Halfway through the reception I saw a slight figure inch in, sticking to the wall, pressing herself against it as though she wanted to remain invisible. But I saw her and jumped up, my dress rustling as I hurried over to her. ‘Minnie.’ I was touched to see that from somewhere she’d begged, borrowed or stolen a pink blouse to wear over her ripped and stained jeans and I caught a waft of perfume. She’d made an effort, probably gone to Boots and sprayed herself from one of the perfume testers.
When I reached her, her eyes were fixed on Steven with a look of horror. ‘No. Jenny,’ she whispered, her voice hoarse. ‘No. Please tell me he isn’t …?’ I glanced across. Steven hadn’t noticed our surreptitious guest and was chatting easily to Ruby. I looked back at Minnie. ‘What is it?’
‘Tell me that isn’t your husband.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s Steven.’
She grabbed me and dragged me outside and I felt sure Steven had noticed now.
Outside the door she spoke softly. Underneath the ‘borrowed’ perfume she still smelt unwashed, stale. ‘Jenny,’ she said, steadying her voice now. ‘You know sometimes – if the girls are really short. You know hungry. No money. You know sometimes …?’
I nodded. I knew what girls who were desperate did for money.
‘They called him …’
I put my hands over my ears. Not today, not on my wedding day. I didn’t want to hear anything that might shatter my dream. ‘No,’ I said firmly.
‘You have to know.’ Her voice was gentle now but she looked determined. ‘They called him Coffin Man.’
I shook my head from side to side, as though I was a terrier shaking the life out of this mad tale. ‘No,’ I said equally forcefully. ‘No.’
But she wouldn’t stop. ‘He likes you to lie still? Very still.’
I knew then. No one could have made this up, thought it on a dark night, dreamed it in a nightmare. It was Edgar Allan Poe.
My mouth was dry now. I couldn’t find a word. Minnie, my adored friend, my mentor, my mate, had shattered my dream with these few words. I shook my head, but regretfully now. ‘Please,’ I said, ‘go away.’
She took one last look through the frosted glass in the door. There were sounds of laughter. It was a wedding breakfast. My wedding to Steven with whom I had felt safe – until now.
‘Go away, Minnie,’ I repeated
She looked at me for a brief moment, knew I believed her story, turned and left, slinking away like a shamed wolf, loping steps, shoulders bowed, head down.
She had ruined my day.
I took a deep breath, turned around and re-entered the room.
Andy and Sonny were still deep in conversation, both with beers in their hands. Ruby and Serena were cackling over something Ruby had said. Dad was still fumbling with Malee and Colin and Kara appeared to be having a bleak sort of row. The cold-shouldered, silent sort. She looking away, he staring ahead, lips pressed together. Looking at their faces I imagined this was one of many. Steven and I would never be like this, I swore.
He rose and came towards me, kissing my cheek. ‘Was that one of your friends?’ He looked beyond me. I read curiosity but no guilt.
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘but she couldn’t stay.’ And I hoped and prayed that he hadn’t recognized her.
He smiled at me, took my hand. ‘I’m so glad,’ he said, ‘that we’re together. That you can’t leave me now.’
Can’t?
I managed to prise Colin Ripley away from his wife. He was Steven’s best man. He must know him really well. ‘Did you ever meet Margaret?’
‘Sorry.’ He obviously didn’t have a clue what I was talking about.
‘Steven’s first wife.’
He shook his head. ‘No. I came to work with him after she’d … Look,’ he said, putting his hand on my arm. ‘Today isn’t the day to talk about this. It’s your wedding day. Enjoy it, Jenny. Just enjoy it.’
Like Steven, Colin Ripley was basically a nice man. Minnie must have mistaken Steven for someone else.
Everyone started drifting away soon after and we went home to Yr Arch. Our wedding night. Tomorrow we were going on our honeymoon. I comforted myself with a fable.
And they all lived happily ever after.
