by Hilary Boyd
Jola grinned in relief. ‘I put them here, under tins. No one like them, you know. I throw much away because out of date.’
‘You’re right, the pasta tastes filthy. I suppose there are more wheat-free options to choose from now, and spelt. No, it looks good.’
‘How is country?’
Jeanie sighed. ‘It’s OK. I’d rather be here.’
‘And Mr Lawson? He better now?’
‘Sort of. So . . . where’s Megan?’
Jeanie liked the new girl. Perhaps a bit of a cliché of the straightforward, enthusiastic Australian, but she genuinely seemed to enjoy working for Jola.
‘She never late, she happy to work weekends, she very good with customer, never get angry,’ Jola enthused when Megan went on her lunch break.
‘Sounds perfect . . . so you don’t really need me any more.’ Even though she said it in jest, for a second Jeanie thought she might cry. It was the sudden conviction that indeed she was now redundant, retired, no use to anyone, except to provide George with cheese for his sandwich and whisky for his supper. Highgate seemed to have survived her absence very nicely. Of course Jola protested, but a bleakness settled over her nonetheless.
‘I’m going over to see Ellie at lunchtime,’ she told her. Despite promises that the family would practically live in Somerset, they hadn’t yet visited beyond a rushed Saturday morning the week after the move, when the house was still stuffed with tea chests and bubble wrap and felt more like a furniture warehouse than a home. Chanty said she was too tired, it was too far, and Alex, of course, had his exhibition to finish. She’d missed her granddaughter terribly, and worried the child would have forgotten her.
It was raining as she made her way down the hill to her daughter’s house. The autumn had been beautiful till the previous week, more of an Indian summer, but now there was a raw edge to the wind, the promise of things to come. Jeanie tried to shake off her despondency, but even the thought of little Ellie failed to lift her mood. On the opposite side of the road, on the corner of Hornsey Lane, she noticed a couple standing together beneath a large dark-green umbrella. She couldn’t see their faces as the umbrella was pulled low, but as she drew level with them, the wind gusted, jerking the umbrella upwards. As the movement caught her eye, she looked and saw Ray. Ray and a girl; Ray with his arms round the girl; Ray laughing into the girl’s eyes . . . the beautiful girl . . . the young, beautiful girl.
Jeanie literally thought she would be sick, there and then, on the pavement, in front of the passers-by. Be sick and then die. She found she could not move, as if all the blood had drained from her limbs. The umbrella had been pulled back into place, and moved off slowly down the hill. Ray had not seen her, but still she stood there. Finally the sickness passed into something much worse: absolute despair. She dragged herself left off the main road and managed somehow to get to the house.
‘Jean, come in. Are you OK? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’ Alex drew her solicitously into the sitting room. ‘Ellie’ll be awake in a moment, she’s so excited you’re coming.’
Jeanie managed a smile. ‘Could I have some water, please, Alex.’
Her son-in-law didn’t move, just stood looking down on her. ‘Are you ill?’
‘I’ll be fine; I just had a bit of a turn,’ she assured him, but even to herself her voice sounded strained and weak.
‘What sort of a turn?’ Alex persisted, and through the fog she wondered if he was remembering his disbelief in the face of his daughter’s injury.
‘Honestly, I’ll be fine. I think I forgot to eat today, what with the train being so early, and then all the stuff I had to deal with in the shop,’ she burbled on, finding reassurance in her ability to speak at all.
Alex looked relieved. ‘That’s daft at your age. You have to eat, especially breakfast. Chant did a programme on it. Apparently schoolchildren who eat breakfast do better than those who don’t, because after a night of starvation the brain needs fuel to function.’ He laughed. ‘Obvious, really. I’d have thought you’d have known it, Jean, with all your health-food experience.’
‘I did, but you know how it is.’ She laughed as heartily as she could, and saw it was enough to convince Alex.
‘I’ll make you some toast and tea, then we’ll get Ellie up. Marmite or honey?’
