The Bed I Made

by Lucie Whitehouse

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m staying.’

  He nodded. ‘Your reading rate’s dropped off, though. Been busy?’

  I explained about the deadline.

  ‘Well then, now you’ve got a bit more time and I know you’re still here, why don’t you come for supper on Friday? If you’ve got nothing more exciting on.’

  I was taken aback. ‘That’s . . .’

  ‘Nothing grand,’ he said. ‘A bite to eat and a bottle of wine. I’m just up the road from here.’ He found a piece of paper and sketched out a few lines, marking his house with an asterisk. I looked at it, unsure what to say. ‘Eight, eight thirty,’ he was telling me. ‘I’ll look forward to it. You can tell me more about your translating.’

  I walked until I was out of sight of the windows before stopping. The little map was still in my hand and I looked at it. I’d been railroaded and it seemed like I was going to have to go – it would be too rude not to. Probably, I thought, he’d guessed how lonely I was and inviting me was an act of kindness. I felt my heart sink as I imagined myself there, making awkward conversation with him and his wife. Putting the map in my pocket, I started the walk back. I’d gone about a hundred yards when I got cross with myself. You’re pathetic, I thought; he’s being friendly and it’s only one evening. And anyway, think about it: if you go, the next time Helen asks, you’ll be able to say you’ve been out.

  The view from Mary’s Café couldn’t compete with the one at Gossips; instead of the sweep of the Solent and the stripe of the mainland with the nest of masts in the Lymington River and the wooded foreshore up towards Beaulieu, the plate-glass window gave out on to the street. Even now, it amused me that this was the High Street; it was one-way only and not wide enough for two cars to pass.

  I surveyed the interior of the café from my place behind the counter, enjoying the feeling of playing a game that came with the first-day newness of it all. I liked the way the room had been fitted out. It was the entire width of the building but still only large enough for eight of the pale oak tables. On the walls there were large framed photographs of the Island, not the typical tourist shots but long-distance views of the fields and the higgledy-piggledy roofline at Ryde and the estuary at Newtown. The counter was at the back of the room, another chunky stretch of oak on which were laid out bowls of salads and the three home-made cakes which Mary told me was the winter quota; in summer, she said, she’d make another two. When I’d been in for my interview the previous day, I’d suspected she was about to offer me the job when she showed me the heated pot in the small kitchen and explained that one of my responsibilities would be to take the soup out of the fridge and make sure it was hot by the time people were likely to start ordering it. The bread was delivered first thing and I would need to be in when the baker’s van arrived.

  Mary was in her mid-forties, I guessed, with a laugh like a fox-bark and an abrupt manner slightly at odds with her warm eyes. Her curly brown hair was cut short, and her denim skirt and cream jumper clothed a figure padded in a way I found reassuring in a café owner. She’d had the place since the previous spring, she told me, her teenage daughter helping out in the school holidays and on Saturdays, but she wanted someone in the week so she had more time to spend with her elderly mother. She’d struck me immediately as someone leading a life so crammed with commitments that she was on the point of losing her grip on them all; this morning when she’d come to open up and show me the ropes, she’d had to go back round the corner to her house in Baskett’s Lane because she’d forgotten the keys in her hurry. I was amazed when she told me that she made everything apart from the bread herself.

  I’d been wrong, I saw now, to imagine that working here would be much more sociable than translating at home. There had been customers, of course, but not many: five or six for coffee and cake over the course of the morning, another six or seven over a lunch hour that extended from noon until half past two. A couple of them I recognised as locals, people I’d seen in the Square or on the harbour, but the rest seemed to be passing trade. I wondered why the locals didn’t come in when the food was so good. Perhaps it was the prices: not extortionate but certainly more expensive than the cafés on the Square. Perhaps, though, it was the rocket and quinoa and alfalfa in the salad bowls.

  No one had offered much in the way of conversation. In fact, beyond ordering, none of them had said anything at all: no pleasantries, not even a desultory comment on the weather. They came up to the counter, told me what they wanted, then sat at the tables, facing away, speaking to each other in low voices, reading newspapers if they were on their own. Oh well, I thought, at least it was a change of scene and Mary was nice enough, and another person that I could now legitimately claim to know in Yarmouth. And maybe people would start to talk to me over time, when my face became familiar.