THIRTY-TWO
I woke early. And for a moment I couldn’t work out where I was. And then it all came flooding back. I lay on my back and stared up at the ceiling, remembering. I wished Minnie Ha-Ha hadn’t said it. Hadn’t used that particular phrase that resonated like a knell. Coffin Man. Why had she said it?
Steven pushed the bedroom door open and handed me a cup of tea, sitting on the bed. He was already dressed in his brown leather loafers, beige chinos and a maroon sweater. ‘We need to get going,’ he said. ‘It’s a long drive. A long way from here.’
‘How long?’ I was trying to guess our destination.
‘Most of the day.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Wait and see.’ Then he relented. ‘It’s a lovely little place. By the sea.’
‘In January?’
‘It has its own microclimate. It’ll be lovely walking weather.’ He pulled back the bed clothes. I was lying naked, exposed. I put my hands over my breasts and tugged at the duvet.
‘So where is it?’
‘A lovely, beautiful little village in Pembrokeshire. By the sea.’
‘Lovely.’
‘There are lots of cliff walks and other places to visit.’
I was getting excited now. ‘Are we staying in a hotel?’
‘In a pub,’ he said, grinning. ‘Even better. Food and drinks on tap. It’s the right place.’
What a curious phrase, I thought.
‘Time for you to get dressed now, Jennifer.’
It sounded like an order but I protested and drank my tea. He stood in the doorway, waiting, watching me all the time, occasionally turning his head to peer along the hallway. I felt hurried and uncomfortable. And this was my first morning as a married woman?
I showered in the bathroom. (Pink with a plastic shower curtain around the bath, but it worked well enough.) I locked the door and felt safe. Alone under the gush of warm water I could reflect. Last night had been …
They call it lovemaking. It was nothing like. There was no love, no affection, simply a mechanical act. I’d had boyfriends before, most of them inept at making love. Except David Ganger who, obviously, was a practised expert. But Steven’s advances were nothing like any of them. He wasn’t rough or thoughtless. Simply strange.
Don’t move.
Stay perfectly still.
Don’t make a sound.
Play dead?
He stripped me naked, pulling off my clothes. Minnie’s words resonated. Coffin Man. It was what it felt like. I had to play dead.
Minnie wouldn’t have used that phrase out of spite. She was not like that. But how else did she know?
He’d laid my clothes out for me on the bed, labels dangling. Black trousers. Black sweater. I protested. ‘Black? Not very honeymoon-y.’ I’d planned to wear jeans with a new pink sweater that I’d bought.
He was standing behind me, running his hands up and down my arms. He whispered into my ear. ‘Wear them for me.’
I got dressed. I wasn’t going to start my married life with an argument.
He’d already packed up the car so less than an hour later we were edging down the drive of Yr Arch and heading out towards Endon and the A53 which we’d take to Shrewsbury before heading down to Newtown and then southwest towards Pembrokeshire.
It was a long journey, taking most of the day. Every couple of hours or so we’d stop for a coffee, stretch our legs and then get back in the car.
‘I hope this is worth it.’ I was teasing but his response was deadly serious.
‘It is. Believe me – it is.’
I would far rather have been heading towards an airport and somewhere hot where I could stretch out on a sun lounger, soak up the sun and acquire a winter tan. Things that had seemed out
of reach only months before.
It was getting dark and I was dozing when he nudged me. We were rounding a corner. It was almost dark. Below us were the twinkling lights of a village and the moonlit ripples of the sea. I sat up. ‘We’re here?’
‘Yeah.’
I sat up as the car juddered to a halt outside a beautiful half-timbered pub across the road from the sea. It was beyond a dream. I climbed out of the car and flung my arms around Steven, who was stretching his legs and looking rather pleased with himself. ‘Well? This is Dale.’
‘Wow,’ I said and did a little skip. ‘Wow.’
He looked at me indulgently, like he really loved me. ‘You like it?’
I nodded.
I kissed him good and proper then. ‘I love you,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’ He stroked my hair away from my face, kissed my mouth. ‘And I you.’
