It Takes One to Know One

by Isla Dewar

  Walking with Duncan, she sneaked a peek at him. Plainly, he was a man who thought about his clothes. Today he wore black trousers, grey herringbone tweed jacket and a dark blue shirt with a red silk tie. He had a black scarf casually slung round his neck. He looked interesting and academic. In fact, she had to wonder what such a man was doing with her. Today she wasn’t looking too bad. She wasn’t, thank heavens, wearing the lime green trousers. Instead, she sported grey ones, a red shirt and black shoes with a black coat. She thought she looked smart, but not as eye-catching as he did.

  ‘You like clothes, don’t you?’ she said.

  ‘I try to look smart,’ he replied. ‘I put a bit of thought into my appearance.’

  She supposed that when a chap lived alone, and had responsibilities only to himself, he had time for such things. She, on the other hand, had a daughter and granddaughter to think about and look after. So no time for self-pampering.

  She puffed and said, ‘This walking makes me all sweaty.’

  He told her she looked wonderful. ‘You’re glowing.’

  She smiled, thought that a nice thing to say. He was a nice man. Of course, Martin had also been a nice man. Nice, but annoying and argumentative.

  He’d argued about everything – what was for supper, why fish when he fancied a thick hearty stew? Her make-up – you’re beautiful without it – the news, the books she read, the way the furniture was arranged. ‘I’m taking an interest,’ he’d say. ‘I will not be forced into being one of these silent husbands who agree to anything to avoid a scene.’

  All that was bad enough, but Christmas was awful. Martin objected to having goodwill to all men thrust upon him. Why do I have to be jolly? Why do I have to send cards to people I never see and don’t like? Is there anything more absurd than having an actual tree in the living room? Why turkey? Who says we have to eat it? On and on it went. ‘Tradition is only an excuse for lack of innovation and imagination.’ In time Sophie began to dread Christmas. Though, she had to admit, Martin was always in a good mood on the day and gave the impression of enjoying it by doing the expected things – looking delighted at his presents, eating too much and falling asleep on the sofa.

  Duncan was strolling by Sophie’s side, hands in pockets and looking out to sea. He looked happy. She had no doubts that he would throw himself into the Christmas spirit. After all, he’d just enjoyed telling her about their imaginary festive time in their imaginary house with their imaginary children. It sounded like everything she longed for, a glistening time of wine, laughter and love.

  She supposed that passers-by would think them a couple and wondered if that was his motive in coming to see her. They might start dating. She shook her head at that thought. Dating was a young thing. She was too old for such nonsense. Dating meant lingering looks, holding hands, kissing.

  Oh, kissing. I can’t do that. She was shocked and frightened at the idea. Kissing was not what it had been when she was young. It was complicated nowadays. She’d seen an article in one of Martha’s magazines. Give him long, sizzling, sumptuous kisses. She didn’t think she could do that. There must be more to modern kissing than just pressing your lips together. It was a worry.

  And, if there was kissing, it would lead to sex. Sophie stopped walking, put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, no.’

  Duncan turned, put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Is something wrong? Are you in pain?’

  ‘No. No pain. Just a sudden thought. I couldn’t remember taking my cakes out of the oven.’

  ‘But you did, I saw you.’

  ‘I know, silly me. I’m getting old.’

  He gave her a fleeting hug. ‘Never.’

  They ambled side-by-side, smiling, each acknowledging the other’s enjoyment of the day. But inside Sophie was awash with a new dread – sex. I just can’t do that. I can’t slip into bed with a man that isn’t Martin. I can’t take my clothes off in front of someone else. I can’t be naked with Duncan looking on. The shame. The horror. My thighs are a mess; my knees crumbly and wrinkled and my other bits are beyond redemption. No sex. No kissing, no dating.

  He moved in front of her, starting walking backwards so he could look at her. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to come out to dinner with me? I know a lovely little Italian place that does wonderful mushroom risotto.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  He pressed his palms together. ‘Please.’

  ‘Oh, all right. I’d love to,’ she said. Well, she loved risotto. But no kissing and no sex, she vowed, but didn’t say.