  Chris’s house was one of the imposing red-brick Victorians on the road up out of Totland towards the Needles. The short gravel drive was overlooked by a number of established yew trees, their shapes illuminated by the automatic light that had come on as I pulled up. The house itself, though, was in darkness, no lights showing at any of the windows. Perhaps he’d forgotten and I was off the hook; I could go back to the cottage and spend the evening reading instead. I’d been apprehensive about coming; even after I’d talked myself out of my initial resistance, it seemed an alarming acceleration of intimacy to go from being a customer at the shop to a dinner guest. I couldn’t just drive off, however, so I got out and went to ring the doorbell. The coloured glass of the fanlight was unlit, too, and there was no sound of movement from inside. While I waited, I looked around. Beside the iron boot-scraper, there was a box of newspapers for recycling: the County Press and The Times. I was standing on a tiled mosaic area like the one under the portico of my building in Earls Court and immediately my mind dealt me the memory of the evening that Richard had lain in wait for me there, to talk me into taking him back.

  I was just about to go when I heard footsteps behind the door and it opened. ‘Kate, lovely to see you.’ Chris stepped forward out of the gloom to kiss me on the cheek. ‘Come in.’

  He stepped aside to let me pass. Behind him the hallway was unlit and smelled of dust. In what light reached in from outside, I could make out the shape of a dresser against the far wall and a rim of light around a door which now swung open a little. His wife, I thought, but instead there was the skittering of claws across the tiles and a thump against my thigh as a large dog made contact. I looked down and made out two huge eyes in a golden Labrador face.

  ‘This is Ted,’ said Chris, as the dog spun around me, sniffing vigorously, the thick cable of his tail sweeping from side to side. I reached down to stroke his head and he pointed his nose towards the ground to allow me access to the soft place between his ears. ‘He has his limitations as a guard dog, as you can see.’ He got hold of him by the collar. ‘Come on, you, let Kate take her coat off.’

  ‘Sorry about the light – or lack of it,’ he said, going in the direction of the door through which Ted had appeared. ‘The bulb blew earlier on and I’d forgotten to get any spares. But we’re a bit brighter in here.’

  My spirits revived a little when I saw the kitchen. It was a large room, the units which made up the L-shaped working area wooden-fronted and topped with marble. A long farmhouse table occupied the far end, which had been extended into a sort of conservatory, its wall made up of a series of glass doors which looked as though they folded back in a concertina to leave the room open to the garden. There was no sign of the Belling cooker I’d been imagining seconds earlier and instead of the dry pork chops and furry boiled potatoes I’d begun to picture, the air was full of the scent of a rich garlicky sauce. Two bottles of wine were breathing on an island counter surrounded by stools; the papers which I guessed usually covered it were gathered at one end into a shaggy pile topped by a pair of half-moon reading glasses.

  I handed him the bottle I’d brought and he looked quickly at the label. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘
That’s very nice. Now, what can I get you?’

  ‘Wine would be great.’ I ventured further into the room, closely marked by Ted. In the light, I could see the distinguished white of the elder statesman around the muzzle which he was pressing into my hand. There was white in the fur above his eyes, too, and a slight stiffness in the movement of his back legs.

  Chris handed me a glass. ‘New friends,’ he said, raising his own.

  I took a large mouthful, slightly embarrassed. Especially now, seeing him in context at home, I was aware that though he was probably in his sixties, he was still a man people would describe as handsome. There was an elegance about his face, a fineness around the eyes and the bridge of his long straight nose. ‘This is a lovely room,’ I said, making a show of looking around.

  ‘Thank you. I spend most of my time in here; I like sitting at the counter – it’s good for thinking. And it’s very nice in summer with the doors open.’ He walked over to flick a switch on the far wall and the garden was flooded with light. I went to the window and cupped my hands around my eyes. A soft-looking lawn sloped away from the house towards a rim of tall pine trees under which the grass petered out.

