That Was Then

by That Was Then (retail) (epub)

‘Last time she said that and we did as she asked that she practically annihilated us,’ I reminded her.

  ‘Then we’ll carry on as usual – but it’ll be American anyway so it’ll even out. Can you make it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There seemed no point, now, in doing anything but resuming the status quo. I had been on a white-water ride, with thrilling glimpses of passion – my own and other people’s – appalling dangers, life-threatening plunges and moments of pure, breathtaking exhilaration. But now, I told myself dully, I’d returned to the safe backwater where I truly belonged.

  At the door of Bouvier’s, as I showed Desma out I recollected myself sufficiently to ask how Ronnie’s tests had gone.

  ‘She said they found something, but it’s quite treatable apparently.’

  ‘Found something? You mean – what did they find?’

  Desma shrugged. ‘That’s all Ronnie said. But she sounded quite relaxed about it, and I think one has to take people at face value on these things.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘By the way—’ Desma, with her back to the street, gave a small backward jerk of the head – ‘look behind me.’

  The Shaws’ Clio was parked, engine idling, at the kerb, with Rick at the wheel. He caught my eye and waved, giving me his shy, sweet smile. Of Bryony in the back there was no sign.

  Desma widened her eyes, grinning. ‘I’m being taken out to lunch at the Mill. And Bryony’s at my mother’s until six, so the afternoon stretches ahead.’

  Her delight was infectious, and I gave her a hug that was only slightly envious. ‘Have a wonderful time.’

  ‘Don’t you worry.’ She looked at Rick then back, briefly, at me. ‘Ain’t life grand?’

  Saturday wasn’t awfully good tennis weather. It was grey and blustery with occasional brief, tetchy showers – exactly the conditions in which technical soundness came into its own. Our threesome evolved into a battle between Ronnie’s accuracy, and Desma’s tireless energy in retrieving it. When they were both on the same side of the net I did not much more than serve and watch the returns whistle past. I tried to be grown-up and not to keep apologising, but when we had played thirteen games and I was firmly established as the kiss of death, it began to rain more steadily and I used that as my excuse.

  ‘Look, is it just me or is it getting rather unpleasant out here?’

  ‘It’s not and it is,’ said Desma. ‘Cutter without more ado? I’ll go and get the car, we don’t want to walk in this.’

  ‘You are a so and so,’ I told Ronnie as we zipped up rackets and jackets at the bench. ‘What does it take to mar your game?’

  She laughed. ‘Well not a growth in the nethers, that’s for sure.’

  I was knocked back by this cheery admission. ‘Oh Ronnie, I am sorry.’

  ‘No, I’m only spitting it out because it’s easier to do that and get it out of the way. There’s every chance they can zap it. I certainly don’t want it ruling my life and everyone else’s.’

  We began walking towards the road. ‘Well, if your tennis is anything to go by.…’

  ‘Plenty of room for improvement. I’m going to take some coaching while the going’s good.’

  Every phrase made me jump. ‘How do you mean?’

  She nudged me. ‘I mean before I start treatment in earnest and turn into a black and midnight hag incapable of tiddly winks, never mind tennis.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Want to join me?’

  ‘Sure, why not?’ I was only too willing to be carried along by her breezy optimism. It was an entirely selfish response: Ronnie was the sane one, the sporty one, the happy, well-adjusted, settled one – she was my touchstone, and I needed her to stay that way. Anything less than a full and complete recovery was unthinkable.

  At the Cutter Bar – well, it was only a matter of time – Desma all unwittingly jumped in with both feet.

  ‘Maybe next week our style correspondent will deign to be with us once more.’

  Lucky for me Ronnie was quick on her feet. ‘I think now they’ve got that smart new set-up at Headlands she’s not going to find the public courts quite so appealing. We’d probably be well advised to cast round for a Saturday morning replacement.’

  ‘But Sabine’s irreplaceable!’

  ‘No one’s that,’ said Ronnie firmly. ‘And anyway, we’re all going to be invited up there. So we shan’t be losing a player, we’ll be gaining a venue.’

  I looked at her gratefully. ‘ How well you put it.’

