The Subsequent Wife

by Priscilla Masters

  I grabbed one of Stella’s well-worn phrases, one we had giggled over many times.

  A little wine, a little time. We would get there, reach Nirvana.

  We climbed the hill. It was quite a pull and I was puffing and panting, but finally we’d reach the top; the path narrowed and we looked down on the sea, still sparkling in winter sunshine.

  The view seemed to release something in him. He laughed and pulled me towards him. He tilted his head out towards the sea as though greeting an old friend. I heard the waves gushing over the rocks, the phut-phut of an outboard motor and the distant tinkle of bell buoys marking the locations of lobster pots. Far out towards the horizon a huge oil tanker, probably heading for the refinery at Milford Haven, moved like a great leviathan.

  ‘I love it,’ I said and buried my face in his jacket.

  ‘That is good.’ He responded mechanically and I realized he was still in that other place.

  We carried on walking. The wind whipped up and all of a sudden it felt like January. I thought with longing of the flagged floors, log fire and welcome warmth of The Lobster Pot.

  And I was anxious to find out what I could from Gwen.

  I shivered. ‘Can we turn back?’

  He seemed to see me then. ‘You’re cold?’

  ‘Yeah, I am a bit.’

  ‘Let’s just round the headland. I want to show you St Anne’s Head. And the fort. Then we can drop down to West Dale and head back, if you like.’

  ‘I do like. Fort?’

  ‘It’s a funny old place,’ he said. ‘But it’ll keep till another day.’

  So we battled on, the wind stronger than ever and the path narrow and slippery. I hardly dared look down on the waves bashing against the rocks with fury. Towering above us were grey walls, presumably the fort, but we skirted past it, our heads down against the wind. The noise of the wind and the sea made conversation impossible.

  At last the path descended, and with it the weather and the din subsided. Way below us was a wide empty sandy beach where the waves rolled in more tamely.

  An hour or so later we were back at The Lobster Pot.

  Gwen fussed over us and made us a pot of tea.

  As I watched her, I was lining up questions in my mind. She would be someone who found it easy to talk. She would be a provider of information and would have observed Steven with his first wife without prejudice.

  But I was in for a disappointment.

  Steven said he needed a hot shower. His clothes were soaked and mud-stained where he’d slipped on the path. ‘You go first,’ I said. ‘I’m desperate for a cup of tea.’

  As soon as he was gone, I asked her, ‘What was she like?’

  ‘Sorry?’ She seemed very confused by the question.

  ‘Margaret,’ I said. ‘Steven’s first wife.’

  ‘I didn’t actually meet her.’

  I stared at her.

  ‘They didn’t stay here,’ she said. ‘They had a house – along The Brig.’

  ‘You didn’t see her?’

  She laughed. ‘No. I think she must have been the indoor sort. And the weather wasn’t kind.’

  I couldn’t work this out. ‘How long were they here for?’

  ‘Four or five days.’

  ‘And you never saw her?’

  ‘No. As I say – the weather wasn’t great. He’d pick up some food a time or two, a couple of our home-made pies, take them back.’

  ‘Where did they stay?’ I wondered then whether she had been already ill. ‘When was this?’

  ‘Oh, a year or two ago.’

  I was even more confused. ‘But she died three years ago.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think it was that long ago, love. I’ll ask my Noah.’

  Sometimes you regret asking a question. I had wanted to know so much more: what she’d looked like. Like me? How she had spoken? Why had they come here? But the questions were sliding away. I had the feeling that each answer would take me further from the version I had constructed from Steven’s story and the bits I had pieced together.

  I twisted my wedding ring around on my finger. Welsh, Clogau, rose gold. It had, at some time, been enlarged, with a let-in of a slightly different coloured gold – more yellow and without the pink tinge of the extra copper. My fingers were fatter than hers? But the sapphire engagement ring had been too big. Another anomaly.

  Who was she, this woman who had never worn the clothes he had bought her, had never been seen on an entire holiday, who had been on that invisible holiday after the date she had died? Whose fingers were either bigger or smaller than mine?

  Was she still alive?

