‘Should have warned you to wear old footwear,’ says Marion heartily, with a smoker’s cracked chuckle. ‘It’s always soggy in these parts. Rains like billyo ninety per cent of the year. Oh, and something warm. This place is like a fridge most of the time.’
Harriet, who has dressed in what she classifies as smart but casual—a corduroy skirt, linen blouse and classic navy jacket—lies quickly, ‘Oh, I never feel the cold,’ as she follows Marion down the chilly hall towards the kitchen, the draught swirling around her ankles.
‘Take a seat,’ says her hostess, lifting a huge cushion off an ancient Windsor chair, a cushion that unfurls, yowling in protest. Marion drops the cat on the floor, from where it glares at her before slinking off towards the corner nearest to the Aga, which to Harriet’s relief is pumping out considerable heat.
‘Don’t mind cats, do you?’ Marion is filling the kettle at the Belfast sink. She erupts again into a throaty laugh that instantly takes Harriet back forty-odd years. ‘Hope to Christ not: we’ve got rather a lot of them.’ She looks up and over Harriet’s head and lets out a sigh. ‘Oi, you two, what are you doing up there? Down you get, you little horrors.’
Harriet swivels around to see a pair of tiny heads peering at her from the top of the enormous Welsh dresser. As Marion marches towards them, the kittens skitter in opposite directions and scramble down from shelf to shelf, miraculously avoiding all of the many plates the dresser displays. Once at ground level, they regroup and hare across the flagstones to hole up under a sideboard. Harriet peers around to discover two other cats curled asleep on chairs dotted round the edges of the vast kitchen.
‘Golly,’ she says, disconcerted by the unblinking malevolence of the displaced cat eyeing her from the corner, ‘you do have quite a few, don’t you?’
‘Fifty or so, give or take,’ says Marion, hovering at the stove. ‘At the moment. I’ve had to start turning them away, except then people just dump them on the doorstep in the middle of the night. But you’re all right with them, are you?’
‘Er . . . yes,’ says Harriet, stunned. ‘I mean, no, I like cats. But . . . fifty? Do they all live in here?’
Marion erupts, eyes crinkling. ‘Are you kidding? Come and see.’ She beckons Harriet to join her at the window. Harriet, dying for a coffee, notices she is still holding the kettle that hasn’t quite made it onto the hob yet.
They gaze out over a landscape of cages and runs, filled to capacity, as far as Harriet can judge, with cats of all shapes, sizes, ages and breeds.
‘Good grief!’
‘I know,’ says Marion wryly, surveying her domain with something like despair. ‘It’s an awful responsibility. And getting worse by the day. This is what happens when times get hard. People can’t afford to get them spayed, then they can’t afford to feed them, and bingo! They end up dumping them on us. Still, better they dump them here than on a motorway. Bastards.’
‘Us?’ says Harriet.
‘Oh . . .’ Marion’s face clouds instantly. ‘Me and Chris.’ She tries a brief smile. Averts her eyes.
‘Shall I do that?’ says Harriet, relieving her of the kettle and swiftly placing it on the Aga. The past floods back: she’d forgotten Marion’s propensity for distraction and her apparent inability to do two things at once. ‘Where will I find the coffee?’
A few minutes later they are both seated at the table, nursing strong black coffees. A battered biscuit tin has been retrieved from the larder containing, to Harriet’s disappointment, a few rather crumbly Bourbons. ‘Don’t eat a lot of sweet things,’ says Marion by way of apology, pushing the tin across to her guest. ‘Or do much cooking these days.’
Oh dear, thinks Harriet, what about lunch?
Marion gives her an amused look. ‘Don’t panic. I went to good old M&S and stocked up yesterday. Wouldn’t wish my efforts on my worst enemy.’
Phew, thinks Harriet. ‘Well, I barely lift a pan myself. Leave the whole kit and caboodle to Hester. Except the eating, that is, as you can see. That I can manage, only too well. Hester’s always nagging me to lose a couple of stone. Perils of ageing, alas—not that you look any different.’
Marion grunts, evidently unconvinced; she turns to look out of the window and Harriet sees that once more she’s lost in thought. Or memory. Whatever it is, it’s painful. Harriet recognises that flayed look. She takes the opportunity to study Marion’s face covertly, searching for any shred of resemblance to Stephen. It’s hard to see under the wrinkles: perhaps there’s something about the eyes . . .
