Aunt Margaret's Lover

by Mavis Cheek

  Lord, I thought, this could take weeks.

  'We were absolutely fine for the first year,' she said, lacing her tea with cooking three-star, 'and then he began to forget the niceties and I began to tell him he had forgotten them.'

  She waited pointedly for my response. 'Only reasonable,' I said.

  'And then he said I was being clinging, demanding' - she fluttered her hands - 'but I was in love, you know .. .'

  I nodded helpfully, but in truth I was glad to say that I did not know, or had forgotten.

  'And the more I tried, the more he failed, and then he didn't say I looked nice any more and he started' - a new tissue was drawn into the drama - flirting with other women.'

  'At least it wasn't other men.'

  'Listen, Margaret,' she said, straightening her back and giving me a correspondingly straight look, 'this is no joke.'

  'I wasn't joking,' I said. 'Joan of the hair had one who did that.'

  'Really?' said Verity. 'Really.'

  She looked interested. It seemed to me that since I could offer no advice or practical help, a little reminder that there are others worse off than oneself, always, was no bad thing. Worse off, as I said to her, for one is, at least, equal to battling it out with another woman. But one would not know where to begin the campaign with another man, short of praying for a penis.

  Anyway, Verity draws her fictions from life, and by the time I had brought her right up to date with Greasy Joan she was considerably calmer, her eyes a-gleam with the tale's potential - and, alas, quite ready now to tell me about her sufferings in detail. I looked at the clock. Two minutes past midnight. Definitely no chance of ringing Roger now. Tomorrow, then. I wasn't looking forward to it at all.

  The house certainly did feel empty. The actions I took for granted with another human being living in the same space now seemed empty also. A glass of wine before supper wasn't the same without Sassy sitting there with a Diet Coke, and supper itself had lost its interest too. In place of her prattle, sometimes amusing, sometimes as irritating as a mosquito, was now only me talking to myself. I suppose in my heart I had rather looked forward to this, but the reality wasn't quite as simple as I had supposed. I had no trouble going out but returning to the quiet stillness - no bass beat from her bedroom - was deadening. The pleasure of an early morning of silence and singularity soon gave way to mournful loneliness. I had suspected it might, hoped it wouldn't.

  A space within me seemed to yearn for a little friendly Polyfilla. Or more. Despite Verity's tears, a romance with a man seemed the solution. In between her sorrowful outpourings I had managed to slip in the question 'Where did you meet him?' without, I hoped, appearing opportunist. She said, 'The post office', which was not very helpful. The thought of hanging around in a queue for stamps with a seductive smile and a frilly skirt held no charm - a certain surrealistic style, but definitely no charm at all.

  Roger had been away overseeing an Easter school skiing trip. He came back looking bright-eyed and healthy with his normally pale face a good deal improved by the snow tan. He came to the house bearing gifts - a bottle of schnapps and an embroidered belt, neither of which I liked. He pecked my cheek and settled himself in an armchair and looked like part of the furniture, which I found intensely irritating.

  'She got off OK, then?' he said.

  There was a gap between the end of his trouser leg and the beginning of his woolly green sock. This was also intensely irritating.

  I sat down opposite him. 'Yes,' I said. 'She seems to be enjoying herself.' 'That's good.'

  He had what I can only describe as a companionable smile on his lips as he stared at the fire and began to recount tales of the piste.

  'Well, that all sounds very jolly,' I said eventually.

  'Pity you couldn't come, really. Maybe next year.'

  'Maybe,' I said cautiously.

  'I'm going fishing for the May half-term. You could come, too.'

  I knew this was extraordinary generosity. Fishing was silent and manful and not at all a social event.

  ‘Oh no,' I said. 'But thank you.'

  The flames flickered on.

  'So how are you finding it?' he asked.

  'Finding what?'

  'Being here without Saskia.'

  'A bit quiet. Not too bad.'

  'I suppose I should move in. Keep you company.'

