The Second Life of Sally Mottram

by David Nobbs

  The Weavers’ Arms was fairly empty on a Monday, but even so, the new young waiter was so struck with nerves and stress that he spilt red wine all down Harry’s trousers.

  ‘It was the waiting that was the worst,’ Sally said afterwards. ‘Mind you, it was his first day at the pub.’ It’s an old joke, but under the circumstances it was irresistible.

  Sally had found herself unable to face attending the diminutive public gallery in the council chamber to listen to the debate.

  Marigold had decided to go.

  ‘You’re braver than me,’ Sally told her.

  ‘I’m not. You care more than me.’

  ‘You care too.’

  ‘I do. I care very much. But you, Sally. It’s something else with you. It’s life or death. To me it’s as if you had one life, it didn’t work, and you’ve sort of literally … I mean, I know it’s not literally literally but it so almost is, it’s like “I’ve reinvented myself and if this Sally Mottram doesn’t work I don’t see where the third one’s coming from.” Does that make sense?’

  ‘Sort of, I suppose. I don’t think it’s healthy to think of oneself too much.’

  ‘I’m frightened by how much you care, Sally.’

  Sally had suggested to Harry, Jill, Olive and Arnold that they all go to the Weavers’ for the Early Bird Special. Olive had turned the suggestion down on the grounds that her decision not to participate in the great Transition scheme rendered her an unfit companion on the night of the vote. Arnold, feeling trapped by Olive’s decision, had with huge difficulty turned down a special offer for the first time in his life. So Sally, desperate to continue to cement the two marriages of her four pensioner friends, had found herself taking a pickaxe to the cement by escorting Jill and Harry to dinner.

  And now she was almost too nervous to eat anything, and the clumsiness and lack of charm of the new waiter, poor boy, quite unsuited to the job, just piled the pressure on her nerves. Harry and Jill were nervous too. They were nervous for Sally, for Potherthwaite, and for themselves. Harry had after all been promised a very prominent role in the great adventure, and was, secretly, very thrilled indeed, and Jill, who gave the appearance of being at least half in love with him, was thrilled for him too. Neither of them could be said to be on what Harry called ‘Top Nosh Mode’.

  So here were three nervous people eating together in the pub where not long ago they had received a further discount because they were all badly bruised. It occurred to Sally, who was well aware of Harry and Jill’s nervousness, that they might call this ‘The Great Nerves Special’ and ask for a further discount from the kindly Sue. Then they could ask for a further discount owing to the bad service from the desperate bespotted waiter, who would later cause Sue to change all the bread baskets because he had a rare allergy to wicker, and she didn’t dare sack him in our litigious culture. Sally didn’t mention these thoughts to Sue, of course, because Sue might have acted on them.

  Their nervousness inhibited their conversation. Jill did try. She said, ‘That woman over there is quite attractive, but all I can see is a great big polyp she had in her large intestine. That was what was so wonderful about that holiday in Italy. I didn’t recognize anybody’s backside for a whole week.’ Nobody warmed to this theme, and the conversation fizzled out altogether. They ate in a silence broken only by their asides to the hopeless waiter. ‘No, I’m the pork.’ ‘I did say, “Could I have chips instead of the dauphinoise potatoes?”’ ‘You’ve dribbled gravy on to my dessert spoon.’

  The replacement spoon was never used. They never had any desserts. Arnold telephoned Harry to say that Olive had been taken ill, and was on her way to Potherthwaite District Hospital in an ambulance.

  Jill drove Harry to the hospital as he was probably already over the limit. Sue brought Sally a large white wine on the house, and she didn’t have the energy to demur. By now, though, she was a nervous wreck.

  Nerves played a big part in the council chamber too. Marigold sat in the Visitors’ Gallery, which was absolutely full. Councillor Stratton had to call for silence on more than one occasion. It had seemed to Marigold on the day of the march that the arguments for throwing out the supermarket’s application were overwhelming. She didn’t feel that now. In fact the very success of the march seemed to be used by some people as an argument for the application. We mustn’t get carried away. We mustn’t allow ourselves to be swayed by emotion. We are here to govern, not to dream. Many people couldn’t afford the independent shops. The town was full of working-class people, not trendy foodies with their cupcakes.

