by Lisa Dyer
Once lunchtime had been and gone, the afternoon settled down to a slow, manageable pace.
As soon as she had room to reflect on more than sandwiches, tea, and cake, or what she orders needed to be placed with the wholesaler, Emily found her thoughts once again filling up with her present situation.
Her mind was a tumble; she felt agitated and distracted by the comings and goings of the customers, the tinkling of the bell, and the idle chatter of her staff.
In a desperate bid to get some space, she took herself off upstairs to the sanctuary of the weaver’s room where she could relish the quiet to calm and order her thoughts.
Emily grasped the back of a chair to steady herself and to give her something of substance to hang onto as she drew in and exhaled deep breaths, feeling, as she did, the tension drop away and found that her heart was beginning to harden somewhat towards her husband.
Of course, she understood his attitude. It sucked being dumped by the company he’d worked hard for but he was biting the hand that fed him by turning on her. Why should she give up all she had worked hard for? Why should he expect her to be miserable just because he was?
She glanced at her watch. It was nearly three- thirty. With any luck her gentleman would be the last customer of the day.
Emily made her way back down the narrow, slightly uneven stair case that wound its way up the centre of the building, deciding, as she did, to give the ladies the rest of the day off.
With any luck, her gentleman would stick to his routine and be gone by three-thirty after which she would turn the sign, go over some figures and then take a gentle walk home, giving her a chance to free her mind, decompress and face whatever was to come
As she looked around her lively tea room she felt more determined than ever that he wasn’t going to allow her to sink to his level.
The shock that she had felt last night had turned this morning to grief but now it was turning to anger. This was not her fault and she wasn’t going to be made to feel that it was.
She picked up the reserved sign and popped it onto the table by the window. She swept up the dirty crockery left by the couple who’d just settled their bill at the till and then turned to her staff.
“Leave those last few bits, I’ll clean up.” She said.
“You sure?” asked Gemma with a quick glance at Di.
“Yes, you two get off.”
Di glanced at the old grandfather clock.
Emily noticed the odd look on Di’s face but didn’t have it in her to justify her decision to her staff. She reassured them that it was fine, that she wasn’t going to dock them any pay.
The ladies grabbed their stuff and did as she bid them. She knew that as soon as they were outside she’d be the subject of a ‘post-mortem’ but she didn’t care.
Silence fell on the tea room. Outside, the clouds were gathering, threatening rain. She hit a button on the till which spat out a short length of till roll. She checked the totals and looked at the money in the drawer.
The front door bell jangled making her jump and she glanced, almost involuntarily at the clock. He was early.
He carried his customary posy but this time, instead of going to a table, he made for the small carousal of cards Emily stocked. These were mainly taken from the local art society and didn’t really sell that well.
Emily smiled and bid him a good afternoon and used the moment to go and grab the reserve sign, which she slipped back onto the shelf.
Gently, the turned the stand, studying each card carefully. He must have sensed her watching him because he turned and smiled.
“I’m after a card. For my wife. To tell her that I love her. It’s her birthday, you see.”
Emily smiled and nodded. “I see you have your flowers.”
The gentleman looked at the posy of freesias.
“She would be cross; she’s always said: flowers belong in the garden not in a vase. For sixty years, she’s said that. Started saying after I presented her with her first bunch.” He smiled. “Didn’t stop her admiring them in the vase though.” And he winked, his face glowed as he spoke of her.
Emily smiled again. Sixty years. She couldn’t even begin to imagine being married for that long.
The gentleman went back to studying the cards.
“She loves lilies, and freesias. Do you have any with those on?”
To be honest, Emily wasn’t sure what was on the cards. Doreen, the society’s secretary, had come in with a box one day and asked if she might display them at the till. Emily, ever keen to help, had agreed and there they were. Any money went into a pot Doreen had left on the side. Emily flicked through the cards but couldn’t find any with those flowers on but she did find one with a nice arrangement of peonies on it. She handed it to the gentleman who took a moment to consider it before declaring:
“Yes, that will do nicely.”
He passed the card back to Emily and fished in his shopper for his coin purse.
“I met her at the church social, you know. Nineteen forty-nine. Boys down one side, girls the other. I was home on leave; national service. We had those then, church socials, and my brother Harry dragged me to it. Had his eye on some lass. Nobody was dancing and I saw Evelyn and decided there and then.”
He stopped talking as he attempted to wrangle a pound coin out of the purse.
Emily was curious. “Decided what?”
“Oh, that she was the one for me. So, I walked across the dance floor...longest walk of my life...I think they were all looking at me and asked her to dance.”
He stopped trying to find the coin and looked up, his eyes shone at the memory, his gaze so far away.
“She was wearing a blue dress,” he leant in again and said in a very conspiratorial way, as if imparting a great secret. “Blue suited her very well. She always wore blue.”
Emily smiled as she watched him finally succeed in tipping the coin into the centre of his gnarled hands.
“And she said ‘yes’ to the dance?”