A cool wind blew in from the sea, bringing with it the scent of salty seaweed and fish. The sounds were of the pennants on the masts of the boats, covered for the winter, tinkling in the breeze. I could see fishing nets stretched out to dry. I pushed open the heavy front door, oak studded with huge bolts, and feasted my eyes on the interior. Ancient beams with the scent of wood smoke mingled with frying food.
Only a few people sat at tables. All turned to stare at us.
Steven went up to the bar and spoke to the lady who’d watched us enter. She seemed to know him. ‘Mr Taverner,’ she said. She had a pronounced Welsh accent, speaking with a long ‘a’, emphasis on the first syllable.
‘Gwen.’
‘Nice to see you again.’ She was a large lady with brassy hair but a kind expression. She looked past him to me and raised her eyebrows.
‘So this is her, is it?’
Steven’s response was stern. ‘This is Jennifer, my wife. We were married yesterday.’
‘Oh.’ She seemed confused. ‘I’m so sorry, my dear. I was mistaking you.’
I didn’t know what to say. In the end I simply smiled and linked arms with my new husband.
‘I’ve put you in the best room,’ she said. ‘Right at the front with a gorgeous view of the sea. Now why don’t you decide what you want from the menu and I can be preparing it while you unpack.’
‘Good idea.’
The menu was chalked up on the board and consisted (unsurprisingly) of various fish dishes and a steak and kidney pie that claimed to be home-made. I chose the pie while Steven decided to have halibut.
By the time we’d carried our suitcases upstairs and hung our clothes in the wardrobe, Gwen was calling up the stairs. ‘You’d better come and eat before it gets cold.’
The room was similar in style to the bar. With blackened beams and a drunken floor. Through a planked door with a thumb latch, there was a small shower room. I peered through the window, hearing waves splash against the wall, visualized long walks along the seafront, full English (Welsh) breakfasts and perhaps days out at some of the nearby towns: Haverfordwest, Milford Haven, Pembroke. Even, if the weather permitted, boat trips out to Skomer or Skokholm. I’d seen the pamphlets fanned out on a table. Maybe this would turn out well.
The food was waiting for us on a table in the window, bowed with small, bottle-glass panes.
Steven sat back in his seat – an ancient, curved pew with a tall wooden back.
His eyes were closed. I put my hand over his. ‘Tired? It’s been a long drive.’
‘I was dreaming,’ he said, eyes still shut.
‘Pity I can’t share the driving. Maybe that’s the first thing on my to-do list, learn to drive.’
‘Maybe,’ he said and fell silent. His eyes were still closed, his lips moving. He was having some urgent conversation – with himself.
Which I ignored because I felt a bounce of youthful energy. ‘You’ll feel better when you’ve had something to eat and a beer.’ Gwen bustled across. ‘Going to have your usual Bluestone?’
I looked at her, querying. ‘Local beer,’ she said. ‘Steven loves it, don’t you?’ She turned her glance to me. ‘Food all right, love?’
‘Yes. Fine.’
‘How about a glass of a local wine for you, cariad?’
I didn’t know what cariad meant but it sounded friendly. ‘Thank you.’
‘They do a lovely red, see.’
Steven’s eyes opened as she returned with a beer for him and a generous glass of wine for me. We clinked glasses and started to eat. But I sensed he was distracted. My bounce of youthful optimism took a nosedive. ‘Is anything the matter?’
He shook my question away and I felt a snatch of concern.
‘You are happy, aren’t you?’
He nodded. ‘Mmm.’
He ate his food mechanically, without enjoyment. Turning away from this worry, I told myself over and over that I, at least, was happy. Very happy. So why did I feel the need to pick at the scab? ‘What were you dreaming about? You seemed to be having some sort of …’ My voice tailed away.
He seemed to be focusing on a point the other side of the bar, where three people were sitting, drinking, laughing. Two men and a woman.
I realized he was caught up in his own world, abstracted, somewhere else. Hard to reach.
He turned to me with a strange look bordering on hostile. ‘You want to penetrate my mind?’
‘Would that be such a bad thing to do?’
He batted the question away with his hand. I felt a distance between us.
