It Takes One to Know One

by Isla Dewar

  ‘But that’s a recent photo. He only shaved off his beard a couple of weeks ago,’ said the barmaid.

  Martha said, ‘Ah . . .’ She was standing holding a couple of drinks with her mouth open as she rummaged through her mind searching for something to say. She felt alone. The room was suddenly big. She was small. And scared. The man was standing horribly close, finger still in jabbing position. She could see sweat on his brow and the open pores on his face. Things were out of control. Something mean was happening here.

  Then Charlie was beside her, taking the drinks from her, putting them onto the bar. He took her elbow. ‘Time to go, darling. We promised the babysitter.’

  Martha looked blank. ‘What babysitter?’

  He hustled her across the room, feet tripping on the sticky floor.

  Pointing at Charlie, the barmaid shouted, ‘You. I know you. You were barred years ago.’

  He hauled Martha out the door and across to the car. ‘I said you shouldn’t lock it. Where are the keys?’

  ‘In my bag.’

  ‘What are they doing there? You should keep them in your hand.’

  Opening her bag, peering into it, shifting things about looking for the keys, Martha said, ‘You never mentioned keeping them in my hand. Why did you yank me out of there anyway?’

  ‘It was turning nasty.’

  She opened the car, they both got in, slammed the doors. ‘I can deal with nasty. I can cope.’

  ‘No, you can’t. Please start the car and get going.’

  Martha put the key in the ignition, then leaned back, folded her arms and said, ‘No. I want to know why you dragged me out of there.’

  ‘Didn’t you feel it? Didn’t you see it in that guy’s face? There was menace. There was about to be shouting, insults, threats and maybe even some punching. And you were scared. Admit it.’

  ‘I may have been unnerved, but I was fine. I am . . .’ She was about to say she was a mother and he had no idea of the many things that role prepared her for, but the banging on the car window distracted her.

  The man from the bar was thumping the side of the car, shouting, ‘I want a word.’

  ‘Just drive,’ said Charlie.

  Martha waved to the man to step aside, started the car, signalled, looked over her shoulder, checked the mirror and slowly moved off.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Charlie stamped his feet on the floor.

  ‘Moving away from the kerb in the correct fashion as described in the Highway Code.’

  ‘Jesus, just go. Use the Getaway Highway Code. Put your foot down.’

  Martha cruised the car along the road, stopped at the end, signalled, looked right, left and right again before sliding onto the main road. ‘We are slipping away in the correct fashion. This is what responsible people do.’

  Charlie shoved his fingers through his hair and shouted that they were not responsible people. ‘We are fools. Go faster.’

  Tootling at a gentle twenty-five miles an hour, Martha said, ‘No.’

  ‘Stop the car. Stop the car. Let me out.’ Charlie was waving his arms and stamping on an imaginary brake pedal.

  Martha stopped the car. Charlie jumped out, slammed the door and started to run along the pavement. Head down, arms pumping, he steamed past pedestrians who turned to watch him go. Martha drove beside him, doing less than ten miles an hour now. She wound down the window, shouting, ‘What are you doing? Stop this. You’re being silly.’

  But Charlie ran.

  ‘For God’s sake. This is absurd. Get back in the car,’ Martha yelled.

  And Charlie ran.

  A few hundred yards later, he stopped, bent double and hands on knees, heaving for breath. Red-faced, sweat-soaked and panting, he looked up and walked back to the car.

  ‘What was that about?’ said Martha.

  ‘Just had to run. Had to feel I was moving at speed. Had to get that business at the pub out of my system.’ He waved his hand, pointing up the road. ‘There’s a place nearby where we can go.’

  She stopped outside a small Italian restaurant. Inside was crowded. Charlie waved to a tall, dark-haired woman in a long white apron who looked to be presiding over all the eating and chatting that was going on.

  ‘Charlie,’ she called, waving back. ‘Table for two?’ She led them to a table at the back. ‘This do? It’s all we got.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Charlie. ‘A bottle of house white and two plates of carbonara.’

  The woman gave him the thumbs up and disappeared.

  ‘You ordered for me,’ said Martha. ‘What if I don’t like carbonara?’

  ‘It’s comfort food. It’s what we need right now.’

