The Longing

by Jane Asher

  He smiled at his reflection for a moment, then rubbed his hand over his face as he walked into the sitting room. Juliet draped her coat and scarf over the bottom of the bannisters and followed him.

  ‘Are you serious, Julie?’ he said very quietly, with his back to her. ‘Don’t say this if you’re not, please. I don’t think I could go through it all again without—I couldn’t bear it.’

  ‘Of course I’m serious.’

  He lowered himself into the armchair and blew out an exhausted breath as he leant back. Juliet sat on the floor at his feet and leant her crossed arms on his knees, resting her forehead on them so that he could see nothing but the top of her head. The parting in the blonde hair looked pink and naked and vulnerable, and he gently traced along it with his forefinger in silence, not wanting to say anything that might destroy the fragile sense of closeness that neither of them had experienced for so long.

  ‘I think it’s too soon to do anything just yet,’ he whispered eventually, ‘but when you’re ready, and fit again, and it’s the right time, then yes, let’s try again. But Julie,’ the serious tone of voice made her look up at him, ‘you are not to go back to the clinic. Not to that clinic. Nor anywhere near that man again. I don’t know what your feelings are—’ Juliet began to answer but he continued in a voice that was loud enough to stop her, ‘—and I don’t want to know. So if we do try again, it’s going to have to be somewhere else; someone else. Do you understand?’

  ‘I’ll have to go and talk to them.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I’ll have to get my notes – see Professor Hewlett – tell them what’s happening. I can’t just log on, or whatever you call it, somewhere else. I’m going to have to go back there and sort things out. You know.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t trust you – no, I don’t mean that. I mean, I can’t trust your illness or whatever it is that changed you. There has to be a way of getting your notes and finding a new clinic to go to. There’s one at the Hammersmith Hospital isn’t there? They talked about it, do you remember?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘It’s too soon now, in any case. When it’s time, we’ll find a way, don’t worry. Just do it the way I want, Julie, or everything is hopeless.’

  ‘Could you make sure you slice it extremely thinly? And can you cut off the fat before you put it in the thing? It’s far too fatty.’

  Mrs Palmer liked to buy the food for her entertaining in Selfridges Food Hall. She would never have dreamt of buying anything else there – clothes and household goods were invariably purchased on account at Harrods or in one of the smarter Sloane Street boutiques – but she had got into the habit of food shopping in the large Oxford Street store ever since she had popped in after a visit to her optician’s in Wigmore Street many years before and, being a woman of habit, had continued to patronise them whenever she needed something not available in her small local grocer’s.

  The girl serving her was not fazed in the least by Mrs Palmer’s imperious commands. ‘I can’t cut the fat off. I have to slice it just as it is,’ she said. She returned her customer’s beady glare without embarrassment, holding the large Italian ham in one hand, awaiting further instruction.

  ‘Good heavens, girl, I can’t serve my guests all that fat! Cut it off. Cut a piece off the top there before you slice it,’ dictated Mrs Palmer, leaning over the counter and gesturing with a gloved hand at the outside of the ham as she spoke. The girl moved back a little to avoid any contact between the black leather of the glove and the white shiny outside of the ham, which was looking dangerously likely.

  ‘And don’t you think it looks a bit dry and dark? Look, that other one’s much fresher. Give me slices off that one.’

  The glove pointed at a second ham behind the counter, wrapped securely in polythene.

  ‘I’m sorry, madam, I can’t open a new one,’ answered the girl, standing guarding her ham steadfastly.

  ‘Why not? Where’s Mr Albert?’

  ‘He’s not here today.’

  Mrs Palmer sighed loudly and shook her head in resigned irritation. ‘Well you’d better give me slices off that then. But I want a reduction – there’s far too much fat. And throw away the first couple of slices – they’ll be too dry.’

