by Terry Morgan
CHAPTER 48
Tom was not in the hotel when Jim returned to the hotel in Windsor and so he went to his room, looked at himself in the mirror, didn't much like what he saw and lay on the bed. Margaret was on his mind, but so were Jonathan and Jan. He decided to go for a walk around Windsor, breath some fresh air, find a distraction, then go back to check if Tom had turned up.
He walked for half an hour, felt cold and returned. Still there was no Tom. He sat on the bed. "Well, I suppose I can't put it off forever." He reached for his jacket, removed the mobile phone from the already sagging side pocket, then dug deeper for the slip of paper from Douglas. He stared at it a while, took a deep breath and pressed the numbers. The phone clicked. There was a pause and then a voice.
It was a voice that he knew - such a familiar sound. It was a voice that had accompanied him everywhere for forty years, a voice he now realized he had sometimes failed to hear. A clear and feminine voice, perhaps older now, but still softly accented by the Bristol upbringing. It was a voice that flashed memories at him so vividly. It called him to come down from upstairs on a Sunday morning. There was the faintly talking radio and the desk in his small home office. There was the kitchen and the smell of cooking of Sunday lunch. He was reading by the bedroom window, clean sheets and sunlight, the freshly mown lawn. Just an instant but backwards in time.
He choked and his voice was gone. He forced himself to find it. "Hello. Margaret?"
There was nothing. Had he imagined it? But then. "Jim?"
He swallowed hard. "Yes. Yes, Margaret. It's me."
"But....Where? What on earth….?"
"I have come home."
"But how? When?"
"I met Douglas today. I was sorry to hear about Megan." It was all he could think to say and he waited in silence. Then he could wait no longer. "Margaret?"
She spoke again. "I'm sorry. I can't believe it. Why, after all this time?"
"Why." Jim said. It was more of a statement. Did he know why he had come home? He had thought he did, it seemed clear a few days ago. "Why?" he said it again, this time as a question but perhaps to give him time to remember. "There are things I want to sort out. Unfinished business." Business? Did he have to use that word so soon?
"But why?"
"Because it was not right." There was silence but for a faint breathing. "Douglas told me something today," he paused. "I did not know, Margaret. Until today I did not know. I always felt as though, maybe, just maybe, one day...." He stopped, uncertain, swallowing hard. Margaret. I must see you."
"Why? After all this time? Over three years, Jim. Without a single word." He heard her sniff but waited. She was right of course, he knew that. "No, I can't. I don't understand," she went on.
"But neither do I, Margaret. I stopped understanding almost four years ago and still I don't understand. I saw problems and possible reasons for difficulties but it was not so bad, Margaret. Was it? Just a temporary problem. It would have blown over."
"It's over, Jim. Finished." The tone was surprisingly strong. "I don't understand why you have called. I thought it was......my God, Jim. You call. Out of the blue. No warning. No news from you for years and suddenly you call."
"But, can we not talk now? Is it so wrong to try to talk? To understand? How are you? I need to know. Every day I want to know."
He heard her sniff again. "Please, Jim. What is all this nonsense about? Why now, of all times?"
"I've been away," he repeated, as though it was fresh news. He realized the absurdity, but his mind was racing now. He had so much to say and the thought that she might just switch the phone off dominated his side thoughts. "But now I have come back. I want to renew my campaign. Provide the evidence. But I have also come to see you. I still do not understand what went wrong."
He came to a sudden halt. He had always been utterly useless at this sort of thing. It was why he'd put it off for so long and he'd probably already ruined everything anyway. Relationships were not like other things. "Margaret, are you still there?"
"Yes."
"Can we meet, just talk? There is so much I don't understand about why you stopped supporting me. I need to know, Margaret. It still bothers me so deeply. I always tried my best for us. I know I have my shortcomings and I made countless mistakes and errors over the years. But I don't understand what finally went so wrong. Was it the pressure, Margaret? Was it the hounding of the press? Was it the politics? What was it, Margaret?"
There was silence from the other side but he could hear soft breathing and a rustling sound. "Margaret? Please. Talk to me. Don't leave me like this."
Now he remembered those same, identical words he had used four years ago. Margaret lying on the bed after an outburst, the one that started the downward spiral of their close and loving relationship.
"Where are you, Jim?" Her voice was calm. He was encouraged.
"Staying near London. I flew back yesterday."
"So where are you living?"
"South East Asia."
"Where? Asia is huge."
"Oh, just a small place in the countryside, backing onto the hills, lovely views......."
The entire conversation probably lasted three minutes. To Jim it felt like an hour.
Finally: "So, can I come to see you, Margaret?" He heard the phone squeak as if her hand might, like his, be sweaty and damp.
"I really don’t think it’s a good idea, Jim. Certainly not here. Neutral ground, perhaps, so to speak."
She sounded very much in control. Jim was pleased but also surprised and concerned. She sounded different, more in charge. "Whatever you say. Wherever is convenient."
"Bristol. Clifton. The Bridge Hotel. You know it? One o'clock. Lunch time. Monday."
"Fine. Lunch time Monday it is."
Jim heard the ‘phone click, switched his own off and fell back with his head on the pillow. He felt tired, hot, his heart was pounding and his chest hurt a little. Then there was a knock on the door that made him jump and did nothing to improve his throbbing head. He wiped some wetness from his cheeks, sat up, put his bare feet on the floor and stood up. There was another knock. He felt dizzy and supported himself for a moment with his hand on the wall before going to the door. "Coming."
"Jim." Tom came into the room or, at least, part way. It was in almost complete darkness except for the orange light from a street lamp outside. "Been asleep have you?"
"No, not at all. Wide awake."
Tom switched the light on. "Are you OK, Jim?" Tom peered at him like a doctor on an evening tour of sick patients. "You're not about to have another funny turn are you?"
"I'm fine."
"Did you meet your friend?"
"Yes."
"Good meeting?"
"We reminisced."
"Well, that's good, so it is. But I've not been busy socialising. I rang a friend who phoned someone else and I now know more about Polly. She's Pollyanna Andersen and she lives in Stockholm."
"So quick?" Jim's sad-looking eyes widened.
"Did I not tell you I was more cut out for investigative reporting than camping outside politician's apartments?"