  Had he committed bigamy? Was she dead? Had she died? I had no evidence, no death certificate, no headstone. No one I knew so far had been able to corroborate the story. I thought back to the wedding and Steven’s sole friend, our best man, Colin Ripley and Kara, his wife. They had never met Margaret either. I knew instinctively that there was no point asking Steven for the true version. He would deflect the query as deftly as a Wimbledon tennis champion returns a shot. I reflected how little I actually knew him. And even less about her. Minnie’s warning floated in front of my mind again like a grey chiffon scarf which I wafted away. She was mistaken. It wasn’t him.

  He emerged from the end of the bar then, his hair still damp. ‘Hi,’ he said.

  I responded coolly. ‘Hello.’ Couldn’t prevent myself adding, ‘Feel better now?’

  ‘Yes.’ But he must have sensed something different. He looked from me to Gwen and back again and apparently digested some of our doubts. He made an effort to be hearty. ‘Are you going to have a shower?’

  ‘In a minute.’

  It was a long wait, the three of us awkward in each other’s company. Steven pinned Gwen down with a stare. ‘I’m sure you’re glad,’ he said, ‘that I’ve found love again.’

  Gwen said, ‘Umm,’ while she fished around for a suitable response, but she was looking at Steven in a very odd way. Almost a panic. She looked from me to him and back to me again, as though she wanted to tell me something and for some reason she was refusing to agree with his sentence. Her brow crinkled in confusion. I got the feeling she wanted to ask, Does she know?

  There was an awkward silence which even Steven couldn’t fill. Luckily a bearded Captain Pugwash entered the bar, dressed in a navy fisherman’s jersey, denims, and still wearing waders.

  ‘This is my husband,’ Gwen said, without even looking at him because her eyes were still wide open and fixed on me. Captain Pugwash stretched out a meaty paw. He smelt of fish, beer and tobacco and his hand was as coarse as sandpaper. ‘Pleased to meet you, Marg—’ His wife shot him a warning look. ‘This is Jennifer,’ she said. ‘Steven’s wife.’ The deliberation in her voice warned him. ‘They’re here on their honeymoon.’ He looked taken aback but soon recovered. ‘I’m Noah Rees.’

  I smothered a smile. Noah? What a reassuring name for a fisherman. I couldn’t have named him better myself, unless I had given him my instinctive name, Pugwash.

  ‘If you fancy a trip out to the islands, I’m your man. Particularly if you’re keen on seabirds.’

  I liked him instantly. ‘I am,’ I said, ‘especially—’

  I got no further. He wagged a finger at me, blue eyes sparkling. ‘No. Let me guess,’ he said. ‘Puffins.’

  ‘How …?’

  ‘The funny little sea parrot.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Well, now’s the wrong time of year for those …’ He still looked uneasy. ‘But you might be lucky and see some porpoises and seals. There’s plenty of those out there, and other birds as well. Perhaps even basking sharks or whales.’ He winked at me and I liked him even more. ‘You never know what you’ll see out on a boat.’

  I was in heaven. Stoke-on-Trent is about as far from the sea as you can get on this island and I’d hardly ever been to the coast. A couple of day trips to Prestatyn, with my parents warring even then, a coach trip to Blackpool out of season and one to Formby, but th
ey hardly counted. I’d been more aware of my parents’ arguments, embarrassingly loud on the coach, while I was more concerned about being thrown off than appreciating the beauty of the seascape.

  Steven had moved away from me, distancing himself from the exchange. I had the feeling that while he liked Gwen, he didn’t feel the same about her husband. He was watching Noah, an odd look worrying at his face, which I thought at the time I could interpret. A sea trip was not on his agenda. Perhaps he hadn’t taken a trip with Margaret. Maybe he or she hadn’t been able to swim. I felt a warm wash of satisfaction. Like I’d got one over on her. I felt bound to make some contact with him and touched his arm. ‘Hey. Sounds great, doesn’t it?’ The look he gave me took me aback. It was part panic and part this uncomfortable distancing, as though he didn’t know who I was.

  We had become virtual strangers again.

  ‘Right,’ I said, ‘I’m off for my bath.’