  ‘To calm you down?’ She watched as he aligned his knife and fork and then moved the small vase containing a single plastic rose from the centre of the table to nearer the edge.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That woman at the bar shouted that she knew you.’

  ‘Did she?’ He moved the vase slightly to the left.

  ‘Yes, you know she did. She said you were barred.’

  ‘I used to go to that pub.’

  ‘You went there? It’s awful.’ She stared at him. This was hard to believe. ‘That’s why you wanted me to come with you and ask about Brendan Stokes. You thought the barmaid would recognise you.’

  He nodded. ‘It was years and years ago when I went there. I was a kid. I didn’t think the barmaid would still be there. She was old back then. I thought she’d be dead by now.’ He moved the vase back to the centre of the table, sat back considering this positioning. ‘I got into a fight. Didn’t start it. Just got caught up in it. She said I was a troublemaker and barred me.’

  ‘Were you?’

  He realigned his knife and fork. ‘No. I was sort of quiet. But places like that fascinated me.’

  ‘What was the fight about?’

  ‘A woman. Well, a woman I thought was a woman. But when she turned round and I saw her, I realised she was a man and I said she was ugly. Which, by the way, she was. Anyway, she punched me and so did the bloke she was talking to. I got beaten up and barred.’

  The waitress brought the wine. He told her to fill the glasses when she offered to go through the tasting routine. ‘It’ll be fine.’

  He took a large swig.

  ‘So you had a wild and turbulent youth?’ said Martha.

  He scratched his head. ‘I had a mixed-up, lonely youth.’

  Martha leaned back, slapped the table with the palm of her hand. ‘You owe me a pound. You said you’d never tell me about your past. You bet me a pound.’

  ‘Well, you can take it out of the change from the fiver I gave you for the drinks. You never got it from the barmaid.’

  12

  The Lives We Didn’t Have

  Sophie was upset. Duncan had promised her he’d call, and he hadn’t. She lingered by the phone every time she passed it. She lifted the receiver, checking for the dialling tone. When she was in the kitchen, she left the door open in case she didn’t hear the ring.

  There had been times when she’d been wistful about her youth, remembering it as a sunny time filled with movement and laughter. Now she thought she was too old for young things – romance, longing, sighing and daydreaming. A woman was better on her own, making her own decisions, keeping her feet on the ground and not being prey to other people’s promises. Especially if the other person was a man.

  So, when Duncan turned up on her doorstep, she had worked herself into a state of passionate disinterest. ‘Oh, hello,’ she spoke flatly. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘I wanted to see you. I want to apologise for not phoning.’

  She shrugged. Put on her best who-gives-a-damn face, as if she hadn’t noticed the silent phone.

  ‘Only I’ve been busy. I had last-minute edits on my book. Deadlines and all that, you know.’

  She remained impassive. Oh, she knew about deadlines. Cakes wanted on a certain date and no other, but she rarely let a deadline interfere
with her life. She always walked Evie to school and picked her up again at half-past three. She always put food on the table at suppertime and she always phoned friends when she said she would. Anything less would be bad manners.

  Crumbling under her stare, Duncan said, ‘That’s not totally true. I did have a sudden deadline, but that’s not why I didn’t phone. I tried. I dialled your number, but I was afraid to speak to you. I kept thinking you might say no to a dinner date. I couldn’t stand it. So, I put the receiver down. It was just like being a teenager again. Lost for words and scared of rejection.’

  Sophie invited him in. Led the way up the stairs to the kitchen. ‘You can’t feel like a teenager again. You never were a teenager. We didn’t have them in our day.’

  ‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘We were children one day, next day we were grown-ups.’ She was aware he was desperately trying to take in the flat as he went, staring at the pictures and the heaps of shoes and coats on the landing. ‘Youth wasn’t invented when we were young,’ she said.

  ‘I suppose it wasn’t.’

  ‘My daughter had it. Wasted it.’

  He sat at the kitchen table as she made coffee.

  ‘This place in wonderful. All the pictures on the wall. It’s lived in, homey. It smells marvellous.’

  ‘It’s the cake in the oven. I still love that smell even though I’ve been baking every day for years and years.’

  ‘It’s welcoming.’

  Sophie agreed.

