The Uncommon Life of Alfred Warner in Six Days

by Juliet Conlin

  You can’t turn the clock back, Alfred.

  ‘I know,’ he answered silently, dejectedly.

  He’s gone.

  ‘I don’t know what’s more remarkable,’ Alfred said out loud to Isobel, to stop the feeling blossoming, ‘a man walking on the moon or our son getting into university.’

  ‘Well, people can change,’ she said in a flat voice.

  One Tuesday evening, Alfred was in the kitchen, whisking a couple of eggs in a bowl. Isobel came in and looked over his shoulder.

  ‘Eggy bread?’ she asked. ‘Make some for me, will you?’

  Alfred looked up. ‘No Foucault or Sartre tonight, then?’ he asked. He hadn’t read either, but had seen the books on Isobel’s bedside table.

  ‘Amelia’s in London for the week,’ she said flatly. ‘She’s gone to an anti-war demonstration.’

  He clicked the gas stove on and put a knob of butter into the pan. ‘Isn’t she a little old for that kind of thing?’

  ‘What, taking a stand against an immoral war?’

  ‘Christ, Isobel. You know what I mean. Here, pass me the bread, will you?’

  She took four slices of bread out of the wrapper and handed them to him. He soaked each slice in the egg mixture and placed them in the pan. It smelled good. Isobel came and stood close to him. ‘You’ve become quite a dab hand in the kitchen, haven’t you?’ she said, smiling.

  ‘Left to my own devices,’ he replied. Then he said, ‘How about we eat and then I give you a lift to Stoke in the car? Maybe I’ll even join you.’

  Isobel was silent for a moment. The bread sizzled in the pan and she nudged him to turn the slices over. ‘No thanks, Alfie,’ she said finally. ‘This is something I want to do on my own. I’m doing it for me.’ She placed her hand on her chest for emphasis.

  ‘Except for when Amelia’s not here to do it with you,’ he said without thinking. When he looked at her, she had turned bright red.

  The next morning, he apologised.

  ‘Save it, Alfred,’ she said, buttering a slice of toast. A night’s sleep evidently hadn’t thawed her.

  He put the kettle on and waited for it to boil.

  Apologise again. Go on. Tell her what a good wife and mother she is.

  ‘Stay out of it,’ he murmured.

  Don’t take your bad mood out on us.

  ‘Enough!’ He flicked his hand past his ear as though waving away some annoying gnats.

  Isobel glanced up from her toast and raised an eyebrow. ‘I gather you’re holding your own private little conversation there,’ she said coldly.

  ‘Isobel, I’m . . . ’ The sound of the kettle boiling drowned out his words. He filled the teapot and went to sit beside her at the kitchen table. ‘Isobel. Please. Let’s not start the day this way.’

  But she shrugged and stood up. ‘I’ve got things to do. I don’t just sit around here all day enjoying myself, you know.’

  ‘But I’ve never suggested – ’

  She left the kitchen before he could finish his sentence.

  Things hadn’t improved the following evening. Alfred was at pains to avoid any confrontation, but it seemed as though Isobel was itching for an argument. Even as she put down his dinner plate in front of him, he could sense her bristling. He decided to say as little as possible. He waited for her to sit down and then began to eat. She had made liver with mashed potato, something he generally enjoyed, but his first mouthful was tough and gristly, and as he chewed at the meat, he felt her eyes on him.

  ‘Anything wrong?’

  ‘No,’ he said, swallowing the half-chewed piece of liver. ‘Not at all.’

  They continued to eat in silence. When they had finished, Isobel said, ‘An occasional thank you would be nice.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘For serving you food every day.’ Her voice was dangerously low.

  He sighed. ‘Thank you, Isobel, for cooking for me every day.’

  It wasn’t enough – or perhaps it was too little, too late. Isobel continued. ‘You don’t respect me, Alfred.’

  ‘Of course I do!’

  ‘No. You don’t.’ She made it sound like a statement of fact. ‘Christ, you don’t even let me read the newspaper!’

  ‘That’s nonsense!’

