Nine Lessons

by Nicola Upson

  When she looked back towards the door, Bridget was on her way over. It was still ten minutes ahead of their scheduled meeting time, and their shared punctuality suggested to Josephine that they were both keen to get the conversation over and done with as soon as possible. It was likely to be the only thing they stood united on, she thought, struck as ever by Bridget’s beauty, by the sense of spirit and determination that she managed to convey in everything she did, even in something as simple as walking across a room. Her face was still tanned from months of working outside in the sun and wind, and Josephine felt the familiar sting of inadequacy—of ordinariness—that she had never quite shaken off since meeting Archie’s lover at Portmeirion the year before.

  Bridget took the chair opposite and looked round at the nearby tables. ‘I thought if I chose somewhere that was the very essence of gentility we’d be less inclined to shout at each other,’ she said.

  ‘So you know why I wanted to see you.’

  ‘I can guess what your matter of urgency is. After all, Phyllis has been a matter of urgency to me for twenty-one years.’

  The waitress brought some menus over but Bridget waved hers away. ‘Just coffee for me, please,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll have the same.’ Josephine waited while their cutlery was removed and replaced with coffee cups. ‘This must be a sad day for Phyllis,’ she said when they were alone again. ‘Thinking about her dead father and all the years she’s missed.’ She had been determined not to let her anger get the better of her, but Bridget’s attitude was little short of hostile and she found it impossible not to respond in kind. ‘When did he die, just out of interest? Before she was born, or did you let her think that he held her in his arms before he went? Does she imagine she remembers him somehow—one of those elusive early memories that we long to believe in but never quite trust?’

  ‘I’m not about to debate the rights and wrongs of the decision I made all those years ago, Josephine, and certainly not with you. What’s done is done, and it’s none of your business.’

  ‘But it is Archie’s business, and as you’ve seen fit to deny him—’

  ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ Bridget demanded, interrupting her. ‘Expecting me to jump at your beck and call. Speaking up for Archie when you know as well as I do that if he suspected for a minute that we were having this conversation, he’d feel as betrayed by you as he would by me.’ Josephine opened her mouth to argue but she knew that Bridget was right and the words died in her throat. ‘This is my life—mine and Phyllis’s—and I won’t let you or anyone else send us hurtling over the cliff just because I made a mistake.’

  ‘So we do at least agree that twenty years of silence was a mistake?’

  ‘Of course—but what about Archie’s silence? Have you thought about that? He could have contacted me at any time after the war. He knew where I was. He came to my exhibitions and bought my paintings, but never—not once—did he so much as send me a note. Does that sound to you like someone who’d lost the love of his life? We met again by accident, Josephine. Neither of us cared enough to look for each other. If Archie had come to me five weeks or five years after the war, I’d have introduced him to his daughter. But now, when it will wreak havoc in her life as well as in his—is it any wonder that I’m having to think about that?’ The waitress arrived with a tray, and Josephine tried to remember a time when two coffee cups had taken quite so long to fill. ‘And I’ve had a lot of time to think while I’ve been away,’ Bridget continued eventually. ‘Since Marta found out, I’ve felt as though I had a sentence hanging over me, threatening everything I love. I knew it was only a matter of time before she told you. In fact, I’m surprised she waited so long.’

  ‘Marta gave you the benefit of the doubt,’ Josephine said, refusing to let Bridget reopen the cracks that the secret had briefly caused in their relationship. ‘She believed you’d do the right thing—foolishly, as it turned out.’

  ‘I’m the fool for blithely accepting that you can hold me to ransom like this. All these months I’ve been so frightened, lying awake at night, inventing a thousand and one different ways to say I’m sorry. But that’s not who I am, and it stops here and now.’

  Too late, Josephine realised how wrong it had been of her to assume that Bridget would be repentant. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, suddenly fearful of the answer.

  ‘I mean I’m taking control. So far, I’ve made the mistake of believing that there’s only one way for this to end—I tell Archie and beg his forgiveness, and he decides what happens from then on. But that’s not fair, Josephine, and being apart has made me realise that I do have a choice. I won’t apologise for the life I’ve made, for me and for Phyllis. It’s been a good life and we’re happy as we are—just the two of us. So I am going to tell Archie about his daughter, but I’m also going to tell him that whatever there was between us is over.’

  Josephine stared at her in astonishment, understanding now that there was an even more destructive outcome to this than the one she had imagined. ‘So you’re punishing Archie before he can punish you?’ she asked. ‘And punishing yourself, of course. Why would you give him up so easily when you obviously love him? You surely can’t have forgotten how devastated you were when he was shot.’

  ‘Of course I haven’t. I do love Archie, you’re right about that, but love isn’t enough in itself. God forgive me, Josephine, but when I was sitting by that hospital bed watching him fight for his life, there was also a tiny part of me that suddenly saw a way out. And I’ve seen one now—one I’m less ashamed of. I’ll tell Archie about Phyllis and give him the chance to get to know her—if that’s what she wants, too—but our relationship is over. That way, I won’t have to spend the rest of my life trying to make this up to him, especially when it’s something I’d do all over again without the slightest hesitation.’