  ‘Don’t you get fed up of all the baking? All the butter and sugar and mixing?’ Duncan asked.

  ‘Yes, I do. But that’s the way of it. Everybody gets fed up. Then again, I never know what I’m going to be making next. People ask for the oddest things. I’ve even been asked to make, you know, rude cakes.’

  ‘Rude cakes?’

  ‘Cakes in naughty shapes. Pornographic cakes.’ She brought two cups of coffee to the table. ‘It’s a cup. Can’t be doing with this new mug thing. I like a cup.’

  ‘Oh, my goodness me,’ said Duncan. ‘Whatever next? I mean the naughty cakes.’

  ‘I know,’ said Sophie. ‘The cheek of some people. I’d never have the nerve to ask for such a thing.’

  He leaned towards her, lowered his voice. ‘What sort of cake did they want? I mean was it a shape of cake or just some rude words on the top?’

  ‘Both. I was asked to do one in the shape of boobs. And one in the shape of a man’s . . . you know.’

  ‘Did you do it?’

  ‘No. Couldn’t. I’d be embarrassed. And what if I’d got it wrong? It’s years since I’ve seen one.’

  Duncan dismissed that. ‘Once seen never forgotten.’

  Sophie supposed that was true. ‘Still, I like my work. I enjoy working out how to shape sponge or fruitcake into various shapes. I’ve done galleons, trains, telephones, tractors, dogs, elephants, all sorts. And once I get going I can muse while I do it.’

  He asked what she mused about.

  ‘My life. How I ended up here, doing this. Things I’ve done. Things I haven’t done and would like to do. Things I should’ve said. I remember some insult from years ago and suddenly what I should have replied pops into my head. Of course, it’s too late,’ she told him.

  ‘That’s musing for you. I mull over regrets. Opportunities missed, people I’ve let go. I wonder what might have been. What if I hadn’t married Lisa, stunning though she was, and come back here and married you. I think I would have been happy.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Sophie. ‘But I’m not sure about childhood sweethearts marrying. I think we might have regretted not playing the field before tying the knot.’

  ‘Nonsense, I’d never have regretted marrying you. It would have been marvellous. We’d have had a big flat in town, or perhaps a large house somewhere with a garden. It would be full of delphiniums and roses and we’d have had a vegetable patch that I’d have looked after. The house would have been filled with music, books, laughter and children. Lots of children – William, Alexander, Matthew and little Hannah.’

  ‘Goodness, you have a very detailed list of regrets. I’m not sure about Alexander. I knew an Alexander and we didn’t get on. I prefer Peter. And, I think this is unfair to Martha. I can’t write her out of my life, even my pretend life.’

  ‘Yes, Peter. I like that. I understand about Martha.’

  They smiled to one another. This was silly. And this was wistful and rather lovely.

  ‘I feel disloyal to Martin, thinking all this,’ said Sophie. ‘But tell me about our house. What would it be like?’

  ‘Big.’ He put down his cup and held his arms wide demonstrating the bigness of the house. ‘Victorian, probably, with bay windows. Big sitting room with matching sofas, an open fire and French windows leading to the garden.’

  ‘Ooh, I love it,’ said Sophie. She got up to take her cakes out of the oven. He watched as she slid them from their baking tins onto a wire rack to cool. ‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘This is my astronomy cake. I have to put the planets on it and the Milky Way, I should think.’

  ‘Tricky,’ he said. ‘You might have to carry on with the baking in the big house. They take a lot of upkeep. But you’d have a good-sized kitchen. It would be the heart of the house.’

  ‘Yes, kitchens should be. We’d need quite a few bedrooms with all these children. But then they’d all grow up and move out. We’d be rattling around on our own.’

  ‘There’d be the grandchildren, and think about Christmas with everyone home and gathered at the table. Big golden turkey, candles and the tree in the window.’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Sophie. She returned to the table, sipped her coffee, looked at Duncan and suffered a twinge of sorrow. ‘You really imagined all this? I’m thinking it’s sad to have an imaginary life rather than a real one.’

  ‘I got a bit carried away. I do sometimes wonder what my life would have been like if I had married you.’

  ‘We’d have bickered and worried about money like most couples. And you’d probably have wondered what life would have been like if you hadn’t married me.’

