by Sue Teddern
‘What for?’
‘For being so sensible and up front about it. I knew you would be.’
‘Why didn’t you bring it up then?’
‘Because I’m a shit-for-brains Neanderthal man and we’re rubbish at stuff like that.’
‘You really are. So, line drawn? Clean slate? End of?’
‘Definitely.’ He looks ridiculously relieved. We’ve dispatched that pesky elephant with no blood spilled.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Malin
We’re on the train from Greenock Central into Glasgow Central, all three of us. Rob and I had a secret strategy chat over breakfast and agreed on how best to play this. We’re coming to the bookshop with Hilary, whether she likes it or not. She may be more worldly and well-travelled than me but she’s also forty years older.
Initially she assumes we three just happen to be on the same train because we shared a taxi from the quayside. At the first stop, Port Glasgow, Rob gazes out of the window and innocently asks Hilary if he’s ever met this Frank. ‘I must have done, right?’
It gets just the response he was after. ‘Of course you ruddy well haven’t, Robin. Why would I introduce my lover to my godson? I may be many things but I’ve always been a strict respecter of boundaries.’
‘Fair enough,’ Rob replies, pretending this is all the information he requires.
My turn. ‘Is Frank Glaswegian? Maybe he can suggest a nice place for lunch.’
Hilary feigns weariness at having to explain all this. But it’s obvious she wants to unload. ‘Originally. He moved to London in his twenties. He lives in Toronto now. Has done for years. He’s a visiting professor at Glasgow University. As I understand it, this reading at the bookshop is his last gig before he returns to Canada. Anything else you want to know, Nosy Nora?’
‘I remember you mentioning him when I visited. Wasn’t he your fiancé?’ I know this will jolt another snappy reply and I’m ready for it.
‘Fiancé . . . what a ridiculous concept. He was my lover, on and off, through most of the eighties. Ten years my junior. Arrogant, controlling, needy. But, by God, I gave as good as I got.’
‘What happened?’ Rob asks, knowing she’s finally ready to talk now.
‘I got tired of him banging on about his precious poetry all the time, without ever picking up a pen to write any. He was always meaning to do things and never getting around to it. When he finally left Vivienne so that we could be together, I was living with my darling Hans and he never forgave me. So he took a teaching job in Toronto and we lost touch. Hard to be lovers when there’s an ocean in between.’
‘Wow, Hilary, you really were quite the, quite the –’ I can’t think of the right word.
She grins. ‘I had my moments. I’m not saying Frank was the love of my life but he was most definitely one of them. It’s just that I can’t abide unfinished business. He was always a little troubled, emotionally. I need to know he’s okay.’
At Glasgow Central, we suggest Hilary dispenses with the subway ride and hails a cab. And, here’s an idea: why don’t we hitch a ride to the bookshop as we’re thinking of going to the Mackintosh House, which happens to be nearby?
‘You won’t let me do this alone, will you?’ she observes as our taxi takes us, rather symbolically, along Hope Street.
Rob and I smile. Busted. Hilary smiles back. She looks relieved to have us here, despite her bluster.
Glasgow University is gothic and grand, just as a university should be. The bookshop is a modern, sandstone building across the road from the campus, up a sloping hill.
We’re ten minutes early and are rather smug at how clever we’ve been to find our way here in good time. Hilary approaches an assistant stacking books on a table.
‘The Professor Stern event. Where do we go?’
She doesn’t know. She finds a colleague who does. ‘Ah,’ he tells us, his face full of professional regret. ‘Cancelled, I’m afraid. Professor Stern has a bad head cold. We only found out an hour ago. You can still buy one of his books, though.’
He finds us a copy, a slim volume of poems called Russet Apples: Late Thoughts, Lost Stanzas. While Hilary flicks through it, Rob pulls a tenner from his wallet. Now what? We regroup over coffee.
‘Back to the ship?’ I suggest. ‘We gave it our best shot. Or we really could go to the Mackintosh House. I’ve heard it’s amazing.’
Hilary says nothing but continues to turn the pages of Frank’s book. She stops at the title poem, ‘Russet Apples’. ‘He was always tinkering with this one, never finishing it. I told him: leave it be. It’s done, it’s good. Leave it ruddy well be.’