‘So?’ says Marion with a brittle smile. ‘What’s the big mystery? What’s dragged you all this way? What is it you couldn’t say in an email or on the phone, my dear old chum?’
‘You found us then.’ Hester waits at the gate as Lionel unfolds himself from his meticulously maintained pale blue Morris Traveller. In spite of everything that is preoccupying her, she cannot suppress her admiration. ‘Gosh! What a beauty. I haven’t seen one of these in years.’
Lionel beams his delight. ‘Oh! Thanks. My pride and joy.’ He pats the bonnet affectionately as he approaches.
Hester angles her face to accept a kiss on the cheek.
He steps back, disconcerted, looking over her shoulder as if expecting to see Harriet waiting behind her.
‘She’s out for the day.’
‘Ah!’ His relief is obvious. ‘Of course. Gone to see . . .?’
‘Marion. You know, Stephen’s . . . Yes.’ She gestures towards the front door. ‘Please . . .’
Looking up at The Laurels’ facade and sweeping a glance over the front garden, his face registers appreciation. ‘What a delightful house!’ He turns back to take in the lane and the fields beyond. ‘Quite bucolic. And so peaceful.’
‘Well, compared to Greenwich, I dare say.’ She forces a laugh. ‘Let’s go in and I’ll make us some coffee. Then we can have a proper chat.’
Marion is convulsed, the backs of her hands wet with the tears she has been trying unsuccessfully to stem; she lunges across to the counter to grab a roll of kitchen paper and rip off several sheets in which she buries her face, shoulders shaking. Mortified and alarmed, Harriet sits motionless the other side of the table waiting for the paroxysm to pass. Finally, Marion manages to regain sufficient control to sit back and take some deep, calming gulps of air. Harriet senses, however, that her grasp on her emotions is tenuous in the extreme.
‘I’m sorry . . .’ she murmurs, wondering why the English spend so much of their lives apologising for others’ transgressions. If anyone ought to be contrite—
‘Liverpool?’ Marion gasps again. She balls the kitchen paper and dabs ferociously at her eyes. ‘For God’s sake, Liverpool?!’
Harriet gapes at her. Is she laughing?
Marion catches her expression and howls afresh, her whole body vibrating as she seeks to staunch the flow of tears, every glance at her visitor’s bewildered face seeming to prompt a fresh bout of helpless weeping. She hauls herself to her feet and blindly staggers from the kitchen. Seconds later comes the flush of a cistern.
Harriet waits.
Marion, eyes firmly on the stone floor, slowly returns. Her lips, twitching, seems to have a life of their own. Harriet waits some more. Finally, in barely above a whisper . . .
‘Let me get this straight. You think that I got pregnant in my third year and, for reasons I don’t fully understand, decided to have the baby in Liverpool—of all unholy places—and give them your name at the hospital? Is that about the size of it?’ Marion claps her hand, still clasping the sodden paper towel, over her mouth as though trying not to let anything else out.
‘Yes,’ says Harriet, as stoutly as she can manage.
‘My dear, dear Harriet, are you completely out of your mind?’
Lionel blindly clatters his cup onto its saucer and stares incredulously at Hester, sitting opposite awaiting his response, her face implacable. Shakily, he places the coffee on the table in front of him, eyes never leaving hers.
‘
My dear Hester . . .’
He looks a question and Hester, despite her intention to keep her silence, finds herself replying, ‘Harriet.’
‘Oh . . .’ She watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. ‘But how did she . . .?’
‘Electoral roll.’
‘Ah.’ He couldn’t look more guilty if he were an actor playing Man Caught Out In A Lie.
‘So?’ Her voice sounds grating even to her ears. ‘Don’t you think you owe me at the very least an explanation?’
An unsteady hand goes up to smooth his hair back as he leans towards her. ‘Hester, my dear Hester, I was going to tell you—’
‘Spare me the violins, Lionel, please, and just answer the question. Are you or are you not already married?’
‘Married? For heaven’s sake—’
‘So she’s just taken your name, has she? This woman you live with? Ruth Parchment?’
