The Lover

by Amanda Brookfield

  *

  After putting down the phone, Frances remained in the hall for a few moments, suddenly furious at her daughter, for sounding so punishingly remote, for the way her last-minute absence had caused an unnecessary shadow over what was always going to be a difficult day. It was hard enough, she reflected grimly, clinching her hands into fists. Daisy should have made the effort to come. She felt so let down suddenly that she had to lean against the hall table to steady herself.

  ‘All well out here?’ offered Libby brightly, popping her head round the doorway from the sitting room.

  Frances quickly straightened herself, brushing at invisible creases in her skirt.

  ‘Come back and join the party. We’ve just had an open ballot on whether to move on to a pot of tea or uncork another bottle. The bottle won hands down. The children are all entertaining themselves somewhere and Jack’s threatening to play the piano. He and Alistair do a couple of party pieces – quite well sometimes, particularly if they’re full of wine.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Sally hovered in the doorway of Pete’s bedroom boring her eyes into the back of Felix’s head until he turned round. She could see that both her brothers were deeply engrossed in the computer and that their guest had been relegated to the role of observer. Beth was listening to music in her bedroom and the adults were getting drunk. Uncle Jack had started singing, which was always a sure sign.

  The two boys barely noticed as Felix slipped out of the room. Taking his hand, Sally led the way up to the top floor which housed her own small bedroom and the much larger bed-sitting room belonging to Charlie. At the top of the stairs Felix stopped and shook his head. ‘I really don’t think…’

  ‘Not in my room silly. In here.’ She tapped on a low door set into the wall, leading to the eaves space that passed for an attic. ‘No one would ever think of looking in here.’ They had barely seen each other since the start of the holidays, thwarted both by appalling weather and the challenging logistics of arranging secret meetings. Since Sally’s day of truancy both parents had been horribly vigilant. A brief ten minutes under the bridge on a dark chilly evening, without the time even to make love, had provided little by way of emotional reassurance. ‘And no one’s even going to notice anyway,’ continued Sally breathlessly, ‘they’re all busy getting pissed.’ As if to prove her point, the muted sound of Uncle Jack’s throaty tenor came drifting up from the ground floor. ‘Come on.’ She lifted the latch and slipped inside. After a moment’s hesitation Felix followed, quietly pulling the door to behind him. As his eyes accustomed themselves to the dark, he was able to make out crates of books, old suitcases, a couple of chairs, a table lamp. The ceiling was sloping and low, forcing him to stoop even at its highest point.

  ‘Over here,’ hissed Sally, already deep into the room. ‘Look what I’ve found.’ She was tussling with a single mattress, which had been propped up against an old chest of drawers. ‘Perfect, wouldn’t you say?’ she exclaimed, pushing it to the ground. Clouds of dust flew into her face, stinging her eyes and making her cough. Undaunted, she spread out her arms in triumph. She wanted Felix if anything worse than before. To lay claim to him. To prove to herself that nothing had changed, to overlay all her recent doubts and disappointments with fresh better times.

  ‘Sal, I don’t know…’ Felix glanced anxiously over his shoulder. The edges of the door were illuminated in a bright yellow rectangle by the landing light outside. ‘And I haven’t got any you-know-whats…’ He patted his pockets helplessly.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, I’m in the safe time. Oh come on Felix, please. It will be good, you know it will.’

  At the sight of Sally peeling off her T-shirt with the exuberance of a swimmer preparing to dive into a pool, Felix forgot all his reservation. He even forgot the episode with the flirtatious blonde woman. Nothing had happened, but he had wanted it to, which felt almost as bad. He had fantasised about it every night since, imagining moves of unbearable eroticism, waking in the night with a longing of such physical desperation that he was almost afraid.

  Sally’s skin glowed like soft ivory in the dim light. Felix began picking his way through the bric-à-brac towards her, reaching one hand to her outstretched arms. From downstairs the quietness was suddenly broken by the muffled strum of the piano and the rise and fall of two throaty male voices.

