The Second Life of Sally Mottram

by David Nobbs

  Conrad drove back quite slowly. They were drinking in together this amazing scene. He pulled up at the side of the road and a stab of fear struck Marigold. He came round to the passenger side and opened her door. She told herself that she was safe, he was still on the main road. She told herself that if you had to fear every man you met, you were no longer living in a habitable world. She braced herself, undid her seat belt, stepped out. They stood together in the vastness. A few sheep bleated and then there was silence for ten billion miles. On this empty moor, hundreds of pairs of sheep’s eyes reflected the light from the young, inexperienced moon, and from tired old stars long dead. They were silent, awed. She felt his faint touch on her shoulder, just one touch, gentle, not invasive. We are here, we are together, we are tiny, but we are safe. She hardly knew him, but she knew that she could love this man. The question was should she love this man?

  And the sky – how could you look at the sky and wonder how there could possibly be a God? And the crescent moon – how can that too not lead to thoughts of people who worship different gods, and how can that not make your heart uneasy and make you wonder if this Transition you set your store by is enough, can be enough, can anything be enough? And that, when your imagination is heightened by the wine you have drunk, by the man you have drunk wine with, and by this scene that you are looking at beside the man with whom you have drunk the wine, how can that not lead you to think about innocence, and a world’s lost innocence, and to wonder just for a moment, if it would be that bad to be a sheep?

  There was nothing to say that could possibly follow that experience, and so, with rare good sense, they said nothing. Conrad drove her safely back to the cul-de-sac, kissed her on both cheeks but not on the lips, and said just two words.

  ‘Goodnight, Marigold.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  Marigold seeks advice

  ‘I’d like to take you out to dinner, Sally,’ Marigold had said.

  ‘That’s very kind.’

  ‘When I think where to go, there isn’t anywhere really, is there? Not anywhere really good. Maybe that’ll all change with the Transition.’

  Sally had sighed.

  ‘Feeling flat?’ Marigold had asked.

  ‘Yes, a bit.’

  ‘Natural reaction to all the excitement.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Would you find the Weavers’ awfully boring?’

  ‘No. It’s where it all started. If we can’t kindle a bit of enthusiasm there, where can we?’

  ‘True. And I don’t mean the Early Bird. Later, with the full menu. Eight-thirty when it’s quiet.’

  ‘Great. That’s very generous.’

  ‘Not really. There’s something I want to talk to you about. Something I want your advice on. I’m sure you can guess what.’

  ‘Man trouble.’

  ‘Well, not exactly, but yes.’

  Join the club, Sally had thought.

  And now here she was, five minutes late. She had been to see Olive at the hospital. She hadn’t thought that Olive had looked good, she hadn’t liked her colour. She’d been dozing, on and off.

  ‘I’ve realized how much I love her,’ Harry had said in a low voice, during one of Olive’s moments of sleep.

  ‘You realize how much you love someone when …’ Sally had stopped. She had been on the point of saying, ‘… when you fear you might lose them.’

  Harry had replied to her unspoken remark.

  ‘It’s not just here in the hospital,’ he had said. ‘It was in Montepulciano. I looked at Jill on the terrace with the vineyards and the hills behind her, and she looked so wonderful in the sunshine. Bronzed, lovely legs, couldn’t believe she was in her seventies. And I thought of Olive, always so anxious, so negative sometimes, and I wished she could laugh more, and risk more, and eat more, and drink more, but … I just longed to get home to her. And I think Jill felt the same about Arnold. It’s so odd, because … I think we were both sorely tempted to go to bed together, but … when it was there on a plate … we both wanted to put our loyalty first.’

  ‘That’s fantastic.’

  ‘And when I got back, I realized, yes, I’ve always loved her and I love her still.’

  ‘So you told her?’

  Harry had paused.

  ‘Well, yes … I mean, not in those words, but … um … well, no.’

  ‘Oh, Harry.’

  Olive had woken up, had looked at them with tired eyes, had asked with a pale smile, ‘And what have you two been nattering about?’

