The Misplaced Affections of Charlotte Fforbes

by Catherine Robertson

  Sod, she thought, and gingerly stepped into the boat. Then she untied it from its mooring, slotted the oars into the rowlocks, and began to row away.

  It had been many years since Charlotte had rowed, but she was pleased to find she had not lost the knack. She caught up with the swimming dog with relative ease. However, Flea was still intent on chasing the duck, and ignored Charlotte’s orders for him to come towards the boat.

  ‘You beyond stupid animal!’ she said, resisting the urge to shake her fist at it.

  Charlotte manoeuvred the boat around in front of the dog’s path, cutting off his line of sight to the duck. It had the desired effect. Flea gazed up at the boat with an expression of doggie puzzlement and began to swim alongside it. Which was when Charlotte realised that there was no way he could climb aboard without her help.

  ‘God save us,’ she said. ‘I shall have to haul you in bodily.’

  And setting the oars inside the boat, she reached down and managed to grab hold of the dog’s collar. She gave a heave that lifted the dog out of the water enough for him to place his front legs over the side. Flea scrabbled his paws on the wood, but he could not gain purchase.

  ‘Come on!’ Charlotte gave another haul on the collar, her arm muscles straining with the effort. ‘Jump!’

  At her command, Flea lunged forward, and the movement and his extra weight combined to tip the small boat sharply towards him. Flea took advantage of the lowered boat to scramble in. The momentum of his effort sent him skidding to a halt against the far side, causing the boat to rock violently. And Charlotte, off balance, her hold on the dog lost, was tipped suddenly and ungracefully over the side.

  The lake was cold and, as she surfaced, Charlotte spluttered with shock as well as indignation. Her cotton sundress offered no protection, and its full skirt, now waterlogged, was dragging her down. Flea, she saw, was standing up in the boat, looking at her, his tail wagging. He gave her a doggie grin, and barked.

  The boat had started to drift, Charlotte observed. I won’t waste my energy yelling at the imbecile animal, thought Charlotte, and she began to swim, as best she could in the heavy dress, towards boat and dog.

  From the lakefront came what sounded like a splash, but as the swim required all her effort, she did not turn her head to look. The rowing boat, she saw to her frustration, was drifting slowly but inexorably away from her. It’s become the duck, she thought, and I am now forced into the role of the idiot canine.

  Panic began to swirl in the pit of her stomach but Charlotte suppressed it firmly.

  If I panic, I’m done for, she told herself.

  She became aware of more splashing behind her, and to her astonishment, a head suddenly emerged from the water right next to her, and an arm grabbed hold around her waist.

  ‘’Tis all right,’ said Ned. ‘I’ve got thee.’

  The relief of being held up out of the water was immense, and Charlotte found herself clinging to Ned, who seemed to be treading water with ease. He also seemed to be entirely naked, but Charlotte had no time to confirm this. She could see that the boat was still drifting.

  ‘Stupid dog,’ she said, and pointed.

  ‘I’ll have t’ put thee on tha back,’ said Ned. ‘That OK?’

  ‘Can’t be any more humiliated,’ said Charlotte.

  Her teeth were beginning to chatter from the cold and shock. Ned didn’t delay; he slipped one arm under her, hand on her chest, and used his other arm to swim towards the boat.

  He’s strong and fast, thought Charlotte. Thank God for that.

  Ned was so strong that he almost threw Charlotte into the boat. She tumbled over the side and became wedged between the seats in a pike position — rear down, feet up. As she lay there, momentarily stuck and gasping for breath, Flea licked her face. My degradation is complete, thought Charlotte, as she pulled herself up and onto the damp wooden seat. The holy prankster has tossed his banana skin and I have prat-falled right on cue. At this moment, I have hit the absolute nadir.

  Ned, she observed a mite resentfully, lifted himself into the boat with seemingly effortless grace. The boat rocked hard, nonetheless, and Charlotte clutched onto the sides, cursing under her breath. As Ned took the rower’s seat, she could see that he was not, in fact, naked, but wearing a pair of underpants, made, Charlotte observed, ironically, by Superdry.

  Despite the heat of the sun and the relief of being out of the water, Charlotte’s teeth were still chattering.