  As the girl turned towards the slicing machine, Mrs Palmer thought she saw just the slightest toss of the white-hatted head, and was mulling over how interesting it was that all the new fancy white coats and hygiene regulations in the world couldn’t produce good service like you used to get in the old days, when a voice called her name and she turned to see Harriet Aynsley, accompanied by two young children, walking towards her from the bakery section.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Palmer! It’s Harriet. Juliet’s friend. How are you?’

  ‘Yes, Harriet. I’m very well thank you. How are you? It’s good to see you. And this is?’

  ‘This is Jessica, and this is Adam. You remember Juliet’s mother, kids, don’t you? Mrs Palmer?’

  The children mumbled some inaudible greetings to which Mrs Palmer gave an equally noncommittal reply. She registered Harriet’s creased coat and the children’s rumpled socks and unkempt hair, and was reminded how she had always been wary of the close friendship between this woman and her daughter. Even when the girls were at school she had considered Harriet an unsuitable companion, but had not wished to goad Juliet into a stronger friendship by showing outright opposition; at the same time making it quite clear that she didn’t really approve. Once the girls had emerged into adulthood, she had been disappointed to find the closeness continuing, and had often wondered if she should have been firmer in her initial guidance.

  ‘I was so sorry to hear about the baby,’ said Harriet, as Adam entwined himself round her legs and hooted like an owl at his sister.

  ‘Yes, it was very tragic, wasn’t it. Look, don’t you think that ham is frightfully dark and fatty-looking? Do you think I should make them open the other one? I have people for dinner tomorrow. I don’t often serve it but—’

  ‘No, I think it looks fine.’ Harriet was peering over at the slicer, where paper-thin leaves of prosciutto were being gently laid one by one on to strips of waxed paper. ‘I think it’s meant to be like that. It looks good. Are you going to put melon with it?’

  The girl slicing the meat sent a little inward message of thanks to the newcomer, and carried on slicing.

  ‘Oh, that’s an awfully good idea. Yes, that’s what they do, don’t they? Yes, perhaps I will.’

  Harriet unexpectedly found this reply very touching. The old lady, in the fur coat that must have been the height of fashion when first acquired but which was now not only dated, but also politically incorrect, suddenly looked so vulnerable that it caught Harriet unawares and made her stop short and see Mrs Palmer in a new light. How difficult it must be to keep up with the changing world, where you could be condemned for living the way you had been brought up, where the right thing to do in one generation could become outrageously wrong and insensitive in the next. Harriet thought of her own mother, who had spent so many years learning to stop talking about black people and to call them ‘coloured’, only to be told that yet again she was using the wrong word, and that much of her language was incorrect and offensive. Giving dinner parties in the forties and fifties must have been so easy for women like this – limited menus bought and cooked by a marvellous ‘little woman’; dining table laid out in the accepted and unchanging way it had been for years; guests predictable and comforting. In a world of supermarkets, foreign food and self-catering, how did Cynthia Palmer cope?

  ‘Look, would you like a coffee? I’m simply gasping for one. And if I don’t give the children a drink and take them to the loo soon they’re going to drive me potty.’

  Mrs Palmer looked at Harriet with a flicker of gratitude that she quickly disguised behind her usual expression of natural superiority. ‘What a lovely idea. Yes, why not? Let’s go and have a coffee.’

/>   As Michael and Anna walked through the front door of her flat the phone was ringing. Out of the blue, he had such an extraordinary flash of foreknowledge that it made him shout out loud. He had been here before. He knew what was going to happen, and he saw himself going through the motions a split second before it did happen, as if following a preordained script of irresistible portent.

  ‘Go – go, Anna, quickly, answer it. They’ve found something. I know it.’

  He watched her as she listened intently to the speaker on the other end of the line, trying to pick up from her staring eyes and frowning expression confirmation of what he still felt sure was coming.

  ‘Yes,’ she was saying, ‘right, yes, I see. Oh God – do you – OK. He’s here . . . Wait, let me put him on .. No, I want you to speak to him.’

  Suddenly she jerked the receiver towards him. ‘Michael, you talk to them, please.. . . I can’t handle this.’

  ‘What is it?’

