The Alone Alternative

by Linda MacDonald

  To: Marianne Hayward

  From: Edward Harvey

  Date: 22nd March 2012, 22.43

  Subject: Beechview Hotel

  Dear Mari,

  Am making an unexpected visit to London next Friday 30th – to meet Patrick Shrubsole to discuss that old idea about Scilly and sustainability. Apparently he has resurrected the original proposal and a production company is interested. The weather conditions we have been experiencing make it ever more relevant.

  I know this is short notice, and a sudden escalation of our tentative reunion via email. No pressure, but it would be great to see you. I remember once asking you if I could stay overnight when I had a meeting with Patrick. I promise you don’t need a chaperone!

  Alternatively, if you are still not working on Fridays, we could meet in town for a bite to eat before I return home.

  Hope you are okay.

  love,

  Edward

  Faint heart, as they say. It’s a chance he has to take, battering on the steely panels of her defences. She can be so stubborn. He knows how reluctant she is to shift from an opinion that is deeply held; how long it takes her to forgive. Once it didn’t seem to matter so much, but since he turned fifty, he senses an acceleration of time, of limits, of the sand over half way through the fragile curvaceous glass.

  To: Edward Harvey

  From: Marianne Hayward

  Date: 22nd March 2012, 23.01

  Subject: Re: Beechview Hotel

  Dear Edward,

  Okay. You can stay. I presume we’re talking next Thursday night? Send me your travel plans and I’ll pick you up from the Junction.

  Mari

  Edward breathes a happy sigh and then is vaguely aware of a crunching on the gravel outside below the window. The security light flashes on. He stops to listen. Nothing. He looks out of the window and there is only the eerie semi-circular glow of light surrounding the back entrance. Perhaps it was a fox or a badger. They are always setting off the lights although they don’t usually crunch the gravel. Maybe it was a rare visit from a deer, but it is a long way from the woods behind Killerton. If it was anything untoward, Meg would bark, but he decides he will sleep better if he takes a look downstairs.

  On the mat by the back door is a white envelope with his name on the front. Inside is an invitation to Jessica’s party. On the back, in childlike script, she has written: Sorry I was a bit crabby on the phone. I do understand why you don’t want to rush things. Look forward to seeing you soon. Jessica.

  Edward mutters a few expletives, replaces the card in the envelope and tosses it onto the kitchen table.

  When he goes to bed, he dismisses any thought of Jessica and snuggles under the duvet with his Marianne fantasy, a ray of hope, the beginnings of a new dance, of infinite possibilities.

  12

  Meeting Lydia Again

  If I should meet thee

  After long years,

  How should I greet thee?

  With silence and tears.

  Lord Byron

  Marianne stops her hatchback in the small car park on the other side of the tracks to the main entrance of Beckenham Junction station, behind a bar which was once called the Lazy Toad, and near Waitrose supermarket. It is dark and chilly and her muscles are tense. She sits motionless, gripping the steering wheel, anticipation growing, emotions wildly falling over each other in their attempt to make themselves visible.

  Her decision to have him stay was an act of subconscious winning over conscious. She knew he needed a quick response so he could make plans. There was no time to prevaricate, to weigh up the pros and cons of him staying versus her meeting him in town. And to do neither, to ignore both of his suggestions, was not an option if she wanted their friendship to be re-established.

  Her eyes are misty in the lamplight. She is almost as overcome as she was some nine years ago when sleet was in the air, when she was due to meet him in town at a lecture he was giving to the Antiquarian Society, when the trains and then tube let her down and she had returned home to Johnny with a cold red nose and unshed tears.

  When she did finally meet him at the British Museum a year later, she had been so overwhelmed, so excited, because in live human form he impacted beyond expectations in a way she never could have imagined. Her worst fears were that he would have ballooned beyond recognition into bloated and jowly caricature, shattering her childhood dream and obliterating the thrill of their innocent emailing. And if not that, then he might be aloof and academic to the point of weirdness; a pompous geek. It had been with a mixture of relief and disbelief that neither of these fears was realised. In fact he was in good shape, warm and approachable with distant traces of a Cumbrian twang in his accent. She remembers thinking, my God, he says ‘graph’ with a short ‘a’, and even though she says it with a long ‘a’, this made him seem more grounded.