  ‘I hate rowing boats,’ she managed to say.

  Ned, rowing steadily, said, ‘Tha were brave, taking off after t’ dog like that. We were watching thee from shore.’

  ‘My, how entertaining that must have been,’ said Charlotte bitterly.

  Then she remembered her manners. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘for undertaking a rescue effort that was considerably more successful than mine.’

  Ned gave her a quick glance and looked away. ‘Could hardly let tha drown.’

  There was no shortage of helpers on the boat dock. Chad gave Charlotte a hand to get out of the boat, while Aishe grabbed Flea by the collar and hauled him out, whereupon he shook himself, vigorously, showering everyone with droplets of cold lake water. Darrell had thought to bring two towels, and she wrapped Charlotte in one, and handed the other to Ned, who had tied the boat to the mooring, and was now standing on the dock, apart from the group, looking almost as if he’d prefer to dive back into the water.

  ‘Come on.’ Darrell placed her arm around Charlotte’s shoulders. ‘Let’s get you changed out of those wet clothes.’

  The gate was unlocked, and Charlotte saw that everyone else was gathered on the terrace, waiting for them. Chad, and Aishe, after she’d sent Flea running into the garden with a slap on his rump, rejoined the group. When Ned stepped through the gate, Charlotte saw Michelle’s eyes widen.

  ‘Honey?’ she said to Chad. ‘How come you don’t look like that when you take your shirt off?’

  Benedict said, ‘Who does? My entire torso is about the width of his calf!’

  ‘No wonder you got a pounding,’ said Aishe to Patrick. ‘He looks like Atlas.’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ said Patrick, scowling. ‘Carrying supplies every day ten miles up a vertical fucking slope will do that for you.’

  Charlotte, who had paused, felt Darrell’s hand on her back.

  ‘You shouldn’t let yourself get any colder,’ Darrell said.

  ‘I’m all right,’ Charlotte said. ‘I’ll come inside in a minute.’

  And she walked to where Ned was standing by the gate, holding the towel as if he’d forgotten it was in his hand. He had an expression of militant embarrassment on his face, which intensified as Charlotte approached.

  ‘I’m afraid if I go and get changed, you’ll vanish,’ she said to him. ‘And I would very much like to say goodbye.’

  ‘Tha’s soaked,’ he said. ‘Tha needs t’ get changed.’

  ‘Will you wait?’

  ‘Aye,’ he said, after a fractional hesitation. ‘I’ll meet thee by loggia.’

  And he scooped his overalls from the wall where he’d obviously flung them, and walked off, Charlotte supposed, to the shed.

  Back inside the villa, Charlotte grabbed clothes from her suitcase, not caring that she was disrupting her orderly packing, and showered and changed with haste. The letting agent had arrived to inspect the villa, and she did not care about that, either. She was only pleased that his arrival had distracted everyone else, most of whom were, she saw with added satisfaction, scurrying around doing last-minute tidying.

  She half-expected the loggia to be empty, but there was Ned, back in his overalls, waiting for her. Charlotte ran up to him and went on tiptoe to kiss him, but he ducked his head to avoid her.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said, and added, ‘please.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Charlotte, crestfallen. ‘I just wanted to thank you.’

  ‘Hard enough t’ say goodbye,’ said Ned. ‘Almost changed my mind about meeting thee here.’r />
  ‘I’m so glad you didn’t,’ said Charlotte. ‘That would have made me very sad indeed.’

  Ned’s expression of combative embarrassment returned. ‘Tha’ll forget about us soon enough,’ he said. ‘Back t’ your home, and job, and … well, tha knows who.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Charlotte. ‘Him.’

  She looked Ned straight in the eye. ‘I’d better confess that I’ve been very foolish about all that.’

  ‘That so?’ Ned’s tone was cautious.

  ‘I knew he didn’t love me,’ said Charlotte, ‘but I had hoped that I might be able to sway his affections. But Patrick is very much in love with his wife, and that is unlikely to change any time soon.’

  ‘And how’d tha feel about that?’ said Ned.

  ‘Chastened,’ admitted Charlotte. ‘I thought I was smart, and for that hubris fate has punished me soundly.’