  *

  When Libby began talking about her being welcome to stay the night Frances knew it was time to go home. Aware that she had drunk far too much to drive, she was on the point of calling a taxi when Jack boomed his desire to be of service.

  ‘I’ve been on coffee for at least two hours, in case you soaks hadn’t noticed.’ He blew extravagantly at the palm of one hand. ‘Would sail through a breathalyser with full marks. I won’t hear of a refusal.’

  Frances exchanged looks with Libby who shrugged and raised her eyebrows in a way that suggested approval. He looked and sounded sober enough, reflected Frances, suddenly too tired to argue and beginning to gather up her things.

  There was a last minute flurry when no one could find Felix. ‘I thought he was still in with Pete and Charlie,’ explained Beth, ‘but they’re both in the den watching telly. He must be upstairs.’ Libby led the way up to the first landing, with Frances following behind. When all rooms proved dark and empty they carried on to the next floor, calling his name. Casting a quizzical look over her shoulder, Libby knocked smartly on her youngest daughter’s bedroom door.

  ‘Sally?’

  ‘Yes?’ After a couple of moments, Sally duly appeared, her short brown hair looking more unkempt than usual, her green eyes glinting with innocence.

  ‘You haven’t seen Felix by any chance? Frances wants to go home and we seem to have mislaid him.’

  ‘Try Charlie’s room,’ she replied idly, ‘I thought I heard some movement in there a bit ago.’

  He was asleep on Charlie’s bed, curled into an S shape and clasping a pillow under one cheek. Both women checked themselves, each struck by the insouciant vulnerability of a sleeping child, even an eighteen-year-old child with straggly hair and dark shadows under his eyes. ‘Let him stay,’ whispered Libby, retreating to the door. ‘Charlie will be quite happy on the sofa bed. He looks so peaceful and it’s gone ten. We’ll fill him with breakfast and post him back tomorrow morning, I promise.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ murmured Frances, aware that some selfish part of her was reluctant to return to the empty house alone, but knowing too that it would be unnecessary cruelty to wake Felix up for a ten-minute journey squashed in the narrow back seat of a freezing car.

  Peering through a crack in her door behind them, Sally burned with satisfaction. It was not long since they had emerged from their hiding place. Felix, full of yawns, had taken up her suggestion of lying down on Charlie’s bed. While Sally, tense with energy and a thrilling sense of her own daring, had retreated to her bedroom. After answering the door to her mother, she quickly changed her pants which were sticky with semen, and slipped downstairs to join her brothers in front of the television.

  Having said her farewells, Frances followed Jack to his car, skidding slightly on the crazy paving leading down to the drive. Thanks to the drop in temperature which had accompanied nightfall, all that remained of the snow was a sheeny, treacherous film of ice.

  ‘Fuck me, it’s worse than I thought,’ declared Jack cheerfully, as his wheels failed to get a grip on the smooth tarmac of the road and the car slid forwards diagonally for a few yards, like a horse straining to be given the run of an open space. Frances, wedged beside him, her teeth chattering, felt faintly alarmed. ‘No self-respecting traffic cop will be out in this anyway,’ he added, managing at the same time to steady the car into a more or less straight course. ‘Give me directions, won’t you? I know where you live theoretically, but these lanes all look the same in the dark.’

  By the time they turned into Frances’s drive, the car was snug with heat. ‘Find your keys before you get out, or if you’re anything like
me you’ll be hopping around on the doorstep for ages.’

  Frances laughed, patting her coat pocket. ‘I know exactly where they are – and thank you Jack, that was extremely kind—’ She was prevented from completing the sentence by the unexpected clamping of her companion’s mouth on hers. His beard was like a rough cloth, and his tongue so quick off the mark that it took several moments to eject it from her mouth.

  ‘Really, Jack, I…’ she gasped, pulling free and hurriedly wiping her lips with the back of her hand. ‘I don’t think…’

  He looked unperturbed. ‘Wrong call eh? Sorry. Couldn’t resist it. Perhaps I need more coffee after all. No bad feelings, I hope?’

