That Was Then

by That Was Then (retail) (epub)

  In Brighton I called Clive and we went to a pub, after which I carted him round the Lanes. Like Helen, he had not the least interest in shopping, or in making those small but crucial consumer choices which I found so much fun. You could never have accused either of them of having bad taste, because they had no idea what taste was in the first place.

  Still, he was patience itself with me. In one shop I pored for ages over a wonderful wooden box full of old jewellery. It was junk, really, or the watchful young man in black would never have allowed allcomers to rummage through it, but Bouvier’s had taught me there were treasures to be found in these job lots. Clive first wandered round the shop, then stood by my side, looking over my shoulder. He wasn’t interested in my search, but I didn’t feel guilty for keeping him hanging about: I knew he was perfectly happy to keep me company.

  I came across a little brooch in brass and leather, fashioned like a billycock hat resting on a cane.

  I held it up. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘You mustn’t ask me, Eve, what do I know?’

  I nudged him affectionately. ‘I didn’t ask what you knew, I asked what you thought.’

  I offered it to him, but instead of taking it he peered from a safe distance as though the brooch were a poisonous spider.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s an amusing notion.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘Where would one put it?’

  ‘On a lapel or a collar – on a hat, even. I’m going to get it.’

  When I’d paid for the brooch, there was Clive, leaning over the box with one hand behind his back, picking gingerly at the jewellery with the other.

  ‘See anything you like?’

  ‘No, no!’ He sounded quite alarmed, as if I were trying to trap him. I remembered something.

  ‘Helen likes rings, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, but um – I don’t know if I’ve ever given her one. Except for a wedding ring, of course, which is hardly a complex business … And anyway just at the moment.…’

  ‘Surprise her.’ I took his sleeve and pulled him further along the counter, where there was a tray of heavy rings tailormade for Helen’s long, Bloomsburyish hands.

  ‘I don’t have any immediate plans—’

  ‘No, but when you do.’

  ‘I can’t help feeling,’ he said, with an anxious furrowing of the brow, ‘that she might find such a present laughable.…

  ‘Why ever would she do that?’

  ‘Well – out of character.’

  ‘Clive!’ I exchanged an exasperated look with the young man in black. ‘You’ve already proved what Catherine said – it doesn’t have to be like this. Everything can change. If you want Helen back, give it a go! Turn up in all your altered glory and woo her.’

  ‘I go along with that,’ said the young man. Clive blushed fiercely but did not, to his credit, tell him to mind his own business.

  ‘May we have a closer look?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course you may.’ The young man took the tray out and put it on top of the counter. Tactfully, without comment, he pointed at one or two of the rings. There was one on his own finger, a big oval reddish stone engraved with a gryphon.

  To cover Clive’s embarrassed dithering, I said: ‘The one you’re wearing’s nice.’

  He held out his hand. ‘ This is for sale too.’

  The extended hand, the ring – it was all a bit much for Clive, who in spite of being surrounded by students most of the time managed to lead a very sheltered life.

  ‘It’s a personal letter seal,’ explained the young man, removing it and laying it on the counter. ‘A signet ring with attitude, really – I should be wearing it on my little finger but it’s too big.’

  ‘Gorgeous, isn’t it?’ I held it up in front of me.

  ‘Um.…’

  ‘Does your friend have a large hand?’ asked our helper.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  Clive murmured: ‘ She’s my wife, actually.’

  ‘Oh well then – you know what she likes. Most of these look wonderful on the right person, but they do need a large, long-fingered hand to carry them off successfully.’

  Quite suddenly, and to my great satisfaction, Clive was on his mettle.

  ‘Helen has very beautiful hands,’ he said.

  The young man’s face softened. ‘Lucky lady. It’s something I always look at, the hands. Eyes and hands.’

  Clive nodded at the red ring. ‘I think that’s a bit ornate.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Could you show me this shiny black one …?’

  Ten minutes later we left the shop, me wearing my brooch and Clive with a little box containing the jet ring. I wondered why I’d been so pushy with him. I didn’t use to intervene in my friends’ relationships – but if Clive was in the proccess of reinventing himself I wanted him to do it properly. And I also wanted happy endings.

  ‘You will go and see her, won’t you?’ I asked over tea and scones.

  ‘I do want to.’

  ‘But will you?’

  ‘Yes – yes I will. Catherine thinks, I don’t know if she’s right, that I should invite her out rather than go to her house.’

  There seemed to be a lot of us taking an interest. ‘That’s a good idea. Neutral ground.’

  He sighed. ‘ I’m not good at dinners.’

  ‘You’re good at concerts,’ I reminded him. ‘ We had a lovely evening.’

  ‘We did, didn’t we? Well, maybe that.…’

  ‘It doesn’t really matter what it is, so long as it’s something you both enjoy. After all I don’t suppose she goes out much with—’ I checked myself. ‘I don’t suppose she goes out much at the moment.’

  ‘No, perhaps not.’

  ‘You and she had a different sort of life together from the one she leads now,’ I said, ‘and I’m sure she misses it.’

  He looked at me doubtfully. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Clive—’ I put my hand on his shoulder – ‘ I do.’

