Sweets From Morocco
Page 43
‘Spoilsport,’ she said.
He swapped his shirt and grey flannels for polo shirt and chinos. He went through his emails but there was nothing of any consequence. Next he checked the weather. It seemed to be set fair until Monday. So, jobs for the weekend: wash the car, have a go at the back hedge before it got completely out of hand, mark the rest of the Lower Sixth’s exam papers. Maybe he and Tessa would go to the cemetery. It was nearing Gordon’s birthday – he would have been fifty-one – and they always marked it by putting flowers on his parents’ grave.
When he could put if off no longer, he opened Kirsty’s letter.
Dear Lewis,
As it’s neither Christmas nor your birthday, I expect you were anxious when you received this. Please don’t worry – it’s nothing important but I do need a decision from you.
Over the past few months I’ve been reorganising the loft – getting rid of as much as I can before the ceiling comes down! We were rather premature (smug?) in thinking that you’d taken all your belongings. The bad (or good, perhaps) news is that I’ve unearthed four more boxes of your stuff. They were in the far reaches of the loft, beyond the water tank. It would seem from the labels that they contain books and models. What would you like me to do? Should I arrange for them to be delivered to Cranwell Lodge?
The garden is looking lovely this year although the cherry tree has had to come out. It was completely rotten in the crown. At least I shall have plenty of logs for the winter.
That’s it for now. I hope the rest of the term goes smoothly and that you have a good summer break. Any plans to retire? I’ve contemplated dropping down to part-time but I’m not sure I’d know what to do with myself.
Best wishes,
Kirsty
Efficient. Factual. Correct. Yet she must have known that the fate of the tree would touch him.
From start to finish, their separation had been ‘civilised’; the divorce achieved without histrionics. Kirsty had reduced their marriage to lists and schedules and clauses. Of course she would. It was what she spent her professional life doing. After they signed the final papers, she’d shaken his hand. ‘Good luck, Lewis.’ The death of love – of anything – deserved to be mourned but their marriage had died because of what he’d done, or failed to do, and it seemed inappropriate for him to cry or make a fuss.
‘So?’ Tessa prompted when he returned to the kitchen.
He filled her in on the contents of the letter.
‘It’s six years. What’s the matter with the woman? I’d have bunged the whole lot in a skip.’
‘Yes, well, we’re not all the same.’
‘Thank God.’ She swiped at a fly with the tea towel.
‘What d’you fancy tonight ?’ he asked. They’d fallen into the habit of getting a takeaway on Friday evenings.
‘Chinese? No. Fish and chips. We haven’t had fish and chips for ages. But could we leave it a bit? I’m full of digestive biscuits.’
‘Fine. I think I’ll sit in the garden for half an hour,’ he said. ‘Blow away the chalk dust.’
They didn’t use chalk these days but no one had come up with an evocative phrase about whiteboard markers.
Tessa watched as Lewis dragged the deckchairs into the far corner of the lawn, beyond the shadows cast by the straggly apple trees. She’d noticed that as he grew older he was starting to stoop, as though his head had become too heavy for his gangly frame. But he still had a fine head of hair. He must have inherited the hair gene from Uncle Frank although, thank heavens, not their uncle’s penchant for dying it.
She hadn’t told him but she, too, had received a letter in the morning post. There was no need to worry him. Not yet. The whole point of a biopsy was to find out what was going on. Once she had some hard facts she would make up her mind what to do.
Taking her notebook, she went out into the garden where Lewis was already sprawled in a deckchair. His eyes were shut but he was rolling a ball of silver foil between his forefinger and thumb.
‘Asleep?’ she whispered.
‘Not any more,’ he groaned.
She lowered herself into the chair next to him. ‘How was your day?’
He opened his eyes, squinting and raising his hand to shield them against the low sun. ‘Frustrating. Ends of term get too free-form for my liking. If the kids turn up at all, they don’t expect to do any work.’ He flicked the silver paper across the lawn towards the bird bath. ‘Catherine Thomas came to see me today. Have I told you about her? She’s my star pupil. But Miss Thomas has decided that she won’t be applying to Cambridge after all. She’s going to do Environmental Sciences at Newcastle. She intends to save the bloody planet.’ He shook his head. ‘Such a waste.’
‘Saving the human race sounds quite a laudable ambition to me. We didn’t even consider trying.’
He sighed. ‘You’re right. It’s just a bit … demoralising.’
‘You were once someone’s star pupil,’ she reminded him gently.
‘And you could have been too, if you’d wanted to be.’
‘Could I?’
‘Of course you could. You were brighter than all the other kids. You can’t deny that.’
‘But bright isn’t the same as clever, Lewis. I was bright and you were clever. What was the phrase Mum used to use? When the day started sunny and by lunchtime it was bucketing with rain?’