  13

  Mothers Don’t Sing ‘Be-Bop-A-Lula’

  Martha rolled a sheet of headed notepaper into her machine and started typing today’s letters. The first was to a couple that had written asking if the agency looked for missing dogs. No. ‘Where would I start? It could be anywhere. Someone could have taken it in,’ Charlie had said. ‘Tell them to go to the dog home.’

  The next was to Mr Lewis. He’d written in a tentative, almost apologetic scrawl about his wife who’d walked out of his life twelve years ago. In his late seventies now, he said he was nearing the end of his time and wanted to see his lost love before death came for him.

  Charlie examined the letter. ‘Strange loopy writing. He’s nervous. Guilty about something.’

  ‘Maybe he’s just got shaky hands.’

  ‘Maybe. Sometimes people drift apart. Sometimes there’s been an argument and one person has stomped out of another’s life. I have a feeling this is a stomping scenario.’

  ‘His wife could be anywhere,’ said Martha.

  ‘Yes, but she can speak. She can tell people where she’s going and where she’s been. That’s the difference. There will be a trail. Tell him we’ll come and see him. He’ll be more relaxed in his own home. Might make it easier to find out if this is a drifting case or a stomping out one. And tell him to look out a photo of his wife.’

  ‘It’ll be an old photo. She may be totally different now.’

  Charlie shrugged. ‘An old photo is better than no photo.’

  Martha told Mr Lewis to get in touch and arrange a suitable time for a visit, and to please have a photograph on hand. She also told him to rake through his memories so he could tell Mr Gavin everything he knew about the missing one and asked him to please be kindly when he did.

  After that she took Murphy for his lunchtime stroll. As she walked she did her usual scanning of on-coming faces looking for one familiar missing face. It had become a habit. She had mastered the art of scrutinising a face before its owner noticed and retaliated with a what-are-you-staring-at glare. Still, there weren’t many people about – a few fellow dog walkers, a family on holiday ambling, chatting, eating ice creams and staring at nothing in particular as tourists did, a solitary bearded hippie in wide-bottomed jeans, floral shirt and Afghan coat leaning on the rail gazing out at the water.

  The tide was out, the sea pewter grey. She debated taking Murphy down onto the sand to let him run along the shore, but decided her shoes weren’t up to it. Murphy didn’t mind. He trotted along, looking up at her from time to time. He seemed to be smiling. Though he was a dog. Only a dog, she thought, but companionable, friendly, did what he was told, never complained. And, judging by the number of dog walkers who greeted him by name, he had a lot more friends than she did. She thought that if he didn’t have certain problems with his digestive system, he’d make an ideal husband.

  An interesting thing happened this morning. She’d woken, yawned, stretched and lain a moment contemplating the day ahead feeling relaxed. She hadn’t thought about Jamie. This had been a first. In the years since he’d gone from her, he’d been in her thoughts as she drifted to sleep at night and was still there when she moved out of it in the morning.

  Today she’d thought about Charlie and the Be Kindly bureau. She’d been almost happy. She rather enjoyed her new job – Charlie’s company, the music, the excellent coffee and the bacon sandwich ritual. All that, and she found some solace in the files of people who had gone throu
gh the same emotional turmoil she’d endured. She was not alone in her guilt, shame and constant wondering. Other people were, as Sophie put it, walking with the void. She was not alone. It made her feel better.

  Charlie was there when she got back to the office. He’d bought a new LP that was playing on the turntable. ‘The Grateful Dead,’ he said. ‘I made you a sandwich. Ham. It’s a ham sort of day.’

  She asked what made a day a ham day.

  ‘It’s sunny but blustery. It needs to be warmer for chicken and it’s not cold enough for roast beef.’

  ‘I could eat chicken any time. But it’s interesting to note you’re so concerned about sandwiches.’ Martha went to the kitchen and returned pointing to her sandwich. ‘Good.’

  ‘It’s more than good. It’s excellent. I am the sandwich king.’

  ‘But are you the missing person king? How did you get on this morning?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Not excellent, then.’