  It was my own confused feelings which had made me so determined to influence Clive, but the very same feelings ensured that I forgot all about him the moment I got home.

  ‘Eve – it’s Charles. I called at your house a couple of times, but you were out – and you still are, so I hope you’re having a nice day. Sabine gives good lunch, as you know, but I thought she and Martin were a little on edge, so maybe they have a bad conscience. I find it so hard to imagine anyone falling out with you. I’ll call soon from town and perhaps you’ll come up and let me convert you to jazz. I want to talk to you again anyhow. Bye now … Bye.’

  His reference to Martin and Sabine caused me another frisson of doubt – no wonder he couldn’t imagine us falling out, the whole bad business was outside his frame of reference. I wondered if the Drages’ edginess meant that Martin now knew, and if so whether that meant the end of my protected status. In spite of our long acquaintance I didn’t know Martin all that well. He was just Martin – big, bluff, genial, and expansive. And above all, successful. It was almost impossible to imagine how he might react to something which he would surely see as a failure. Like many jovial extroverts, he might well have a volcanic temper. If he chose to teach Ben a lesson he could inflict terrible damage, both physical and emotional – and how could Ben possibly defend himself? He had effectively betrayed Martin on two counts – with his daughter and his wife. The enormity of the whole thing – and my isolation within it – swept over me again, and I sank down on the sofa with my head between my hands.

  Mel rang up when she got back to the hotel – Sunday was a normal working day for her, and wasted no time in coming to the point.

  ‘What in God’s name has that little toe-rag been up to?’

  My heart sank. ‘You obviously know.’

  ‘Yes, but what was he thinking of, Mother?’ Her voice rose furiously, hurting my ears.

  I winced. ‘Darling, please. How did you find out?’

  ‘I spoke to
Dad.’

  This knocked me sideways. ‘I haven’t even discussed it with your father.’

  ‘No, but Ben has. He’s there, staying with them.’

  There seemed to be no end to the shocks I had to sustain. ‘I see.’

  ‘You weren’t aware of that?’

  ‘I thought he was with Sophie in Yorkshire.’

  ‘Mother – is that likely?’

  I took a couple of deep breaths. ‘I’ve long since stopped deciding what is or isn’t likely. A few weeks ago this whole thing would have been about as recognisable as the dark side of the moon.’

  ‘Shall I come over?’

  ‘No!’ I realised I’d sounded a bit sharp, and added. ‘It’s a very kind thought but there isn’t a thing you can do.’

  ‘Except get tough.’ Her voice was sharp with disdain. ‘I bet no one has.’

  ‘You’re wrong there—’

  ‘Has anyone actually told him he’s wrong, in no uncertain terms?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s behaved atrociously. Call me old-fashioned but what he needs is for Martin to find out and give him a bloody good hiding!’

  Coming as it did so close to my own worst fears this touched a nerve.

  ‘Mel, shut up for two minutes!’ She did. ‘I can’t speak for Ian, but there’s no question of my being soft on Ben. I was simply appalled, and furious. But he couldn’t seem to accept he’d done anything wrong—’ I heard her snort of disgust – ‘ and he left home the same day. I’ve only seen him once since, and we haven’t spoken at all. So please don’t take that tone, I’m the one who’s been here, coping with it, and it’s been no bed of roses I can assure you!’

  I knew she wouldn’t apologise, but she came close. ‘All right. I accept that. I’m just so angry.’

  ‘Me too. What did your father say about it?’

  ‘He said Ben was there—’

  ‘With both of them?’

  ‘He said “us” so I suppose so. He said Ben was there, and gave a brief outline of the goings-on.’

  A brief outline – that sounded like Ian. Calm, businesslike, not jumping to any conclusions. But the thought of Julia sitting in on this family crisis made me clench my teeth.

  ‘Mother?’

  ‘I do think he might have told me Ben was there.’

  ‘To be fair I think he’d only just arrived, and from what I gather it was unexpected – so come to think of it he could have been with Sophie before that.’

  ‘It’s nice to know I was right about something.’

  ‘Oh, poor Mother …’ for the first time Mel sounded sympathetic, but not for long – her energies were directed elsewhere. ‘He’s so lucky I’m out here – if I got my hands on him I’d wring his selfish little neck!’

  It took me an hour to calm down after she’d rung off. I wasn’t so obtuse that I couldn’t see the irony of it. Mel was the first person I’d discussed it with who was, without a doubt, angrier than me, and the exchange had left me in tatters. My own anger, it seemed, was Janus-faced.

  During the evening a fierce offshore wind blew up and the draughts to which Cliff Mansions was a martyr whined through every window frame and door. I drew all the curtains, but they still swelled in the breeze. In these conditions the flat became a restless place – I could imagine the Victorian foundations tottering unsteadily as the shingle sucked back and forth. The next day the windows on the seaward side would be frosted with salt and the rust would have bitten a bit deeper into the balcony furniture.

  At about ten o’clock I called Ian. The times were certainly out of joint because Julia answered, something she had never done before.