“No.” he chuckled. “She turned me down flat!”
Poor Emily, one minute she had been smiling at this sweet old man and now she wasn’t sure how to react. Clearly, the story had ended well but right now, she felt like she’d got a plastered-on rictus grin and wasn’t sure what to do.
“What did you do?”
“Walked back to my brother.” He shook his head. The memory of that night still burned bright in his mind. “I left shortly after that. Didn’t see her again for six years. After National Service I signed onto the Merchant Navy. Oh, I travelled everywhere, all over the world and when I came home, my brother and I went back to that church hall and there she was. So, I said to her, ‘six years ago, in this very hall, I asked you to dance and you said no. Will say no again?’ But she didn’t; she said yes.”
Emily heard him sigh, as if memory had caught him out.
“All so long ago. Such a long time ago. So much has changed.” He put the coin on the counter. “These days, young folk, they give up to easily. We had our difficulties, me and Evelyn, like most folk, but we got through them.”
“How?” Emily hadn’t really meant that to come out but she was so captivated by this elderly man, with his pale blue eyes and distant look of sadness.
“Talking. We talked about everything. Never let anything stew.”
Emily took the coin and popped it in the tin.
“But what if…it’s gone beyond talking?”
“There are always words. That’s what we’re good at, us humans, talking and talking. Usually a lot of hot air. Trouble is we don’t talk to listen anymore. Sometimes, you must listen to what’s not being said. Sometimes, it’s in the silence that all the answers are waiting.”
He sighed once more and Emily thought she detected a hint of loneliness in his voice. Before she could speak he picked up the card and slipped it into his shopper.
“I told Evelyn I’d only be a few minutes.” The gentleman turned and began the slow walk to t
he door. He stopped and looked back at her.
“Do you know what the secret of a long marriage is?”
Emily shook her head.
“Never let the sun set on an argument.” He smiled for the first time, and with a wave of his hand he was through the door with a cheerful. “Bye, bye dear.”
Emily moved swiftly to the door, partly to lock it but also to see where it was he went with his flowers.
As she peered through the pane of the window, she saw him cross the road and walk to the small lych-gate of St Stephens. Here, he stopped for a moment to adjust his coat. He made his way into the churchyard, but she lost sight of him. Then something struck her and she glanced over at his unused seat.
She slipped into the chair and looked out of the window. She could see that he’d stopped by a bench on the small rise of land.
Emily felt the breath catch in her throat as she watched him.
With immense care, her gentleman stooped down and took the withered flowers out of the container which was set upon the grave. With equal tenderness, he placed the fresh ones in the vessel and set the card against it. Then he turned and took up a seat on the bench opposite the grave and here he sat, deep in thought and memory. Emily felt the tears tumble down her cheek as she watched him take out a snowy white hankie which he dabbed against his eyes. The tension of the last few weeks finally came to a head and her shoulders began to heave as the tears turned from a gentle trickle into heavy globs, splashing down onto the cherry wood of the table.She watched him through the blur tears; this wonderful old gentleman, who had shared a lifetime of love and happiness and, unknowingly, had given her the one thing she really needed – perspective.
It would be easy to walk away, to throw it all in the air and say enough was enough but within all the anger and harsh words, was her husband, who was hurting and who needed to be told that he was loved, needed and above all wanted.
With shaky hands, she reached for her phone and pressed the numbers.
As she listened to the ringing, she watched as the elderly gentleman paid his farewells to the grave and walked away.
At last he answered.
“Hello,” she said, her voice soft and warm. “It’s me. Can you come and meet me at the tea room? We need to talk.”
***
Emily felt her stomach knot with nerves and felt ridiculous. It was Dave, her husband not some first date! She reflected on how estranged they’d been. How one simple thing could deconstruct everything; make the familiar feel strange and unnatural. Unassuming things like Dave coming home and tossing his keys in the bowl by the front door had become loaded with tension as she had tried to gauge what his mood would be. The easy, naturalness of wandering into the bathroom whilst he was showering or those gentle touches on the small of the back or the hand; close moments had suddenly become minefields as they had slowly retreated behind their own walls.
That loss of easy intimacy was driving them apart and even now, as she poured the scalding water from the urn into a two-person pot, and set up the cups and saucers, she knew that regaining that trust would be the hardest part of what had to happen next.
She laid out the tea pot, cups and saucers, and the sugar bowl and waited.
A few moments later she heard a gentle tap on the door pane.
Emily paused to gain her equilibrium before turning the lock and opening the door.
“Hi,” Dave said, his tone soft and she knew he hadn’t come here to fight.
She looked up at his face and she could see how weary he looked.
Emily reached out and tentatively touched his fingers with her own and felt his encircle hers in a tight hold.
“I’ve made us a pot of tea,” she said simply and Dave nodded.
She led him to her gentleman’s table and he sat down, his demeanour was subdued. Emily glanced out of the window, over to where Evelyn lay and felt the strength within her grow.