  ‘I guess not,’ muttered Frances, scrambling out of the car and hurrying into the house – no longer a bleak prospect, but a welcome haven. Once the door was closed behind her, she burst out laughing, clapping her hand to her mouth like a schoolgirl. Less exuberant thoughts followed the hysteria. Had Alistair and Libby invited Jack to stay with her in mind? Had they guessed what the drive home might result in, engineered it even? Though unlikely, the notion induced a more sombre frame of mind. A forty-three-year-old widow was vulnerable in so many respects, she reflected gloomily, remembering Libby’s suspicions over Joseph Brackman and wondering if they could be true after all. Feeling suddenly wide awake, she poured herself a thumb of whisky and retreated to the sitting room. She slumped down on the sofa and flicked on the television, aware that for the first time since Paul’s death she was feeling not so much lonely for him as just plain lonely.

  On the screen Meg Ryan was half-way through her celebrated and very public rendition of a feigned sexual climax. Frances flicked channels to find the same actress on top of the Empire State Building clasped in the arms of a grieving widower with a young son. Thinking of Jack’s bushy mouth and the contrasting bumbling events of real life, Frances turned off the television with a humph of irritation. On the table in front of her were the papers, still unread from the day before, together with the bumper Christmas issue of the Spectator, one of Paul’s regular subscriptions which she barely glanced at but still did not have the heart to cancel. On picking it up to glance at the cartoon on the cover, the back page fell open revealing a section of classified advertisements. Frances was on the point of closing it when her eye was caught by a black box containing the words: Intelligent, sensitive man. Likes classical music, Italian food, reading and walking. Fifty years old, reasonable looks. Lives Surrey area. Affectionate and loyal. Seeks lady for companionship, hopefully developing into lasting relationship. Love of Italian food and sense of humour essential. Serious enquiries only please. Box number SLH98/1240.

  Whether it was the effects of alcohol, her mood or the fact that the context was Paul’s favourite periodical, Frances found herself irresistibly drawn to the idea of the author of the advert. She pictured a tall, distinguished, grey-haired man with grey twinkling eyes and a kind smile. A doctor maybe, or a connoisseur of antiques. By the time she finished her whisky, she had read the notice several times. It was the only one of its kind on the page, all the other personal listings relating to singles magazines and people offering to do tax returns. In the bottom left-hand corner was another box containing a note of warning from the editors, to the effect that they would not be liable for any damage incurred or suffered as a result of readers accepting or offering any of the invitations printed above. Which was reasonable enough, reflected Frances, trying unsuccessfully to transpose the image of her friendly-sounding doctor into an axe-man with sado-masochistic tendencies.

  Telling herself that she was merely experimenting with what one might say in such circumstances, she fetched a pad of paper from the bureau behind the sofa and began to compose a reply. Instead of a proper letter she found herself writing what could have been a similar advert for her own circumstances: Intelligent, sensitive, forty-three-year-old woman. Recently widowed and seeking male friendship…’ She paused, wondering whether to add ‘love’. Fair-haired, slim build. Lives Kent area. Loves Italian food and in possession of good – if slightly rusty – sense of humour. Not knowing about box numbers or how to get them and dimly fearful of the axe murderer scenario, Frances printed the number to Paul’s fax machine at the bottom of the page. Aware that the whisky on top of so much wine was probably taking a serious toll on her senses, she nonetheless could not resist slipping the page into an envelope and hastily scrawling the box office number across the middle.

  It was only a joke, she told herself, once she was upstairs preparing for bed, a curious diversion to round off a curious day. Whether she chose to post it in the sober light of morning would be quite another matter.

  More used now to the empty half of the bed Frances had no qualms in lying diagonally across it, stretching into the space with her feet and burrowing her arms up under Paul’s pillows, loving the icy cool of the empty space. Sleep came quickly, spurred on by wild imaginings about being guided from beyond the grave, about finding someone to provide the fresh focus which her life so badly needed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The teasing presentiments of Frances’s dreams received something of a rude awakening at the startling discovery that Felix, returning while she was still asleep the next morning, had seen fit to deposit her response to the Spectator advert, together with a couple of other letters on the hall table, in the post box at the bottom of the lane.

