by Isla Dewar
‘I don’t know why you don’t just go and knock on the door and ask who lives there,’ said Martha.
Charlie shook his head. ‘Nah. Not yet.’
A voice from behind. ‘Oh, it’s all right. People do it all the time. Just turn up and ask if they can see round. I don’t mind. I rather enjoy the company.’
She must have been in her early fifties, Martha reckoned. Dressed in a pink jumper and forlorn grey tweed skirt. Her hair was tightly permed; the cauliflower look, Sophie called it. She wore large blue gardening gloves and waved a muddied trowel.
Charlie said, ‘We don’t want to bother you.’
‘Oh, it’s no bother.’ She opened the garden gate. ‘Come in. I insist.’
Charlie looked briefly over at the house he wanted to watch. He smiled, thanked the woman and stepped through the gate. Martha followed.
Inside the house smelled of lavender polish, vegetable soup and loneliness. The woman said she was Mrs Weatherfield. Martha didn’t know what got into her. Maybe it was the rude way Charlie stood in the doorway looking across at the house over the road. Or maybe it was the atmosphere, the emptiness in the wood-panelled hallway where she now stood. But she held out her hand and announced herself, ‘Avril Monroe. And this is my husband, Hamish.’ The words just came out. She hadn’t known she was going to say them. Horrified, Charlie turned and, behind Mrs Weatherfield’s back, mouthed, ‘Hamish?’
Mrs Weatherfield led the way into the living room. ‘This place is too big for me these days. Just me rattling about like a single pea in a pod. So, why are you looking for a new house?’
Martha glanced at Charlie, but he was at the window looking over the road.
‘We’re moving to Edinburgh,’ she said.
Charlie said, ‘There’s someone in over there. I think it’s him.’
Mrs Weatherfield said, ‘Where are you based at the moment?’
Charlie said, ‘Manchester.’
Martha said, ‘Birmingham.’
Mrs Weatherfield said, ‘That’s awkward.’
‘Well,’ said Martha, ‘Hamish works in Manchester. I work in Birmingham. So, yes, it’s awkward. But now we’ve both got new jobs up here.’ She looked round at the room. It was painted a pale mushroom and the furniture didn’t fit. The two armchairs and small sofa looked hopeless and out of their depth, dwarfed by the huge windows and high ceiling.
‘The kitchen’s through here,’ said Mrs Weatherfield. ‘We used to spend all our time in it. We were kitchen people.’
The kitchen was painted dark red with orange tiles behind the cooker.
‘My husband, Stuart, did this room. He liked colour. I’m more neutral myself. But it was a happy room.’ She turned to Martha, saw her enquiring look. ‘He left me. Met someone else. That’s the way of things, I suppose. I’ll show you upstairs. We have four bedrooms. So, plenty room if you have children.’
‘Two,’ said Martha. ‘Humphrey and Lauren.’ Names that popped into her head. She wished she hadn’t stayed up late last night watching an old film. Still, Mrs Weatherfield didn’t seem to notice. ‘Isn’t your husband going to come and view the bedrooms?’
‘He’s more interested in the garden.’
‘Is that what he does?’
‘No, he’s a doctor.’
‘Very nice. Do you work?’
‘I’m a lawyer.’
Mrs Weatherfield nodded and looked ashamed. ‘How clever you are. I’m just a housewife, I’m afraid. I should’ve worked harder at school.’
‘Nothing wrong with being a housewife. It’s an under-valued job.’
Mrs Weatherfield snorted, ‘That’ll be why I’m alone, then.’
Martha noticed the marks on the walls, large squares and rectangles where pictures had been removed. There were several of them on the stairway and more on the landing. Stuart, the creator of the colourful kitchen, must have taken his favourite paintings when he left.
‘All those years cooking, cleaning, ironing and this happens. My husband falls for a younger woman. My children off to university. And me walking from room to room with my memories.’
Unable to think of some comforting words, and ashamed of her lies, Martha said it was a lovely light landing. It was a relief to hear Charlie coming up the stairs to join them as they viewed three bland bedrooms. He had his camera dangling round his neck. Tapping it, he said, ‘Like to keep a reminder of what I’ve seen. Nice house, though. Love the garden.’
‘It’s my pride and joy.’ Mrs Weatherfield glowed.
‘I’ll bet,’ Charlie agreed. ‘What are the neighbours like?’