As she poured the tea and splashed in the milk, somehow, she knew, without even looking up, that Dave was crying and, as much as it hurt her to see it, Emily was aware that the first step towards sorting out this whole sorry mess was for him to open up to her and for them to recall those vows they took, in that church, seven years ago.
She pushed the cup across the table and handed him a napkin. This was going to be a long evening but she wasn’t going to let another sunset pass.
Seated at this table, with the words of that wise old man sounding in her head, she felt strong enough for both of them.
THE END
II
(adapted from the poem by The Eve of St Agnes John Keats)
Snow lay thick on the ground and the man dragged hard on his cigarette as if somehow the red glow it elicited would warm him against the freezing air around him. He stood on the gravel path by the garages of a mansion modelled on the style of a Scottish baronial castle however, it screamed ‘new’ and ‘no taste’.
The man was suited and booted by the finest of bespoke tailors but his attitude was cocky and accent thick south London.
MAN: How cold is this? Must be well below freezin’.
He took another long drag on his cigarette.
MAN: There’s this old owl right, wot lives in that there tree. Bet he’s freezin’ his feathers off right now.
He sniffed in the cold air and looked around him.
MAN: Be a good night for a spot of lampin’. Reckon I might even bag me an ’are. To bleedin’ cold to run away.
He tossed his cigarette butt away, glanced around, gave the bushes that surrounded and concealed the garages a long, hard stare like he was expecting company and entered the house via a small door.
The man walked down a long, plain passageway. His gait was cocky, a swagger, he was important in this place and he knew it.
He passed and open door and, noticing someone inside, took a few steps backwards and looked in.
On his knees, praying before a makeshift altar loaded down with every kind of religious iconography was a man of indeterminable age.
MAN: That’s ’Arry, boss’s brother. Discovered God a year ago, and prays nightly for the souls of his family.
Harry got slowly to his feet and genuflected to the cross.
MAN: Well, that’s ’im finished for a few hours. ’E don’t sleep much. Survives on God’s love and crystal. Probably ain’t gonna last much longer neither. Poor bastard. Let’s hope his prayin’ ain’t all in vain.
From somewhere further inside the house, the sound of music crashed into the silence from a newly opened door.
Harry turned, startled by the sudden and unwanted intrusion into his thoughts. His face is wrecked with drug use, his eyes sunken, cheeks hollow, his skin sallow, scabby and his teeth rotten or lost. He snuffed out the candles on the altar and shuffled out of the room, oblivious to the man. Along the corridor was the back stair which Harry mounted with considerable discomfort and disappeared from the man’s view.
The man continued his way through the labyrinthine passageways toward the catering kitchen where an army of chefs sweated over steaming pots and pans.
As he passed through, he took a piece of food from a plate; his manner was of ownership and a right to do as he chose because he had the ear of his boss and a secure place in the hierarchy of the household.
MAN: Boss’s havin’ a bit of party, like, for his only daughter and light of his life, Madeline.
He ran up a flight of stairs from the kitchen and emerged onto the mezzanine floor that ran around and overlooked a ball room.
A party is in progress - theme ’medieval’. The guests are young, rich, and happy.
MAN: Total ponces, the lot of ’em.
The man disappeared back through the doorway and reappeared through a curtained doorway in the ballroom.
He took a glass of bubbly from the tray of a passing waiter and looked around him.
MAN: That’s her, Madeline, over there.
Madeline looked like a vision from a John William Waterhouse
painting; tall and willowy, her hair a mass of pre-Raphaelite curls dressed with small flower buds. Her skin held the dewy glow of youth, unsullied by life and cares. The gown was of gold and looked far too heavy for her slight frame. She stood as if a statue, as if that gown were weighing her down, preventing her from moving amongst her guests.
MAN: Gorgeous, ain’t she? And this is her twenty-first birthday. A magical night in more ways than one. See, our Madeline was born on St Agnes Eve. Now, that mightn’t mean much to you but in the days when this party was set, it was the night when maidens followed a ritual and saw their true love. St Agnes bein’ the patron saint of medieval virgins, hence the theme of the party. Medieval that is, not virgins. Doubt there’s many of those in this room, Madam Madeline excepted.
He smirked at the thought and then remembered himself and his position here.
MAN: And how would I know about the state of my lady’s womanhood I hear you ask? Easy. I’m the poor sod who’s dicked to look after her. I am the bodyguard. I was outside her room as she got ready. My usual place, I hasten to add, not pervin’, so get your mind out of the gutter. I overheard, as she’s gettin’ ready, her tellin’ her mate about it.
Earlier that evening:
The man stood outside the door, hands folded in front of him, feet apart. Nobody was getting past him.
Through the door he could hear the raised voice of Madeline’s best friend, Saskia.
SASKIA: Madeline, if you don’t talk or eat or drink people might think you’re a bit of a, you know, freak.
He cocked his head slightly to listen.
Inside the room, Madeline and Saskia are getting dressed for the party.
Unlike the cockney ’geezer’ guarding the door, these two are pure-bred, best school, RP accents.
