by Janice Brown
He had gone into the city with the gift voucher Walter Junior had sent for Christmas. It had taken him five minutes in the store to be certain there was nothing he particularly liked. The next hours had been happily occupied in collecting the fish tanks, discussing his ideas with the proprietor of the Tropical Section, and reading his newly purchased magazine in the cafe nearby.
‘‘Did you have some lunch?’’
‘‘I had a cup of tea.’’ And a slice of something called Mississippi Mud Pie.
‘‘And did you get a new jumper?’’
‘‘There was nothing I fancied. That smells good, dear’’
‘‘Lentil and carrot soup,’’ she said, ‘‘and there’s beef olives.’’
‘‘ Lovely. Home made? Not the ones from the butcher’s?’’
‘‘Of course not,’’ she said. ‘‘How could there be nothing you liked, Walter? I saw lovely cardigans before Christmas. That old green one’s not fit to be worn in public. ’’
Tropical Freshwater. He unrolled the magazine and fingered the glossy cover.
‘‘I don’t know how they keep finding new things to say every month,’’ Ruby said. ‘‘Would you like me to make some croutons?’’
He wondered what Lesley was having for tea. She seemed to be getting thinner and thinner.
‘‘Are we having Lesley in sometime?’’ he said.
Ruby stopped chopping, knife in mid-air. ‘‘What for?’’
‘‘You said you thought we should have her over for tea, now that she’s on her own.’’
‘‘She doesn’t seem to be on her own very much, if you ask me.’’
Walter hung up his jacket, and, glancing back to see that he was not observed, went through to young Walter’s bedroom.
He sat down on the bedside chair. In his mind’s eye he cleared the room, except for the desk and the bookshelves. They could stay. The breeding tanks would sit against the side wall away from direct sunlight and the outside wall of the house. He had settled on Guppies after much deep thought. A few top quality fish would suit him. They were hardy little fish, but high stocking levels would mean more frequent water changes, and he could not risk leaving this to Ruby. The filtration was crucial.
First of course he had to overcome Ruby’s resistance. The best thing might be to confront her with a ‘‘done deed’’ as the Americans put it. He’d order a skip and get a couple of the lads to empty the room. She’d make a fuss, there might even be a tear or two, but it wouldn’t last long and she’d be on to something else soon enough.
Guppies
‘‘I’ve jumped the gun a bit,’’ Walter explained.
‘‘How big are they exactly?’’ Lesley asked.
‘‘Not very big, ‘‘he told her. ‘‘The big one holds about forty five litres.’’
‘‘But they would be empty.’’
‘‘Oh yes, of course. I was going to put them under the roof of the garage, but it’s not good for them to be in such a cold place, you see. Even with the wee heater on. And it wouldn’t be for long. I just need to find the right moment. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you.’’
‘‘No, it’s all right,’’ she said. Though it wasn’t really. ‘‘Would the front sitting room do? I haven’t got central heating, but the storage heaters keep it reasonably warm, and it gets any sun that’s going.’’
She hung up the phone and turned to her visitor. He was looking properly ministerial today, in a dark suit and clerical collar.
‘‘My next door neighbour,’’ she explained coming back to her chair. ‘‘He’s bought himself new tanks for breeding guppies and he needs to store them somewhere for a few days until he breaks the news to his wife.’’
‘‘I haven’t heard that one before. Very odd,’’
‘‘Oh, this village has more than its share of odd people. Hardly anyone’s normal.’’
He smiled, ‘‘Apart from you and me.’’
He seemed not to realize she was being serious. Mother had blamed the many eccentricities and peculiarities on inbreeding; cousins intermarrying year by year in small hamlets where, without effort or ambition, sons followed fathers into a trade, farming or the brickmaking works. There was just enough employment, Mother said. Less would have driven them out, more would have brought new people in.
Mother always said. The words took shape in her head. No, she told herself. Mother had no voice now. Her opinions, right or wrong, didn’t count. Don’t let her bloody well ruin the rest of your life.
