The Alone Alternative

by Linda MacDonald

  ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’

  ‘We could stay in character a little longer. If you like, don’t you think? While the mood is with us. At least until the pumpkin hour.’

  ‘I like,’ says Edward. ‘I like very much.’

  ‘It’s good to be hugged again.’

  ‘Ah, hugs. Is that what you mean? Not that I’m averse.’

  ‘I’m not sure what I mean,’ says Marianne. ‘One step at a time; see how it goes.’ And she isn’t sure, but like him, she doesn’t want the evening to end.

  ‘Only if you want to,’ he says. ‘It’s been such a long time.’

  20

  The Night

  It is after midnight when Edward opens the back door of the Deer Orchard. Marianne follows him inside and he takes her hand. They share another kiss in the kitchen and creep around like teenagers, making tea, trying hard not to disturb Harriet, giggling quietly; shushing each other, patting Meg who is excited by their late night entry, hopeful for a walk, circling with a wagging tail, nails clicking on the floor tiles.

  Edward is going with the flow, as Marianne told him once that he should when Felicity started on her enterprises. He is trying not to overthink the situation or guess what might lie behind or beyond what has gone before. He is glad he hasn’t had too much to drink, but is sufficiently relaxed not to be overawed by the situation; a situation that might paralyse him in the cold light of a sober morning.

  They remove their shoes and pad silently upstairs, Edward trying to guide her on a zigzag path that avoids the creaky floorboards. Marianne goes to the guest room, then the bathroom, coming out, closing the guest room door and then tiptoeing into Edward’s room, where he has taken their mugs of tea. She closes the door. If Harriet is listening from her room on the other side of the landing, she will have heard both bedroom doors close and assume they have parted. She is unlikely to hear them talking, but they whisper all the same.

  In Edward’s bedroom with the lights low, they lie on the bed, propped up on pillows, drinking tea, reflecting on the evening. Edward has removed his jacket to a hanger. He is as yet unsure exactly what Marianne has in mind.

  ‘So it’s a hug you want,’ he says, after a while, replacing his mug on the bedside table.

  ‘I haven’t been hugged for so long,’ says Marianne. ‘I know men sometimes don’t see the point of hugs, but if they could only realise that it is in their interests; that they get their pay-back in other ways, though not always at the same time.’

  ‘Is that so?’ he says, and puts both arms around her. She snuggles into his shoulder.

  ‘When we were kids,’ she says. ‘Teenagers. We had a code for our dealings with boys, as all kids do, but I believe our code was unique. We used to call it, “going to Carlisle and back”. It came about because one of us had a boyfriend visiting from East Grinstead, and in the evening when we were all together, we asked her what they’d been doing during the day. She said they’d been to Carlisle and back – with the parents of course. But we teased her with lots of nudge-nudge, wink-wink innuendo, and somehow it stuck. We developed it as a code with places along the Carlisle road being significant.’

  ‘There aren’t many places along the Carlisle road from where you lived.’

  ‘There are enough: Moota, Bothel, Mealsgate, Thursby, Dalston. You can add complexity by including Aspatria, Wigton and several others which are accessed from the road. I travelled along there many times – by car of course. I wasn’t that type of girl.’

  ‘So where have we been so far on this night of nights?’ he asks, amused.

  ‘Not very far at all. Papcastle, I should say. Hardly out of town. Some close dancing, kissing, hand-holding; that sort of thing. Not serious stuff.’

  ‘And do we have Bothel or even Thursby in mind?’ he asks, careful to gauge her response before he proceeds, frightened of disrupting the momentum that has brought them this far. He wonders that when she said the night didn’t have to end, perhaps all she means is that they talk and at most share a kiss or two.

  ‘There has never been anyone since Johnny,’ says Marianne. ‘Thirty-odd years. Even going to Papcastle with you feels new and different.’

  ‘There’s no need to be anxious; it is just me, after all,’ says Edward, trying to sound cool and collected when in fact his own thoughts are very much the same.

  ‘This evening has stirred parts of me I thought were dead.’

