by Angela Huth
BERT
I took Carlotta’s arm because my own head was reeling. If she was off to New York, how on earth was I to organise the transformation of my Norfolk house? That was the single, acute, utterly selfish thought that battered me as we made our way slowly and uncertainly down the steps.
We stood beside my car – Carlotta’s was some way down the road. A street light made a lemony haze over her hair, and distorted her face with shadows. She leant back against the car and removed my arm. D’you think I’m doing the right thing? she asked.
After some thought as to how best I might put my answer, and the wine-muddle of my brain did not make this easy – I said I thought she probably was. But such a major decision, I suggested, should not be taken too quickly. How about postponing the whole idea for a while? And while weighing up the pros and cons, with my help, how about coming to Norfolk and exercising her talents on my new house?
She looked up at me, her eyes almost invisible in their black fists of shadow, but I saw they were incredulous. She gave the smallest laugh I’ve ever heard, while a twitch of her mouth indicated she was attempting to smile. She said she was cold.
I opened the car door. With no fuss she got into the passenger seat and huddled her arms beneath her breasts. I sat in the driving seat and put on the heating.
I began to explain things. I would put her up in a very comfortable local hotel, I said, on her visits to Norfolk to make arrangements. I’d come up myself frequently while work was in progress, and make sure we had a good time: I’d like to show her the places of my childhood. I was sure the magic of Norfolk would win her…I said all these things without thinking, listening with some amazement to my own voice. How could I be asking Carlotta to re-arrange all her plans, come and help me once again? – But I was. And I could see she was not dismissing the ideas completely.
At last she turned to me. She said perhaps I was right. Perhaps she had made her decision too quickly. She needed more time to make arrangements in New York, to weigh everything up more carefully. So she would still give in her notice in the morning, and work for the necessary month or so. She would then spend three months, just three months, seeing to my house before she left. This she said so threateningly I laughed. But I promised: I would not persuade her to stay for more than that, even if the house wasn’t finished.
Then I’ll be off, she said. For a very long time.
I conceded that was an excellent plan. I meant it.
She sighed. What an extraordinarily awful, uneasy evening it had been, she observed. She regretted getting at Isabel in the way she had, although she found Isabel’s smug complacency almost more than she could bear, sometimes. But then you’d never utter a word against her, she added.
I admitted that would be unlikely. I didn’t know Isabel that well, I explained, but it seemed to me she was a marvellous wife and –
beautiful, added Carlotta.
That was not what I was going to say. Even in an inebriated state I was capable of exercising caution. But now Carlotta had mentioned Isabel’s beauty there was no need for me to add any carefully chosen praises. I thought for the second time that perhaps she had an inkling of my feelings for Isabel. Perceptive women can usually see behind a man’s most carefully constructed front. I ventured, to put her off the scent, that I thought Isabel’s so-called smugness indicated her feeling of the safety of the marriage, her absolute certainty in Dan. Carlotta sniffed. Absolute certainty? she asked. Absolute certainty’s a dangerous and a foolish thing.
Carlotta then sighed and said she must go. She claimed she wanted to think about my new life, which she was finding very hard to imagine. I offered to drive her home. She said no, she’d prefer to take her car. In which case, I’d walk home, clear my head. But thanks, she said, and she was sorry if she’d appeared to have run out of steam.
Simultaneously we leaned towards each other for a polite kiss on the cheek. Somehow our heads moved further than intended, and our lips met. I remembered her mouth. She allowed me to put a hand on her breast. I remembered, again. But I held back from any sign of wanting to go further. I didn’t want to alarm her. One day, perhaps…but this was not the right moment.
While we were enclosed in the blurred visions of an embrace, I thought of Dan and Isabel behind the drawn curtains of the kitchen: Dan pottering about in guise of helping to clear – Isabel? What would she be doing? Watching him? I could see her so clearly, the woman I loved, filtering about in her swishing blue, climbing the stairs to get into bed beside her husband. So near, and yet so unreachable. And all the time, loving her, I was kissing Carlotta and wondering why.
