Thursdays in the Park

by Hilary Boyd

  Jeanie sighed, ‘Of course it’s not you I’m trying to convince, is it?’

  She saw his eyebrows raised in question.

  This time Ray took her hand firmly in his. ‘Jeanie, I don’t want to be the cause of your distress. I can’t say I’m not attracted to you, but it’s early days: we can still walk away before we do any damage.’

  Damage, she thought. Such a powerful word. But her mind refused to face what ‘damage’ might imply. Nothing had happened yet, nothing will happen, she repeated to herself like a mantra, but each time her assertion seemed weaker and less convincing.

  ‘Can we just do this . . . now . . . and not think . . .’

  He held her gaze and this time she made no attempt to look away.

  ‘The park’ll be closed . . . it’s after eleven.’

  They changed tack and began to walk along the road that traced the south end of the cemetery.

  ‘How can it be after eleven?’ Jeanie checked her watch, incredulous that they had spent over five hours together. Hours that had passed in a heartbeat.

  She was a little drunk, and the darkness was cool and anonymous.

  ‘Kiss me,’ she said, turning to him as he walked beside her.

  Without a word he steered her gently into the lee of a tree overhanging the cemetery railings.

  Nothing had prepared her for this. As his lips touched hers she felt herself taken up in pure, exquisite sensation which seemed to appease a longing she had not known she possessed.

  ‘God.’ It was more a sigh than a word that she heard him whisper. ‘You’re trembling,’ he added, putting his arms tightly round her body.

  ‘Do you blame me?’ Her laugh sounded soft and shivery in the night air. ‘I can’t go home . . . he’ll see . . .’

  ‘See what? He’ll be in bed, won’t he?’

  Jeanie nodded with relief. ‘I’d forgotten how late it is . . . I hope so, but I’d better get back. I don’t want him phoning Rita in the middle of the night.’

  They began to walk arm in arm up the hill, Jeanie grateful for the support.

  ‘What does Rita think?’

  ‘Oh, Rita . . . she’s my friend . . . you’d love Rita.’

  Silence fell as they both contemplated the possibility of their two worlds coinciding.

  ‘Will you meet me again, Jeanie?’ he asked quietly.

  9

  ‘So?’ Rita’s voice was charged.

  ‘Ummm . . .’

  ‘What happened? Come on, darling, every detail, please. No holding back.’

  ‘I’m in the shop.’ Jeanie moved to the kitchenette, but was aware that Jola could still hear. ‘Can we talk later?’

  She heard Rita growl with frustration. ‘How can you do this to me? You know I don’t do patient.’

  Jeanie laughed. ‘Meet me at Nero’s in half an hour?’

  ‘Done.’

  Her friend’s face was alive with anticipation as they settled with their cappuccinos. The small cafe was hot and packed as usual, a large contingent of mothers, or perhaps nannies, with their oversized buggies and roaming under-threes creating a pleasant chaos.

  ‘Spill . . . now,’ Rita ordered, rapping the round wooden table.

  ‘God . . . where to start.’ She looked at Rita, embarrassed suddenly. ‘He’s wonderful, we just . . . I don’t know . . . connect. How can I describe how he makes me feel without sounding like Mills & Boon?’ She tailed off. ‘It’s just so easy to be with him, we talked for hours.’

  ‘Never mind the talking, did he kiss you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jeanie found herself blushing.

  ‘And?’ Rita was leaning forward eagerly.

  Jeanie took a deep breath. ‘Heaven.’

  Her friend clapped. ‘Hurray . . . God, you deserve it, darling.’

  ‘I do?’

  ‘Well, doh. I should say so, with a husband who’s withheld sex for decades.’

  ‘Only one decade.’

  ‘Splitting hairs, darling. Believe me, you deserve this. Is it just lust, or are you falling in love with him?’

  ‘I can’t even think straight. We agreed not to label it. Just let it be what it was.’

  Rita harrumphed. ‘Sounds a bit touchy-feely to me. It’s me you’re talking to, Mrs L. You can agree all you like not to label it with this park fellow, but you can tell me. Are you in love?’

  For some inexplicable reason, Jeanie found herself beginning to cry.

  ‘Darling, what’s the matter?’ Rita reached for her hand, looking contrite. ‘I didn’t mean to be pushy.’

