love,
Mari
Charming? Patrick? A pang of annoyance or even jealousy.
To: Marianne Hayward
From: Edward Harvey
Date: 2nd April 2012, 20.33
Subject: Re: Patrick
Dear Mari,
I understand punctuation purists frown upon the interrobang but can see purpose in email and on Twitter in that it perfectly conveys both surprise and uncertainty.
Glad you have had fruitful discussion with Patrick. Let me know if I can be of any help.
love,
Edward
*
To: Edward Harvey
From: Marianne Hayward
Date: 2nd April 2012, 20.46
Subject: Re: Patrick
Dear Edward,
Apparently the interrobang can be written either way round. (!? or ?!) I wonder, though, if the editing arm of the publishing world will feel its usage should have a consistent format in the work in which it appears? I don’t use it consistently – sometimes one way seems more appropriate than the other.
Perhaps I could run through my list of thoughts with you when they are finalised? Or indeed, do a little brainstorming next time we meet.
love,
Marianne
To: Marianne Hayward
From: Edward Harvey
Date: 2nd April 2012, 20.55
Subject: Re: Patrick
That being the case, how about fixing a date for your visit to see us?
Edward
Seconds after he clicks Send, his landline rings. It is her, at last receptive to his invitation and because it is the school holidays, she is not restricted to the weekends.
‘How about Tuesday, after Easter?’ she asks. ‘I could stay until Friday. That would give two full days for you to show me round.’
‘Excellent,’ he says. And only a week away … only a week away … This sudden turn of events sets his heart racing.
He checks his emails again before he goes to bed. There is one from Patrick: Your Marianne sounds delightful. Looking forward to seeing what she produces …
Again the pang of annoyance. Delightful … Charming …
But Marianne is coming to stay. Where will he take her? What will they do? He retires to bed with happy thoughts of untold promise.
16
Broadclyst
If Marianne’s previous meeting with Edward was emotionally charged, this forthcoming one registers as high on the excitability scale as an impending earthquake of magnitude that might shake the ground along the San Andreas fault. She sits on the First Great Western train heading for Exeter St David’s, daydreaming out of the window like a teenager. She finds it impossible to concentrate on her paperback, so many other real-life twists and turns to contemplate, some of which she knows must yet be confined to her imagination.
Edward meets her at the station entrance: a hug, a kiss on the cheek and only eyes for each other as they walk across the zebra crossing to the car park opposite.
‘So much lost time to catch up on,’ says Edward, opening the passenger door to his silver Volvo.
‘Two meetings in less than two weeks,’ says Marianne, trying to get in gracefully. She remembers watching Princess Diana once, sitting first, then both legs together.
‘I can’t believe you’re finally here,’ says Edward.
‘How was Easter?’
‘Uneventful. I hoped – even expected – that at least one of the other children would appear, but all I received was a phone call from James, an email from Christopher in Italy and a text from Rachel. Harriet and I ended up staring rather morosely at each other over a roast duck, wishing we had gone out instead.’
‘Holly is the same,’ says Marianne. ‘It’s what it’s like when twenty-somethings are making their own lives away from the nest.’
In the car they talk about Patrick and the work each has been doing in preparation for meeting him. This easily fills the time on the five-mile journey along the country roads to Broadclyst.
‘I’ve brought a draft of ideas if you wouldn’t mind looking over them for me,’ says Marianne. ‘I’m not used to this way of working so you can perhaps tell me if I’m on the right track.’
When they near the village, she goes silent and absorbs her surroundings. As a newcomer to Broadclyst, she sees through a visitor’s eyes, noticing the minutiae that Edward has probably taken for granted for over twenty years. She has always had an interest in town and country planning and as Edward drives her to his home on a circuitous tour, she comments on the character of the village and how the old and the new appear side by side as if they have been thrown up into the air and come to land in a random pattern.
Modern red-brick houses line one side of a street opposite ancient cottages with thatched roofs, some lime-washed or white-painted, some bearing the yellow-ochre trademark of the properties leased by the National Trust. A bungalow appears between two semis; a modern detached at the end of a row of ancient cottages.
‘What an unusual place,’ she says. ‘I’ve often wondered what it would be like to live in a thatched cottage. But they usually have a lot of exposed beams.’
‘Is that not good?’
‘Bad Feng Shui, apparently. Exposed beams bring oppressive Chi. They are considered a poisoned arrow. It depends how they are placed in relation to the layout of the room. If they run in the same direction as the marital bed and between partners, it is said to cause unease and poor communication.’
‘We have exposed beams at the Deer Orchard. And Felicity did move our bed when we had the room done after her mother died.’
‘Probably coincidence,’ says Marianne.
‘I’ll move it back, just in case,’ says Edward.
Quickly she loses her sense of direction as narrow roads twist and turn every which way, bordering homes of different shapes and sizes, some detached and some in clusters. But in the centre, there are modern developments with broader roads, tiled sections, pavements and a townie feel. She muses that somewhere in the village, or on the outskirts, there will be a type of home for every possible requirement. But its identity is unclear. Or perhaps that is its identity: a village for all, unique by virtue of its connection with the Killerton Estate and its yellow-ochre properties.
