‘How very kind.’ She knew exactly what he was doing, he was determined to make her lovely hospitable day seem like voluntary work.
‘I wasn’t being kind,’ she said firmly.
‘Have it your own way.’ Graham’s smile grew more fixed, and he lowered his voice another notch. ‘And a lady, I hear.’
‘Avis, she’s a great friend.’ After a second’s thought she added, ‘Like your father.’
Graham nodded. ‘Another of your charges?’
‘I do help her out.’
‘You know’ – he tilted his head almost flirtatiously – ‘you won’t mind my saying this’ – (she was sure she would) – ‘but an attractive young woman like you shouldn’t have to spend Christmas with a couple of oldies that she works for.’
The cheek of this almost took her breath away, but she collected herself. Swiftly, casually, clearly on her way out of the kitchen, she said, ‘I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have spent the day with – excuse me.’
She was off to look at a flat. She had learned very quickly that in the rental market there was a straight trade-off between location and value for money. She now knew that for the same rent she could get a two-bedroom flat in a Victorian terrace near the former railway station (long since fallen under Beeching’s axe), or one half the size in the town. Or something usually referred to as a ‘studio’, more accurately a bedsit, overlooking the sea.
The estate agent was good about forwarding details – the one she was going to see had only come on to the market that day. It was over the old-fashioned draper’s in the High Street, the door was next to the shop window with its corsets and plimsolls and Chilprufe vests. She knew for a fact that Graham got his father’s socks and underwear from here – she’d been delegated to get them on more than one occasion – but still the entrance didn’t inspire much hope. The young man from the agent’s unlocked the main door and went ahead of her up a narrow staircase.
‘It’s a compact little place,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘So once I’ve let you in I’ll leave you to it and wait outside.’
Honor had learnt the lingo – ‘compact’ meant a shoe box with plumbing. She nearly told him not to go, because her decision would take only seconds … But wait a minute …
… Oh!
The door closed and she heard him trot briskly down the stairs. Yes, it was a shoe box, but painted a bright white, with a tiny kitchenette ranged along one side, and a shower and loo in a neat cubbyhole on the other. She calculated that there would just be room for a bed with storage beneath it, that could also be used for sitting, and a small round table with chairs – but none of that mattered, because look!
In two quick strides she was at the window opposite. The flat was a full block and a road’s width away from the beach, but in this part of town the high street was on a gentle upward slope, and her window – it was already hers – was positioned so that it looked between the roofs of the houses behind, and over the strip of formal public garden beyond, to the sea! She could make out the white horses on the steely winter surface, and the gulls wheeling above – there was even a gull sitting on a chimney pot! The window had an old-fashioned catch, and opened like double doors, the catch was stiff, but she managed it and stood there entranced and exhilarated with the smell of the beach and the fresh, salty air.
She didn’t even bother to close the window, or the door, but scampered down the stairs and out into the street, where the young man was leaning on the wall next to the corsets, consulting his mobile.
‘I’ll take it! Definitely! Is it still free? I’ll take it!’
‘Sure …! Really? That’s great. I think you’re the first to view … Yes, yes … Looks like it’s yours if you want it.’
He was new to the job and had only had a few clients. If it was always going to be like this, he told himself, he was going to enjoy himself!
Honor told Avis when she saw her later in the day. Her delight was gratifying.
‘I must say that’s smashing news! I know just where that is, over Grover’s, but who’d have thought it had a sea view?’
‘Well, sea view might be a bit of an overstatement … but you can see the sea. And walk to the beach in a couple of minutes, I could go for a swim every morning!’
‘And they’re not charging silly rent?’
‘I can afford it.’
‘I think that’s wonderful, I really do,’ said Avis. ‘Shall we break open the sherry?’
By this she meant the bottle of scotch in the sideboard. Honor never normally drank neat spirits, or anything at all, but at Avis’s they had a nip together when there was something to celebrate. She poured them a glass each, Avis’s a solid measure in a tumbler, hers in a liqueur glass, and they clinked.
