The Second Life of Sally Mottram

by David Nobbs

  ‘Thank you, Frank,’ she said. ‘No, I won’t get in out of my depth.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’s good.’

  He strode out of the pub, full of Armagnac and self-satisfaction.

  ‘Do you know?’ said Sally to Sue. ‘I feel like a glass of champagne. Will you join me?’

  TWENTY-ONE

  Sally’s dread

  The flat was on the first floor of a concrete block of flats that would have disfigured Vatican Road if Vatican Road had not already consisted entirely of disfigurement. It was a narrow street that ran from Quays Approach between, and parallel to, Quays Wharf and High Street East. Nobody knew why it had been called Vatican Road. Arnold Buss, in ‘A Complete History of Potherthwaite’, which he regarded as definitive in the sense that there were no others, was no more helpful on the matter than he was on many other subjects. We will have to be satisfied with his words: ‘We can only surmise that there was an ardent Catholic on the Conservative administration of Potherthwaite Council when the fields between the High Street and the Quays were built on in the 1870s.’

  The flat was what estate agents call ‘compact’ and the rest of us call ‘tiny’. It had a kitchen/diner and a lounge. Let’s be generous and call the lounge ‘small’ rather than ‘tiny’. The walls had two clean bits where the previous occupant’s two pictures had hung. The kitchen/diner was really a kitchen in which it was just feasible for two people to eat. There was one bedroom. The double bed was pushed against one wall. If she ever found a lover – unlikely, at the moment – one of them would have to crawl out of the bottom of the bed. There was no room for a bath in the bathroom. The prospectus spoke of ‘a view over the canal’. This was technically accurate. Sally could see the hills, which were over the canal. But in spirit it was an outrageous lie. She could see over the canal, but of the canal itself she got not a glimpse. It was hidden by the backs of the dilapidated old houses that lined Canal Wharf, which hadn’t been a wharf since 1883.

  Sally dreaded the moment when she would move in to this wretched place, which was simply the only clean accommodation that she could afford in the town. The prospect didn’t help to make her feel optimistic. She knew now, beyond all doubt, that the Transition of Potherthwaite was dead in the silted water of the canal if the council didn’t throw out the proposal for the second supermarket. Again, she blamed her inexperience in allowing herself to be cornered in this way, but in truth it’s hard to see how she could have avoided it.

  Every day she woke with dread, the dread of failure, the dread in particular that the protest march would be a flop, the fear that a dream would die. She carried that dread even into number 6 Cadwallader Road, where, as far as she could tell, Ellie, Ali and Oli were all sticking to the diet she created for them, all from independent shops of course, and she acknowledged to herself, rather ruefully, that the process of avoiding the supermarket was time consuming. Ali and Oli both looked detectably slimmer – just – and of course she couldn’t very well ask to examine Ellie’s vast rolls of fat.

  She carried the dread around the streets as she walked and walked and cajoled people to join the march, when at last it came. She feared that she had started on this too soon, that people would be tired of the march by the time it happened, that she was doing too much, that her presence would soon become counterproductive – ‘Oh God, here comes that supermarket woman. Get upstairs quick.’

  But how could she just sit and worry? How could she behave in such a way that, when she failed, she would wish that she had done more? Some days she was certain she would fail. These were her good days, when she faced the failure bravely. Other days she was hopeful, almost confident. These were her bad days, when she was terrified that she was wrong.

  She thought hard about each member of the council, men and women. In some instances she consulted people who knew them, their families and friends, trying to assess whether it would be effective to canvass them directly, or whether they would resent any attempt to change their minds. She felt weak, tired from the underlying stress which never went away as the long late-summer days slid slowly past. Most days she wished that she hadn’t started this great venture. But on most days too she remembered Councillor Stratton’s seven words, and her anger was fuelled.