  I suddenly saw us sitting at an eternal fireside together, him dreaming of stench, or whatever those fishes are called, and me dreaming of the one that got away.

  'No should about it,' I said briskly.

  'We could try it. We get on well.'

  'Roger,' I said, 'I get on well with the postman. I just think there should be something more.'

  'Bed, you mean?' he said gloomily. 'I suppose we are a bit quiet in that department. But we could improve.'

  'I think the rut is too deep.'

  'Keep it as it is, then?'

  'Well, no,' I said. 'Not exactly ...' And I took a really deep preparatory breath before saying the rest.

  I rang Jill but she seemed dejected - the flu bug's finale -so we talked only briefly. She wanted me to come up on an extended visit, but maybe because of her lowness of spirit or maybe because I had plans afoot, I made an excuse. I was a little more fragile than I cared to admit and wanted to be jolly. Jill was in one of her introspective moods and I couldn't rally to the cause. 'I'm a poor friend,' I said, 'but I've got quite a lot to deal with down here.' Jill thought I meant the business and accepted it, and we finally settled on the end of May. By then, I felt sure, something new would have happened.

  'You can bring Roger up too if you like, at least for part of the time.'

  'No I can't,' I said, 'I've finished with him.' She perked up. 'Why?'

  'Boredom factor. Fresh start factor. Zen Moment of Right-ness . ..'

  'Permanent?' 'Absolutely.'

  'Oh, thank God for that,' she said. 'I know he was nice but he was so dull. That's the first cheering thing I've heard all week. Is there anyone else?'

  'You'd be the first to know if there were.'

  'There will be,' she said, and sighed. 'You are so lucky just to be able to do that.'

  'What?'

  'Put an end to the boredom.' 'I feel the cold draught of loneliness all the same.' 'Better than the warm fug of interdependence.' 'You are fed up.'

  'I'll be all right by the time you get here. Composting does wonders for the psyche - all that leaping about in shit.'

  I laughed. It was clearly not the moment to tell Jill about my plans.

  The shop was reorganized fairly smoothly. Mr Spiteri said that he wanted his son to learn the business and it was a good time to throw him in at the deep end. His son was a spoilt, lecherous, flashing-eyed twenty-five-year-old who should have been gainfully employed years ago. I did not think he would be over-zealous and I did not think that my position was seriously threatened. Besides, I would be keeping a watchful eye. Joan flicked rather a lot, and Reg swivelled, but on the whole they were for it. Shake hands and come out fighting, I felt like saying, as the two avoided each other's eyes (not surprisingly, I suppose) at our meeting.

  Joan and Reg and I went to the pub on my last official day. It was a bright afternoon and we chose the Dove at Hammersmith, where we sat out in the warmish sun. In its glow I began to feel as those old primitives felt about Helios, Apollo, Shamash - that here was a new beginning, something to celebrate, something nourishing coming out of the mystery of it all. Extremely fanciful, but there was the river rolling by, sunlight on water, greenery in trees and a new atmosphere of buoyancy after the fag end of winter. That this fresh, bright sunlight would illuminate what I fondly called my laughter lines, was chastening, but, nevertheless, here I was: I had changed course, dammed the river of my life and channelled it towards the brave unknown. And there was always candlelight. I wondered what on earth my companions would say if they could hear my thoughts. After all, I was only leaving my job and taking a lover - not re-creating the universe. All th
e same, I felt like Woman Reborn and a very good feeling it was too. I raised my glass to the two of them and wished them good luck.

  'After all,' I said, 'I shall only be down the road. You can ring any time.'

  'We'll need to,' said Joan wryly, 'with Son of Spiteri in charge.'

  'You are both more than capable. He knows that, really. It's a token something and you'll just have to bear it. Unite in your adversity!'

  Joan smiled and Reg blushed.

