The Partridge and the Pelican

by Rachel Crowther

  It was after four when she heard the click and slam of the front door.

  “Hi, Mum!” Benjy’s voice, the thud of his satchel on the hall floor.

  “Good day?” Olivia called. She held her breath, wondering whether he’d come through to the kitchen or head straight for his room, as he’d taken to doing lately. “How was the maths thing?”

  Benjy appeared in the doorway, pulling a face.

  “It was so unfair,” he began. “Even Mr Fletcher agreed it was. We were right in the corner. Jake, who’s a total maths genius, got three things wrong because we couldn’t hear properly.”

  “Oh dear.”

  Benjy moved towards the larder, his attention sliding already from the day’s injustice to his stomach. “Anything to eat?”

  Olivia found a packet of sweet French buns, the last of a bulk box they’d bought during their week in the Tarn. Benjy took two, reaching for a third before he’d swallowed the first mouthful. Olivia reached a hand to touch his head – already above her shoulder, beyond the point where she could gather him in for a little-boy hug. These days, when she was allowed near, it was her head that rested on her sons’ shoulders, as though they were strangers consoling her for some unnamed loss.

  “Leave some for the others,” she said mildly, and Benjy nodded and grabbed another bun, then sauntered across the kitchen to find a glass.

  When they were little, this had been her favourite time. The still point between day and evening, with an empty stretch ahead before the bedtime routine began and she had to make them do things – get them into the bath and out again, brush their teeth and find their reading books. It had been a time to savour, with her brood gathered in, the doors shut against the world. She felt the same pleasure at their return now, although arguments and silence were more common these days than cheerful chatter. But she could still feed them: they were as voracious as carrion birds, picking the biscuit tin clean, scouring the cupboards when her back was turned. And it wasn’t just food they demolished. Without malice-without noticing – without noticing they kicked cupboard doors, bounced balls off lamp brackets, subjected the furniture to stresses and strains it certainly hadn’t been designed for.

  The door slammed again and here were the older three.

  “All right, Mum?” asked Alastair, as the kitchen filled with long restless legs that were never still unless they were in front of a screen; with man-sized hands constantly seeking something to pick up and toss in the air. A swarm of overgrown insects, Olivia thought, all limbs and buzzing noise. At least none ready to sting today.

  “What’s for supper?” asked Tom, appraising the contents of the fridge.

  “Macaroni cheese.” Olivia took a block of cheddar out of his hand to grate it. “It’s Monday, so it must be macaroni cheese.”

  As her children’s noise dispersed through the house in thuds and shouts and the throb of music, Olivia tipped pasta into boiling water. Once upon a time she’d been an adventurous cook, but over the years her repertoire had narrowed. It wasn’t all her doing: men, people said, her friends with feminist credentials, were intrinsically conservative, and Olivia was surrounded by men. She’d always found the predictability of her life consoling, though, hadn’t she? The rhythm of it; the certainty. But here was another thing that had changed lately. The things that gave her pleasure induced a kind of pain, almost simultaneously, and the more fervently she pursued the pleasure, the sharper the pain that came with it. The pain of knowing everything wouldn’t go on the same forever. The pain of knowing how lucky she was. The pain of wondering what else might have been.

  Chapter 11

  The clinic where Sarah worked was on the outskirts of Oxford, just beyond the ring road where Summertown runs into Kidlington. Close by was Cutteslowe Park, a model of old-fashioned civic felicity with its aviary and bowling green and miniature railway, and the parade of shops which housed the Wellbeing Clinic had a 1950s feel to it too, not just because of its austerity architecture but because of the absence of chain stores, the gentle pace at which mothers pushed buggies and older people wheeled trollies along the pavement.

  It gave Sarah particular pleasure, this place, for reasons she found hard to pin down. There was something reassuringly solid about it; a sense that everything had its place. Inside as well as out, the clinic was unhurried and decorous. She parked her car in the little yard behind the building and pushed the buttons on the key pad by the back door. She was in a good mood: she’d had the caterer’s quotation through the post and had savoured it over breakfast. Canapés and petits fours were arrayed pleasingly in her imagination.

  “Morning, Jane,” she said as she passed the reception desk. A vase of half-opened roses, surprisingly ugly, sat on the counter like a declaration of good faith.

  “Sarah.” Jane glanced up briefly from her computer screen. She worked hard, Sarah thought, at appearing busy: she used the same verbal shorthand on patients as on her employers, as though wasting words looked slack. “Practice meeting’s in five minutes.”

  Sarah halted halfway up the staircase. “Is this new?” she called over the bannister. “This painting here?”

  It was unmistakably France, fields of sunflowers and stone houses on the side of a hillside. Rather striking, Sarah thought, bold colours and gauzy washes giving an impression of heat. The kind of landscape she’d spent several summers walking through.

  “Grateful patient,” said Jane.

  Sarah stared at the painting for a moment longer. She’d met Martin and Philippa on one of those French walking holidays. They were a few years older than her; both osteopaths, they’d told her, running their own private clinic.

  “Physiotherapy’s a good background for osteopathy,” Martin had said one evening, over a glass of cognac. “If you ever fancied a change.”