The minister couldn’t read her mind, but he was watching her, letting her choose what to say, where to go. Waiting for her to unburden her secrets? Well, he was in for a disappointment. That wasn’t why she’d phoned him. It had been her intention merely to outline Mrs Flaherty’s problem and ask for an answer. But the daughter had answered the phone. He was on his mobile. He asked, via the daughter if he might call round on his way elsewhere. He had not taken off his coat, signalling that he did not intend to stay long. She in return had not offered to make tea.
‘‘I wanted to speak to you about someone I know,’’ she began briskly, ‘‘not a church member, but someone I feel obliged to, if that makes sense. She’s having quite serious problems. She doesn’t want to ask anyone for help. I think she needs to, but I don’t know who to speak to, or how to go about it.’’
In case he still imagined she was talking about herself, she added, ‘‘This person has a family, grown up children, so she isn’t on her own, but she says she can’t tell them what’s happening. She’s very protective of them.’’
Tooprotective. There was a difference in taking care of your children and becoming a doormat for all and sundry. Especially when the children earned more than Mary herself did.
‘‘And you feel you can’t break this confidence and tell them. What’s happening exactly?’’
‘Very little’ was the true answer. Mrs Flaherty was a circuitous story teller, and Lesley had had to listen hard to work out what exactly she was afraid of. It was more a case of what might happen.
‘‘She was separated from her husband a long time ago. Separated rather than divorced. He abused her rather badly, and was rough with the children, so she threw him out, with the help of her parents, who were still alive at that point. She moved here with the children. Now he seems to have reappeared, and wants back into the family.’’
‘‘And she doesn’t want him back?’’
‘‘She’s terrified of him.’’
‘‘And the police won’t be interested, since he hasn’t done anything. Or has he?’’
‘‘So far all he’s done is make phone calls. He’s told her he’s a changed man.’’
‘‘It can happen. Presumably he wasn’t abusive when they first met.’’
‘‘I don’t really know. She said he was the best-looking boy in the village, and everyone knew he got violent when he drank, except her. All her friends knew. And afterwards she said to them, ‘why did none of you tell me?’ ’’
‘‘Why didn’t they?’’
‘‘They told her they thought marriage might change him.’’
‘‘Ah. The love of a good woman,’’ he said, with a deep sigh. ‘‘Well, love just doesn’t cut it all of the time. I take it her parents are dead?’’
‘‘The mother is. The father’s in a care home somewhere.’’
‘‘And there’s no male figure who can intervene in any way? No brother or uncle …’’
‘‘I don’t think so. I suggested her priest and she was horrified. She would be very upset if she knew I was talking to you.’’
The minister folded his arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling, as if admiring the plaster work. She was fond of it herself. And the fireplace was handsome, as Mr Robertson had said. But the rest of all these too-large, unrelentingly solid family heirlooms that left so little space in which to move: the bookcase full of books unread for decades, the pink-flowering cacti that only flowered for a fortnight and looked so depressed
for the other fifty weeks of the year …
‘‘Did you know,’’ the minister said suddenly, ‘‘that guppies were named after a clergyman in Trinidad?’’
It took her a moment to remember that she was the one who had mentioned them.
‘‘The Reverend Robert John Lechmore Guppy. What a leisurely life he must have had, the dear man.’’ He looked up at the clock, and got to his feet. ‘‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m full of useless information. We play a lot of Scrabble. You don’t need an answer from me right now, do you? For your friend? Give me a day or two.’’
She closed the door behind him with a feeling of relief. He hadn’t once tried to turn the conversation round to her situation. ‘‘You’re looking better,’’ he’d said when she opened the door. She glimpsed herself in the hall mirror. Perhaps he’d meant it. The woman with the diamond in her nose had actually cut her hair very nicely. She might ask for her again. But not the manicure. She’d bought nail polish removal pads on the way home, unable to think straight until her fingers looked like her own again.
