That Was Then

by That Was Then (retail) (epub)

  ‘It’s been far too long, where’ve you been hiding?’

  ‘Life’s been very busy.’

  ‘Isn’t it ghastly news about Ronnie?’

  ‘We were talking about it.’

  He put his arm around Sabine. She was like a slender fern in the shelter of a great oak: he both overshadowed and protected her. She smiled out at me from his embrace but her eyes were dark.

  ‘Sophie’s started at college,’ said Martin. ‘ Having a whale of a time. There was a moment back there in the summer when I thought you girls would be buying new hats, but the young are so damn fickle!’

  ‘The best time for it, though,’ I said.

  He chuckled, jingling his keys in his pocket. ‘That’s right, plenty of wild oats, and when you settle down you’re too exhausted for anything but fidelity, isn’t that right cherry?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ She smiled. ‘ We’ll be in touch, Eve.’

  ‘Better hit the road.’ He began steering her away.

  ‘Are you going somewhere nice?’ I asked, suddenly not wanting to let them go. ‘You both look wonderfully elegant.’

  ‘London,’ said Martin. ‘Boring as hell, gotta be done. Bye now!’

  She looked over his guiding arm at me as they moved away – those sad eyes, a little moue of farewell … I climbed into my car, but stayed to watch them go. They were talking together in the front of the Range Rover. Martin, turning the key, was laughing. Sabine raised her hands in a gesture of not-serious exasperation, then patted his cheek, directed a kiss at him. She missed, but it was still a kiss.

  As they drove away my heart contracted for Ben, in his self-imposed exile. His would be a long, lonely wait. Sabine was going to do the right thing.

  Still heartsore I went into his room when I got back. It was as he’d left it, the duvet slewed off and discarded clothes scattered about. I tidied it up, but this time it only took a moment. As I turned the light off I had the feeling something was missing. It wasn’t until I was pouring myself a drink in the kitchen that I realised he’d taken Algy with him.

  Mel rang at nine o’clock. After our last exchange the sound of her voice made my skin prickle, but this time she wasn’t angry. In fact she sounded, for her, quite mellow.

  ‘I thought you might be feeling bereft,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’ I asked warily.

  ‘Well … the brown-eyed broth of a boy has gone, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s all right Mother, I’ve calmed down. He does seem to be making the right moves, even if it is a bit late in the day. Damage limitation’s better than nothing.’

  ‘Did you speak to him then?’

  ‘He called from Dad’s place. Dad probably put him up to it. I was pretty furious, as you know, I spoke my mind. But he took it like a man.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘Dad and I feel that on balance, given all that’s happened, Ben’s emerged from it rather well.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mel, ‘you think he’s emerged, do you? My understanding is that this sojourn outre mer could turn out to be only a hiatus.’

  ‘In theory, yes. But in fact, I think it’s the end of it.’

  ‘I see. What about her?’

  ‘Sabine? She seems to be making the best of it.’

  ‘I’m sure she is. Struggling along with her heated pool and her domestics and her Mercedes sports. My heart bleeds.’

  ‘Mel … come on.’

  ‘Hush my mouth. What’s the point anyway? I didn’t ring to rake over all this stuff. I wondered if you’d looked at your newspaper lately.’

  ‘You mean about the fire? Yes, I saw it by accident in the business section.’

  ‘So you know Charles McNally’s out here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a pause, she seemed to be waiting for me to add something. When I didn’t, she said: ‘He’s the hero of the hour. McNally’s last stand, that kind of thing.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘You can imagine, but you’re not really interested.’

  My daughter had, as usual, succeeded in needling me where I least wished to be needled. ‘ No, I am interested. But I don’t think he is, so I’ve decided as they say to let it go.’

  ‘Why?’

  I breathed deeply. ‘Mel, love, I’m sure you have my welfare at heart but you force me to say this – it really is none of your business.’

  ‘Mother dear – that’s true.’

  ‘And anyway I already told you why.’

  ‘Because you think he’s not interested?’