Rob catches my eye. What to do for the best. Is Hilary ready to leave Frank ruddy well be?
‘I need a wee,’ she announces and heads for the Ladies’.
‘At least we tried, Annie,’ Rob says when she’s out of earshot.
I agree. ‘Sometimes unfinished business has to stay . . . unfinished. You can’t write “The End” on every chapter of your life.’
I think about the relief on Rob’s face when I told him I was cool about That Night. He truly is happy-ever-after with Fi and now it’s my turn. I honestly feel I have a future with Simon. Or should I leave it ruddy well be? As soon as I get back, I need to find out.
Hilary returns from the loo, purposeful and triumphant. ‘I found that chap who sold us the book and, after much prevarication, he told me where Frank’s staying. So. Next stop, the Hilton Glasgow Grosvenor. It’s not far so if you could just look sharp, we’ll be on our way.’
I’m not sure why we thought Hilary would get lost in Glasgow without us. While Rob and I faff and fiddle with GPS and Google Maps on our phones, Hilary assertively leads the way to the Hilton. She got directions from the guy in the bookshop.
At Reception, she wastes no time with politeness. ‘Professor Stern. Please ascertain if he’s in his room.’
‘Of course, madam,’ a smartly suited young woman name-badged ‘Lila’ replies. ‘And who shall I say you are?’
‘His lover? The inspiration for a rather thin book of poems? No, on second thoughts, just say it’s Hilary.’
Lila rings his room. We wait. She smiles at us to show that she’s endlessly happy to help. We wait. Eventually she hangs up. ‘No reply, I’m afraid.’ She offers us a Hilton notepad and pen (which Hilary later pockets). ‘Would you like to leave him a message?’
‘I hardly think so. What on earth would I say?’
We regroup . . . again. We tried. We were unsuccessful. You can’t force an ending when there isn’t one. But, as we turn to the door, ready to leave, Hilary suddenly exclaims: ‘There he is. I’d know that hair anywhere.’
Sitting in an armchair, with his back to us, is an unruly mop of grey curly – verging on frizzy – hair. Professor Frank Stern. We’ve only ruddy well found him.
Rob and I are all set to approach but Hilary holds up a ‘halt’ hand to stop us. This is her unfinished business, not ours, so back off. We watch her walk to the armchair. She stops. She looks uncertain, then she forces herself on. We still can’t see Frank but we can see Hilary’s face as she reaches him. Ten seconds pass, maybe twenty, and she doesn’t say a word. Then she returns.
‘Well?’ Rob asks. ‘Why didn’t you speak to him?’
She shakes her head. ‘He was fast asleep. Snoring a little. Frank was always the most terrible snorer. I looked at him and I realized we were finished business decades ago. What on earth would be the point in raking it over now?’
‘Are you sure?’ I ask. ‘We’ve come all this way.’
‘Of course I’m ruddy well sure. Now, if we can just get back to the ship before 2 p.m., we’ll still be in time for lunch.’
Rob has learned that five laps around the deck of the Black Watch equals one mile so he’s aiming to get some serious running in while we’re at sea. Apparently Fi is addicted to Park Runs and has been trying, unsuccessfully so far, to enthuse Rob. He reckons, if he can improve his endurance and s
tamina while he’s away, he’ll be all set to take her on.
‘Starting now,’ he says, jogging on the spot in baggy shorts and an Arsenal T-shirt. ‘I think I’ll do a few circuits before dinner. Want to join me?’
‘Nice of you to ask, Robin,’ Hilary replies with a twinkle, ‘but I forgot to pack my high-impact sports bra. Annie might be interested, though.’
I pat my tummy. ‘After that lunch?’
‘I’ll take that as a no, then.’
‘Ask me tomorrow.’
So Hilary and I secure ourselves a couple of deckchairs for a spot of people-and scenery-watching. Next stop, Tobermory, on the Isle of Mull.
When I was packing, I decided to leave my precious Shipping Forecast map tea towel back at home (although, coincidentally, the very same one is framed and hung on a wood-panelled wall near the ship shop), so I trace the next stage of our route via my phone.
I show Hilary, who is failing to turn beyond page two of the Harlan Coben thriller she borrowed from the ship’s library. ‘Looks like we’ll be looping down past Arran and the Mull of Kintyre, then round Islay and Jura and north to Mull.’
