by Jane Corry
Quickly I change to my weather app. ‘Great,’ I say. ‘Looks like it’s going to be a nice day.’
My research is going to have to wait.
26
Betty
‘I have to hand it to you,’ Mum said when she’d popped round to have a cuppa a few months later. ‘You’ve managed to keep that Jock of yours in check. I haven’t heard any more gossip about him being with other women.’
‘That’s thanks to you,’ I said. My relationship with my mother had improved dramatically since her advice about Jock. It was, I realized, the first time we had really understood each other.
She looked pleased. ‘Now that’s sorted, you can focus on repairing the other cracks in your marriage.’ Mum stirred a third teaspoon of sugar into her mug. ‘Don’t look away and pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m not stupid, love. I’ve seen the way you two are around each other. Neither of you can stand each other’s guts.’
‘Frankly,’ I said, hoisting Stuart onto my hip and wiping his face, which was all jammy from toast, ‘I can’t see us ever liking each other again, let alone actually enjoying married life together. Not after everything that’s happened. Anyway, I don’t want to discuss it in front of this one. He might pick up bad vibes.’
I sat my little boy down on the floor so we could play with a plastic car that Jock had brought back for him the other day from the market. He might not be a good husband but he was a good father. Another reason for staying put.
Mum rolled her eyes. ‘I do know what I’m talking about.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t you think I went through some rough patches with your dad? Granted, I didn’t fall for a posh married bloke like you did …’
I winced.
‘… But your dad used to be a heavy drinker and there were times when I felt like walking out of the door with you in my arms.’
I glanced up from Stuart for a minute. ‘I never knew that.’
‘That’s cos I kept it from you. There was this big fight one night at his local and … let’s just say someone got hurt. Badly. Your dad had to go down to the cop shop for questioning but nothing came of it. There wasn’t any proof. But the shock frightened him – just like that shock frightened your Jock when you sent him off to get himself checked out.’
Briefly I thought back to that time. The tests had proved negative, my husband had told me, pretending to be all cocky about it. But I could tell he’d been shaken.
‘Anyway, your dad didn’t touch a drop after that. It’s all history now but the point is this. I could have done what you’re doing with Jock now. Given him the cold shoulder and all that. In fact, I did for a bit. You were only two at the time but you started to get all fractious. So I realized that, just as you’ve said, kids can pick up on a bad atmosphere.’
She put her cup down. ‘If you want my advice, love, you need to try a bit harder.’
I shudder. ‘I don’t ever want to go to bed with that man again.’
She shrugged. ‘That’s up to you. But you could at least attempt to like him. Otherwise that grandson of mine is going to suffer.’
I didn’t want that. But I also didn’t care much for Mum’s hard-nosed advice. Surely it was hypocritical? I needed to be true to myself.
‘Hah,’ snorted my mother when I said as much. ‘Since when did principles put a roof over a kid’s head and give it food to eat? You need to get real, my girl.’
So when Jock came home that night, I sat down with him at the small rickety kitchen table instead of telling him – as I usually did – that his tea was in the oven and then leaving him to eat it on his own.
‘How was work?’ I asked.
He looked at me suspiciously. ‘Why?’
‘Just asking,’ I said.
It took time, of course, but I started to take more care over making his supper and would wait until he got back to eat my own with him. He began to tell me things about his day like an ordinary husband would. And I’d tell him about mine, which revolved around looking after Stuart and the way he loved putting puzzles together.
I also lifted Jock’s banishment and let him back into our bed, even though I took care to stick to the far side. He tried it on a few times at first but I reminded him of our agreement. If I was to stay, I wasn’t having any of that.
If Jock did seek solace with other women, he was discreet about it. Or, to put it another way, he never came home reeking of perfume as he had done before. Maybe Mum had been right.
He was also more respectful of me, no longer putting me down or criticizing me. Neither of us ever mentioned Jane or Gary or Cross Lane.