‘Lovely,’ Mrs Weatherfield smiled, nodded, agreeing with herself, ‘very quiet. But if anything went wrong they’d help.’ She moved to the door of the fourth bedroom.
‘What about the folks across the road? They have young children.’
‘The Simpsons? Belinda and Bill, I don’t see much of them. He’s away a lot. She was on her own for a long time. He’s quite new.’
Martha said, ‘Ah.’
Mrs Weatherfield opened the door to a bedroom. Purple. Everything was purple. ‘This is my daughter’s room. She’s at Oxford now. Economics and history. She doesn’t come home much.’
‘Students,’ said Martha. ‘It’s how they are. And fares are expensive.’ She was trying not to gasp.
Purple walls, purple ceiling, purple curtains, purple bedspread – it was overwhelming. One wall was decorated, over the purple, with a collage of Jimi Hendrix posters, album sleeves and photographs interspersed here and there with the words Purple Haze written in purple ink.
Mrs Weatherfield took in Martha and Charlie’s awe. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘My daughter’s a Jimi Hendrix fan. This is how she wanted to decorate her room. All the magazines I was reading at the time said it was important to let your children have free expression. I’m not sure about that now.’
Charlie gazed round. ‘You have to admit your daughter’s made a statement about what she likes. You have to admire that.’
‘I suppose,’ agreed Mrs Weatherfield. ‘But she’s gone and she’ll grow out of all this and I’m left to clean up the statement. She’s crazy about this Jimi person and his music. She’s in a band.’
‘Really.’ Martha was interested. ‘What’s it called?’
‘Mistral Annie and the End of Time.’ Mrs Weatherfield sounded glum. ‘Susie likes the names of winds.’
‘Good name, though,’ said Charlie. ‘I like it.’
‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ said Mrs Weatherfield. ‘There is no Annie. Susie says that’s the point. There’s no bandleader. They’re a democratic group and all profits will be divided equally. Though, there are no profits. They’re an all-girl group. Susie says there’s never been one before. Well, there have been singing ones, but they all play guitars and drums. This is a first.’
Martha opened her mouth to protest. But thought, Oh well, let Susie dream. I did.
Mrs Weatherfield looked bewildered. ‘Susie says rock’n’roll belongs to the universe. Everyone owns it. Why should men make all the noise?’ She spread her arms, taking in the room. ‘What is this all about? What is going on? I don’t understand anything any more. I hear strange music on the radio. People are wearing clothes I wouldn’t be seen dead in. Everyone’s talking about free love. I’ve been tucked away in this house cooking, cleaning, ironing, thinking I’m doing fine, and the world has gone whizzing past me. I’ve been left behind.’
She stood, head bowed, arm dangling by her sides. Martha thought she might cry and wondered if she ought to hug her. She wasn’t the hugging sort. Avril Monroe might be, though. She wondered, do lawyers hug strangers?
Charlie looked out of the window. At the house across the road a man and a woman were kissing, and a small child was clinging to the man’s leg. Charlie lifted his camera to his eye, focused and snapped. ‘It’s him. Definitely him.’
Martha and Mrs Weatherfield joined him. The three stood fascinated by the farewell scene below.
Mrs Weatherfield asked what the hell he was doing.
‘I’m a bit of an amateur photographer. The people down there make a good composition – the way they’re standing, their expressions, the light.’
Charlie put his arm round Martha. ‘Time for us to be getting along, darling.’ He turned to Mrs Weatherfield. ‘Thank you for showing us round.’
As Charlie and Martha clattered down the stairs, Mrs Weatherfield ran behind them. ‘There’s plenty of cupboard space in the house, and you haven’t seen the back garden.’
Charlie said he’d seen it from the window, ‘It’s lovely.’ Arm firmly round Martha’s shoulders he hustled her towards the front door. ‘We really do have to go.’
As they barged up the front path, Mrs Weatherfield shouted, ‘You can’t judge the neighbourhood on these people. They’re only renting.’
At the gate, Martha looked back; Mrs Weatherfield was at her front-room window looking small and mystified. Martha waved. If anyone anywhere needed a friendly gesture it was Mrs Weatherfield.
They walked to the car. Arms linked. Behind them, the fond farewell ended. They heard Bill Simpson shut his car door, shout a final goodbye and drive off. He passed them as they climbed into the Saab.