  ‘Not much,’ Harry had said.

  ‘Sounds suspicious to me,’ Olive had replied, and Sally had felt that she had to stay till Olive dozed off again.

  ‘Tell her,’ she had whispered, as she left.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said now, and she kissed Marigold on both cheeks.

  ‘I’ve ordered a bottle of Tempranillo,’ said Marigold. ‘Hope that’s all right.’

  ‘Great.’

  Sally talked about her visit to the hospital, and how she didn’t like Olive’s colour. Marigold grimaced. They discussed the success of the march. Sally told her how borne down she felt with the weight of all there was to do, and how concerned she was as to how they would pay for it all. They needed an action committee and she was proposing to send out leaflets to every house in Potherthwaite asking for volunteers to stand on the committee. There might be no volunteers, which would be awful. There might be eight, which would be great. There might be two hundred and thirty-three, which would be impossible. If there were more than ten volunteers they would have to have a vote. It might be simpler if initially she just chose a committee. If anybody was upset they could form other committees for other aspects of the work. The Canal Committee. The Quays Committee. The High Street Committee. The Park Committee. The Sculpture Trail Committee. The Committee Committee to create liaison between the committees. And of course a joint committee with the council.

  ‘Let’s start by just forming a committee between ourselves,’ said Marigold. ‘There has to be a start, Sally.’

  ‘Yes. You’re right. Everyone agrees on what we want, anyway. Will you chair it?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘I’m not a chairing sort of person. I’m, like, tell me what to do and I’ll either say yes or no. Why me, anyway, and above all, why not you?’

  ‘Why not me? Because I don’t want it to be a one-woman band. Why you? Because you’re my best friend.’

  ‘Aaah!’

  They devoured the last morsels of their Parma ham and melon. The waitress, their friend now, took away their plates. Sally asked about her little boy. She glowed with pride as she told them how naughty he was.

  ‘So,’ said Sally when the waitress had gone. ‘This problem.’

  ‘It’s not a problem as such,’ said Marigold. ‘On the face of it, it’s great. A nice man asks me out, I go, I like him very much. I don’t just like him, Sally. I fancy him. And I’m sitting there thinking, “I shouldn’t be here,” and he’s like, “Have another glass,” and I’m like, to myself, “I’d better not, it might be dangerous,” and I hear myself saying, “Lovely. Thank you.” I know what I’m like, Sally.’

  Afterwards, thinking about the evening, Sally was surprised that she hadn’t already guessed who it was. It was only after she had asked, ‘What was he like?’ and Marigold’s reply had included the words ‘very attractive’ that the appalling possibility began to dawn. Very attractive. What other man in Potherthwaite did that description really fit? So, although it was a hammer blow, and very lucky that she hadn’t any food in her mouth to choke over, it wasn’t altogether a surprise when Marigold told her.

  ‘I’ve just realized,’ Marigold said. ‘You’ll know him, you’ll have met him – he’s the man who bought your house.’

  ‘Conrad?’

  ‘Yes. Conrad. What do you think of him?’

  ‘I hardly know him.’

  Sally was shocked to realize that this wasn’t actual
ly a lie. Her mouth was dry. She took a sip of water and tried to make the gesture look casual. She would have liked to gulp down three-quarters of a jug.

  She had no idea how best to play this situation, so she played it carefully, revealing nothing about her relationship with the man, such as it was. This might make it all the harder for her ever to tell Marigold, but to commit herself now might be a worse mistake. Besides, as she wryly admitted to herself when she reflected on the evening (which she did for almost all of the night that followed), she longed to hear every word of what happened. Her thoughts at this moment were entirely with Marigold, with the awful way this monster had preyed upon her weakness with men – how could she blame Marigold, how could she call her naive when she also had been taken in? The deep friendship she had felt for Marigold during the long night of the liqueurs was as strong as ever at that moment. Conrad was entirely the villain of the piece. She felt almost as sorry for Marigold as she did for herself.

  ‘So, tell me, what sort of an evening was it?’ she asked very gently, careful not to sound too inquisitive.