  She just shook her head and pushed the telephone even closer to his face. As he took over, he felt a surge of such enormous joy that he almost burst out laughing. Where did it come from, this feeling of thrilling expectation? What right had he to feel something wonderful was about to happen? It was dangerous, he knew that at the same time that he let himself wallow in it. And he smiled into the phone with a mixture of delight and terrifying anticipation. ‘Yes? Michael Evans here.’

  ‘Mr Evans. We have a very strong lead as to the whereabouts of your wife and the child. I thought it only right to tell you. I have a unit on its way there now and—’

  ‘Where? Where are they? I’m coming too. Now.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Mr Evans. Forgive me – but we don’t quite know what we’ll find and—’

  ‘I know that, man, for God’s sake. I’m not stupid, fust tell me where they are.’

  After Michael put the phone down he looked over at Anna. She was staring at him with a look of such terror that he almost wept. He moved towards her quickly and wrapped his arms round her, whispering in her ear. ‘I’m going to find them. I’m going now. Do you want to come?’

  ‘No, I can’t do it. I can’t, Michael. You go. Go on – quickly. I’m all right. Tell them to fetch me. Leave me here and go. Please. I want you to.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Mrs Palmer watched the two children drinking their Cokes at the next table and could feel their teeth disintegrating with every sip. She was tempted to question Harriet on just how often they were given this kind of coloured, sugary drink, and to ask what was wrong with a glass of water or milk for heaven’s sake. But she held back, remembering how she had offended an old friend recently by attempting to give advice on the upbringing of her granddaughter. Children nowadays appeared to be allowed to do exactly as they wished – if she had her way these two would be neatly dressed and sitting upright on their chairs with an apple or biscuit in front of them, instead of lolling about with their elbows all over the table eating chocolate bars. But far be it from her to interfere; it had been made clear to her more than once by those of Harriet’s generation that her advice was not always welcome. She also hesitated to enquire too closely into Harriet’s wellbeing: she even checked herself from opening with her usual gambit of asking after the family’s health, as she had a dim memory of Juliet telling her that Harriet was separated from her husband. The ease with which couples appeared to split up, realign and then split again was another modern phenomenon she found inexplicable and threatening, and not a subject to be brought up without fear of controversy, as once a discussion was opened she found it hard to contain her views, which were definite and uncompromising. In her day one stuck it out; not only for the sake of the children, but also, in truth, because it was the thing to do. And although few of her contemporaries had been what one could call ‘happily married’, it would never have occurred to them that this was a reason to separate. In smart circles, which were the only ones Mrs Palmer had inhabited in her younger days, divorced couples were whispered about behind their backs and considered thrillingly shocking. The matter-of-fact way in which such things were discussed today still amazed her, although there was a part of her that envied the openness of it. She sometimes felt she had years of bottled-up unhappiness stored inside her that would welcome the chance to unburden itself to a willing ear.

  ‘How is Juliet?’ asked Harriet, stirring a chocolate-sprinkled cappuccino. ‘I haven’t heard from her for some time – I know she was going through a difficult patch even before the miscarriage. Is she coping OK?’

  ‘Well, yes, thank you, Harriet. She’s fine. She’s a very practical person, as you know, and she’s had the benefit of a good background and family. I’m quite sure she’ll handle this perfectly well. I lost one before I had Juliet, you know. It happens all the time – there’s an awful lot of fuss made, and now you have all this counselling nonsense and so on, but you just have to pull yourself together and keep going, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  There was an odd silence. Why did Harriet feel the old lady was trying to tell her something more? She seemed unsettled, and was frowning down at her coffee as if trying to decide something. Suddenly she lifted her head and looked directly at Harriet. ‘I have no idea,’ she said briskly.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I really have no idea how she is. In fact I suspect you’ve probably seen her more recently than I have. I’m afraid she doesn’t talk to me at the moment. I don’t understand it. Michael told me about the baby – about losing it I mean. That was good of him. I’ve tried to ring her a few times but there’s always an excuse. She’s resting or – oh, I don’t know. She doesn’t want to speak to me. That’s it really.’