  ‘He’s very charming, and very kind and he paid me a gratifying amount of attention for a little while. But the fact remains that I hardly know him, and I stupidly mistook charm and kindness for something else. He’ll be back in London some time and we may well run into one another, in which case—’

  ‘You’re quite wrong,’ she cut in sharply. ‘Or at least you’re wrong now. You were right in the first place. There’s a spark there for you, Mother, take it from one who knows.’

  ‘But you don’t know him that well either. Surely,’ I added, because I hadn’t meant it to sound unkind.

  ‘I observe these things. I keep my ear to the ground. Plus, I care about you and I wouldn’t tell you something that wasn’t true.’

  ‘Oh, Mel …’ I was remorseful.

  She sighed humorously. ‘Honesty – it is my cross! Now listen, while we’re into plain speaking, I’ve a suggestion to make.’

  I steeled myself for the thinly veiled order to follow. ‘Go on.’

  ‘McNally’s due back here on Saturday. There’ll be some kind of celebration. Why don’t you get your backside out here and be part of it.’

  I groaned. ‘Darling, don’t be ridiculous!’

  ‘I’m perfectly serious. Surprise him. And yourself.’

  ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘Of course you could. Buy a ticket, jump on a plane, Bob’s your uncle. If you’re worried about the expense I can help with that.’

  ‘Heavens, I wouldn’t dream of it, but that’s not the point. What I meant—’

  ‘Oh, I know what you meant!’ She was scornful. ‘ You mean you’re chicken.’

  ‘I mean it would be inappropriate!’ I shouted. ‘What on earth would he think?’

  ‘That you like him!’ she shouted back. If you upped the ante with Mel you got it back with interest. ‘ That you’ve been thinking about him! That you’re not some dull, tight-arsed provincial lady but a sentient being who’s not afraid to give in to a wild impulse!’

  Bootless to point out that the impulse was all hers – but I did so anyhow.

  ‘OK,’ she said in a normal tone of voice, ‘so I suggested it. But this is your turn to be honest – wouldn’t you like to do it?’

  I was so thoroughly wound up I found it hard to know what I would like. There were still plenty of reasons for not doing it (which was not the same thing I realised) and these I began to catalogue.

  ‘We have absolutely nothing in common, Mel. He thinks I’m this tranquil mother-earth figure which you and I know is risible, and as far as I can see he’s a work-obsessed commitment-phobe who—’

  ‘You’ve been watching too much Oprah.’

  ‘—who likes to keep on the move, to present a moving target, to use his own words.’

  ‘So he’s not perfect. Neither on your own admission are you. So?’

  ‘So it would never work, so I’m not going to do it, so that’s that!’

  When I’d put the phone down I was shaking with anger and frustration and my eyes were stinging with tears. Why did she have to be like this, my daughter whom I loved and admired, whom I spoke of so highly to other people? Why did she feel compelled, so regularly and so unerringly, to place her finger on a jumping nerve? Yet again, safe in her luxury hotel, she’d overstepped the mark – she’d lit the blue touch paper and retired, content to leave me in this sorry state: battered, bothered and bewildered.

  I knew it should have been bewit
ched, but I wasn’t admitting to that.

  The next day was another long one. Jo was in the Brighton office for the day, so there was no one to talk to. I was pleased when Ian called me in the afternoon to say Ben had got off safely, and to give me the address and telephone number of the family he’d be lodging with.

  ‘Are they nice?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course they’re nice! They’ll probably spoil him rotten. One thing’s for sure, he’ll put weight on, the Danes are among the biggest eaters in Europe.’

  ‘I miss him, Ian.’

  ‘I know, and I also know he’s not that brilliant about keeping in touch, that’s why I thought you’d like the address, so you can contact him.’

  ‘I appreciate it.’

  ‘I spoke to Mel yesterday,’ he said, in a lighter tone which at once aroused my suspicions.

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘She said she’s invited you out there again for a break.’

  Oh she said that, did she? Invite, was it? ‘ I’m not sure it was quite as clear cut as that.’

