by Isla Dewar
Yet, with Duncan Henderson she’d shared her first kiss. Experienced the thrill of holding hands. He’d filled her thoughts. She hadn’t much cared about passing school exams, because she was going to marry him, live in a house overlooking the sea and care for the two children they were going to have. At fifteen, she’d had it all planned. In the back of her geography jotter, she’d drawn a plan of the living room she imagined them sharing. She thumbed through magazines looking longingly at bright modern kitchens where she dreamed of cooking Duncan’s meals. She was going to be the perfect wife. Remembering all this now, she was almost too embarrassed to look at him.
But she did look at him. She gazed at that once familiar face with a mix of shock and delight. Delight at seeing him again. Shock at what time and experience had done to him. For years Duncan had remained in her head exactly as he had been when she last saw him. He’d been fresh-faced, barely needing to shave, floppy-haired and young. Now look at him. Skin tired and with wrinkles on his brow and round his lips. His chin bristled with greying stubble. Small creases spread from his pouchy eyes. He was old. If this was what life had done to Duncan, had it done the same to her? Did she look old?
‘I haven’t been Sophie Snow for an awfully long time,’ she said. ‘It’s Sophie Campbell now.’
‘I’d heard you married.’
‘Well, so did you.’
‘I’ve been single for years. Divorced.’ He held her at arm’s length. ‘Still the same old colourful Sophie.’
It was a horrible reminder of how she was dressed. It wasn’t so much that she displayed a cacophony of colours, more that the ones she did display clashed. She was regretting the lime green trousers and couldn’t think of anything to say in their defence. But she smiled and decided the comment wasn’t a criticism of the collection of garments she was wearing. It was a compliment.
He followed as she went to the desk to have her selection stamped. When she reached the street he was still with her.
‘What about we go for coffee and a catch up? You can tell me what you’ve been up to all those years.’ He took her arm and led her to the café opposite the bureau where Martha worked. ‘It’s a bit basic. But the coffee’s good. I like to sit here and watch the world go by.’
Sophie chose a table by the window as Duncan went to the counter and ordered. The lights were on at the Be Kindly Missing Persons Bureau; Sophie imagined Martha sitting neatly at a desk furiously typing. She saw Charlie slowly cycling into view, the dog trotting alongside him. She watched him remove his bike clips and wheel his bike inside, tapping the nameplate on the wall as he went. A superstitious man, she thought. She approved. Superstitious, too, she was relieved to discover her daughter was working for a man who believed in keeping on the right side of the lucky gods.
Duncan joined her at the table carrying a tray filled with mugs of coffee, two bacon sandwiches and doughnuts. ‘We’re celebrating,’ he said.
Sophie said, ‘Splendid. Bacon sandwiches, so much better than champagne.’
Duncan agreed. ‘So tell me everything. Your life. What have you been doing for the past forty years?’
Sophie said, ‘Goodness, not much. I got married, had a daughter, became a widow and now I bake cakes for a living. I’m a bit boring, I’m afraid.’ Was that it? Was that all she’d done? Her life in three sentences. She hadn’t travelled the globe. In fact, she hadn’t even been on an airplane. She hadn’t become an actress, as had been her ambition in the days when he was her love. She was disappointed in herself. ‘What about you?’
‘Oh, not much. I graduated. Married an American. Went to the States with her. Lectured in history. Divorced. Went to pieces. Drank too much. Lost my job. Well, I resigned but they were very happy to see me go. Travelled a bit, you know, India, Japan, China, South America sort of thing. A few affairs here and there. Nothing lasting, but sweet romances. Stayed in Puerto Rico for a couple of years, propped up one or two bars, wrote a novel while I was there. It didn’t do much, sold a few hundred copies and disappeared. Gave up drinking. Came back to Edinburgh and now I write school textbooks. Simple accessible things, but they give me pleasure. And that’s me. No children, though. I envy you that.’
‘Well,’ said Sophie, ‘you’ve certainly got a lot more sentences in your biography than I have. You’ve done things, been places.’