‘How’s the exhibition coming along?’ she asked as she munched the honey toast. The fact that she hadn’t eaten all day she knew had absolutely nothing to do with her ‘turn’. All she wanted now was to process what she had seen, to turn the knife in the wound, but she forced her thoughts back into her daughter’s kitchen. ‘You seem quite relaxed,’ she told her son-in-law.
Alex took a deep breath. ‘You’ve caught me at the eye of the storm. It’s a brief window which exists between relief that I’ve finally finished the work and terror that everyone’ll think it’s crap.’
‘So you’ll be nervous on Thursday, then.’
‘Um, nervous?’ He shivered. ‘ “Nervous” doesn’t come close. I’d say more . . . cold sweat arena.’
‘I can’t imagine,’ Jeanie told him.
‘You’ll be there, won’t you? And George.’ He hesitated. ‘How is George, by the way?’
‘I don’t know if he’s up to it yet, Alex. He never goes anywhere, and I think even the train may be a step too far.’
‘That bad . . . Chanty seems to think he’s better.’
‘He’s not miserable like he was, more . . . cut off, lives in his own world,’ she explained.
Ellie had not forgotten her. The child wouldn’t leave her grandmother’s knee, except to drag her up to her room to show Jeanie her toys, burbling on excitedly the while. Jeanie would have liked to have taken her out, but the rain was pouring down now, bouncing off the garden decking in ‘dancing dollies’ that delighted Ellie as they watched at the window.
‘They dancing, Gin . . . dollies dancing in the rain.’
‘So how’s nursery? Do you like it?’
‘I do,’ Ellie said solemnly. ‘Jack’s my friend. I saw a puppet show, Gin.’
‘Was it fun?’
‘It was,’ the child answered, making Jeanie smile at her verbal formalities. Her speech had come on so much in the missing weeks.
‘My dolly called Becky, looook, she’s toiny and hungry. I got some mork in my bag.’ She got out a plastic bottle from the pink zip bag she carried about and began to imitate feeding the doll. ‘Now she has to go to sleep,’ she said in imperious imitation of an adult, as she laid her in the pink carrycot and covered her tenderly with a blanket. Alex was standing in the doorway.
‘I’m hoping this bodes well for the future,’ he joked.
‘Don’t count on it.’ Jeanie laughed back. Only her granddaughter was capable of taking her out of herself, but in the moments of lull, the image of Ray and the girl came flooding back, dragging her under like a rip tide.
‘Supper’s ready, Ell,’ Alex said. ‘Sausages . . . and ketchup.’
‘Ooooooh.’ Ellie grinned widely, her eyes sparkling. ‘Sodsidges and ketchup. You hungry, Gin? You can share some of mine.’
‘I’m afraid I have to go, darling.’ Jeanie got up off the bedroom floor.
‘You could stay for supper. Chanty’ll be back in an hour or so.’ Alex grinned sheepishly. ‘I don’t want you keeling over the moment you leave the house. Chant might think I don’t learn from my mistakes.’
‘Thanks, Alex, but I ought to get back to the shop. There’s so much to catch up on.’
‘Are you enjoying Somerset, then?’
He seemed a changed man now his work was finished. The sniping had stopped and there was a real concern in his question. So much so that Jeanie felt her throat tightening. Until today, she realized, she had always fantasized that there was a chance, even if she chose not to take it, that she could be with Ray again. And as a result, Somerset still felt like a staging post, somewhere that did not quite require her commitment.
‘I don’t know how to answer that,’
she said eventually, fighting back the tears.
‘Is it George? It must be very hard, with him in such a broken-down state.’
She saw Ellie’s little face cloud with worry.
‘You sad, Gin?’ The little girl came and stood beside her, her arm round Jeanie’s leg, the other hand gently stroking her knee.
Jeanie took a deep breath.
‘I’m a bit sad, darling, but I’ll be OK.’ She picked up the small, warm body and gave her a hug.
‘I’d better be off,’ she said, holding herself together through the goodbyes, down the steps, the wave to her granddaughter and son-in-law, the walk along the road to the corner; but once round the corner she broke down.