  Harriet watched the old lady’s face as she spoke. Her cheek moved in soft limp quivers like old velvet around her mouth, where the unevenly applied lipstick followed a smudged, indefinite outline and mingled with drops of milky coffee in the corners. Heavy pink make-up failed to hide the large brown freckles of age that were scattered beneath it, and a dusting of powder was visibly trapped in the fine hairs that covered her upper lip and chin. The cruelty of the harsh light slanting across from the window made Harriet shift in her seat in an attempt to shade her companion’s face from it with her own body.

  ‘Well, she’s been through a terrible time, hasn’t she? Not just recently, I mean, but for a couple of years now. It’s not surprising that—’

  ‘That’s very generous of you, Harriet, but I’m afraid there’s more to it than that.’ Mrs Palmer paused and looked out of the window for a moment. ‘I think I failed her, you see. I tried to do my very best for her, but I think something went terribly wrong. Oh dear, I am sorry – do forgive me. How very embarrassing.’

  ‘No, no it’s not,’ said Harriet. ‘Not at all. It’s good to talk about things sometimes. Look – I’ve got children. I know how impossible it is – the whole business. I used to read every article going; how you should stimulate them and all that stuff. But once you . . .’ She broke Off to glance across at Jessica and Adam, but they appeared too engrossed in their comics to be interested. ‘Once you have them, you realise it’s about all you can do just to get them through life without some ghastly accident. I always pictured myself as Mother Earth – you know, loose home-made sweaters and a ribbon in my hair. Babies on both arms. Wooden toys and word cards, no sweets, wholemeal home-baked bread – all that business. But when Jessica was born and I brought her back from the hospital, I had my work cut out to get her fed and changed and stop her crying. Just getting myself dressed in the morning was a triumph. They don’t warn you, do they? Not properly. What it’s really like, I mean.’

  ‘Well, I had help of course. We all did in those days. And it seemed much simpler then, I don’t know why. Nanny would put Juliet in her pram in the garden and she’d sleep most of the time. No, I mean later. When she was a young girl. That’s when things got difficult for me. I just wanted her to be pretty, you see. I so much wanted her to be pretty,
and I was only trying to guide her. It’s easy to put on weight when you’re young – and I’ve always had to struggle with mine. I thought I’d make it better for her. But now she tells me I was to blame for her problems – you know, the—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I remember. I knew at school she was getting too thin.’

  ‘Anyway, I regret it now. It’s always so easy when you look back. And now she’s not even speaking to me. We had a funny sort of incident in Harrods just before Christmas, when I was trying to help her with her maternity clothes, and since then I haven’t heard a word. Michael’s always very sweet when I ring; he makes excuses for her. She’s in the bath or she’s shopping or cooking. But she never rings back. I know. I know what’s going on.’

  ‘She’s been very distant with me too. You mustn’t blame yourself, Mrs Palmer, you really mustn’t. I’m sure she’ll be her old self soon. Just give it a bit of time. Is she trying again, do you know? Has Michael told you?’

  ‘Do you think it’s too late?’

  ‘How do you mean? For her to get pregnant again? Oh, no I’m sure—’

  ‘No, I mean, do you think it’s too late for me?’

  Mrs Palmer leant forward, and Harriet breathed in her sickly sweet perfume mingled with the smell of coffee on her breath.

  ‘I want to make it up to her, somehow. Oh, goodness! What’s come over me? I don’t usually talk like this, Harriet. What must you think . . .’

  ‘It’s all right. Really. Go on.’

  ‘I think I could be closer to her. She’s all I’ve got – oh dear, that sounds like something from a book doesn’t it? But she really is. Since her father died. I do love her so very much. I always have. But I’m not very good at showing it. The trouble is we didn’t really show emotion much in my day; that may sound like a cliché but it’s absolutely true. I was encouraged not to, in fact. Do you think it is too late?’