The Love Story of Missy Carmichael

by Beth Morrey

  “So, what do you think?” he whispered, picking up a tea towel as if he was going to help.

  I swallowed and managed, “She seems nice,” aching with love and longing because I’d always given him the approval he craved, and then, at the most important time, I couldn’t give it my all, or even an approximation. But luckily, or unluckily, he was oblivious, blinded by his own infatuation. My tepid endorsement was perceived as fervent, and he started sharing all the things that were great about her; the way she was so committed to her work, coming back covered in chalk, how she went out running on the heathland at dawn, that she spoke Spanish, why she loved spiders, because she thought they were cute compared to the ones back home.

  Then he sighed and ran a hand through his hair, just like Leo. “Of course, one day she’ll want to go back.”

  I was barely listening, so focused on looking like I was listening, but this pierced through. “Go back where?”

  He flung the towel on the counter and looked forlorn. “Australia.” And that one word opened up a light shaft as I began to understand what he was saying. This relationship had a shelf life. It would be fun while it lasted, but the end would come. And I would need to be there to pick up the pieces. The weight lifted; I felt like I could soar around the room and hug this spider-loving, Spanish-speaking, dawn-running girl who’d bewitched my son but would break the spell eventually.

  “Ah,” I said, picking up the tea towel and beginning to dry the plates so he couldn’t see the elation on my face. “Well, I suppose it is her homeland. And she must have family there.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I knew you’d understand. You get it. I knew you would.” He came up behind me, squeezing my shoulders again, and together we made the coffee and took it into the dining room.

  Later on, when they’d gone to the spare room, and Leo and I were back in our bedroom unbuttoning again, me massaging my aching feet and him peering at his increasingly bushy eyebrows in the mirror, he caught my eye in it and raised them.

  “So?”

  I shrugged. “She’s nice enough. Bit of a hippie.”

  He grinned. “You’re taking it very well, I must say.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The whole Australia thing.” He hung his tie over a chair and started turning down the covers.

  I arranged my face in a sympathetic expression. “It’ll be hard for Ali, of course. But he’ll meet other girls. And he can’t ask her to give up all that for him. It’s the other side of the world.”

  Leo paused in the act of plumping pillows and looked at me quizzically.

  “Missy.”

  I slipped my rings off and started applying hand cream. “What?”

  He stared at me soberly for a second and then shook his head. “Nothing. Let’s see how it plays out.”

  “Of course.” I got into bed beside him and he reached to turn the light out. “Good night.”

  “Good night, Mrs. Carmichael.”

  In the darkness, listening to his even breathing, I wondered what he had been going to say.

  Chapter 30

  I wanted to stay indoors licking my wounds, but Bobby wouldn’t let me. I may have been contemplating a lonely and miserable Christmas, wondering if I’d ever see my son and grandson again, but my dog wanted to know when she was going to be able to evacuate her bowels, so out we went, on a gray, drizzly day when the wet cold seemed to creep into my bones, still aching from dancing the night before. I couldn’t bear to be bright and post-party cheery, comparing inebriation notes and joshing about Miguel’s snake hips, so kept my head down against the rain and didn’t see anyone until Bobby had crouched for her last wee and I was hooking her on the lead again to trudge home.

  “Well, if it isn’t Shimmy Carmichael.” Sylvie, with Decca and Nancy prancing around her in their Barbour jackets. I tried to smile but it came out as a grimace. I couldn’t bear Sylvie’s sympathy; she knew how much I’d been looking forward to Ali and Arthur coming home.

  “I was hoping I’d bump in to you,” continued Sylvie, reaching into her pocket and pulling out her phone. “You were asking about turkey versus goose for Christmas dinner? I have a suggestion.”

  My face still fixed in a twisted smile, I moved forward, feigning interest, all the while working out how to extricate myself. It seemed a lifetime ago that I’d asked for her advice. When I thought I’d have guests. When I didn’t know I would be alone. If only I could go back to that time and forget last night’s email.