  I spoke so much more brightly than I felt.

  I’d enjoyed my soak and had just dressed when the door opened. He was frowning. He stepped towards me, his eyes very wary. ‘I need to talk seriously to you,’ he said, and my heart skipped a beat. He pushed me back towards the bed and I plopped down, still wary and apprehensive. He sat beside me. ‘You need to make a will,’ he said.

  Whatever I had expected, it had not been this. I gaped like a goldfish, finally stuttering out, ‘But I haven’t got anything to leave. Who would I leave it to?’

  He wiped my hair out of my eyes, gentle this time. ‘You don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Marriage automatically revokes any previous will. And now we are married you are entitled to half of anything I own.’

  My mind was busy then exploring this. ‘Half of everything?’

  He nodded.

  And my mind worked it out. Half his house, half his car, half any money he had saved up. I scooped in a very deep breath. This sounded good to me. But he hadn’t finished. ‘If I die,’ he said, ‘you get the lot.’

  I was silent for a moment, then asked the obvious question. ‘You’re not ill, are you?’

  He smiled then. ‘No.’

  ‘Good.’ Then another thought felled me. ‘And if I die?’

  He simply smiled. Smiles come in all shapes and sizes and this one was bland. Nothing tucked behind it. It was Steven’s meaningless smile, empty of everything – humour, recognition, friendliness.

  We spent the afternoon wandering around the tiny village. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘we can go to Tenby if you’d like.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  At six o’clock, he stood up. ‘Time to eat.’

  I waited until we were sitting down at dinner, full of tasty fresh fish, happy and relaxed, when I made my first mistake of many.

  I leaned forward on my elbows and God-only-knows why said, ‘Tell me about Margaret. Why do you never talk about her?’

  Immediately his face hardened. He looked suspicious. He picked up a chip from his plate and chewed the end off, not looking at me. ‘Why do you want to know? What do you want to know?’

  I was shocked at his hostility. His eyes were hard as granite. I felt unnerved but ploughed on regardless.

  ‘I wonder,’ I continued boldly, ‘if I am anything like her.’

  ‘You could be,’ he said thoughtfully, his face a little softer. ‘You could well be.’ He touched my hair, stroked it away from my face, tucked a strand behind my ears. ‘You could be her.’

  I realized then that the months we’d spent ‘dating’ had been a rehearsal. But what the next act was I couldn’t even guess.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  As a honeymoon I wouldn’t say it was a great success. Nothing like the romantic break I’d imagined; not like the stuff I’d seen on the telly and dreamed about for years: dancing cheek to cheek, long sessions in bed. In fact, the sessions were more like me playing a waxwork while Steven … well. Put it like this, it was over almost before it had started, which was probably a good job as he preferred me to lie perfectly still and hardly breathe. Lovemaking? Not exactly. Sometimes I’d reflect. Why didn’t he just buy an inflatable doll?

  The weather didn’t help. It rained steadily right through the first couple of days. And however beautiful, however picturesque, however fabulous the seaside is, when it rains it rains. All you can see is raindrops bouncing off a dull, hostile stretch of grey water. The sea looked cold and uninviting. The country is the same from north to south, east to west. When you go outside you are wet and cold, whether in the middle of Wolverhampton or down in beautiful Pembrokeshire. You get wet and you get cold if you venture away from the fire. I was bored and fed up. It was OK for Steven. He could sit half the day with a crossword and a pint of beer, ignoring me once he’d realized I wasn’t going to supply him with any of the answers.

  Which irritated him.

  I tried to speak to Gwen, but Steven seemed to sense it. And she deflected any questions. Noah had given up on the idea of taking us out in the boat. He spent most of the time either doing renovations or else sitting in the corner with his cronies, their conversations getting louder and louder as the beer went down, accompanied by loud guffaws.

  And then one evening, he was sitting on his own by the fire, looking pensive. Steven was in the shower, so I judged it safe to speak to him. ‘Can you remember exactly when Steven was here with his wife?’ I’d tried to make it sound innocent, an idle question, but he looked sharply at me with those faded blue seadog’s eyes.