  They had chatted in the museum café and thirty-four years had evaporated and she was once more Marianne aged ten, gazing in adoration at her first crush. If it were possible to have a similarly innocent adult crush, then this is what she experienced when after their meeting, she walked to the tube station with a spring in her step and a smile on her face. This would be the beginning of an enduring friendship, she had thought. And so it seemed for a few weeks until her image of him as a person without human frailties was dashed by the discovery of his one night stand with Taryn.

  She jumps. How long has she been drifting? Probably only seconds. A train is snaking stealthily into the station. She gets out of the car, smoothes her hair and walks to the wire-mesh fence that borders the pathway from the platform. What will he think of me? What will I think of him? Have we changed too much in these past five unkind years?

  A moment’s anxiety lest he isn’t there among the throng of evening commuters, carrying their bags and newspapers, eagerly rushing home. But soon she spies him through the fence, striding towards her, black overcoat, briefcase, overnight bag, eyes crinkling when he sees her, unmistakably Edward. He weaves round the fence and comes back to her, drops his case and bag at her feet and neither hesitates. Their hug is long and tight and slow. He kisses her cheek and she is almost crying: for him, for Johnny, for her parents, for a rich life now gone, and a hope, a promise, a glimpse of something special in the future.

  She stands back, unsure where to begin. There is so much to say, so much catching up to do. Yet her throat tightens with emotion and she is speechless.

  He grasps both of her hands and looks her in the eye. ‘It is so very wonderful to see you again.’

  ‘And I you. Sorry,’ she sniffs, and takes a tissue from her coat pocket.

  He hugs her again. ‘Oh Mari … Where do we start?’

  She brushes away the tears. She cries so easily these days. ‘With trivialities and practicalities. Have you had a good journey? Are you ready to eat?’

  They get into the car and head back to Beechview Close, making small talk about how things have and have not changed in Beckenham. Waiting at the Junction traffic lights, the four corners are not perceptibly different from five years ago: the shoe repairer and key cutter with the flower stall nearby; the O’Neill’s pub, its outside seating adorned with blue umbrellas; the estate agency; the village green surrounded by London plane trees and dotted with old-fashioned street lamps; the sandstone building that looks as if it should be a bank, now a Thai restaurant. But here and there the old has been demolished to make way for the new, each empty space like a missing tooth, soon cosmetically replaced with a block of flats or offices. Marianne is aware that Edward is looking at her, his eyes searching through the channels to her soul. She unblocks her defences, relieved to be in the company of someone who knows her so well.

  In Beechview Close, she shows him up to his old room, Holly’s room, still the same furniture and girly colour scheme.

  ‘Just like old times,’ he says.

  Just like old times, but strangely intimate; no husband or daughter keeping watch.

  She leaves him to
sort his things and goes downstairs. Her oven clock is already pinging; time for the vegetables. In a dream she puts water on to boil, prepares some carrots and opens a pack of frozen peas. By the time Edward comes down, she is placing a steaming rectangular oven dish on a cork mat in the centre of the table in the dining room.

  ‘We’re having Mrs Tapster’s Haddock Cheese Casserole,’ says Marianne. ‘I have rediscovered the recipe in a collection I used at college. It’s from the mother of a friend, written out with the detail necessary for an eighteen year old who could barely roast a chicken – in my case. And I know you like fish, and I didn’t want to give you the same old things we used to eat; as if I haven’t moved on .Which I haven’t, much, culinary-wise. But I intend to. Soon. Oh gosh, I’m rambling …’

  ‘Ramble away,’ says Edward, sitting down. ‘This is lovely and your rambling means I can eat. Tell me about Lydia.’ He digs the offered spoon into the cheese and breadcrumb crust.

