The Subsequent Wife

by Priscilla Masters

  As I strapped myself into the passenger seat I tested the water. ‘You don’t seem so bothered about your stuff now,’ I said. ‘Are you sure you still want to pay to keep it here?’

  He looked amused. ‘Are you trying to eject me? Isn’t that bad for business?’

  I wasn’t sure how to take this.

  ‘At least I know it’s safe there,’ he said, quite calm now. ‘It’s enough to know that. I don’t need to keep seeing it, reminding myself it’s there.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘It’s in here as well,’ he said. ‘I’m always aware of it, Jennifer. I know every single item in there.’ He turned to face me. ‘I need to keep it there. I need to preserve it.’

  ‘To remind you of Margaret?’

  The words were out before I’d had time to think.

  He didn’t answer. And the look he gave me was as strange as snow is in summer or a heatwave in December. There was something inappropriate about it. I felt cold. I waited for him to speak.

  ‘I don’t need proof of her existence,’ he said finally, staring straight ahead, his face taut. Then he turned to face me, his skin waxy pale. He looked unhealthy. ‘I won’t forget her. Not ever.’

  It wasn’t exactly what I’d hoped or expected to hear.

  I could have put an Elastoplast on it, assured him she had been his wife and of course he wouldn’t forget her, but the words choked up my throat. He was staring through the windscreen now, his expression blank while I tried to figure things out. I’d never seen him look grief-stricken about his wife’s death. Yet, surely, preserving all her stuff must mean that he still loved her?

  He turned around. ‘You smell nice,’ he said, then he slipped the car into gear and edged out on to the road. I breathed easier now we had left The Green Banana behind and Scarlet and Andy’s watchful gaze. Their car was behind us but soon turned off. Steven drove carefully, taking no risks, always within the speed limit. I felt safe.

  Which the traitorous little voice that lies within all our skulls countered with: Until …

  We headed out of Tunstall, turning into the Leek Road and travelling through Stockton Brook and Endon until we reached farmland. He kept silent all the way but seemed to be arguing something within himself. Then he turned right, over the canal bridge, beneath which, years ago, a man had hanged himself. I never knew his name or his circumstances. We headed towards Stanley village, driving past scattered cottages, barn conversions, and the two sixties’ houses beyond the pub, turning left into a curving tarmacked drive which ended at the front door of a very neat, characterless bungalow, its name engraved on a slate plaque set into the brick wall. This, then, was Yr Arch.

  TWENTY-THREE

  I felt a wisp of disappointment as I took in the lawn to the side of the drive, one solitary tree in its centre. I’d built up Steven’s house to be so much more than this plain, unobtrusive, uncared-for house, which begged to be ignored like a plain girl in a plain dress at a noisy party. But then I should have expected this. Of course Steven would live in a quiet, simple house. It fitted. As he parked the car, I studied its unexciting exterior and started to wonder about Steven’s relationship with his dead wife. Had she been like my analogy of the plain girl? Perhaps seeing me studying it, Steven glanced across at me, raising his eyebrows. ‘Is this what you expected?’

  Unable to stop myself I shook my head. ‘Nothing like it,’ I said.

  He gave a chuckle and one of his almost-smiles. ‘So what did you expect?’

  I turned to face him then. ‘I thought it would be an old cottage,’ I said, ‘with white walls and black beams.’

  He looked at his house and smiled again, tight-lipped. ‘Sorry to disappoint,’ he said, sounding hurt.

  I touched his hand. ‘It doesn’t.’

  ‘This was built in the 1960s,’ he said. ‘They didn’t go in for mock Tudor then.’ We were still sitting in the car, the uninspiring bungalow in front. I realized he was waiting for me to say something complimentary. I have never been good at smothering my negative feelings with false bonhomie. I couldn’t think of a thing to say so I simply looked around me and tried to find something nice to focus my eyes on.

  There was only one thing. ‘What a lovely tree.’

  ‘Apple tree,’ he said shortly.

  I had to find something to break the taut atmosphere.