  ‘Why don’t you ask him?’

  I had my answer ready. ‘I don’t like to bring up the subject. It seems …’ I tried a slick trick, ‘… as though I’m jealous. And I’m not, Noah.’

  ‘Right.’

  He needed prompting. ‘So, when was it?’

  ‘A year or so ago.’

  ‘Could it have been three?’

  I got another of those sharp looks but he shook his head.

  ‘Do you remember her?’

  ‘Never got to see her.’

  I was frowning. This didn’t sound right. ‘Not once?’

  ‘No.’ And then he picked up on my thoughts. ‘Strange, I agree.’

  Steven arrived then and looked tensely across when he saw me speaking to Noah.

  ‘What were you talking about?’

  I was getting to know this oil slick of a question. ‘I was talking to him about your previous visit. Where was it you stayed?’

  ‘Seagull Cottage,’ he said. ‘The pink one on The Brig.’

  I tried to make my next question merely an extension of the first. ‘When was it?’

  He tightened his lips. ‘You already know Margaret died three years ago. So it must have been before then, mustn’t it?’

  I persisted. ‘Was she already ill?’

  His eyes grew hard then. Had we not been newlyweds, I might have imagined he disliked me.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it. I’ve told you before. I don’t want to talk about Margaret.’ His hand, gripping the beer glass, shook slightly.

  I dropped the subject but I was dissatisfied.

  I knew then that I would have to unearth the rest of the story some other way than to ask Steven for details. And Gwen and Noah had none – except that they believed Margaret, who had remained invisible throughout, had visited Dale less than three years ago. Either both their memories were mistaken, one feeding facts from the other, or else Steven was lying. He couldn’t be mistaken – no one forgets the year their spouse died.

  Why would he lie? How would he lie? If she had had cancer, that was that. A natural death. But the word ‘natural’ rolled around in my mind like a marble. The opposite would be unnatural, with all the implications that brought with it.

  The next morning, our last in Dale, the weather had finally changed. The sun beamed down and did its best to warm the air. It wasn’t quite ice-cream weather but, wrapped up, we could take a picnic all the way to Dale Fort.

  The wintry sunshine almost blinded us as we stepped outside. Our shadows were long and swayed in
front of us, both of us distorted and huge, only discernible which was which by my hair blowing around my face. We crossed the town and began the climb up to the headland, threading behind the row of houses standing on The Brig. As we climbed we were, for a while, sheltered from the wind. But the moment we lost the protection of the houses we caught the wind again and quickened our pace. For a while, the coastal path left the road which climbed towards Dale Fort, a field centre for biological studies used by schools and colleges. Steven had described the place to me, but I had not yet seen it apart from its grey concrete walls when we had rounded the headland. ‘It’s spooky,’ he said, smiling, ‘with lots of strange places behind bars. Locked areas. It was a coastal artillery and has secret passages, so they say, which go down to the smugglers’ bays.’

  ‘Really?’

  He nodded, still laughing. ‘Really,’ he said. ‘It’s the oubliette of the Bastille.’

  ‘And they allow biology students to stay there?’

  ‘They keep the dangerous bits locked.’

  ‘I think you’re trying to scare me. Can we go in there?’

  ‘Best we stick to the coastal path, Jennifer.’

  Best we stick to the coastal path.

  To tell you the truth, I was glad when the honeymoon was over and I could go back to work. I had, mistakenly, thought being married would seal our relationship. But I knew for sure now, deep down, that there was something strange about Steven. Instead of feeling more comfortable in his presence, I was beginning to dread it. And the disquiet was compounding, a drum roll banging in my head leading up to something.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  ‘So how was the honeymoon?’

  I eyed Scarlet dubiously. I would love to have been able to confide in her, ask her what she thought – really – but I said nothing, and she prompted me.

  ‘Truth?’

  I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I couldn’t find them. She supplied them for me, a friendly arm around my shoulders. ‘A disappointment?’

  I nodded, avoiding her eyes, which held sympathy for my punctured dreams. Sympathy when she should have felt envy? After all, Steven was a catch, wasn’t he? I was in an enviable position, wasn’t I?