by Jo Verity
She still expected her mother to welcome her, wiping floury hands on a jolly apron. Six years hadn’t stopped her hoping that there had been a terrible mix up and that the woman in the cemetery, under the marble stone, was someone else. Then she saw her father coming across the hall, his face distorting through the frosted glass, as though surfacing through choppy water, and she composed her mouth into a smile.
At seventy-eight Frank Hill was still a handsome man. Tall and slightly built, with plenty of hair and few wrinkles, his skin was the type that holds its tan through the winter, and although it was only April he looked as though he had already caught the sun. He wore green corduroy trousers and an open-necked shirt, sharp creases down the sleeves.
‘You’d better phone Tom,’ he said, before she was through the door. ‘He’s been fretting about you …’
‘Hi, Dad. You’re looking well.’
‘… and I don’t really understand why you’ve bothered to traipse all the way down here.’
Not a great start. She took a deep breath. Even blindfold, the smell of woollen carpet and toast would have placed her in this house. It was as if the walls exuded their own scent.
Tom picked up the phone before the second ring and she knew he must have been sitting within arm’s reach of the receiver. She explained why the journey had taken so long and he told her that now he knew she had arrived safely he was going to spend the afternoon in the garden.
‘Anything from Maddy?’ she asked but he had received no calls.
She followed her father to the kitchen, glancing around for evidence of cohabitation, but everything looked much as usual. There was washing outside on the line, but she could see that everything hanging there belonged to him. From habit, she washed the plate and mug that stood on the draining board, whilst giving an elaborate justification for her visit – chance of a lift with Bill and Sally; needing to deliver something to Flora; her only free weekend for a while.
‘Baloney.’
She gave up. ‘You’re right. I needed to talk to you, face to face. We never get anywhere on the telephone. The thing is, your letter, or rather the contents of your letter, came as a real shock.’
‘Assumed I’d peter out, here on my own, did you?’
‘I didn’t mean that, Dad.’
‘How did you see it going then? Or perhaps you haven’t thought much about it. Look, when you moved to Pen Craig, did I do anything to dissuade you? No. But it gave me a clear signal that I’m on my own from here on. OK, Steven isn’t far away but he’s completely under Elaine’s thumb. You know she can’t stand me. And it’s mutual. He does his filial duty and I’m sure he’d be here like a shot if I were in trouble. But that’s as far as it goes.’
‘You know you can come and stay with us whenever you like.’
‘As long as it’s not too often and I don’t stay too long.’
He was right. He’d been to visit them just that once and she’d sighed with relief when he left. Tom was very patient with his father-in-law but it had been like having a child around the place. A child, moreover, who needed to be occupied. At one point he’d resorted to asking Frank to sort screws and nails into various sizes and put them in labelled jam jars.
‘Fancy a cuppa, Dad?’ As ever, she needed a little time to adjust to the house without her mother. She occasionally allowed herself to wonder how it would be now, had Nancy been the survivor. Her mother would certainly have been better equipped to deal with the practicalities of widowhood. Cooking, washing, cleaning, ironing would all have lent a familiar rhythm to her days. Her father had been forced to learn these skills from scratch. There had been times when she had driven away from the place sobbing, after seeing the remnants of an inedible meal in the waste bin or washing pegged chaotically on the line, white vests discoloured by a green towel.
But there were ways around domestic shortcomings. There were restaurants and laundry services. What couldn’t be found in Yellow Pages were companionship and a reason to carry on. That’s where Nancy Hill would have come to grief. She would have been like a boat without a sail or a rudder, foundering in no time at all without Frank to steer her. Without him, she wouldn’t have lasted a year.
Anna had been amazed that her father hadn’t died of a broken heart and she had watched him summon up his determination, as he learned to exist without his soul mate. There had never been any suggestion that he would ‘get over’ his loss but it became clear that he was going to survive. Now that she had advanced to the front line, as it were, she occasionally allowed herself to contemplate life without Tom and could appreciate that there were benefits to being the first to die. Then she would snap out of it, imagining that they would both live to be a hundred, breathing their final breath together, like synchronised swimmers.