‘Whatever.’
Not the response I was expecting. She’s bound to be pining for Frank, wishing she’d spoken to him at the hotel, wondering what might have been. She was very subdued – for Hilary – on the journey back to the ship.
‘Penny for them.’ It’s an icky phrase I’ve always avoided but I’m hoping it might kick-start a conversation.
Hilary ponders. ‘That strudel was too dense for my liking,’ she says finally. ‘I should have had the fresh raspberries.’
‘And Frank? Are you cool about not talking to him at the hotel?’
‘Am I cool? Am I cool? What do you think I am? A ruddy Frigidaire?’
Rob jogs past and we give him a wave. He looks a little pink in the face. Perhaps he should walk before he runs, but I know he won’t be told.
‘Yes, I’m “cool”,’ Hilary declares, doing those annoying quote marks. ‘As you might put it, I’m “totally cool”.’
‘Maybe you are . . . right now. But it’s only been a few hours since you saw him. The regret’s bound to hit you, sooner or later.’
‘My only regret is that strudel. What would have been the point in talking to him, Annie? Where would it have got either of us? Nowhere. That’s where.’
‘You just don’t know.’
‘I just do know, Miss Agony Aunt. Frank’s part of my past. He has no place in my present and certainly not in my future, if I have much of one at 77.’
‘You were dead set on seeing him, though. You were, Hilary, so there’s no point denying it.’
‘Brown sauce,’ she says suddenly, apropos of nothing.
‘Huh?’
‘Bacon rolls need brown sauce. Frank didn’t add spice . . . oomph. I need spice. Too many couples on this ship are the bland leading the bland. They’ve settled, not striven for what they really want. That’s not for me.’
I’d forgotten her brown sauce lecture in Bexhill. So daft, so Hilary.
She’s not done. ‘I was curious, that’s all. Haven’t you ever wanted to meet up with an old lover, Annie, to see how they’ve fared over the years? Merely out of curiosity, nothing more? I very much doubt it. You’re not exactly proactive, are you? You prefer to stay in your cosy little comfort zone. Unchallenged. Passive. Safe.’
Here we go again. Hilary, the disher-outer of home truths. Is she provoking me? Is that her game? I don’t understand why, but it’s working. ‘Okay,’ I say, aiming to remain calm. ‘Firstly, I think this journey with Dad’s ashes is pretty bloody proactive. And secondly, I did meet up with an old lover in Brighton, as it happens. Not on purpose, I grant you, but it was a big deal for both of us. We talked about the past and the future. Our future. Like you and Frank, it’s unfinished business.’
‘Do you have a future with this chap?’
‘He thinks we do. His name’s Simon.’
‘Aha, but you don’t. Any reason for that?’
‘Guess what? I do. We’re meeting up when I’ve finished my trip.’
Hilary harrumphs and turns a page although she’s obviously not reading.
‘Go on then,’ I snap. ‘You’re going to tell me what you think, so let’s get it over with.’
‘I’m pleased for you and Simon. Just as I’m pleased for Robin and Fi. He’s my godson, after all. He may be – how old is he now?’
‘41.’
‘He may be 41 but I will always give him my perspective on his life choices.’
‘I don’t doubt it, Hilary.’
‘What do you make of Fi? I’d genuinely love to know.’
‘I like her. They seem very happy together. I was an interim girlfriend, after Maggie. Now he’s with Fi and they’re for keeps. Anyone can see that. So, good for him. Good for them.’
‘Hmm.’ That’s all Hilary says. ‘Hmm.’
‘What’s that meant to mean?’
‘They visited me a few weeks ago, Robin and Fi. And, yes, I like her too. Charming girl. Lovely eyes.’
‘She is charming. Rob’s moved on and he’s found The One, so it can’t have been me. You said yourself that we were chalk and cheese. You told me I should move on too. Start afresh. Find a new man. You did, Hilary.’
‘And you took my advice. With this Simon chap. Excellent.’
‘We’ve all moved on. Even you. You’ve drawn a line under Frank.’
She rubs her temples. ‘Fi is very engaging. She made two lentil lasagnes and a cauliflower cheese for my freezer, which I thought was most thoughtful. So did Toni and she loathes lentils. Fi is very engaging.’
‘Yeah. You said. There’s a “but”, though, isn’t there?’
