Song of the Skylark

by Erica James

  She knew all about how old people’s recollections steadily became far clearer than those of the more immediate past, and even the present, but observing it close up with Mrs Dallimore really brought home to Lizzie just how true it was. Had anyone, she wondered, actually figured out yet why the brain could enable a person like Mrs Dallimore to recall events that took place seventy years ago, and with an extraordinary depth of detail, but at the same time play tricks on her, such as steal her ability to recognise Lizzie?

  The buzzing of her mobile interrupted her thoughts. These days, with her circle of contacts shrunk to no more than a handful of people, the mere fact that the device had sprung into life with a text was a surprise to Lizzie.

  An even bigger surprise was that it was Simon who had texted. Am home for the Bank Holiday weekend, fancy lunch today?

  After a small hesitation, she replied: When and where?

  His reply came back in an instant: The Bell, 12.30. If that’s ok.

  I need to be somewhere for 2.30, so it’ll have to be a quick lunch.

  Let’s make it 12.00 in that case.

  See you then!

  The invitation had to be as a result of Dad and Luke running into Simon and his father last night. Luke had come back to the house on his own, leaving Dad chatting to Keith and Simon. It wasn’t exactly how Lizzie had hoped the evening would pan out. Dad was supposed to be having a one-to-one with Luke, but judging from his jovial manner when he’d returned home during the ten o’clock news, it was obvious he’d thoroughly enjoyed himself. Lizzie had watched her mother doing her best to be pleased for him, but she could see it rankled, as if Dad had broken ranks by fraternising with the enemy.

  Time to get up, she thought after glancing at her watch, but no sooner had she pushed aside the duvet than she heard her father whistling his way up the stairs, followed by a knock on her door.

  ‘Come in,’ she said, ‘I’m wide awake.’

  ‘Cup of tea,’ said her father, putting the mug on the bedside table. Going over to the curtains, he drew them back. ‘It’s another day in—’

  ‘Paradise,’ Lizzie finished for him.

  He smiled. ‘As reliably predictable as a Swiss cuckoo clock, that’s your old dad.’

  ‘We wouldn’t want you any other way,’ she said with a smile of her own. ‘You didn’t tell me how you got on yesterday with Luke. Did you manage to get anything out of him?’

  Her father sat on the end of her bed. ‘Yes, and rather more than I expected to.’

  ‘Is it bad?’

  ‘It certainly isn’t good. Some of which I said I wouldn’t repeat, so no trying to extract it from me. Okay?’

  ‘Of course. Tell me what you think you can.’

  While her father spoke, Lizzie drank her tea. ‘The question is,’ he said eventually, ‘how we as a family can help resolve the problem.’

  ‘Can we?’ asked Lizzie. ‘Isn’t it for Ingrid to accept that Luke has a family that cares for him? And for her, too?’

  ‘True, but the question is how can we help her do that?’

  Lizzie puffed out her cheeks. ‘I don’t know. How worried does Luke seem?’

  ‘More worried than I’d like him to be.’

  ‘You know, I never thought I’d say this, but I can sympathise with Ingrid, in that I hated having to ask you and Mum for help when I lost my job. I felt such a failure having to admit I’d messed up. It was like being a child again. Not that Ingrid has messed up; it’s just that, from what you say, she hates to ask for help. It probably makes her feel less capable, which may well stem from some sort of insecurity.’

  Her father took a moment to consider this. ‘I hadn’t thought of it quite like that,’ he said, ‘but I think you could be right.’ He rubbed his chin, thinking. Then: ‘Do you think you could be the one who Ingrid might open up to if you talked to her?’

  ‘Me?’ blurted out Lizzie, shocked. ‘Oh, I don’t think that’s a very good idea, especially as I’m sure she doesn’t really approve of me.’

  ‘I’m equally sure that isn’t true. More likely the two of you just haven’t found the right common ground yet. I’ve suggested to your mother that we have a family barbecue on Monday afternoon when they come to drop off Freddie. Why don’t you see if you can get Ingrid on her own for a chat?’