  'Wartime spirit,' he said. 'My Granny told me all about that.' He was wearing sunglasses, which helped me considerably. Why I had such difficulty with him was to my great shame. I suppose that, as they say, eyes are the windows of the soul and I found it disconcerting not knowing which window was open. Joan was still flicking her hair, but somehow it no longer bothered me. There was no doubt that taking this time out for myself was A Good Thing. Who could it harm? And they had two good eyes between them, didn't they?

  Taking a lover, I mused on the way home. What a grand, old-fashioned ring the phrase has. But from whence? For such an undertaking is a great deal easier said than done when you have been living in a fairly small world of well-worn friends. The emotional part of me said that I could not dictate such a receptive state at will. The rational in me

  thought it was a good idea. The rational won and I was suddenly gratified, though somewhat embarrassed, to find myself growing antennae. This is rather an unnerving state for a woman. It may be an unnerving state for a man, too, though I suspect they are brought up to be the hunters and find the role natural. Indeed, if you have ever observed a man being hunted or stalked by a woman you can see plainly that the mode is not conducive - yet - to the feminine. Never mind. I would have to be subtle. I pondered how to be subtly predatory, and gave up. It was too puzzling. Instinct would assert itself, I decided. I felt rather tacky about the whole business, and feeling tacky made me choose to keep the whole business to myself until the effort was satisfactorily concluded. Not to Saskia, nor Jill, nor Colin nor Verity would I confess any more than I had already. From now on I would act alone. 'Strangers in the Night,' I sang as I let myself into my empty house.

  The telephone was ringing. I picked it up and, still in Sinatra country, attempted a velvety, expectant voice. But it was only Sassy giving me an update on how her first week with her father had gone. Very well, seemed to be the consensus. I thought about my news, the news I was going to keep to myself, and felt distinctly better, and managed to sound as if I didn't mind at all that they were getting on so well. He apparently had a demoiselle, half French and beautiful, Sassy said, and only a few years older than her. Typical, I thought. I remembered Roger - half-baked and monotonous - and said through my teeth that I was glad to hear it.

  'Maybe you should get a toy boy as Mrs Mortimer suggested,' she giggled.

  'Ha bloody ha,' I said when the receiver was safely back in its cradle.

  Chapter Ten

  He mentioned my mother for the first time when we went to Niagara. I could hardly hear what he said in the rush of the water, but I know that he was meaning to say he was sorry. There were tears on his face and I know you will say it was the spray, but it wasn't. The Falls seemed the natural place to say such things and it was OK. We haven't talked about it again. I wished you had been there with us.

  I confess, yes, that I did saunter down to the post office. It was my first official engagement as predator and I wanted to see what it was like. I mean, I argued with myself, as I pushed at the door and went in, even Gerard Depardieu must post his letters sometime.

  If he did then he did not choose the main post office in Chiswick. The queue was long and I stood behind a cross man in an anorak that gave off the slight smell of not being quite washed. He had a red face and was talking loudly.

  'Post office. Huh! Post office. I tell you, if this was a business they'd go bankrupt! Ten windows and only three of them lit. And look at this queue . . .' He gesticulated to his audience most of whom were finding the carpet unusually interesting and shuffling their feet like chain-gang slaves. Too late, I did not swing my eyes carpetwards quickly enough. Our eyes met. He moved closer. He opened his mouth to speak and something told me that this was not going to be Depardieu.

  'I'm unemployed, I am. Why don't they give me a job, eh?'

  'Well ...' I said, but of course it was not answers he required, merely encouragement.

  'I'm fifty-one -' he peered closer - 'fifty-one . . .'

  I wanted to show him some solidarity. 'I am unemployed too,' I said meekly.

  'There you are, then, there you are.' He looked over towards the smug, amused counter staff. 'Here's another one for you. Two of us, out of a job, and willing . . .' He took my elbow. 'You are willing, aren't you?'

  'Oh yes,' I said gamely and feeling an absolute shit.