‘I’ve drifted,’ he said. ‘I’ve done a lot and achieved little. You, on the other hand, married and raised a child. That’s a huge achievement. You must be proud.’
‘Well, I am. But having a child doesn’t excuse my humdrum life. I haven’t done anything. I just sat back and let life happen to me. You’ve done things, been places. You’ve written books.’ Sophie bit into her bacon sandwich and considered her life. She sipped her coffee and declared herself a failure. ‘I’ve done nothing. I have waddled through my life living from day to day, washing, ironing, baking cakes, watching too much television. I have never reached out for glory.’
‘Why would you want to do that? Glory is transient and, in the end, empty. You have everything you could want. You seem content.’
She shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But I’m not happy being content. I’d like to have had more adventure in my life.’
He told her he’d frittered away his life looking for adventure and being disappointed. ‘I wish I’d settled down again after my divorce. I wish I’d lived a smaller life – a home, a wife and children. There’s happiness there.’
She smiled. Finished her bacon sandwich and started on a doughnut. ‘Good,’ she said, waving it at him. Her upper lip was encrusted with sugar. ‘I wrote your name all over my geography jotter. I was crazy about you. First love should come with a health warning. It takes your breath away.’
She became aware, as she spoke, of someone standing at her side, looking down at her. It was bacon sandwich time at the Be Kindly bureau and Martha had come to collect them. ‘Mum?’
Sophie had a turn-around moment. She was the foolish one sitting in a café talking, flirting almost, with a strange man, eating sugary food. Martha was the grown-up. This happened often these days. She looked at Martha and then at Duncan, waving her hand, still clutching the doughnut, between the two as she introduced them. ‘Martha, Duncan. Duncan, Martha.’
Duncan pulled a large red handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands before shaking the hand Martha held out to him.
‘Martha’s my daughter,’ Sophie said to Duncan.
To Martha, she said, ‘Duncan’s an old friend. We were at school together.’
‘We were sweethearts,’ said Duncan. ‘Haven’t seen one another in forty years.’
‘And we met today at the library,’ Sophie added. ‘Wasn’t that lovely?’
Martha took a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped the layer of sugar from her mother’s mouth. ‘Yes, it was. There, I’ve got rid of your moustache. I better collect my bacon rolls, Charlie’s making the coffee.’
On her way out she waved.
‘Lovely girl,’ said Duncan.
‘Yes,’ said Sophie. ‘Though she’s gone the way of all children. She’s ended up older than me. That’s what happens. They get more sophisticated than you ever were and understand the world we live in now better.’
Duncan smiled. ‘But you have experience on your side. You’ve lived.’
‘That’s the problem, I don’t think I have. Take this hippie thing going on. If I were alive today that’s what I’d be – a hippie. I’d have flowers in my hair and I’d dance barefoot.’
Duncan frowned. He didn’t understand, thought she was being absurd. ‘But you are alive today.’
‘Yes, but I’m too old to join in. There’s all sorts of exciting stuff going on to the soundtrack of wonderful music, and I’m not part of it. I’m doing what I’ve always done. Sort of trudging along doing my regular day-to-day things. Things that I have always believed I ought to do.’ She bit into a second doughnut, considering this. ‘Do you think that for most of us life is but a theory?’
/>
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ said Duncan. ‘I just wanted to have a cup of coffee and something nice to eat while we talked about old times.’
Sophie said she was sorry. She wanted to reminisce, too. ‘But things are coming to me. I’m beginning to think I’ve been duped. Did I need to live the life I’ve lived? Where did I get the idea I needed to get married and have a child before travelling the globe? Why do I think I have to work to earn money?’
‘You need money for food.’
‘I could grow my own.’
‘Gas. Electricity. Insurance.’
‘If I didn’t have possessions I wouldn’t have anything to insure. I suspect there’s some sort of con going on here. It’s the work of the government, teachers, parents, all sorts of authority figures. They put notions of security and respectability into your head.’
Duncan sighed. ‘You were always like this. Questioning everything.’