  ‘It’s Eve – please may I speak to Ian?’ Only some very faint and distant scruple prevented me from saying ‘my husband’. I could hear piano music in the background, something wistful and highbrow, a Chopin étude perhaps. My, but how the Blondie fan had come up in the world.…

  ‘Of course, hang on.’

  To her credit she didn’t cover the receiver but simply said, ‘Ian, it’s Eve’. I heard him say ‘Oh, right …’ and then there was a short interval, during which the music was turned down, before he picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello, I was going to ring you.’

  ‘Hello – I gather Ben’s there.’

  ‘He is, yes.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me.’

  ‘I was about to, that’s why I was going to call. He just turned up last night.’

  ‘Can I speak to him?’

  ‘Well – actually he’s asleep in his room. He was shot to pieces when he got here and we were up most of last night.’

  ‘And what conclusions did you all reach?’ I was unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

  ‘None whatever. Julia went to bed, but he needed to offload so I listened.’

  ‘Where’s he been? I haven’t seen him for days.’

  ‘He was at Sophie’s mother’s I believe – but naturally that’s over now.’

  I very nearly made a tasteless crack about Sophie’s mother but that vestigial scruple did its stuff again.

  ‘He’s very low,’ said Ian. ‘I was quite shocked.’

  ‘So’s Mel,’ I said. ‘She was on the phone earlier, going thermonuclear. She wants to come over and wring his neck.’

  ‘I hope you dissuaded her.’

  ‘I did, just about. What’s he going to do?’

  ‘I’ve no idea and I don’t think he has either.’

  I asked sarcastically: ‘ No plans to come home, I suppose? To see his mother who’s been worried sick about him?’

  ‘The trouble with home,’ replied Ian, ‘is that it’s Littelsea.’

  ‘He has to face the music some time.’

  There was a pause during which I could picture Ian pursing his lips thoughtfully before saying: ‘Look, Eve, why don’t you come up here and see him? It might be easier for all of us to put a bit of distance between ourselves and the seat of the infection.’

  As if to reinforce his point there was a tremendous gust of wind which rattled the balcony door, and I heard one of the chairs outside fall, with a clank.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow after work.’

  ‘That would be fine,’ he said in a tone of voice which implied reservations, ‘ but Wednesday would be even better.’

  ‘Wednesday?’ I was outraged. ‘He could be battening on someone else by then!’

  ‘He won’t, believe me. And we’ll have the place to ourselves – you can spend the night.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked rudely. ‘Where will Julia be?’

  ‘In Scotland with her parents.’

  ‘I see. I might come home again anyway.’

  ‘That’s up to you.’

  ‘All right, I’ll see you then.’ I almost let him go and then, at the last minute, almost shouted, ‘ Ian!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Will you tell Ben I called?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And – give him my love.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thanks. Goodnight then.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  It wasn’t a good one. I was seriously wound up, and Cliff Mansions shivered and moaned around me like a whole coachload of souls in torment. When two or three storm-tossed hours had crawled by I gave up, put on my dressing gown and the lights and went back into the living room with a cup of tea. It was twenty to one. The wind showed no sign of abating, and when I parted the curtains I could see the sea bucking and rearing like a herd of wild mustang threatening to burst through the fragile rails of the promenade. I shivered and let the curtain drop. The rose petals were hanging by the merest thread now, and every now and then the draught would shake one loose to drift to the ground.

  It may have been the dying roses, or the wild sea, or just the small-hours blues, but I had no compunction in dialling Troughtons. They were civility itself, but told me that Mr McNally’s line was busy.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I asked stupidly.


  ‘I’m afraid so. May we give him a message?’

  ‘No, it’s all right.…’

  For some reason I was more embarrassed at this discovery than I would have been at waking him up. Apparently this wasn’t late at all to him, he was still hard at it, doing what oilmen did.

  I turned on the television and let Peter Cushing and Vincent Price do their diabolical damnedest until I fell asleep.

  It was no surprise, having spent half the night awake and the other half dozing on the sofa with a cricked neck, that my return to work next day was not a shining exemplar of renewed energy and resolve.

  ‘Good grief ’n stuff,’ said Jo in her pointblank way. ‘You look shot at, are you sure you should be back?’

  ‘Quite sure, I just didn’t sleep well.’

  ‘You may be able to snatch forty winks here if you play your cards right, we’re not exactly rushed off our feet.’ She saw me glance apprehensively at my desk. ‘ No, don’t worry, I’ve fielded most things.’

  ‘Jo, you are a brick.’

  ‘Call me Wonderwall.’

  In fact I found it surprisingly soothing to be back in the old routine, and the morning, held together by a modest amount of paperwork and a few phone calls, passed painlessly. It was a relief to be in a place where the barbed-wire entanglements of my domestic life could not touch me.

  But I was not, it turned out, safe from other people’s. At one-fifteen, just as I was about to go out for a sandwich, the receptionist buzzed me and said there was a visitor for me. When I went out, there was Helen, in a big beige boucle coat, looking like a rather washed-out grizzly bear.

  ‘I don’t need feeding,’ she said, scratching the back of her left hand, which I noticed was already dry and sore.