‘“Too bright too soon”?’ he offered.
‘Exactly. I was too bright too soon.’
The sun was starting to warm her and she pulled her socks off, burying her bare feet in the grass. ‘Right. I’m going to ask you a question and I want your gut response.’
‘Oh, God, I already don’t like what’s coming.’
‘Don’t be so stuffy,’ she chided. ‘I know you like teaching but what would you really like to be?’
His answer came flashing back. ‘A Spitfire pilot.’
She pushed herself up in the deckchair and peered at him. ‘What? Killing people? Destroying cities?’
‘No. Defending people. Soaring above the earth in the most beautiful machine that man has ever made. And, for your information, Spitfires aren’t bombers.’
‘For your information, we don’t have Spitfires any more.’
‘Nit picker.’ He poked his tongue out and prodded her shoulder. ‘Your turn. Quick.’
On her first day at school, Miss Drake had asked, ‘Children, what would you like to be when you grow up?’ The boys wanted to be engine drivers or policeman; the girls, ballet dancers or nurses. ‘Tessa?’ she’d prompted. ‘What do you like doing? Cooking? Helping Mummy.’ ‘Telling my brother stories,’ Tessa had replied. ‘A writer. Tessa is going to be a writer, everyone. Isn’t that grand?’
She leaned back and folded her arms. As she did so her right hand brushed her left breast. Fuck, fuck, fuck. So dreary and so predictable.
She drew in a deep breath. ‘Okay. I’d like to be … a magician.’
Lewis threw his head back and laughed. ‘I can picture it now. Top hat. Sparkly cloak. Magic wand. Sawing ladies in half—’
‘No. Not an illusionist. I’d like to be a real magician who does real magic.’
‘Cheat. That’s unfair.’
‘What’s unfair about it? Your answer wasn’t exactly rational.’
‘At least Spitfire pilots existed. There aren’t, and never were, “real magicians”. It’s tantamount to saying you’d like to be God.’
‘No thanks. Too much responsibility. Not enough fun.’
Laughing, he held his hands up in surrender.
She delved in her pocket and brought out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Don’t you dare say anything.’ She lit one, inhaled then blew the smoke out provocatively. ‘You have to allow me one vice. Besides it deters the midges.’
Lewis nodded to the notebook on her lap. ‘You’re writing a new story?’
‘No. An old one, as a matter of fact. I suppose you’d call it a memoir.’
‘For publication?’
/> She shook her head. ‘No need to panic. Not this time.’
‘Who for, then?’
‘For whom. We don’t want to raise any pedantic ghosts. Actually I’m writing it for us. For you and me. I thought it would be a good idea to get it down on paper. The definitive version.’
‘Why now? Any particular reason?’
‘The time seems right. Far enough away to get everything in perspective yet near enough to recall the detail.’
He nodded. ‘I always think “memoir” sounds a bit … untrustworthy.’
‘What are you insinuating?’ She raised her eyebrows in mock horror. ‘If you’re concerned about the truth, perhaps you should write your version of events too. Who knows, you might find the exercise cathartic. We could stitch the two together.’
‘Mmmm. I’d have to think about that. It sounds rather frightening if you ask me. So what are you planning to call this memoir?’
‘Give me a chance. I’m just jotting down a few notes at the moment. Working out the best way of telling the story.’
Blanche appeared from under a laurel bush, prowled elegantly across the lawn and flopped between the two deckchairs, purring noisily. Tessa reached down and fondled her ear. ‘It must be a bugger being a white cat. I’m going to make her a jacket out of old combat trousers. At least she’ll stand a fighting chance of bagging a bird.’
The sun disappeared behind the roof and the shadow of the old house enveloped the garden. Tessa glanced at her watch. ‘It’s getting on for seven. Who’s going for the fish and chips?’
Lewis sat up abruptly, as though he’d been stung by something. ‘I’ve got it. The title for our story. We should call it … “Sweets from Morocco”. What d’you think?’
‘Mmmm. Not bad for a beginner.’
She closed her eyes, the bittersweetness of sherbet lemons erupting on her tongue. ‘“Sweets from Morocco”. Yes. That’ll do fine.’
Acknowledgements
My thanks go to all those who encouraged, advised, supported and listened:
Caroline Oakley, Helena Earnshaw, Janet Thomas and everyone at Honno; Leona Usher, Matt Powell, Stephen May, Andrew Cowan, Suzannah Dunn, Louise Wener, Louise Walsh and Catherine Merriman; the members of Cardiff Writers’ Circle; and, of course, Jim Griffiths.