  Sarah had always been protective about physiotherapy. You’re not just a technician, she’d say to the students when they arrived in her department. Sarah was highly respected: the orthopaedic surgeons sent their private patients to her at the BUPA hospital on a Wednesday evening. But even so, she’d thought, watching the cognac swirl in her glass as the sun set over the Provençal hills. Even so. She admired Martin and Philippa, and she was flattered by their attention. And there was no denying that her life had reached a plateau. Perhaps a change would be good for her.

  “Where’s the best training course?” she’d asked.

  Once she’d got the idea into her head she was off, making plans. When she qualified, Martin and Philippa offered her a place in their clinic. She didn’t live far from Oxford; the commute was easy enough. And she’d never regretted any of it, neither the change of direction nor joining the Wellbeing Clinic. Osteopathy suited her, and Martin and Philippa were her sort of people. There were other practitioners in the clinic, but Sarah was the only other osteopath and they’d talked early on about including her in the partnership. From the beginning, Sarah realised, they’d taken her under their wing deliberately.

  The practice meeting overran by a few minutes. Sarah hurried down the stairs, an apology ready, but the waiting room was empty. Behind her desk, Jane was typing rapidly.

  “Is Mrs Matthews not here?” Sarah asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “It’s unlike her to be late.” Sarah frowned: Phyllis Matthews had been coming every week for five years, and she made much of her promptness, a matter of pride to her and vague irritation to Sarah. Phyllis Matthews was a matter of irritation to Sarah, in fact, but her absence was vexing too. “She hasn’t rung to cancel? Left a message on the machine?”

  “No.”

  Sarah looked at her watch. It was almost ten past; Mrs Matthews was unlikely to arrive now, and her next patient wasn’t due until quarter to. The petit fours lingered alluringly in her mind’s eye.

  “I’m going to pop out for a coffee,” she said. “I’ve got my mobile – would you give me a shout if she turns up?”

  Jane nodded.

  “Want anything?”

&
nbsp; “No thanks.”

  Sarah pushed open the back door and stepped out into the mild October day. There was a little coffee shop on the corner – a long-established local business, popular with the clinic staff. The coffee wasn’t very good but the cakes made up for it, little choux buns and tartlets that reminded Sarah of French patisseries. Perhaps a tarte aux fraises, she thought. Just one. She was going running later. And then she saw a familiar figure coming towards her.

  “Olivia!”

  Olivia stopped. “Hello,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  “I work here.” Sarah indicated the Wellbeing Clinic’s sign with a smile. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

  “I’ve brought the cat to the vet,” Olivia said. “His ear needs stitching.”

  “Oh dear. Fighting?”

  “Hardly. I had a fighting cat when I was little, a proper tom, but this one’s an old softie. I think he must have snagged himself on a bit of wire.”

  “A patient hasn’t turned up,” Sarah said, “so I’ve slipped out. Have you got time for a coffee?”

  “I should think so.” Olivia glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to collect him in half an hour.”

  There was no one else in the coffee shop, and they sat at the table by the window. To Sarah’s pleasure, Olivia ordered a cheese scone. She’d been afraid that Olivia was one of those women who stayed thin through rigorous self-denial. She’d been afraid, too, that it might not be that easy to meet Olivia again: the serendipity of this encounter was delightful.

  “We did enjoy seeing you,” she said, taking a bite of her tart. “What did you think of Guy?”

  If Olivia was taken aback by the directness of the question she didn’t show it. “He seems charming,” she said.

  Sarah nodded. “He was a patient,” she said. “Did I tell you that? He was referred to my boss at first. Martin’s an expert on sports injuries.”

  Guy wasn’t exactly famous, but he was a respected figure in the mountaineering world. He was a client Martin had wanted to do his best for, and he’d been in a bad way after several operations and a long spell in traction, so Martin had suggested he saw Sarah as well for some physiotherapy advice.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Guy had said that first time, shaking her hand and looking at her as though he’d need to recognise her face again. He’d looked sallow, his tan faded by months in hospital, but his eyes were bright. Blue eyes the same shade as Wedgwood china, a surprisingly delicate colour for an outdoorsman.

  Sarah grinned, remembering her brisk response.

  “I didn’t think he was my type,” she said to Olivia. “Not just physically, although that lean, spare look – he seemed too self-contained, if you know what I mean. He didn’t talk much, and when he did it was hard to know whether he was shy or just brusque. I kept imagining him out on a mountain somewhere, focussing on some tiny outcrop of rock.”

  The questions he’d asked her hardly counted as small talk. Questions about herself, admittedly, but they’d felt more like a job interview, Sarah thought now. A job interview or some form of market research.

  “How long did you work as physio before retraining?” he’d asked. “Do you live in Oxford? Did you grow up here? Do you like it?”

  Sarah hadn’t filled the silences between each exchange with lengthy responses; she’d felt that Guy Downie wasn’t the kind of man who’d stop you if you were making a fool of yourself. Instead she’d drummed up questions to ask him.

  “So what do you do now that you’re not …” She’d halted, wondering whether it was insensitive to imply that his career as a mountaineer was over.