  ‘Oh really?’ Her face was pinkening. ‘How many times have you sat there reading the paper, and read me things you thought might be “of interest”? Hmm? Instead of letting me make up my own mind?’

  Alfred shook his head. ‘Bloody hell, Isobel. That’s just ridiculous.’

  But she’s not wrong, really, is she?

  ‘And you refused to let me get a job? D’you remember? Before John?’ She stood up and began clearing the plates from the table, noisily. She spoke in a rush. ‘You dragged me down here, and expected me to be your little hausfrau, nice and quiet and obedient and dependent. Escaping to the pub when things got difficult. Leaving me to mop up the mess. Well, I’ve had enough!’

  ‘That’s Amelia talking.’

  Touché.

  Isobel banged the plates onto the draining board. ‘Oh, of course, because I’m not capable of thinking my own thoughts.’

  ‘Well, are you? Because right now, it doesn’t seem like it.’

  ‘You know what, Alfred? Just . . . fuck off.’ She stormed out.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he called after her. ‘It’s the middle of the night!’

  ‘To Amelia’s. She left me a spare key.’ And she walked out of the house, leaving the door wide open.

  Ten days before Christmas, the postman delivered a letter and a postcard, both relaying the same information, albeit in different ways. The letter was from the University of Manchester, informing Alfred and Isobel that John had been absent for four consecutive weeks, and advising them that failure to produce documentary evidence justifying the absence would result in his suspension from his degree course. The postcard was from John himself. It showed a sunset over the Golden Gate Bridge, with the words Greetings from San Francisco, Calif. across the front. On the back, John had written:

  Hi Mum, hi Dad,

  This’ll come as a surprise, I know. Can’t explain right now why, but had to leave. Looking for a life that’s bigger.

  Love, John

  Alfred came home to the news. Isobel was sitting on the couch, red-eyed, in her dressing gown. Amelia was sitting beside her. Isobel jumped up as Alfred came in, but Amelia broke the news.

  ‘John’s dropped out of university and gone to America,’ she said bluntly. She gave Isobel a sympathetic nod of the head.

  Alfred looked at Isobel. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s true,’ Isobel said, her voice hoarse and cracked from hours of crying. ‘Look.’ She picked up the postcard and the letter and handed them to him.

  Alfred quickly read both. ‘Why didn’t you call me at work?’ he asked. He was stunned. He’d expected many things of John, but nothing like this. He couldn’t understand why his voices had stayed silent, hadn’t given him some kind of warning. He repeated, ‘Why didn’t you call me?’

  Amelia stood up. ‘Don’t bully her, Alfred. She’s had quite enough blows already. She’s been so upset, haven’t you, Izzy?’ She put a hand on Isobel’s arm.

  Alfred cleared his throat. It grated on him, the way she abbreviated his wife’s name. ‘Well, thank you, Amelia. For looking after her. I think it’s probably best if we discuss this in private.’

  ‘He’s young,’ Amelia said. ‘Like I said to Izzy, he probably just wants some adventure, see the world, experience what’s out there. God knows I did when I was his age.’

  Isobel started weeping again.

  ‘I think – ’ Alfred began, but couldn’t quite arrange his thoughts. He looked at the postcard again, at the tacky, kitschy sunset. What was John thinking? How could he be so selfish? Alfred had a sudden image of himself when he was John’s age – the beginnings of that glorious final summer in Berlin stretching out before him, when despite all the misery and wretchedness of war surround
ing him he had felt carefree and happy, only to be plucked out of his youth and sent off to kill. The memory weighed on him, and with a trembling hand he tossed the postcard down. What did John know about a ‘bigger life’?

  ‘I think,’ he said to Amelia, ‘that you should leave now.’ He put a proprietary arm around Isobel.

  Amelia ran her hand through her short hair. ‘Perhaps I should be off,’ she said finally. ‘Will you be all right, Izzy?’

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ Alfred said.

  Amelia ignored him. She gave Isobel a peck on the cheek and said, ‘You know where to find me.’