  ‘But think about Archie,’ Josephine said, suddenly the supplicant in the conversation. ‘This could destroy him.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s true—but even if it were, I’m too selfish to put him first.’ She finished her coffee, and Josephine thought that the pause which followed signalled that their meeting was over, but she was wrong. ‘When I first discovered I was pregnant, I thought it was the end of the world,’ Bridget admitted. ‘My mother was a brilliant artist when she was young. She painted the most beautiful watercolours from nature, so natural and instinctive, but when my brother came along, and then me, that urge to create deserted her completely. When I had Phyllis, I kept waiting for the same thing to happen to me, but it never did. In fact, my work got better after she was born because for the first time in my life I needed to make a living from it. My parents were wonderful, but I was far too proud to let them support us financially. So Phyllis—far from destroying my painting—gave it substance and meaning, although I’m not sure I’ve ever told her that.’ She smiled awkwardly, and Josephine guessed that she had never intended the conversation to take quite such a personal turn. ‘Phyllis is the best thing about me, Josephine, but there’s only room in my life for one other love and that has to be my work. It’s my best friend. Happy or sad, it’s the thing I always turn to and I never have to pretend to be something I’m not. You understand that, don’t you?’

  Josephine nodded, feeling disloyal to all her best intentions but touched nonetheless by what Bridget had said. ‘What about Phyllis?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t you frightened of how she’ll react?’

  ‘Of course I am. I know it’s a risk, but I’ll take it. We love each other, Phyllis and I—even more importantly, we understand each other. She’ll be angry and she’ll be hurt, but we’ll get through it—even if it takes a long time. We’re strong enough to forgive each other anything—and realising that was the other thing that helped me make up my mind. I couldn’t say the same about Archie and me—and that’s not good enough.’ ‘I hope you’re right,’ Josephine said sincerely. ‘Phyllis seems a lovely girl.’

  She had meant it kindly, another small step in the gro
wing reconciliation between them, but she had reckoned without the intrusion to which it bore witness. Bridget looked at her sharply and their brief solidarity dissolved in an instant. ‘How the hell do you know what Phyllis is like?’

  ‘I met her at the Festival Theatre.’

  ‘You did what? How dare you? This is none of your damned business. What did you say to her?’

  ‘Nothing—well, nothing to do with this. We talked about the theatre, that’s all. I didn’t even tell her that you and I know each other.’

  ‘Good, because I’ll talk to her in my own good time—to her and to Archie. I’ve had enough of ultimatums, and I won’t take any more bullying from you or from Marta or from anybody else.’ She stood up and threw some coins angrily down onto the table. ‘If you’re tempted to go behind my back and tell Archie before I’m ready, just think about what it might do to your relationship when he finds out that you met his daughter before he did. We’re all implicated, Josephine, and I won’t lose a moment’s sleep over telling him that.’

  She turned and left without another word. Shaken, Josephine queued to pay at the counter, trying to distract herself by watching a surprisingly clear picture of the solemn preparations at the Cenotaph, but the thought of seeing Archie—oblivious to the pain that awaited him—only made things worse and she was glad to turn her back on history in the making and walk out into the street. Outside, under an elaborate stone carving of the bow of a ship—a strange motif for a building so far from the sea—she was surprised to find Bridget waiting for her. ‘I’m sorry, Josephine,’ she said. ‘That was completely out of order. You’re bound to see this from Archie’s side. You love him and he loves you—a little too much for my liking, at least in the early days.’

  ‘But I can see your side, too. In your position I’d probably have done the same thing. We’re a selfish generation.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose we are.’ She smiled sadly and held out her hand. ‘Look after Archie, won’t you? Perhaps I’m wrong, but once this is done I can’t see myself having a place in his life—not for the foreseeable future, at least.’

  Josephine nodded and watched her go, then headed thoughtfully back towards the market square. In the distance she could see the retreating banners of a peace society march, on its way to lay a wreath at the war memorial by the railway station, and the town’s Armistice Day activities were in full swing. There was a garden of remembrance and pavement portrait gallery running the length of Great St Mary’s Passage, and the university was doing its bit for the Poppy Day Fund all over town: undergraduates had been out selling poppies since the crack of dawn, and a taxi rank had sprung up outside one of the colleges, offering cheap fares for the day in anything from an ancient Morris to a car just off the showroom floor; hot dogs from the college kitchens were being sold out on the streets and they smelt wonderful, but Josephine had no appetite. She wandered among the other fundraisers which now surrounded the market place. A lifelike impersonation of Charlie Chaplin was proving popular, as was a tableau portraying the Berlin–Rome axis, with men dressed as Hitler and Mussolini balanced on either side of a seesaw—but the biggest crowds surrounded the ‘Dictator Wagon’ which had parked by the building site for the new Guildhall. The German and Italian leaders were again represented, but here they were joined by Peace, a figure clothed in white with a laurel crown on her head; an enthusiastic public was buying rotten fruit from the front of the wagon and hurling it at the two dictators, although Josephine couldn’t help thinking it an ill but appropriate omen that in shying things at Hitler and Mussolini, many of the throwers seemed to be hitting Peace instead.