The flat above the shop had the dreary chill of an unoccupied space. There had been no one there for nearly two months. Jeanie had had it painted in a neutral white, and replaced the cheap furniture with some from the Highgate house. It was potentially a good space. The sitting room/kitchen was light, with windows at either end, the front on to the high street, the back on to the gardens. The top floor had a good-sized bedroom and a bathroom. She could make it lovely, she told herself, as she turned the heating on and looked for the tea. She hadn’t loved the old house so much; there had always been a pervading gloom in the dark, high-ceilinged rooms. But it didn’t feel right to be in Highgate and not in the place she’d called home for thirty-five years. All she felt able to do now was wrap herself in the mulberry wool throw from the old kitchen and lie on the sofa in numb disbelief.
Rita looked around the flat inquisitively. ‘Hmmm, bit of a comedown from the mansion, but potential as a pied-à-terre, certainly.’ She threw herself into the armchair. ‘So how’s it going, darling? You look dreadful.’
Jeanie had rung her friend and told her about Ray, and Rita had insisted on coming over.
‘I feel a fool.’
‘Why? You’ve done nothing foolish . . . unless you count dumping your one true love.’
Jeanie didn’t react.
‘Sorry, darling, I can see you’re not in the mood for my teasing.’
‘But how stupid was I, to think that he could really want me when there are so many young, beautiful girls out there? She was lovely, Rita, mixed race, tall and slim with the most stunning smile. I only saw her for a moment but she’s gorgeous. Much younger than him, of course, but then his last girlfriend was. He likes them young.’ She was thinking out loud, voicing at last the thoughts that had twisted and spun about her head since lunchtime.
‘How do you know it was his girlfriend?’
‘They were under the same umbrella. He had his arm round her; they were laughing together,’ she listed in a dreary monotone.
‘Yeah, but they could have been friends who bumped into each other and took shelter from the rain, enjoying a joke together. Were they actually canoodling?’
Jeanie looked at her friend pityingly. ‘No, but they looked as if they were just about to.’
‘Listen, Jeanie, I’ve been around long enough to know that assumptions are highly dangerous.’ Rita got up. ‘Got any wine? You definitely need a drink.’
Jeanie shook her head.
‘Well, we’re going out then. Come on, you can’t just sit here feeling sorry for yourself.’
‘But what have I got left now, Rita?’
Rita sighed and sat down again. ‘Remember how you weren’t actually seeing Ray any more? Remember, in fact, how you were determined not to see him again? Remember how you were hell-bent on dying in Dorset . . . OK, Somerset? I don’t quite understand how today changes anything, except to confirm that you’re plumb on course.’ She paused. ‘Unless, of course, you had secret longings you weren’t telling me about?’ She raised her eyebrows and waited.
‘I suppose I thought, selfishly, that he’d be there if I changed my mind,’ Jeanie admitted sadly. ‘He said, the last time I saw him, “If you change your mind you know where I am.” ’ She looked up at her friend. ‘I mean, obviously he couldn’t wait for ever.’
‘So you’re telling me now that if he was available you’d run off with him?’ Rita threw up her hands in exasperation. ‘I can’t make you out, darling. One breath you can’t leave George; the next you’re in a lather because Ray, quite reasonably considering you dumped him, has found someone else.’
‘I don’t expect you to understand. I don’t understand either,’ Jeanie replied with a rueful smile. ‘I told you, I’m a fool.’
20
‘George, it’s Alex’s exhibition tonight. Do you want to come? We can stay at the flat and come back tomorrow. You haven’t seen the flat yet.’
George looked at her.
‘Of course I’ll come. Can’t miss Alex’s day.’
‘It’ll mean getting a three o’clock train.’
‘Today?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, today might be awkward.’ He cast a glance outside, where the drizzle dulled the landscape to a grey blur. ‘You see, I need to clear the ground for the vegetable patch before we get a frost and it’s too hard to dig. I should really . . .’
‘Well, it has to be today, George, it’s the opening night.’
George pondered this information.
‘Of course I’ll come,’ he repeated uncertainly.
‘You don’t have to. I can get Sally to pop in. I’m sure Alex will understand if you don’t feel up to it.’
‘No, I’ll come.’