  ‘It’s not you, it’s just . . . I don’t know. Rita, I’m married, and George is a decent man. But Ray is . . . well, he’s wonderful. I haven’t ever felt so strongly about anyone, not even George, not in this way . . . and I don’t know what to do.’

  Rita handed her a tissue from a packet in her bag. ‘Oh, darling . . .’

  ‘And what if Ray’s just playing with me? What if I fall in love with him and he’s not serious? I don’t know anything about him really, and I don’t care, but suppose . . . well, suppose it’s all just a joke for him. And then suppose it isn’t? I can’t leave George. I’m going to be sixty tomorrow.’

  Rita threw her hands in the air.

  ‘Christ, you’re obsessed! What on earth’s being sixty got to do with it? Love isn’t age-specific. Listen, does it feel as if he’s playing with you?’ Her friend’s face was a mask of concern.

  ‘No, not at all, not one little bit.’

  ‘Well, then. But Jeanie, it’s early days, as you say: you’ve hardly known the man for more than a few weeks. Do you have to do anything at this point?’

  ‘I should just shut up and enjoy it?’

  Rita shrugged apologetically. ‘Maybe, yes.’

  ‘And go on lying to George? He was up when I got home the other night, almost insane with anxiety. Did the usual: searched my face, said I looked drunk (which I wasn’t, not with wine anyway), gave me the third degree about which bar, why was I so late, why didn’t Lily drop me home as usual. It was horrible. It sounds like jealousy, but it’s not. He wouldn’t even imagine me being unfaithful, I don’t think. It’s just he panics when he can’t control me. But now I’ve got something to hide.’

  ‘But telling him now, when there’s nothing much to tell and it might go nowhere, would be a tad cruel, don’t you think?’

  Jeanie nodded. ‘I suppose . . . but it’s like I’m ill, Rita. Oh, I almost wish I’d never met him . . . then I could go back to my safe old life.’

  ‘ “Almost” being the operative word.’ Rita raised her eyebrows and Jeanie laughed.

  ‘Well, OK.’

  ‘Exactly. Anyway, if you really feel like that you can just walk away, never see him again.’

  There was silence for a minute.

  ‘I thought not.’ Rita sighed. ‘It’s not easy, I don’t know what to advise. Did you find out what he does?’

  ‘He owns an aikido school, sort of boys’ club I think, in Archway.’

  ‘So not a nightclub. That’s good. We like martial arts, they’re disciplined and character-forming.’

  ‘I’m glad you approve.’ Jeanie laughed.

  ‘You know I only have your best interests at heart.’ She clasped her hands. ‘Now to get down to the really important stuff . . . who am I sitting next to at dinner?’

  The entente cordiale between her and Alex was over. The holiday apparently had been a shambles. It had rained solidly, the roof leaked and Chanty had come down with flu. Now home, he faced a mountain of work without his recalcitrant mother-in-law to help, so Jeanie understood if he wasn’t in the best of moods.

  ‘Hi, come in.’ He slammed the door behind Jeanie when she dropped Ellie back from the park, greeting his daughter with phoney enthusiasm.

  ‘How was the park, darling? Did you go on the swings? Did you feed the duckies?’

  Ellie put on her drama queen face for her father’s benefit. ‘Din didn’ let me kick his ball . . . he soifish.’


  Alex laughed. ‘Who’s Din?’ He looked at Jeanie.

  ‘It’s Dylan . . . he’s often in the park when we go on Thursdays.’ Jeanie busied herself undoing the straps on the buggy to let her granddaughter out, but a blush crept inexorably to her cheeks.

  When she stood up she saw Alex note this and look at her consideringly.

  ‘Is this the boy I saw you with a couple of weeks ago?’

  Jeanie held her breath. ‘When?’

  ‘I saw you walking up the hill with a man and a small boy. I was coming back from town.’ He began chewing the side of his thumb. ‘I’d forgotten.’

  ‘Ray is Dylan’s grandfather, he’s doing what I do, looking after his grandson on Thursday afternoons. We got talking, and the children, despite what Ellie says, play together.’

  ‘Sounds cosy.’

  ‘Playground friends are a fact of life, Alex.’

  Jeanie refused to be intimidated, but as she walked home she began to worry. Alex lived to make trouble.