  “You were telling me about those Christmases in Yorkshire,” said Sylvie, scrolling furiously. “And I thought: What about a really good chicken? You’re right, turkey is dry—all that brining and primping to make it palatable. I’ve found an organic farm not far from Hebden Bridge, near where your aunt lived. What could be better than a couple of nice plump Yorkshire hens?”

  It was perfect, such a wonderful, thoughtful suggestion, and it made everything so much worse. But Sylvie must not know, so I smiled and nodded and made my excuses, walking away as quickly as possible, worried she would be offended by my hasty exit. They were all so kind, Sylvie and Denzil, and Angela when she wasn’t drunk and ranting, and all the dog walkers who bought me Bobby’s bed. At least my tears weren’t visible in the drizzle.

  Back at home I made myself a hot-water bottle, ready to huddle on the sofa for the rest of the day, or at least until Bobby’s afternoon walk. I made up a fire while she curled round and down onto her bed, then sat and fretted, thinking about the way things always went wrong.

  I spent several days like this, calling in sick to the library and not bothering to go out except for dog walks, which I got over with as quickly as possible, marching briskly, head down, tramping round the park for the requisite hour and returning home to brood and work my way down the Christmas sherry, ignoring the various envelopes that came through the mail slot because they were only the usual bills. Angela texted a few times, but Sylvie didn’t, which I supposed meant she must have been offended by my brusque response to her Yorkshire hens. I worried about that for a while but then thought what did it matter? The outcome was always the same, alone in my barren old house, thinking of the people who’d gone.

  Eventually I dragged myself out and ventured to a few shops to stock up, but winced when I saw the tinsel-fringed windows, the looped festive pop songs blaring away inside. So I retreated again into my shell of a house and sat hunched on the sofa, reading another of Mel’s Nancy Mitfords, surrounded by my old albums, the photos of us all “held like flies, in the amber of that moment,” while I was borne, inexorably, farther and farther away from those days.

  I was sitting like that one Saturday afternoon, in semi-darkness, with the embers of a fire dying in the grate, when there was a loud banging at the door. Knocking back the last of my sherry, I went to open it, Bobby barking at my heels, eager for a distraction—she’d been rather bored by my inertia. I was greeted by a mass of greenery, the fronds of a fir tree pushed up against the doorframe—my very own Birnam Wood. After a great deal of rustling, Angela’s head emerged.

  “Well, don’t just stand there, fecking help me!” she grunted, hefting the tree through the doorway. Nonplussed, I grabbed one of the larger branches and hauled it into the hallway, shedding pine needles everywhere. Bobby whined and scuttled back to the living room. Together we maneuvered the tree into a standing position and Angela held it in place, panting and red-faced with the effort. Otis slid in behind her and immediately headed to the kitchen to look for treats. Angela eyed me triumphantly.

  “What do you think? I did a deal with Mrs. Anthony the grocer! Two for fifty quid! This one’s yours.”

  I stared at her, confused and irritable. It was true I’d talked of getting a tree and letting Otis decorate it, but that was when I was expecting guests, and now the idea seemed preposterous. A lonely old woman had no need of such frivolities.

  “I don’t w
ant it.” I slapped at one of the fronds, scowling at the shower of pins that would need clearing up.

  Angela stared. “What? But I dragged it all the way from Highbury Barn!”

  “Well, you can just take it back again. It’s much too big, and besides, I can’t afford it.”

  She huffed. “You don’t have to afford it. It was supposed to be my Christmas present to you.”

  Tears prickled. “And I suppose Otis can stay to decorate it while you make a deadline?” It was out of my mouth before I could stop myself.

  Otis came out of the kitchen with a biscuit in his hand and loitered in the doorway watching. Angela glared at me as more needles fell to the floor.

  “Fine.” She hefted the tree onto her shoulder, opening the front door with her free hand. “I thought you might like to have a tree for Arthur, but if you’re going to be like that . . .” She began to lug the tree back out again. “Come on, Otis, we’re going.”

  “He’s not coming.” There it was.

