by Bryony Doran
‘Hello, Grumpy. Wishing you hadn’t come?’
She grunts and wipes the mist off her window with her sleeved hand. ‘You should have brought your pale wife instead.’
‘Who? Oh, Barbara. She’s not my wife.’
‘Who is she, then?’
He ponders, ‘My woman, I suppose.’
‘Thought with your passion for colour you would have gone for something slightly less insipid.’
CHAPTER FORTY
Rachel waits for Edward. It’s now half past twelve and he is never late, so what can have happened? She orders a glass of white wine and tells the waitress she is waiting for her son; he will be along soon.
At one o’clock, sheltering under her umbrella, she crosses Fargate and hurries up Surrey Street. The Yorkshire flagstones outside the library shimmer in the rain. She is not quite sure who to ask. She stands hesitantly in front of a man seated at the Enquiries desk, ‘Excuse me.’
He looks up and smiles, ‘Yes?’
‘I wish to speak to Edward Anderson on an urgent matter. Can you help me?’
‘I’m sorry. Edward’s off sick.’
‘For how long?’
‘I’m not sure.’
She drops her voice and leans forward, ‘Do you know what’s wrong with him? It’s not serious is it? You see, I’m his mother.’
The man breaks into a smile, ‘Well I never! So you’re Edward’s mother. How do you do?’
‘Very well, but you didn’t answer my question.’
‘I’m sorry. I can’t give out details of such a personal nature.’
‘But I’m his mother.’
‘Why don’t you phone him?’ The man asks patiently.
She begins to back away, ‘Yes, I suppose I could,’ then, changing her mind, she moves forward again, ‘Can you tell me how long has he been off?’
The man frowns, trying to remember. ‘At least a week, I think. Most unlike Edward to have time off.’
Rachel stands on the library steps and waits for the rain to stop. She has butterflies in her stomach. She is not sure whether it is because she is hungry or because she feels unnerved by Edward’s disappearance. Is he really ill? Unfurling her umbrella she steps out into the rain. He could be in Henry’s waiting for her this very minute. She will go back and see; have something to eat and try to clear her head.
Seated in Henry’s, Rachel sips at her white wine and scans the restaurant for any sign of Edward. When the waitress comes she orders the salmon, as she had the time before.
‘Excuse me?’ The girl is just turning away. ‘Has by any chance my son been in?’
The girl comes back to the table and smiles, ‘But I don’t know what he looks like, do I?’
Rachel finds her tone rather patronising. She gives her a tight little smile. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘What does he look like?’ The girl persists.
‘It really doesn’t matter.’
‘It would be a shame though if you’d missed him.’
‘He walks with a stick.’ Rachel crosses her arms defensively. ‘He has a hunched back.’
‘Oh. I know who you mean.’
‘So he has been in?’ A sense of relief washes over her. ‘Thank goodness.’
‘He knows Angela, one of the other waitresses,’ the girl adds. ‘He’s been in recently but not today.’
‘And is Angela working?’ Her name sticks in Rachel’s throat.
The waitress pulls a face, ‘Not turned in. I’m run off my feet.’
Rachel waits for her food. She wishes she was sitting where she could see the door instead of having to turn every time she hears it open. She puts her head in her hands and closes her eyes. She is overcome by a sudden sense of overwhelming loss. What does she know of his life? Their lunchtime meetings had kept things exactly how she had wanted them and now, looking back, she realises how much she had enjoyed them, maybe more than she had ever admitted to herself.
She opens her handbag to look for a handkerchief. Tucked in the side pocket she sees the envelope of Edward’s last letter.
80 Hancock Rise
Sheffield
Dear Mother,
Thank you for your letter, I am glad you remembered to buy the crocus bulbs last year. The flowers will give you a lot of pleasure in spring. (If you also remembered to plant them.) When I was little, father never missed taking me to see the crocuses in the park. I always used to find it magical that the sad green winter grass had suddenly been littered with yellow and purple flowers and that the next time we went they would be gone and all there would be was green grass again.
I will see you next Tuesday at Henry’s, for lunch.
Love
Edward
PS I have a really good book for you this time, which I am sure you will enjoy.
No, she hadn’t got the arrangements wrong. As she sees the waitress returning with her food, she refolds the letter and puts it in her bag.
The salmon, although cooked to perfection, is hard to swallow. What can be the matter with him? It must be something very serious for him not to ring. She thinks back to the time when, as a child, he had contracted polio. He had spent weeks in a hospital bed and the only contact she and George had with him was to wave to him through a small window opposite his bed. The memory of Institution Green walls hits her like a bad smell. She can still see him now, clattering down the corridor towards her. The calliper on his leg resonating around them as his foot hit the floor. Strange how his leg had healed and he had been perfectly all right then, until that day when Ruben had brought him back on the train. She had been so glad to see her brother. He visited them so rarely.
‘Haven’t you noticed?’ he had raged at them. ‘Are you blind? Your son is turning into a hunchback and what have you done about it? Nothing!’
And what could they say? Neither of them had noticed anything unusual. Maybe Ruben had been right. Maybe they hadn’t wanted to.
