by Patrick Gale
‘Oh. Erm. Yes,’ said Andrea, and felt for her diary. Her cheeks burned as she turned to the day’s entry. ‘Five,’ she said.
‘Would you like us to wait and find out their votes?’
‘I don’t think so. Unless you think they would …’
‘Actually, it wouldn’t make much difference,’ the President warned her.
‘Well, no, then,’ Andrea conceded.
‘In that case,’ the President raised her voice and took a few paces back so as to be more in the centre of the choir’s horseshoe, ‘I announce that Maeve Mckechnie has been elected as new Alto Representative with thirty votes against Andrea Maitland’s ten. There were five absentees and ten abstainers.’
Damn the abstainers, thought Andrea.
As was customary the choir clapped. Maeve Mckechnie’s supporters cheered. The President begged for silence.
‘And would we just show our appreciation for all Andrea’s hard work. She will, of course, be continuing as choir librarian.’ She turned on Andrea with a gracious smile. ‘Thank you, Andrea.’ Several people were already halfway across the room to the pub but they paused to clap again.
‘Is there any further business?’ asked the President, hushing the chatter and stopping would-be drinkers in their tracks. Nobody offered further business. ‘Very well then. Honorary Secretary, ladies and gentlemen, I declare this extraordinary general meeting over.’
There was a rush for the pub. Several people, including the President, came to shake Andrea’s hand or pat her back with condoling murmurs. The Honorary Secretary, doubtless feeling that he had already done his bit by being charming before the event, disappeared without a word. Andrea sat on in the swirl of light Autumn cardigans and tangled chairs.
‘Coming for a Guinness, old girl?’
She looked up. It was Victor, the used-car dealer. He had taken a long-standing shine to her and was forever standing her drinks. Or perhaps she merely aroused his compassion.
‘Be with you in a sec, Victor,’ she said. ‘You go on.’
The hall was almost empty. A few of the women never went to the pubs but brought thermoses of coffee and boxes of homemade nibbles which they passed round amongst themselves in a corner. The pianist had already returned from the local hamburger bar with his customary milkshake. A few men were poring noisily over newspapers or displaying records they had brought in to lend to friends. Andrea picked up her bag, left her music on her seat and left. She walked past the pub, however, and the place where Maeve Mckechnie would be celebrating her victory, and stood at the bus stop for the journey home. There was no sign of a bus so, not wanting to be found waiting there when the singers emerged from their drinking, she damned the expense and hailed a taxi.
Seventeen
Peter was alone at the kitchen table trying to solve even half the crossword that Marcus had been filling out so effortlessly that afternoon. He had long ago abandoned the honourable method. Andrea’s dog-eared ‘backstairs’ dictionary lay close to hand and he was riffling through Roget’s Thesaurus in search of an elusive synonym for seduction that seemed to be spelt S blank blank blank P blank R Y. If he didn’t find it soon he would be forced to go upstairs, burrow in the jumble of mending heaps, neglected embroidery and hoarded magazines under the sofa to find the Scrabble set; a three-dimensional alphabet often jogged his memory. It wasn’t cheating, not as much as Roget’s Thesaurus, even if it felt like it whenever Andrea caught him pushing and rearranging the little letters.
There was a newly familiar thunder on the stairs overhead – Robin coming down. Brevity was yapping at his heels. At first her jealousy at his return had sent her into a bleak decline. She had refused her food for days and spent hours on end unreachably beneath a tallboy in Andrea and Peter’s bedroom. Now that it was understood that his visit would be a longish one, she had changed tactics and taken to trailing him adoringly through the house, all the more excited for his scorn. Robin stopped in the doorway and, bending, turned to face her.
‘Go away,’ he pronounced. ‘I hate you.’
