A Different River

by Jo Verity

  ‘And there’s my job,’ she said. ‘Can’t we stay as we are until Easter? Three months would give Naomi time to sort something out. I can give notice at the college. And your children can get used to the idea of their father shacking up with his new woman.’

  He made a sad face. ‘If that’s what you want.’

  14

  Moat seemed not to mind her inspecting his work. During the course of her visits, she saw herself conjured into being by his wild, swirling brushstrokes. By contrast, he painted her shoes in painstaking detail, down to the nick in the reconstituted leather made by the zip on her backpack. This realism rendered them peculiarly lifeless. So much so that their only noteworthy feature was that she was wearing them. Moat had promised ‘no gimmicks’ but he knew the tricks of his trade and how to employ them, and by the end of the fourth week, she was pretty much there.

  ‘Happy with it?’ she said.

  ‘I shan’t know until it’s finished,’ he said, the softness in his eyes telling her he was.

  Six months ago she hadn’t known Callum or Moat existed or that, clothed or naked, it was flippin’ hard to stand still for twenty minutes.

  ‘How much longer will it take?’ she said. ‘I only ask because my life’s got more complicated.’

  Six weeks ago, she’d been unaware that Paul Crosby lived in the same city as her parents, and that he thought of her every single day.

  ‘In a good way?’ he said.

  ‘I think so.’

  Despite being asked not to, Camille made sure Pascale knew their father had a ‘mistress’. Her irresponsibility angered Bing – ‘She’s always been the bolshie one.’ They were obviously squaring up for a full-blown row, but before it had time to erupt, Pascale went into labour and the family’s attention switched from the scarlet woman to the new arrival – Finbar Louis Paul Winter.

  ‘You must be thrilled,’ Miriam said when Bing phoned with the news.

  ‘Yes. And relieved. Although the name’s a bit of a mouthful.’

  ‘When will you go to Edinburgh?’

  ‘Friday. I’ve found someone to cover my surgeries.’

  ‘Your going will mean a lot to Pascale,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe. It’s complicated. Of course it means I shan’t see you this weekend.’

  ‘We’ll survive,’ she said.

  ‘What will you do with yourself?’

  ‘There’s a film at the Arts Centre I’d quite like to see.’

  ‘Will you go on your own?’

  ‘Unless I can find a handsome young escort,’ she said.

  He said nothing yet she sensed her flip reply had rattled him.

  When Miriam announced she would be moving in with Bing, Naomi opened a bottle of Prosecco. ‘That’s wonderful, Mum. I’m delighted for you. We’ll miss you, that goes without saying. Like I said before, you deserve to be happy, and Granddad and Grandma will love having you on the doorstep.’

  Miriam grimaced. ‘Yes. Well. Of course I shan’t leave until you’ve found someone to help with the children.’

  ‘No worries. One of the mums is setting up as a childminder and she says she’ll take them on. Her son’s in Rosa’s class so the kids know her already. She’ll give them tea and I’ll pick them up on my way home from work.’

  It came as a shock to learn that her daughter had been making plans to replace her before she, herself, had known she was leaving. Naomi might have talked it over with her before making such a major decision. What sort of person was this ‘mum’ anyway? How would she deal with Rosa’s tantrums and Max’s need for cuddles? Would she be prepared to wipe his bottom? Would he let her? Did she understand that salt and corn syrup were lethal? It pained her to think of leaving the children – a physical hurt as real a jab to the heart. She would miss them terribly, and she hoped they would miss her, at the same time she couldn’t bear them to be sad.

  ‘I see.’ She paused. ‘What if they don’t like her?’

  Naomi patted her hand as if she were an old person who wasn’t quite up to speed. ‘David and I have talked it through. If there’s a problem, we’ll work something out.’

  Picturing the fat manila envelope, tucked at the back of her underwear drawer, she said ‘Childcare isn’t cheap. I’d like to help out.’

  ‘That’s sweet of you, Mum. But let’s see how things go.’

  Her parents banked on her fortnightly visits. It gave them something to focus on and an excuse for her mother to cook too much food. When she informed them she wouldn’t be coming at the weekend, her father said, ‘That’s a shame. We’ll miss you. Both of you. We’re getting to like this young man of yours. He’s a nice boy.’ He spoke of Bing as if he were a recent acquaintance and nothing to do with the teenager who had caused such consternation when he’d courted their daughter.

  ‘Hardly a boy, Dad,’ she said, ‘but I’m glad you like him.’

  Even though they thought him ‘nice’, she couldn’t predict how they would take the news of her moving in with him. Although they’d surprised her by not kicking up a stink when she spent her weekends there. They’d planned to announce their intentions to cohabit this weekend – face-to-face – but made bold by her father’s approving comments, she decided the moment was right.

  ‘I’ve a bit of news. Paul’s asked me to move in with him. We’ve talked it over. His job’s there, and he owns the house, so it makes sense. And I’ll be close to you, of course.’