Over the past week Harriet has been through more than any decent woman, any reasonable, law-abiding woman, should be expected to endure, and Marion’s derision proves the final straw. She is tired, distraught, angry at herself, at Hester, at the world in general and, at this precise moment, above all others, Marion. Harriet struggles to hang on to the remaining shreds of her temper. Arguments, she knows only too well from long and bitter experience, are won by measured words, by calmness, by logic. Not by losing self-control, by letting fly, by throwing—no, hurling—caution to the four winds. Despite which, she does just that.
All the pent-up fury occasioned by Hester’s unjust accusations, the hurt she has unnecessarily caused Stephen, her ill-judged amour and by the unpleasant events surrounding Mary’s accident comes to a head and lands squarely on Marion’s.
‘You think it’s funny? You cavalierly abandon your child, you try however ineptly to cover your tracks, to wash your hands of all responsibility and then, when confronted with your betrayal and duplicity—you laugh! You wriggle even more! You know, I used to respect you, Marion: I always admired your uncompromising take on life, the way you spoke your mind and to hell with the consequences! Well, how wrong was I?’ The contradictions in what she has just said strike her. ‘Or how right!’
‘Harriet—’
‘Oh, no, I haven’t finished!’ There’s an enormous, choking boulder of anger and resentment pressing on her chest. ‘Don’t start offering excuses! Are you going to deny saying—and to think we all laughed! I laughed—that you would do that very thing if you were ever in that position? Do you?’
‘No, I—yes, I—it was a—’
‘Shut up!’ Harriet can feel her face suffusing with blood as her ire mounts to ever greater heights. ‘And now, when the chickens come home to roost and that poor boy—your son—when he needs you—not, thank God, in any maternal sense, because that really would be beyond a joke, but because he craves reassurance—you play dumb. What kind of a fool do you take me for?’ Before Marion has a chance to reply, she surges on. ‘Was it jealousy? About me and Mark? Was that it? Because I used to see you watching us, don’t think I didn’t. Was it just a way to get back at me—God alone knows why, you were supposed to be my friend—because he fancied me, not you?’ She has to stop now if only to draw breath.
Marion sees her opportunity and takes it. She’s not laughing now.
‘If I was watching you, it was nothing to do with Mark, you idiot! Harriet, you have to be the absolute limit! I wasn’t watching that beefed-up God’s gift of a prize prick—I was watching you.’
‘What did you say?’ cries Lionel, falling back as though punched. ‘Ruth . . .?’
‘Yes,’ snaps Hester. ‘Precisely. Ruth Parchment. When were you intending to drop that particular little bombshell?’
His face shifts, its expression moving from incredulity to something she interprets as relief. It is swiftly replaced by something else: amusement. A smile edges cautiously towards his eyes.
‘Ruth Parchment,’ he says, almost on a laugh, ‘Ruth Parchment isn’t my wife.’
Hester jumps in. ‘I don’t give a tinker’s cuss for whatever mealymouthed appellation you choose to use: partner, significant other—’
He’s actually laughing now. How dare he? ‘No, no, you don’t understand.’
‘You’re right there—I don’t! How long did you think you could keep this from me?’
He holds up a hand to stop her. She finds herself doing as bid. He looks as though he finds the whole subject matter extremely entertaining; indeed, as though a particularly droll joke has been played. On her.
‘Ruth Parchment, Hester dearest, is indeed the woman with whom I live. Ruth Winifred Parchment to give her her full name. But she isn’t my wife, my partner, my spouse, my life’s companion, my other half or what you will. She’s my mother.’
CHAPTER 54
Harriet stares at Marion, brain frantically looping through endless permutations, all of which point to only one conclusion. Confounded, her rage dissipating as suddenly as it had come, she is left shaken with shame and remorse.
‘Oh God . . .’ is all she can manage.
Marion regards her with an unfathomable expression. The glowering cat beside the Aga chooses that moment to launch itself onto her lap, reaching up with a surprisingly gentle paw to pat her cheek. Marion’s hand drops onto its head and begins fondling its ears; it purrs ecstatically.
‘I can’t believe you never realised or at least suspected,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Subtlety’s never been my strong suit.’ There’s something of her old, mocking, mischievous self in her rueful smile.
Harriet is flailing about mentally, trying to make sense of Marion’s revelation. Then it comes to her. ‘But what about Alessandro?’ Alessandro: an intense, largely silent Italian exchange student with whom Marion had conducted an on-off affair for a couple of terms, whose major contribution to their household had been the conjuring of vast bowls of delicious garlicky pasta in the small hours.