  He ignored this. ‘Are you going to? After all that’s been going on it sounds like a jolly good idea. The weather will be a lot kinder than on your last visit, and it might be just what you need, a bit of sympathetic company.’

  Sometimes I wondered if he knew Mel at all. ‘I couldn’t possibly justify the time off, or the cost.’

  ‘You’re entitled to another week, surely? And you shouldn’t have any qualms about accepting her offer, she’s doing well over there and I’m sure she’d like to do it. Remember we used to dream of the time when our children could support us? Well this is it!’

  It was no accident, Mel talking about me to Ian. She knew how to organise a pincer movement. If I was too timid to adopt her plan, then Ian’s more humdrum scenario might persuade me to do what she believed I secretly wanted. She was so transparent.

  The annoying thing was that there was a picture forming in my mind, a picture I could neither banish nor ignore – a picture of what it would be like to feel around me, hot from the firestorm, the arms of Charles McNally, hero of the hour.…

  I pushed it aside, of course. I got home determined to reintroduce a sense of purpose into my evenings. When I’d eaten I sat down at my desk to write some letters. I needed to debrief, and regroup. On the way back I’d bought a funny, tasteless good luck card which I sent to Ben with what I hoped was a sufficiently un-heavy note inside. Rummaging for stamps, I found my first letter to Sabine – six sides of densely-scrawled lined paper, written at the height of my fury – stuffed into one of the desk’s cubbyholes. It took a considerable effort of will not to reread it, but I managed it and even, for safety’s sake, tore it into small pieces before dropping it in the waste paper basket. Now, I considered, was the time to write to Sabine again. I made a start, but was brought up short by the awful possibility that Martin might see the letter. I had another, better idea. I’d send a note to both of them, inviting them for supper. That way Martin would feel included, and Sabine would draw the more personal inference.

  I asked them for a Saturday night in four weeks’ time, and wrote an invitation to the Chatsworths as well.

  I then turned my attention to Mrs Rymer. She’d said at my last visit how much she liked receiving things in the post. I suspected she was probably a shrewd judge of letters so I didn’t try to conceal the fact that I’d been a bit down, while expressing appreciation for her making me so welcome. I would have asked her to dinner with the Drages, but she’d never have made it up Cliff Mansions’ very own South Col. I said I hoped her son and daughter-in-law would resolve their problems to everyone’s satisfaction, and told her I looked forward to an update when we next saw one another.

  By this time I’d got the bit between my teeth. The urge to communicate was strong upon me, and yet the communication was mainly with myself. I dropped an elegant Bouvier’s postcard to Clive, asking if there were any more concerts in the offing and then, in the interests of balance, wrote one to Helen as well saying that of course she’d done the right thing, and that she and I must make a point of seeing a lot more of one another.

  Finally, I grasped the nettle and wrote to Mel. But whereas all the other missives had flowed, this one never found its stride. The note I wanted to strike was humble but not apologetic, affectionate but not craven – in other words, mature. I wished to explain myself, more in sorrow than in anger, and to point out how very unwise it would be to tear halfway across the world to see a man I scarcely knew on the slenderest and most fanciful of pretexts.…

  It was no good. I abandoned the letter to Mel, but left it on the desk in case genius burned any brighter the next day. The others I stamped and took into the hall.

  A storm was brewing, I could hear thunder rumbling round the horizon, and a couple of seconds later the sea was lit by the pale glare of lightning. One of those second-nature domestic promptings told me it was rubbish-collection in the morning and if I didn’t want to get soaked I’d better take my current batch down now.

  I hauled the liner out of the swing bin and carted it into first the sitting room, then the bedroom, to empty the waste paper baskets. The thunder boomed ominously. There was a small hole in the bottom of the black bag, where the corner of a rogue orange juice carton had pierced it, but I couldn’t be bothered to battle with a second one. All I had to do was get this lot down the stairs.

  As I staggered down, holding the top of the bag with one hand and trying to take the strain at the bottom with the other, I reflected on the truth of the platitude ‘Life goes on’. Your heart might be in shreds, your past a patchwork of make-do-and-mend and your future a howling desert, but household rubbish went on for ever.

