by Jo Verity
The kitchen flagstones were cold beneath her feet. She crossed to the window, recklessly leaning forward to peer into the yard, disappointed that there was no one to catch a glimpse of her. There was half a bottle of red wine on the sill, left from last night’s supper, and she filled a wine-glass. The earrings tapped, cold and heavy, against her cheeks. She went back upstairs, taking the bottle with her.
There was enough for two more glasses and she drank them down quickly, like medicine, standing in front of the mirror. She scrutinised herself, pulling her hair this way and that, twisting it up on top of her head or dropping it down on her shoulders.
Taking ‘Gymnopedie’ from the CDs on the chest of drawers, she put it in the machine. With the volume at maximum, she lay back on the bed, spreading her arms and legs. The breeze from the window played across her flesh, cool, soft fingers, exploring her. She wished that Tom were there. Or even Bill.
She got up too quickly and grabbed the chair to steady herself. Before pulling on her clothes, she removed the earrings and laid them in their box. She chose a faded tee-shirt of Tom’s and a pair of shapeless cotton trousers, scraping her hair back into a ponytail. Gathering up the empty bottle and glass she went downstairs, the velvet box rattling in her pocket.
She could think of nowhere in the house to hide them. If she put them with her other jewellery, she might be tempted to wear them. If she pushed them into the back of a drawer or behind some books, anyone coming across them would know that they had been deliberately hidden. If she put them back where she had found them, she couldn’t get on with her work. And they were too beautiful to throw away.
Back in the studio, she re-wrapped the box in its black plastic covering and went into the garden. Behind the outhouses, running alongside the path to the pool, there was a dry stone wall which had probably been part of the original stock enclosure. She searched the irregular face of the wall until she found a hole about the size of a grapefruit, where one of the stones had been dislodged. Making sure that the package could not drop down inside, she placed it in the cavity, wedging it with a small stone. This would have to do, until she thought of something better.
She spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning the house. The only interruption was a phone call from Tom, letting her know that they were on their way home.
13
Anna was reorganising the recycling bins when the car came up the drive. The travellers spilled out, shouting and laughing.
‘How was Machynlleth?’ she asked.
‘Very Welsh,’ said Peter, ‘and quite interesting, in an earnest kind of way. I’m afraid Tom may be overstimulated, though. He’s collected a carrier bag full of leaflets, so look out.’
‘A lot of it made sense. To me, anyway,’ Mark said. ‘Back to first principles. Makes you think. Question a few things.’
Jenny, with Celia a few paces behind, appeared from the Redwoods’ back door. They had become inseparable over the past few weeks. It reminded Anna of shifting playground alliances. Still, if Jenny wanted to become Celia’s best friend, good luck to her.
The men were in high spirits and reluctant to break up the party. The sun had set behind the hill but the air was still warm. They decided it was the moment to sample the cider which they had made last autumn and they arranged to assemble in the summerhouse in half an hour.
Tom went to change his clothes and Anna followed. ‘Was it worth going?’
She thought how handsome he was, as she watched him sorting through his pockets, piling the contents on his bedside table. Not quite tall enough but very trim, with a shock of iron-grey hair. On that very first day it had been his hair, black then, and dreaming grey eyes which had drawn her. ‘What did I just say, Tom?’
He turned towards her, as if surprised to hear her voice breaking into his thoughts. ‘What?’
‘Tell me about the trip. What did you talk about all day? I can’t believe that it was just about windmills. Was Peter OK? He does like to be leader of the gang.’
‘Wind generators, not windmills, love. Pete was fine. Playing the devil’s advocate, as usual, but that’s no bad thing. Mark was very enthusiastic. He loves the mechanical side of things. Bill was a bit odd, though. I thought he’d be my main ally but he seemed rather detached. Didn’t contribute much.’
‘Any gossip?’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. Judith. Pete’s career plans. Why Bill’s a bit off.’
‘No. Nothing.’ He shook his head, looking like a small boy as he stood in his underpants and socks. ‘How was your day? Did you make any progress on the bowls?’ He kissed her nose. ‘You’ve caught the sun.’