  ‘It’s true. Now Desma, Eve and I are going to start coaching, are you on for that?’

  At two o’clock Dennis arrived at the Cutter, to collect Ronnie.

  ‘Ah, my chauffeur,’ she said, taking his hand as he stood next to her. ‘Are you going to join us for a drink?’

  Rather to my surprise, Dennis agreed. He ordered a low alcohol beer and pulled over a chair from a neighbouring table.

  ‘It’s turned horrible out there,’ he said. ‘Did you manage to play at all?’

  ‘Sort of,’ replied Ronnie. ‘Coarse tennis, but it was fun.’

  ‘Where’s Sabine, couldn’t she make it?’

  ‘No …’ Ronnie tapped the back of his hand. ‘I told you, she and Martin have taken off for somewhere baronial in the Lakes this weekend.’

  ‘Hell’s teeth,’ commented Dennis cheerfully, ‘if it’s anything like this up there she’ll be eating the curtains by teatime.’

  I wondered – unworthily, I knew – if Ronnie had passed on anything of what I’d told her, and his next remark went straight for the nerve.

  ‘What’s Ben doing with himself these days? I haven’t seen him for ages.’

  ‘You just don’t go to the right clubs, Dennis,’ said Desma. He laughed but he wasn’t to be deflected.

  ‘No, he usually comes round … Still working in that shop?’

  ‘As a matter of fact he’s off to Denmark soon, to work in one of Ian’s outfits for a few months.’

  ‘That sounds like an excellent idea. He’s such a personable young man, he always seems to me to be rather – what’s the word – under-achieving.’

  ‘Dennis!’ said Ronnie. ‘That didn’t sound terribly polite.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Eve – it was meant to be a compliment.’

  ‘I realise that.’

  Ronnie sighed reflectively. ‘Much as I love them I sometimes wish our two would take off and work abroad for a bit.’

  ‘No you don’t,’ said Dennis. ‘Not really. You’d suffer from silent-washing-machine syndrome in no time.’

  ‘Wanna bet?’

  ‘And anyway—’ he rose and extended his hand to her – ‘ they’re hardly like to disappear just at the moment, are they?’

  When they’d left, Desma went out to the Ladies. I watched Ronnie and Dennis cross the carpark and get into their midnight blue Rover. Dennis held the passenger door open for his wife, and ducked his head inside for a moment when she was seated. I had always thought of Ronnie as the larger and more colourful of the two. Dennis was quiet, dependable, an awfully nice man but not a barrel of laughs. Today, for the first time, I noticed that he had a slow, wry smile; and in fact was taller than her.

  With it being so overcast, and early October, it got dark early. I very soon exhausted my reduced domestic duties around the flat and saw a long evening of stir-craziness stretching ahead of me. It was hard to remember those not-so-long-ago days when this flat was my nest, the symbol of my cosy, protected independence, my retreat from the messy world of embattled relationships. Now I rattled restlessly from room to room, like the heroine of some latterday fairytale, immured in a tower of my own making. The tidy cushions seemed to resist my weight, the uncluttered kitchen had developed a slight echo. I felt alone, but watched. I couldn’t settle.

  In shameless desperation I called Helen.

  ‘Well no,’ she said, ‘ I can’t, actually. Bugger.’

  This was so unlike her usual weary acquiescence, that I commented on it
.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘You sound astonished.’

  ‘No, no, not at all, it’s just that—’

  ‘It’s all right, you have every right to be. My diary doesn’t make exciting reading at the best of times. As a matter of fact Clive is coming round here to take me out.’

  ‘Really?’ So there was a God. I was surprised by how chuffed I was.

  ‘I can’t imagine why I agreed to it. A more pointless exercise would be hard to imagine. But he was uncharacteristically insistent.’

  Without thinking I asked: ‘Did you tell him about John?’

  ‘Hardly. Come on Eve.’

  ‘No, I suppose you wouldn’t.’

  ‘Kerridge has become a non-person, don’t let’s talk about him.’

  ‘I’m sorry. So why – excuse me for asking – but why is going out with Clive so pointless?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know …’ Her voice tailed away into something between a mumble and a sigh. ‘… I suppose I feel somewhat sheepish.’