‘Bottoms up!’
‘To my new flat!’
Marguerite and Hugh professed themselves equally pleased, but there was no avoiding the implications.
‘We’ll be all on our own here,’ said Hugh in a pleased voice, ‘for the first time in how long?’
‘God, don’t count!’ Marguerite was putting on her nightie, the one Hugh referred to as her ‘pioneer’s wincyette’. Her head popped out and she wriggled her arms into the sleeves. ‘Too long, witness this thing.’
‘I wasn’t going to say anything.’
‘My darling, you don’t have to.’
‘Anyway …’ Hugh, who preferred to be naked in bed except in the coldest conditions when he wore a nightshirt ‘for easy access’, fell into bed and pulled the duvet over his legs. ‘Much as we love our girl, this is a good thing all round. Soon we shall be what I believe are called empty-nesters.’
Marguerite followed suit more decorously, arranging the pillows for her preferred reading position. She picked up her reading glasses, but not her book. Instead she clasped her hands on her lap.
‘That’s a horrible phrase.’
‘Oh I don’t know …’ Hugh nudged her leg with his. ‘Remember it symbolizes a whole new chapter of license and riotous living.’
She laughed but drew her legs up primly. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. This is a family house, it’s going to seem big without anyone else here.’
‘In that case,’ said Hugh, ‘we shall downsize.’
‘Another horrible phrase, and that’s even more ridiculous.’
Hugh turned off his bedside light, and removed the glasses from his wife’s hand. ‘You look beautiful without these, Mrs Blyth.’
A little while later he was sleeping like a baby. But Marguerite lay awake, the snail’s trail of a tear running down her temple and into her hair.
Twenty-Five
Mac was halfway there and in the middle lane of the northbound motorway when he realized this wasn’t a good idea. The previous night, after he’d spoken to Charity, it had come to him suddenly, and seemed brilliant in its simplicity. He wasn’t a sender of flowers or fulsome messages, but by gum he would show her that he could be a romantic. He would simply turn up on the evening of February the fourteenth, with the sole object of telling her that he loved her.
The element of surprise appealed to him though God knows, there was no chance of them becoming stale. What with the need for discretion, and pressure of work for both of them, they managed to meet about twice a month and that after exhaustive planning. There was an excitement to all this, but sooner or later they were going to have to – well, regularize things a bit. Even as he thought it, he realized that the phrase was generally a euphemism for marriage – God, no! That would never do. He couldn’t put her in that position, it simply wouldn’t be fair on either of them. But for all his brave, reassuring talk at Christmas there was no doubt that this way of life was a strain.
Unfortunately that hadn’t stopped him embarking on this foolish, wrongheaded enterprise. And now here he was, having to pull over on to the hard shoulder, hazard lights flashing, to catch his breath, sweating and trembling. He felt bloody awful, as if he might pass out. And ennraged, humiliated, to be this silly old man. Charity was suc
h a sensible, intelligent young woman, clearsighted beyond her years, she would take a dim view of his foolhardiness. Romantic? He could hear her voice, ringing with censure. Romantic? Setting off to drive over a hundred miles in the dead of winter, without telling anyone, let alone me, what you were doing? And you were intending to drive all the way back the same night? What madness is this?
What indeed. He wiped his forehead with his cuff. Suddenly he could taste bile, and pushed the door open, conscious of the traffic zooming past, loud and close as he threw up. There followed a few seconds of relief, tempered by the shame of what those whizzing passers-by had seen, a disgusting sight. Then came the predictable second bout, equally violent but with less volume. The whole horrible business took him back to his childhood – his mother’s calm hand on his forehead, her voice, the enamel bowl specially reserved for the purpose, the smell …
He waited another few seconds in case there should be a third spasm, then closed the door and fished a packet of tissues from the glove compartment. As he did so he became aware of a blinking blue light, and saw a police car pulled in about twenty metres ahead of him. An officer in a high-vis jacket was walking back. To make matters worse, he saw that this was a woman.