  Alfred’s enquiries went nowhere. The university hadn’t seen him since late October, and he was told politely but firmly by the police that they could not file a missing persons report. Not only did his parents have an indication of his whereabouts (‘He sent you a postcard, didn’t he?’), but he was now of legal age, the age of majority only recently having been lowered from twenty-one to eighteen (‘Can’t say I agree with that myself,’ was the policeman’s opinion, ‘but there you have it.’).

  Two more postcards followed during the next six months. Both were from California. The one from Los Angeles read: Life is great! Love, John. The one from Monterey read: I’m sorry. I wish you were here. John

  Over the next few months, Alfred and Isobel’s arguments continued, culminating one evening in a row over Alfred’s apparent over-generous use of Fairy Liquid.

  ‘There’s bubbles everywhere!’ Isobel cried when she came into the kitchen. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘I’m washing the dishes,’ Alfred responded, and added, ‘I thought that’s what you wanted. A little help around the house.’

  ‘A little help. Around the house,’ she repeated slowly.

  ‘Yes,’ Alfred said. He continued to rub the dishcloth around an already clean plate. ‘I thought that’s what you want. Isn’t that what you want?’

  Isobel’s voice dropped to a growl. ‘Don’t you dare put this back on me, Alfred Warner.’

  Alfred let the plate slide back into the soapy water. He turned to face her. ‘Isobel. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  She gave him a stare. ‘No, you don’t, do you?’ She left the room.

  Damned if you do, damned if you don’t!

  These were Alfred’s thoughts exactly. A short while later, Isobel complained about his snoring, so he ended up sleeping on a camp bed in John’s old room. After more than twenty years, Isobel said, she was entitled to a good night’s sleep.

  The marriage had become wretched and exhausting, and so when Alfred returned home after work one day in April 1970 to find a letter from Isobel waiting for him, the first thing he felt was a perverse relief.

  Dear Alfie,

  Everything is falling apart. I have been a wife and mother for most of my life and at times I feel – no, I know – that I have failed miserably. I understand now that my failure was the result of trying to be someone I’m not, and now I have to take control of my life and be who I am meant to be. This is not an impulsive decision; I have thought about this for a long time. Please don’t be worried. I am going to live with a group of women who understand me and who will be there for me, as I will be there for them.

  And please, Alfred, do not try and contact me.

  Isobel

  Alfred let the letter fall back onto the table. His absurd relief quickly turned into panic. He ran upstairs to the bedroom. She’d taken only a few clothes as far as he could tell, but her suitcase was missing from the top of the wardrobe, and on her bedside table, lying forlornly beside the small rose-coloured lamp, was her wedding ring. He ran out of the house and went to Amelia’s. He rang the doorbell, pounded the door with his fists, but there was no response.

  ‘Amelia!’ he shouted. ‘Isobel!’

  He ran around to the back of the house, cupped his hands to the window and looked in, but there was no sign of life. A mad charge of anger rushed through his body and he smashed his fist against the glass, cracking it but not breaking it, which left him feeling strangely impotent.

  ‘Where is she?!!’ he called into the dark, but there was no answer. He went back around to the front, and noticed curtains twitching on the other side of the street. A neighbour’s dog began to bark furiously. Alfred stood in the night air for a while, breathing heavily, and then went back home.

  Upstairs, he grabbed as many of Isobel’s clothes as he could hold and took them downstairs, then stuffed them into bin bags. He picked up the letter and tore it into tiny pieces. Afterwards, sick with rage and shock and wretchedness, he got himself a bottle of gin and went to sit in the middle of the back lawn, under a waxing moon, to get drunk.

  ‘I don’t deserve this,’ he said, into the darkness.

  What do you deserve, Alfred?

  ‘I don’t know. Not . . . not this.’ He waved his arm around.

  Don’t forget, you lied to her for many years.

  ‘I know, but not to hurt her. How could she just leave like this?’

  Well, it’s hard, I know. But –

  ‘But what? What did I do wrong?’

  Some questions have no answers.

  And with that, they left him again. When the bottle was empty, he staggered back into the house, removed Isobel’s clothes from the bags and returned them, neatly folded, to their rightful place. Again, he noticed how little she had taken with her – did this mean she was coming home soon, or was she leaving her old life behind her? For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. He leaned forward and put his hands on his thighs, gasping for air, as his whole world folded up on him. When his breathing became regular again, he got to his hands and knees and slowly, with shaking hands, pieced together Isobel’s letter with Sellotape.