We ploughed our energies into bringing up our son and at weekends we would take him to museums or to the local park together. At times, we actually found ourselves laughing over the same television programme, even though we sat at opposite ends of the sofa.
Yes. Things were definitely better between us. I was content, even if not happy exactly. But then again, I wasn’t entitled to that. Not after what I had done to Jane.
I still dreamt about her, but she had at least stopped talking to me, and I became used to her silent presence.
A year or so later, Jock got promoted, and with it came a rise in salary and a move to Milton Keynes. Away from London, we were able to make a fresh start. No one knew us. No one knew I had been friends with a woman called Jane and fallen in love with a married man called Gary.
Stuart went to the local school, which had a good academic reputation. One of his new friends had a mother who was divorced. She confided in me, describing how difficult it was being without a husband and how she and her son had to look for coins down the back of the sofa in order to buy food. It sounds dreadful, but when she was telling me this I felt a flash of relief that I had chosen to stay put. Financially it was so much easier now. And more importantly, Jock seemed to be behaving himself.
Even so, there were times when I couldn’t help imagining – as I still do, to be honest – what would have happened if I had followed my heart instead of being practical. I would daydream about the new life I might have built with Gary and those dear little girls who would have loved Stuart like a brother. Even if I’d gone it alone, I would have survived, I told myself. I was tougher than I seemed.
But then I’d look at our clever little boy – always top of the class! – and I knew that giving up Gary and staying with Jock was worth it for him. I swore I’d be the best mother I could. And part of this, at least so I believed at the time, was creating a secure and stable family for him. Besides, Stuart worshipped his father. Often they went fishing together – there was this big lake nearby – or they’d go off to a football match. They would return flushed and happy. I would have felt terrible if I had deprived him of that relationship.
On the occasions that I allowed myself to get carried away by a fantasy about Gary, I would try extra hard to be nice to Jock by making him a special meal or suggesting that we went out to the cinema together. It seemed to work because he would do the same to me, even bringing me back a small present every now and then. Never perfume. After Cross Lane, it was as if he knew that was one thing I would never want.
‘I’m glad you took my advice,’ remarked my mother when she visited. I watched her cast an eye around our brand new three-bedroom house in a nice street, not far from the shopping centre. ‘I’m proud of you.’
Never had she praised me like that before. I was so taken back that I didn’t know what to say in return. But her words did make me feel better about myself.
That’s not to say my life wasn’t emotionally challenging, especially in those early years. Naturally, I took great care to put on a front before our son so he never guessed the truth. Sometimes friends asked why we hadn’t had another child and I would say something vague like ‘it just didn’t happen’. Part of me still longed for a daughter but there was no way that I could ever let my husband touch me again.
Life went on. John Lennon died (it seem
ed impossible!) and we went to war with Argentina over the Falklands. (‘Quite right too,’ declared Jock.) As more years went by, the memories of that terrible time in Hackney began to fade and I began to experience moments of true happiness again, such as at school prize giving when Stuart got more trophies than anyone else. Jock and I clapped until our hands were sore and I had to stop my husband from whistling his excitement and pride. Those nightmares about Jane began to ease off, thank heavens. So too did my fantasies about Gary. Our son by now was growing up into a thoughtful young man. He had Jock’s height but I made sure that he had none of his father’s uncouth manners or gruff behaviour.
He was such a lovely boy, Poppy! So kind, and the way he would listen patiently before he spoke was completely unlike Jock. ‘Quite a little gentleman, isn’t he?’ sniffed my mother, but not in a disapproving way.
By the time Stuart was doing his A levels, I actually began to feel reasonably content. And when he got accepted to read dentistry at Newcastle, Jock and I were over the moon.
‘Fancy that,’ said my husband. ‘The first in our family to get into university!’ He gave me a hug; the nearest we’d got to intimacy for years. And I found myself hugging him back.
