That Man Simon

by Anne Weale

  While she and Simon were having coffee and Polly was finishing a sundae, Jenny — hoping she was not dropping a brick — said, ‘Polly, do you like having a ponytail, or do you think it might be a good idea to have your hair cut short for the summer?’

  ‘Oh, could I?’ The first sign of real interest showed in the child’s face. ‘I always used to have it short when Mummy-’

  She broke off suddenly.

  ‘Then we’ll see if we can get it cut this afternoon, shall we?’ Jenny said quickly. ‘And we’d better get you a pair of jeans for playing in the garden when you come to the new house.’

  ‘We’ll run you home and then Polly can see the house,’

  Simon said, beckoning the waitress for the bill.

  Outside the hairdresser’s, he said he had some shopping of his own to do, and would also go and fetch his car and wait for them on the nearest car park.

  Polly looked much nicer with her hair cut short and hiding her rather large sticking-out ears.

  ‘Aunt Monica made me have a ponytail. She said it was less trouble,’ she confided to Jenny. ‘But I couldn’t do it very well myself, and nor could Uncle Simon.’

  When they joined Simon in the car park, he gave Polly a couple of new books he had bought for her.

  ‘This is for you, Jenny. A small return for all your help today.’ He gave her something in a brown paper bag.

  Opening it, she remembered his apparently casual question during lunch whether there was a gramophone at the Rectory. His present was a long-playing record album in a shiny sleeve.

  ‘Oh, Simon, thank you! But you shouldn’t have bought anything for me. I helped for love,’ she said unthinkingly.

  As soon as the words were out, a wave of vivid colour suffused her face. Of all the inept remarks...

  Mercifully, Simon had switched on the engine and appeared not to notice her embarrassment.

  ‘I hope you like Nat King Cole,’ he said, edging the car out of the rank.

  ‘Yes ... yes, I do, very much. It’s terribly kind of you.’

  All the way home, she was intensely aware of his nearness, and it was an effort of will not to steal glances at him, or to watch his lean strong hands resting lightly on the wheel. She remembered the afternoon she had dropped into his arms from the oak tree, and her heart began to thump and her throat felt tight.

  As they approached the village, she said abruptly, ‘Could you drop me off on the green, please? I promised to call on someone on my way home.’

  When he stopped the car, she turned to the child in the back. ‘Good-bye, Polly. I’ll see you at school on Monday.

  Good-bye, Simon. Thank you again for the record.’ Then she slipped quickly out of the car, and hurried across the grass towards the Langdons’ house.

  When James opened the door, his face lit up.

  ‘Jenny! Come in. We’re just going to have tea. Hello, what’s this? Been splashing your money about?’ He spotted the record and took it from her to see what it was. ‘I thought you only bought classical stuff?’

  ‘Not always. How is your mother?’

  ‘Come and see.’ He led her through to the pleasant room which overlooked the garden.

  Mrs. Langdon was basking in the afternoon sun on a daybed near the open French windows.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Jenny. How nice. You can’t imagine how bored I’ve been, shut up in the nursing home for two weeks and not allowed to do a thing, not even sewing. Come and sit down and tell me all the latest gossip. James never hears half what goes on.’

  After they had had tea, James said, ‘Let’s play your new record.’

  ‘No!’

  James and Mrs. Langdon stared at her in surprise.

  Jenny, who was as startled as they were by the sharpness of her tone, flushed and bit her lip.

  ‘Yes ... if you like,’ she amended awkwardly. ‘But it will take rather a long time and I ought to be getting home.’

  ‘Will you be okay for a quarter of an hour if I walk up as far as the Rectory, Mum?’ James asked.

  ‘Of course, dear. I’ll have a little snooze. You don’t have to stand over me every minute of the day, you know,’ Mrs.

  Langdon said wryly.

  Walking to the Rectory, James said suddenly, ‘Is it because of Mother that you aren’t sure about marrying me?’

  ‘No, of course not. Why should it be?’ she said, puzzled.

  ‘Well, she’d be living with us, and I thought you might not care for the idea of having a mum-in-law breathing down your neck. I know you get on all right now, but it might be different if you were living in the same house.’