  ‘Is the tree the same age as the house?’

  ‘No.’

  I turned back to study the house.

  It was brick built, with plain, UPVC windows and three wide steps leading up to a white-painted front door. Obviously compared to living on the streets, my single bedroom at Jodi and Jason’s, or the earthquake zone that my quarrelling parents’ house had become, it was a palace. But my cursed imagination had filled in the blank with something else. A pretty garden. An archway of flowers. Something quaint. Maybe, I thought, it would look prettier in spring when the garden came to life. But what garden was there, except lawns and that one solitary, lonely tree?

  But if I lived here I could make a garden. My imagination coloured the picture. Bulbs in the spring, flower beds through the summer, roses climbing those plain walls.

  ‘So,’ I said, squaring my shoulders, ‘this is it.’

  It did the trick. Filled the void of silence and lack of appreciation. ‘Yeah,’ he said, sounding pleased now, putting his arm around me and drawing me to him. ‘This – is – it.’

  We climbed out simultaneously in a smooth, almost choreographed move.

  I followed him to the steps and the front door. He inserted his key, threw the door open and stood back, letting me enter first.

  Maybe that was a mistake.

  The first thing that you notice when you enter a house is its smell. Some places have pleasant scents: meals cooking, wood smoke, potpourri, plug-ins, bathroom deodorant, shampoo, air freshener, scented candles. Other homes have less pleasant odours to offer – tobacco, recent toilet activity, stale cooking. Or just stale air.

  That was the scent of Yr Arch – musty, fusty, like the home of an ancient aunt: old fashioned, old clothes, moth-eaten curtains, upholstery that has sat for too long, cloying and a bit sour. Underlying that was the vaguest hint of Light Blue. Basically, the house smelt of her. Dead her. Even two steps in I was being reminded that this had been her house and she had left her scent. Houses usually have sounds too. They are rarely completely silent. Washing machines whirr, central heating crackles, radiators expand and contract, electronic machines finish their cycle and bleep, as a message left on an answering machine alerts you to its presence. I had never been in such a quiet house before. Even the air seemed muffled and dead, and so I stood in the hallway and soaked in the oppressive silence. They say as silent as the grave. Is the grave, I wonder, silent? No one has been able to tell us.

  The complete lack of sound felt hostile, resentful of my presence. I would have liked to turn around and run away from this. I felt as though I couldn’t breathe in the atmosphere, which was as heavy as the air before a thunderstorm. I imagined her drifting towards me, studying me and rejecting me before drifting back down that long hall. One brief look was all she’d needed before she had turned her back on me and retreated, sucking the air behind her.

  Steven was behind me, waiting for a comment. I needed to stop this and get back to normality. He had told me she was dead and that, I told myself, is that. I am in a long narrow hall, I told myself. It has no windows so of course it’s dark. The windows and doors all need throwing open and this (imagined) smell will soon dissipate. Steven is standing behind me, waiting for me to speak. He wants appreciation. I can feel his hand on my shoulder. No one else is here. The doors off the hallway are all closed. No one is behind them. The rooms are all empty. And I can soon throw them all open. Windows too and let the spirits out.

  I leaned back into Steven while I absorbed more of the scene before me. I was not reassured. The carpet was beige with a few faint stains here and there, maybe muddy feet or spilt drinks. Someone had tried to scrub the
stains away with little success. Each stain was encircled by a paler patch. The walls were white with a hint of something – almond, cream, green, blue. Not quite pure, ice-white, yet just as cold. And it felt like that. It was like standing in a freezer. I actually shivered. A few sepia prints did their best to relieve the spartan feel but even those felt impersonal. Steven was still behind me, his hand gripping my shoulder. He was close enough for me to feel the warmth of his breath but, perhaps still waiting for my verdict, he said nothing. I turned around to search his face and had a sudden panic. I did not recognize him. I turned to face him. He looked different here. Maybe it was the light, but it was as though I was looking at a stranger. I play-acted and took a step into his arms, laughing, trying to shatter the atmosphere with jolly words and a lie. ‘It’s lovely.’