  The argument swung back and forth. One man proudly claimed to be working class to his boots and said that small shops cared about people, but supermarkets didn’t. Another said that it was odd how people who weren’t working class seemed to think they knew what working-class people wanted. A lady councillor put forward the idea that if everyone went to the independent shops they wouldn’t have to be so expensive and people would be able to afford to use them. The shortest speech was from a man who said ‘I’m from Guildford. Don’t tell me about supermarkets’, and sat down triumphantly, as if he thought he had just swung the meeting.

  Back at the Weavers’, Sally’s nerves grew. It was proving a long meeting. Was that a good sign or a bad sign?

  And back at the Town Hall, one speaker, tall, deathly pale, clutched his notes as if they were a handful of eels. His wife had written out his speech for him, and had added stage directions. In his fear he didn’t realize this.

  ‘I’ve been on the council for two years, and I’ve never dared speak,’ he began in a tremulous voice. ‘Slight pause. But tonight I have to. Slightly longer pause. This is the biggest choice this town has ever had to make. Bang side of chair with fist twice. Ever. The word is Transition. A longer word. Sorry a better word wait for laugh is Transformation. Look at our town. Raise voice and repeat slowly, Look at our town.’

  All over the chamber people wished that they could look at their town. Anything was better than looking at each other. One sight of another face and they would have collapsed into laughter.

  At this moment in her writing out of his speech, as it chanced, the councillor’s loyal and loving wife had realized that she was going to be late for the school run. He had finished the job himself, and there were no more stage directions. His last words were uninterrupted.

  ‘Nobody can deny that the town needs transformation. What is the best thing to transform it into? A place that is the same as everywhere else, or a place that is different from everywhere else, or better still, a place that can set the bar for other places to aspire to?’

  There was even some applause at this. The speaker clutched his eels and sat down, a pink flush invading his deathly cheeks.

  Soon after that, the voting began. It was done with a show of hands and from the start it was clear that it was going to be close. The tellers counted the raised hands three times to be quite sure. The tension in the room was almost visible. Marigold could scarcely breathe. It was as if their lives hung on the next thirty seconds.

  At exactly the same moment, two people phoned Sally’s mobile in the now almost empty Weavers’ Arms. Jill must have rung just before Marigold, as she got through, and Marigold didn’t.

  Jill was phoning from the car park of the hospital. Olive had suffered a heart attack. It was hard to predict how serious it was. Harry was devastated. ‘He loves her so much, Sally,’ she said. ‘I cried to see how much he loved her.’ Olive was in bed, and comfortable. She was in the best place and other clichés. The trouble was that most people no longer believed that Potherthwaite District Hospital was the best place for anything. Dangerous enough if you were well. To be avoided at all costs if you were ill.

  So Sally picked up Marigold’s great message on her answer machine, which was a bit sad really, as it was such important news and such welcome news. The plans for the new supermarket had been thrown out by three votes. Marigold was going to the Potherthwaite Arms, her new favourite, to celebrat
e. ‘See you there, sweetie, and congratulations.’

  Sally paid Sue, kissed her, and set off towards the Potherthwaite Arms. Relief flooded through her. It was over. It was over at last. It was a moment when she could have truly rejoiced, but it seemed to her to be typical of her life that she couldn’t do so, because of Olive’s illness.

  She regretted now that she hadn’t been braver, hadn’t witnessed the vote.

  As she walked into the Market Place on her way to High Street East and the Potherthwaite Arms, she saw Councillor Stratton walking out of the Town Hall towards the George Hotel.

  He came towards her, smiling broadly.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘Really well done.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It’s a partnership now. We’ll need to work together.’

  ‘I hope so, Frank. I really do.’

  ‘I told you we hadn’t made up our minds. I told you we were prepared to listen.’