  The suggestion appalled Lizzie. ‘You really think she’ll talk to me? Why not you, or Mum? You two are so much more careful about what you say.’

  ‘And therein lies the problem, in all likelihood. What’s needed is some good old-fashioned openness, and you, Lizzie, are so much better at that than the rest of us.’

  ‘But what if my mouth runs away with itself and I make things worse?’

  ‘You won’t, I have every confidence in you.’

  Which is more than I have in myself, thought Lizzie when she surprised herself by agreeing to talk to Ingrid.

  Well, this is a day of surprises, she found herself thinking when later she was sitting in the garden of the Bell with Simon. With the arrival of identical plates of chargrilled burgers and two small bowls of fat chips, they each reached for the salt at the same time.

  ‘You first,’ Simon said. He seemed a lot more at ease than Lizzie was. But then he had nothing to feel guilty about; she was the one who was riddled with self-recrimination and regret.

  ‘Dad really enjoyed himself last night,’ she said, sliding the salt mill across the table after she’d used it. ‘I do hope things go back to how they were between them before I threw a spanner in the works.’

  ‘So do I. I know my father misses Tom, they were such good friends.’

  ‘What about Lorna?’ Lizzie asked cautiously. ‘Any change there?’

  Simon pulled a face. ‘Still a work in progress, I’m afraid. I’m working on her.’

  ‘I don’t want to sound critical, but what’s her problem? Does she blame Mum for what I did?’

  Simon chewed on a mouthful of burger. When he’d finished, he said, ‘I think she’s got herself into a tight corner and doesn’t know how to come out of it with her pride in place.’

  ‘That’s probably where Mum is right now. And if I’m honest, I was in a similar place myself when I had to leave London with my tail firmly between my legs. Talk about the long walk home of shame, my pride was so low it was practically digging its own grave.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now I’m fast developing a new perspective, and can see that some of the things that used to seem important to me just aren’t.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The whole London-centric thing.’ She smiled. ‘Mind you, that could just be my battered pride flexing its muscles, making out that the job I’ve just been offered with a small provincial radio station is the last word in career moves.’

  Unfolding his paper napkin, Simon wiped his mouth. ‘Who knows, it might well be.’

  ‘How about you?’ she asked.

  ‘You’ll be pleased to hear I’ve abandoned my five-year plan, and not just because we’re no longer together; I suddenly realised how ridiculous it was.’

  She frowned and put down her knife and fork and reached for her glass of water – despite an initial need to quell her nerves with a large glass of wine, she’d deemed it better not to turn up at Woodside with alcohol on her breath. ‘It wasn’t ridiculous, Simon,’ she said, ‘there’s nothing wrong in having a plan.’

  ‘It was the wrong plan at the wrong time. And …’ he paused to take a sip of his beer, ‘I lost you because of it.’

  ‘Don’t say that. It really wasn’t anything you did: it was me. I lost my head for somebody who turned out to be nothing but a lying cheat.’

  He put down his glass and gave her one of his close-scrutiny looks. The one she had always found so attractive in the past. And as if seeing him through fresh eyes, she thought how well he looked. Was it her imagi
nation, or did he seemed freer than before, as though he were more himself? He’d had a change of haircut, had left his hair to grow slightly longer on the top so its natural curve was visible. It suited him. The pale blue T-shirt he was wearing was new and picked up the blue of his eyes. Was he getting style tips from the work colleague he’d mentioned on the phone? No, she warned herself, don’t go there, it’s none of your business.

  ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t say this,’ he said, ‘but – and please don’t think I’m saying it with any kind of sick pleasure – I heard on the grapevine that Curt is up to no good with your replacement.’

  Surprised that she felt no hurt at Simon’s words, just a sickening disgust with herself that she had fallen for a low-life serial adulterer, Lizzie shook her head and shrugged. ‘How does he get away with it?’ she said.