Charlie got into the driver’s seat. Switched on the engine and roared off. A screech of tyres and swirls of dust shifting in the air.
‘Very Clint Eastwood,’ said Martha.
Charlie didn’t answer. He was going too fast, and when the car in front stopped at the end of the road, he almost rammed the back of it. Bill Simpson glared into his rear-view mirror. Charlie gave him a weak apologetic wave.
When Bill Simpson moved off into the stream of traffic on the main road, Charlie waited.
‘What are you doing? Follow him.’ Martha was pressing an imaginary accelerator on the passenger-side floor.
‘I want to wait for a couple of cars to pass so we won’t be directly behind him.’
‘There are no cars coming.’
‘I know. I’ll have to go.’
He pulled out and drew up behind Bill Simpson who, once more, glared at them in his rear-view mirror.
‘He’s giving us a filthy look,’ said Charlie.
‘There’s an idiot driver behind him. He’s worried about his car.’
‘If you think I’m an idiot driver, you drive.’
The lights ahead changed to green and the traffic trickled forward. When it stopped once more, Charlie stopped several feet behind Bill Simpson’s car and saw he was still on the receiving end of a filthy look. When the cars once again started to move, he stalled.
‘God’s sake,’ he said. ‘This is your fault. You’re all tense and shouty. You’re making me nervous.’ Infuriated, he watched the tail-lights of Bill Simpson’s car disappear round the corner. He started the car, accelerated, shot through the lights as they turned from amber to red and caused cars crossing his path to brake. A cacophony of tooting, a flare of lights being flashed.
Martha shouted, ‘You’re not safe. You’re driving like a . . . like a . . .’ She couldn’t think of an insult dire enough to express her fear and rage. ‘. . . man.’
‘I am a man.’
‘That’s no excuse.’
He sighed a huge indignant sigh. Drove on, gripping the steering wheel, lips tight. At the next set of lights Charlie stalled again. Cars behind honked. He slapped the steering wheel and turned on Martha. ‘This is no use. Why did you let me drive? You know I hate it.’ He got out of the car. Drivers in cars behind leaned out of their vehicles and yelled at him. ‘Moron.’ ‘Idiot.’ And worse.
He walked round to the passenger door, opened it and told Martha to shove over to the driver’s seat. ‘You drive.’
They followed Bill Simpson to Princes Street, then down to the New Town, Heriot Row, and parked several yards behind him. They watched as he got out of his car, pulled a jacket from the back seat and walked up the steps to the glossy black door of a large terraced building. He paused, turned to look at them and waved. Charlie took a new photograph of him. ‘He certainly knows we’re here.’
Martha said, ‘He’s coming over. I think I should drive off.’
‘Yes, definitely, drive off.’
But by the time Martha turned on the engine and reversed, Bill Simpson was knocking on the window. Charlie rolled it open and said, ‘Yes?’
‘Are you following me?’
Charlie said, ‘No. What makes you think that?’
‘The way you’re following me and taking photos.’
Charlie said, ‘Ah. Well . . .’
Martha leaned over. ‘We’re moving up to Edinburgh from Manchester and taking photos of where we might like to live so we can look at them when we get back.’
Bill Simpson said, ‘That’ll be right.’ He stepped back. ‘Doesn’t matter who you are or what you’re up to. Whatever it is, you’re not very good at it.’ He walked away. Slowly, hands in pockets.
By now a young woman in a long skirt and loose gypsy top had appeared at the glossy black door. Bill took the steps two at a time to get to her. He slipped his arms round her, lifted her, whirled her round and kissed her.
‘The full smackeroo,’ said Martha. ‘Tongues and everything.’
‘Cheeky shite,’ said Charlie.
Driving back to the office Martha said, ‘I think it’s fair to say that didn’t go well.’
‘You lied,’ said Charlie. ‘You lied and lied to that woman. Avril and Hamish. Humphrey and Lauren.’
‘If I remember correctly, you said we were the Monroes.’
‘Oh, probably. Still, don’t like to be lumbered with a false name. Too much baggage.’
But then, he knew about baggage. He was a man with two names. He used Charlie Gavin because that was the one that was not registered, and that was the one he’d grown up with. The other he tried to forget.