  I knew instantly he was relieved. He exhaled; his arms relaxed and I followed my sentence with another of those fake laughs, ‘I don’t know which door to open first.’ To me my voice sounded hollow, echoing down the corridor and bouncing back towards me. I could hear the ring of insincerity. But, apparently, Steven did not.

  He pressed his lips down on mine, and for the first time I sensed some passion behind the gesture. ‘You’re here now,’ he said, stroking my hair and drawing me in close. ‘And I’m glad you’re here. I worried about bringing you. I worried what you might think. A woman looks at a house differently.’

  ‘But Margaret liked it.’ I opened my eyes to look straight into his, which were troubled now and evasive.

  But he agreed with my statement. ‘Yes.’

  He put his hands either side of my face now. ‘I worried,’ he said. ‘I thought it might hold too many ghosts.’ His words were light, almost jocular, but his face was deadly serious.

  ‘Ghosts?’

  We laughed together and he stepped forward while I followed.

  But the truth was I did feel uncomfortable here, watched and criticized, just like at home. Something did not feel right, but I could not work out what it was. I consoled myself with saying; this is just my first time. The feeling will melt away with each successive visit. As I followed Steven along the hallway, I sensed her beside me, tut-tutting. And knew already she disapproved.

  I shouldn’t have asked. ‘Have you ever brought anyone else here?’

  He couldn’t seem to give me an answer.

  And even more stupidly, I asked again. ‘Have you had other girlfriends here – since Margaret?’

  I waited but he shook his head. ‘No.’

  I did not ask him to enlarge.

  He opened the door at the end of the hall and I followed him into a kitchen.

  It was old fashioned, fitted with dark oak cupboards at floor level, while the eye-level cupboards were glazed displaying china plates, cups and saucers. They looked like bone china and had pink, gaudy flowers over a white background and fine rims of gold.

  The floor consisted of terracotta tiles and the worktops were pale oak. The effect was dull brown and uninspiring. I could picture ‘Margaret’ here but not me. I half closed my eyes to see her standing at the sink in M&S ‘slacks’ and a polyester blouse. (No need to iron, she would say.) I saw her as beige-coloured, someone polite and unobtrusive, with a soft, pliant voice. Very like her husband. But towards me I felt waves of unmistakable hostility. My picture acquired detail. Her skin was pale, like Steven’s. She wore no foundation. Her hair was similar to mine, light brown, the colour soft and shining in the light, falling not quite straight to her shoulders. Knowing it was her best feature, she would touch it often, drawing attention to it with her hands. Her eyes, without make-up, would look small and shrewd, and her lips with clumsily applied lipstick too pink – the wrong colour for her complexion – were in danger of appearing tight, mean and ungenerous.

  Picking none of this up, of course, Steven crossed the floor to pick up the kettle. ‘Coffee?’

  I’d have preferred a glass of wine – whatever colour he had in the house – but I nodded. ‘Thank you.’ I felt stilted and awkward and my voice was muffled, as though I had spoken from outer space, sending the words floating down to the three people in this room. I scanned the kitchen, searching for a clue as to the source of this resentful vibe. But I found nothing. It must be all inside my mind. A by-product of a fertile imagination. Now it was I who tut-tutted – at myself.

  The kitchen was neat and tidy, the smell in here one of bleach and surface cleaners. Apart from the white plastic kettle, the oak surfaces were clear, the cupboard doors closed, the tea set tidily placed on a tray. I moved towards the windows over the sink. Through the gloom I just made out a small square of back garden bordered by a low hedge, and beyond that fields which stretched into foggy invisibility. Steven handed me a mug of coffee. Though he was smiling, his face was anxious now, perhaps picking up on both my scrutiny and my uncertainty. Or maybe he was sensing her presence too – and her disapproval. Maybe I didn’t fit the mould after all. He was still waiting for me to say something. But I fumbled for words. He prompted me.