  ‘Some just do,’ said Simon. ‘And again, I don’t want to speak out of turn, or appear as though I’m revelling in this, but aren’t you glad you discovered what Curt was like when you did, rather than get any more involved with him?’

  ‘You can say anything you want to me,’ she said, and meaning it, ‘you’ve earned that right. And yes, I’m now at the point when I can see that I had a lucky escape.’

  Their burgers finished and their plates taken away, Simon looked at her. ‘I’ve enjoyed this,’ he said. ‘I was worried it might be difficult, but it hasn’t been. Well, not from my side of the table. How’s it from your side?’

  She smiled at his tact. ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘But there’s a bit of me that keeps waiting for the sting in the tail, for you suddenly to give it to me with both barrels.’

  ‘If it puts your mind at rest, I can assure you I’ve passed that stage.’

  ‘So there was a moment when you might have given it to me with both barrels?’ she said.

  ‘Oh yes, I’m human, not a saint, Lizzie.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Truly I am.’

  ‘Apology accepted.’ He glanced at his watch – the retro digital watch she had bought him for his birthday two years ago – ‘I don’t want to hurry you,’ he said, ‘but didn’t you say you had to leave here at two o’clock? It’s five to.’

  ‘That time already?’ she said, disappointed. She could happily stay here for the rest of the afternoon. ‘I see you kept it,’ she said, pointing at the watch.

  He frowned. ‘Of course I did. Why would you think …? Oh, I see, you think I should have thrown it away in a fit of anger. Or taken a hammer to it to exorcise my feelings for you?’

  ‘Something like that. Which is probably what I would have done, had Curt actually bothered to give me anything other than a ton of regret.’

  ‘A cheapskate as well as a twenty-four carat gold shit?’ remarked Simon with a raised eyebrow. ‘Is there a worse combination?’

  She laughed. ‘None that I know of.’

  He smiled back at her. ‘Would it be inappropriate to say how good it is to see you again?’

  ‘Not at all. I’ve been thinking the same. But I really should be going.’ She dug around in her bag for some money.

  ‘Put it away, it’s my treat. After all, it was my idea.’

  ‘That’s not fair. You know I always like to pay my way.’

  ‘How about you do the next one?’

  She looked at him. ‘You’re sure you want a next one?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t mean it.’

  She cycled away from the pub in the very best of moods. Life was good, she thought with a carefree happiness as she pedalled out of the village. It was good to know that from the wreckage of one of the worst decisions she’d ever made in her life she and Simon could be friends.

  Her mood was further improved when she arrived at Woodside just in time to join in with singing happy birthday to Mrs Coleman, and to help pass slices of birthday cake round. It was the woman’s ninety-second birthday and with her wispy white hair specially washed and set for the occasion, she looked as pleased as punch with the fuss being made of her. Her family were gathered around her wheelchair, the handles of which had balloons tied to them, and a couple of great-grandchildren were running around and causing a mixture of mayhem and delight amongst the residents. An unnaturally smartly dressed boy of about thirteen was enthusiastically showing Mr Sheridan something on an iPad. There should be more days like this, Lizzie thought, not just birthday parties, but times when children came in to entertain the residents. The only person who seemed not to be enjoying herself was Mrs Lennox, who repeatedly tutted and complained of the noise.

  When the party was over and Lizzie had helped clear away and stack the dishwasher in the kitchen, she went in search of Mrs Dallimore. As she so often did, she had the rose arbour to herself. Her head was tilted forward, her chin tucked in and her lips were moving, as if she were reciting something, praying even, or maybe she was talking to herself. Or was this a visit from her old friends? Lizzie felt awkward coming upon her in this way and hung back for a moment, uncertain whether to proceed or just leave well alone. She had noticed during Mrs Coleman’s party that Mrs Dallimore had had a vague and distracted air about her, gazing off into the distance at times as though lost in her own world. Chances were Lizzie wouldn’t have been the only one to notice.

  ‘Is that you, Lizzie?’

  ‘I thought you were asleep,’ lied Lizzie, hurrying forward, ‘that the party had been too much for you.’