  At last, the day of completion on her house approached. Now she spent her time at home, packing, sorting, discarding, remembering. Should she keep anything of Barry’s? Should she put a few things into storage or should she just ditch everything she didn’t need? How much could she get into the little flat? Marigold came round to help. Her mixture of good nature, vitality and curiosity made her the perfect partner, though she might have just used the bin rather than saying, ‘I presume you’ve no further use for three packets of condoms.’

  Marigold came round on the day, and the two of them stood in front of the ugly little block of flats as the furniture van arrived. Robson & Willow, Unequalled in the Pother Valley, had sent their smaller van, due to the difficulty of turning from Quays Approach into Vatican Road. Well, that was what Sally told people. The real reason was that she didn’t need a larger van because she was bringing so little. Her furniture was far too bulky for her pathetic little flat, and Conrad, having left everything that reminded him of his wife and her death, had been happy to take it while he decided what kind of look he would want in his new house. Perhaps he was as attracted to her as she to him. Maybe he was keeping the furniture in case there came a day when she … stop dreaming, Sally.

  Sally and Marigold stood just inside the flat, discussed where each object should go, and one or other of them escorted it to its destination. Half of Sally wished that nobody else was there to witness this sad scene. The other half knew that the scene would be even sadder without Marigold’s presence and unfailing vitality. Besides, she didn’t dare rebuff her second-in-command and best friend. She would need her soon.

  Despite the meagre contents of the van, it was hard to find a place for every item in the flat. Everything seemed to grow in size as it passed through the cheap, glaringly white door. Eventually, somehow, a place of sorts was found for everything, the removal men were tipped, the job was done.

  ‘I think I’ll go,’ said Marigold. ‘I expect you’ll want to be alone in your new home.’

  When Marigold had gone, Sally looked longingly at her bottles of drink, which she had felt a bit ashamed of in front of the removal men, but then she went all English and made herself a cup of tea. She sat in her favourite armchair, one of the two she had brought, and tried to feel that she might be able to make a passable home here in this tiny place, even though the chair didn’t really fit in. She felt amazingly exhausted.

  Jill had suggested that she join the cul-de-sac gang that evening for the Early Bird supper at the Weavers’. She was glad she’d refused. She was too tired, and, more importantly, she might miss a call from Conrad. ‘Feeling a bit lonely, don’t know anyone here yet. Thought you might like to help me decide what to put where. You know the house and its little quirks.’ As if he would. She hardly knew him. She had to get over these childish fantasies. Had Boedicea fantasized about men who looked wonderful in woad?

  Besides, his move would be vast, it might even take two days. It was only mid-afternoon. £445,000 had slipped quietly into her bank account with no fuss. £398,000 had said, ‘Hi there, can’t stop, sorry. Bye.’ The position was even worse than she had thought. Expenses come out of the woodwork when you move.

  Well, at least she was free of debt. That was good, wasn’t it?

  Was it hell. She was terrified. She was a pauper.

  She looked round her tiny flat and thought of Conrad sitting on her lawn with a gin and tonic, Conrad asleep in her bedroom, Conrad soaping himself in her bath.

  She longed to phone Jill and change her mind about going to the Weavers’. She longed even more to open a bottle of wine.

  She did neither.

  She felt that there would be no comfort from the television set.

  She heard th
e unmistakable noise of the beginning of an orgasm in the neighbouring flat. Oh God. Thin walls. Communal living. This was hell. She couldn’t listen to that. She reached for the remote control to switch the television on, but the orgasm was over before she’d even found it. Ten minutes later she heard someone call at the flat, and she realized why the orgasm had been so brief. The man had been alone.

  She heard him shut the door and there was the sound of loud, thoughtless footsteps hurtling down the stairs. She peered out of the window to see what he looked like. There were two men. She didn’t know which one was the neighbour, but it didn’t matter – they were both too young for her and too unkempt for her and in any case how could she have introduced herself? ‘Hello. I’m your new neighbour. I heard you doing things earlier, which, well, let’s just say they might be more fun with someone else rather than on your own’? Sally!