  ‘Like it?’ There was a touch of pride in his voice.

  It’s a terrible feeling when you are expected to say something nice and you can’t find a single appropriate word out of the thousands of adjectives swimming around in our language. Even a simple nice would have been something, but the words collided in my brain. I had told enough lies for the day.

  I couldn’t say I loved it; neither could I say it was homely, so I said nothing as I nodded. But I did manage a smile. Which reassured him. He gave me a light kiss on the cheek and his hand slid down my arm as the kettle boiled. He handed me a coffee, took one himself.

  ‘Come into the sitting room.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I didn’t see it straight away.

  Clutching my coffee mug, I’d followed him into another square beige room with UPVC patio doors taking up almost an entire back wall. Outside the light had almost gone but I could just make out a rotary washing line over a paved area and pictured her, pegs in mouth, hanging out his and her clothes. As I stood at the window and stared out, the last of the light faded; the picture was gone, replaced by a black void.

  In spite of my experiences with Mum and Dad, I had thought a home could, possibly, be a haven, somewhere you could kick your shoes off and feel relaxed. You left your troubles outside. This house had a different feel to it. It felt uncomfortable, uneasy with itself. This place felt more like the ugly open-cast destruction Mr Budge had planned for my pretty green valley. Disturbed, I turned back into the room, eyes sliding over the three-piece suite (beige Draylon) and television. Turned my gaze upwards and froze.

  Have you ever been on a continental holiday where you are stopped in your tracks and a street artist offers to sketch you? My mother has. In the far-distant days when she and Dad were happily married, it happened to her. And the vain, silly creature had had it framed and put over the fireplace. We looked at it day after day.

  The same must have happened to Margaret. Obviously the picture must be of her. It could not have been me. The eyes mocked me. Work this one out. I stepped forward and looked up into a pair of eyes that were a mirror image of my own.

  I couldn’t say anything at first and then I found some words. ‘Is that …?’

  ‘My wife,’ he said proudly. He walked up to the fireplace and touched the picture with reverence, spreading his hand over the glass.

  ‘That’s Margaret?’

  It was a rough sketch, the sitter square-on to the artist. A few strokes indicated shoulder-length brown hair, full lips, blue eyes. It could have been me or it could have been almost any woman with the same colouring. I didn’t like looking at it, putting a voice, mannerisms to it, bringing her back to life. Was she my doppelgänger, was that why Steven had picked me out?

  I watched Steven’s face. He was rapt as he focused on the picture, transported to happier times.

  Sometimes we absorb a fact at the time but only realize its significance months later. He still wasn’t wearing his wedding
ring. I noticed when he’d put his hand up to touch the sketch. The slight indentation and white line where it had been was still there, too.

  But at the time my mind was grappling with my interpretation, substituting logic for wild fantasy. Men and women often ‘go’ for the same type. Partners divorce only to find another spouse with the same physical appearance – and the same faults. This is why having divorced an abusive husband, a woman frequently selects her next partner with the same characteristics. Teresa Simpson (A9) would likely fall for another philanderer. And me? As I have said, I attract bad men as flies are attracted to rotting meat. All types except Steven.

  He was the exception.

  I looked again at the picture and seemed to read uncertainty in that mouth, drawn in a too-bright red, a deeply held doubt in those pale eyes. In that too I recognized myself and touched my own mouth.

  This was a picture of a person who doubted herself too deeply ever to be convinced she was worthy. And no shade of lipstick would mask that.

  So, I thought, this is Margaret and this is me.

  Margaret and I were the same. Steven had done the predictable, been attracted to a similar type. She wasn’t the M&S beige trousers I’d imagined. She was me.

  I stared. Sometimes when you stare at a portrait you swear you see the person move. I could have sworn she blinked or winked.

  I turned around. ‘How old was Margaret when she died?’

  It was, surely, a simple question, but it seemed to throw him. He didn’t know the answer.

  I waited.

  Then, with a smile, he finally responded, ‘Thirty-six.’