They took their mugs of tea outside and wandered around the garden, spotting the first signs of life in the flowerbeds. Nancy had been the gardener and now Frank worked hard to keep her garden as it had always been. Anna felt more at ease moving about. With spring shoots and foliage to distract them, they became father and daughter again and by the time they went back into the house, they had linked arms.
‘Dorothy must be a nice woman.’ Anna smiled and waited.
‘Well, I think so. She’ll be here soon.’ From his tone it was clear that he didn’t wish to say any more about Dorothy Holton at this stage.
She took her bag upstairs to ‘Anna’s Room’, as it was still known. Decorated and refurbished several times in the thirty-odd years since she had left home, the glass art-deco lampshade, the afternoon sunshine falling across the foot of the bed and the smell, of course, were the only constants but it felt just the same. She ran her finger across the chest of drawers and along the skirting board but found no trace of dust. The cleaning woman was on the ball, or perhaps Dorothy Holton demanded high standards.
The window overlooking the drive and garden was ajar and she heard footsteps crunching on the gravel. An old lady, a neighbour perhaps, was making her way towards the front door. Her white hair was scraped back into a bun at the nape of her neck and her handbag was slung, tourist style, across her chest. She wore a dark green cotton suit and a white blouse. Walking was a huge effort and she leaned heavily on two sticks but her mouth was set in a determined grin. Anna heard her father open the door and the mumble of voices in the hall beneath. Although she couldn’t make out what they were saying, from the tone of their conversation she realised that this was Dorothy Holton.
‘So how old is she?’ asked Flora. They were eating lunch, next day, in the small café around the corner from Flora’s flat.
‘Eighty-four.’ Anna shrugged. ‘And don’t ask me what it’s all about because I haven’t got a clue.’
‘Did he talk about her at all? After she’d gone?’
‘Only in factual terms. Where she lives. Where they met. That sort of thing.’
‘Didn’t you try and find out a bit more, Mum?’
‘I tried but he kept changing the subject. He didn’t want to talk about it. It’s like he’s made up his mind and that’s that. End of story. I really need to speak to Steve,’ she said, more to herself than to Flora.
‘When’s the wedding?’
‘Don’t know. “Soon” was all he would say. “And we don’t want a fuss”.’ She shook her head as if to free it from clinging vegetation. ‘He can be so bloody minded, your grandfather. Let’s talk about something else.’
‘Maddy?’ said Flora.
But Anna shook her head again. ‘You. How are things with you?’ She looked across the table at Flora, neat in white linen shirt and clean jeans. How could her two daughters be so different?
If Flora committed to anything, or anyone, she did not waver. This didn’t mean that she was dull or unadventurous. By no means. She’d back-packed and abseiled. She’d danced and drunk and partied. She’d been on protest marches and sit-ins. At the same time she was a dreamer but, like Tom, she always made sure her dreams were achievable. Sometimes she and T
om worried that they hadn’t given Flora enough of their attention because she demanded so little of it. She was a designer, like her parents, and worked for a small graphics firm. Coincidentally, one of her current projects was the inaugural newsletter for Luke Davis’s community group.
They couldn’t avoid it any longer. ‘Have you spoken to Maddy, then?’ Anna tried to sound off-hand.
‘No. She wrote to me. It’s funny but I don’t think I’ve ever had a letter from her before. I was almost scared to open it.’ Flora took an envelope from her bag. ‘Doesn’t tell us much. I expect she’ll phone when she thinks we’ve calmed down.’ Anna noticed that Flora included herself with the concerned parents, as she offered her mother the letter. It gave no more information than the one they had received, apart from the P.S. ‘Taliesin likes the idea that the baby might be born in Wales.’