Brevity sneezed then rolled on her back and waved her legs at him. He snorted disgust and turned back to his father. He was transformed. He had been to a barber to have his hair cut and beard tidied. Peter felt he couldn’t say anything, but his son had looked none too clean since his return and on some days had been downright smelly. Now he shone as though he had been scrubbed, and had brought a scent of sandalwood to the room. The black clothes, it would seem, had finally found their way to the laundry basket. Robin had dug out an old dark blue suit that was a hand-me-down from his paternal grandfather and a white collarless shirt that was spotless, if unironed. With a flash of red braces, he slung himself into a chair across the table from Peter.
‘Aren’t I smart?’ he said with a knowing grin.
‘Well,’ Peter ventured, ‘It is an improvement.’
‘What are you stuck on?’
‘I’m not stuck, exactly.’
‘What’s the clue?’
‘“Blonde goddess is heard to lay foundations for naughtiness after success at rugby football.” I’ve got S blank blank blank P-blank-R-Y.’
Robin frowned, looking suddenly like Andrea in a stage beard, and gently took the newspaper. He tapped the pencil across the squares as he counted letters in his head.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘The S and P are wrong, for a start; it’s “Husses” not “Skates” and “Torrid” not … What’s that word, with the P?’
‘Er. Oh. “Spires”.’
‘Spires?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where did you get that from?’
‘Not sure.’
‘Anyway,’ Robin spared him, rubbing out the wrong letters and filling in three new words, ‘It’s “Torrid” in there which means we can put in “Harlotry” in six across.’
‘Ah!’ said Peter, as though he saw, but his curiosity got the better of him. ‘Why?’
‘“Blonde goddess is heard” – that’s “harlo” which sounds like Harlow, as in Jean,’ Robin explained. ‘“To lay foundations” – that means harlo comes first. “After success at rugby football” – that means you put “try” after “harlo” and the whole thing makes a word for naughtiness. Well. Not really, but if you look it up in the thesaurus they’ll probably give it as a synonym.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Not at all.’
‘Want to do any more?’
‘No. It’s all yours, but twelve down’s an anagram.’
‘Oh,’ said Peter, taking the crossword back. ‘If you say so. Are you going out?’
‘Yes. I’m out for supper.’
‘Where? Not that you have to tell me, or anything.’
‘Faber’s asked me.’ Robin smiled at his father’s delicacy. ‘Faber Washington.’
‘Oh. Your mother didn’t mention it.’
‘Why should she? I haven’t told her.’
‘But Faber’s her best friend. Well. One of them.’
‘Is he? He never said.’
‘She’s been going round to him for cups of coffee and stuff almost every day since you … while you were away. However unlikely it might seem.’
Robin stood and slouched, hand in pocket, to the dresser where he picked up an apple and bit into it.
‘When does she get back from choir practice?’ he asked, through his mouthful.
‘Lateish. She does insist on taking the bus so she can read. About ten-thirty, usually.’
‘You’ll be OK then?’
‘What an extraordinary thing to ask! Of course I’ll be OK.’ Peter laughed. ‘Do I look as if I wouldn’t?’ The question was rhetorical but when Robin merely chuckled in reply, it felt less so. ‘I was planning on having a session on the clarinet when I got fed up with this,’ Peter continued.
‘When are you going to find another orchestra to join?’
‘I’m not all that sure I could face it.’
‘Well, a wind band, then.’
‘But I’m al
ways so tired in the evenings.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘After hours of toddlers? I’m knackered. And anyway, I’m not back to that level yet.’
‘Yes, you are. I heard you playing yesterday. It was fine.’
‘I’ve forgotten half the fingerings. They come automatically on pieces I already know, but if someone gave me something to sight-read, I’d probably squawk like a beginner.’ This was a lie; his technique was coming back more rapidly each day. ‘Do you want a drink of something? Keep me company in my alcohol-free lager?’
‘No. I must get going. See you.’
‘I’ll leave the chain off the back door so you can get in again. You know what a locker-up your mother is,’ Peter said. The last words came out in a near-shout as Robin was already outside and closing the door between them.