  ‘I had some stamps,’ he explained simply, unaware of the implications of his actions and not having analysed his motives beyond a vague urge to atone for his behaviour at the Taverners’ the previous afternoon. ‘I’ve also tidied up a bit downstairs.’ He placed a cup of tea on the bedside table and glanced hopefully at his mother for signs of gratitude. But Frances was too busy digesting the news about the letter and the fact that she had managed to sleep until the unprecedented hour of eleven thirty in the morning. Disappointed, Felix walked over to the window and tugged at the curtains. ‘I was going to polish my halo even further by doing something useful in the garden, but I see you’ve got it under control on your own.’ In spite of his irritation, he chose his tone carefully. Injecting too much congratulation into the remark might have sounded condescending, or as if he fancied himself as some great authority on how his mother should occupy her time now she was alone. ‘It looks great,’ he added, clenching his jaw, inwardly feeling the strain of having to weigh every word. Being home was even worse than he had anticipated. After so many weeks away in a new environment, there were none of the usual daily points of contact, nothing to refer to that they had in common. Except for the absence of his father, of course, which felt both too raw and too obvious to mention.

  ‘You mean the grass…?’

  ‘Among other things. You’ve really done a lot.’

  Frances pulled on her dressing gown and hurriedly joined her son at the window. Seen from above, it was clear that the lawn-cutting of the previous week had formed the basis of subsequent, even more elaborate attentions. The edges of the bed had been strimmed back to their original strong clear lines, perfect frames for the heaps of dark freshly weeded soil. The plants had been freed of dead wood and trailing flower stems, presenting instead an array of brutal but flattering haircuts, ready to enjoy a fresh burst of growth in the spring.

  ‘Bloody man,’ hissed Frances, much to the bafflement of her son. Forgetting her tea she began tugging on clothes.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘It’s not me, it’s Joseph Brackman – he’s been doing the garden—’

  ‘So, what’s wrong with that?’

  Frances looked up, exasperated. ‘I haven’t asked him to. He just sneaks up here and does it. Which is not…not…’ She struggled to articulate what it was that she found so wrong. ‘I think perhaps he’s hoping for some money…’ She broke off again, reluctant to explain the exact nature of her distrust at their neighbour’s motives. Even if Libby’s warnings proved exaggerated, she had no desire to feel any further obligation towards the man – not even as an e
mployer of his gardening skills.

  ‘I’m going to go down there and have a word with him.’ She took her wallet out of her handbag and hurried out of the house, leaving Felix staring at the untouched tea and wondering why he had bothered.

  Deciding to take the quick route, Frances let herself out through the garden gate and headed towards the river, placing her feet on the highest clods of mud, still solid from the icy temperatures of the previous night. It was only when she reached the footbridge that she slowed her pace, realising that she was dizzy and hungover and that to complain about kindness was not the easiest of missions, especially not on a crisp Boxing Day morning. The footbridge, no more than two planks thrown from bank to bank years before, with a crude balustrade on one side, was flecked with patches of brilliant green moss. What was visible of the wood looked black and slippery. Feeling somehow warned off at the sight of it, Frances turned to head for home, only to be confronted by Joseph himself, appearing soundlessly from behind a clump of spiky trees. Unnerved, her complaint spilt out of her, with none of the tact or cordiality she had rehearsed inside her head.

  ‘About my garden – I know it’s you – I’d really rather you didn’t.’ She popped open her wallet and began waving ten-pound notes in the air. ‘Let me see, it must be several hours’ worth…’

  He was wearing his brown cap again. The two thirds of his face revealed beneath it looked grey and impassive. ‘Don’t you recognise a gift when you see one?’ he growled, looking not at her but over her shoulder at the river. There followed a few moments’ silence while Frances tried to collect herself, to rearrange her anger to address this new and unexpected response. She grew aware of the sound of the water next to them, forcing its way through the reeds under the bridge with gentle slaps and hisses.