Anna knew that the reason she was feeling calm was because she hadn’t yet spoken to Maddy. In that respect, her daughter’s decision to impart the information by letter had been spot on. There had been no mention of how things might be after the birth of the baby. Childbirth might well be a natural human function but child rearing threw up lots of awkward questions and she suspected that she wasn’t going to like some of Maddy’s answers.
By the time they were back at the flat, it was four o’clock and Anna needed to ring Sally, to arrange a pick-up time. She’d written Luke’s telephone number on a scrap of paper and began turning out her bag to find it. Flora had always possessed a remarkable facility for recalling phone numbers but nevertheless Anna was surprised when she was able to recite Luke’s number.
Luke Davis was the nearest thing Anna had to a son. At difficult moments through his growing up, he had turned up in the Wrens’ kitchen to moan about his parents or elicit a little sympathy and she was sure Flora had made similar journeys to the Davises’ house.
Luke answered the phone and they exchanged pleasantries. She could hear Sally, twittering in the background. ‘Is that Anna? Let me talk to her.’
‘I’m ready, whenever you want to head back,’ Anna said.
‘Could you shut the door?’ Sally shouted to someone. There was a pause and Anna heard a door bang. ‘Sorry about that. I’ll fill you in when I see you but I’ve decided to hang on for a day or two. Emily’s stressed out and needs a bit of support.’
‘That’s fine. No problem. I’ll get a train.’
‘No need. I’m staying but Bill’s driving back. Emily wants girlie chats, so there’s no point in his hanging around. Actually, it would make it more difficult. He’ll be with you in about an hour. Got to go.’ Sally put the phone down.
5
Amidst a flurry of farewells and promises, Anna and Flora made their way out to the waiting car. For a second Anna, spotting someone in the passenger seat and assuming it to be Sally, sent up a little ‘thank you, God’. Her atheism was confirmed, alas, when Luke emerged asking whether Flora fancied a walk on the Downs.
‘That’d be lovely. It’ll be a chance to sort out a few things on the newsletter,’ she said.
Bill beamed as Anna settled into the seat, still warm from occupancy. Flora and Luke waved them off. She watched them miniaturise in the wing mirror, thinking that a stroll on the Downs with the children seemed the most desirable thing in the world.
The first thing that she noticed was Bill’s aftershave. It caught in her throat like the fumes from oven cleaner and she checked his chin, convinced it would be lifting his skin. He turned, gazing straight into her eyes, and she blushed. But today she felt guilt without a hint of excitement. Faking a fit of coughing, she concentrated on unearthing a tissue from her bag and sneaked a look at her watch. They had been travelling for less than four minutes.
For a while the conversation revolved around the visit. She told him about the meeting with her father’s fiancée.
‘I’d sort of assumed he’d found himself a dolly-bird. Your dad’s a very dapper sort of a chap,’ said Bill. ‘I can see how he might be attractive to women. Perhaps Dorothy Whats-it’s filthy rich.’
This had crossed her mind. Her father might not have set out to land himself a rich widow, but it was possible that Dorothy Holton was comfortably off. Anna hadn’t learned much during her visit but he did mention that Dorothy had been widowed for twenty years. Whether her dead husband had been a wealthy man was still undisclosed but her jewellery, clothes and general demeanour indicated taste and breeding.
‘I don’t think I should be held responsible for my children’s actions any more so it seems a bit unfair that I’ve got to start making excuses for my father’s behaviour.’
They left Bristol through the familiar suburbs. The houses huddled together, cramped and shabby, front gardens grimy with the dust and fumes spewed out by the traffic. Anna pictured Pen Craig, big and bright and clean. She imagined Tom getting himself something to eat after a day in the garden and the carrot seeds starting to stir in the dark soil.
They joined the motorway and the volume of traffic increased. Even on a Sunday the lorries and trucks pounded along at an alarming speed. The first few caravans of the season toiled in the slow lane, an irritation to everyone. If Tom had been driving he would have lapsed into silent concentration but Bill chatted away and she held her breath as he nipped in and out of the fast lane, the needle never dipping below seventy. He did most of the talking, her response becoming more and more cursory as she tried to deflect his attention to the road.