Sophie said, ‘I always thought I knew why Jamie did what he did. But now I feel a little sympathy. I understand. Which is better, deeper than just knowing, don’t you think?’
Duncan said, ‘Who’s Jamie?’
‘Never mind,’ said Sophie. ‘I’ll tell you one day.’ She reached over and patted his hand. ‘Do you remember that time we were meant to be doing our homework together in your back room and your mother burst in and caught us kissing? Well, we were doing a little more than kissing. We were getting fresh. I think that’s the term. I have to say I was enjoying it. But your mother was so shocked she sent me packing. Said she’d tell my mother what we’d been up to. And I was so scared of what my mother would say. Actually, I got a stern lecture on not letting boys having their way with me and the horrors of becoming an unmarried mother.’
‘Yes, I remember. Only a kiss. But what a kiss. Best of my life. If you’d become pregnant, I’d have stood by you.’
‘I don’t think I could have got pregnant doing what we were doing. It was pleasurable fumbling.’
‘Yes,’ Duncan agreed. ‘Didn’t we have fun, though?’
Now he was remembering how Sophie delighted him. The pleasure he’d had just talking to her. She blurted out ideas as they popped into her head, never pausing to consider that they might be nonsense or even offensive. Still, her notions were always new to him and took him by surprise. He’d never known what she was going to say next. She was never dull. Perhaps he ought to have married her.
11
Something Was Happening Here
Six o’clock in the evening Martha parked opposite the Bull and Barnacle.
‘You’re facing the wrong way,’ Charlie told her. ‘If we have to make a quick getaway we’d be better facing the main road.’
‘Why would we have to make a quick getaway?’
‘You never know. That’s a mean pub. People go there to drink.’
‘Why else would anyone go there?’
‘To chat, to socialise. But that’s not a chatting pub. It’s a hard drinkers’ place.’ He drummed on the dashboard. ‘People in there don’t take kindly to questions. They might think we’re the police.’
‘We don’t look like the police. You’re hair’s too long and I’m only five foot two. You’re being ridiculous.’
Martha pulled out of their parking place, drove to the end of the street, did a clumsy three-point turn and parked once more across from the pub. Charlie got out and stood looking anxious. ‘Do you think we should lock the car?’
‘If we don’t someone might steal it.’
‘Who’d want to steal it? It’s a heap of junk.’ He waved his hand at the car, a rusting ten-year-old Saab that took its time to start and lumbered along making worrying clanking noises. It wasn’t pretty.
‘Murphy’s in the back. We wouldn’t want him stolen despite his digestive problems.’
Charlie shrugged. ‘OK, lock the car.’
Martha surveyed the street. Nobody about. A thick layer of gravel lay along the side of the road. Several discarded crisp bags and sweet wrappers scraped the pavement, pushed by a slight wind. Even street sweepers avoided this place. It was early evening, chill, and though darkness was descending the streetlights were not yet on. Silent here. Menacing.
‘I don’t like it here,’ she said.
‘Neither do I,’ said Charlie. ‘Neither does anybody who’s sane.’
The pub had no allure whatsoever. There was peeling paint and letters missing from the sign above the door – the ull and Ba na le it read. Blinds pulled down over the windows and the pane of frosted glass on the door. Inside, Martha found the lack of charm scary. It was murky, a smell of stale booze and cigarettes. The ceiling was low and had a dense nicotine-yellow coating. There was a scattering of wooden tables each with an ashtray dead centre. The few drinkers were at the bar, hunched over, exchanging the odd monosyllable. One couple sat at a table in the corner, both nursing a beer and sucking a cigarette. They didn’t speak but stared into the distance lost in regrets and fallen dreams. Martha thought, Oh, please don’t let me end up like that.
She whispered that she didn’t like it here and sat at the table closest to the door. Charlie sat across from her, saying, ‘I don’t like it either.’ He took a five-pound note from his pocket. ‘You get the drinks. A pint for me. I’d rather have a half, but I don’t think that’s manly enough for this place. And while you’re at it, show the woman at the bar this and ask if she knows him.’ He gave her the photo of Brendan Stokes.