  The next morning, feeling dazed and still a little drunk, he drove to Uttoxeter. He knew from Isobel that the veterinary practice where Amelia worked was just off the High Street. When he entered, a bell above the door tinkled, setting off a cacophony of squawking, barking and growling. Five or six pet owners sat around, shushing and stroking their sick animals. Amelia was sitting at a high-topped counter, wearing a white coat over a chunky knit sweater, talking on the telephone. She looked up and a pained expression crossed her face when she saw him, but she quickly gathered herself. She looked as though she had been expecting him. He crossed the waiting room.

  ‘Where’s Isobel?’ he demanded in a loud voice. ‘Where’s my wife?’

  She held up a forefinger and mouthed, Please, before speaking into the telephone. ‘Well, bring him in at eleven, but you’ll probably be in for a bit of a wait. Good-bye.’ She put down the receiver.

  ‘Hello Alfred,’ she said guardedly.

  ‘Where’s Isobel?’

  ‘Look, I can understand that you’re upset, but – ’

  ‘Upset?!! I’m more than bloody upset.’

  Amelia got to her feet. She was a tall woman and stood at his eye-level. ‘Please, Alfred. Not here. I’m on a break at – ’ she checked her watch, ‘in twenty minutes. There’s a café around the corner. I’ll meet you there.’

  ‘I haven’t got long,’ she said when she arrived.

  ‘Where is she?’ Alfred asked. The coffee he’d ordered had gone cold, and the smell of old cooking grease was making him queasy.

  Amelia cleared her throat. ‘She didn’t leave because of me.’

  ‘No, I suppose it was because of me.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ She waved the waitress over and ordered a coffee, and then lit a cigarette. ‘In fact, I tried to talk her out of it. But, Alfred – ’ she looked directly at him, ‘she was in a bad place.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he said, more loudly than he intended. Amelia flinched.

  Hush, Alfred. Get a grip of yourself. Or she’ll walk out of here and you’ll never find Isobel.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Please, Amelia, tell me where she is.’

  Amelia shifted in her seat. She stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette a
nd lit another. ‘I promised not to say.’

  Alfred rested his elbows on the table and rubbed his face. He felt the toxic remnants of the gin in his bloodstream and the inside of his mouth tasted fetid. The waitress brought Amelia’s coffee, setting it down carelessly, so that the brown liquid sloshed over the sides of the cup onto the table.

  ‘She said she needed to get away and think. You have to understand how overwhelmed she was by John leaving, by the fact that she thinks she’s done everything wrong up to this point in her life. And she’s done nothing wrong.’ Her eyes were suddenly fierce. ‘She’s cared for others for all her life, and now she just needs a rest.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  Amelia waited a long time before answering. When she did, her voice was low. ‘Okay. But you must swear not to try to bring her home. Not only because I promised I’d keep quiet, but honestly, I think if you try to bring her home before she’s ready, you might lose her for good.’

  Alfred swallowed and nodded. His voice-women were whispering assent.

  ‘She’s staying with some women in Birmingham. It’s a co-operative. For women who need to be with other women.’

  ‘You mean a commune? With some sort of hippies?’

  ‘Call it what you will, Alfred. Like I said, I tried to talk her out of it.’ She got to her feet. ‘I’d give you the exact address.’ She paused. ‘But like I said, I don’t think she’s ready . . . ’ She shrugged. ‘All the best, Alfred.’

  For several weeks, he pretended it hadn’t happened, that she hadn’t left, or that she had just gone for a few days to clear her head and would be back any day. He woke every morning, ignoring the fact that her toothbrush and face-cream were missing from the bathroom shelf, and went downstairs for breakfast, half-expecting her to have come home during the night. He would cycle to work, forcing a hum or whistle, blanking out the voice-women who moaned and whined inside his head. He avoided the pub, knowing how quickly rumours spread through the village, not wanting to hear whispered talk and lewd jokes about his wife.