The Best Of Times

by Penny Vincenzi

“I’m not drinking that rubbish,” he said. “I want a single-malt. What is this, economy or something? Just give me a club soda.”

  He went and sat down near the screens, so that he could see the latest on his flight. No delays; they should be in the air in thirty minutes. And he could shake the soil of bloody England off his feet. He should never have come back, never.

  The flight was called; he walked to the departure bay slowly; there seemed to be a delay.

  “For God’s sake, what is the matter with this airline?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Mackenzie. If you just wait over there, shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

  He sat down, sighed heavily. This was what he hated most about flying: sitting helplessly, life at least temporarily out of his control…

  The man sitting next to him was reading a newspaper; he had it fully open, knocked Russell’s arm as he tried to fold it over.

  “Sorry, mate.”

  The man turned to his companion, a pasty, overweight creature in a tracksuit.

  “Shocking thing, that crash yesterday,” he said. “Thank God we wasn’t trying to get a flight last night. Says here seven miles, both directions. Hundreds of people missed their planes. Three people killed…”

  Russell stood up. All anyone seemed to be interested in today were car crashes…

  “Would rows A to G please commence boarding immediately. First- and club-class passengers may also board at their convenience.”

  Better check his phone for the last time; not that there was anyone he wanted to hear from…

  There was one message on it. Left that day, half an hour earlier. A number he didn’t recognise…

  “Hello, is that Mr. Mackenzie?” It was an English voice. “Mr. Mackenzie, you left a message on my mother’s answering machine. Mrs. Mary Bristow. I’m afraid she’s in the hospital-she was involved in a traffic accident yesterday. We only heard ourselves quite late last night. Anyway, if you want to ring me back, my number is-”

  A series of clicks went off in Russell’s brain. Holdups for miles… serious traffic accident… in intensive care… hundreds missed their flights.

  So there had been a reason: a perfectly good reason. And he had been too blind, too arrogant, too self-centred to try to find it. And Mary, his little Mary, was lying in a hospital, possibly dangerously ill…

  ***

  Abi’s flat was in a rather unlovely outpost of Bristol; she’d bought it eighteen months earlier, on the strength of her new job. She loved it; it was in a small purpose-built block, fairly recently built. It had two bedrooms, one of which was let to her best friend, Sylvie, to help pay the mortgage; a very cool galley kitchen, with white cupboards and black work surfaces; a studio living room with floor-to-ceiling windows; and a bathroom that, as Sylvie said, was too small to swing a kitten in, much less hold a bath, but which served its purpose perfectly adequately.

  She had furnished it slowly, through the year, refusing to put any old rubbish in it that she didn’t like; the Bristol branch of IKEA had served her well. The room she was most proud of was the living room, with its white blinds, white carpet-no one was allowed in with their shoes on-and two black corner sofas. She’d talked a photographer mate into giving her a very nice set of black-and-white prints of pictures he’d taken in New York, and had them framed by one of the suppliers at work; it all looked seriously classy. Her latest acquisition was a plasma TV, not too huge, but big enough to feel you weren’t missing anything watching a film on DVD rather than in the cinema.

  She was actually watching Notting Hill for the umpteenth time, having got back from the gym exhausted but feeling slightly better, and wondering if she could face any lunch, when she decided to ring her phone once more.

  “Hello?” said a voice.

  “Oh… oh, my God… it’s William, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. And that’s Abi? I was hoping you’d ring.”

  “So-you’ve got my phone?”

  “Yes, you gave it to me to hold yesterday. I’d put it down and forgotten all about it, only just found it again.”

  “Fantastic. I thought I must have dropped it on the road or something. It was such a terrible day, and-”

  “Certainly was. How are you feeling?”

  “Oh… you know. Bit… out of it. Look, could I come and get it, do you think? I’m really missing it. Tell me where you are, and I’ll drive over.”

  ***

  “Hello, Linda.”

  “Hello, Georgia. How are you?”