Part of Jeanie desperately wanted him to come, or at least to be in a fit state to come. She so wanted the old George back, the ‘solid’, ‘unflappable’ husband and father. The other part dreaded taking him so far from the safety of the house. Supposing he got drunk and behaved as he had at Chanty’s that night?
The train was delayed by more than an hour – a signalling failure at Axminster. George had been silent at first, staring morosely out of the train window. But gradually she sensed a curiosity, then an excitement in her husband. His eyes, recently so lifeless, sparked up; he began to talk to her quietly, chatting about things that she’d assumed in his current state of mind he hadn’t taken in, as if months of stored-up information had suddenly been let loose. He talked about Lorna and Sally, the house, the family and the garden, of course. By the time they left the train he was, if not animated, at least brighter, as if a cloud had lifted. Jeanie watched in amazement. She didn’t question it, but it crossed her mind that his self-imposed solitude in the Old Rectory had done him more harm than good, the lack of stimuli imprisoning him further in his depression. If he could be a husband to her again, she thought, perhaps there would be something to look forward to, something to make her forget.
The gallery was brilliantly lit, the paintings vivid with colour against the stark white walls. Jeanie was delighted by the improvement in her son-in-law’s work and sensed a buzz amongst the small number of people self-consciously clutching wine glasses and eyeing the paintings as they socialized.
‘Dad, Mum.’ Chanty looked relieved to see them, her pregnancy cleverly dressed with an elegant black smock and leggings. Jeanie saw her gaze rest on her father. ‘How was the trip up?’ she asked, although she seemed not to listen to the answer.
Jeanie could see her daughter was distracted, watching the door, the guests, her husband, gauging each glance directed at his work. Alex looked as he had predicted: terrified, and stood slightly aloof from the group round him, smiling automatically every few seconds, his blue eyes wide with fear like a rabbit pinned in the headlights.
Gradually the glamorous Spanish girl with a high, swinging ponytail and crimson lips, brandishing her clipboard with details of the paintings, began to place red stickers beside some of the frames.
‘I think it’s a success! Fingers crossed, they seem to like them,’ Chanty hissed into her mother’s ear.
‘They’re good,’ Jeanie agreed. ‘Particularly that one.’ She pointed to one on the wall by the door. ‘The colours are amazing.’
‘Dad seems to be getting into it.’ They both looked
at George, who was listening intently to a thin, earnest-looking man dressed entirely in black and sporting a large satchel across his skinny chest.
‘If that man’s not careful, George will start telling him about the best conditions for bare-root hedging or the wide variety of agapanthus hybrids currently available.’
Chanty looked impressed.
‘I saw a catalogue,’ Jeanie admitted, laughing. ‘He’s obsessed.’
‘Is that good?’
‘Probably not, but that’s your father for you. His poor clocks have been entirely thrown over for the agapanthus hybrids. It was odd today, though; he seemed to have some sort of epiphany on the train – he just suddenly opened up and talked almost normally. And look at him now. This is the first time I’ve seen him really engaging with someone for months.’
‘Perhaps he’s turned a corner, Mum. I do hope so.’ Chanty put her hand on Jeanie’s arm. ‘Sorry I haven’t been there for you these past months; it must have been hell. I hate you being so far away.’
‘I miss you too, darling. I think I’ll take George off soon; I don’t want him to revert. Will you tell the girl I’d like to buy that painting, please?’
‘Oh, Mum, you don’t need to buy one. Alex will give it to you.’
‘Nonsense. Of course I’ll buy it. We can afford it, and I want it for the flat.’
‘I’m dog-tired, but I enjoyed that,’ George declared in the taxi up to North London.
‘Me too. I bought one for the flat.’
‘Good. Not sure about the paintings myself. As you know, I’m more of a landscape man,’ he muttered. ‘We should do this more often, old girl,’ he added, settling comfortably against her. It was the first time in months he’d called her by the loathsome nickname, but tonight, for some reason, it no longer offended her.
‘Drink?’ she asked when they got upstairs to the flat, feeling oddly like a host to her own husband.
Later, as they settled to the unfamiliar routine of sharing a bed, she felt a strange tension in George as he lay beside her.