  ‘Moota,’ he says, thoughtfully. ‘That’s about five miles from where you lived. A prisoner of war camp,’ he remembers. ‘But there was nothing much there in terms of domestic settlement. I don’t think it counted as even a hamlet.’

  Marianne says, ‘Blindcrake is the nearest village, a mile or so away. There was a quarry. Moota Quarry. In the sixties and seventies there was a motel. Like the one on Crossroads. The Moota Motel. There was a restaurant open to the public and a frozen food centre. The restaurant eventually became a venue for functions. They held Young Farmers’ dances every week. I went sometimes with my friends.’

  ‘But you were never a young farmer.’

  ‘I know. Odd, isn’t it?’

  He imagines her aged seventeen, dressed as a milkmaid like Tess of the D’Urbervilles, in a white pinafore with frills. The look would have suited her. He shifts position because he is getting cramp in his arm.

  She says, ‘And now it’s a garden centre. What made you think of Moota?’

  Time stills and he kisses her hair and then her neck and strokes her shoulder, his hand slips lower and he feels the change of texture, the softness. He removes his hand quickly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. Moota’s allowed.’

  She replaces his hand, gives him permission and she shifts too so she is leaning over him. She kisses him on the mouth like she did at the party.

  He feels the gentle weight and muses that all that is between his hand and her skin is the material of her dress and the satin of her bra.

  ‘We are just playing after all, aren’t we?’ she asks.

  ‘Are we?’

  ‘We haven’t been on a proper date yet.’

  ‘You mean “Out” out?’ he says, thinking of Harriet.

  She laughs. ‘We haven’t talked about a relationship – or indeed anything else. I don’t know what I want – if I’m ready. All I do know is that I’m very happy lying on your bed, being close to you.’

  ‘And I,’ he says, kissing her again, running his hand down her back, smoothing the folds of her dress down to her knees. He stops abruptly. ‘What do we have here? Are you wearing suspenders?’

  ‘I am,’ she says.

  ‘Hussy,’ he says. ‘And all the while I thought you were so sweet and innocent.’

  ‘Looks can be deceptive. I can play hussy,’ she says, kissing him back.

  What a delicious prospect, he thinks. There is more to this woman than meets the eye. It is enough to know. No wonder Johnny was a happy man.

  ‘But not tonight,’ she adds. ‘It is too soon. I don’t want either of us to get carried away by this moment and have regrets. We could get hurt. We need to know what we both want. And I’m so sleepy now. All that sea air and walking in Sidmouth has caught up with me.’

  He knows she is right. ‘Stay a while.’

  Like a cat, she flops across him, snuggling into his chest. ‘I’ll leave you before morning. We don’t want to set a bad example to Harriet.’

  ‘Role-reversal,’ says Edward.

  ‘And if you would undo the top of my zip – to save hassle later,’ she says.

  She doesn’t move and he struggles to pull it about half way down her back, remembering Lydia, the pink chiffon meringue and his own need, long ago, to ask the same question.

  Soon she is breathing deeply with the abandonment of sleep. He dare not move, but relishes her presence on his bed, so long empty of another body, and even longer, another soul with which to share.

  Stay with me a while my dear Mari, my enchanting joy, till th
e dawn breaks across the Broadclyst fields and the warming sun drives all sadness from my heart. Stay with me and leave your presence as the tide leaves ripples on the sand so when you go, you will be forever here where I might lie beside your essence and remember …

  It isn’t like him to feel poetic.

  Then he drifts off to sleep and when he wakes she is gone.

  21

  Cause to Pause

  When Marianne comes downstairs late the following morning, she is tired and achy but it is as if she is enveloped in a fluffy cloud. She is sixteen again, basking in an afterglow that says you had a successful night, last night, your best laid plans succeeded. It is the feeling of having been asked to dance by the good-looking guy you’ve been fancying for ages; the joy when nothing else matters for those precious hours before the doubt sets in; before what next, will he call, will he ask me out?

  Harriet is sitting by the breakfast bar.

  ‘Morning,’ says Marianne, bright and breezy as if it is just another morning and not an earth-shatteringly significant one. She is devoid of make-up and has loosely plaited most of her hair over one shoulder, the rest flopping over her face in a youthful and casual style.