She pulled him to her and kissed him full on the mouth. He tasted of toothpaste. She pushed her hips against him and brought her hand up between his thighs.
‘I must go away more often,’ he said, but his body did not respond and the kiss turned into a hug. ‘Come on. We’d better join the others.’
The doors of the summerhouse were wide open and the table was heaped with food. A demi-john of cider, shoulders dusty after standing all winter in the outhouse, took pride of place. Anna added her contribution – some rolls, a wedge of cheese and a jar of pickled damsons. The Wrens had always been good at rustling up picnics. Even a couple of jam sandwiches and an apple, eaten out of doors, could drive the children into a frenzy of excitement. A picnic followed by a never-ending game of Monopoly was an abiding memory of those endless summer holidays, when the girls still belonged to her.
Bill returned, alone and empty handed. ‘Sally’s gone to bed. One of her migraines.’
Anna remembered how bright and breezy she’d been earlier. ‘Shall I go and see if I can do anything?’
‘She’s asleep. Best leave her. Thanks, anyway.’
They gathered around the table and Mark eased the bung from the cider jar. ‘We must appease the gods.’ He tilted the heavy container, pouring a splash onto the ground but the golden liquid dribbled back, spattering his pale slacks.
‘Gods obviously not impressed,’ laughed Bill.
Opinions on the cider were divided. Jenny and Peter found it undrinkable and went in search of a bottle of Cava. Tom and Mark, prime movers in the production, maintained it was spot on and getting better with each glass. Celia made herself a shandy with a few drops of cider in a glass of lemonade.
Anna took a sip. It was dry, strong and almost pleasant. She reached for some bread. She’d eaten very little all day and was still feeling light-headed after the wine.
Celia appeared at her side, wearing a gingham shirt and an ankle-length navy skirt. ‘You look lovely,’ said Anna, surprised, wishing that she had chosen something more elegant to wear.
‘Thanks. Jenny’s been helping me sort out my wardrobe. Putting me on the right track. We took two black bags in to her charity shop this week.’
Had the beautiful green jacket passed the Jenny test? Anna was tiring of Celia’s Jenny-adulation. ‘Has Judith had any more thoughts?’ That should jolt her out of it.
Celia smiled bravely, explaining that her daughter had decided to start the procedure to make contact with her birth mother. ‘They’ve told her it might take quite a while.’
Anna, immediately penitent, backtracked. ‘Kids.’ She shook her head. ‘It never stops, does it? Emily, Maddy, Judith…’
‘…Christopher Redwood,’ added Celia, then covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Oh dear. I really shouldn’t drink.’
‘What’s happened to Christopher?’
Celia tried to convince her that it had been a slip of the tongue but soon gave up. ‘He’s in a bit of trouble at school. Something to do with pornography.’
‘Gosh. Selling it? Buying it? What?’
‘I don’t think I should say any more.’
‘You can’t stop there, Cee.’
Celia shrugged her shoulders. ‘Selling it. Magazines. Videos. That sort of thing.’
‘He hasn’t been expelled?’
‘No. Peter sort
ed it out. The school wants it hushed up. Please don’t say anything, Anna. She’ll know it was me.’
Their conversation was cut short when Bill joined them. ‘You two lovely ladies are looking distinctly cons ... conspar … conspiratorial.’ He stood, swaying and grinning, feet apart for increased stability.
If, as Anna suspected, the Davises had fallen out, Bill might be in a reckless mood. Drunk and without Sally to keep him under control, he was a loose cannon. Was it safer to keep Celia with her as chaperone, or get rid of her, in case Bill said something suggestive?
