The Missing Letters of Mrs Bright (ARC)

by Beth Miller

  I said, ‘Do you think I’m getting an abortion?’ and he went, ‘Well yes of course, I’m only twenty-one,’ and I said, ‘But I’m Catholic,’ and he said, ‘You don’t even go to church,’ and I said, ‘I am lapsed but we don’t do that,’ and he said, ‘Oh dear, then we have a bit of a problem.’ I know what it means now when people say their blood ran cold.

  I’ve got ‘have a baby’ on my ‘to do by 30’ list, but I don’t want one yet. I remember you writing to me about your abortion, a couple of years ago. That was definitely the right thing for you. But I don’t know if it’s right for me, Bear. Shit.

  Anyway, I cried, and begged He Whose Name I Shall Never Utter Again (henceforth HWNISNUA) to at least stay with me and the baby even if we didn’t get married, but he laughed. He said we were kids ourselves and if I wanted to have the baby that was fine, but I was on my own. And then he finished with me.

  Please write back soon, Bear. I feel terribly alone. The little bump might start to show soon and I will have to tell people. I have stopped fainting but I feel so sick, and I know you will say I must tell Rose or Mum but I don’t know what to say to them. Rose didn’t even like HWNISNUA very much, but I know she will help, BUT she will try and get me to have an abortion or maybe think about adoption and I just don’t know, Bear.

  Is it stupid to think I could look after the baby on my own? With HWNISNUA, it will be a very beautiful golden-haired baby.

  I need to think.

  Till next time.

  Miss you.

  * * *

  Always, Kay

  Twenty-Three

  Kay

  I slid into my car, where it had sat for almost a week in the staggeringly expensive car park at Heathrow. I was planning to drive to Wales through the night, Bryn Glas’s siren call loud in my ear. I started the engine, then thought, but I’d love to have my little stool in Bryn Glas. It was nothing special, but it had belonged to Mum: a three-legged stool with an embroidered cover. It was in the bedroom I’d shared with Richard, and I could see a space for it so clearly, next to the grey chair in my new bedroom. This fleeting thought flowered instantly into a plan to go back to the house, the ‘marital home’ as they called it on Radio 4 dramas, and get some of my things. Richard had said I could, after all, in the Venice phone call.

  I started driving towards London. I wondered if I should ring him, let him know I was coming. I called out to the in-car phone dictation thing, which I rarely used, because it often sent such weird messages. I got the impression that it didn’t like my accent.

  ‘Who do you want to call?’ the robot voice said, and the call screen on the dashboard lit up.

  Saying ‘Home’ stuck in my throat. ‘No one,’ I said.

  ‘OK.’

  I was pleasantly surprised that it didn’t attempt to call Norman or Noreen or some other made-up person.

  Right then. I would just turn up. Great idea. Well, possibly a very bad idea, but at least I would have the advantage of surprise. It would be about seven by the time I got there, so Rich might not yet be home. The thought of seeing him was odd. Not unpleasant. Just odd. Too odd to dwell on. Instead, I made an inventory in my head of the things I should bring. The stool, and my camera, of course. And some clothes – I was sick of the ones I had, and as the weather was getting warmer I would need more summer things. Even in North Wales. Plus the boxes of Bear’s letters under the bed, and that other box, the one with photos and memorabilia from my past.

  Before I knew it, I was in my old street. I still had my resident’s parking permit on the windscreen, though my usual space was filled by another car. I pulled into a space behind it, and looked at the house. Seeing it again, after a month – good Lord, it was exactly one month to the day – I realised how much I hadn’t missed it. I’d never felt as at home, despite all the years I lived in this house, as I did in Bryn Glas.

  Heavy-legged, I got out of the car, and rang the doorbell; it felt wrong to use my key.

  ‘Good heavens!’ Alice said on opening the door.

  ‘Hello, Alice. How are you?’

  I knew I could rely on her icily correct manners to kick in automatically. ‘Very well, thank you, and you?’

  ‘Richard said I could collect some of my things,’ I said, still standing on the doorstep, feeling about as welcome as one of those poor fellows who go door-to-door with holdalls full of surprisingly pricy tea towels and yellow dusters.