  Ned scuffed the ground with the toe of his boot. ‘D’ thee think it’s impossible t’ make someone love thee, then?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Charlotte truthfully. ‘I suppose it depends on the people involved, and the circumstances.’

  ‘If t’ people were tha and us,’ said Ned, after a moment, ‘and t’ circumstances were that I came back and got job in England, what would thee think then?’

  Charlotte’s heart leapt, but it would not do to be anything less than scrupulously honest.

  ‘I would admire your bravery,’ she said. ‘I’d also add that I’ve always believed in going after what you want, because one can never know until one tries.’

  ‘No promises, though?’

  ‘Well, I warn you that my life hasn’t exactly been filled with raging successes where love’s concerned,’ said Charlotte. ‘But I can promise to be open to the idea. Is that enough?’

  Ned’s half-smile appeared, directed at first at his feet, and then at Charlotte.

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘’Tis enough.’

  He scuffed his toe in the dirt again. ‘Haven’t had much success, neither. Suspect I need to learn t’ play better wi’ others.’ He smiled at her, properly this time. ‘Less pawing and bellowing.’

  ‘Quite possibly,’ said Charlotte. ‘Will you let me kiss you now?’

  ‘I will,’ he said, taking her in his arms. ‘But I might have t’ carry thee off t’ shed if it gets too much for us.’

  ‘That’s perfectly acceptable,’ said Charlotte with a smile. ‘After all, it has just been cleaned.’

  38

  Patrick heard the front door bell, and decided, with sinking heart, that at six o’clock in the evening, teatime, it could only be one of his relatives.

  Jenico had done his best to contain the spread of the news of Clare leaving, but with my family, thought Patrick, that’s like trying to contain jelly in a string bag. Leakage is unavoidable.

  Since he and Tom had arrived back in the country a week ago, Patrick had been obliged to tolerate daily visits from his mother — who brought with her all the cheery optimism of a hanging judge, thought Patrick. He’d also had visits from his Aunt Adi, Anselo and Aishe’s mother — another laugh-a-minute riot — and numerous cousins whom Patrick hadn’t seen since they’d been excluded from the Christmas dinner Clare had arranged at his house, a slight not one of them failed to remind him of. Jenico had paid Patrick and Tom one visit, and then, wisely, left them alone to get used to their new two-person routine. Darrell had kindly offered to look after Tom until a full-time nanny could be found. Patrick had rung the bureau, and was not looking forward to the interviews. But what can I do? he thought. I’m not ready to leave the business to Anselo just yet.

  The front doorbell pealed again, and Patrick checked that Tom was safe.

  ‘I’ll be half a tick,’ he said to his son. ‘You stay right there and don’t move.’

  Tom regarded him for a brief moment. ‘Tom stay,’ he said, and turned back to The Wiggles.

  Patrick didn’t bother to look through the peephole. I can guarantee that whoever it is, it’s someone I wish would go away again, he thought.

  He opened the door.

  ‘Jesus!’ he said.

  ‘No,’ said Clare. ‘He has a little more beard.’

  Patrick found he had to lean against the doorframe. He also found he had absolutely no idea what to do next.

  ‘Are you … are you back?’ he was only just able to say.

  Clare’s face was pinched and pale. ‘I suspect that depends on you,’ she said. After a brief pause, she added, ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Shit.’ Patrick recollected himself. ‘Of course!’ And he opened wide the door.

  She stepped through into the hallway and stood beside the Georgian card table, fingering the old Doulton bowl as if she were seeing it for the first time.

  Patrick closed the door and made a move towards her, and she put up her hands.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘don’t. Just stay there, or I’ll never get this out.’

  ‘OK—’

  ‘And shut up, too,’ Clare said. ‘Please.’

  Patrick’s nerves brought a mindless quip to the tip of his tongue, something like ‘Mum’s the word’, and it was with great effort that he managed only to nod.

  ‘All right.’ Clare was taking deep breaths. ‘All right, OK, I can do this.’

  Then in a rush, she said, ‘I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry. No!’ She held up her hand again, as Patrick opened his mouth. ‘Shut it! You promised!’

