sleeves rolled up and his tanned forearms on display. She puts it in the laundry basket to wash for the charity shop.

  Next, in the spare bedroom, two boxes of folders full of his lesson notes and photocopies. She remembers him telling her about the Burgess Shale; he was a walking encyclopaedia of all things geological and geographical. She makes a start on sifting through them in case there are any gems of information that might be useful in her writing. The plastic wallets and some of the empty binders can be recycled. She will bin the rest. If she is going to move to a smaller place, she will need to downsize the clutter. If she tackles even one folder per evening, the job will eventually be completed. And if she’s going to retire, soon there will be all her psychology stuff to accommodate.

  His slightly spidery handwriting catches her attention, pages and pages of notes that had been amended and re-amended. She is drawn to his loopy I’s and continental 7’s which she copied when she was a teenager, when she fancied him from across the playground at the grammar school, watching his every move, his languid walk, the way he and his friends leaned on the wall outside the boys’ cloakroom, scanning the girls, eyeing up the talent, perhaps even looking for love.

  All the while her thoughts flicker back to Edward: to what Johnny would think, to whether he would approve if anything were to develop, to what Taryn said, to possibilities that are comfortable as fantasies, but frightening as realities, not least because she is not as young as she was.

  These days she is aware of dull nagging pains when she climbs hesitantly out of bed, no doubt the beginnings of arthritis. She used to hear her older colleagues complaining about aches and pains. Now she knows what they were talking about. Every morning she carefully tests her joints before doing anything quickly. Her lower back needs coaxing out of a supine position. Her dodgy knee, from when she fell over on some wet cherry blossom and bashed it on the pavement, requires constant care and strapping when she plays tennis or partakes in other sustained activity.

  She eats plenty of fish and takes Evening Primrose and Vitamin D capsules. And even when she’s not playing tennis, she exercises to Lilia Kopylova’s Latinatone exercise video, bought in the early years of Strictly, when ballroom dancing became fashionable again. So she could be in worse shape. She is still relatively slim and toned, but she is not like she was five years ago.

  It was different when she had Johnny; growing older together, one day’s face indistinguishable from the last. Ups and downs; tired after a working day or refreshed at the end of summer; the pinched features and shadows after a bout of illness versus the glow and bloom of health. Together they had watched it all and behind the slowly ageing skin and hollows of time, they could still see the face of twenty-three, or even further back, the face of seventeen. She knew he saw it too because he told her and she was buffeted by the knowledge against the invisibility of age.

  If forty-five was the certain age, fifty-five is the age of uncertainty. Without Johnny, she peers in the mirror and sees the woman of fifty-five, the woman that ten years ago was a vibrant flower by comparison. This woman that stares back could easily transform into the pensioner with the shopping trolley and the shuffling gait. Without make-up and unsmiling, she looks tired, the whites of her eyes less bright than once they were. But her hair still shines when the sun catches it; a coppery dark brown, still on her shoulders with a modern graduated cut at the front.

  What will Edward think of her now? She knows that some middle-aged men want women at least ten years younger. That’s what it says in the Personal columns. Man, 55 seeks woman, 35 to 48. Marianne thinks they have a nerve, unless they are Richard Gere or Clint Eastwood. And a large age difference surely has its downsides, especially when one partner retires and has to wait several years for the other to share the freedoms. By then, a difference in physical capabilities may be preventative of mutual wing-spreading and pursuing the bucket list.

  But if no men ask for women of the same age, what option is there for women, other than to go out with older men? She thinks about Charles and Camilla. Not enough recognition was given by the media to his choice; his choice of a mature woman of comparable age.

  Woman, 55, widow … Even the word ‘widow’ has connotations of age and decrepitude attached to it. She most definitely wasn’t a ‘merry’ one at the moment.

  She consideres what Taryn said. With Felicity vamoosed, Edward will likely be looking for someone else. Many men are not good on their own. They want someone for domestic purposes and sex. A housekeeper and a prostitute rolled into one. He will have younger options. She knows he will. An old jealousy stirs: a jealousy associated with other women, with potential rivals, whoever they may be. She is confused. Now there are different possibilities for her and Edward – possibilities that were once taboo – she feels second best, as in the days of her teenage years when the Brocklebank bullying had taken its toll. Her self-esteem has ebbed away again; ebbed away for the third time in her life: adolescence, menopause, widow. Why would Edward be interested in starting a relationship with a creaking wreck? Of course he might be creaking too. She hasn’t thought of that. She doesn’t think she’d mind; not with Edward.

  Oh, the analysis! She doesn’t have the energy any more.

  Perhaps it will be wiser to let the dogs sleep.

  9

  The Uncertain Life

  When a be-suited Edward returns from work on Tuesday evening after a difficult departmental meeting, he hopes Marianne has responded to his invitation. He is still unused to her reappearance in his life and when he remembers, he dares to feel excited. Another email from her would be encouraging; but he is an expert in restraint, in delaying gratification. He doesn’t like using his phone for checking emails or Twitter and there is much he needs to do before settling down with his computer.

  First, he changes into jeans and a sweatshirt and roams the gardens of the Deer Orchard, checking the boundary fences out of old habit when the place was alive with animals. Only three buff Orpington hens remain, the fourth or fifth incarnation of Helen, Amy and Sarah. They have sole use of the multi-storey chicken coop built by Rick, and he wonders if they feel as lost as he does in a space that’s suitable to accommodate families rather than individuals.

  Felicity’s sheepdog, Meg, now eight years old, doesn’t count as livestock. She is a trusting ally. He takes her shopping, where she waits patiently in the car, eyes anxious until she sees him again. He is thankful Felicity didn’t want to take her to Italy. After Clint and Gryke died, months apart, aged twelve, one
lost without the other, Meg – hitherto on the periphery attending to important sheep-related matters – crept into the vacant space of family pet. And after Felicity left, it was as if she felt rejected too, moping around with flattened ears, her once metronomic tail hanging low and still. Together he and Meg regrouped, learning new domestic routines, man and dog, the oldest and most faithful of partnerships. Meg could read his mind, sneaking up to put her black and white nose on his knee when he sat staring into space, wondering what had gone so horribly wrong with his marriage.

  Tonight he takes her to the Three Tuns pub in Silverton, a thatched establishment with low, beamed ceilings. It is his colleague Conrad Vaughan’s home territory and they have arranged to get together for a bite to eat and an after-hours drink away from academia where they can have an off-record discussion about a couple of the earlier meeting’s agenda items. Two issues are causing division of opinion in the department, specifically who is going to teach taster sessions to visiting sixth formers at the Open Day in July and the proposed hosting of an archaeology conference at the university in 2014.

  They sit in a corner of the pub at a rectangular wooden table in the window, Meg snoozing across Edward’s feet determined that he won’t go anywhere without her knowing. Conrad is drinking beer as he isn’t driving, while Edward plays safe with apple juice.

  They debate work strategies over lasagne, Edward seeking the diplomatic route while Conrad pushes him towards a more autocratic solution.

  Edward’s return to the role as Head of Department five years earlier wasn’t as straightforward as he expected. Firstly, there was animosity from the senior staff who had been rotating Heads of Department and secondly, ambitious newcomers didn’t welcome his previously unrivalled reputation. Even now, two of the young guns poached from Exeter remain uncooperative, seizing every opportunity to disagree, to stir, to gain allies for their schemes. Conrad, ever loyal, keeps him up to date on what’s being said behind his back and of whom he should beware. It is tiresome and he wonders for how much longer he will have the will to fight.