Her dilemma was resolved when Mark appeared and began tuning his guitar. He beckoned his wife to his side and, without any preamble, Celia started to sing. In the space of a few chords she became a star, her pure, sharp voice hitting each note dead centre like a metal rod striking a crystal goblet. Mark’s guitar playing was unexceptional but there was a touching empathy between them as they ran through their repertoire. Although she had heard them sing many times, they never failed to touch her, these old songs of love, partings and death. Tears welled. She wanted Tom to put his arm around her and claim her for his own, but he wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
Had Tom dreamed up some ridiculous task that couldn’t wait? He should be here with her, not off somewhere, messing about with the car or watching rubbish on the television. In the time it takes to sing one maudlin sea-shanty, she’d fallen out with him. How dare he abandon her? Bill was still swaying at her side and she looped her arm through his. It took him a moment to register what had happened, then he turned and gave her a child-like grin of utter happiness.
When the music stopped, she disengaged her arm. ‘I must go and find Tom. And perhaps you ought to see if Sally’s feeling better.’ Bill’s smile faded, his face sagging like a deflating balloon.
It was dark now and the evening air felt chill so Mark and Peter decided to light the stove. Jenny and Celia, curled up on the sofa near the fire, were engrossed in conversation and from the hand waving and pointing Anna guessed they were planning the next phase of Celia’s transformation. Feeling excluded Anna left, aware that Bill was following a few paces behind her, impossible to ignore as he stomped along. The path back to the house skirted the outbuildings but, still cross with Tom and more than a little disgruntled, she chose to take the shorter route, through her studio. After the glow of the moonlight it was inky black in here and Bill, fuddled from the cider and intoxicated with the remembrance of her arm in his, bumped into the door frame. ‘Oops. Sorry,’ he apologised.
She turned and took his hot, damp hand, guiding him into her studio. He put his arms around her, pulling her to him, kissing her on the lips. She knew that this shouldn’t be happening, but if Tom hadn’t abandoned her she wouldn’t be here in the dark with Bill.
She felt horribly nervous but almost faint with excitement. Would she know what to do? It was a long time since she’d kissed anyone else but she needn’t have worried. Bill was a truly accomplished kisser and took the lead. How gentle he was for such a big man. The second kiss was less tentative. The last time she’d felt anyone’s tongue on hers, apart from Tom’s, was at their wedding reception when Tom’s college friend, Robin, had claimed best man’s rights. Tom had thrown Robin down the hotel stairs.
She detached herself, floating above this kissing couple, an airborne voyeur. Experiencing the kiss and watching it at the same time made it doubly intoxicating. For the second time that day she felt aroused. Bill’s hand came up inside her t-shirt – Tom’s t-shirt – his thumb slowly fondling her nipples, first one then the other. They engorged and tingled with the exquisite pain. She pushed against him with all the anger she was feeling for Tom, proud that she was the cause of his erection. Now he was moving his hand inside the waistband of her trousers, moving it from side to side across her belly. A memory of Arthur standing on the tree-stump, waving his Excalibur-stick, came into clear focus. She shoved Bill away and ran out into the yard. They had not exchanged one single word.
The doors to the summerhouse were shut and she stood in the pool of light cast on the grass, peering in. Jenny and Celia were still talking. Mark, Peter and Tom were over at the table, picking at the leftovers. When her breathing had returned to normal and the damp air had cooled her cheeks, she tapped on the glass, as if needing permission to rejoin the real world. Five faces turned towards her and Jenny put her hand on her heart, startled by the noise.
Tom smiled. ‘Where have you been?’
‘I came to look for you. You missed the singing.’
‘Not quite. I could hear it.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I didn’t want to scare anyone but I’m sure there was someone skulking around. Just before Celia sang. I went to check but I couldn’t see anyone.’
‘Where did you go?’ Anna held her breath.
‘Across the garden and up the field. Did you notice the fantastic moon? It’s bright enough to see without a torch. I had a bit of a mooch around. When I got back, you’d disappeared.’
They started to clear up the party things, only then noticing that Bill wasn’t there. The men remarked, again, that he’d not been himself all day but admitted that they hadn’t pressed him for an explanation.
‘I think they’re both more concerned about Emily than they want to admit,’ said Anna, eager to suggest a reason for the Davises’ behaviour. ‘I was talking to Sal about it earlier. Cee and I were only saying this evening, you never stop worrying about your children.’ She looked to Celia for confirmation.