  ‘Fancy a trip to get some croissants?’ Harriet looks pleading.

  Marianne knows this look. It is a look born out of anxiety from having met each other on the upstairs landing at four in the morning when Harriet was sneaking upstairs to her room and Marianne was tiptoeing from Edward’s, next door to the guest room. It is difficult to say who has the moral high ground. Both were fully clothed bar shoes, so neither could claim to have previously been in their own bed. Marianne hopes Harriet didn’t notice the sagging shoulders of her dress betraying the half-opened zip.

  ‘Dad’s out with Meg. He said we’d have breakfast when you appeared.’ Harriet slips off the stool and fetches a short black coat and her bag.

  ‘Okay,’ says Marianne.

  Harriet leaves Edward a note and as soon as both doors shut on the Peugeot, she says, ‘Please don’t tell Dad you saw me last night.’

  Marianne considers the situation carefully and speaks in a light and non-judgemental tone. ‘We thought you were already home. I can only assume you have a very good reason for not wanting your dad to know where you were or, presumably, whom you were with.’

  Harriet is twenty-three and doesn’t have the freedom to do what she pleases in secret like her siblings. Marianne empathises.

  ‘I have good reason,’ says Harriet. ‘Nothing Dad could say to me would make any difference. And he has had enough to worry about.’

  ‘So he would worry, if he knew?’

  ‘He would, but there is no need. Really. Please trust me, Marianne. I’ll tell him when the time is right.’

  ‘Is he married?’

  ‘No. But in a village it’s hard to keep things quiet – and when you don’t know where things are going … I don’t want unnecessary aggro. Please don’t ask me to tell you any more. Perhaps you feel the same in your situation?’

  Marianne considers how she and Edward had intended to keep their shared bedroom experience from Harriet, despite Harriet being on side. The implications of telling Edward might be more detrimental than not telling.

  ‘I won’t tell your dad about you, provided you don’t let him know that you know I was in his room.’

  ‘I thought, but I wasn’t sure,’ says Harriet.

  ‘We were drinking tea and talking.’

  ‘Yes, yes. You don’t have to explain to me.’ She giggles.

  Marianne joins in and the tension is broken. ‘Where are we going for these croissants?’

  ‘First stop, post office, but if they’ve run out, there’s the Stables café at Killerton. And we need more milk.’

  The post office doubles as a general store and is a yellow-ochre building with a steep slate roof, set beside the main road that runs through the village, not far away from the church. There are zigzag lines outside because of the Pelican crossing, and double yellows beyond. Harriet turns down a side road that leads behind the shop to a small car park bursting with cars. Some vehicles wait with drivers inside.

  ‘Milk and croissants?’ says Marianne, leaping out. ‘You stay here in case you need to move.’

  The shop is tiny and L-shaped: two small aisles of grocery products and an off-shoot housing the post office section. There are several people jostling around the till by the door, mostly buying papers and croissants. Music plays in the form of Tom Jones singing ‘It’s Not Unusual’. Marianne worms her way through the crush to find what she needs and then joins the queue. She is startled by a voice behind her. It is Olivia.

  ‘My dear, did you have a good time last night? It looked as though you did.’

  ‘We had a lovely time, thank you.’

  ‘Nice to see Ted out socialising again. He’s been a tad reclusive since Felicity left. But don’t get too fond of him, will you? Wouldn’t like to see you hurt.’

  Marianne adopts a cooler tone. ‘We are aware of our respective circumstances.’

  ‘Ted’s on the rebound,’ whispers Olivia, undeterred, checking over her shoulder that there is as yet no one behind her. ‘It’s only nine months since Flick left. Still early days. Ted was devastated. They were so perfect together. The whole village was aghast. Since she left, he and Jess have become – shall we say, close.’ Olivia glances again over her shoulder. ‘Nothing’s happened as such. They have an understanding. He told her it was too soon.’

  ‘Yes, he told me what he said.’