Central Criminal Court, London
‘I will ask the question again, Mrs Page. If, as you claim, you never wanted to see Matthew Gordon again, why did you agree to meet with him a third time?’
Poppy Page raises her head. Her eyes are red. Wild. She looks capable of almost anything in that moment.
‘Because,’ she says, as if through gritted teeth, ‘that man hounded us. He refused to leave me or my family alone. He signed up as a patient at my husband’s dental practice. He told Stuart that he was at drama school with me. He sent him a picture of us as students. He encouraged one of my clients to sue me. He told me he wouldn’t stop unless I agreed to meet with him. So eventually I did. He told me to go to the Embankment Gardens. But …’
She stops.
‘Please,’ says the barrister silkily, ‘continue.’
Poppy raises her chin defiantly. ‘But before our meeting, I looked him up online to see if I could find anything on him.’
‘Why did you do that, Mrs Page?’
‘I was looking for a way to make him stop. Something to level the playing field. Then I checked out Facebook. And that’s when I made the discovery about Sandra.’
She pauses again. The court seems to lean forward as one, waiting.
‘Yes,’ says the barrister, a trifle impatiently.
Poppy Page gives a hoarse laugh. ‘You won’t believe it.’
27
Poppy
The following morning, when Stuart is back in his surgery and Daisy is at home with a cold, I go back to Matthew’s Facebook page.
A picture of a much younger Matthew beams out at me along with his profile. ‘Title role in Peter’s Paradise …’
The wording doesn’t mention the fact that the show ended years ago. It’s as if Matthew is still resting on his laurels. He hasn’t put much up in the last two years, I notice, apart from a picture of him at the Association of Supporting Artistes and Agents’ Christmas party, where he has one arm round Jennifer and another round Doris. ‘Wonderful to meet stars in the making,’ he gushes.
There’s no mention of Sandra in his posts. Maybe I should search for her Facebook page instead. There’s nothing under Sandra Gordon, so I look for her under her maiden name, Wright.
There she is! But goodness, she’s changed. Poor thing looks like a shadow of her former self. So thin and gaunt. Almost angry too. Then I read the top post and gasp.
I can’t believe what I’m seeing …
An RIP message. From someone called Tom. ‘To the best sister in the world.’
Sandra is dead? I can scarcely believe it. That’s awful. She was only my age. In fact, according to the date of this post (the last one on it), she’d died two years ago from ‘complications’ as a result of her MS. But not only was her early death tragic, it also showed Matthew in his true colours. All his ‘sob stuff’ about caring for his wife – not to mention the conversation I’d overheard on the staircase at the Christmas party – had been made up.
‘I’m going to kill you, Matthew Gordon,’ I say out loud. It’s not the first time I’ve said or thought this. But this time, I mean it. ‘Just wait until I see you again.’
Then I hear a scuffling outside my study door.
Quickly, I slam the laptop shut.
‘Sorry,’ says Betty, coming in as she knocked. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just wanted to say that I’ve made some nice onion soup. Just the thing for Daisy’s sniffles. You might like some too.’
She’s eying the laptop as she speaks. Had she seen me close it so fast? Could she have heard me? No. Or she wouldn’t look so normal.
‘I was just arranging to see a friend for lunch on Tuesday,’ I say, trying to sound casual.
‘Good for you. I’m always telling Stuart that the two of you work too hard and need to take more time out. How old are her children?’
I’d never actually said it was a female friend. Or that she had kids. Betty just assumed this was the case. In my mother-in-law’s books, family is sacrosanct. And I’m grateful. I couldn’t have run my business without her here. On top of that, Daisy and Melissa have learned so much from their grandmother.
Just as long as they don’t learn from me.
By the time Tuesday comes, Daisy’s much better. Meanwhile, I am champing at the bit to tell Matthew what I’ve found out.
‘I can pick up the girls from school after my meditation class, if that’s helpful,’ Betty says before I set off. ‘We’ll drop off at a coffee shop on the way back.’
