by E. M. Brown
At moments like these, he was very aware of himself sitting on the cusp between one moment and the next. It was as if time were slowed down, as if he had an age in which to access and take stock of his emotions. Anna might accuse him of never communicating those emotions, but the truth was that his emotions, his feelings, were incommunicable, known only to himself, and then only nebulously, and reduced to cliché if he tried to make them understood to a third party.
He heard Anna come down the stairs and enter the kitchen, heard the fridge door rattle open and the gasp of tonic water being opened. She pulled at the cupboard door where the gin was kept, swore when it stuck, then poured herself a good measure. The following silence told him that she’d carried her drink through to the lounge, where she’d be curled on the sofa, feet drawn up, the bottle lodged between cushions.
“Well,” she called from the next room, “aren’t you going to say anything?”
He rose from the table and carried his glass and the bottle through to the lounge.
With the pretence of normality, he said, “Lawley rang this morning, wanting more changes.” He stood by the window, staring out at the snow-covered countryside, his back to Anna.
“And are you going to make them?” Her question was brittle.
“Of course. I have to.”
Before Anna, he’d lived with a woman called Sam Charlesworth, a well-known actress he’d met on the set of Morgan’s Café, in which she’d guest-starred. Sam had been wanton, and demanded he make love to her before the picture window, the curtains open, every night for months – as if the room were a stage and their love-making was watched by an audience of thousands: her risqué exhibitionism was only slightly undermined by the fact that the sweep of terrain was totally uninhabited and the window not visible from the lane below.
The memory of her body, and the lust they’d shared, almost brought tears to his eyes.
“Why do you have to? Why can’t you stand up for yourself?”
“Because it doesn’t work like that. You make the changes or you’re out. You’d be the one complaining, then.”
“So you bend over and take it?” she said. Didn’t she listen to a word he said? “I can’t see your chum Digby taking any of that bullshit.”
“Digby is a bigger name than me,” he explained patiently. “And anyway, it isn’t the director’s changes I object to. Apparently he’s screwing the actress, who wants a bigger part. That’s the galling thing.”
He closed his eyes, cursing himself, knowing that he’d provided her with further ammunition.
She used it. “Oh, so that’s your gripe? It comes down to male ego. You can take being buggered by this Lawley chap, but coming from a mere woman…”
“It’s not like that at all.”
“Like hell it isn’t. You’re fragile, Ed. That’s what I’ve noticed about you. Behind that big man-of-the-world front, you’re about as confident as a teenager –”
He turned to face her. “You certainly have had a shit day at work, haven’t you? And does that justify coming home and taking it out on me, with your illogical arguments? Or are you approaching that time of life?” He stopped.
She was staring at him, her mouth open as if in shock.He’d pushed her too far, this time.
“You shit!” In one fluid movement she was on her feet and throwing something. He only realised that it was the half-full gin bottle when he ducked and the chunky, ice blue missile hit the table and slid onto the floor, miraculously unbroken.
“What a thing to say! You fucking shit!” The glass followed. This time her aim was more accurate, and the glass glanced off his forehead, hit the wall and shattered.
He stared at the shards on the carpet, then turned in surprise as she came at him. Her first blow hammered off the side of his head, her second caught him across the jaw.
In the bubble of slowed time he seemed to inhabit, a part of him wanted to pull back his fist and show her how it should be done. She stared at him, tears blurring her make-up, her lips re-arranged, skewed in rage, waiting for him to react. She came at him again, raining blows on his chest with small, ineffectual fists. It would be laughable if it weren’t so pathetic. He caught her wrists, less to stop her hurting him than to prevent her from hurting herself. She made inarticulate straining noises as she tried to escape his grip. Aware he was hurting her, he manoeuvred her across the room and pushed her into the sofa. She hit the padded backrest and used the momentum to launch herself at him again, screaming.