  ‘She’s younger, dear. And we both know what men are like. Even the Teds of this world. You can never be more than a fling, a stepping stone. Jessica’s of his type, of his social world. You may be too, dear, for all I know, but you’re not Felicity. Sorry to be blunt, dear, but you’re not.’

  Marianne’s stomach sinks and her throat contracts. The fluffy cloud disperses as mist into a sun-drenched morning.

  ‘What exactly do you mean?’

  ‘It would be impolite of me to be specific other than to say Felicity was a dynamo, a superwoman. She did a lot for the village. And it was she who left him, not the other way round. He’s bruised. I expect he needs reassurance.’

  Once again the Brocklebank ghosts see hope of a return. They leap to attention, grinning at her discomfort. Barnaby Sproat, ‘Who’d want to play with a weed like you?’ But she isn’t going to be bullied any more, no matter what she feels inside. This time she won’t show her hurt. Instead, she rises in height and thinks of what Taryn would say.

  ‘It is impolite of you to speculate on the nature of our relationship and to judge me,’ says Marianne, with little attempt to lower her voice. ‘You know nothing of me, or the past that Edward and I have shared. And it is none of your business. Don’t presume that I want any more than Edward does. You could say I’m on the rebound too.’ She is surprised at the strength of her reaction. She remembers when she was similarly bold on the Greenwich Pier, when she confronted the Cow-Charmaine about the amount of time she was spending with Johnny.

  Olivia takes a step back. ‘I was only saying; preparing you. I don’t mean to upset you.’

  The other customers have silenced.

  ‘No? I think that’s exactly your intention.’ Marianne turns away from Olivia and shuffles forward in the queue, breathing quickly.

  Olivia stalks out of the shop and the chatter resumes.

  Marianne feels herself flushing as she waits to be served.

  Lyn Wade gives her a warm smile and whispers, ‘Don’t take any notice. She was Felicity’s friend.’

  But once outside, Marianne’s shoulders drop and all she can hear are Olivia’s words – you’re not Felicity. Olivia is right; she isn’t Felicity and truth hurts.

  By the time she has walked round the corner to Harriet’s car, her mood has changed from joyful to downcast; two seasons in a matter of minutes. There is now good reason to carry out Taryn’s instructions to play hard to get.

  ‘I take it
all went to plan last night?’ says Harriet.

  ‘It did,’ says Marianne. But her eyes are smarting and she doesn’t elaborate.

  ‘I do approve.’

  ‘There’s nothing much to approve. Jessica thinks we’re an item. Job done.’

  ‘And are you?’ says Harriet.

  ‘Last night was last night,’ says Marianne. ‘I’m not sure where we go from here.’

  When they return, Edward is out feeding the hens and Marianne’s knees do that weakness thing when she sees him. Her stomach lurches, remembering the closeness of the night before. This hasn’t happened to her since she first went out with Johnny. It is reminiscent of teenage years and the unexpected encounter with the love-interest of the time. It is indefinable, indescribable …

  He strides over to greet her while Harriet goes straight into the house.

  A touch on her shoulder, the broadest smile, the kindest eyes. ‘Thank you for last night,’ he says. ‘It was the most perfect evening.’

  ‘It was,’ says Marianne, wishing it hadn’t been tainted by Olivia.

  They go inside, unspoken thoughts hanging in the air.

  Harriet is laying the breakfast table and she looks at one and then the other. ‘What time did you two get back then?’ A parental tone which Marianne is beginning to recognise as similar to the one Holly has been adopting since Johnny died. ‘How was the performance? Were you convincing? Did the Coven see? Will Jessica leave Dad alone now, do you think?’

  ‘Oscar-worthy,’ says Edward, going to unload the dishwasher.

  ‘I think we managed to set tongues wagging,’ says Marianne.

  ‘Ordinarily, I wouldn’t want details, but I’m rather curious to know what you did after I left.’

  ‘We did enough for them to be in no doubt,’ says Marianne, thinking that Harriet is trying hard to keep her side of the bargain. ‘Enough to dissuade Jessica from her pursuit, at least for the time being.’

  Over breakfast the subject is changed and Harriet tells Marianne more about her job and they all discuss the current state of education.