  ‘He didn’t mention anything,’ Alice said, not moving to let me in. ‘He’s, er, out currently.’

  ‘I didn’t tell him I was coming, I was just passing.’ This was ridiculous. I could easily take Alice in a fight if I had to, but I’d prefer to be let in peaceably.

  ‘Very well.’ At last she stood aside, and I stepped into the hall. The house smelled different. Furniture polish, perhaps? ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting tea.’

  ‘No thanks,’ I said, surprising both of us – when had I ever said no to tea? ‘Please can I have a glass of water?’ To be honest, I’d had enough of sitting at kitchen tables drinking tea and discussing heavy stuff. Heavy. This would be a pleasant change. Well, not pleasant, this was Alice we were talking about, but it would be a change.

  She led me through, as if I didn’t know where the kitchen was, and with a silent gesture, invited me to sit at the table. I chose a different place from my habitual one, and did a speedy inventory, noting the neatness of everything. Cups hanging on hooks, surfaces clear of any impediment to cooking, the few privileged appliances still allowed to be out of cupboards sparkling clean. Where there is discord, said Francis of Assisi and, more aptly for Alice, Margaret Thatcher, may we bring harmony.

  ‘You’ve not long missed Stella,’ Alice said. ‘She was here briefly, between houses, but she’s moved back to Essex with Nita.’

  ‘Oh, how lovely she’s moving in with Nita. They used to get on so well.’

  ‘They are living with a Dutch fellow, I hear.’ Alice transformed ‘Dutch’ into a swear word. She placed a glass of water in front of me with exaggerated care. ‘How have you been?’ she asked, formally.

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ I said. Thank heavens for small talk. How long would it take me to answer truthfully, rather than just ‘fine’? I’d still be speaking when the sun went down, and possibly when it rose again the next morning. ‘You?’

  ‘Fine.’

  I looked around wildly for something to talk about, and noticed that amidst all the pristine, something was odd and out of place: three serviettes, lined up along the counter near the sink, shaped like swans. You’d be looking at Alice a long time before you’d identify her as a woman who fashions origami napkins in her spare time. It was surely one of the million things she’d dismiss as déclassé. I stared pointedly at the napkins, and Alice’s gaze followed mine, but then her eyes snapped away and I could see that if we were going to get to the bottom of the mystery, I would have to be the one to raise it.

  I didn’t quite have the nerve. Instead, I said, ‘I hear you’re enjoying working in the shop.’

  ‘I am, rather,’ she said. To my astonishment, she smiled. ‘I was there today. It’s heaps of fun!’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘You must miss it terribly! Anthony’s such a tonic, isn’t he? He has me in fits from morning till night.’

  Good Lord, she had fallen for Anthony’s charms. Who’d have thought it?

  ‘He is very witty,’ I said, politely. Would it amuse her if I said, Now you can see why I had an affair with him? Perhaps not. ‘Do you enjoy serving customers?’

  ‘Adore it,’ she said. ‘Anthony says I am very good at upselling. Do you know what that is?’

  I suppressed a smile. No, Alice, I only worked in retail for a quarter of a fucking century, why don’t you tell me all about it? ‘Er, yes, I believe I do.’

  ‘A customer will come in for a cheap rollerball, and I will send him out with a Sheaffer!’ she said, proudly.

  ‘Well, good for you,’ I said.

  ‘So, are
you still dashing about, Kathleen? Hither and thither, as it were.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve just been up to see Edward and Georgia.’

  ‘Oh, we haven’t seen them for ages. Is he terribly busy?’

  ‘He told me they’ll be visiting soon.’ I could stand it no longer. ‘Alice, I’m very impressed by your swans.’

  Tight-lipped, she said, ‘Thank you, Kathleen. Actually, those were created by Mrs Macrae.’

  I looked at her, puzzled. The name rang a bell, but I couldn’t think who she meant. She seemed rather flustered, but there was no time to think about it further, because the front door slammed and I heard Richard call, ‘Mum, we’re back!’

  We?

  Alice and I locked eyes, and I wondered if she could see the extreme horror in mine.