  ‘You did indeed. Thanks, Frank.’

  ‘I have an apology to make, Sally.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. I shouldn’t have warned you not to get out of your depth.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It was patronizing. You aren’t out of your depth.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Apology accepted?’

  ‘No need. I’m so glad you said it.’

  ‘Glad? Glad, Sally? Why?’

  ‘I was really losing faith in myself. I was about to give up. You made me just angry enough to carry on.’

  Councillor Stratton’s smile was distinctly sickly. Sally knew in that moment that he had voted for the supermarket. She knew in that moment that every word he was saying was insincere.

  They shook hands, exchanged smiles that were also insincere, the insincerity in hers being forced into existence by the insincerity in his, and set off for two different palaces of liquid refreshment.

  Despite two large glasses of free white wine from the ever generous Sue, Sally felt suddenly very sober.

  She had thought that it was over. She had thought that if they won the vote it would be over. Over and over again she had thought that if they won the vote it would be over. They had won the vote, and it wasn’t over. It would never be over. It was just beginning. It would always be just beginning. It was a thing called life. She was living it for the second time, and it wasn’t getting any easier.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  A grand night in the hills

  This time Conrad took a different road. After he had climbed out of the valley towards the invisible setting sun, he turned right instead of swinging left towards the Shoulder of Mutton. This road took him into higher hills, even more desolate moors. Lapwings flew wildly. Black grouse and buzzards stood on the posts that in winter would mark the depth of the snow. They flew up in irritation as the Audi approached.

  The rain was even heavier up here, driving across the front of the car. They could feel the Audi juddering from the force of the wind. The sheep weren’t even looking at them, they were cowering in any slight hollow they could find. Did they remember dancing with delight, gambolling gloriously under the bright sun, racing each other in the great novelty of existence, when they were lambs? They weren’t dancing now. Did they say to themselves, in sheepspeak, ‘I wouldn’t have done all that rejoicing if I’d known what was to come’?

  ‘This is how places like this are meant to be seen,’ said Conrad.

  The rain was so heavy that they could only see about fifty yards ahead. Suddenly the isolated bulk of Aismaster Crag loomed up on the left. The pub cowered in its shelter like an exhausted sheep.

  He took the car right to the door, stepped out into the storm, hurried round to the passenger side, opened an umbrella, then the passenger door. He held the umbrella open over her head as she ran for it. She was only in the open air for about two yards, and not one drop of rain fell on her. It was brilliantly done.

  She stood in the shelter of a small porch, and watched him drive the car to the thinly populated car park. He got out of the car carrying his umbrella, but he didn’t dare open it out there in the full force of the wind.

  This was a man with perfect manners! Hadn’t she fallen for men with manners before? Hadn’t she concluded that she had no taste in men? Were his manners too good to be true? Should she be here?

  Beneath the excitement of the moment, beneath the joy of the smell of food that was coming through the badly fitting front door of the pub, Marigold was scared. She had told Sally that she had no faith in men. They were all bastards. Was Conrad a bastard? What would Sally say if she could see them?

  The Drovers’ Arms was a much simpler place than the Shoulder of Mutton, but if they had gone to the Shoulder a waiter might have said, ‘Good to see you again, sir,’ and of course he didn’t want that.

  ‘Would you like a drink at the bar first, or would you like to go straight to your table?’ asked the landlady.

  ‘Marigold?’ asked Conrad.

  ‘Could we have one at the bar?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  Marigold was certain that if she’d said, ‘Oh, let’s go straight to our table,’ he would still have said, ‘Perfect.’

  It was a lovely bar. Wooden floors, simple wooden tables, all different. Welcoming stools at the counter. A roaring fire.

  ‘What would you like?’

  ‘Would it be awfully unfeminine if I had a pint of beer?’

  ‘I think it would be charming.’

  She swung on to a bar stool before he had the chance to lead her to a table. Again she seemed like a lady who might have been built for bar stools. She rode them side-saddle, with her legs crossed. The legs were perhaps slightly too full to be described as perfect, but perfect is what most men had thought them.