Wearily, his humiliation complete, he rolled down the window.
‘I’m sorry, officer.’
‘Everything alright, sir?’
‘I’m afraid I was taken ill.’
She frowned sympathetically, a practised, automatic glance flitting round the inside of the car. Satisfied, she asked, ‘How are you now, sir? Should we call an ambulance?’
‘Oh good God no. Just an upset stomach, probably something I ate …’ She was still looking at him, making her own seasoned assessment. ‘I’ll be fine, but I did have to pull over for a moment.’
‘Of course. Do you need to get out and walk around for a minute?’
This might not have been a bad idea, but the thought of being out there with all the racket and the freezing temperature accompanied by a police officer, was too ghastly. ‘No, no thanks. I’ll be fine.’
‘Right you are.’ She pursed her lips. Did they learn this repertoire of expressions in training college? ‘The thing is, sir, you can’t just sit here on the hard shoulder.’
‘Of course not. I’ll be on my way.’
‘Here’s a suggestion,’ she said – she could only have been in her twenties but her tone was both neutral and authoritative. ‘There’s a service station less than five miles along. Why don’t you follow us as far as there, and you can go in and get yourself a hot drink and rest up a bit?’
‘Very well,’ he said, ‘how kind. Thank you.’
At the services he bade farewell to his escort in the car park. As he walked to the entrance they drove very slowly past him and the driver, a young man he hadn’t seen till now, addressed him through the rolled-down window.
‘You OK from here on in, sir?’
‘Yes, perfectly. Thanks for your help.’
‘Safe journey then.’
Mac grunted. If he had to thank them one more time he swore he might explode. His fists were clenched, and it was an effort to unclench them, but the cold air dried his clammy palms.
The inside of the services – what they were pleased to call the ‘food court’ – was teeming. There didn’t seem to be anywhere without a queue, but he did spot a free payphone, one of four clustered round a central pillar. Still lightheaded, his face damp and chill, he laid claim to the phone and dialled.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said – ‘you’re where?’
‘At a motorway service station.’
Charity pulled a face, as if he could see her. ‘This may sound odd, but why?’
‘This is going to sound even odder. I was on my way to see you.’
‘What?’
‘I wanted to give you a surprise.’
She looked round at her untidy, cosy room – her desk with the anglepoise bent over a slew of papers. ‘It would have been!’ There followed a silence, during which she could hear his breathing. ‘Mac – Mac, are you alright?’
‘Not really. No crisis, if that’s what you mean. But I’m not going to make it. No, no’ – a short laugh – ‘I mean I’m not going to get to you.’
‘I should hope not.’
‘I had to pull over but the boys in blue were extremely helpful. Look, Charity, actually I need to sit down as a matter of urgency.’
‘Do! Go and sit down. Which services are you at?’
‘I’ve no idea …’ There was a pause, and she heard another voice. ‘Kind chap tells me it’s Longmere. Look—’
‘Go,’ she barked. ‘Sit down. I’m coming.’
They sat facing one another in a booth at the side of the food court’s central corral. On the table between them was Charity’s cappuccino and the remains of her chicken tikka sandwich, and Mac’s pot of tea. He would have liked a scotch, but that was out of the question here.
Charity’s first thought on putting the phone down had been, This is the test. I need to think hard about this. But as soon as she’d seen Mac, rising carefully from his seat to greet her, thanking her, asking what she’d like – as soon as all of that happened any chance of objectivity went out of the window. And then, when she got back to the table he explained what he had been doing.
‘But we agreed!’ Even as she protested she had to laugh. ‘Valentine’s nonsense not for us – didn’t we?’
‘Correct.’
‘And you were honestly going to drive back tonight?’
He tried, not very successfully, to suppress a certain pride. ‘Or very early tomorrow.’
‘Mac! Darling – what were you thinking of?’
‘You,’ he said simply. ‘Just you.’
Two women sat at the table on the other side of the aisle. One of them put her hand up discreetly beside her mouth as she cut her eyes to the side.