  And still Conrad didn’t ring. Every minute was the same. He didn’t ring. She couldn’t believe he didn’t need to ask her something. ‘Sorry to bother you, but where’s the stopcock?’ Sally!

  The next few days were agony for her. Conrad was in her old home, their eyes had met, she had thought that it had been an electric moment, and now there was nothing. There are not many sights more disturbing than a silent telephone, sitting there, immobile, not flashing, stopping you from speaking to the only person who matters to you. The vicar rang and she wanted to yell at him to get off the line. He carried good news – he would be at the march and would be bringing several people. ‘I think the council should know the church isn’t sitting on the fence on this one.’ ‘Excellent. That’s so kind of you, Vicar, and so kind to let me know as well.’ ‘I think Linda Oughtibridge may have persuaded several of her knitting circle.’ ‘Wonderful, Vicar. Good old Linda.’ ‘Absolutely. No oil painting, sadly, but heart of gold.’ And then when at last she could put the phone down, there was no red light to say there was a message. Why didn’t he ring? Why should he ring? Yes, it had seemed like a rather significant glance between them as she’d shown him the bedroom, but had it been? Calm down. And then the phone did ring. She let it ring six times so as not to seem too eager. ‘Hello!’ I believe you have recently moved home. Our double glazing—’ She banged the phone down. How did they know? She knew all about the world of phone tapping and secret spying. Were there any limits to it? Did President Obama know that she had moved home?

  She shouldn’t have banged the phone down. The man who’d phoned might know who she was, ring all his friends. ‘You know that woman who’s organizing the march. Snob. Only banged the bloody phone down on me. Tell people not to touch her with a bargepole.’

  There were moments when she almost rang Conrad. She even began dialling once, but rang off hurriedly when she only had one more number to dial. How silly was that? There were so many things that she could so easily have said. ‘I was just hoping that you weren’t having any problems.’ ‘Just a courtesy call to see how you’re settling in.’ ‘I just wondered if there were any tradesmen’s details I could help you with.’ But she knew why she’d rung off. She was frightened that she would discover immediately that he hadn’t been thinking of her at all. ‘Sorry, who are you? Oh, the lady who lived here. No, I’ve no problems, but thank you so much for ringing. Goodbye.’

  She forced herself to be more adult, and then she realized that her worry about Conrad was the least of three worries, and worrying about him was her way of avoiding worrying about the other two – worrying about what the council would decide, and perhaps, sadly, worrying even more about how she was going to live on £47,000 with no job, for our society is structured in such a way that worrying about not having money is the greatest worry of all. How would she ever have anything left over for helping Sam and Beth when the inevitable crisis came? Bloody Barry.

  And then he rang.

  ‘Sally Mottram?’

  She recognized his voice immediately.

  The boiler’s burst. I love you madly. Where do you keep that thing you unblock the sink with? The air was full of possible remarks before she’d even said yes, she was Sally Mottram.

  ‘I wondered if you’d like to come out to dinner with me one night?’

  TWENTY-TWO

  Dinner for two

  He picked her up in his bright red Audi.

  ‘I thought we’d go out of town,’ he said. ‘I’m sure the town is crawling with your friends, and we don’t want to be interrupted, do we?’

  It was one of those infuriating English days when it rains until half past six and suddenly turns into a beautiful evening, but the air is too cold and the seats in the beer gardens are too wet to sit on, and there’s no use for all the amazing beauty of the scene except to admire it. But how lovely it was to sit in an expensive car and get driven by an expert and considerate driver. The road twisted up on to the moors and the sudden sunshine took away all the bleakness. There was no wind. The monster windmills were thwarted. Bored sheep turned to look at the car. Sally noticed how Conrad slowed down when he was passing sheep that were close to the road. Aware of animals. Not a show-off. Promising.

  He talked enough but not too much, and he talked about the scenes through which they were passing. No questions yet. No answers either. Sally’s nerves were subsiding.