  Marigold launched herself on a detailed description, so vivid and thorough that when their main courses arrived – salmon for Marigold, lamb for Sally – Sally almost felt that they weren’t real but were props for Marigold’s story.

  The Drovers’. She knew it, of course, after more than twenty years in Potherthwaite. A clever choice. The efficient Shoulder of Mutton for efficient Sally. The romantic Drovers’ for romantic Marigold. This was a calculating man.

  The bar stools made her smile to herself. She knew what Marigold was like with bar stools. But then Marigold said, ‘You know what I’m like with bar stools,’ and she admired Marigold’s spontaneity and frankness. She contrasted Marigold’s pint of beer with her careful ordering and gave herself a note to try hard to loosen up.

  She began to feel slightly sick as she heard about their brief moment side by side on the moors. She was amused by Marigold’s almost desperate search for decency in Conrad.

  ‘He behaved impeccably. Didn’t even touch me.’

  No, he didn’t need to, did he, with every sodding star and every puking planet and a crescent moon to seduce you with, she thought.

  Marigold even described the goodnight kiss.

  ‘No kiss on the mouth?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  Marigold asked her what she thought. She just couldn’t bring herself to say what she thought, that Conrad was a ruthless seducer of great charm and ability, and therefore utterly dangerous. She admitted to herself while she was taking a second dose of paracetamol at three-fifteen that sleepless night, that, lacking the kind of frankness and confidence that enabled Marigold to tell the tale of an evening in which a man might well turn out to have led her right up the garden path, it had been a failing in her that she had been unwilling to admit to the way she had been taken in on her trip to the Shoulder of Mutton.

  ‘He sounds a bit smooth to me,’ she said. ‘A bit … suspiciously charming. But I wasn’t there. You were.’ Come on, Sally, no need to take refuge in the obvious. ‘I really do advise extreme caution, darling.’ She noted her use of ‘darling’ with surprise. It was so Marigold, and so not her. It wouldn’t have slipped out if she had been being herself.

  ‘You don’t think I should refuse to see him again?’

  That would be fatal. In absence he would become irresistible. That was easy to reply to.

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Good. Thanks so much, Sally.’

  ‘Thank you for a nice dinner.’

  Sally walked home, through streets that still showed no sign of the effect of the Transition movement. So much had happened, yet so little had happened.

  With every step that she took, she thought less of Marigold and more of herself. She had placed such hopes in Conrad. She realized a sad truth about herself. Her emotional life in the years with Barry had been so shrivelled that it had been as if she was beginning all over again, at forty-seven, with all the inexperience of youth. But she knew how hard life would be at forty-EIGHT, and she didn’t know how, without the energy given by love, she would be able to face all the hard work and drudgery that now faced her. Dreams are fun. Making them real is hard work.

  There was one message on her answerphone.

  ‘Hello, Sally. This is Conrad. It’s time we had another dinner. How about next Tuesday?’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  A resounding whisper

  Margaret Spreckley was fifty-one years old, tall, slim, with tactful breasts and almost no hips. She had freckled skin. She wasn’t married, but there was said to be a Canadian in the offing, and she was not thought to be lesbian. She looked severe until she smiled. She didn’t smile a lot. She wanted her smile to be effective when it came, and it came at important moments, and was indeed effective.

  Her study looked less severe than her. There were cheerful paintings on the walls, as modern as they could be without losing the trust of the governors. The desk was modest. The chairs at either side of it did not look unduly confrontational. There were also two easy chairs, not wildly easy, but definitely not difficult. There was a rather fine Swiss teddy bear on top of the large bookcase. Unlike some headmistresses, Margaret Spreckley remembered having been a child. She didn’t want the children to be overawed by her presence. She found out a lot by listening to what they said. If they said nothing, she would find out much less.

  ‘Come in, Lucy,’ she said, in a firm but soft voice.

  Lucy Basridge wore a surly look that struck a false note, as if she was desperately trying to sulk, but failing.