  ‘Why on earth should you?’ I asked, though of course the question was rhetorical, for we both knew exactly why. It was just the first time that Helen had conceded it.

  ‘Hmm … anyway …’ She gave a small, distant cough. ‘ What about tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, that’d be nice – do you want to come for lunch?’

  ‘If you like … but don’t go to any trouble.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  In fact, the moment I put the phone down I began to wonder what I could provide for Sunday lunch which would be acceptable but appear to have cooked itself. Not that Helen, having issued her token admonition, would give another thought to how much effort had been expended. I went into the kitchen which yielded chocolate digestives, bran flakes, a pint and a half of milk and an awful lot of the sort of dry ingredients whose chief property is to be used once and then sail stolidly past their sell-by date. Given that the cupboard was bare I was going to have to go to the supermarket anyway. It was a sad admission, but I didn’t mind – it would give me something to do. I would go now, this minute – the local superstore had recently turned twenty-four-hour, and I pictured a whole different nocturnal clientele, cruising the aisles for malt whisky, Mates and Marlboros before a night on the town.

  In reality, there seemed to be no difference between the ten a.m. and ten p. m. crowds, even down to a surprising number of insomniac toddlers. It was a sign, I told myself, of crusty old age to find this irritating. The one person who did accord with my preconceptions turned out not to be a customer at all but a member of staff. For who should be officiating on the one-basket express check-out but Pearl, her breasts threatening to burst out of her aqua gingham-checked overall like a couple of leaping dolphins.

  ‘How’s Ben?’ she asked as she pinged my bar-codes.

  ‘Off to work in Denmark for a while.’

  ‘Oh? Why’s that then?’ Her intuition was sound – she didn’t for a moment believe he was going because he wanted to.

  ‘He was bored with HMV,’ I said, ‘ and this vacancy came up in his father’s company.’

  ‘Has he still got the same girlfriend?’

  ‘She’s gone back up north to go to college, so that may have something to do with it.’

  She nodded. I looked for a gleam of schadenfreude but none was detectable. ‘ Give him my love.’

  ‘I will …’ I presented her with my loyalty card. ‘And how are you?’

  She swiped. ‘I’m expecting a baby, end of March.’

  ‘Pearl, that’s lovely. Who—’ I was about to say ‘Who’s is it?’ but there were three people behind me in the queue. ‘You look very well.’

  ‘It’s Nozz,’ she said, answering the question I hadn’t asked.

  ‘He must be pleased.’

  ‘Yeah, he’s well made up about it.’

  ‘Well many, many congratulations to both of you.’ I took my change. ‘I’ll tell Ben when next I see him.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She began on the next batch. ‘Don’t forget to give him my love.’

  ‘I won’t. Bye Pearl.’

  ‘See you.’

  I digested this information on the way home. A few months, no, a few weeks ago, the idea of Pearl as parent would have seemed ludicrous. Now I had no difficulty with it whatsoever. On the contrary, seeing her sitting there, ripely content in her overall, she seemed the epitome of the fecund mother-to-be. I could easily picture her and Nozz proudly pushing their buggy along the prom outside my window.

  The times, undoubtedly, were a-changing – I only wished I was changing with them.

  I cooked a seafood lasagne for Helen and me, with a big salad, and some wicked cheese and crusty bread for afters. It had to be something good tempered, because she was notoriously unpunctual and on this occasion we hadn’t set a time, so ETA could have been anything from eleven a.m. to three in the afternoon.

  She turned up at one-forty-five, managing to look rather wonderful in a spinach-green tweed suit which went well with her faded auburn hair and was just unfashionable enough to be stylish. To my amazement she had also brought a bottle of wine, and a box of Black Magic.

  ‘Bless you,’ I said, putting the wine on the table and handing her a shot from the winebox, ‘but you shouldn’t have done.’

  Not bothering to take issue with this, she took her glass to the balcony window. ‘It’s quite nice to be by the sea.’

  ‘I like it,’ I agreed. Having her there, knowing how unhomely her own surroundings were, rekindled some of my fondness for my own. ‘Now that I’m used to it I think I might feel claustrophobic anywhere else.’