About Honno
Honno Welsh Women’s Press was set up in 1986 by a group of women who felt strongly that women in Wales needed wider opportunities to see their writing in print and to become involved in the publishing process. Our aim is to develop the writing talents of women in Wales, give them new and exciting opportunities to see their work published and often to give them their first ‘break’ as a writer.
Honno is registered as a community co-operative. Any profit that Honno makes is invested in the publishing programme. Women from Wales and around the world have expressed their support for Honno by buying shares in the co-operative. Shareholders’ liability is limited to the amount invested and each shareholder has a vote at the Annual General Meeting.
To buy shares or to receive further information about forthcoming publications, please write to Honno at the address below, or visit our website:www.honno.co.uk
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Jo Verity
Having worked as a graphic designer and medical graphic artist, Jo started writing ‘to see if she could’. Her previous very successful novels were Everything in the Garden and Bells, which was awarded a commissioning grant by the Welsh Books Council. She’s also had short stories, poems and articles published or broadcast on Radio 4. She won the Richard & Judy Short Story prize in 2003 against 17,000 other entries, won the Western Mail short story competition, was shortlisted for the Asham Award and was a runner-up in the 2008 Myslexia International Poetry Competition. Jo lives in Rhiwbina, Cardiff.
Q&A
What started you writing?
Jo: I’d arranged to meet an American friend (Ruth, an eccentric sculptress) whom I’d first met in Prague when I was inter-railing around Europe in the early nineties. We’d kept in touch and I’d visited her in Rhode Island and she’d been to Cardiff. We’d met a couple of times in London to go to art galleries. Ruth and I were planning to rendezvous in Budapest and spend a week together. At the last minute she pulled out and I was left with a week’s leave and nothing special to do with it. Jim suggested that, as we had a new PC, I take the week to get to grips with it. So, as a way of doing that (and just to see if I could) I wrote a short story, basing the central character on my American friend.
After a week I was hooked on writing, although I had no ambition to be published. I just loved the whole process. From that moment on I’ve written almost every day.
I attended a 5-day Arvon course at Lumb Bank which was hugely important in convincing me that, if I applied myself, I could be a writer. Then I had the lucky break that all writers need - I won the Richard & Judy Short Story Award, which led to Janet Thomas (Honno) contacting me to see if I’d ‘written anything longer’.
What themes inspire you?
Jo: I always write about people and relationships – nothing is more fascinating and worthwhile. Put a few human beings together and something will surely happen – a story will unfold. Husbands and wives in Bells; friends and families in Everything in the Garden; sisters and brothers in Sweets from Morocco.
It’s my job to help the reader appreciate how extraordinary ‘ordinary’ people can be; how well or badly or crazily they behave when a spanner is cast in the works. I want my characters to be recognisable to the reader – to be people they know, or maybe even themselves. I hope the reader will connect with the characters and the situations that they have faced so that when they put the book down they think, ‘Yes. I know people like that. I’ve had those feelings. That had a lot of truth in it.’
Other titles by Jo Verity
Jo Verity was the winner of the 2003 Richard and Judy ‘Write Here Right Now’ short story competition.
‘Jo leapt out as the clear winner of our competition and we are over the moon that her writing talents have now been recognised.’ Richard and Judy
Everything in the Garden
When Anna and Tom Wren join together with three other couples to buy a rambling farmhouse in Wales, the intention is to grow old with the support of tried and trusted friends. But life turns out not to be the bed of roses Anna had imagined. As she teeters on the brink of an affair, the relationships that have shaped her life begin to crumble and she is forced to confront the changing nature of her own desires and the consequences of giving in.
978 1870206 709 £6.99
Bells
Jack has fun playing away – not with loose women, but as part of a Morris dancing team. But when a gig is cancelled and he falls for the young woman behind the desk at The Welcome Stranger, he is launched into a world of love-struck subterfuge. Meanwhile, his wife, Fay, rashly offers a home to one of her son’s ex-bandmates just days before she’s forced to house her frail but argumentative mother-in-law. To top it all, she’s in the throes of an illicit passion for her best friend’s handsome son.
Will Jack and Fay’s marriage survive the promise of new and exotic liaisons? Will the chime of Morris bells turn a woman’s head in the days of iPods?
‘Excellent’ The Bookseller
978 1870206 877 £6.99
Published by Honno
‘Ailsa Craig’, Heol y Cawl, Dinas Powys
South Glamorgan, Wales, CF6 4AH
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© Jo Verity, 2008
The right of Jo Verity to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part o
f this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form of by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without clearance from the publishers.
The author would like to stress that this is a work of fiction and no resemblance to any actual individual or institution is intended or implied.
ISBN 978 1 906784 00 3
Published with the financial assistance of the Welsh Books Council
Cover image: © Getty Images
Cover design: G Preston