The door opened and closed, bringing in a waft of cold, briny air. A dog trotted in.
‘How do you know this place?’
He was in a world of his own, far, far away. Lips moving. I would learn that he often retreated to this ‘other’ place. But I was a new wife then who didn’t know her husband very well. I asked again.
‘Steven. How do you know this place?’
He didn’t answer and I persisted. ‘You’ve been here before.’
He turned to look at me then but it wasn’t a warm look. He could have been looking at a stranger.
I fell quiet then. Asked no more questions.
I believed that he had brought Margaret here. On their honeymoon? Which struck me as creepy.
He remained distant while I tried to make small talk but I couldn’t seem to tear him away from past recollections.
I ate my food without enjoyment.
I looked across the table and smiled at him, at the same time realizing that I still hardly knew him, this pale-faced, polite, quiet man, who sometimes retreated into his own dark corner. I wondered what secrets he held inside that head of his. I reached out for his hand, trying to establish a reconnection, and he looked back uncertainly. ‘Jennifer?’
‘Are you happy, Steven?’ It’s the question no new bride should have to ask her husband.
Instead of giving an ecstatic, instant reply, he looked uncertain, a slight frown crumpling his forehead, and he seemed almost to delve right inside the back of his head. ‘Am … I … happy?’ He teased out the words, considering each one individually. His hand in mine felt like a dead thing, his eyes far away, his face set.
I dreaded what he was about to say. I almost put my hands over my ears.
‘Eat your food,’ he said, in a perfectly normal voice, ‘or it’ll go cold.’
Then I comforted myself with the thought that he was tired. We would feel different in the morning.
THIRTY-THREE
And to some extent we did.
The day began with what Gwen called a Full Welsh Breakfast.
Bacon, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, and something I’d never eaten before – lava bread. A seaweed, found on the coast, washed until it was free of salt and prepared. She’d cooked it with oatmeal until crisp and it was delicious. We had lashings of coffee to drink and freshly squeezed orange juice.
I caught Gwen watching me with a puzzled expression, but she was polite and friendly. Later, I thought, I would ask her some of the questions that had seemed to slide past Steven.
After breakfast we put our coats and w
alking shoes on and I had a better look at The Lobster Pot from the outside. It was small, stone, modest, only yards from the sea. It looked as though it might have been a smugglers’ tavern. Did they have smugglers in Pembrokeshire? I guessed so. It had plenty of character, built out of what looked like large, irregular boulders. Judging by the seaweed and the tide mark, the sea almost reached its door at high tide. Fishing tackle and lobster pots lay on the ground. Laughter spilled out through the open door, rippling across the bay. It felt a friendly fairy-tale place.
I smelt the tang of the sea, salty seaweed, fish. I breathed it in like a tonic, listening to the sound of the waves.
Exploring the village was a brief affair. It was tiny – no more than thirty houses. Gwen had provided us with a packed lunch and the winter sunshine poured down, encouraging us to walk.
Dale was one of the prettiest villages I had ever seen. It was its own picture postcard, the perfect place for a honeymoon – even in January. A few houses were scattered along the road around the bay before the road turned inwards, ending in The Brig, four or five houses grouped by a chapel. The tide was out so the scent of the sea was strong, boats pulled up on the beach. The rocks were covered in seaweed, slimy and shining, smothering the rocks, which looked lethally slippery. The main road turned to the right, but we climbed the hill behind The Brig, the sea dropping below us.
Steven still seemed disstracted and, while he was quiet, I planned the questions I would ask Gwen. I was coming to terms with the fact that this honeymoon was a rerun. Steven was always reluctant to talk about his previous wife, which had the result of making me feel jealous and insecure. One can never live up to the sanitized memories of the dead. As usual, I supplied my own narrative. He had adored his dead wife. He was still stuck in the past, a little. It was up to me to drag him into the present and lead him towards our future. And a family. I felt smug and optimistic. I could sort this. If it took every ounce of will, I would make this work.
The Subsequent Wife Page 20