  ‘Your mother has nothing to do with it. I’m very fond of her, and I’m sure she’d be an ideal mother-in-law.’ She stopped and turned to him. ‘Listen, James, I know it isn’t fair to keep you on tenterhooks indefinitely, but I just can’t answer you now. Give me until ... until your birthday.’

  ‘That’s not till the middle of August,’ he said, frowning.

  ‘I know. But I promise I’ll have made up my mind by then. I swear it. Please, James.’

  Jenny did not play the Nat King Cole record, nor did she put it in the box with her other records. She put it on top of her wardrobe where it would be out of the way and she could — she hoped - forget about it.

  And, in the following fortnight, she made a determined effort not to think of Simon at all. It was not easy, with Simon’s niece at school, and Simon’s house to be seen from her bedroom window.

  The outside of the house was finished now and, though local opinion was still strongly opposed to it, Jenny found she liked it. The long south-west wall, overlooking the garden, was made up of a series of double-glazed picture windows with sliding doors in the central section opening on to a broad stone-flagged terrace. The front of the house, on the road side, was faced with cedar boarding and panels of local grey and white flints. When the last of the builder’s lorries had left, a three-barred gate had been put up in the gap in the hedge and painted white, with the name Flint House, in black, on the top bar.

  One afternoon, during a handwork class, Jenny was giving Polly some help with a clay model of a cat, when the little girl said, ‘We’re moving to our lovely new house tomorrow, Miss Shannon.’

  ‘Are you, Polly? What fun. Has your uncle found someone to lock after you both?’

  ‘Yes, a lady called Mrs. Rose. She’s nice. I like her. She looks a bit like Mrs. Tiggywinkle. She has twinkly eyes, and laughs all the time. She and Uncle Simon are going to the house in the morning with the furniture van, and then Uncle Simon’s coming back for me after school.’

  ‘Well, you’d better go to bed early tonight with such an exciting day tomorrow.’ Jenny moved away.

  There was a faint crease between her brows as she bent to admire another child’s painting of a seaside scene.

  Presently she returned to Polly and said, ‘It would save your uncle fetching you if you went home on the bus with me tomorrow, Polly. In fact we might as well go home together every day. It can’t be very convenient for your uncle to fetch you from school each afternoon as he has been doing up to now. Mention it to him tonight, will you?’

  After all, such an arrangement was common sense in the circumstances, she thought to herself. It need not involve her in any contact with Simon.

  Next morning, during the milk break, Polly delivered a note to her.

  Dear Jenny, she read when she had opened it, It’s very good of you to offer to bring Polly home. See you tonight.

  Simon.

  ‘Aren’t you coming in to see it?’ Polly asked, when they reached the new house that afternoon. Her thin little face was flushed with excitement.

  ‘Not today, dear. Later perhaps, when you’re properly settled in. See you tomorrow. ’Bye.’ Jenny walked briskly on to the Rectory before the child’s obvious disappointment and her own curiosity should weaken her resolution.

  It was about seven o’clock, and both her grandparents were out, when the door bell rang. Her i
nstinct told her it was Simon, and she was tempted not to answer the door.

  But probably he could hear the radio and knew there was someone at home.

  The sight of him made nonsense of her hope that the past two weeks had weakened his attraction for her.

  ‘Hello. I came to ask if you would like to come over for coffee and a look round,’ he said, smiling down at her.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t tonight. I - I have to wash my hair,’

  Jenny said flatly.

  One eyebrow lifted a fraction. ‘I see. Well, perhaps some other evening.’

  ‘Yes ... thank you.’ She swallowed. ‘Did Polly tell you I had suggested bringing her home every day now?’

  ‘Yes, but we can’t impose on you to that extent.’

  ‘It’s no trouble. I’d be glad to do it. If I was staying in the city for the evening, I could always ring you up.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure it wouldn’t be a nuisance ...’

  ‘Not at all.’

  There was a pause, until Simon said, ‘All right, then.

  Thanks, Jenny. Good night.’

  ‘Good night,’ she answered hollowly.

  After he had turned away, she closed the door and leaned limply against it for some minutes. It was obvious that he had not believed her excuse about washing her hair.

