The Good Heart

by Helena Halme

  Imagining she’d be first in the office, Kaisa was surprised to see Rose sitting at her desk at the end of the room.

  ‘Hi, Kaisa,’ Rose said and looked up from the pile of papers in front of her. She’d recently started wearing a pair of reading glasses, with a golden string, which hung on her chest when she removed them, as she did now.

  Leaving her handbag at her desk, Kaisa headed for the little kitchenette off the main office. She was holding a packet of her special coffee. Good coffee was the one thing she missed about Finland – the instant variety that everyone seemed to drink in England was more like muddy water – but about a month ago she’d made a discovery. In the streets around the office, she’d found several good coffee houses, mostly run by Italians, and she had recently found a new way to have proper coffee in the office, without having to buy an expensive percolator. Packets of single-cup ground coffee were stocked by a nearby shop. Every Monday she bought a packet of ten on her way to work and they just about lasted the five days. She could ill afford to offer them to others, but as everything was shared in the office she always asked around just in case.

  ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ she asked Rose from the doorway.

  ‘Yes, please, but instant will do for me,’ Rose said and smiled.

  When Kaisa came back with two cups of hot, steaming coffee, Rose said, ‘What happened to you on Saturday?’

  Kaisa felt pang of guilt; after the unsettling call with Peter’s girlfriend (just thinking about those two words made her chest fill with pain), she had completely forgotten to telephone Rose. She slumped down at her desk. ‘Peter was there.’

  ‘What?’ Rose got up from her desk at the other end of the room and came to sit in front of Kaisa. She took Kaisa’s hands in hers and said, ‘Are you alright? What happened?’

  Kaisa told Rose about seeing Peter, fleeing to the roof, how they’d talked and how it had seemed like old times. As if the past few months and the awful business with Duncan and Peter’s court martial hadn’t happened. ‘And then he kissed me.’

  ‘Oh, Kaisa,’ Rose said.

  From her face, Kaisa couldn’t determine whether she thought this was a good thing or a catastrophe.

  ‘And then his girlfriend saw us and punched Peter.’

  ‘Oh, my God, was he alright?’

  Suddenly Kaisa began to giggle; the whole thing seemed like a scene from a very bad film. But Rose regarded her with a serious face. ‘What happened then?’

  Kaisa told Rose what Peter had said to the girl, that the kiss hadn’t meant anything. ‘Peter told the girl I was just his ex.’ Kaisa said. ‘And then I missed his call on Saturday morning. When I called the number he’d left, the girl said he wasn’t there.’

  ‘Oh, Kaisa,’ Rose said again. She rubbed Kaisa’s hands, and cocking her head, gazed at her face. ‘You still want to get back together with him, don’t you?’

  Kaisa looked down at her lap. ‘I do still love him, but I don’t know if we can ever get back together. I love my job here, and I’d never be able to give that up.’ Tears were running down Kaisa’s face. ‘So I don’t think our marriage was ever going to work.’

  Rose hugged Kaisa. ‘Oh you poor, poor love.’

  When they heard the door open at the bottom of the stairs, and the voices of the other women, Rose quickly fetched a small packet of tissues from her desk and handed them to Kaisa, who fled to the cold bathroom next to the kitchenette. There, looking at her puffy red eyes, she decided enough was enough. She needed to face facts. Peter had moved on, that was probably why he’d called her on Saturday morning. To tell her the kiss was a mistake, and that she should forget about it. And Kaisa decided she would. She, too, would move on. She would make an effort to find somebody too. She’d say ‘Yes’ to the after-work drinks at the pub, she’d even go to the clubs Jenny and Barbara were forever talking about. She would at last have some fun.

  Twenty-Two

  Three weeks after she’d seen Peter at the party, and the kiss, Kaisa still hadn’t heard anything further from him. There was no letter, no phone call. Kaisa hadn’t told Peter where the offices of Adam’s Apple were, so the only phone number and address he had for her was the Notting Hill bedsit. After she’d missed the call on the Saturday, Kaisa had stuck a note next to the telephone asking everyone to PLEASE let her know about any calls. Of course, this was what was supposed to happen anyway, but the others in the house seemed to have nocturnal lives; Kaisa very rarely saw anyone else.