  She’d been dreading the park that Thursday, in case things had changed with Ray, in case she hadn’t measured up, in case he’d gone off her and didn’t show. But equally she longed to see him. She was living two separate lives now: part of her functioning, going through the motions in exactly the way she had for decades, with her real life, the life that lifted her soul, lived entirely separately in the secret place that Ray inhabited. She found herself annoyed when people demanded her attention; it interrupted her thoughts of him. The only exception was Ellie. Time in her company always had a certain magic where worries fell away and she could live like her granddaughter did, in the moment. Holding her breath, she’d rounded the corner to the playground. He was there as usual, and clearly looking out for her. Just a glance from his cool grey-green eyes made her heart sing. The next hour and a half flew in a haze of pleasure. They talked, they chased the children, Ray showed off on the wobbly log again, they had tea in the cafe. ‘Another drink?’ he’d asked as they walked towards the gate, but she hadn’t wanted to commit herself till after the birthday. ‘You’ll be too old to go out with by then,’ he’d teased, and she’d cuffed him on the shoulder. As they parted he whispered, ‘I’d like to give you a birthday kiss . . . but it might be a tad inappropriate.’ He indicated the children with a grin. ‘Save it,’ she’d whispered back.

  10

  ‘OK, Mum, what’s the best plan for Ellie? I don’t want her up during the party, so I thought if I come over early and we give her supper and put her to bed upstairs, she’ll be asleep by the time the guests arrive.’

  Jeanie was sceptical, but she’d learnt long ago not to interfere with arrangements for the child; it only caused friction. Anyway, Ellie was never left with any babysitter except herself, so there wasn’t any choice.

  ‘Fine, darling, you can leave her here while you go home to change. Don’t forget the caterers are coming around four. Will that be a problem for Ellie’s supper? They’ll take over the kitchen.’

  She heard Chanty sigh. ‘Not sure what the best thing is, then. I’d forgotten the caterers. If there’s stuff going on we’ll never settle her. Plan B, we’ll bring her over later when she’s fed and bathed and so are we. It’s starting at seven-thirty, so we’ll be there about seven, and Alex’ll bring the travel cot.’

  ‘OK, whatever you think best.’

  ‘I’m so excited, Mum. It’s going to be a great evening.’ Her daughter loved parties. ‘Did you decide on the blue dress or the silver one?’

  Jeanie laughed. ‘Neither. The blue makes me look a hundred and fifty, and the silver has been seen by everyone at least ten times. No, I treated myself to a new one. A Crouch End special.’

  ‘Fantastic, what’s it like? Ell, no! Put that down, it’s filthy. Sorry, Mum, Ellie’s picked something up . . . Ellie, I said no, give it to me, let go!’ There was a howl of rage from her granddaughter and sounds of a tussle. Jeanie smiled to herself. ‘God, it’s one of those horrible polystyrene takeaway things, covered in something unspeakable. London’s so vile.’

  Jeanie refused to respond to this ever-familiar mantra. ‘It’s black.’

  ‘What’s black?’

  ‘My new dress. It’s black, quite plain with wide-ish straps . . . quite clingy.’

  ‘Oooh, sexy. Bet Dad likes it.’

  ‘He hasn’t seen it yet. But I feel good in it.’

  Jeanie didn’t care much for fashion. She appreciated beautiful clothes on others, but to have to work out what suited herself was a lifelong trial. Brought up by parents who thought frippery the work of the Devil, all her clothes as a child had been hard-wearing, mostly too big for her, practical and subfusc. Teenage rebellion had never materialized; she was too dazed by her brother’s death, and somehow she had never regained lost ground. It was usually Chanty who coaxed her out to buy new things, always with a great reluctance on Jeanie’s part. But she had chosen the black dress with care, had even sought the advice of the assistant in the small boutique, instead of doing what she usually did, which was skulking self-consciously around the racks, snatching the item of clothing that looked as much like the old one as possible then making a run for it, as if she were taking part in a heist. Standing in the dress in front of the mirror, with the assistant nodding her head in approval, she had thought of Ray, and tried to see what he might see.

  ‘Great, Mum, this is your night. I’m sure you’ll look gorgeous.’

  ‘Oh Chanty . . . before you go.’ Jeanie wanted to catch her daughter alone. ‘Is Alex all right?’