Rachel knocks on the bottle-green door with the round, stained glass window and waits. She hears someone shuffling from the back of the house, then the bolts top and bottom being slid back and the safety chain clanking against the door. The door creaks open. A woman with a floral pinny and a ginger cat in her arms regards her curiously.
‘Hello. I’m looking for Edward Anderson?’
‘He doesn’t live here anymore, he moved out a few days ago.’
Rachel is stunned. ‘But, but this is the address on his last letter.’
‘Must have been before he moved.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘Shall I say who called, if I should see him?’
‘Oh, do you see him?’
‘Ah, no, but you never know, he might call round.’
‘What for, his post?’
‘No, he’s had that forwarded to his new address.’
‘And do you have that?’
The woman shakes her head, ‘Never even left me his address. He’s lived here all these years and then he ups and leaves just like that.’
‘And was he well when he left?’
‘Fine, except for his disability like.’ She nods knowingly.
‘Well, I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’
‘You know, I said to him, why don’t you still come for your Sunday lunch Mr. Anderson, but no, he would have none of it.’
Rachel backs away and puts up her umbrella.
‘Who shall I say called?’ the woman calls after her.
Without answering, Rachel turns away. She waits for the bus, sheltering from the rain under the canopy. So that is where Edward has lived all these years. She can see the house from the bus stop, and that must be the awful Mrs Ingram.
How is she going to find him now? A bus comes but it is not the one she wants. She shivers and pulls her coat tighter around her. She searches her mind for a solution, wipes her gloved hand across the glass of the shelter so that she can look out for the bus. Why would he suddenly cut off all contact? At least it didn’t appear as though he wa
s ill, well not seriously anyway. But why would he want to cut her off just like that. She feels a desolation begin to creep in around her. Desolation she has not felt since her uncle’s death.
She’d felt all right while she was at the farmhouse, helping her aunt sort out his belongings, but when she had returned home this terrible sense of loss had swept over her. It came from nowhere like the mists up on the moors, shrouding her in a misery from which she could not escape. What they’d had was solely between them, and she could share it with no-one else. George irritated her even more than usual and Edward, well, he was his usual sullen self. A boy turning slowly into a man. Once, and only once, she’d attempted to confide in her brother Ruben. She’d cried and told him how much she missed their uncle.
‘I don’t know why. I never liked him anyway. They always said he was a bad egg.’
She looked for solace in many places, but the only comfort she’d found was to sit in the attic and hold her necklaces up to the light. It was not until ten years later, after George died, when she started modelling for the college, that she felt her life begin to come right again. And when the shy boy came to her house, finally things fell back into place.
But where could Edward be? She thinks back to their last meeting. They had not really argued, not badly anyway. Just about him modelling.
The rain sweeps in under the canopy and wets her stockinged legs. Mrs. Ingram is watching from her front room bay.
She wishes a bus would come, and that she could go home.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Back at the cottage, Angela puts the kettle on while Alex goes upstairs to see his mother. Angela holds the teacup to her face, warming her cheek. Hilda comes in through the back door.
‘I’ve just made a pot of tea. Would you like one?’ Angela says.
‘No, thank you.’
Her manner is still cold, and Angela wonders if she resents having to share a confidence, ‘I would like to meet Alex’s mother,’ Angela says.
‘Why?’
Angela is taken aback by the sharp response of the woman.
Hilda looks at her coldly and says, ‘Alex has had such a string of women over the years.’ She shrugs, ‘I don’t think his mother would see any point in bothering to establish any further relationships.’
Angela laughs, incredulous. ‘Excuse me, but can I put the record straight? I’m not one of Alex’s women. I’m one of his pupils.’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time he’s had a relationship with a student.’
‘Well, not in this case.’ Angela plonks her cup down on the table.
Hilda fingers the edge of the tablecloth, ‘I’m sorry. We just assumed.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you.’
‘What are you doing with him, then?’
‘I’m doing some modelling for him. For which I am getting paid. He has to get this work finished so I said that I’d come down with him so he wouldn’t fall behind. Does that answer your question?’
The woman shifts on her seat and looks across at Angela, ‘I’d never trust Alex where women are concerned.’
‘You sound as if you don’t like him very much.’
‘You’re rather a rude young woman, aren’t you? What gives you the right to accept my hospitality and then think you can ask me personal questions?’
Angela feels stung. Without another word she leaves the room.
She pokes a stick into the centre of a sea anemone, swaying pink fronds and no brain. The fronds suck into the stick like an infant on a mother’s nipple. Her heart is still pounding like the sea tunnelling up the cave. She is angry with herself; angry at the tears that are stopping her from swallowing; angry that she can never cope with confrontation; angry because she always feels so alone.
She picks a pebble out of the pool and rolls it in her hand. She feels its cold wetness, and the way it warms to her touch. She sees, as the stone begins to dry, that the vivid blackness, ingrained with gold and brown begins to fade. She throws the stone back into the pool and watches as it settles back down into the sand, taking on its former glow. It’s like a tiger-eye she thinks; like Rachel’s beads.