  ‘It’s low maintenance, which appeals to me.’

  ‘You’re not a gardener then?’

  ‘My wife was – Miranda. She died seven years ago. Breast cancer.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He smiled gently. I came back over to the counter as he picked up a dish of olives which he offered to me. ‘Do you smoke?’ he asked, as I bit into one.

  ‘Officially, no.’

  He smiled again, this time more broadly. ‘Miranda begged me for years to give up but I started again when she died and I’ve found it hard to stop completely since then. Shall we?’ He slid a packet out from its hiding place beneath the pile of newspapers.

  ‘By the way, I’ve asked another friend of mine along tonight,’ he said, lighting my cigarette and then his own. ‘Peter. I hope you don’t mind; I thought it might be a good idea. Before he gets here, though, I should tell you that he lost his wife, too. Rather more recently – in the autumn.’

  ‘Peter Frewin.’

  ‘You know him?’ He was surprised.

  ‘No, no,’ I said. ‘I heard about it – in Yarmouth. In the paper.’

  ‘Of course.’ He nodded. ‘You know the story then. A very great shame.’ He took a sip of wine. ‘He won’t mention it at all but I thought you should know.’

  From the hall came the sound of the front door closing and in a trice Ted was up from his spot at our feet and nosing his way back through the swing door. There was a single joyful bark, the sound of jumping up and a quiet male voice, and then footsteps and a figure in the doorway. I turned my head to see him towering there, the kitchen lights illuminating his face, the hall behind him in darkness.

  Chris put a hand on his shoulder as he came into the room, then turned to pour him some wine. ‘Peter, this is Kate,’ he said. ‘She’s just moved to the Island; she’s in Yarmouth with you, in one of the coastguard cottages.’

  ‘We’ve met,’ said Peter, taking a sip and letting his eyes rest on me briefly.

  ‘Have you?’ Chris looked at me.

  ‘When I was trying to stroke Peter’s cat,’ I said, feeling foolish.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Right. Well, I hope you’re both hungry; I’ve made a casserole.’

  Peter took an olive from the dish and went to sit on the low floral sofa under Chris’s corkboard. There was a basket lined with a blanket nearby but a suspiciously dog-sized indent on the sofa itself. No sooner had Peter sat down than Ted clambered on to his lap. ‘Oof,’ he said, as the air was squashed out of him.

  ‘Gently please, Ted,’ said Chris, opening the fridge door and taking out a butter dish. ‘Or it’s WeightWatchers for you.’

  Peter waited while Ted trod all over him in pursuit of a comfortable position and eventually sat sideways across his knee, obscuring his view. He shifted forward a little and slung his arm around the dog’s neck, pulling him back against him.

  ‘Kate, top yourself up,’ said Chris. ‘Don’t run dry.’

  I did so, grateful for something to do and noticing that I was already beating him, needing only to refill his glass by an inch while mine was almost empty. It was good, though; I could feel the wine taking the edge off my awkwardness, putting down a layer of insulation. I looked over at Peter, who was stroking Ted’s ears, letting his fingers slide over the velvet fur. I glanced away again quickly before he became aware of me watching. He looked tired but much better than when I’d seen him in the Square the day after the body that wasn’t Alice’s had been recovered. What did he feel like now? I wondered. How long did it take to get over something like that?

  ‘Have you got to know your neighbours, Kate?’ Chris was dropping French beans into a steaming saucepan.

  ‘I’ve hardly even seen them,’ I said. ‘But I haven’t introduced myself. Maybe it’s a London thing – living side by side with people and letting them stay strangers. Could I have another cigarette?’

  ‘Help yourself. No need to ask.’

  I took one and lit it, feeling as self-conscious as an unpractised teenager. Peter wasn’t looking at me but there was a watchfulness about him, something in his expression that made me think he was taking in what Chris and I were doing though he was paying far more attention to Ted. I remembered the first cigarette I’d had on the Island, on the bench at the bottom of the common with his wife, her strange excitement. She’d been so vivid then, I thought, and yet so close to dying.

  ‘I’ll go down to the yard tomorrow, Chris.’