  ‘Yes. What do you mean?’ Her daughter was still guarded when talking about him to her mother.

  ‘Just that he seems stressed. You know he asked me to look after Ellie more full-time over the summer while he got his exhibition together?’

  There was a pause. ‘No, no, I didn’t. What did you say?’

  ‘Well, I said I couldn’t. I can’t leave the shop. Listen, don’t mention it to him, darling. He was quite . . . disappointed I couldn’t help out.’

  ‘But you’re getting on OK now, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, yes, fine,’ Jeanie lied.

  ‘I feel guilty making him do so much childcare, but what choice do I have?’ Chanty sighed. ‘Do you think it’d be OK for Ellie to go to a childminder? Just for the summer?’

  ‘I suppose it depends on the childminder. It seems to work for lots of mums these days.’

  She knew she sounded unenthusiastic at the thought of her precious Ellie left to the mercies of an unknown carer.

  ‘But it’s probably too late to find one at such short notice . . . a good one, at least.’

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t help out, darling,’

  ‘No, no, Mum. It’s not your responsibility. You’ll have enough on your plate with the move, anyway.’

  Jeanie gulped. The move. She’d forgotten about the still-hypothetical move.

  ‘Speak tomorrow,’ Chanty was saying. ‘Can’t wait, Mum.’

  If her daughter felt guilty, so did she. Since becoming a grandmother Jeanie had found working out her family responsibilities confusing, as if she were on shifting sands. Was this really her ‘third life’ as Aunt Norma had insisted, or was she still primarily a wife, a mother, a grandmother?

  But however confusing her responsibilities might seem to her, Jeanie woke the next morning to the peculiar certainty that she was an old-age pensioner – senior citizen, in today’s parlance. How did that happen? she asked herself, remembering how she’d viewed people of a similar age even ten years ago. Rita said that their generation were different, baby boomers who didn’t go gently into decrepitude, but didn’t every generation think the same?

  The door opened and George poked his head round it, a huge smile on his face. In his hands he bore a tray, immaculately laid with a red rose in a vase, toast in a silver rack, a glass dish of marmalade, a folded napkin beside a boiled egg, a steaming cafetière, blue china cup and matching milk jug. Leaning against the vase was a card and a long, gold-wrapped pre
sent.

  ‘Happy birthday, darling.’

  Jeanie struggled up into a sitting position to receive the tray. ‘Thanks, George. How lovely.’

  He drew the curtains as usual, and as usual commented on the weather. ‘It’s stunning out there, the perfect day.’ He sat down on the bed. ‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘Open it.’

  Jeanie laughed. ‘OK, OK, give me a chance . . .’ She was touched by her husband’s enthusiasm. As she reached for the present she pushed Ray firmly to the back of her mind.

  The box was dark-blue leather with gold tracing, and inside was a beautiful analogue watch, silver-mounted, with a pretty, rectangular face and a silver-linked band.

  Jeanie gasped. ‘It’s perfect, darling, just perfect.’ She waved her wrist at him.

  ‘I must say, it does look nice,’ he commented, clearly pleased as Punch.

  She reached to kiss him, and for once he enfolded her in his arms and held her close for a moment. She couldn’t remember when he’d last done that, and it almost made her cry for what they’d lost.

  ‘Did you guess? I mean I couldn’t have given you anything else really, not with my clock obsession, even if you hadn’t wanted it.’

  Jeanie laughed and shook her head. ‘I’ve wanted one for ages, but no, I hadn’t really thought about presents. I love it.’

  Now the tears came in earnest. George looked horrified, reached for her hand, ‘What’s the matter, old girl?’

  Jeanie smiled through the tears. If only he wouldn’t call her that. It seemed to represent all that was wrong with their relationship. ‘Nothing. I’m fine . . . just a bit overwhelmed by it all.’

  George nodded. ‘It’s a big thing, being sixty, especially for a woman.’

  ‘Why for a woman?’

  ‘Oh, you know . . . men can go on for ever.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  George looked embarrassed, not missing the touchy tone of his wife’s question. ‘Well . . . it’s probably a matter of perception.’

  On any other day she’d have had it out with him; she knew exactly what he was saying. But she bit her tongue and resolutely turned her attention to her breakfast, banging her boiled egg and pouring herself a cup of coffee.