She nods. ‘And there’s the ruddy rub and I hate myself for even thinking it because of chalk and cheese and you moving on and meeting Simon.’
‘But what?’
‘But . . . Fi isn’t you.’
Rob runs by. We wave.
At dinner, Hilary, Rob and I have no need to speak, from the chicken liver parfait through to the tarte Tatin, as Barry and Mim take it upon themselves to regale us with every last detail of their four-hour coach excursion to Loch Lomond: the beautiful scenery; Barry’s purchase of a tartan waistcoat; the stop at Helensburgh for a chance to snap our ship at anchor across the Clyde. We see several of these photos on Mim’s tablet, with one or both of them in the foreground, plus another with Kirsty, their excellent guide. There’s also a photo of Dawn squinting into the sun, alongside a lanky, smiley man in a Game of Thrones baseball cap.
‘That’s Steven. We got chatting on the coach,’ Mim explains. ‘Dawn’s dining with him in the Brigadoon buffet tonight. He’s a paramedic and he lives in Cardiff. He’s such a pleasant man. Isn’t he, Barry?’
‘Give it a rest, Mim love,’ Barry says with a twinkly smile to show he’s not telling her off. ‘Don’t buy the wedding hat just yet.’
‘Her ex was a good-for-nothing, wasn’t he, Barry? A lazy layabout who expected to be waited on, hand and foot. Well, he was. Tell them about her thirtieth birthday. Go on, Barry. Tell them what Liam did to ruin it.’
‘Let’s keep our dirty linen private, eh, Mim love?’
Hilary raises a glass. ‘To Steven from Cardiff. And to finding The One. You’ll drink to that, won’t you, Annie.’
After dinner, Hilary shoos Rob and me away. ‘Small talk is so ruddy tiring. I should like to be silent for an hour or two with my Harlan Coben and a whisky Mac.’
We spot Dawn and Steven in the bar on Deck 9. They wave us over to make up a foursome for the 10 p.m. general-knowledge quiz. If it wasn’t for their slightly hesitant body language, they could easily be a couple. Maybe they will be by the time we sail back up the Mersey.
I wonder if Rob and I look like a couple to anyone glancing our way.
Steven is in three different pub quiz teams in Cardiff and appeared on Pointless with his brother two years ago. He really does know h
is stuff, so why waste time conferring with his team before scribbling down the answer, especially as he holds the pencil?
‘Wasn’t Henry VIII’s first wife Lady Jane Grey?’ I try, at one point.
Steven overrules me with a weary sigh. ‘Catherine of Aragon.’
So I choose not to tell him he’s wrong about the capital of Paraguay (it’s Asunción, not Montevideo) and he’s gutted when our team comes second by just one point.
‘What a tool!’ Rob says afterwards as we sip brandies, studiously ignoring Hilary hunkered down with her book in the far side of the bar.
‘Quizzes do that to some people. It’s just as well I’m not remotely competitive.’
Rob practically spits his brandy at me. ‘You’re one of the most competitive people I’ve ever met.’
‘Bollocks.’
He recovers himself. ‘I will say just three words. Crazy golf, Great Yarmouth.’
‘Aha! That’s four words, clever clogs.’
‘I had to take you to one side, tell you to calm down. Josh thought it was hilarious. It was the very first time he’d seen you as a human being, not just his geography teacher.’
‘Back when I still was a geography teacher.’
‘You still are. You’re just not one right now. And I never thanked you properly for taking Josh under your wing in Exeter. And getting him to Fowey.’
‘Did he tell you about Okehampton? When my suitcase got nicked.’
‘With Peter’s ashes in it. Yep. Nightmare.’
‘Josh was brilliant. Calm, sensible, not awkward about holding my hand or giving me a hug.’
‘He loves you to bits. You must know that.’
‘And me him.’
‘I’m not sure Fi’s got the hang of him yet though.’
‘Really?’ I ask, hoping he’ll dish. ‘Why d’you think that is?’
‘To be honest, Josh hasn’t made much of an effort. His head’s been too full of other stuff: exams, girls, life. Plus it’s still early days between her and me. Not even six months.’
‘Yeah. You can’t rush these things. I’ll be sure to take it slowly when I meet KJ.’
‘Who’s KJ?’