  Kaisa knew Peter could have gone off to sea. Still, serving in a diesel boat, he’d have the opportunity to write and post a letter even at sea, unlike when he served on the nuclear subs, or the Polaris ones. Kaisa shivered when she thought about the awful, long weeks she’d spent alone in Helensburgh. It felt as if all of it, the friendship with Lyn at the peace camp outside the Faslane naval base, the brief, but life-changing affair with Duncan, the disapproval of the other Navy wives, which she’d felt so acutely during the whole of their time in Scotland, had happened to someone else. Out of all the other wives she’d got to know in Scotland, she’d only been in touch with Pammy since leaving Helensburgh for Helsinki. Pammy and Nigel now had a little baby girl. Kaisa had sent a long letter of congratulations and a parcel containing a pale pink teddy bear with the softest fur and a friendly face, which she’d found and fallen in love with at Hamley’s on Regent Street. Pammy wrote back and begged Kaisa to visit; Nigel had gone on patrol the day after the baby was born and Pammy was desperate for company. She wrote to say how she still felt responsible for all that had happened between Kaisa and Peter, and for the fight with Duncan. Of course, it was true that had Pammy not told Kaisa’s secret to Nigel, and he in turn hadn’t told Peter, perhaps the fight in the pool at the base might never have happened. But Kaisa knew it was really nothing to do with Pammy; it was all her fault, and hers alone. She was the one who had let Duncan into her bed, and then gone and told Pammy about it. So it seemed strange how so many people around her felt guilty about the affair. Even Rose, her boss, felt bad about it, because she had encouraged the friendship between Duncan and Kaisa, not realising that her cousin had designs on her. But Kaisa had benefited from Rose’s guilt, she was sure of it. Why else would Rose have invited her to London and given her such a crucial role in the magazine? It was true that Adam’s Apple had no formal management structure, but everyone recognised that Rose was their editor, and Kaisa, as the newcomer, was the junior member of the team. Kaisa had also learned that when Rose had joined the magazine, she’d brought a substantial amount of money with her. It was these funds that had kept the magazine going, and before Rose had stepped in, there’d been talk of closing down the press. This made Kaisa feel even worse; in effect, Rose was funding her career. So Kaisa worked as hard as she could, helping Rose with research, writing articles whenever she was asked, even making cups of tea and coffee for everyone.

  But the salary from Adam’s Apple wasn’t enough to sustain Kaisa, so she – to her shame – continued to accept the £200 from Peter, which he now paid directly into her bank account once a month. When Kaisa talked to Rose about taking the money, her boss was still adamant that she deserved it and she shouldn’t feel bad.

  After the party, Kaisa got into the habit of going to the pub with the rest of the girls after work. She’d have one pint of beer with them (all the women drank pints unlike the lady-like halves that the Navy wives ordered) in The Horseshoe pub at the end of Farringdon Close. The Horseshoe reminded Kaisa of The Palmerston Arms in Portsmouth; it had the same black paint outside, beneath a white-clad upper storey where she presumed the landlord lived, just like the publican parents of Jeff, Peter’s best man. The bar filled half the pub, and there was even a snug at the back, around the far corner, just as there was at The Palmerston. There were no bunkettes, however, only round tables and chairs, in mock mahogany. The crowd in the pub mostly consisted of staff from other small publications around the area, and the team from Adam’s Apple was often viewed with something a
lternating between fear and mockery. The other crowd, the working men, who came in their dirty overalls, splattered with paint, would nudge each other, make jokes under their breath, and grin in the women’s direction. On occasion, the women, tired of the jibes, would go to the Three Kings at the other end of Clerkenwell Close. Or if they were celebrating a new issue, or a large donation, they’d cross the railway tracks and go into the Coach and Horses, which was frequented by reporters from the Observer or the Guardian, whose well-known offices were a few paces away from the large public house.