He caught her by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length, counselling himself not to lose his temper. She wept, clawing at his arms, and he shut his ears to her railing and again pushed her into the sofa. She hit, struggled, and came back at him. He gripped her upper arms and said, “This is getting stupid. Calm down, for chrissake!”
He pushed her once more and this time, fuelled by vindictive indignation, made sure that the small of her back connected with the arm of the sofa. She screamed at the impact, fell to the floor and, sobbing, picked herself up and hurried from the room.
He stood for a time, breathing hard, then pushed stray hair from his brow, realising that he was sweating inordinately. He drew a few deep breaths, working to calm himself, while all the while his heartbeat matched the mantra going through his head, The bitch, the bitch, the bitch…
He picked the shards of glass from the carpet by the wall, ensuring that he had every last sliver, and deposited them in the kitchen bin, then returned to the lounge. Not wanting to be seated when she returned to instigate the next round, he moved to the window and stared into the darkness.
The moon was up and brighter now, laying its platinum light over the spinney on the hillside so that every gnarled branch and arthritic bough was etched individually. The snow had ceased, and the upholstered land rose and fell in great gentle swathes. Sounds came muffled through the cold air; a distant car moving up the lane, the barking of a farm dog.
He heard Anna moving about upstairs, banging doors as she went from room to room. What the hell was she doing? In her rage, was she looking for the airgun he’d for some reason kept from his youth – did she know about that, or was it Sam, or Gemma, he’d told about the weapon?
He wondered how she’d escalate the conflict. Their arguments had never reached this level before; had always ceased at imprecations. Her physical attack was unprecedented: he half expected her to come storming down, take a carving knife from the kitchen and launch herself at him.
He found himself thinking about Sam, and saw her undressing, smiling, seductive, in the arch of the floor-to-ceiling window; she had been tall, willowy, long-limbed, a blonde Scandinavian ice-maiden… except there had been no ice in her passion, but a hot, raging inferno of lust that had sometimes frightened him with its animal violence.
As a contrast to that passion, he recalled how their affair had ended. Three years after moving in with him she’d come back from a shoot in London and told him, dispassionately and without the slightest show of emotion, that she’d met ‘someone,’ and before he could gather his stupefied wits and demand an explanation, she left in the same taxi she’d arrived in. He’d heard nothing more from her since, not a word, not a letter or an email. She had excised herself from his life as if she’d never existed, leaving only a few perfumes and toiletries, and a freight of painful memories.
From time to time he caught glimpses of her on TV, before hurriedly switching channels, and once he’d inadvertently read a headline about her torrid affair with an American movie star.
He heard Anna descend and bang through the kitchen. Something dropped to the floor behind him and he turned to see her framed in the archway, two cases on the floor at her feet.
“You can push me just so far, Ed, but no bloody further. I’m going.”
He stared at her. He knew, as the silence stretched, that he had it in his power to prevent her departure. All he had to do was to climb down, say sorry, tell her that he was thoughtless and unfeeling, and did she want another gin
?
They had been here before, twice, and he’d relented, and things had been fine for a while – almost back to the rosy days at the start of their affair – until the next altercation.
Her face was blotched, made ugly with tears. She’d applied make-up hurriedly, and her face’s lack of perfection was an accusation.
She said, “Well?”
He felt empowered, and without a word turned his back on her and stared through the window.
He heard a sound, an almost inaudible gasp, and the scrape of cases on the stone-flagged floor. He heard her footsteps pass down the hall, the front door open and slam, then saw her tramp through the snow, burdened, and throw the cases in the back of her Range Rover. She reversed at speed down the gravelled drive and into the lane, almost hitting the gatepost on the way, slewed round to face down the hill and raced off.
He raised the glass to his lips and took a long drink of wine.
Always, at times of heightened emotional tension, Richie felt as if he were an actor on a stage: there was something abstracted and artificial about his inhabiting this rarefied reality, as if an audience were watching him and judging his performance.