  Angela turned and peered at me through the branches but I couldn’t meet her eye. “Why not?”

  I shrugged, gesturing toward Otis. “It’s complicated.” I brushed away a tear that had made its way down my cheek, but it was too late.

  “Otis, go and play with Bobby,” said Angela, dropping the tree and shutting the door again. Otis started to protest but she held up a finger and he scampered off. She pushed me into the kitchen and immediately clocked the almost-empty bottle of sherry on the table.

  “What’s going on?”

  “They’re not coming for Christmas, after all,” I muttered, busying myself putting the kettle on the hot plate and hiding the bottle in a cupboard.

  “Why not? You were so looking forward to it.”

  “Emily.”

  “Who?”

  “Alistair’s wife. She had a miscarriage.”

  Angela sank down into a chair. “Oh my God! How awful. Is she OK?”

  “Um . . . yes, I think so.”

  “You think so? Have you spoken to her?”

  I hesitated. “I’m not really that close to Emily. I’m not sure she likes me very much. Anyway, they’re not coming now.”

  I wasn’t looking at Angela but could tell she was watching me and could hear her fingers drumming on the table.

  “She’s quite a bit younger than Alistair. They met and married very quickly. We don’t have much in common.”

  “You have Arthur.”

  “Yes.” She’d given me my adored grandchild.

  The kettle boiled and I poured out two mugs, setting one in front of Angela. She cupped her hands around it. I could tell she was building up to a lecture and steeled myself.

  “You never talk about Emily,” she said finally. “All the time I’ve known you, you talk about Arthur and Alistair, but you’ve never once mentioned her. At one time I thought that they might be divorced, or even that she might be dead.”

  I swallowed. “I blame her.”

  “For the miscarriage?”

  “No, of course not. For them moving. She’s Australian. If Alistair had met a British girl, they would be here. I would have Arthur. Instead, he’s thousands of miles away, going to school and growing up and forgetting me. He has an accent now, did you know? He doesn’t even sound like my Arthur anymore. I’m seventy-nine years old. How much longer do I have to enjoy him? And that time, that precious time, it’s been taken away, and I’m left with emails and Skype calls. It’s not enough. It’s not enough.” As I rattled on, my voice broke and I took a deep breath. “It’s not enough.”

  She put her hand on mine. “I know,” she said. “Sometimes I lie awake at night worrying about Otis growing up and leaving home. Leaving me. It’s inevitable. And I can’t bear it. But you know what they say. You have to ‘Let It Go.’” She sang the last three words, as we’d been singing to Otis all summer, and I managed a wan smile.

  Angela wasn’t finished. “I suppose he has grandparents over there, in Oz?” I nodded. “So one of you had to lose out. And it’s you. It’s fucking horrible but there it is. You think of yourself as Arthur’s grandmother, and Alistair and Mel’s mother, and, I guess, still Leo’s wife, but you’re much more than that. Own it.” She stood up. “Now, I’m going up to your attic to get those decorations you told me about. And then Otis and I are going to decorate your tree. Because I don’t have a deadline.”

  “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what made me say that. You know I love Otis.”

  She grinned. “I know. You can be a bitch sometimes though. Go and take that dog of yours on a walk, and pick us up something on the way back. None of that sweet sherry shit.”

  At the “w” word, Bobby came skidding into the kitchen. I gathered her lead and my purse as Angela collected the attic key and bellowed for Otis to come and help her.

  Outside, braced against the December chill, we made our way down the road to Bobby’s little wasteland so she could do her business. Afterward I tied her lead to a lamppost and went into the corner shop, where I bought a bottle of wine and some chocolate for Otis. As we made our way back, my pace slowed and I looked into the various houses en route. People put up their Christmas trees earlier and earlier every year, but I rather liked it, beckoning in the season and relishing the anticipation a little longer; the sweetest and most rewarding part. Each was a window into a little world and the tree a reflection of it, whether adorned with the most eclectic and clumsily handmade baubles, or bedecked in tartan-themed finery. As the lights twinkled at me, I absorbed their glow and felt the faint stirrings of hope.