ISABEL
In unspoken agreement, we left everything. For once, it could wait till the morning. We were both exhausted. I was shaken. I think Dan was too.
He put on our favourite Schubert quartet. We sat at the low table by the window. Sipped glasses of water. The thought that had been thrashing about since Dan had broken his news, and which had stopped me from fully taking in Carlotta’s decision to leave, was that his new play was to be about the very thing I’d been wondering about this morning. It was uncanny, alarming. Was it pure coincidence, or something more sinister? Could Dan have any inkling? – Had some instinct made him think that Bert and I had acknowledged some innocent, but existing flare of recognition? Surely, surely not. There was not the slightest evidence. In fact, during his week here, Bert had gone out of his way never to be alone with me – apart from the accidental moment on the stairs – and never to give any hint of his feelings (which perhaps I will never know) for me. So I should have been able to feel Dan’s idea had sprung from out of the blue, as did all his ideas, he always claimed. All the same I felt sick, chilled by apprehension.
Dan was still agitated. He wanted to know what I thought of his new idea, and also of his plan to give up the old one. Impossible question to answer truthfully. I simply said it was good, but it might be difficult. Dan shrugged. Plainly he wanted more from me, but I was incapable of giving it at that moment. So he asked what I felt about Bert’s plan to leave. Again, I was in no position to answer. I hadn’t had time to think, and I didn’t much want to think. So I said I was impressed that he was so convinced it was the right decision, and he might surprise us all by taking enthusiastically to solitude. After a pause, he then asked what was it about Bert – what was it that warmed and attracted people so often? I think it’s his talent to convey, I said. He can make everyone see things just as he sees them, amusingly, seriously, whatever – but always scintillatingly. – Always one of your priorities, said Dan. But I think it’s more than that. He didn’t mention what else he had in mind, and I was too tired to ask. As for Carlotta? he asked then. How do you feel about her going? I shrugged, and said I felt nothing very much. We had grown further apart, of late, though I wasn’t sure why. Dan was annoyed she’d been so rude to me. I said that was no matter. I suppose I’ll miss her sometimes, I said.
We went on sitting there, drinking fizzy water, till the quartet came to an end. After a spell of silence I said what a pity we’d failed – with Bert and Carlotta, I meant. But then match-making hardly ever works.
We didn’t try very hard, said Dan, and thank God it didn’t, I can’t think of two people so unsuited. They’d drive each other barmy. Unless they happened to meet under our roof, he doubted they’d ever see each other again. Bert’d be ruminating on the marsh while Carlotta was living it up in New York. Worlds apart, no inclination to meet.
I daresay you’re right, I murmured. By now it was very late. We went up to bed.
DAN
After they’d gone Isabel and I sat, as we so often do at the end of the evening, at the table in the window. Protected by the music we both love, we made little attempt to talk. I don’t know what Isabel was thinking – she had on her pre-occupied look – and certainly wasn’t that excited by the thought of my new play. Warned me it’d be difficult. – But then it wasn’t the right time to probe for her real opinion, and considering how badly t
he whole thing went down at dinner I don’t think I’ll be seeking any more opinions at all. Just get down and write it.
The re-assuring thing, though, was that plainly she had absolutely no idea it was anything to do with real life. Unless Carlotta spilt the beans, in some angry moment, Isabel would never discover the single incident that set me thinking of my new idea. The fact that Carlotta was off to America was a very great relief: double-sure safety. My own guilt I could continue to hide. Regret, combined with a persistent edge of desire unfulfilled, would fade one day, and the skeletons facts could then be buried.
I followed Isabel upstairs, longing for the morning, the cleared desk, the beginning. Ahead of me, her blue skirt moved from side to side in the way that I knew and loved so well. But tonight, mimicking her fatigue, the silk was swaying more languidly than usual, and the slowness of our progress up the stairs filled me with longing.