  ‘Just good. Of the four B. Simpsons, one’s a Barry, one’s a Brian and one’s a Bradley. The five W. Simpsons include a Walter, a Wilfred and a Warren. So, I’ve got two William Simpsons and one Bill.’ He took the needle off his new album. ‘Need quiet. I had a thought. If I was a con man extracting money from ladies with my wit and charm, I wouldn’t be registered to vote. I don’t even think I’d be in the phone book.’

  Martha said, ‘I can see that.’

  He gave her the double finger gunfighter pistol point. ‘Another thought. The woman in the pub said Bill was busy with Belinda and the little one. There is a Belinda Simpson in the phone book. I took a trip to her house to see what she’s about. Large terraced house, lawn scattered with plastic toys, pushchair at the front door. So, a child. Nobody about so we’ll check up on her tomorrow.’

  ‘Will we? And how do we do that?’

  ‘The house across the road is up for sale. We’ll wander along and pretend to look at it.’

  ‘We? Why do I have to come?’

  ‘It looks more real. A man and a woman walking along the street is less suspicious than just a man.’

  Martha thought about this. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘If you see a man on his own you think he might be a burglar or a murderer. You’re wary. But a man with a woman is fine. You think he’ll be normal. A woman comes in handy sometimes.’

  ‘That’s good to know.’

  Charlie nodded. ‘Yes, you can’t beat a woman at your side when it comes to walking down a street looking natural. So, I need to know if Bill Simpson lives in that house.’

  ‘Why don’t you just knock on the door when it’s obvious someone’s in? Or show the photo to one of the neighbours? Then you tell Bernice where her husband is, invoice her and that’s that. Anything else is up to her.’

  ‘Because I need to know what’s going on. I can’t just drop a client in it. I have to prepare them for what they might encounter.’

  ‘So we’re going to look at the house across the road?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll ask about the neighbours, especially about the people with the messy garden. We’ll be a married couple, the Monroes. I’m a doctor, you’re my wife.’

  ‘Why do you get to be the doctor? I want to be something more than just the wife. I’ll be an architect. We’ll be a professional couple.’

  ‘You can’t be an architect. You don’t look like one. You’re not arty enough.’

  ‘I’m arty. I’m just not arty when I come here. Besides, architects look business-like. OK, if I’m not arty enough, I’ll be a lawyer. Why should you be the only one to have a make-believe identity?’

  He sighed, agreed, and put the needle back on his new LP. ‘What do you think of it?’

  ‘I like it. I always liked rock’n’roll. But that’s bluesy and sort of jazzy, too. Reminds me of Jamie. He played Grateful Dead all the time.’

  ‘Didn’t you play any music?’

  ‘I just listened to the radio when he wasn’t about. I was caught up with baby stuff and absolutely knackered. You know.’

  He shook his head. ‘No. I’ve never had a baby.’

  ‘I don’t think Jamie and I talked much after Evie was born. Well, we spoke about her.’

  ‘Before that?’

  ‘We didn’t speak much. We watched television. We played records. We’d put on our favourite tracks and listen to them over and over. He read the newspaper, did things in his shed.’

  ‘What was in the shed?’

  Martha shrugged. ‘Tools. A radio. My old guitar.’

  ‘What happened to Vinnie and the Vixens?’

  ‘It was Grace. Bloody Grace. Not only did she turn up with the guitar that was meant to be my guitar, and she could play it, but also she could sing. She sounded a bit like Aretha Franklin. Then we got discovered. Every wannabe’s dream. An agent, Roger Seaton, signed us. He made me and the others play in the background wearing jeans and leather jackets. Grace was in front in gorgeous frocks. Slinky silk and lace. We got reviewed in the music press – rag-tag leather-clad wild girls fronted by an angel. We thought we were on our way.’

  Roger Seaton looked like a rock’n’roll agent – leather jacket, jeans, cowboy boots, pink shirt and sunglasses. He smoked cigars and drove an Alfa Romeo convertible. He had business cards.