  ‘Due out at the beginning of May and currently with the printer. Launch lined up at the college and a signing at Beckenham Bookshop. Nothing too fancy, but it’s a start.’

  ‘I knew you could do it,’ he says.

  His hair is greyer than it was but still with more dark colour than she expected. And his brown eyes are sad. But overall, he looks well and rested. The commuting took its toll, especially after the trauma of the attack. His scars are now but faint silver lines on his cheek and wrist. And he has retained a relatively youthful physique. She notices his hands on the cutlery, strong and well-defined. Her mother would have approved. Her mother had a thing about men and their hands. ‘You don’t want pudgy sausages touching you; or damp and sweaty; or limp.’

  Marianne says, ‘I hope there’s no fallout from the people we knew at Brocklebank Hall.’

  ‘It is fiction,’ says Edward.

  ‘But inspired by fact. In some cases, at least.’

  ‘Isn’t most literature, to a lesser or greater extent?’

  ‘I wonder what my parents would have thought. The bullying, and so forth. They would know at least some of it was true. Perhaps that’s why I have waited until they are gone. Not consciously, though.’

  ‘After my parents died,’ says Edward, ‘I found myself taking on their roles; doing things that they had done, almost without thinking about it. I used to leave it to them to keep in touch with the more distant cousins and to remind us all about birthdays.’

  ‘I’ve started baking,’ says Marianne. ‘As you know, I never used to do more than the odd loaf. Of course, it’s trendy at the moment, but it’s as if I am the guardian of the family recipes, the ones that have been handed down from the great-grandparents. I do flapjacks, crumpets, gingerbread, drop scones, sponges. And a Twitter contact has led to banana bread and chocolate brownies.’ She remembers what Taryn said about men and cakes. These new skills might come in handy.

  ‘We started going to the cenotaph in Exeter for Remembrance Sunday a couple of years before Felicity left.’

  ‘It might be age,’ says Marianne. ‘Many things start to become relevant once you reach fifty.’

  Edward agrees. ‘Checking the pension pot and worrying about getting sick.’

  After supper, together they wash and dry the dishes, as they did during his lodging days, on the days when Johnny was at a meeting at school or playing badminton.

  ‘And still you haven’t a dishwasher,’ says Edward.

  ‘Even less reason now, with just me.’

  Once settled in the living room with a cup of decaf tea and a piece of cake, Edward takes a deep breath and says, ‘We can’t avoid talking about what happened. Shall we get it over with?’

  Marianne uncrosses her legs.

  ‘I’m sorry I left you. It was the worst decision; my last attempt to save my marriage. I was becoming more comfortable here with you than at home, but it was difficult seeing you happy with Johnny. It highlighted the gulf between Felicity and me. When Conrad from work said, “marriage is always like that once the menopause hits,” I looked at you two and knew it didn’t have to be true. I couldn’t believe my contentment could disappear because of her inheritance. I was sure it must be salvageable if I could find the formula. I remembered you mentioning to me once about compromise. I thought I’d give it a try. I knew my work–home balance was out of kilter. I knew my inability to involve myself in her enterprises annoyed her.’ Edward pauses to take a bite of cake.

  ‘Feigning interest wouldn’t have worked long term,’ says Marianne.

  ‘She resented my taking the job in London – even though at the time she seemed to relish telling her friends that I was now “Professor Ted”. That’s what she started to call me – but always with an edge to her voice. Being here was a distraction. It meant we never addressed the problems – not that it would have made any difference as I later found out. Once I decided to go back home, the thought of living away from you seemed unbearable. I foolishly thought it would be easier if I didn’t see you at all.’

  ‘We could have written or talked on the phone.’

  ‘But don’t you see how impossible that would have been?’

  Marianne didn’t. She saw it only from her own perspective and remembers the sense of abandonment. ‘I thought we were friends who would support each other for ever.’

  ‘That is a very idealised view of friendship. The partner must always take priority – as he or she does when you first set out on the path. Friends take a back seat. They may not like it, but it comes with the territory.’