‘What do you reckon?’
‘Who? Oh.’
‘Sweet or sleazy?’
Her friend glanced briefly. The handsome elderly man and the rather schoolmistressy young woman were holding hands across the table. There was no pretence. Neither of them was trying to conceal their feelings. As she looked the man lifted the girl’s hand and kissed it.
The woman picked up her cup and, making round eyes over it, said, ‘Sweet, definitely.’
In the end they arranged to have the car brought back, for an eye-watering sum, and Charity drove him home. She spent the night, leaving while it was still dark next day. There was no particular rush for her, but they were both mindful of the need for discretion. In the hall they embraced tightly, Charity folded in his arms, her own wrapped around his back, her ear to his chest, eyes closed, as if listening to his heart.
‘Please,’ she whispered fiercely, ‘please look after yourself.’
‘I will,’ he said. ‘I do.’
Though neither had mentioned it, they both realized that the events of the previous night had very slightly altered the balance of their relationship. It had been the wake-up call they needed. Their Valentine’s night at Longmere Services may not have been romantic in the conventional sense, but it had certainly been memorable – a turning point which had given them both food for thought.
It was a mercy that half-term was only forty-eight hours away, because Mac still didn’t feel right. The whole of that day he was weak and tired, his joints ached and he had no appetite. Almost uniquely he asked a couple of the older pupils to stand in for him on garden fatigues because he couldn’t trust himself not to fall over. When Charity rang at eight p.m. he didn’t disguise matters.
‘I’m in bed.’
‘That sounds a good idea.’
‘Necessary, I think. Hoping for better things tomorrow.’
‘If,’ she said, and he could tell how careful she was being, ‘if they’re not, you might consider going to the doc.’
They both knew (it was a source of pride to him) that he hated the doctor and had only been about t
hree times in the last twenty years.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’ll consult the medics if I have to.’
That was as far as he’d go, and she’d have to be content with it.
After the call ended, Charity knew concessions had been made. Mac had admitted the need to look after himself, and she mustn’t push it. She wished she was going down there for this weekend, the first of the half-term holiday, but she’d arranged to visit the parents for the first time in months, and had a site visit, a busy teaching timetable and a chapter to finish before then.
She arrived late Friday afternoon to find Honor and Hugh out in the drive, stowing boxes in the boot of Honor’s car. More stuff lay on the ground nearby – a couple of stuffed black bin bags with the tops tied, a box of books and another with pictures. The front door was open and as she switched off the engine Marguerite came out. She wore a wide smile but Charity knew the signs – the water table was high. Hugh hailed her first.
‘Hello! You find us bang in media res!’
‘What’s going on?’ She and Marguerite exchanged a glancing kiss.
‘I’m moving to my new flat,’ said Honor. ‘Down in the town.’
‘Looks as if you could do with another vehicle,’ said Charity, determined not to show surprise. ‘Want to load me up as well, save you a trip?’
‘I was going,’ said Hugh, ‘but mine’s in the garage. If you’re offering …’
‘Darling, you’ve only just arrived …’ began Marguerite, but it was Honor who closed the subject.
‘Fantastic. I’m coming back here for the night anyway, in your honor.’ She smiled at her sister’s raised eyebrows. ‘Are you sure?’
‘There’s nothing too heavy here,’ said Hugh. ‘We got a man with a van last weekend for the big stuff. But be warned, the stairs are a swine.’
It took an hour to unload it all. Parking in the high street was a problem – the only place to leave the car on a permanent basis was round the back, in the road that ran between the buildings and the public gardens. Charity’s heart sunk somewhat as they carted the first load up the narrow stairs from the street and faffed around at the top while Honor struggled with the key. She’d never been all that close to her younger sister – she wasn’t close to any of her siblings really – but she did hope this wasn’t going to be a dingy, pokey hole … She dreaded feeling sorry for Honor and not being able to say so, or why.
Heart's Ease Page 23