  Martha treasured the one he’d given her. It was precious, a sign she was a real, live actual rock musician who was going places. She kept it in her favourite book, Catcher in the Rye, and took it out nightly to turn it over in her hands, to stroke the embossed gold lettering, ROGER SEATON, ARTISTS’ AGENT. How wonderful. That he wanted fifty per cent of their earnings didn’t bother her. After all, he’d be getting fifty per cent of nothing. And if they hit the big time, they’d still be filthy rich after handing over half their money. Besides, it wasn’t about money, was it? It was about the music.

  ‘Well, it turned out bloody Grace was also writing her own songs. They were seriously good. Bitch that she was. We recorded one. Roger took the demo to London and got a contract. Only the record company didn’t want us. They wanted bloody Grace. That was it for Vinnie and the Vixens. We never played again.’

  Charlie said, ‘That’s sad.’

  ‘Well, my mother put it very succinctly. Because by then I was throwing up every morning. She heard. She knew what was going on. “You and Jamie will have to get married,” she said. “And you’ll have to give up all the Vinnie and the Vixens nonsense. Mothers don’t have time for rock’n’roll. Mothers don’t sing “Be-Bop-A-Lula”.’

  Charlie smiled and patted her hand. ‘Of course they do.’

  Martha thought it was the nicest thing anyone had said to her in a long time.

  14

  Do Lawyers Hug Strangers?

  Charlie walked, hands in pockets, head up and looking about. Martha trotted at his side, heels clicking on the pavement. The street was suburban sleepy. Rows of semi-detached Victorian houses snoozing in the spring sunshine, blackbirds hopping on lawns, sparrows bickering in clipped hedges. It was soporific. Anyone could be forgiven for thinking nothing ever happened here. Nothing nasty anyway.

  They’d parked the car a few doors away from Belinda Simpson’s house after making sure it was facing the right way for a quick exit.

  Charlie said, ‘Take my arm. We’ll look more like a couple. Like we’re real people.’

  ‘As opposed to pretend people?’

  ‘As opposed to a pretend couple. It’s what couples do, link arms.’

  Martha took his arm, matched his stride and was hit by a sudden, long-buried memory.

  She and Jamie were on their first night out together since Evie was born. Sophie was babysitting. Martha had wanted to go to a restaurant. ‘Somewhere where we can relax and chat,’ she’d said. ‘It’s been ages since we just chatted.’ Jamie wanted to go to the cinema. ‘I do enough chatting at work.’ He won.

  When they’d emerged into the night after the film ended it was raining. Wet pavements shimmering under streetlights, the rush
and bustle of traffic, aromas drifting from restaurants, voices, singing from a pub nearby – it was magic. Martha had long forgotten the thrill of a city at night. All this had been going on while she was behind drawn curtains at home busy with baby things. Her heart skipped a beat. She wanted romance. She slipped her arm into Jamie’s and pressed her cheek to his shoulder as they headed to the bus stop. ‘Let’s see if there’s somewhere open for a late meal.’

  Jamie shook his head. ‘Nah. I’ve got work tomorrow.’ He pulled himself free of her grip. ‘Don’t. I don’t like linking arms.’

  ‘Why not? It’s nice. We’re a couple.’

  ‘Hate it. I’m walking funny being pulled to one side.’ He’d shaken his arm free of her grip. ‘Can’t we just walk normally? We don’t have to declare our married state to the world. This linking arms stuff is so Darby and Joan.’

  She stopped. It wasn’t a good memory.

  Charlie said, ‘Anything wrong? You look pained.’

  ‘No. I’m fine. I just remembered something, that’s all.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, nothing really. Just Jamie used to hate linking arms.’

  ‘It’s a bloke thing. I quite like it though. For a brief walking moment you’re not alone.’

  They reached the house for sale and stopped. Martha stared at it. Charlie stared at the one across the road.

  ‘The front garden’s pretty. I love these old houses with bay windows, don’t you?’

  Charlie glared at her and pointed at the house opposite. The windows were open. Inside a radio played and a child on a tricycle hurtled up and down the driveway making siren sounds. He was being a police tricyclist.