  ‘Ah, I was going to ask.’

  ‘We’ll need to talk about what still needs doing.’

  ‘I’ve got a list; I’m afraid it’s getting rather long. Peter’s helping me look after my boat,’ he explained. ‘I used to be able to do it all myself but I’m a bit past it now.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Peter said, with a hint of vehemence. ‘You’re sixty-two. He’s got a bad back,’ he said to me, ‘rather than one foot in the grave.’

  I felt myself flush, as if he’d known what I was thinking. My cheeks were getting rosier anyway, as they always did when I drank red.

  He tipped Ted gently off his lap and came over to the counter for another olive. I watched the movement in his jaw as he chewed it. There were deep lines at the corners of his eyes and quite a lot of grey in the short hair above his ears. On the cuff of his jumper there was a splash of blue paint.

  ‘Do you like Yarmouth?’ he said, picking up the stub of pencil that had been lying on a paper folded to the crossword. He started to flick it between his fingers, under and over and back again, a trick I’d tried and failed to learn at school.

  ‘It’s quite quiet,’ I said, ‘but I’m getting used to it. I like the pier and the walk out to Fort Victoria. And the river’s lovely – up by the sailing club and the scows.’

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Chris shoot a quick glance at Peter. Shit – Alice’s scow. Peter turned abruptly and went over to the glass doors where he faced away, looking out over the garden. I couldn’t look at him: he would see my reflection in the glass. You idiot, Kate, I thought; you absolute idiot.

  Chris took the casserole out of the oven and rested it momentarily on the hob. ‘Right, this is ready,’ he said briskly. ‘Kate, if you’d like to sit down. Bring that bottle over if you would.’

  My face felt scarlet as we ate, with embarrassment, the wine and also heat: the room seemed suddenly to have become very hot. I kept my eyes down, afraid of meeting Peter’s and furious with myself. Clearly, the brief grace period when the wine had just lessened my shyness without affecting my ability to think had ended.

  ‘Kate’s a translator,’ Chris told Peter, who was passing down a surreptitious titbit to Ted.

  ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I’m a waitress.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yep. Just started this week – Mary’s on the High Street.
’

  ‘Just down from you, Peter. I’ll pop in next time I’m in Yarmouth.’

  ‘I just got too lonely,’ I said, though neither of them had asked. ‘That’s why I started it. I mean, where is everyone in Yarmouth? It’s like a bloody ghost town at night – no one on the streets, everyone locked away safely behind their front doors. Is there a war on – some sort of curfew I haven’t heard about?’

  Peter glanced up quickly and there was amusement in his eyes, quickly suppressed when he realised I’d seen. Was he laughing at me?

  I insisted on clearing the plates, wanting the opportunity to turn out of view for a few moments. I’d had four glasses now, I thought, and I was starting to feel as though I didn’t have complete control over my face; my mouth in particular felt slightly alien, not to be trusted not to smile in inappropriate places. I’d reached that stage of drunkenness, too, where I’d lost any will to stop drinking. Chris had realised it, too, evidently; on the last round of top-ups, he’d added only a tiny amount to my glass. I was beginning to feel better, though; even confident.

  Over pudding, I relaxed some more. I propped my elbow on the table and started telling them about the holidays I’d spent on the Island when I was younger. I’d lost my nervousness and the words started to flow. I told them how great Dad had been, how much effort he’d put into making sure we’d had a good time – the barbecues on the beach, the crabbing lines, the boat trips. Chris made small comments but Peter listened in silence and for most of the time I had the floor. It felt good, like a return to the socially successful version of myself I hadn’t been for a long time. I could do this: be entertaining, make people laugh. Buoyed up, I carried on, finding myself more and more amusing. We finished the bottle and I cajoled Chris into opening another.

  It was when I stood up to help clear the pudding dishes that I knocked over his glass. It had been full and the wine splashed everywhere, over the tablecloth, the other plates, into the fruit bowl. Shards of glass glittered on the leftover treacle tart. ‘I’m sorry; I’m so, so sorry,’ I said, dabbing wildly with my napkin.