  ‘I must confess I do feel a little tired,’ the old lady said weakly. ‘Do you have time to sit awhile with me?’

  Lizzie smiled. ‘All the time in the world for you.’ She settled herself next to Mrs Dallimore. ‘I had lunch with my ex-boyfriend today,’ she said.

  Mrs Dallimore turned to look at her, her brows drawn. ‘Who?’

  ‘Simon,’ she explained, ‘the boyfriend I treated so badly when I fell for Curt, the married man.’

  ‘Oh, him,’ the old lady said vaguely, as if still not entirely sure who Lizzie was talking about.

  ‘It was good seeing him again,’ Lizzie continued, ‘although I did feel incredibly nervous initially. He suggested we should meet again some time.’

  ‘Will the two of you get back together, do you think?’ asked Mrs Dallimore. Like the flip of a coin, the vagueness of before was replaced with a razor-sharp frankness.

  Lizzie shook her head. ‘No. I wouldn’t trust myself not to hurt him again, and he doesn’t deserve that. Oh, and get this, Simon told me he’d heard that Curt is already at it again with the girl who took over my job at the radio station.’

  Mrs Dallimore sighed. ‘A dirty dog of the highest order! What a lucky escape you had, my dear.’

  ‘I said much the same thing to Simon. I’ve decided to stay away from men for the time being, until I feel I can be trusted to make the right choice.’

  ‘What about Jed?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘You’re not going to stop being friends with him, are you? That would be a great shame, in my opinion.’

  Lizzie smiled. ‘Are you matchmaking, Mrs Dallimore?’

  ‘He’s a fine young man; you could do a lot worse.’

  ‘And I’m sure he could do a lot better. Did you never want to marry again, Mrs Dallimore?’ she asked, changing the subject.

  ‘No. Nicholas was my priority, and I always considered myself lucky to have known what I had. Rightly or wrongly, I didn’t believe anyone would have lived up to William, or Artie.’

  ‘What about Effie, did she marry in the end?’

  ‘Ah, dear Effie. The poor girl had three marriages, all of them doomed because she could never find a man to replace Ellis. He was the light of her life.’

  ‘If Ellis hadn’t died, do you think they would have married,’ asked Lizzie, ‘even though he was gay?’

  ‘Almost certainly, and probably because he was gay. She told me some years after the war th
at she would have done anything to protect him.’

  ‘That would have been quite some sacrifice.’

  Mrs Dallimore shook her head. ‘Back then, people were more inclined to make sacrifices than they are today. And anyway, sex wasn’t that important to Effie. She had, she confided in me, a low sex drive, practically non-existent, she said. I expect that was a contributing factor to her unhappy marriages. Very likely her relationship with her father somehow played its part, too, although it was never anything we discussed. I thought it very cruel when her second husband, a film producer, accused Effie of being “glacial” in bed. It was an unnecessarily unkind comment from a man who was a notorious womaniser and would bed anything that moved.’

  ‘Sounds like somebody I know! Have you stayed friends all these years?’ asked Lizzie, as ever fascinated by the old lady’s reminiscences. ‘Is Effie still alive?’

  ‘We stayed in regular contact right up until she died in a car crash back in the sixties. She and her husband had been at a party and after she’d seen him flirting outrageously with a girl half his age, she drove home despite having drunk too much. The newspapers said some vile things about Effie being a faded star who’d taken to the bottle to compensate for a lack of fulfilment. Oh, it was quite dreadful.’ The old lady looked at Lizzie. ‘You know, I’m surprised you haven’t applied your great researcher’s mind to finding out more about my friends for yourself. Their lives are fairly well documented, particularly Effie’s.’

  Lizzie smiled. ‘It did cross my mind to do that, but it would have totally spoilt my enjoyment of hearing you tell me all about them.’

  Mrs Dallimore patted her hand. ‘You’ve been a good listener, and I’m very grateful to you for giving me the opportunity to relive a special time in my life. It means a lot to me.’