  Certainly Malcolm Stent, Henrik Larsen and Timothy Boyce-Willoughby had made no complaints.

  She shouldn’t have come.

  The barman handed her the pint.

  ‘My God, it’s big,’ she said.

  ‘Aren’t you a pint drinker?’ asked Conrad. ‘I assumed you were.’

  ‘Good Lord, no. Martinis, darling. Negronis. Manhattans.’

  ‘So why have you ordered a pint of bitter?’

  ‘Because it’s a pint-of-bitter sort of place. The Drovers’ Arms. I thought it might be rather fun to sit here and think that maybe I’d just come in from a hard day’s droving, gasping for a pint.’ She took a careful sip. ‘M’m, it’s not bad actually.’

  Why was she behaving like this? Because she wanted to test him? Because she didn’t want him to see her real self? Because she wanted to hide how nervous she was? But wasn’t it likely that she was actually showing him how nervous she was? Those brown eyes, they seemed so soft, but she suspected that they were as deep as a well. It was fine to flirt with seven men in the Potherthwaite Arms – by flirting with them all she avoided doing any real flirting with any of them. But this, this was dangerous. She had vowed that she would never again put herself in a position in which there was any risk whatsoever of falling in love.

  She abandoned her pose and started to talk in a more down-to-earth fashion. But that was dangerous too. He was so easy to talk to. He behaved like a man who was truly charming and trustworthy, not a poser. But hadn’t Timothy in particular seemed like that? Forget learning from experience. She felt that she knew less and less with experience. Timothy had been the worst. Was this man actually even worse? Was she destined to make worse and worse choices of men?

  They talked casually about the nature of the Pennines, the unfortunate lives led by sheep, the difficulty pubs had in surviving in the modern era. They ordered at the bar, the food sounded delicious. She took her beer glass with her into the restaurant, which was quite small and simple and had a fantastic old dresser at one end, filled but not too filled with exquisite plates in blue and white.

  He talked about his life, touching on his wife’s cancer with a mixture of warmth and reticence. She found that she had to fight hard no
t to tell him the whole story of her three marriages. It was too soon.

  The thought that it was too soon took her aback. It suggested a future together. For goodness’ sake, this was a first date – she shouldn’t be thinking of a future together.

  She couldn’t believe that she had accepted his invitation. By accepting it she had committed herself to agony. He really did seem so very, very nice.

  They say that women are better at multitasking than men, and she certainly found it easy to think one thing while talking about another. This happened most spectacularly while she was actually saying, ‘I am so grateful that I wasn’t born a sheep.’ There came into her mind a picture not of a sheep, but of Sally. She would seek Sally’s advice. She would remember everything Conrad did, everything he said, his gestures, his looks, and she would ask her, ‘Do you think I can trust this man?’ Maybe – yes, why not? – she would suggest that the three of them went out together one day.

  She felt better after that, until it occurred to her that if she could be having these thoughts while talking about something different, so perhaps could he. Perhaps he was thinking, ‘I know just where I’ll drive off the road, where nobody will see the car when the lights are switched off. I know exactly where I will ravish this beautiful woman.’ A slight smile slipped out as she reflected on the absurdity of her being so egotistical as to think herself beautiful even in the middle of a fantasy of fear.

  ‘What are you smiling at?’ he asked with a smile.

  The utter impossibility of telling him shocked her.

  ‘I’m wondering what all those sheep are thinking about at this moment,’ she improvised lamely.

  ‘Marigold “Obsessed by Sheep” Boyce-Willoughby, do try to think of something else occasionally,’ he said, but in a very pleasant way, not at all sarcastic.

  They talked pleasantly of many subjects, so many subjects that Marigold feared she wouldn’t remember any of them to tell to Sally.

  They walked out of the delightful mixture of simplicity and sophistication that was the isolated Drovers’ Arms into an astonishing sight. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. A crescent moon shone, and every star and every planet was clearly visible in the pure, unpolluted air.