Intarsia
Duncan felt that fate was blessing him when his mother mentioned that it was her turn to host the Knitting Circle. It was still called the Knitting Circle, though few of the ladies knitted any more. The exchange of news was reason enough to keep attending. Supper was never lavish. The hostess was expected to provide tea and biscuits and there was a rota for the bringing of a plain iced sponge. Over the years Duncan had overheard mysterious words like intarsia and self striping and double front cross, but his mother never attempted anything complex now. She was content to make crochet squares that someone else sewed into blankets destined for Peru. Those ladies with grandchildren made small pastel-coloured items. It was a monthly ritual that seemed to gain just enough new members to compensate for the loss of others.
If Mother had been going out to the group, there would still have been problems. She might change her mind, there might be snow, her knee or her neuralgia might play up. Hosting the Circle, however, was a matter of honour and duty. She would be preoccupied with her own visitors, and although winter vomiting was doing its rounds and might keep some away, it was most unlikely that everyone would cancel.
What pleased him most was that there was no need to lie. He’d failed to mention that Lesley was coming, but he hadn’t lied. And now, soon, when it was too late for Mother to change anything, when her first fellow knitters were beginning to arrive, Lesley would turn the corner, and her brave little boots would ascend the hill towards him. As soon as he saw her, he would go and announce diffidently that she was about to arrive.
There was a fluttery sensation inside his chest. That very morning, Mrs Fleming had asked if he was doing anything interesting at the weekend.
‘‘A friend’s coming over for coffee tonight,’’ he’d said, wondering how much he might say, if she asked what for, or who.
She had not asked.
From his position on the upstairs landing, he could see everyone before they reached the house. It was an easy matter to reach the door just as Lesley pressed the bell.
‘‘Did I say something wrong?’’ They were in his study.
‘‘Wrong?’’
‘‘Your mother looked …’’
‘‘Flustered?’’ he suggested.
‘‘I was going to say surprised. ’’
The correct word for Mother’s expression was ‘‘astonished’’, so astonished that she had gone back into the lounge, completely forgetting to help Lesley off with her coat. It was her good one, he saw, with the velvet band round the edges of the collar, not the brown one she wore every day.
‘‘Here, let me take …’’ He hesitated. If he went back to the hall with her coat, he might be caught and questioned. ‘‘Let me put it here.’’ ‘‘Here’’ was a row of small hooks on the back of the door where he kept his caps. He put one cap on top of another to clear a hook.
No woman, except for his mother, and Mrs Flaherty who was permitted to vacuum the carpet and dust around objects without moving them, had ever been in his study. What would Lesley think of it, with its shelves of magazines and books, paintings inherited from his grandfather and great grandfather, the line of boxed Dinky cars that stretched along the top of the fireplace. Suddenly everything looked commonplace to him, even the Melville original.
Lesley had seated herself in the leather recliner.
‘‘If you push that button, you can lie back,’’ he told her. ‘‘That is, if you were wanting to make it recline. Not that you look tired. I mean, you’re looking well. Very trim. Not that you were needing to lose weight …’’
‘‘Yes, I was. And I still do. Mother went on cooking for three after father died and I ate for two.’’
He was burbling on like an idiot. And trim? Trim? Where had that rusted relic of a word sprung from? He’d never used it in his life. It was a word for a vintage car, or a gent’s haircut …
‘‘I made a list of the books.’’ She took a sheet of paper from her handbag.
He switched on the computer, the word ‘‘trim’’ still spinning in his brain. His screen saver was a photograph of his favourite bird, a robin. Oddly, there were two in the garden this week, both males, and furthermore they seemed to be ignoring one another, which was strange. Robins were so territorial …
‘‘Here we are,’’ he said.
He placed the list on the desk and Lesley stood behind him. The most valuable was The Story of the Motor Car, for sale at £15. None of the others, including Sleeping Beauty and The Ugly Duckling, was worth more than five pounds.
‘‘I’m sorry,’’ Duncan said, swivelling round. ‘‘I shouldn’t have raised your hopes.’’