15
An Evening with Duncan
Sophie was ten minutes late, fashionably late she told herself as she walked from her car to the restaurant. She had the evening planned. She’d taken care over her appearance. She looked good. She wore a black low-cut top under a blue velvet jacket and black velvet pants. She’d considered a skirt, but full length was too dressy and anything shorter was out. She might reveal her knees ‘My knees let me down,’ she told Martha. ‘They don’t like me. They creak and ache and they’re fat and creased with wrinkles. It’s revenge for the years of strain they’ve suffered.’
Knees covered, she thought she looked like a respectable woman out for a pleasant evening with an old friend. She’d enjoy a bit of chat, some laughter, food and a couple of glasses of wine – no more than that, she was driving. Refusing Duncan’s offer to pick her up in a taxi was a masterstroke. She could limit her alcohol intake and thus avoid making rash decisions. She would decline any invitations to go back to his place, for example. Anything that might lead to complicated modern kissing or nudity was to be avoided.
As she walked from the car to the restaurant, she imagined the evening ahead. He’d be at the table when she arrived. He’d wave, stand up as she approached and reach out to greet her. She’d kiss his cheek. He’d tell her she looked lovely. They’d order. She was planning to have the risotto and hoped there would be a tempting selection of puddings. She’d ask him about his travels and confess with a small smile that she’d never been out of the country. ‘I always wanted to visit Paris,’ she’d say. He might put his hand over hers and tell her that one day they would do that together. Oh, it was going to be wonderful. A date, she thought, fancy that. Me on a date. Heady stuff.
He wasn’t there. Sophie stood at the door scanning the faces, but there was no Duncan. She couldn’t believe it.
A waiter approached and asked if he could help. She told him she was here to meet a Mr Henderson. ‘He doesn’t seem to have arrived yet. I’ll wait at his table.’
&n
bsp; The waiter crossed the room to the reception area, opened a large book and peered at it. ‘Henderson,’ he said. ‘Our usual Mr Henderson hasn’t reserved a table tonight.’
‘I’m sure he must have. He said he’d meet me here at half-past seven.’
The waiter shook his head and said, ‘Sorry.’
Unnerved, Sophie scanned the restaurant once more. Duncan must be here. This was definitely the place and she was sure she’d got the time right. What, she wondered, would a woman of wit and sophistication do? Someone who wasn’t on her first date in well over thirty years. ‘Well, is there a table for two available? I’ll wait there.’
She was shown to a small table in a cramped corner next to the lavatories.
‘It’s all we have at the moment. We’re very busy.’
It would do. She sat facing the door, watching for Duncan. When the waiter asked if she’d like to order a drink, she asked for a glass of the house white. Never before in her life had she sat alone in a restaurant drinking. This was what sassy women in the movies did, not her. Still, she was sure that this was how the woman she was pretending to be would behave.
The kitchen was across the aisle; waiters breezed past and always glanced at her, sometimes shooting her a small smile. This made her feel worse. She sipped her wine and stared at the door, willing Duncan to walk through it. He didn’t. People sitting at other tables gave her interested but sympathetic looks. Her predicament was a talking point. Here was a middle-aged woman who’d been stood up. She imagined they were laughing at her.
She stared at the door till her eyes hurt and wished it could be Martin that came through it. He’d burst into the room, see her, spread his arms wide and shout, ‘There you are,’ as if he’d been looking for her for ages. He’d come to her, press his cold hands on her cheeks, say, ‘Feel the chill. I’ve been out in freezing temperatures making my way to you.’ He didn’t own a car. Never had. The Beetle, though old, was relatively new to her.
A year or two ago Martha had brought home a new LP, Blonde On Blonde. Sophie had gasped when she saw on the cover an intense young man with tousled hair in jacket and scarf. Not that Martin resembled Bob Dylan, but he’d been slightly built and even in deepest winter he’d rarely worn a coat. He’d staved off the chill with a jacket, scarf and a scowl. His hair, curly and usually out of control, caused annoyance. The more he was told to get it cut, the less likely he was to do it. He was ahead of his time, Sophie thought. These days he’d have fitted in. He’d have loved all the stuff going on now. She pictured him coming along the street to meet her on their early dates. He’d have his hands deep in his pockets, a scarf wrapped against his throat and he’d be looking intense. But his face always lit up when he saw her. ‘Hey,’ he’d say. ‘My heroine.’ When their relationship deepened and Martin came to her home to collect her, Sophie’s mother would say, ‘Here he is at last. Martin in his jacket and curls.’ He always was late. Even now Sophie could never quite accept that he would never again come to her.