  “OK. Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “Well… I could be forgiven for wondering. Don’t you think? First I have to change the time of your audition; then I wait for hours for you to arrive, and you don’t return any of my calls. Then I hear that you’re back at home and you’ve told your mother you didn’t get the part. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing’s going on.”

  “Well… why didn’t you come to the audition?”

  A silence: then: “I lost my nerve. I was scared, OK? Really scared. I’m sorry, Linda. Very sorry. I got stage fright.”

  “They’re very disappointed. They really thought you’d be ideal.”

  “Yeah? Well, they’ll have to get over it.”

  “That is an extraordinarily stupid attitude, Georgia. Not the way to get on.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to get on.”

  “Well, in that case, you won’t be needing me any longer.” Linda struggled to keep her temper. “This kind of thing does me no good at all. I mean that, Georgia. If you’re not worried about your future, I’m certainly worried about mine.”

  “Yes.” The voice had changed, become more subdued. “Yes, I know. I’m sorry, Linda.”

  “Well, look. When you feel ready to talk about it some more, call me.”

  “Yes, OK.”

  Another silence. It was tempting to just put the phone down, but Linda was fond enough of Georgia and worried enough about her not to.

  “There were several articles in the papers today about the crash on the M4,” she said.

  Silence: then: “Oh, really?”

  “Yes. It certainly sounded very bad. Very bad indeed. Several people killed, and some poor lorry driver in intensive care.”

  “Oh. Yes, I see.” Another silence. “But… is he all right? Did it say?” Her voice shook slightly.

  “He’s alive. But not very well. Obviously.”

  “Did it… did it give his name?”

  “No, they never do until they’re sure the close relatives have been informed. Why?”

  “Oh… no reason,” Georgia said uncertainly. “Did it… did it say what caused it?”

  “No. The police are investigating it apparently. So… you didn’t see anything of it at all, then?”

  “No. No, of course I didn’t. Why are you asking me all this? Just leave me alone, Linda, will you? Please!”

  ***

  It hadn’t been easy to find William’s farm; she was hopeless at reading maps. In the end, Abi found herself driving through the scene of the accident and then turning back on herself, via the next junction. That had been hideous. The crash barrier was still broken, the central median ploughed up; there were areas taped off on both sides of the road, a lane closed, police cars parked on the hard shoulder, and several men, two in uniform, studying photographs. A sense of déjà vu flooded Abi; she went back there, in that moment, to the noise and the chaos, the broken cars, the crumpled minibus, people shouting and groaning, children crying…

  When she reached the turnoff, she pulled onto the grass verge at the top of it and sat there, her arms resting on her steering wheel, her head buried in them, wondering how she was going to live with that memory for the rest of her life.

  She drove on, missed the turn William had instructed her to take-“It’s got a cattle sign about a hundred yards down it”-found herself in a village, and stopped an old chap who was wandering down the street looking at the paper.

  Who was able to direct her, with amazing eas
e, to the Graingers’ farm-“Just after the church take a left, looks like a track, and go up to the end and there it’ll be straight in front of you.”

  And there indeed it was, settled just slightly down from the track, quite a big squarish house, with a yard to the left of it and several cars parked on it, including a totally dilapidated pickup truck, one newish-looking Land Rover, and a couple of tractors. After hesitating for a while, she parked her car next to the Land Rover and knocked on the door.

  William was in the milking parlour, his mother said, adding graciously that Abi could wait if she liked, or go up there.

  As Abi hadn’t the faintest idea where the milking parlour was, or indeed what it was-it sounded rather like something in a cartoon, with all the cows lounging around on sofas-she decided on the waiting.

  She’d dressed quite carefully for the occasion in jeans and a T-shirt and some new red Converse trainers; she didn’t want William to think she was some townie airhead, tottering through his farmyard in three-inch heels. She smiled at Mrs. Grainger, who managed what might have passed for a smile in return; she was not in the least what Abi would have expected William’s mother to be like, not a cosy lady in a cotton pinny, making bread, but a rather smart, upper-crust woman with well-cut hair, wearing dated but clearly expensive trousers, a checked shirt, and a pair of brown leather loafers.