  As eleven o’clock drew near, people began to gravitate towards the north side of the square, and Josephine had to admit that she and Mrs Thompson agreed on one thing: the college buildings here looked absurdly modern, which meant that in five or ten years’ time they would look absurdly dated; in the absence of anything opposite, their stark Portland stone dominated the whole area, demanding attention but not deserving it. The clock of Great St Mary’s began to chime, and in the distance she heard the muffled sound of a maroon marking the beginning of the silence. Vehicles stopped and hushed their engines, and the crowds stood stiff and still, young and old alike with their heads bowed; all around the square, windows were filled with solemn faces.

  Suddenly, as the echoes of the clock’s eleventh note died away, an alarm bell began ringing violently somewhere over to Josephine’s right. It shattered the silence with its hammer-like strokes, and she saw in the faces of the veterans standing nearby that it brought back the dark days of twenty years before with a vivid and terrible immediacy. Heads turned as one, tracing the noise to a jeweller’s shop on the corner of the square, and everyone seemed mortified by the timing of the intrusion but at a loss to know how to stop it. Then, to a collective sigh of relief, the bell ceased as abruptly as it had begun, leaving behind a deathly stillness. The silence was allowed to continue, disturbed only by a mosaic of faint but familiar sounds—the whirr of pigeons’ wings as the birds wheeled above the crowd, the whimper of a frightened child and the rustle of leaves blowing across the pavement. In no time at all, an engine whistle shrilled to signal that the two minutes was up, but before the market place could become its noisy self again, a piercing scream came out across the crowd, also from the jeweller’s shop. The distant boom of the second maroon was lost entirely in the ensuing chaos. Suddenly, Josephine was aware of police running from the streets surrounding the square, and the crowd—sensing that something momentous was happening—moved as one to the north-east corner. Josephine was caught up in the flow of curiosity, and there was only one thought on the lips of the people closest to her. For a single morning, Cambridge had forgotten its current preoccupation in deference to another violence, but now it dared to hope that—after months of living under fear and suspicion—the rapist who had held the town to ransom had finally been caught.

  The sound of clanging bells drew closer and two police cars and an ambulance somehow managed to inch their way through the crowds down Market Street. The ambulance men disappeared into the jeweller’s and a cheer went up as they re-emerged a few minutes later, helping a young girl who was shaken but obviously unharmed. The crowd parted to allow the ambulance through, and everyone waited impatiently for further news. Just as Josephine was beginning to think that the assailant had escaped yet again, the front door of the jeweller’s opened and two policemen appeared leading a handcuffed figure dressed entirely in black, his face still covered by a balaclava. The noise that erupted around her was unbearable and the crowd surged forward again, shouting and jeering, arms outstretched towards the small group trying to reach the safety of the police car. She saw a flicker of fear in the escorting officers’ eyes as they recognised the anger in the air—a raw, violent anger which knew no logic or reasoning. The inspector who had come to see Mary Ennis stood in the doorway with his colleagues but his efforts to calm the situation made no difference. Objects were hurled at the man in handcuffs—stones and coins and anything else that came to hand—and Josephine noticed that the women in the crowd seemed to be taking the lead in the disturbance, making up for weeks of fear and powerlessness. A broken piece of paving stone missed its target and smashed into the window of the jeweller’s, and in the skirmish that developed as the suspect was wrestled to the waiting car, the mask that hid his face was roughly torn off. In the end, it was this which brought some order to the scene: a hush fell over the crowd while everyone stared at the face they had been denied for so long, as if the official silence had been merely a rehearsal for the intensity of this moment. He was just a boy, Josephine thought, staring along with them; just a red-haired, pale-faced boy of about twenty, somebody’s son, and now somebody’s shame. As they got him to the car and pushed him firmly inside, she thought she could see him crying.

  Eventually the crowds began to disperse, leaving a kaleidoscope of red, trampled poppies on the ground as the only physical reminder of the ceremony that had brought
them together in the first place. Josephine waited until the market place had returned to normal, numbed by what she had just seen and by the emotions of the hours leading up to it. Her first thoughts now were for Mary Ennis, and, on the spur of the moment, she cut across Market Hill and into King’s Parade, making short work of the five-minute walk to Addenbrooke’s Hospital. Reporters were already crowding round Inspector Webster and the details of the capture would, no doubt, soon spread through the town like wildfire, but there were some to whom the news mattered more than others and Josephine wanted Mary to know that justice would now be done on her behalf. It wasn’t visiting time yet, but if the nurse on duty wouldn’t make an exception, at least she could leave a message.

  She climbed the stairs to the ward, hoping to see the matron who had been in charge on the night of Mary’s admission, but there was no one there whom she recognised. ‘I’m sorry,’ the staff nurse said after Josephine had explained her business, ‘that’s wonderful news but Mary was discharged first thing this morning. Her parents and fiancé came to collect her and take her back to Yorkshire.’

  ‘Her fiancé?’ Josephine asked, bewildered. ‘Mary’s engaged? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, of course—to her young man from back home. He proposed the other day when he came to see her and she accepted straight away. Isn’t that romantic? Now she can really start to put this awful business behind her.’