  Marianne recalls how insular she and Johnny were during the early years and how Taryn had been marginalised. She knows he wants her to say she forgives him; that it doesn’t matter. But it did. She struggles with her thoughts. She needs to know how he sees the future; to be sure she won’t be abandoned again should he meet someone else.

  Edward continues, ‘At the time I thought I was doing what was right; honouring my marriage. What I didn’t recognise was that Felicity had already betrayed me and didn’t deserve such honour. By the time I realised this, it was too late.’

  ‘And are you still in touch with her?’

  ‘Only via the children, or occasionally when a letter arrives for her that needs attention. Even then, we don’t talk as such. I don’t want to know about her new life and if she wants to know about me, I expect she would ask the kids.’

  ‘Will you divorce?’

  ‘That was the original plan, but neither of us has made any move yet. Both too busy; both avoiding the unpleasantness of it all. Given that she was the one to leave, I suppose I’m waiting for her to do what she must.’

  Marianne changes the subject and they talk for a while about the children, gradually relaxing into the way it always was when they had a chance to chat. Edward says how much he misses Christopher.

  ‘It was too sudden. With the others, I got used to them going away during term time and returning during the holidays. Chris was here and then gone. I haven’t seen him since. I phone him quite often and he sends me the odd text.’

  ‘Will he come to visit, eventually?’

  ‘I hope so but Felicity seems to have a powerful influence over him.’

  ‘So what’s it like being back at Devon uni?’ asks Marianne.

  ‘Those who have been HoD in my absence are still disgruntled and uncooperative, even after all this time. This encourages the new staff who don’t know me so well to be similarly awkward.’

  ‘When I was acting HoD, covering a maternity leave, I went on a course in leadership run by a man with a most captivating anecdotal style. Two of the most useful things I ever learned about managing people were “Think amoeba” and “Think geese”. Dealing with teachers – or possibly any group of underlings – is like trying to persuade amoeba to cross a road. A few go in the direction you want while others slip and slide and do their own thing. It taught me patience and acceptance. Not everyone was going to think like me. I had to find their strengths and try to develop them. But you know this.’
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br />   ‘And the geese?’

  ‘If geese see a member of the skein lagging behind, they do one of two things. If it’s sick and can’t keep up, they send another goose to support it until it’s better. If it’s just being lazy, they honk at it.’

  ‘In that case, I need to do more honking. It’s not my preferred way, but I can do it if required.’

  At night, Marianne pictures Edward alone in the guest room and fantasises that he is restless, unable to stop thinking about her. She imagines him knocking on her door, asking to talk some more, getting into bed with her because it’s cold, and holding her close. She so misses that human warmth since Johnny died, the comforting heat from skin against skin, the reassuring rustle of the duvet as he stretched beneath its feathery softness, waking to the breathing of another soul, the monosyllabic murmurings as the day unfolded. She wonders if Edward misses Felicity in the same way. Or perhaps it’s the sex he misses most. She dismisses the thought. The fantasy Edward likes cuddles as much as she does – because still she cannot go beyond the bounds of propriety.

  Next morning, when they have breakfasted and she drives him back to Beckenham Junction, he says, ‘Now will you agree to come to the Deer Orchard for a few days? Perhaps while we’re both on holiday over the next couple of weeks. Bearing in mind we will have the added bonus of a chaperone in the form of Harriet – although it is plainly evident we don’t need one.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Marianne. ‘Of course I will.’

  13

  Sustainability

  ‘Good to see you again, Ted,’ says Patrick, shaking him by the hand, slapping his shoulder, proffering a chair and then picking up the phone to summon tea from one of his minions. He is brisk of manner with a sharp and almost aristocratic air. He wears a dark blue suit and tie, his hair noticeably thinner, his long fair forelock wispier than when Edward last saw him the previous October. He has also acquired some metal rimmed glasses over which he peers. They are in Patrick’s office on the third floor of the main Stancliffe building. Plants line windowsills and books cover almost all of two walls. Edward takes a seat at a large round black wooden table, a sheaf of papers in front of him.