  What had he thought?

  The following evening, taking some letters to the post for her grandfather, Jenny met Fenella Waring also bound for the pillar box.

  ‘I met your new neighbour again yesterday. He’s a charmer, isn’t he?’ Fenella said, as they walked to the Market Gross together. ‘I’m dying to see the inside of his house. I hear he’s got some child living with him. Is he a widower?’

  ‘No, Polly is his niece. She’s an orphan,’ Jenny said briefly.

  ‘I see. Rather a bore for him, I should think. I wonder why he isn’t married?’ Fenella said speculatively.

  Glancing sideways at her, Jenny saw she was smiling to herself. Surely Fenella was not going to set her cap at Simon now?

  ‘How’s John?’ she asked abruptly.

  ‘As besotted as ever,’ Fenella said airily. ‘Don’t look so shocked, sweetie. I can’t stop him being crazy about me, can I?’

  ‘You could stop encouraging him if you don’t intend to marry him.’

  ‘But I haven’t made up my mind yet. You can’t talk.

  Everyone knows James is in love with you, but the banns aren’t up yet, are they?’

  ‘That’s our business,’ Jenny said frostily.

  ‘And John is mine,’ the older girl retorted, without heat.

  ‘Anyway, if I do turn him down, he’s much too stolid to jump in the river and end it all.’ She gave Jenny a sly glance. ‘I wouldn’t say the same of James. If you won’t have him, who will? He might do something drastic.’

  ‘That’s a foul thing to say!’ Jenny exclaimed.

  ‘Oh, don’t be so boringly goody-goody, Jenny,’ Fenella said, with an impatient jerk on Pascal’s lead, as the little dog stopped to sniff a lamp post. ‘There are enough sanctimonious hypocrites in this place already. I get so bored I could scream.’

  ‘Why don’t you go back to London, then?’

  ‘Maybe I will, and then again maybe I won’t.’ The secretive smile was playing about Fenella’s full red lips again. ‘There’s one person who doesn’t bore me,’ she said, half to herself.

  Jenny thrust her letters into the mouth of the box. She had never liked Fenella, but at that moment she positively hated her.

  ‘Good night,’ she said shortly, and marched away down the street.

  One evening the following week, Jenny got home to find her grandmother wearing her nicest dress, the one Jenny had bought her the year before for a Harvest Supper.

  ‘Hello, are you going out tonight, Granny?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, we all are, dear. Mr. Gilchrist came over at lunch time to ask us to have dinner with him next door.’

  ‘I can’t. I’ve promised to go out with James,’ Jenny said rapidly.

  ‘Oh, Jenny, you didn’t mention it. Can’t you put it off?

  James won’t mind, I’m sure.’

  Hating herself for lying, Jenny said, ‘No, I can’t, I’m afraid. He ... he’s got tickets for a concert. You’ll have to apologize to Mr. Gilchrist for me. After all, it is very short notice, isn’t it?’

  Presently, when her grandmother was out of earshot, she rang up James and suggested that, as it was such a lovely evening, they might run over to the coast for a bathe.

  It was half past eleven when her grandparents came home, by which time Jenny was in her pyjamas and dressing-gown, having a cup of cocoa in the kitchen.

  ‘We are night-birds, aren’t we?’ Mrs. Shannon said, looking as flushed and excited as a child who had been allowed to stay up late. ‘Oh, we did have a pleasant evening, dear. Such a pity you couldn’t come. Did you enjoy the concert?’

  Jenny nodded. ‘Would you like some cocoa, Gran?’

  ‘No, thank you, dear. We had wine at dinner — Mrs.

  Rose is an excellent cook — and then a most delicious liqueur afterwards. I shall sleep like a log tonight.’

  ‘What is the house like inside?’

  ‘Oh, most attractive. I’ve never seen anything like it. All the latest modern gadgets - but not a bit bare and bleak, as I had imagined. And so easy to run, Mrs. Rose says. The little girl showed me her room before she went to bed. What a dear little soul she is. Such nice manners. Oh, and the view from the sitting-room, Jenny! When the garden is all laid out properly, it will be lovely.’ Mrs. Shannon was so filled with enthusiasm that she would have gone on talking half the night if her husband had not come in from locking up and said it was high time they were in bed.