Bill talked about Emily. They were worried that her new boyfriend, Dominic, was playing Svengali. She was talking about leaving her course and travelling the world. ‘Finding herself. You know the sort of claptrap.’
‘Sally always said that she wanted Emily to live a little,’ Anna reminded him but a near miss with a bread van increased her resolve to remain silent.
Ticking off the passing motorway junctions was more effective than counting sheep and the drone of the engine, combined with last night’s lack of sleep, lulled her. She drifted. Bill, assuming that she was sleeping, stopped talking and sang along with the tape. ‘…down at the end of Lonely Street, at Heartbreak Hotel…’ Like many large men, he had a pleasing, baritone voice.
Her head dipped and she savoured the retreat from consciousness. Now and again she dragged herself back, like an angler reeling in a line and then letting it run. Each time she was carried a little further downstream. The traffic noise became the sound of insects buzzing in a summer meadow. Her hands rested on her thighs but she had no sense of the connecting arms. It was an interesting state but a difficult one to maintain and, just after Junction 11, she abandoned herself to sleep.
A jolt and the rasp of the handbrake woke her from a dream of covered wagons and the search for a new watch-strap. For a second or two, she thought she was in the chair at home then Bill’s voice broke through. ‘Let’s take a break.’
She would have preferred to keep going but he was the driver. ‘Fine.’ She was queasy from the nap and the motion of the car. There was a metallic taste in her mouth and she fished in her pocket for a Polo mint. ‘Where are we?’
‘Strensham. Just past the M50. About half way.’
As they walked across the car park to the cafeteria they passed a rank of phone boxes. The booths were all empty, a spin-off from mobile phone ownership. Tom maintained that soon there would be no public payphones and eventually everyone would have a telecommunications port implanted in their brain.
‘I’ll ring Tom and let him know we’re on our way,’ she said. She had two reasons for doing this. First, it would remind Bill that she had a husband called Tom – his best friend. Secondly, it would ensure that they didn’t spend too long over their break.
‘Here,’ said Bill, pulling a phone from his jacket pocket, but she pretended not to notice and made for the privacy of the kiosk. She fed her money into the slot and dialled. It rang ten times, then the machine cut in. Bill was waiting for her at the entrance to the café and she turned her back to him. She left a short messa
ge for Tom but kept the receiver to her ear, as if involved in conversation. It wouldn’t do to give Bill a chance to linger.
The shops and the café were busy and it was a while before they collected their food and found a seat. She was impressed at the sanguine way Bill parted with ten pounds for two coffees and two Danish pastries. Tom never stopped at motorway service stations, preferring to go without than to be ‘ripped off’.
For a while they talked about Madeleine’s baby. ‘I can’t wait to be a grandfather,’ he said. ‘It’ll give me a valid excuse to regress. At the moment, if I want to be childish, or should I say child-like, I have to pretend I’m carrying out some sort of scientific experiment. I’ve always thought that childhood was one long sequence of scientific and social experiments.’
That was rather a clever way of looking at it and she reminded herself that Bill was rather a clever man – when he wasn’t being stupid. ‘Can’t you persuade Tom to see the positive side of it? He just wants to hit someone.’
‘He’ll come round.’ He reached across the table and patted her hand. ‘And the baby’s going to have the most wonderful grandmother. Beautiful, intelligent, funny…’
She shoved the last piece of cake into her mouth and downed the rest of her coffee. ‘When’s Sally coming back?’ she mumbled through a mouthful of pastry.
‘When she’s sorted Emily out. A day or two, I should think. I told her to take as long as she needs. It’s good for us to spend time apart, once in a while.’
She never thought that she would hear Bill Davis voice such a sentiment. He and Sally were inseparable. He followed her around like a faithful dog, reluctant to let her out of his sight. Sally pretended that she found this tedious but did nothing to shake him off and everyone assumed that this was how they liked it.