Peter took another of the powerless beers from the fridge, flicked off the cap with an opener and gulped from the bottle. This, the eating of an unaccompanied pork pie (bought after a walk with Brevity, in a local pub that wasn’t their local) and the devotion of an entire evening to the day’s crossword were things peculiar to Andrea’s choir nights, along with radio plays and long, mid-evening baths. None of these activities was especially hateful to Andrea or cherished by Peter but, initiated as consolation for his evenings without her, they had come to assume all the intimate witchery of sin. He returned to the table and was delighted to find that the three words inserted by Robin had made the crossword suddenly much easier. He entered ‘Steerage’, ‘Trug’ and ‘Edict’ before the bottle was finished. He took another from the fridge, opened it, threw Brevity a Doggy Roll to stop her feeling left out, filled in ‘Corpse’ and felt very pleased with himself.
There were rapid footsteps on the gravel. Brevity gave her single friends-and-family bark, knowing it was Andrea before the door had opened. Peter had no time to snatch a glass for his beer.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ she asked then pointed and laughed, ‘Your face!’
‘You were back quickly,’ he said. Brevity was snuffling and turning circles. Andrea gave her a quick pat so that she could stop.
‘I know,’ she said, ‘I took a taxi.’
‘Good grief!’
‘Just what I thought.’
‘But you’d have been early even in the bus. What happened?’
‘I’ve run away,’ she said and sat on his lap. She sat carefully, as though worrying about the unusual move. She was still light; he couldn’t imagine why she fussed so about her weight. She kissed his forehead. She was wearing a scent he hadn’t smelled before. He liked the way it mingled with the faint, gingery tang she gave off whenever she had run or was hot. He chuckled, holding her round the waist.
‘What? You’ve skipped the second half?’
‘More than that,’ she said proudly, ‘I’ve skipped for good.’
‘But why?’
‘I wanted to be with you!’
‘No, but really?’
‘It was horrid, actually. There was a sort of uprising and they voted me out of carrying on as voice rep and suddenly I thought, Well if that’s the game you’re at, then I don’t want to play any longer. I just jumped in a cab instead of going to the pub with the rest. I was in a panic at first, but then that sort of taxi comfort spread through me and I sat back and was all relieved and free. Oh, Pete, I’m so glad to have left! All those silly opinionated men and lone, lost females. Are you very horrified at having me back?’
‘What do you think?’ he asked her. ‘Look at me. I was going to spend the evening drinking beers and doing the crossword.’
‘Sounds lovely.’
‘Not two nights a week, every week,’ he said and kissed her. She kept her lips together, giving him a soft peck.
‘It dawned on me on the way home,’ she said, pulling back and arranging herself differently on his lap, ‘That most of the people there were there for some painful reason. They’re bored, frustrated, lonely, things like that. Of course they love music, and they may even tell themselves that that’s why they go there – I know I did – but deep down they go for sad reasons.’
‘Kiss me properly,’ he said. ‘You hardly ever kiss me properly nowadays.’
‘I … oh,’ she said and he pulled her against him, slipping his tongue between her parting lips. Her mouth always felt deliciously fresh inside, as though she had been eating snow. Still kissing, he slid her more firmly onto him, with her skirt up. They bumped the table and the beer bottle fell to the floor. It didn’t smash but Andrea pulled back, startled and made housekeeping noises. The ginger in her scent made him tug her down into another kiss. Then she slid round and leant her back against his shoulder, staring up at the ceiling as he slid a hand round inside her blouse to cup one of her breasts. The nipple was rigid beneath his touch and he gently teased it with a fingertip, moved to see how hotly she blushed. There was a quiet, slapping sound from somewhere in the room.
‘Brevity’s drinking your low-alcohol lager,’ she said.
‘I know,’ he told her. ‘Don’t you dare clear it up.’
‘All right. I won’t,’ she promised and settled more heavily against him with a sigh.