  He told her she was wise. ‘But a little gentle bickering can be fun. It can relieve the tension. It’s better than yelling insults and throwing crockery.’

  ‘Is that what your wife did?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Goodness me. Not my style. Well, I don’t have enough plates.’ She gazed out of the window. ‘It’s turned sunny. I should be out walking. It’s good for me.’

  Duncan stood up and offered to go with her. ‘A breath of fresh air is just what I need.’

  It was cool; a watery sun glinted on the sea. Small waves rolled in. Duncan heaved in a deep gulp of ozone and sighed. ‘I love being by the sea. Don’t know why I ever left.’ An ice cream van was parked at the end of the street. ‘Not many tourists about to buy his wares this time of year.’

  ‘He has hopes,’ said Sophie. ‘People like an ice cream when they’re walking by the shore.’

  He offered to buy her one. She shook her head. ‘It would rather negate the walk. I’m meant to be losing weight.’

  ‘Why? There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re fine just the way you are.’

  ‘That’s not what the doctor thinks. He says I’m overweight and have to lose a stone. It’s a thin world we live in, I’m afraid.’ She set off at a brisk pace, arms swinging. Duncan struggled to keep up. ‘Don’t worry, I only do brisk for a little bit, then I slow down. By the end I’m dawdling. I’m not keen on walking.’

  He puffed. ‘That’s a relief.’

  Sophie said, ‘So, why did your wife throw crockery?’

  ‘She was passionate and spoiled. When she didn’t get her own way, things flew. It wasn’t just plates and cups, she threw shoes and just about anything that came to hand.’

  Sophie sighed. How marvellous to be wild and thin and passionate, to just let go and hurl things when you felt the need. So much more interesting than being dumpy and placid and a cake-baker.

 
‘My wife found me to be a plodder when she wanted a highflyer. She knew I’d never be anything much.’

  Sophie imagined a tall, willowy woman in a long mink coat with two Afghan hounds by her side. This woman never baked, wouldn’t know a fruitcake from a Victoria sponge. Her lips were painted scarlet, her hair swept back. She was terrifying, haughty. So were the dogs.

  ‘I hate arguments,’ said Duncan.

  Years ago, Sophie had come up with her idea of the perfect husband. He’d hate arguing, wear a soft jersey she could snuggle into, be jovial, gentle and tender and have a working knowledge of plumbing.

  ‘Do you know anything about plumbing?’ she asked Duncan.

  ‘I can change a washer in a tap. Why, is there something you need doing?’

  ‘No. Just wondered.’

  Sometimes Martin had been jovial. He’d risen from his pessimism and gloom. He’d joked and laughed and gently teased her. She couldn’t fault him there. He’d been tender in his way. Often he’d bring her flowers. He’d carry them awkwardly and thrust them into her hand. ‘There,’ he’d say, ‘bought you these.’ He’d walk away before she could thank him. ‘Don’t get all tearful on me. It’s just a bloody bunch of roses.’

  Soft jerseys she could snuggle into had not been a success. Once she’d saved in secret for almost a year to buy him a pale blue cashmere sweater for his birthday. He’d considered it. Held it against his chest and gazed into the mirror. ‘Nice jumper.’ He laid it carefully on the chair in the bedroom and ignored it. A couple of days later Sophie had found it folded in the bottom of a drawer. It took her a while to mention it. ‘What happened to that cashmere jersey I bought you?’ she asked, though she knew perfectly well.

  ‘It’s pale blue,’ he’d said. ‘A bit girly.’

  ‘I like it,’ she’d told him. ‘The colour suits you. It’s so soft, I rather fancied snuggling into you when you were wearing it.’

  ‘I’m not the snuggling sort,’ he’d said.

  She’d sniffed and walked from the room, head high. Hurt and misunderstood, she’d shed a few tears. She never mentioned the jumper again.

  Frank Sinatra saved the day. Two years later he appeared in a magazine spread looking suave, debonair yet masculine wearing an identical pale blue sweater. Martin had obviously seen this and appeared in the kitchen patting his chest, displaying his pride in what he now called the jumper he’d forgotten he had. ‘It’s grand.’ He spread his arms. ‘So soft, you can snuggle into me if you like.’ Sophie hadn’t taken up this offer. She was a proud woman.