It was the perfect opening for the Redwoods to tell them about Christopher and share any problems they might be having, but instead they were quick to criticise. ‘You fuss too much, Anna. We’ve made it quite clear to ours that, once they’re eighteen, they’re on their own.’
It was getting on for midnight by the time they locked up, following each other single file back to the house. When Anna looked across the Davises’ house was in darkness.
Although it was late, she ran a bath, only remembering as she climbed in that she’d already had a bath that day. She took the sponge and scrubbed herself all over, as if it were possible to remove every trace of Bill Davis from her skin. Then she cleaned her teeth, scouring her tongue with her toothbrush, and only then did she feel ready for Tom to reclaim her.
The bedroom was in darkness and Tom was already in bed. She slid under the quilt and put her leg across his. He was wearing pyjamas. He started from his sleep and, touching her naked thigh, muttered, ‘Too hot?’
She rolled and pressed against him but the early start and the cider had combined to thwart her and he lay at her side, a sack of warm sand. Turning away, she willed sleep to end this horrid day.
Tom’s steady breathing slowed and he started a gentle snore. While he escaped into his dreams, the drink and the food and the kiss in the outhouse ganged up to deny her rest. Every time she closed her eyes she was in Bill’s arms, his hands touching her. Eventually, instead of resisting she allowed her imagination to run on, hoping that way to exorcise the encounter.
At two o’clock she gave up and went down to the kitchen. She made herself a cup of tea, although she wasn’t thirsty. Outside the back door she perched on the wall, hands cupped around the mug. The big old house was in darkness. Moon shadows, blue and soft, reached across the yard towards her. The night air on her sunburnt arms made her shiver. She could smell damp grass and hear a cow, bellowing for a lost calf.
14
Anna heard that Sally had gone to stay with her sister, Carol, in Gloucester. Jenny had spotted her, loading several large suitcases into the back of her car the morning after the party. When she went to find out what was going on, Sally had been vague, saying that Carol was ‘a bit down’. Jenny reported all this to Anna and Celia when they met for coffee at ‘High Trees’.
‘She was taking enough luggage for three months.’ Jenny rolled her eyes.
‘Has anyone asked Bill what’s going on?’ Celia said.
They agreed that it might be best if one of the men took him a
side and tried to get some information. ‘On second thoughts, no. They’ll go all round the houses and end up talking cars or football,’ said Jenny. ‘I think it has to be one of us. Anna, you’ve always been the closest to them.’
Anna shook her head. ‘Aren’t we jumping to conclusions? Perhaps she has gone to help her sister. Carol’s always been a bit unstable. Remember the time she was sure someone was stalking her?’
They reached no conclusion on a strategy for tackling the delicate situation and went away to tell their spouses and to keep an eye open for any clues.
Anna had almost convinced herself that nothing had taken place that night. Surely heavy petting (such an ugly phrase) with your best friend’s husband brought repercussions, and there had been absolutely none. Nothing had changed. She and Tom had made tender, unremarkable love the afternoon after the party and she’d hardly seen Bill. But suddenly Sally had left, which did look horribly like a repercussion.
Tom was finishing a scheme for the refurbishment of a friend’s house in Devon. He’d lost a day’s work because of the Machynlleth trip and was ensconced in his office, catching up. She busied herself with humdrum chores. Two days of steady rain gave her the perfect excuse to stay in the house, on safe territory. Tom had his favourite meals, regular deliveries of coffee and biscuits at his drawing board and his choice of TV programmes. He’d never once asked why.
Housework, though, made no demands on her mind, leaving it free to wander. While she ironed a shirt she pictured Bill moping around, getting drunk or not bothering to eat properly and she vacillated between sorrow and delight. He and Sally were always having rows which invariably followed the same course. Bill did something which Sally considered childish or unsuitable. She would give him a good dressing down and he would make his apology, usually accompanied by an expensive gift and ‘a good screw afterwards’ as Sally put it. No matter how severe the rows had seemed, Sally had never walked out before.