He picked up his mobile from the coffee table, found Anna’s name, and deleted it. He moved to the dining room and stood before the painting hanging above the hearth. It showed a country scene of wild North Yorkshire. Early in their affair last summer, at a gallery in York, he’d vaguely admired the painting at Anna’s prompting. A week later she’d presented it to him for his fifty-sixth birthday, and he’d made the required noises of appreciation.
He unhooked the painting from the wall and stuffed it behind a stack of cardboard boxes in the cupboard under the stairs, then saw the bubble-wrapped canvas that had hung on the chimney-breast before the Yorkshire landscape: an oil depicting the Cretan coastline, which he loved. He pulled it out and leaned it against the wall, intending to hang it later.
He made his way through the house, looking for signs of Anna’s erstwhile presence. He was gratified to find that she had been thorough in removing all evidence of herself: she had even gone so far as to sort through the linen basket in the upstairs bathroom and take her dirty clothing. The only trace of her that remained was the faint ghost of her perfume.
He returned to the lounge and finished his drink.
He knew from experience that, over the course of the next few days – maybe even weeks – he would be afflicted by unpredictable mood swings. For no apparent reason he’d feel, as he felt now, the heady euphoria of liberation, of being freed from a relationship in which he’d felt bound, imprisoned: then, again without any obvious cause, he’d be overcome by an oppressive sense of melancholy, loneliness, and self-pity. In the past he’d self-medicated a course through the emotional roller-coaster with the soothing balm of alcohol, and it had always worked. He’d come through the other side, telling himself that he was better off alone… And then he’d make the same mistake again; lust and loneliness would overcome reason and he’d inveigle another fair, beautiful woman into the wreck of his life.
He considered opening a second bottle of Burgundy, then looked at his watch. It was just after nine, time he was pushing off to the Black Bull. The thought of spending a few hours with his best friend propelled him into the hallway. He pulled on his thick winter coat, then saw that Anna had even left her copy of the key in the door. She’d thought of everything with that calculating, analytical accountant’s brain of hers.
He left the hall light on, to guide his drunken return in the early hours, locked the door and tramped down the snow-covered drive.
He turned his collar up against the sharp wind. The stars were out in profusion, their incandescence undimmed by city lights. He’d moved to Yorkshire fifteen years before, after living in London for twenty years, and it had been one of the best moves of his life. The thought of the city now, with its incessant noise and bustle, filled him with horror. Where else but in the country could he retire to a good pub that wasn’t overcrowded and which served fine ale till the early hours?
The Black Bull was a cheerily lighted old building in the main street of the village, its ill-painted sign showing a cross-eyed bull above the proclamation: Free House. That had been another boon, he’d discovered on moving to Harrowby Bridge: the pub served regular Theakstons, along with three guest ales every week.
He pushed into the snug and was enveloped in the heat belted out by the open log fire. Half a dozen regulars, all men and all knocking on – local farmers and a few in-comers like himself – occupied their regular seats around the oak-beamed room.
Richie buttressed the bar, nodded to a taciturn farmer whose response was a cryptic, “Hey-up.”
“Service here!” Richie called out.
Cindy popped her head around the door of the store cupboard. “Oh, it’s you. Well, you can wait your turn. I’m trying to find the bloody pickled eggs for Alf.” Her tone was harsh with the granite-sharp local dialect, at odds with the lovely smile she bestowed, like a blessing, on all her regulars.
He saw that one of the guest ales was Taylor’s Ram Tam. “A pint of the Taylor’s when you’ve done with Alf, Cindy.”
She emerged from the cupboard with a huge glass jar of pearlescent pickled eggs, spooned one into a bun case and slid it across the bar to the farmer, who asked her how she was enjoying university.
“I’m loving it.” Cindy was a third year English student at Durham, back in the village for the Christmas break. Richie watched her pull him a pint of Ram Tam.
“Working hard, I hope?” Richie said.
“I never stop.”
“I remember my far off student days. Would you believe I graduated thirty-five years ago?”