‘Why should I do it? It’s your job. I’m only here to make us look like real people.’
‘You’re a woman. It’s easier for a woman to ask questions.’
‘I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life.’
‘It’s true. Women like other women. Men like women. Life’s a breeze for women.’
They were leaning towards one another, hissing hoarse whispers.
Charlie gave Martha a pleading look. ‘Please.’
‘Oh, all right. I’ll do it. But I want you to know this is not what I signed up for. And don’t give me the puppyish look. I may be a woman, but I’m also a mother. Puppyish looks cut no ice with me.’ By now, she wasn’t far from shouting. Everyone in the room turned to stare. She snatched up the money, marched to the bar and slapped the money down. ‘A vodka and tonic and a pint, please.’
‘Giving you trouble, is he?’ said the barmaid. A small elderly woman with thick glasses in bamboo frames. Her face was generously powdered so she looked as dusty and crumbling as her surroundings. She fitted in.
Martha said he was.
‘That’s the problem with men. They have minds. I sometimes think if their mothers didn’t teach them to speak the world would be a better place.’
Martha agreed. ‘There’d be no wars for a start.’ This was good. She and the barmaid were exchanging a bit of banter. Perhaps Charlie was right. It was easier for women to ask questions.
The barmaid poured a measure of vodka into a warm and suspiciously greasy glass and dumped a small bottle of tonic alongside it. Martha asked for ice and lemon. ‘No ice,’ said the barmaid, ‘we don’t do it. If you want lemon you can buy one from the shop round the corner. I’ll slice it for you.’
Martha declined the offer and waited while Charlie’s pint was pulled. The barmaid put it down beside the glass of vodka, lifted the five-pound note and stared at the photo of Brendan Stokes that was underneath it.
‘You know Bill Simpson?’
‘Yes,’ said Martha. She was proud of herself. She hadn’t questioned the new name or shown the slightest sign of surprise when she’d heard it. She was good at this – a natural. ‘His photo was in my wallet. I must have pulled it out with the money. Does he come in here?’
‘Yes. Though these days he’s busy with Belinda and the little one.’
‘Of course,’ said Martha. ‘The baby. I’d forgotten he’s a father now. So is Bill still living at the old place?’ Martha asked. She was very proud of this last remark. Casual but informed.
‘I must give him a call. You don’t have his number, do you?’
‘As a matter of fact, I think I do. He was in the darts team.’
This was going very well. Martha was pleased with herself. A little bit smug. Brendan Stokes also known as Bill Simpson lived in Corstorphine and soon she’d have his phone number. Job done. Easy. Nothing to it.
A man standing a few feet along the bar turned and stared at Martha. ‘Who are you, anyway? Why are you asking questions?’
Martha reddened. Who was she? She didn’t know. She couldn’t think. Her mind emptied. ‘Martha,’ she said, ‘Martha Walters.’ Damn, she should have given a false name. Harriet McGregor would have been good. Picking up the drinks she turned to head back to the table, noting as she did that Charlie was wiping it with his handkerchief.
The barmaid, who’d ducked below the counter looking for the phone number, reappeared. ‘Where did you meet Bill?’
‘Oh, it was years and years ago. I was in a band and he came along to a gig. It was an all-girl band. We got a lot of blokes. It wasn’t the music that interested them.’
The barmaid smiled. ‘I’ll bet it wasn’t.’
The man gave Martha a disbelieving look. He reached over and took the photo. ‘Martha Walters. Never heard of you.’
Martha shrugged, ‘Bill and me were mates. We weren’t . . . you know . . . intimate.’
The man, small, stocky, muscled and wedged into an ill-fitting suit, took another step towards Martha. ‘I asked what’re you asking questions for?’ He jabbed the air with his finger.
Martha took the photo and put it in her pocket. She looked round at Charlie. He was still wiping the table top, paying no attention.
‘I’m not asking questions. I’m just wondering how my old pal Bill is doing. Haven’t seen him in years.’