  On a Thursday in late August, the staff of Adam’s Apple were celebrating their best distribution figures since Rose took over the editorial team. They’d sold over 1,500 copies of the summer issue, and Rose’s latest cover, for which she’d again had to fight hard, was deemed a great success. When Rose had opened the envelope containing the sales report, she’d thrown the sheet of paper up in the air and declared that the drinks would be on her after work. They had their first pints at The Horseshoe and then made their way to the Coach and Horses. Usually nights at this larger, and a lot posher pub, where the lounge and the rowdier bar were separated by a half-glazed wall, would go on until closing time. Alternatively, they’d move south to the bars around Fleet Street. As it was a Thursday, when the women entered the bar it was already full to bursting. Rose knew many of the Guardian reporters who drank there, so there were a few whistles and loud clapping when they entered. Everyone there had read the same sales reports and knew of the success of Rose’s new venture. Most of the men in the pubs of Clerkenwell were a lot older than Kaisa, but on this night her eyes met a tall man, leaning on the bar, next to a greying man in a waistcoat who was talking animatedly with Rose. Kaisa recognised Roger from the warehouse party; she wondered if Rose was having a relationship with him.

  Kaisa was handed her drink – she’d switched to a G&T because too much beer made her feel bloated – and was standing alone, separated from her colleagues by the general commotion their entrance had caused. The man next to Roger was watching Kaisa, and when their eyes met, he lifted his pint to her in a greeting, his smile revealing the whitest teeth Kaisa had ever seen. Kaisa smiled back, feeling a warmth in her body, and a flutter in her stomach. The man wore a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up on account of a heatwave in London, and a waistcoat and matching trousers in dark grey stripes, which were obviously part of a suit. He had very dark features, a black, almost shiny, mop of hair, and brown eyes. Kaisa hadn’t felt a flutter like this in months, even years. The man leaned over to say something to his shorter friend, and walked over to Kaisa.

  ‘Hello, I’m Ravi.’ He offered his hand and for a moment she just stood there, holding onto his warm, firm handshake and sinking deep into those dark eyes. Ravi had thick, almost feminine eyelashes, making it look as if he’d applied eyeliner under and above his eyes. ‘What’s your name?’ he continued when Kaisa didn’t say anything.

  ‘Kaisa,’ she breathed. She hardly had any air left in her lungs.

  ‘And you are part of this women’s magazine?’

  ‘Yes,’ Kaisa said, and managed to move her gaze away from the man’s eyes.

  ‘Well, for an Adam’s Apple reporter, you don’t have much to say for yourself!’ Ravi laughed.

  Kaisa laughed and took a sip of her G&T. The laughter had managed to break the spell, and she asked, ‘Are you from the Guardian?’

  ‘Oh, lord, no. I work in the City.’ Kaisa now realised, listening to the man’s voice, that he was a posh boy.

  It transpired that Ravi’s parents were Indian. They’d come over to Britain during the partition, and Ravi, the youngest of five had been born in the UK. He’d been a clever boy at school and had gone to Cambridge, where he’d studied law. He worked for a Swiss bank.

  ‘What are you doing here on a Thursday night?’

  ‘Oh, one of my friends from Cambridge works for the Observer, so we often meet after work.’

  Kaisa and Ravi talked all evening about everything and anything. Ravi told her about his traditional Indian family, about how his mother cooked the best dahl and chapatis in the world. Kaisa knew nothing about Indian culture – she’d been to an Indian restaurant while in London, of course, but Ravi said that food in those places was nothing like his mother’s. He said how different life had been in Cambridge after his grammar school just outside Birmingham, where he’d grown up.

  ‘I was the only Indian boy at my college in Cambridge, and although everyone was friendly, I knew I wasn’t one of them,’ Ravi said. Kaisa was mesmerized and wanted to lean over and kiss those full lips. She realised she was a little tipsy.

  Kaisa knew exactly what he meant. She told Ravi about her studies at Hanken, where the others had come from wealthy Swedish-speaking families, and she’d felt like an outsider. She also told him about her move from Finland to the UK, and about her failed marriage.

  ‘You’re married?’ Ravi asked, his face displaying surprise. ‘You seem hardly old enough to be out of school!’

  Kaisa looked down at her hands. If only he knew the whole sorry story, she thought. They talked until last orders were announced at 11 pm, and then Ravi told Kaisa he was going home.