  She waited, ready for the explosion but all he said was ‘I suppose you’ll be telling me next that two can live a cheaply as one.’ He gave a raspy little laugh, almost a cough. When he asked whether they’d be getting married, she said she wasn’t sure, and again he seemed disarmingly sanguine. ‘Well, you’re old enough to decide these things for yourself.’

  She hadn’t realised how keyed up she was and his acceptance – or, to be more precise, his lack of objection – came as a huge relief. Walking home from Moat’s next day, the penny dropped. Better his daughter live in sin than she ‘marry out’.

  With the whole weekend to herself, she had chance to catch her breath. The matter of the storage locker had been preying on her mind. Her worldly goods, such as they were, couldn’t remain where they were. They either had to go with her – or go. She’d made an inventory of what had been put into storage, but at the time she’d had other things on her mind. Everything needed to be evaluated. ‘Keep’ or ‘dump’ ought to be easy. Perhaps ‘not sures’ could have a temporary home in her parents’ spare bedroom, where she could consider them at leisure.

  The image of those lifeless rooms brought Danny sidling into her head. He wrote a few times a year. Never more than a page, and then without saying anything. After he left Fairfield, his addresses had always been post office boxes. She’d known he was somewhere in Denver, or Boston or Baltimore but there was never enough information for her to put a pin in a map. To say this is where my brother lives. Once in a while he’d phone, their conversation disjointed, sentences disrupted by long-distance time lag. In the beginning she got steamed up when she heard his voice. Before she knew it, she’d be ranting at him for abandoning them. Abandoning her. He’d slam the phone down and she’d end up sobbing and thinking of all the things she should have said. As time went by, she learned to remain calm. That way he stayed on the line longer. It was years since his last visit ‘home’ – a couple of days, and she’d never worked out why he’d come. She liked to think it was to make sure she was doing okay. He and Ava had parted company a long time ago – he’d revealed that much – but he’d been evasive when talking about his current circumstances. No matter how hard she listened, she picked up no clue as to whether she’d ever been replaced.

  Her parents had concocted a fairy tale for the benefit of anyone who asked after Danny. Their go-ahead son had forged a wonderful life for himself in the land of opportunity – blah, blah, blah. And by the time they’d repeated it enough times, they’d brainwashed themselves into believing it. Really? A successful son who kept hi
s location secret and never invited his parents to visit him in his life of plenty? Please. They’re deluded, she’d said to Sam. He’d taken a softer line. Whatever gets them through, he’d said. Now Sam was gone, and the odds on her parents seeing their son again were plummeting. Danny had never asked but it must have been obvious she’d kept her word and Harold and Freda Edlin would die without knowing they had an olive-skinned granddaughter somewhere in the world. Last time she spoke to him she’d asked how he squared his conscience. He’d laughed – ‘I don’t have a conscience, Sis.’ If that were true, she envied him.

  Moat might not wish to know what made her tick but Callum was always ready to listen. She’d been glad to have someone – not a stranger but someone distanced from her family – in whom she could confide. She’d filled him in on the bones of her situation at their first encounter and more details leaked out over coffees and lunches on her days at the college. He’d heard about Bing’s miraculous appearance and their more or less instant reconnection. He knew they were planning a life together and that she would be moving away.

  ‘I feel rotten about letting you down,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t be daft. I was in a pickle and you came to the rescue. I must admit I was flabbergasted when you offered to give the job a go.’

  ‘That’s why I did it. To shock myself, that is, not you. I wasn’t in a good place when we met. I couldn’t work out what I was for. I was afraid if I didn’t do something drastic I’d fade away and no one would even notice I wasn’t there.’ She laughed. ‘Sorry. I’m talking rot.’

  ‘Well, whatever your reason, I never thought you’d stick it.’

  ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘Come on, Miriam. How many women of your age have the guts to take up life modelling?’

  ‘Maybe you underestimate us,’ she said.

  ‘I think it’s more the case that you underestimate yourself.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘The students think you’re the most interesting model they’ve had. And Moat says you’re inspirational.’

  She blushed at the unprompted compliments. ‘I shall miss it.’

  ‘You don’t have to give it up because you’re moving,’ he said. ‘Evening classes are always short of life models. I could put out some feelers if you like.’

  She smiled. ‘Thanks, but I don’t think so.’

  He held her gaze. ‘You get to choose what you do, Miriam. Promise me you won’t forget that.’

  ‘I promise,’ she said.

  Bing returned from Edinburgh with photographs of Finbar and a Celtic brooch for her. Apparently Pascale hadn’t wanted to discuss her father’s new relationship but it emerged that Eloise had intimated he and Miriam had been lovers for years.

  ‘Why would she say that?’ she said. ‘She can’t believe it’s true.’

  ‘Actually it was, in a way.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Every time we made love, I shut my eyes and pretended she was you.’

  His revelation verged on the creepy – the sort of behaviour she associated with weirdos. Perhaps he intended it to be a compliment but if so it was wide of the mark.

  ‘That’s it,’ Moat said halfway through their Wednesday session.

  She was miles away, wondering what Naomi might like for her birthday. ‘You’ve finished?’

  ‘In as much as a painting is ever finished.’