  “Maybe I’ll be all right on my own, after all,” I said to Bobby as she sniffed some weeds between the cracks of the pavement. She looked up at me with such affection that I felt quite overwhelmed. “You’re right. I was never going to be on my own. I have you.”

  Later, watching Angela and Otis unwrap Jette’s darling little decorations, exclaiming and draping, I thought about all the other things I was. A classicist, a librarian, occasionally a witch (and a bitch), a walker and a dancer, and—for now, at least—Bobby’s owner. As I sipped my wine and pointed out empty branches to Otis, Angela turned to me and smiled: perhaps I was a friend too. Or at least I could try to be.

  While Otis and his mother hung the last knitted dolls and painted candy canes, I slipped back up to the attic and rummaged around until I found what I was looking for. In the spare room I discovered some leftover paper and quickly wrapped up two presents, then went downstairs again and shyly held out my offerings.

  “You’re in Ireland for Christmas, aren’t you? So you may as well have these now, in case I don’t see you before then.”

  Otis darted forward eagerly, Angela following more slowly to receive her parcel. Inside Otis’s little box were his beloved Dinky cars, a bit bashed about, but still raring to go. He shouted in delight and was off, roaring and brumming into the hallway. As the bow fell from Angela’s gift, Jette’s green flapper dress was revealed, silken and gorgeous, glittering with tiny beads, delicate feathers fluttering. She stared at it for a second and then looked up at me, her face flushed in the firelight.

  “You shouldn’t. It’s your grandmother’s. And it must be worth a fortune!” She clasped it to her chest.

  I shrugged. “Not a fortune. Anyway, this is better than selling it to some faceless collector. Wear it. Dance in it. Get drunk in it. Seduce someone in it.”

  She grinned wickedly. “Not in Ireland. My mother would go batshit crazy.” She hugged me. “Thank you. I’m sorry I won’t be around at Christmas. But you’ll be fine.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ve got Bobby.” I gestured to her, snuffling by the fire. “We’re going to eat pigs in blankets and play canasta. What happened to your Clark Kent, by the way?”

  Angela, still stroking the dress, looked up. “Who?”

  “The American? At the party? I thought h
e seemed nice.”

  She shrugged and started to pack up her dress in its wrapping. “Jack? He had to go back to New York. It was fun while it lasted.”

  “Oh. Well, plenty more fish in the sea. Or superheroes in disguise.”

  They left, Otis pushing along one of his cars, Angela clutching her dress, and I closed the door behind them, smiling. My smile faded though, as I turned back to my empty house. There was no denying that the prospect of Christmas alone was daunting. But then I saw the lovely tree in my cozy living room, Bobby sleepily opening one eye and thumping her tail as she saw me return, and I sat on my sofa thinking that together we would make the best of it.

  I went through to the kitchen to make some cocoa and saw my laptop on the table. Classicist, librarian, a witch (and a bitch), walker, dancer, dog owner, friend. And mother-in-law. Sitting down, I pulled it toward me, opened it up and logged on to my email.

  Dear Emily, I began.

  Chapter 31

  With nothing to look forward to, Christmas edged in more slowly than usual. Typically, I would have been swept up in preparations, nights tightening like a drawstring as the big day approached, but this year, the days rolled by idly. I went to visit Mel in Cambridge, since she was going to Italy for the holidays, to see Octavia’s parents. She was briskly sympathetic, but she and her new wife were busy buying their new flat, and didn’t really have time for my Yuletide lament. So instead I took myself out and wandered around the city, walking the cobbled streets and admiring shop windows, then venturing into quads to look up at the lights shining from the little rooms tucked away behind those Virginia creepers, wondering who was reading and talking and falling in love in them.

  Boarding the train back, I thought, What the hell, and bought one of those dreadful little bottles of wine like some scantily clad girl off to a night on the town. I must have looked strange, sitting there with my plastic cup, my mongrel beside me, but I’d learned not to care, and sat fondling Bobby and watching the inky landscape flash past.