“You’ve told me at least ten times before. What do you want me to say, that I’m gob-smacked you’re really fifty-six?” Her lovely smile tempered her words.
He laughed. “No, Cindy. I look in the mirror every morning and I’m reminded of the ravages of time.”
“Well, you’re the cheery one tonight,” she said, placing the settling pint on the beer towel before him.
He relished the prospect of the first mouthful. “And I’ve every reason to be cheery, my sweetness. Anna has left me.”
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“I jest not,” he said. “She saw the light, saw what a mirthless, apathetic, self-centred bastard I really was, and packed her bags. Cheers!” He lifted the beer to his lips, took a long draw, and sighed. “By Christ, that’s nectar.”
She was watching him, her head on one side. “Straight up, Ed? Anna’s walked out?”
“No word of a lie, child.”
“So… how do you feel?”
He took a second mouthful. “Never better.” He closed his eyes as the Ram Tam slid down.
Cindy said, “I remember you coming in with what’s her name – not Sam, the one before her…? What was her name?”
He thought back. “Hell… what was her name? I can see her clearly enough.”
Cindy laughed. “‘See her’? They’re all the same, Ed. You only go for one type: slim, blonde… Me dad says you order them from a catalogue. Hilary! That’s her.”
“Of course, Hilary. How could I forget Hilary?”
“Anyway,” Cindy went on, “you came in and announced that you’d been released from Purgatory – or was it Hell? Hilary had left you. You’re odd, you know that, Ed?”
“I know it better than you.”
She said reflectively, “But I liked Sam. She was lovely.”
“I liked her too. I loved her. Still, these things happen, water under the proverbial.”
She stopped mopping the bar and looked at him, then shook her head in mock despair.
He stared at her. “What?”
“I’ve known you for about five years, Ed. And in that time you’ve lived with a dozen women.”
“You exaggerate.”
“Not much, I don’t. When do you intend to settle dow
n?”
He gestured to her with his half-empty pint. “Ah. Intend? I intend to settle down with every fair maiden I lose my heart to. I fully intended to spend the rest of my life with Samantha.”
“Likely story!” Cindy snorted. “Anyway, where’s Shakespeare tonight?”
Richie glanced at the back-to-front clock behind the bar and worked out that it was a minute off nine-thirty. “Diggers will barrel through the door the very second you place a pint of Old Peculier on the bar, if you start pulling now. Nothing if not punctual, old Diggers.”
She took a pint glass from the shelf above the bar and drew apint of Old Peculier. She let it settle, topped it up, and lifted it onto the towel just as the door opened to admit a huge, rubicund figure, along with a flurry of snow.
“There,” Richie said. “What did I tell you?”
Cindy poked her tongue out at him and moved off to serve another regular.
Digby Lincoln stamped up to the bar, brrr’d his lips, and clapped Richie on the shoulder. “Cheers, my man. You’re a life saver.”
He necked half the pint, smacked his lips, and gestured across the room to a table beside the fire.
“Great news about the commission,” Ed said as they sat down.
Digby laughed. “God, I’m one lucky old bugger. Didn’t expect to get it, you know that?”
“Even when they hauled you down to London for the meeting?”
“I assumed Traverson wanted me to do something else, one of his bloody pet projects. Or get me to pitch him another bloody idea for a drama set in a restaurant.”
“So when he said he liked your synopsis…?”
“I had to lift my triple chins off the floor.”
Richie smiled. He’d met Digby Lincoln at Cambridge way back in ’78. Richie had been a fresh-faced, naive lower-middle class lad from Nottingham – Digby the privileged scion of minor aristocrats from rural Shropshire. With nothing at all in common apart from the desire to write great novels and plays, they’d surprisingly formed a deep and abiding friendship that had not only survived the torrents of student life – including the obligatory fallings-out over girlfriends – but alsothe dangerous rapids of working in the same business for thirty years… with one exception which Richie tried not to think about.