She is captivated by the bus shelter with its own moss-covered thatched roof and rustic bench. And green spaces are plentiful, not least a large expanse with goalposts at one side and a children’s playground at the other, and a field of sheep in front of the church.
The landscape without is gently undulating. Fields are smallish and hedge-bordered, mostly containing crops, the occasional one under plough. Trees are abundant.
The Deer Orchard is off one of the lanes on the eastern edge of the village, accessed through open wrought-iron gates onto a gravel drive which sweeps all around the property. A blue Peugeot and a green van are parked at the side of the house next to a new-looking double garage. Edward draws alongside. The house is long with numerous low extensions. It is lime-washed white with a grey-tiled roof.
The front of the house overlooks a narrow rose bed interspersed with shrubs and behind which is a perimeter wall. Edward says that generally they use the back door, which faces the vegetable plots, a small lawn with a sundial in the centre, the paddock, the orchard and fields beyond.
‘Are there deer?’ asks Marianne.
‘In the forest behind Killerton. And presumably the property acquired its name from deer being around – perhaps when the village was smaller and quieter. I can’t remember seeing one close to the house. In any case, we made the orchard fences high enough to deter any that might be passing by, so the name is something of an anomaly.’
A tall and rangy man with long brown hair and hollow cheeks is digging next to the greenhouse.
‘That must be Rick,’ says Marianne. ‘Mr Versatile.’
‘Knowing him, he’ll chat you up if you give him the chance, though come to think of it, I haven’t heard much gossip
about him for a while.’
‘Probably because Felicity was your supplier of village news.’
‘Indeed.’
‘He is rather nice-looking if you like “wild”.’ She thinks better of adding that she does like wild, that Johnny looked wild, that Rick is not too dissimilar from the younger Johnny. Instead, she says, ‘But too young for me.’
Edward gives her a searching look but she maintains an inscrutable expression.
The house is cosier than Marianne imagined, despite the beams. From the outside it has the ancient sprawl of a farmhouse and outbuildings, but inside the rooms are modern and fresh with tasteful furnishings and a light and airy atmosphere. It is clear that Felicity had been upgrading and updating before she left.
Harriet greets them effusively. ‘Been dying to meet you. Felt left out when Rachel and James met you after Dad’s mishap.’
So this is the feisty one. Marianne notes the Gothic black hair and the pale complexion with dark eye make-up, toned down from earlier teenage photos since she started teaching. She is dressed simply enough in jeans and a loose black tunic that might double as a dress.
‘I was going to take you out for dinner tonight,’ says Edward, ‘but as Harriet said she’d cook before she meets her friend, I thought we should take up her offer and go out tomorrow night instead. I’ve booked a table at the Retreat so you can see where Felicity ran her empire. I’ll cook on Wednesday, just to prove I can. I still have the Catherine Waldegrave adaptation you gave me when you were doing a Delia by email years ago. Do you remember? When the Japanese from Okayama uni came to visit and Felicity had an evening class? Lunches we can grab on the hoof depending upon where we happen to be.’
So organised, thinks Marianne.
‘We’re not having anything flash,’ says Harriet. ‘Just so you know. I don’t do flash. I’m not like Mum. But I wanted to have a chance to talk to you properly before Dad spirits you away.’
After Marianne is settled in the unfussy cream-painted guest room upstairs – next to Edward’s and apparently belonging to James before he left home – Harriet cooks very tasty paella over which they chat about teaching and how it encroaches on social life during term time.
‘My old schoolfriends are off clubbing and I’m having a cocoa and an early night,’ says Harriet.
Marianne remembers well how in her young working life she was always saying ‘no’ to invitations from her non-teacher friends. No wonder teachers often end up in relationships with people from work. Or on their own.
Afterwards, she accompanies Edward for a walk with Meg round the orchard and the paddock. He takes her hand to help her onto the stile that leads into a narrow lane and she feels a tremor at his touch and dares to anticipate something more. Although he catches her eye, it is with nothing more than friendliness and all the while she is wondering if and how they will ever slip from this to greater intimacy.
‘There is something I haven’t told you yet,’ says Marianne. ‘I’m back in touch with Taryn. It was after Johnny’s funeral. She came to see me and brought me pasta. I didn’t have the energy to object. Nothing mattered any more. And with you gone too, our falling-out had lost its significance. She’s been a great support.’
‘I’m glad,’ says Edward. ‘I never wanted to be the cause of your rift.’
They talk about how Taryn has changed and the difficulties she has faced in starting a new committed relationship in later life. Neither mentions their own situation.
After the walk, Edward drives them both about half a mile outside the village to the New Inn, a white building set off the road at the side of a large car park. Inside they sit next to each other under a picture of an owl and near to an open log fire. They talk more about their missing years, their losses and their children, and tentatively dip into their hopes for their futures, downshifting at work, both focusing more on writing than teaching.