  “I’m an accountant,” he’d said. “Climbing mountains costs money rather than making it.” Of course she should have realised that: now she’d made herself look foolish anyway. “I do have a lot of time to fill, though, these days,” he’d said, with a rare smile. She remembered that smile, the first one she’d noticed properly.

  “But he grew on you?” Olivia prompted.

  “Not really. I discharged him after a couple of months, told him to come back if he felt the muscles tightening up again, and he said something like, ‘I’ll have to think of another excuse, otherwise.’ I thought he was being – not exactly sarcastic. I thought it was his idea of politeness. But he rang the next week: the receptionist told me he wanted an evening appointment. I still do physio sessions at the private hospital once a week.”

  “But that wasn’t what he was after,” Olivia said.

  “No.” Sarah blushed.

  Guy had answered immediately when she called his mobile number.

  “I think I’ve got one slot left this Wednesday,” she’d told him. “Do you know where the BUPA hospital is?”

  “I do, but I wasn’t thinking of seeing you there,” he’d said. “I had dinner in mind. Or the theatre, if you’d prefer.”

  Sarah sighed, putting the last bite of strawberry in her mouth. “So that was that,” she said, smiling at Olivia. “After all these years.”

  Olivia smiled back, and Sarah thought she saw, beneath that reserve Olivia had now, that slight watchfulness, just a flicker of nostalgia.

  Chapter 12

  Faith Sargent was surprised when thoughts of marriage began to creep into her mind. They appeared at unexpected moments – when she was rolling out pastry, say, or clearing up the scattered glasses at the end of a function. A hopeful thrill when she was cooking or setting up, when the pleasure of serving her neatly presented canapés or perfectly cooked Beef Wellington lay ahead; a wistful pang when she was tired, and the idea of someone to go home to hovered like a mirage above the array of wasted food and the piles of dirty plates.

  She was canny enough to know that you couldn’t tell, this early on, whether it was love or just infatuation – and in any case she was, as she reminded herself, an independent woman who wasn’t supposed to believe in all that unfashionable romantic stuff. Even so, it was hard to resist the day-dreams. Even though she was young enough to have no worries about marriage, to see it as a possibility there for the plucking.

  In the prime of her twenties, Faith was as loving and giving as Friday’s child should be. “Born at the end of the week,” her Mum always said, half-exasperated and half-admiring, “when other people have done all the hard work. Easy enough to be loving and giving then, eh?”

  Her Mum reckoned Faith had a charmed existence, and perhaps she was right. Things had a way of falling into Faith’s lap. The way she’d met James was a case in point. Someone she used to work for got pregnant and was badly hit by morning sickness. She’d had to pull out of a couple of bookings, and rather than cancel she passed them on to Faith, who was trying to get her own catering business going. One event was a reception organised by a drug company, an evening do up at the hospital – for a bunch of gynaecologists, it turned out, which seemed to Faith a neat twist when it was a gynaecological problem that had sent the booking her way. Perhaps that was what gave her the first inkling that something was up, an intriguing suspicion that Fate was taking a hand in her life.

  James Young was running the meeting. He was new to the department here, he told Faith. He’d moved out from London six months before. The drug reps were a bit above themselves, treating Faith more like a glorified waitress than a professional caterer, but James made a point of coming over to tell her how good everything was.

  “Those spinach rolls,” he said. “Delicious.”

  “Spanakopita,” Faith told him. “They’re Greek. Veggie finger foods are often foreign, if you think about it: samosas and bhajis, spring rolls, vol-au-vents. British cuisine doesn’t run to them. It’s all sausage rolls and – well, cocktail sausages.”

  She felt herself blushing. She had the sudden feeling, from the way James raised his eyebrows, that he’d taken the emphasis on sausages to be suggestive.

  “I’ve never thought of that,” he said, “but you’re right. We’re a nation of meat-eaters, aren’t we?”

  The hall where th
e reception was taking place was in one of those modern buildings that start to look dilapidated almost as soon as they’re finished, a tall, square block of glass and concrete which loomed over the spindly bushes and cracked paving stones of a little courtyard. The kind of building Faith had gone to school in, and later to college. She hadn’t had much time to look around her during the evening, but while James was talking she noticed the incredible colour of the sky, framing him through the huge windows. The days were getting shorter every week now, but at seven o’clock the dusk still lingered, lilac and pink, giving even the hospital grounds a touch of fairytale mystery.

  “The pastry,” James said. “Filo, is it? Do you make it yourself, or do you buy it in?”

  By then Faith knew he was taking more than a polite interest. It was either the food or her, she reckoned, and it was a shrewd guess that he didn’t spend that much time in the kitchen, a busy man like him. She looked at him for a second or two as though she was thinking, though in reality the thinking all came later.

  “If you’re interested in Greek food,” she heard herself saying, “there’s a new Greek restaurant in Abingdon that’s supposed to be really good. Authentic, not the usual stuff they churn out for the English market.”

  “That sounds like an invitation I can’t refuse,” James said, and Faith blushed again. It really wasn’t like her to be so brazen.

  She needn’t have worried, though, because her straightforwardness was one of the things James liked about her, as she found out soon enough.