In our room, with a hand devoid of energy, she undid the skirt and let it fall to the ground. She stepped from it as if from a pool of water drained of sunlight. Then she turned to me: such innocence. She had no reason not to trust me, and it must always remain like that. I knew she would never ask, so the innocence, with Carlotta far away, could be preserved.
We moved to the bed. She made no protest at hurry I could not disguise. In the darkness we were able to discard the strangeness of the evening, and suddenly the sky paled through the windows. There were only a few hours left till morning, and the new beginning.
Chapter Twelve
SYLVIE
I can hardly believe it – it’s a really weird thought but Elli’s been here almost a year now.
I remember so well how it all happened, the morning after the rentals had had Bert and horrible Carlotta to supper. I came down early wanting to show them my history essay, which I’d tried very hard with, and for once I was down first and the kitchen was an absolute tip. They hadn’t cleared away anything. I’d just pushed aside some pudding plates to make enough room for my cereal, when the phone rang and rang, and in the end I answered it.
I’m glad I did because it was Elli, sobbing and sobbing. It was quite difficult to understand what she was saying, but apparently her mother had gone off with her revolting young boyfriend, leaving a note saying she was finally off for good. Her father had thought she was away on some sort of business trip, but when he read her letter he had sort of hysterics, and rushed off in his car to find her, leaving Elli alone. It was Saturday morning, no school. She was desperate.
Luckily Mama came down at that moment and I quickly explained everything. Mama said we’ll go and fetch her now. So we did.
Poor Elli. I’d never seen anyone so miserable in all my life. She was crying so much she could hardly pack. Mama was incredibly efficient about everything, and so kind and comforting that soon after we got back home Elli stopped crying. In fact we had rather a nice day. We went to a film, and then Mama took us out to lunch because she said Papa needed a long uninterrupted day to begin some new play.
Elli does go home some weekends, to her father, who’s very happy for her to be living here as he’s away so much he can’t really look after her. But really it’s like having a sister, and it’s lovely. We do have some arguments, but when we disagree she goes to her room above mine and we keep to ourselves till whatever the disagreement is peters out.
She really loves the rentals. I think she wishes hers were like mine. She often says how lucky I am, and I know that’s true. Her mother occasionally sends a post card from some foreign country, with no address so Elli can’t write back. How can any mother be so mean? I think Elli’s beginning to get over it a bit and it doesn’t seem to have affected her work. In fact she works terribly hard, much harder than me, and comes top in lots of things, which Mama and Papa praise her for and I get quite jealous but I know I’ll do just as well once I put my mind to it. Her parents are apparently getting divorced and I don’t know what will happen in the end. But Mama says she can stay here as long as she likes, she’s one of the family. Sort of unofficially adopted.
Since she’s been here time seems to have gone awfully quickly. Next term I really am going to start working as hard as Elli, as I want to do well. Papa’s been working at his new play most evenings and a lot of the weekends. Luckily he doesn’t ever try to tell us what it’s about, though I know it’s called Hiding. Elli and I thought that was, like, a pretty boring title. I mean, who’d ever buy tickets to see something called Hiding? Papa didn’t ask my opinion of the title, but very tactfully I suggested he shouldn’t be too set on it, and maybe an even better idea would come to him. But whatever it’s called I hope it works this time. He never minds about all his failures, but he’s so brave, never whinges on.
Once, a few weeks ago, I was in his study. His desk cupboard was open and I saw these stacks of manuscripts. I said what are all those? And he just said: rejections. But he smiled, and said no matter, he wasn’t going to give up. He said that in a funny way being rejected goads you into trying even harder, and he was convinced that one day he would succeed. I suppose Papa’s a good example.
Mama’s been having her own sort of success: masses of orders for masks which are really, really beautiful. I asked her if she could make me one for a birthday present to put up in my room. She said if she has time, but she’d an order for six for some famous carnival in Rio, and a film company wanted some, too. So she’s been terribly busy and sometimes looks tired, but happy. They’re certainly mega-hard workers, my parents. I’m not sure I’ll ever be like that unless I find something, like them, I really want to work at because I love it.