  “Come through to the drawing room.” She led Abi through the hall and into a rather dark room lined with books and paintings and gestured towards a sofa. “Do sit down. Can I offer you something, a sherry perhaps…?”

  Abi shook her head. “No, I’m fine, thanks. I’ll just wait.”

  Abi sat down and folded her hands in her lap in what she hoped was a ladylike manner and smiled apologetically at Mrs. Grainger.

  “I’m so sorry if I’m being a nuisance,” she said.

  “You’re not, of course. But you must excuse me. We’ve been away and there’s rather a lot to do.”

  “Of course.”

  When she had gone, Abi stood up and wandered round the room; the walls were covered in extremely faded brocade paper, the carpet was a sort of very large rug, set down on flagstones, and threadbare in places. What looked like the remnants of about a hundred fires, a vast heap of ash and burnt-out logs, lay in the grate, and there were no curtains at the tall windows, just wooden shutters.

  The furniture was all clearly very old and rather mismatched: a round polished table in quite a light colour, and then a chest so dark it was almost black. There were two deeply comfortable-looking armchairs, but the sofa was stiff and button backed. Several portraits hung on the walls, mostly of men, clearly going back a century or two, although there were two of women, both rather pretty, one in a low-waisted, narrow ankle-length dress, and one in what looked like a rather elaborate nightie. She wondered if they were William’s ancestors. Somehow the sweet-faced, untidy bloke she had met yesterday didn’t seem to fit in here. But clearly she was wrong.

  She looked out of the window now; as far as she could see were fields, fields and hills and trees. She wondered if it all belonged to the Graingers and decided, if it did, they must be very rich.

  After about twenty minutes, she got bored and, purely by way of a diversion, decided to go in search of a loo.

  As she crossed the hall, looking tentatively at the doors, Mrs. Grainger appeared.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I was wondering if I could use your toilet?” said Abi apologetically.

  A slightly pained expression settled on Mrs. Grainger’s face.

  “Of course. Follow me.”

  She led the way upstairs and across a landing; then, “The lavatory is there,” she said, pointing down a corridor and emphasizing the word rather pointedly. Silly cow, Abi thought.

  As she made her way back downstairs, William appeared. He was filthy, his face grimy and sweat-studded, his hair awry with shoots of grass in it, and, as an extra accessory, an enormous cobweb slung from one of his ears to his shoulder. Abi smiled and then, as she studied him, giggled slightly.

  “Hello,” he said. “Sorry, I didn’t realise you’d arrived.” And then, as she continued to smile at him, added, “What’s so funny?”

  “Oh-nothing. Sorry. You’ve got… Here, let me…” She stepped forward, reached up, and pulled the cobweb from his ear.

  “Well, it’s very nice to see you,” William said, smiling his amazing, life-changing smile.

  Abi smiled back and thought how wonderful it was to see him and then-driven by some compulsion entirely outside her control-reached forward and kissed him on the cheek just as his mother came into the hall.

  ***

  “I’m not sure my mother knew what to make of that,” he said, grinning, handing her the large gin and tonic she had asked for in the pub, “you kissing me then.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t quite know what came over me. It’s been such a sh-horrible day, two days, and then suddenly there you were and everything seemed so much better and I just wanted to let you know that. Sorry.”

  “No, no, don’t apologise,” he said. “It’s fine; doesn’t matter if she liked it or not, and I certainly did.” He smiled again, indicated the drink. “That all right for you? Got enough ice?”

  “Oh-yes, thank you. Plenty. It’s very nice.”

  “Good.” He took several large gulps of beer and then set the glass down again. “That’s better. Bad day for me too. Lost a calf this afternoon-”

  “Oh, no,” said Abi. “Where-should we go and look for it?”