‘‘No, that was fun,’’ she said, moving back to her chair. ‘‘I don’t mind if they’re not worth anything. Some of those were Mother’s and some were Sunday School Attendance prizes. I don’t think I’d like to sell them anyway. I used to read them over and over, probably because the illustrations were so good. Joseph was always my favourite.’’
‘‘The one you bought at the Jumble Sale.’’
He did a quick search. ‘‘How much did it cost you?’’
‘‘Ten pence.’’
‘‘A bargain. There’s one here for 99p.’’
‘‘He looked so sad, I think that was it. I was furious when his brothers put him into the pit and sold him.’’
‘‘I don’t think I won any prizes. I must have missed too many Sundays.’’
‘‘You won the writing prize in Primary Seven.’’
‘‘So I did,’’ he said, remembering. A Parker pen. It was probably still in a drawer somewhere. Mottled green, with a silver clip. He hadn’t been allowed to use it at the time.
‘‘You know, Duncan, I always wondered why you didn’t learn the piano. You have such long fingers. Wasn’t there a piano in the back sitting room?’’
‘‘It made too much noise,’’ he said, trying not to look at his hands. ‘‘And it was a very old piano. I suppose if I’d shown any proficiency, they would have let me continue.’’
‘‘But you love music, Duncan.’’
‘‘I expect the world has been spared another dreadful amateur,’’ he put on a smile. ‘‘Would you like some now?’’
She nodded. ‘‘You choose something.’’
Beethoven. Brendel. Not the Appassionata. He settled on The Late Piano Sonatas, Opus 110.
Why had he stopped? It couldn’t have been his decision. Of course he had been deported to boarding school around the same time. But some of the boys had music lessons. Why hadn’t he?
‘‘Actually,’’ he said, ‘‘I do feel strongly about it. I wish I hadn’t stopped. Which is rather a waste of emotional energy.’’
‘‘Take lessons,’’ she said.
‘‘What?’’
‘‘Take lessons. Lots of people do. I would, if I wanted to.’’
As the first notes of No. 31 trickled gently into the room, he pictured his
‘‘long fingers’’ on piano keys. Of course he would first have to buy a piano. And where to find a teacher? Perhaps the people on the Music floor would know. Liszt would never be within his grasp, but some Mozart perhaps? His mind drifted to Austria and the Rheinland and all the music festivals advertised in his monthly BBC Music magazine. And cruises where experts gave lectures.
‘‘Lesley, what do you think of cruises?’’ he asked.
She looked puzzled.
‘‘Cruises. Holidays. On the crest of the wave, as it were.’’
He’d thought about them on and off since the day of the Jumble Sale, picturing himself in a deck chair, waiting for Italy to materialize out of the mist.
‘‘Your mother might hate it. It’s an awful lot of money to spend if you don’t like the people you meet. And she doesn’t eat much either. People who go on cruises always say the food is the best part. And then there’s those dreadful bugs that go round the whole ship.’’
She had neatly summed up what he thought himself. These were exactly the reasons his mother would have given for saying no.
‘‘On the other hand, it might be restful. I can understand why some people like them. You see different places, you have lots of people looking after you, even a doctor if you’re sick, and you can do as much or as little as you want. And if you like food, there’s plenty of choice, I suppose.
He felt a little sad without quite knowing why. Perhaps he’d hoped for more enthusiasm. More commitment, one way or the other.
‘‘On that note, shall we have some supper?’’ he said, ‘‘Coffee or tea? Or something cold?’’
‘‘Tea, please. Just milk. No sugar.’’
‘‘I broke a sugar bowl last week,’’ he confided, ‘‘one of the good ones. I haven’t mentioned it to Mother yet.’’
‘‘Why not?’’
‘‘Isn’t it obvious?’’
Lesley let out a laugh. Or was it a giggle?
‘‘This is serious,’’ he told her, wishing he hadn’t broached the subject.
‘‘Not that serious, Duncan.’’
‘‘No, really. She’s had the set for years. I think it may have been a wedding present.’’