  The first handfuls of cold autumn rain were spattering down as I emerged on to the pavement. The wheelie-bins for Cliff Mansions were in a covered bay, down a ramp to the left of the front steps, an area known without affection as the Black Hole. Resting the binbag on my instep I switched on the single dusty lightbulb and hobbled to my appointed bin. With a single heave I’d be free – and I was, except that the bag finally gave up the unequal struggle and spewed forth its contents in a malodorous cascade.

  Fortunately most of it landed in the bin, and by sneakily dropping the bag on top of it I could give the impression that the accident had happened in situ. A few bits and pieces were scattered at my feet and I started to collect them up, wishing I had a pair of gloves; bacon rinds, eggshells, used tissues, soggy teabags, one or two unopened wodges of junk mail, soggy with juice – and something else.

  In the shadow of the bin my squeamishly questing hand struck something solid and hirsute. For a split second I thought it might be a rat, and jumped back with a little shriek. But the creature didn’t move, and now I could see its bright, unfocused eyes, and its squat inanimate limbs reaching upward, not waving but drowning.

  For a long moment Algy and I stared at one another. Then, without a qualm I picked up the old toy, and dropped it in the bin.

  As I scuttled out of the Black Hole the wind got up in earnest, and hurled stinging whips of rain against the front door as it banged shut behind me. I ran all the way up the stairs. In the flat, I turned the light off in the hall, and in the living room – I wanted to see the sea.

  But seeing it wasn’t enough, tonight. I wanted to feel it too. Recklessly I opened the balcony doors. Even with an onshore wind the result was dramatic. A great swirling torrent of salty air poured in. The curtains billowed like sails, the room seemed small and insubstantial, a little crow’s-nest of a home perched precariously on its rigging of bricks and mortar. The reverberating crash of the waves was split by a synchronised snarl of thunder and lightning.

  My letter to Mel, lying abandoned on the desk, was snatched up and tossed into a corner. I didn’t care – I was going to see her.

  Chapter Twenty

  There had been several occasions in the past few months when I’d felt the spectral nudge of unfinished business, but none more so than on that flight
back to the UAE. So much had happened since my last visit, it was as though that intervening period was the foreign country, and this a return, a closing of the circle. To add to this impression the plane on which I managed to get a seat on Friday afternoon was coincidentally the same Lufthansa flight on which I’d travelled before.

  As we took off in drizzle from Heathrow I was strung out with tiredness. I knew I shouldn’t drink, but I ordered a large gin and tonic anyway, and felt the warm buzz of the alcohol translate tension into torpor.

  The jet’s rise to cruising level was like a long awaited exhalation. I was on my way.

  Once I’d made the decision – or had it made for me – it had been simplicity itself to put it into practice. Bouvier’s were perfectly accommodating, because it was to be no more than a long weekend. Jo, with clenched fist, told me to go for it.

  Sorting out my handbag I found Mrs Rymer’s key zipped into the inside pocket. I opened the envelope I’d written to her and enclosed the key and letter in a jiffy bag, adding a PS. ‘Why not give this to your daughter-in-law? She may know what it’s for.’

  After I’d posted my letters there were only three other people I contacted. One was Ian, who was far too generous to suggest I was taking his advice.

  ‘I’m so glad – but why just a few days? You’ll scarcely be over the jetlag.’

  ‘That’s all I need, a jolt to the system.’

  ‘It’ll be that all right! Mel probably won’t let you leave that soon.’

  ‘Oh – she will. If Ben calls, give him my love and say I’ll be back on Tuesday if he wants to reverse the charges.’

  ‘I’ll tell him your movements. As to calls, if he wants to make them he’s going to have to bankroll them.’

  Good old Ian, getting the balance right.

  I faxed Mel at the Miramar to say I was coming and to give her the flight number. This was dealing with her on her own businesslike terms. I had neither expected nor received any response, but I anticipated she’d be there at the gate to meet me.