  ‘Can we go over there afterwards?’ she asked, like a child.

  ‘Of course. When the weather’s fine this is the best time of year, with the people gone.’

  ‘ “The people”,’ she gave a dry, staccato laugh. ‘When we say the people in that way, we’re always referring to everybody but us.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean.’

  ‘Come and eat.’

  We sat down at the table. As I dished out the lasagne she leaned on the table, chin in her hands, watching me with her rather vacant stare. I noticed that she was wearing the jet ring on the third finger of her right hand. I knew she wouldn’t volunteer anything about her meeting with Clive, but I took the ring as a good sign.

  We were on the cheese when I put myself out of my misery, and asked: ‘So how did it go last night?’

  ‘Oh … Yes, it was fine.’

  ‘How was Clive?’

  ‘He seemed very well. Very bright-eyed and fresh-faced, put me to shame.’

  ‘He’s been on this health and fitness regime.’

  She grimaced. ‘He didn’t mention that.’

  No, I thought he wouldn’t – he knows his subject. ‘But you had a nice evening?’

  ‘We did. He took me to a concert in Brighton and then we went and had dinner at some eastern place, God knows what it all must have cost.’

  ‘I’m sure that wasn’t a consideration, Helen. What sort of concert was it?’

  ‘Not classical – two clever young men and a piano, very witty and polished.’

  ‘Sweet and Sour?’

  ‘That was it. They were right up my alley. I actually laughed out loud on several occasions.’

  She sounded mildly astonished. The evening had obviously been a big success.

  ‘So will you see Clive again, do you think?’

  ‘Probably. Since we live within a few miles of one another it is on the cards.’

  ‘Good!’

  She stretched out a hand to take more Port Salut. ‘He gave me this ring.’

  ‘Oh, isn’t that …’ I leaned forward to admire it. ‘ That really is handsome.’

  ‘I must say I found it all rather alarming.’

  ‘Alarming? Why?’

  ‘He’s bought me books and bath salts for so long I simply cannot imagine him in a jeweller’s shop, ch
oosing a ring.’

  ‘Well there you are,’ I said, trying unsuccessfully to keep the note of triumph out of my voice, ‘ he still has the power to surprise you.’

  She licked her finger to pick up crumbs. ‘Hmmm.…’

  Clive wasn’t the only one with the power to surprise, as I soon found out. After we’d cleared lunch away we left Cliff Mansions and crossed the prom on to the beach. We sat about halfway down with our backs to the windbreak, and then I changed places so that Helen, who was smoking, was downwind.

  ‘This is the sort of beach I remember from my childhood,’ she remarked, eyes narrowed.

  ‘A very British beach,’ I suggested.

  ‘And none the worse for that. I had a black woolly bathing costume that got easily waterlogged, and some canvas pumps to help cope with the stones.’

  ‘I had some of those. But they tended to float off your feet when you were swimming.’

  ‘They did. And a bathing hat. White rubber with a press stud.’

  ‘Tell me about it, only mine was blue. Getting it off your head was agony, like pulling sticking plaster off the hair on your arm.’

  ‘You know,’ she said reflectively, ‘my parents never swam. I don’t even know whether they could or not. My brother and I learnt with the school at the local baths. And yet Mother and Father would sit there, reading and doing the crossword while we bobbed about in the waves, in all weathers, miles out of our depth.…’

  So that’s where she got it from, I thought, her massive, trusting vagueness.

  ‘Do you ever go in?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘Yes, in the summer. Early or late in the day, when the beach isn’t too crowded.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind, some time.’

  ‘Then you must. It’s a date.’

  She was in the most expansive form I’d seen her in for ages, and I dared to hope I knew the reason why. But then she said, as if she’d read my mind:

  ‘Clive asked me to go back.’

  ‘Oh, did he?’

  ‘Would I think about going back, those were his exact words.’

  ‘And will you?’

  ‘I don’t need to think about it.’

  At long last we were getting there. I didn’t prompt her. We sat side by side looking at the sea until, after a few seconds, she pushed her cigarette end into the pebbles, and said: ‘It’s out of the question.’