‘Ange?’
She crouches into her haunches. ‘For God’s sake,’ she mutters, ‘go away.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘Just your body language.’
‘Do you want me to come and sit for you now?’ She looks up at him.
Alex brushes his fringe backwards and holds it tight against the top of his head. ‘I thought we might go for a walk first.’ He shades his eyes and looks up at the square house perched on the end of the headland.
‘Nah.’ Angela balances on the edge of the pool, rocking back and forth. ‘I feel too lazy to go for a walk. Which room are we going to work in?’
‘I thought your bedroom.’
Angela lies on the bed, propped on one elbow. The pink satin of the eiderdown gives her skin a soft glow. Like her new bra, she thinks.
‘Keep still.’
‘I’m trying to but the feathers from the eiderdown are tickling my nose. How much longer are you going to be?’
‘You know what you were saying about your parents on the way down? Well aren’t you curious about them?’ He looks over at her, studying her.
‘No,’ she replies, in a sullen tone.
He continues, ‘I thought you said they were artists too.’
‘So?’
‘Well, aren’t you interested in their work?’
‘Alex, will you stop going on about them?’
‘You know,’ he seems to be miles away. ‘I’m sure your breasts are getting fuller. They’re magnificent. So nubile and,’ he cups his hands, ‘so ripe. I want to eat you. Devour you. Imagine you as a finished model of creamy marble, a Greek goddess.’
Angela sits up and pulls the eiderdown around her. ‘I hope you break your bloody teeth.’
‘Why did you have to move? I’d nearly finished. I was speaking to you as a fellow artist. Christ, you’re touchy.’
‘You know your aunt Hilda? Well, she thought we were an item.’
‘How disgusting.’ There is a note of mockery in his tone. ‘To think I’d want to bed you. How can the thought have ever entered her head?’
‘I told her I’m your pupil. Alex wouldn’t take advantage of me like that. He has principles.’
‘Ah, how black and white the young see the world.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you know the colour of that eiderdown complements your complexion perfectly? I wish I’d brought some paints.’
She gets up and goes over to the window, her eiderdown wrap trailing behind her. The light outside is beginning to fade. He comes and stands behind her. She can hear his breathing, feel its warmth on her shoulder. His words are spoken so quietly they are hardly audible, ‘You’re very lovely you know.’
She turns and walks across the room, putting the bed between them, ‘I’m going out for a breath of fresh air.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
She collects her clothes off the floor, ‘Alex, don’t you ever want to be on your own?’
She walks up the village street. Dusk is falling and the air is purple, misting to mauve. She can smell wood smoke. She pulls her coat tighter around her, fishes in her pocket and pulls out a razor shell that she had picked up off the beach earlier that day. She smoothes it between her palms and sits down in the darkness listening to the trickle of the stream, breathing-in the salt air. She feels so confused. Nothing is as it should be. She lets out a soft moan and wraps her arms around her body, shivering as she remembers. Oh God, it had felt so good, so natural with Edward. And yet how could it be? She shudders. It was disgusting. She had made love to an old man with toe nails like claws. She closes her eyes and lets the roar from the sea filter through her body.
Hilda is sitting alone in the kitchen reading Alex’s paper. She looks up as Angela enters. Angela places the razor shell on th
e table. Hilda takes off her glasses and examines it. She picks it up and holds it between her fingers, stroking the smooth surface, ‘Thank you.’
Angela nods. ‘That’s okay,’ she says quietly.
Hilda turns the shell over, ‘I don’t know what to make of you.’
‘Then just accept me as I am.’
‘Do I have to?’
Angela laughs, ‘No, I don’t suppose so, but at least let’s not quarrel about a man.’
Hilda holds the shell up to the light. ‘This is a village of women, you know?’
‘How’d you mean?’
‘All the men went out to sea one day and never came back. Left a village of widows and young children.’
‘Is that why it seems so sad?’
Hilda frowns, ‘Do you feel that?’
Angela nods, ‘I noticed it this morning. What happened to the widows?’
‘They tried to hold things together here, but gradually they all drifted off until the village was deserted. It’s only in recent times that the cottages have been restored.’
Alex comes down the stairs. He looks sad and tired, ‘What are you two talking about?’
Angela wants to hear the rest of the story, but Alex has broken the spell.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Edward has been to the supermarket for his weekly shop. He has been very judicious, knowing that he will have to carry it home and that he will only have one hand free. The other he will need for propelling himself with his stick. Among his purchases is an aubergine that he had been unable to resist. He’d picked it up and felt the cool, polished flesh against his skin, the prickle of the pale green cap on the underside of his wrist and - this week’s special offer - Aubergine Recipe Cards.
Next day, he slices the aubergine into black-rimmed discs and places them one layer thick on a dinner plate. He picks up the salt and studies the picture of the boy throwing salt over his shoulder before, liberally, as the recipe instructs, sprinkling the grey-green flesh of the aubergine. He places another dinner plate on top of the aubergines and then, on top of the plate, a brass weight from his new scales.
He walks down to the delicatessen for some Parmesan cheese.