  And yet … and yet … this was a scene she had imagined so much, longed for with such absurd intensity. Now, when it was happening, the intensity had gone. It was as if she was outside the scene, watching herself being driven over the rough inchoate summit of the moor and down towards another steep, spectacular valley, the first lights of the evening sparkling in some other town, a town that was eight miles from Potherthwaite but might just as well have been separated from it by the full range of the Himalayas.

  Halfway down the hill, they came to a pub, the Shoulder of Mutton. It was a great stone place, its modest farmhouse heart buried among extensions and conservatories and annexes. The car park was the size of a cricket ground and it was almost full. More than half the cars were more expensive than Conrad Eltington’s Audi.

  ‘Not our kind of place, perhaps, but I’m told it’s good,’ said Conrad.

  Sally noted his use of ‘our’ with a subdued thrill, but she was conscious that she still wasn’t responding as if this was actually happening.

  This was a dining pub. Nobody would come here just for a drink. It was buzzing with chatter, but the acoustics were so good that the buzz was muted, reassuring. The dining areas – there was nothing defined enough to be called a restaurant – were so well designed, the tables so placed, the alcoves so plentiful and spacious, the dividing walls between the alcoves so high, that every corner felt spacious and private.

  The menu was vast.

  ‘Ominously large menu,’ said Conrad, ‘but friends whose taste I trust have praised it.’

  At least it wasn’t one of those places that give the lady a menu with no prices on it. The prices were there, and they were high. The recession had passed the Shoulder of Mutton by.

  Sally didn’t try anything sophisticated or clever in her choice of aperitif. Good old G and T, ice and a slice.

  ‘I’ll wait for the wine,’ said Conrad to the Lithuanian waitress. ‘I’m driving.’

  A first date is rarely without tension, but Sally had felt a sense of sudden relaxation, almost of exhilaration, the moment she had entered the pub. As she studied the menu, desperately trying not to give way under its weight of choices, she realized why. There was probably not a single person from Potherthwaite here. It was as if the Pother Valley was a secret place, unknown to the rest of the world. She needn’t worry about offending any of these people. She needn’t worry about what any of them would be doing next Saturday, the day of the march. She had gone abroad for the evening.

  Yet she was not entirely free from tension. She was aware that she was feeling tense only because she was taking so many factors into consideration in making her choice. Not too cheap, as if afraid to spend his money. Not too expensive, as if she was greedy and grasp
ing. No garlic (over-optimism?). Not such a large meal that she couldn’t finish it. Not so small a meal that he’d think she didn’t like food. She wanted to order the sort of meal that she thought that a man like him would want a woman like her to choose.

  In the end, after weighing things up carefully, she chose, on sudden impulse, things she hadn’t even considered. Later she couldn’t remember what she had eaten.

  Now that the ordering was over he leant across, looked her in the face, and smiled. He had a really nice smile. His eyes were even more brown than she had remembered, but his black hair was streaked with shades of grey, which she hadn’t remembered. His nose was a little wide, and his mouth was businesslike.

  ‘I’ve heard a bit of what you’re doing,’ he said. ‘It seems to be the talk of the town.’

  ‘Oh golly, what a responsibility,’ she said. She would have taken back the ‘golly’ if she could. It was a word she didn’t think she had ever used before.

  ‘Exactly. That’s why I thought it would be nice for you to be taken out of Potherthwaite tonight.’

  The evening was heavy with the faint sound of boxes being ticked.

  The meal was surprisingly good. Conrad’s contacts had been right. Their conversation was as smooth as the purring of the engine of his well-maintained Audi. He asked her about the march, and about the support that she might expect to receive.

  ‘I can recruit a few people,’ he said, with a smile. ‘Three-line whip.’

  This led naturally to her asking him what he did. He was an engineer in the water industry, a consultant in flood control.

  ‘Very boring,’ he said.

  ‘To you, or to me? Or both?’

  ‘Oh, to you. I love it, but I wouldn’t expect you to be interested.’

  ‘Because I’m a woman?’

  ‘No, of course not. Because all people in general want from the water industry is water, enough of it and not too much.’