  'Here you are, then,' he called again. 'We'll have six first-class stamps and two jobs please...' He laughed a bitter laugh.

  'Excuse me,' I said, detaching my elbow from him as gently as I could, 'I have forgotten something.' And I fled.

  Outside, leaning against the wall, I took some deep breaths. Well, he'd have made a lover all right, I thought reproachfully - plenty of time on his hands. Good grief. What was I doing? Trawling the post office? Why didn't I just go and beckon superciliously at a selectee from the dole queue?

  'Margaret?' said a voice. 'Fancy seeing you here.'

  It was Verity and I just about stopped myself from saying, 'Don't tell me you're back on the look-out, too' when decency and a sense of proportion prevailed.

  'What a way to spend your day, propping up the post office!' She laughed. She looked better. Not entirely her radiant self of yore, but distinctly better. She held a letter in her hand in such a way that made it seem important. She waved it about. She looked at me pointedly. I was being asked to inquire.

  'Who are you writing to?' I asked dutifully, nodding at it.

  'Mark,' she said, and with a flourish worthy of Sarah Siddons she dropped it into the box.

  We had a coffee. I needed one and I also needed to get away before my new-found employment agent came out and took me into Sainsbury's for an assault on the checkouts. She needed one because she had, she said, just done a wonderful, liberating, definitive thing. 'What?'

  'I have returned the keys of Mark's flat to him. That's what. And that is it. The letter says it all. Goodbye and farewell, may you please rot in hell.'

  I stirred my coffee. 'You're a poet and you don't know it,' I said absently.

  'Oh, those bloody cliches of yours,' she groaned. 'He asked me back, you see.' If ever the light of triumph and vengeance was illuminated in face of woman, it was now. 'And I have told him no. And I mean it. No! Rotten, lousy, stinking, opportunist bastard. Pass the sugar ...'

  And we were off.

  Or rather she was off. From the nature of her monologue it would appear that Verity was being sensible. Since she had met him she had not worked, had hardly slept, had got bags under her eyes whose luggage capacity would have sufficed for a six-week jaunt to Sydney, and discovered that the true joys of sex required more than mechanical brilliance.

  'Snored instantly,' she said. 'Instantly!' I watched her re-sugar her cup and sip it without even noticing.

  'Best off without him, then,' I said, thinking mechanical brilliance wouldn't be bad.

  'You bet,' she said.

  'I've finished with Roger.'

  She put down her cup. ‘No! Why?'

  'Dull,' I said.

  'Really?' she replied, absently sipping. 'I thought he rather suited you.'

  That she meant no malice by the remark, I understood, but nevertheless I had considerable pleasure in telling her about Mrs Mortimer and the legacy, my year away from work and the river of new life - leaving out the bit about the lover, of course. Friendship was restored by her warm and enthusiastic response.

  'Well, that's absolutely brilliant. Lovely! Just what you deserve.'

  I bloomed in the garden of her deligh
ted approval... 'And what's more,' she said, leaning forward so that her earrings tickled her cup, 'I never thought you had it in you.' . .. and withered, slightly, again.

  'Enjoy it solo,' she said, 'or you'll waste the whole year just like I have.' She put down her cup. 'In fact, we can be two freewheelers together. Friends in adversity and goodbye to men.'

  It certainly was not the right time to tell her that I intended the river of life to flow erotically through my days.

  Having sworn a bloody oath across the coffee cups that I would, metaphorically, worship only at Diana's shrine and thumb my nose at Venus, I continued to consider possibilities. When the antennae were sleeping, the fins sent me swimming in search of a good catch. It was all quite unnerving, this heightened interest in the male of the species. I now knew what it felt like to be one of those creeping things that go for it in a set mating season. When both antennae and fins were up, it became extremely alarming - even greengrocers' assistants were not beyond assessment. I was appalled at myself. But rather amused too. What I needed was to discover some reciprocal antennae or another set of fins masculine in similar circumstances.