  Patrick shut his mouth.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Clare said again, after she was sure he wouldn’t speak, ‘for completely losing my cool, and for being too gutless and ashamed to apologise. I have no excuse. I’d just got to a point where I was feeling like the worst mother in the world, and we all know how much I love to fail, don’t we? I felt like no matter what I did or how hard I worked, it made sod-all difference. I mean, even the teenage mothers on the estate in frigging pyjama bottoms and Ugg boots were doing better than me! Their kids could talk! They might never be able to read, but at least they could bloody well talk!’

  Clare paused to catch her breath, and Patrick held his, every nerve on alert, waiting.

  ‘I started to hate myself,’ she said, ‘and then, worst of all, I started to hate you and Tom. No, not hate,’ she amended, ‘but certainly resent. I resented you for having your work, when I suspected that I’d effectively flushed my own career down the toilet. Climbing the ladder requires staying on it, and the thought of having to start again from the bottom — no need to point out how gracefully I’d accept that. I resented you for going to the pub when you felt like it. And I resented Tom for being the only child within two thousand miles who refused to be normal.’

  His wife met his eye. Her expression was primarily one of shame, but Patrick could detect a hint of her usual challenge.

  Apologies are not Clare’s forte, he thought, but I have to admit, she’s making a bloody good fist of this one. I’m still not at all sure where it’s leading, though.

  He decided to keep quiet and let her get on with it.

  ‘When you told me I couldn’t go back to work,’ she said, ‘I felt like you’d punched me in the solar plexus. Up until then, you see, I thought you’d basically been on my side. I know, I know!’ she said, as if he’d objected, ‘I didn’t let you do a damn thing! But I did feel as if you’d generally supported me, even when I was so clearly a useless mother and, at best, a half-arsed wife. And then, there you were, confirming how much of a failure I’d been, and condemning me to more of the same. I know that’s not what you meant, but at the time, it was all I heard. So I lost it, and I legged it. And since then, I’ve been hiding out, laying low as they say in cowboy movies, trying to work up the courage to stand in front of you and tell you how sorry I am.’

  Patrick hesitated, unsure if he was now free to speak.

  ‘Yes, I’m done now,’ said Clare with an irritated frown. ‘For what it’s worth.’

  ‘Did you just come here to apologise?’ said Patrick, dreading the an
swer. ‘Or have you come home?’

  Clare shoved her hands into the pocket of her coat. London’s not Italy, was Patrick’s inconsequential thought. We don’t live here for the weather.

  ‘Do you want me home?’ said his wife.

  Patrick heard the catch in her voice and this time, he did not hesitate. He pulled her into his arms and hugged her as tight as he could.

  ‘Oh, my fucking Lord, I’ve missed you,’ he said, mouth pressed into her hair. ‘If I promise not to be such an idiot, can you promise never, ever, to do that to me again? I love you so much. I died a thousand bloody deaths every fucking minute you were gone.’

  Clare lifted her head. Her face was still pale, but she was smiling.

  ‘You’re quite a romantic, aren’t you? And yes, I love you, too, you old fool. But now, if you’ll excuse me.’ The smile faded, and she pushed herself out of his embrace. ‘I desperately need to see my son.’

  ‘Come with me,’ said Patrick, and he took her hand and led her down to the kitchen.

  ‘Look who’s here!’ he said to Tom.

  Tom stared up at his parents, with his usual serious expression.

  ‘Tom’s mum,’ he said, entirely matter-of-fact. Then he frowned. ‘Where Tom’s mum been?’

  Clare gasped and clapped her hands over her mouth.

  Patrick laughed. ‘Don’t ask me how,’ he said to her, ‘because I have no idea. I think we’d just do best to accept that our boy is going to do things his way, and in his own sweet fucking time.’

  Clare burst into tears, and as Patrick cradled his sobbing wife against his chest, he could not think of a moment when he’d been happier.

  Darrell kissed her husband, as the pair lay tangled together, spent and drowsy, in their bed.

  ‘I’m so glad we’re at it again,’ she said. ‘It was always good with us, right from the start, wasn’t it?’

  Anselo rolled over onto his back. ‘Yeah,’ he said shortly, and to Darrell’s surprise, slid immediately out of bed.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said as he hurried out the door. ‘Nature calls.’