  Richard came into the room, his coat still on, noisily larger than life, chatting as he entered. ‘They didn’t have Rioja, can you believe, so we had to go even further, lovely evening for a walk, though… oh!’ He saw me, sitting cowed on my chair, holding onto my water glass as if it was an ejector button. Why wasn’t it an ejector button? There really was a massive lack of ejector buttons in my life. He looked exactly how I remembered him, and also utterly unfamiliar: everything was in its usual place, hair, eyes, shoulders etc, but it was as if they were attached to a stranger.

  He recovered quickly. ‘Kay! How lovely to see you! I didn’t know you were coming. Is everything OK?’ He bustled over and I stood up, and after a tiny hesitation, do we kiss or not, we hugged. Then he darted back to the door. ‘You remember Aileen, of course?’ He ushered into the centre of the room a woman who I’d been dimly aware of for the last minute, but hadn’t been able to connect who she was in my brain.

  Aileen Macrae. Mrs Macrae. Of course. The manager at Pencil Us In.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Bright, er, Kay,’ Aileen said. She gazed at me awkwardly, an anxious smile flickering on and off.

  ‘I’ll make tea!’ Alice cried, wisely deciding that this was the right moment to opt out. She turned her back on the whole messy scene and started mucking about with cups and the kettle. I wished I could think of a similar task, but nothing came to mind. It would be kind of weird if I suggested I nip out and clean the loo or something. So here I was, facing my ex-husband and his new girlfriend in my former kitchen, and a furious letter to the editor composing itself in my mind about the chronic shortage of ejector buttons.

  Meanwhile another part of my busy brain was dredging its memory banks for Aileen intel. The first thing it came up with was how long it took me to teach her to use the new till. She was not a fan of technology, something she and Richard had in common. She point-blank refused to do her daily round-up by email, always insisting on speaking on the phone. She and Richard would have spoken on the phone six days a week, for the last goodness knows how many years. She was the longest-serving manager, other than me. They probably knew each other inside out after all this time.

  My brain reminded me that Aileen was Scottish, and a divorcee (or widow, I couldn’t recall), and loved to bake. She was always bringing in home-made cakes and biscuits to work, and her assistants over the years would say, ‘Aileen, you are a nightmare for my waistline.’

  One thing I’d not previously noticed about her was that she was rather pretty. I’d never seen her in anything but her working clothes in the shop, but here she was in an elegant blue dress, her hair swept into a proper chignon. Lucky Richard. At last he was with a woman who knew how to do her hair; I’d never graduated beyond a messy bun. In the early days of our courtship I’d once asked if he wouldn’t prefer someone tidier, but he always faithfully denied it.

  ‘Sorry for turning up unannounced,’ I said. ‘I was on my way back from seeing Edward and thought I’d grab some of my things. If that’s OK.’

  ‘Well, it’s lovely to see you!’ Aileen said, full of sudden enthusiasm. Her smile went up a notch in authenticity and she came over and kissed my cheek. Had she wondered if I’d returned to claim my rightful place at my husband’s side?

  ‘Of course it’s OK!’ Richard beamed. Perhaps he, too, had been frozen rigid by the prospect of a loving reunion between us. ‘How was Edward?’

  ‘Really good. We had an excellent chat.’ I looked meaningfully at Richard. ‘About the past.’

  Richard knew immediately what I meant, because the telepathy of a long marriage didn’t switch off simply because the marriage had ended. He made a very slight shift of his mouth, which meant, ‘Oh God, was it OK? I wish I had been able to tell you, but you understand why I didn’t.’ With my eyes, I telegraphed back, ‘Yes, I understand, and thank you.’

  He smiled, relieved.

  Aileen, who’d been avidly following our facial ping pong, said, ‘Would you be wanting to help Kay fetch her things, Richard? I’ll get on with the supper.’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ I said, ‘Alice can help me.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Alice said, looking startled. She abandoned her pretence of making tea, and straightened up into even more of a ramrod position than normal.

  I longed to say something nice to Aileen, to show her I didn’t feel displaced, but for some reason I blurted, ‘I was admiring your lovely swans.’

  ‘Oh! Thank you.’

  ‘Yes,’ Alice said, thin-lipped, ‘they’re awfully clever, aren’t they?’