  ‘But I’ve enjoyed talking to you,’ he said and looked deeply into Kaisa’s eyes.

  ‘Me too,’ she smiled.

  Kaisa gave Ravi her telephone number, and he thanked her, bowing his head. Kaisa realised the reason she was attracted to him, apart from his looks, was his polite and attentive manner. In London, men were different, much more direct with their advances. Kaisa had got so used to the politeness and chivalry displayed by naval officers that she was shocked by British men’s rowdy and leery manners in the pubs around the office. Jenny had laughed when Kaisa had mentioned this to her.

  ‘Why should men open doors and let women go first?’ She laughed, but growing serious, added, ‘It’s patronising and sexist.’

  Kaisa could only agree; still in her unvoiced opinion it was equally sexist to shout out lewd remarks at a woman passing a building site, or to bother a woman in a pub when she obviously didn’t want to talk, or to shut a door in a woman’s face if she didn’t reciprocate a man’s advances. In Finland, men had to be quite drunk before they approached you in such a forthright manner.

  Ravi telephoned her in the office the next day. ‘I didn’t give you this number,’ she laughed.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘but I knew I’d get hold of you here. I wondered if I could take you out tonight?’

  Kaisa was so surprised, that she didn’t immediately reply.

  ‘If you’re free, that is?’

  ‘I’d love to.’

  Ravi said he’d pick her up from work, and Kaisa panicked; she was wearing her ‘boy clothes’ to work again, and remembering how smart Ravi had looked the previous evening, she wanted to wear something more feminine.

  When Kaisa told Rose about her date, and asked if she could take a long lunch hour, Rose gave Kaisa a £50 note and said, ‘Treat yourself.’ Kaisa tried to refuse the money, but Rose was so insistent, it suddenly seemed impolite to say no. She ran down the stairs from the office and made her way to Miss Selfridge on Oxford Street. It was still hot in London, so Kaisa looked for a summer dress in the sales. She found a floaty Laura Ashley-type cotton dress. It fitted her nicely, making her look slim, with a small waist. She found a pair of strappy wedge sandals, too, and then took the tube home to make a quick change and collect some make-up to apply later. When she got inside the house, and picked up the pile of post on the mat, she saw a blue airmail envelope addressed to her in familiar handwriting. She tore open the letter and read the words inside.

  * * *

  Kaisa,

  I hope you are keeping well. I’m away at sea, but will be back end of August. I wonder if we could talk? I will be in London on 28th. Meet me at Café des Amis, 11 Hanover Place, Covent Garden at 7 o’clock.

  Peter

  * * *

  Kaisa sat down on the thinly carpeted stairs, and rerea
d the short letter. What did this mean? After the kiss, and the missed phone call, she hadn’t heard from Peter for two whole months; no nearly three months, because it was now nearly the end of August and the party had been in mid-June. The letter was dated two weeks earlier, and the postmark was somewhere in Scotland, so he must have posted it from one of the small villages they occasionally docked at. But why did he want to meet? To talk about what? And today! Kaisa thought for a moment, but she knew, had known as soon as she read the letter, that she had to meet up with Peter. There was no getting around it. But she didn’t have Ravi’s number.

  Kaisa got up and dialled the office number, ‘Rose, I’ve had a letter from Peter. He’s in London tonight and wants to meet up.’

  ‘You must go,’ Rose sighed, ‘What will you tell Ravi?’

  ‘That I’ve taken ill. A tummy bug? Is it alright if I stay at home this afternoon? Just in case he comes early or something. And can you talk to him, please?’

  ‘OK,’ Rose said, adding, ‘Look, if you want to meet afterwards, we’ll be in The Horseshoe until closing time.’

  The Café des Amis was on a side street off St Martin’s Lane. Kaisa didn’t know Covent Garden very well, and got lost before she saw the red neon lights of the restaurant. When she got inside, she was led down a set of stairs into a cellar, which was lit by dimmed lights and candles on red-check tablecloths. Peter was already there, sitting at a table in the far corner of the room. He looked tanned, and his hair was a little longer, touching the collar of his shirt. He stood up when Kaisa approached, and kissed her lightly on the cheek.