This is one of their treats. In fact, Betty often gets things out of the girls this way and then passes information onto me ‘because I thought you ought to know, love’.
My mother-in-law would have made a great spy. Through her, I learned that Melissa definitely fancied Jonnie, that floppy-haired, slightly cocky boy from school. I only hoped that the intense happiness followed by the equally intense pain (both of which inevitably accompany a first love) wouldn’t interfere with her school work. I’d already had various talks with her over the years about ‘being careful when it comes to sex’ and about making sure that she really cared for someone before ‘getting too serious’.
I had been thinking, since Betty told me about this boy, that I should talk to Melissa again about using protection. I still cringe when I remind myself that Matthew and I hadn’t used anything in the Worthing hotel. Talk about being a hypocrite. I really ought to get myself checked out, but then I could hardly go to our GP.
In the end I’d gone to one of those anonymous walk-in sexual health clinics near Tottenham Court Road last week, hoping, as I went in with my head bowed, that no one I knew had spotted me. London might be a big place but it’s surprising how many people you can bump into.
There were three other women there, roughly my age at a guess. And two elderly men. None of us looked at each other. I got out my iPad to catch up on work emails, pretending that this was no more significant than, say, than a routine dental appointment. Inside, I felt dirty. How had it come to this? I’m a mother of two, for pity’s sake.
But the nurse who did the vaginal swab was very matter of fact and told me that she wished more people ‘of my age’ were as sensible. If only she knew the full story. The good thing was that, to my relief, I was clear.
At least that’s one thing I’ve been able to tick off my list of things to worry about.
‘Don’t hurry back,’ Betty says as I now rush out of the door to meet Matthew. ‘You enjoy your chin-wag. We need friends in this world, Poppy. Someone to share your troubles with.’ For the briefest of moments, there’s a look of sadness I have never seen before in her eyes. Then it’s gone. ‘Now have fun, won’t you?’
What would my mother-in-law say if I told her the truth? I almost feel tempted. No. She’d be shocked. Hor
rified. Our relationship would be ruined for ever. So instead, I head into the crisp January sunshine – the type where the pale low sun almost blinds your eyes – towards the Tube station. I’m so wobbly with nerves that I drop my Oyster card on the ground after touching the scanner. ‘Here you are,’ says the man behind me.
‘Thanks.’
He flashes me a smile. ‘It’s a pleasure.’
Going down the escalator, I feel him standing close. Is he anything to do with Matthew? I spend the whole ride tensed up, ready to run, but at the bottom the man overtakes me and takes the passageway going north instead of south. I’m being neurotic. Matthew has made me doubt everything. What exactly does he want to talk about? I decide that I’ll save my revelation about Sandra as a card up my sleeve until I find out. It might convince him finally to leave me alone.
As I emerge from Embankment station and walk past the flower sellers with early daffodils in their buckets, I can almost pretend that I really am going to see a friend for a jolly lunch. I’ve always loved this part of London with its view onto the Thames. When the children were small, I would bring them here before a trip to the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. As they got bigger and my business grew, these outings became fewer and fewer. I realize too late that I should have done more with the girls when they were growing up.
But then again, that’s the least of my misdemeanours. If they ever find out about Matthew, they’ll never want to see me again. I’m sure of it.
Once more, I cannot help running the future before me. They won’t want me at their weddings. They might stop me from seeing my own grandchildren. I’ll become a pariah. The mother who wrecked their lives by having an affair. I know this because that’s exactly how I feel about my own mother, hypocrite that I am.
‘Pops,’ says a voice. ‘So you came!’
I almost didn’t see him, but there he is. That high forehead. That dark swept-back hair. The nose, which might look prominent on some men but which lends his face a handsome, almost Grecian air. The firm jaw that juts out at me arrogantly. (For some reason, he’s stroking it.) The fact that, despite everything, I still feel a stirring inside when I look at him, makes me even angrier, not just with myself but with him.