This time last year I thought it might be history or archaeology – I rather like the idea of going on digs and discovering bits of the past. But recently I’ve gone off all that and I’m into designing furniture. I did a drawing of a futuristic kind of chair that Mama promised me she thought was very elegant. Elli wants to be a model. She’s so thin and pretty I suppose that wouldn’t be difficult, but in a gentle way Mama told her it wouldn’t be a very rewarding life apart from the money. I don’t know. Wondering what I’ll be and do haunts me a lot, but I suppose there’s lots of time to decide.
Bert sometimes comes to see us. I think we all miss him a bit. Apparently he loves Norfolk and says he’ll never come back to London. The other day he took us all out to dinner, and then when he came home he gave both Elli and me £10 each! So I suppose he’s still rich. I like Bert a lot. He’s so sort of, like, warm, and easy to talk to. I said to Elli the other day – well, night, we stay up talking quite late sometimes – that if Papa ever had some terrible accident and died, then I’d like Bert to marry Mama and be my stepfather. She agreed that would be good. But of course he’d never, ever be able to replace Papa. No one could. And I don’t even like to imagine, not for a single moment, my parents being dead. Elli said it was as if her parents were dead already.
Poor her: I’m so glad she’s with us. It’s like having the sister I’ve always wanted.
GWEN
My goodness, as I always say, the good Lord does come up with his surprises. Who would ever of thought, this time last year, that my meeting with Henry in the pub would have turned to this? This wonderful friendship. I thank my lucky stars. I thank God every night in my prayers.
Of course, I always knew he was an especially good man. When I was asked to take a second look at the identification parade, I spotted that. I can spot goodness a mile off. Seeing his face in my mind’s eye on the way home – I remembered that. And then the extraordinary coincidence of meeting him in the pub, and to think I’d been in two minds whether to go. If I hadn’t dared, to this day I might still be in my old life: no good friend, no outings and conversation and care and understanding. Sometimes I still can’t believe what’s happened, and I say to Henry is this really happening? And he laughs, doesn’t think me silly, and tells me it really is.
Henry and I took things very slowly, just to my liking, just to his. I was so pleased a few days after our first meet
ing, when he phoned to remind me of the Friday drink. I hadn’t had such a nice invitation for years, and what a good time we had. He told me a little of his wife, Mary, and made no bones about missing her. Apparently she was a lovely woman, wife and mother, a dab hand in the kitchen and spent every spare moment with her head in a book.
But he learned to live on his own, he said: it was different, but possible. He didn’t feel the need to mourn. ‘You can miss without mourning,’ he said. And he kept himself very busy, was comfortably off, the building trade being in good shape. He helped his children a bit, but otherwise was saving for his retirement. He rather fancied a little place down on the south coast. I told him I used to know Frinton, but gave no hint I thought that was a lovely dream which I wouldn’t mind sharing.
After that second drink he insisted on walking me home – said he didn’t want me mugged again. I didn’t ask him in for a cup of tea. I didn’t want to put him off by appearing to be a woman with designs. And it must have worked because after that we met quite regularly, at least once a week. And then we began to branch out. We went to the cinema sometimes, and out for a meal. He said he was going to educate me in foods of the world. I was a bit nervous about this, of course, having something of a temperamental stomach. But he persuaded me I’d be all right, and over the next few months there was hardly a restaurant in the Shepherds Bush area we didn’t visit: Indian, Chinese, Italian … the lot. Sometimes the food gave me indigestion, but I didn’t tell Henry. I’ve always believed you should keep some things to yourself. I don’t suppose I’ll ever be keen on garlic, so I just make sure I avoid it. But I think Henry’s pleased I enjoy trying things out, and he likes teasing me when I’m faced with a big plate of something mysterious, all spicy smells and bright Eastern colours, and I don’t know where to begin, while he snatches up the chopsticks like an old pro.