  And then felt stupid when he said, half laughing, “Not lost like that; she was born dead, breech; got the cord round her neck. Dad and I were tugging for over an hour, but she came out limp as you like; we couldn’t get more than two breaths out of her. Heifer calf too, much more of a loss. Then we couldn’t get the old tractor started-that’s how I got so filthy, rummaging in the barn for a jump lead-and Dad, he tends to take it out on me, that sort of thing. So it was really good to see you there and to have something take my mind off all that stuff. How were my directions?”

  “Rubbish,” she said, grinning, and then, rummaging for her cigarettes, said, “Could we go outside? I really need one of these.”

  “Course… Want another drink?”

  “Oh-no, thank you. I have to drive back, and I felt really, really bad on the road again down there. I-”

  “I know what you mean. Bit heavy, wasn’t it? Come on, let’s go outside. Want some orange juice or something?”

  ***

  He came out with the orange juice, and another pint for himself; she smoked a cigarette and then another

  “Sure you won’t have one?”

  “No,” he said, “I never got the hang of them. I did try to like them once, when I was at college, but they just made me feel sick.”

  “And where was college?”

  “Oh, Cirencester,” he said, clearly expecting her to know what Cirencester was. “I went there straight from school.”

  “And… where was school?”

  “ Eton,” he said, with much the same intonation. Abi decided it was time to go.

  ***

  As she dropped him off at the bottom of the track he said: “Thanks for coming. I should have come to meet you halfway. It’s terrible when you lose your phone, isn’t it? I’m always doing it, and I don’t suppose mine’s nearly as important as yours. I did ring a number on yours, by the way, but whoever answered it wasn’t very helpful.”

  “And who was that?” said Abi.

  “Oh-that chap you were at the crash with. Jonathan. I scrolled through looking for a name I might recognise, and saw his.”

  The evening seemed to have got even hotter.

  “And…?”

  “I got a woman. His wife, maybe? I tried to explain, said I’d been at the crash, and that you’d given it to me while you saw to some kids. I asked her if her husband was a doctor, just to satisfy myself I’d got the right bloke. Anyway, she just rang off,
very abrupt she was.”

  “Oh, really?” said Abi. “I wonder why…”

  CHAPTER 17

  Jonathan was drifting in and out of a painful, dehydrated sleep when Laura came in and sat down on the bed.

  “How are you, darling?”

  “Oh… bit better. Yes. I’m so sorry, Laura. Embarrassing you like that.”

  “It’s all right. You’ve had such a terrible time. I just felt very sorry for you.”

  “Oh, darling…” He reached out, took her hand. “I’m so lucky to have you.”

  “Well, I’m glad you think so,” she said. She drew her hand away after a moment, pushed her hair back. “Would you like anything? Some more water, chamomile tea, something like that?”

  “Water, yes, please. With ice in it.”

  She came back with a big jug, set it down, smiled at him again.

  “Kids all right? Not too ashamed of their father?”

  “Don’t think so. You mustn’t worry about it.”

  “Well, it was pretty… unattractive.”

  She was silent, then shrugged. It was distant, cool, unlike her. A tiny spiral of something-not fear, more unease, ice-cold unease-began to work its way into Jonathan’s stomach.

  “Jonathan,” she said, “can you tell me just one thing? I still don’t understand why you were on the M4. Not the M40.”

  “Oh,” he said, and was astonished at the ease with which it came out, “cutting down there can actually be quite a good idea on a Friday afternoon. Rather than sticking on the M40, which is a horrible road. Always get a buildup of traffic towards the M25. So it didn’t seem as silly as it sounds. But it was a big mistake. As it turned out.”

  “Yes. It certainly was. But… all’s well that ends well, I suppose. For you, anyway. I’ll leave you in peace, darling. See you later.”

  She left the room, closed the door behind her. Jonathan suddenly felt very frightened indeed. He absolutely must speak to Abi-and as soon as possible.