Marion gives a snort of laughter, startling the cat, who leaps off her lap, affronted. He slinks back towards his station, outraged tail aloft. ‘Alessandro? Are you kidding? Do you know what a beard is?’
‘Of course,’ retorts Harriet with some heat. For heaven’s sake, she’s not a complete innocent! A thought occurs. ‘But what about your husband? Chris, is it?’
A beat. Marion’s smile slides away. ‘Was. Christine.’
‘Oh . . .!’
‘Thirty years,’ says Marion, struggling to maintain her composure. ‘She died last year. Lung cancer.’ Her hands find the cigarette packet on the table, flip it over and over. ‘These buggers did for her. Will for me too, with a bit of luck.’
‘Marion!’
‘You lost your husband, didn’t you, a while back?’
Harriet nods.
‘Lonely, isn’t it?’ Marion gets up quickly, grabs the two mugs with a clatter of china and makes for the sink, turning the taps on full to cover the awkward silence. But Harriet is there beside her in seconds; her arms encircle her grieving friend and she pulls her hard into her embrace. For several moments, the two women stand locked in mutual loss, each taking comfort in the other’s closeness, the smell and feel of another human being. ‘Shh, shh . . .’ murmurs Harriet into Marion’s smoky hair. It’s not the words that matter.
Finally, Marion pulls away, a brave smile pasted on. ‘It’s bleak, having no-one to hug, isn’t it? I’m not talking about the other stuff—just a hand, a cheek, a squeeze. At least I have the cats. God! What a cliché I’ve become!’ Harriet thinks of Milo, the joy his plump little body can bring snuggled close to hers. She rubs her hand up and down her friend’s arm in silent affirmation.
‘Christ,’ says Marion, sniffing, ‘getting maudlin in my dotage. Sod the coffee—I need a drink. Fancy joining me?’
Minutes later they are both nursing large glasses of burgundy. It’s a little on the chilly side, having been stored at the back of a deep, unheated larder, but welcome nonetheless. They’ve each had a shock.
‘I al
ways thought that was why we lost touch,’ says Marion, watching Harriet over the top of her glass.
‘We didn’t lose touch!’
‘Christmas cards!’ says Marian with some derision.
‘Life,’ says Harriet. ‘I swear to God, I hadn’t a clue. And anyway, even if I had, it wouldn’t have . . .’ She trails off, a whisper of doubt creeping into her certainty.
‘Made any difference? Honestly?’
Nothing if not truthful, Harriet reflects. How would she have felt all those years back, realising she was the object of another girl’s affections? She’s really not at all sure. Blasé? Flattered? Appalled? She shrugs, confronted by old prejudices and the confusions of youth. Marion regards her with amusement.
‘But you remember that evening?’ says Harriet, eager to move on. ‘The game we played?’
‘Vaguely,’ says Marion, the grumpy cat now reinstalled on her lap. She strokes it absent-mindedly. ‘I do remember the bit about the baby. Sort of.’
Harriet is secretly relieved. There have been times over the past week when she’s wondered if she dreamt the whole episode, or purloined it from some film or TV programme; it has happened before. So Marion’s confirmation comes as a considerable comfort.
‘We’d been drinking some filthy concoction Susie rustled up—’
‘She was always rustling up filthy concoctions.’ Marion laughs. ‘Remember that gin and Ribena combo?’
Harriet does: it has lived long in her memory. It had occasioned the most ferocious hangover. She hasn’t touched gin since. ‘This one was pure alcohol—some medic she was going out with had liberated it from the lab—diluted with, God help us, lemon barley water. And not much of that, if I recall.’
Marion nods. It’s starting to come back. Them all sprawled on the floor in varying states of inebriation playing an incoherent game of ‘What if?’. What if you inherited a fortune? What if the world was going to end in five minutes? What if you found you were up the duff . . . And alongside those recollections, suddenly, another memory. She tips the cat off onto the floor. ‘Wait there!’ She almost runs out of the kitchen. Harriet hears her hurrying up the stairs and then, directly overhead, the sound of drawers being opened and closed, footsteps across the floor.
Love, Lies and Linguine Page 34