  The amount of vitriol Alice managed to pour into ‘clever’ was a masterclass in contempt. I felt a sisterly pang for poor old Aileen, who’d be on the receiving end of Alice’s infinite disdain now. But it was definitely someone else’s turn; I’d done my time.

  And perhaps Aileen was up to it. I thought I saw a mischievous twinkle in her eye. ‘Och you daftie, Alice,’ she said, her Highlands accent seeming broader by the minute. ‘Like I said before, I can show you how to do the swans in a jiffy. They’re not very difficult.’

  ‘Marvellous,’ Alice said, gritting her teeth so hard I thought I saw enamel dust.

  * * *

  I went out, Alice following, and climbed upstairs slowly, clinging on to the bannister for support. It felt so odd being back here, so wrong, an old coat I’d outgrown. At the top of the stairs I stood for a moment outside my former bedroom. Mine and Richard’s former bedroom. God, this was requiring considerably more grit than I possessed. I looked at Alice, willing her to help me get through this, and she pushed a glass into my hand.

  ‘Medicinal,’ she whispered.

  It was brandy, the best present anyone could have given me at that point. She must have poured it during the pretend tea-making. Probably for herself, so giving it to me was a true gesture of kindness.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, and chucked half of it down my throat. Man up, Kay! Then I tentatively pushed open the door and went inside.

  My chair still had all the clothes slung over it that had been there when I left, presumably now covered in dust. I was pretty sure the duvet cover was different to the one I had last seen on this bed. Alice, surely, would make him change the sheets. Or would that be Aileen’s remit now? The room looked different, but I couldn’t put my finger on why.

  It was so airless in there that I sat on the bed, trying to catch my breath, doing the slow yoga breathing, wondering as I did if it actually helped calm me or was just a placebo.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Alice said. Her voice seemed to come from a long way off.

  ‘Is it different in here, somehow?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t think so. I don’t come in here except to change the sheets.’ Bingo. ‘Does it look different to you?’

  ‘Yes. Perhaps it’s because I’d forgotten what it looked like.’

  ‘Or perhaps you no longer regard it as your room,’ Alice said.

  I turned and looked at her, surprised. ‘You might be right.’

  ‘Mmm. So. Shall we start with the wardrobe?’ She walked over and opened it slowly, as though expecting a large snake to slither out. I stared at my clothes in amazement. Wow, I had so many. I’d been managing all this time with my backpac
k supplies, supplemented by my Sydney op-shop purchases. I flicked through the hangers, but most of the things felt as if they belonged to someone else. I took a couple of dresses, and a handful of shirts and jumpers, and Alice folded them efficiently and put them into an old weekend bag of mine. Then I went quickly through my bedside drawers, but other than a couple of bits of jewellery, there was nothing to detain me. I crouched down and pulled out the boxes of Bear’s letters from under the bed. I planned to go through them and summarise some of the events in them for Charlie. I coughed at the dust that rose up, and piled them outside the door, along with the little stool and the box of memorabilia from Mum’s flat.

  ‘Would you be willing to sort the rest, Alice?’

  ‘Certainly,’ she said. I pictured her rolling up her sleeves with gusto, pulling on rubber gloves to avoid being contaminated by my bad taste, and sending Richard out with bin bags full of my belongings to the charity shops and the dump.

  ‘Thank you. I really appreciate your help.’

  ‘I’m not a fool, Kathleen,’ she said, zipping up the holdall. ‘I can see how utterly delighted Richard is by his new friendship, how happy it makes him. It’s made me realise just how, well, how depressed he was before.’

  I should have known Alice would find a way to get in a good solid barb. I made him depressed, did I? But thirty years of building up resistance to her eternal disapproval stood me in good stead. He made me depressed too, you know, I said in my head, then handed her back the brandy glass.

  ‘I’d better not finish this, I’ve got to drive.’

  ‘Well, I’ll say goodbye,’ Alice said. ‘I’m going to rest in my room. Mrs Macrae appears to be making the evening meal, so I am a trifle de trop.’ She reached out her hand. ‘Goodbye, Kathleen. Good luck with your future endeavours.’