  She pulled on her robe and went to stand beside him. Light from the bright sky flooded across the canvas, emphasising the brush marks in the layers of paint. The improbable, subtle skin tones contrasted with the crude scarlet of the shoes. Her features were there but not there, as if blurred by her moving. It was in no way flattering but it was vital and dramatic. Moat’s project had been about addressing the assertion that ‘women become invisible with age’. Well no one could fail to notice this woman.

  ‘Do I really look like that?’ she said.

  He sighed. ‘Miriam, Miriam. You should be asking “is this what I am” not “is this what I look like”.’

  ‘Does it have a title?’ she said.

  ‘“Red Shoes”.’

  She’d expected something arty and obscure but if his aim was to explore the invisibility of older women, avoiding reference to the figure, without doubt, posed that question.

  ‘Clever,’ she said.

  For an instant she glimpsed an ordinary man pleased to be congratulated on something he’d done, then the mask came down again and she realised she was no nearer understanding him than she’d been on that first day in the museum.

  ‘I’ll leave you to get changed,’ he said. ‘I’ll go down and sort out the coffee.’

  She dressed and packed the robe and the shoes into her rucksack. The sky had clouded over and raindrops stippled the roof lights. Off somewhere in the real world, a chainsaw whined. She would miss being up here, under the roof, in this hideaway that smelled of oil paint and coffee.

  She took a last look at the woman staring out of the painting. Uncompromising. Purposeful. Vaguely feral. In fact everything she wished she could be. Although the quality, the intent, of the painting was entirely down to Moat, she felt a surge of pride. Perhaps she had been his muse. An area on the back of the hand glistened where the paint was wet. She touched it with the tip of her finger and, not knowing what to do with the resulting blob, smeared it across the skin on the back of her hand. A perfect match.

  Moat was busy in the kitchen. ‘Ahhh, there you are,’ he said. ‘We should celebrate.’

  A plate stood on the table, piled high with cream cakes – éclairs, doughnuts, cream puffs – so many that she wondered if he were expecting guests.

  ‘I wasn’t sure what you like,’ he said and she guessed he was unaccustomed to considering others.

  ‘May I have an éclair?’ she said.

  They’d spent hours together in the most intimate circumstances but they’d both had a job to do. Here, in his kitchen, the dynamics were different. Now the painting was finished, she could tell him stuff about herself that he hadn’t wanted to hear six weeks ago. But Moat was different from Callum. He wouldn’t be interested and he certainly wasn’t going to trade confidences. He watched her eat the éclair and, before she had chance to swallow the final mouthful, he pushed the plate towards her. To please him she took a doughnut, dumping the last bit in the bin when he excused himself and disappeared.

  He returned with a parcel, clumsily wrapped in a Waterstones carrier bag. ‘This is for you,’ he said. ‘A small memento.’

  She took the package from him.

  ‘Open it,’ he said, nodding encouragement the way Max did when presenting her with one of his creations.

  It was a framed pastel sketch of her head, in profile, the swirling lines making it distinctively Moat’s work.

  ‘What d’you think?’ he said.

  ‘It’s beautiful. Thank you, thank you.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘If you’re ever in a fix, it might be worth a few quid.’

  ‘I’ll never sell it,’ she said. ‘So what will you do with the painting now?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Wasn’t it to be part of a project?’ she said.

  ‘It may be good enough to stand alone.’

  She glanced at her watch. Time was slipping by. She needed to leave if she weren’t to be late for the children. It wasn’t as if she and Moat were friends. This had been a job and now it was finished, and they parted on Moat’s doorstep with a self-conscious hug and no promise to keep in touch.

  15

  Over the river. ON TOWARDS the dry ski slope.Up into fourth gear at the Royal Oak. Muscle memory kicked in. Signal in plenty of time for the right turn.Easy round the blind corner.

  The house was on the far side of the town. She’d had neither cause nor desire to go back but rooting through the storage locker, binning the past, she’d decided it was time to lay this ghost. Eleven on a Wednesday morning. Not a soul to be seen. She parked the car a little way from the ho
use and sauntered along, hoping to look like a stranger to any nosey parker peeping from behind a net curtain. Nothing to do with that poor woman whose husband had landed her in huge debt and then chickened out and killed himself.

  But sauntering around, pretending to be someone else, wasn’t going to lay any ghosts. In twenty years of living here, she had never sauntered along these tree-lined pavements. Hurrying to work or to collect Naomi from school, dashing to the supermarket or to pick up Sam from the office, every moment had been purposeful. Increasing her pace, she crossed to the opposite side of the road where her angle of vision was less acute and she could get a better view of the house.

  The weeping willow had gone. And the honeysuckle she’d spent so long training along the fence. The windows, obscured by ruched blinds, looked like so many sightless eyes. ‘Victorian’ coach lamps – polished and perfect – guarded the front door. The lawn had been replaced by slabs – too pale and regular to be real stone. Two cars were parked on the slabs, a third on the drive, making the front garden look like a used car lot. Less than a year ago, she had been living happily here and now, through no fault of her own, her beautiful home was occupied by Philistines.