  At breakfast next morning, she was still full of the many novel features and labour-saving devices at Flint House.

  ‘How I wish there had been all these things when I was a young wife,’ she said wistfully.

  ‘What did Mr. Gilchrist say when you told him I couldn’t come?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘He quite understood, dear. I explained that James had an evening surgery twice a week, and that he didn’t like to leave his mother alone too often, so you couldn’t get out together as much as you’d like.’

  ‘You didn’t—’ Jenny stopped short.

  She had been about to say You didn’t tell him that James and I are practically engaged, did you?

  ‘Didn’t what, dear?’

  ‘Oh ... nothing.’

  Mrs. Shannon studied her for a moment. ‘It’s a good thing the term ends next week. You’ve looked rather run down lately, dear. You need a rest,’ she said.

  Two days before the school broke up for the long summer holidays, Jenny and Polly were walking home from the bus stop when they saw Mrs. Shannon coming to meet them.

  ‘Jenny, Mrs. Rose has had to go into the city. Someone rang up for her early this afternoon. It seems her daughter’s baby has arrived three weeks early, and there’s no one to look after the rest of the family. Poor Mrs. Rose was very worried because Mr. Gilchrist is in London today. But I told her Polly could have tea with us, and then you could put her to bed and stay in the house until her uncle gets back.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Jenny agreed. ‘Come on, Polly: come and see our house.’

  After tea, Jenny got out the box of ivory spillikins which had belonged to the Rector as a small boy, and taught Polly how to play the game. Soon it was time for the child to go to bed and they walked round to the next door house. As she unlocked the armour-glass front door with the key Mrs.

  Rose had left with her grandmother, Jenny felt a queer thrust of excitement.

  Polly insisted on showing her all over the house, except for Mrs. Rose’s bed-sitting-room which, she explained solemnly, was private.

  ‘This is where Uncle Simon sleeps,’ she said, opening the door of a room overlooking the garden.

  Jenny glimpsed a wide double bed with a tailored cover
of dark green linen, a crimson leather armchair and - by the picture window - a sloping drawing table with some specification sheets on it.

  ‘I think this is private, too, Polly,’ she said, after one brief glance.

  She supervised the child’s bath in the luxurious black marble bathroom, and then heard her prayers and tucked her into bed.

  ‘Did your uncle go to London by train? Did he say what time he expected to be back, Polly?’

  ‘No, he went in the car. I don’t think he’ll be back for a long time. He told Mrs. Rose not to wait up for him, and she doesn’t go to bed till ever so late. She has a television in her room and watches it till it stops.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t really matter how late he is. There are plenty of books for me to read in the sitting-room. Good night, pet. Sleep tight.’ Jenny gave the child a light kiss.

  Rather to her surprise, Polly slid her arms round her neck and gave her a quick shy hug.

  As Jenny left the room, the telephone rang. It was Mrs.

  Rose, anxious to know if everything was all right.

  ‘Yes, of course, Mrs. Rose. Don’t worry, I’m sure Mr.

  Gilchrist will understand. How is your daughter?’

  Already a grandmother of four girls, the housekeeper now had a grandson who weighed nine pounds in spite of his early arrival.

  After they had rung off, Jenny could not resist another look round the kitchen section with its split-level cooking units, and double stainless steel sinks and custom-made Oregon pine fitments. There was a gleaming copper extractor hod above electric hobs built-in to the plastic work counter, and the floor was laid with mosaic-patterned vinyl the colour of cornflowers. At present the kitchen was open to the main living area, but could be shut away, she saw, by sliding glass screens.

  Disinclined to read - although there were several hundreds of books on shelf units along the cedar-panelled walls of the living area, Jenny watched some television on the built-in set, keeping the volume low in case it disturbed Polly. Later, she made herself a pot of tea, and sat looking out over the garden at the sun sinking down in a rose-flecked mackerel sky.

  Slowly it grew dusk. The light went on in her grandfather’s study. An owl swooped out of the lime trees.