‘And don’t you dare change your mind and go back to that choir next week,’ he went on.
‘I promise,’ she said, and he remembered the leaflet he had seen in the reference library about auditions for a new amateur wind ensemble; remembered, and let it fall.
‘Where’s Dob?’ she asked.
‘Out for the whole evening,’ he said.
‘Where?’
‘Faber Washington’s.’
‘Faber? But I …’
‘… Why don’t we go upstairs and change?’ he cut in. She gave a dirty chuckle at this dusted-down code phrase from early marriage.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Why ever not?’
‘Then I’ll call a cab and we’ll go to Les Pavoines and drink a bottle of Bollinger and eat all the favourite things we never get to eat at home because the other one hates them.’
‘A true celebration,’ she sighed. ‘But let’s go upstairs and change first.’
Eighteen
He lived, they lived, in a converted chapel off the South side of the common, a long, totally symmetrical red-brick building with high windows, not unlike a Victorian schoolhouse. There was a small space at the front. One would hesitate to call it a garden; it was nothing but box hedge and dustbin. A sign, neatly painted in electric blue paint on yellow, announced,
This is no longer the Elim Temple
of the Pentecost but a
PRIVATE HOUSE.
There was a small ship’s bell dangling from the lintel so Robin rang it once and waited.
He had tried to see Faber on the evening of the christening – Luke having abandoned him for the security of Whelm – but Faber said it was impossible. Robin rang the next day and suggested a film, but he found some excuse. Robin left him in peace for a while then asked if he’d like to come round to The Chase for supper but again Faber had an excuse. He was very kind about it; they laughed and chatted about nothing in particular, Robin asked him to supper and he said,
‘That would be lovely, Robin, but I’ve got a meeting with Iras’s tutor.’ He said it without a moment’s hesitation, so Robin knew it was a lie. The other excuses had been about Iras too. Then, the morning after that Robin had a brainwave. He simply rang him up, very business-like, soon after breakfast, and spoke to his answering machine.
‘I’m coming round for supper this evening,’ he said. ‘Eight o’clock.’
So here he was.
He stood there for a while with lorries crashing by in the road behind him and sparrows chattering crossly in the dirty hedge. Then a little, sliding panel shot sideways in the door and a girl’s voice asked,
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s Robin,’ he said. ‘I’ve come for supper.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘You. Hang on.’
The panel slid shut again and the
door opened. She stood to one side to let him in. She had on a pair of dark-blue cotton dungarees over a white tee shirt. She was wearing black lace-up plimsolls like the ones he remembered wearing for gym classes at school.
‘Well? Come inside,’ she said and he realised that he had been staring. He came in and she shut the door with a bang behind him. ‘You’re a bit early.’
‘I told him eight.’
‘Well he’s not ready, anyway. He’s dressing,’ she went on. ‘Please sit down.’ He sat on one end of a large sofa.
‘I suppose it helps to know where people are in a room,’ he said.
‘Fairly,’ she replied, ‘although I can usually tell that from the way sound bounces off them. You were feeling nervous, though, and sitting down seems to make people more relaxed. I often make people nervous. Faber says it’s because I don’t remember to smile enough. Dot – that’s my tutor – Dot says that too. She says that people smile when they’re nervous as well as when they’re happy, which is why smiles make nervous people feel at home. Would you like a drink?’
‘Well …’
‘He had a glass of cold wine upstairs earlier, so there’s probably an open bottle in the fridge.’
‘Yes, please.’
She disappeared through a door behind him. The chapel had been converted simply. The main space was stripped of pews, except for a couple which had been left on either side of a long dining table, their hymn book shelves stuffed, as was every available surface, with newspapers, much-read paperbacks and paint-stained pieces of cloth. The original stairs ran up to the gallery on which two rooms had been built, leaving a landing the width of the building. Below the gallery were two more doors. Iras emerged from one of them, clutching a glass of white wine.