  The headmistress approached her, indicating that Lucy should sit in one of the easy chairs, and flashed that sudden smile.

  Lucy’s sulk looked uneasy, uncertain, taken aback by the smile. She sat uncomfortably. She was wearing her school uniform, but in a disorganized way that hinted at her disdain for it.

  The headmistress sat on the other easy chair.

  ‘Well now, Lucy,’ she said. ‘I heard about your speech at the Town Hall.’

  Lucy didn’t reply, but hunched herself into defensive mode, like a hedgehog hearing traffic.

  ‘Well done.’

  No smile this time. Margaret Spreckley was content to let the words do the work. Lucy frowned, and blushed slightly.

  ‘It was a Saturday, so you didn’t have to play truant, did you?’

  Lucy tried not to say, ‘No, miss’, but failed rather humiliatingly.

  ‘You play truant every now and then, do you, Lucy? Why?’

  The headmistress could see Lucy plucking up her courage. It was strangely endearing.

  ‘I get bored, Miss Spreckley. I’m sorry.’

  ‘So am I. Very sorry. It’s sad that we’re failing you so badly – and so often!’

  Margaret Spreckley smiled again. She could see that Lucy was wrestling with herself. She waited patiently.

  ‘It’s not that, Miss Spreckley.’

  ‘I know. It’s the world that’s failing you, isn’t it?’

  Lucy’s eyes widened. She narrowed them rapidly.

  ‘Anyway, Lucy, from what I’ve been told of your speech it was really rather marvellous.’

  Lucy blushed again, and shuffled in her chair.

  ‘I really believed what I said,’ she said.

  ‘I know you did. Good for you. Now all these graffiti …’

  ‘I don’t do ones against individuals, Miss Spreckley. Ever.’

  It was the headmistress’s turn to try, not entirely successfully, to hide her astonishment.

  ‘No, you don’t, do you?’

  ‘I’m sorry I made spelling mistakes. It can’t do the school good, that.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said the headmistress, in a curious tone, as if to a colleague and an equal, ‘nobody will ever know that the graffitist was a pupil here. I might not tell anyone. As you say, bad for the school.’

  Lucy Basridge smiled. It was a sheepish little smile, but never
mind, it was a smile of sorts. She was remembering that she had broadcast her graffitist activities to the town through the tannoy.

  ‘Besides, maybe we ought to have been able to do more for your dyslexia. It did rather reveal that it was you, though, didn’t it? To me, anyway.’

  ‘You knew!’

  ‘I’m not stupid, Lucy.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It wasn’t just the dyslexia, Lucy. It was the amazing athleticism.’

  Lucy tried hard not to look proud.

  ‘Do you miss the circus?’

  ‘Terribly, miss.’

  ‘I probably shouldn’t say this, Lucy,’ said the headmistress, ‘but I’m going to. I don’t want you to think that the world of authority is entirely full of closed minds. I rather admire your graffitist comments. Crude and exaggerated, but, yes, I … good targets. The strong, not the weak. And those burglaries, giving somebody else what you stole, and sometimes rather amusingly too.’

  Lucy was beyond speech at this point.

  ‘Oh yes, I knew. Well, not knew. Guessed. Anyway, thank goodness the council voted against the supermarket. You said you’d give up the graffiti if they did, didn’t you?’

  ‘I didn’t actually. I said I’d clean up the ones I’ve made. And I will. But I won’t do any more, either. I promise.’

  The headmistress had rather taken the fun out of it, with her approval, but she didn’t say that.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And I do try to keep my promises.’

  ‘Good. I’m also pleased about the vote for a different reason. I don’t like supermarkets either.’

  ‘Good.’

  The headmistress wanted to laugh at Lucy’s saying ‘Good’, but it had been cheeky and she mustn’t give too much.

  ‘So, Lucy,’ she said. ‘The excitement’s the thing, is it? The buzz?’

  ‘Yeah. I like it. Yeah.’

  ‘I think you’re addicted to it, Lucy.’

  Lucy thought about this.

  ‘I suppose I am, yeah.’