‘I believe it’s useful to reassess one’s life every seven years,’ says Edward. ‘Every ten years is the obvious time: the big zero. But I think that’s too wide a gap. And five years is too short.’
‘So by your reckoning, fifty-six is the next one. We’re almost there.’
‘You have already decided to retire. Perhaps I should too.’ And he looks at her intently as if trying to elicit approval.
They talk about the pros and cons; the desire to try something different before it is too late.
‘My publishing agent would like me to focus more on writing,’ says Edward. ‘He believes if I had more books, it would be easier to generate interest in the existing ones. And if I gave up full-time lecturing, I would have more time for promotion and marketing. But I worry about being bored, becoming too insular.’
‘You could maintain contact with UD – adopt a visiting role as you have at Stancliffe. And if you keep giving your talks around the country, you’ll be promoting your books as well as avoiding boredom.’
‘It’s worth considering,’ says Edward. ‘And I do need a break from the in-fighting and the annual merry-go-round of education.’
They steer clear of mentioning relationships.
For another time, thinks Marianne. She doesn’t want to break the spell.
At night in bed she reflects, wishing he were with her, but apprehensive of all that is involved in getting to know another body. And when she remembers how old she is and the bits that are not as toned as they were and the odd bulge and the shadows, she thinks perhaps it is better to stay covered and keep her fantasies than to have him disappointed, forever dashing the dream. Perhaps he’s having second thoughts anyway – always assuming he had first thoughts. Even the flirting from the lodging days has stopped, not only from him, but from her too. Before, this thing between them couldn’t and wouldn’t go any further and now it can, they are clearly both afraid.
‘Don’t touch first,’ said Taryn. So she doesn’t. And nor does he, except when helping her negotiate country hazards. She thinks perhaps Taryn is wrong, but it’s early days and she doesn’t want to take a chance.
And then she goes to sleep and dreams of Johnny.
*
The following morning, Marianne finds herself alone in the kitchen. A note on the table says Edward has taken Meg for a short walk and that she should help herself to tea or coffee. He will be back soon and will cook breakfast if she wants to join him for something more substantial than cereal and toast.
Edward cooking breakfast, that’s novel, she thinks. Only he could make a note sound like a work memo. She remembers the notes he used to leave when he was lodging with them; notes when she had gone to work early and he had been the last to leave the house. They were always detailed and courteous. And he always signed them simply ‘Edward’. Never any indication of the desire that he later revealed.
Johnny used to leave romantic messages, sometimes in surprising places like the fridge or on the kettle or on her dressing table mirror. It’s hard to stop making comparisons.
She pours some orange juice and helps herself to cereal. At Beechview Close, she or Johnny made breakfast. She has no recollection of Edward making more than a cup of tea in the mornings.
Sitting at the table by the French windows that lead onto the patio, she looks around the vast kitchen and imagines what his life must have been like with four children, three dogs, goats, hens, a cat, a rabbit, some sheep and a wife, all clamouring for attention in addition to his high-powered and demanding job, not forgetting all the extra lectures and visits. No wonder he is organised.
She muses that the bare hooks that line the walls and ceiling must once have been adorned with Felicity’s cooking equipment. There is something sad about their emptiness, a reminder of loss. She admires the impressive size of the space, even covets the idea of a central work station, but counting how many extra minutes it would take to cook a meal, walking backwards and forwards from one side to the other, she prefers her own bijou culinary space. She supposes it would keep a person fit. But it isn’t a kitchen for retirement and la
ter. He had hinted as much in the pub.
Harriet disturbs her reverie. She has secured her hair on top of her head with a bulldog clip. A long fringe hides one of her eyes. She wears no make-up and is looking tired.
‘I’m so glad you’ve come to see us,’ she says, turning on the kettle and coming over to sit at the table. ‘Dad’s been drifting since Mum left. He’s like a lost soul. I think he’s in shock. It wasn’t as if they were getting on, or anything, just that Mum was another presence and I think he expected her to be here always. She filled the house with her business and her friends. Now it’s so empty.’
‘It’s a beautiful place. So different from where I am. A proper Escape.’
‘When you live in a place all your life, you take it for granted,’ says Harriet. ‘I would like to be in a small cosy flat with no garden, no damned chickens and no responsibilities.’
‘Do you have plans?’
Harriet pauses and looks as if she might be about to confide. Then her expression lightens. ‘Currently saving. I’m here until I know Dad’s all right. This TV series should get him motivated again. It’s been on the cards for years, but this time it’s for real. I hope he doesn’t let the opportunity pass. It’s something he’s always wanted to do.’
‘He’s asked me to be involved. He and Patrick think my experience in education might be useful in helping them to launch some kind of initiative in schools.’
‘That’s great,’ says Harriet. ‘More reason for it to happen this time.’
Marianne wonders about the ambiguity of this statement, but decides not to probe.
Harriet continues, ‘I was sorry to hear about your husband. How’s Holly?’
‘Holly is living in Guildford, working for a firm of solicitors and not in a steady relationship.’ She experiences a momentary twinge of consicence. She hasn’t told Holly about Edward; merely said she was going to visit a friend.
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