by Penny Feeny
When Lily thumped on the studio door and fetched her to the phone, it was a relief to discover the call was not family related. It was from a factory in the East End who were processing a new design for her. Due to a technical error, one of the colours hadn’t printed as intended; the manager suggested this was an improvement and offered to post her a sample. Jess latched onto the excuse for a change of scene. ‘No,’ she insisted. ‘It will be quicker if I come to you.’ If she wasn’t around, she could escape chauffeuring duties; she wouldn’t have to listen to Dinah complaining about Johnnie; Alex would have to be at home for the children.
At the factory, the manager invited her into his office where orders fluttered on spikes and fabric swatches were pinned all over the walls. He gave her a cup of tea and spread out the template and instructions she had given him and a section of the printed cloth. In Jess’s original design the colour had been more muted. What she had conceived as a sage green had developed the strong tint of ivy. The material was a glazed cotton and the glaze worked well on the dark green. The new shade gave an unexpected slant to her quirky patterning, but it didn’t clash; it wasn’t better or worse, merely different. And Jess was accommodating by nature.
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘It’s distinctive, isn’t it? Let’s leave it as it is.’
The manager beamed and offered her lunch in the canteen. She accepted. Afterwards, she could easily have gone straight back to the country but she was enjoying her freedom too much – it was a rare day when nobody knew where she was – so she took the Tube to Highbury. In the corridor leading to the station exit a busker in a fedora was playing ‘A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall’. A crossbreed, part spaniel was curled at his feet, beside another fedora containing coins. Jess recognised them both. She ferreted for a handful of change and dropped it into the hat. ‘How are you, Barney?’ she said.
Barney strummed a final chord, tipped back his brim and peered at her through bloodshot eyes. ‘Hiya, Jess, where’ya been?’
Several years ago, Alex had found Barney and his dog sleeping rough in a doorway and offered the pair their sofa for a few nights. He’d since moved into what he described as ‘an okay squat’ and taken up different pitches around North London. Jess hadn’t seen him for some time. She petted the spaniel’s silky ears. ‘Is this your regular gig now?’
‘Yeah, has been for months. Where d’you get to?’
‘Oh, we’re living in Wiltshire mainly, for the kids’ schooling, but I still come back quite often.’ (Though maybe not as often as she had thought.) She glanced at his takings. ‘You both doing all right?’
‘We get by.’ Another train disgorged and passengers emerging from underground flooded past, anxious to reach daylight. He plucked a guitar string; she was eating into his earning time. ‘Sorry about you and your man,’ he said.
‘What? What d’you mean?’
He shook his head mournfully. ‘You guys were so solid. Never thought you’d split.’
‘We haven’t split! We just aren’t in each other’s pockets quite so much because…’ But the problems that came with two homes would always sound crass to a man who had none. Wiser not to go into detail. ‘We’re still solid,’ she said.
‘Grand.’ He grinned and blew a long strident note on the harmonica hanging from his neck.
‘See you around, then.’
‘Yeah, see ya.’
Jess moved off jauntily but she was disconcerted, as if her world had tilted. How could Barney have got such an impression? Buskers stood for long periods, watching people. They were observant. Alex was gregarious and sociable, but surely Barney would be able to tell the difference between a colleague and a more intimate relationship? Had he really seen Alex with another woman? Her head was spinning and she didn’t know how to settle it, who to ask for information. She decided to call into Norman’s shop on her way to the flat.
Norman was the McKenzies’ first port of call whenever they ran out of anything. His family had sold fruit and vegetables on the same premises for a century. ‘Greengrocers and Poulterers’ was spelt out in glossy Victorian tiles above the frontage. A list of bargain offers was chalked onto the window – all in pounds and ounces, no misleading metrics. The poultry side had gone and been replaced by shelves of staples: tea and sugar, ketchup and vinegar, dairy products in a chiller cabinet. In the rest of the shop, old-fashioned British vegetables were still king: cabbage and beetroot, parsnips, carrots and potatoes.
Norman wore a tobacco-brown overall and kept brown paper bags on a loop of string. He was an admirer of Margaret Thatcher because she knew what it was like to be a grocer and he was often generous to the children, slipping extra items into the paper bags. ‘Good try,’ Alex would tease. ‘But you can’t convert us renegades. Bribery isn’t allowed.’
Norman was pleased to have found a way of outwitting the Common Market. ‘Better for the little ones to have a bit extra than add to all them wasteful lakes and mountains.’
Politics aside, he was an ally. If his reaction to Jess was the same as Barney’s, she might have something to worry about. In the shop his overall hung on the back of the door, but an unfamiliar teenager manned the till. Jess filled a wire basket with bread and eggs, apples and tomatoes and milk. ‘Is Norman around?’ she asked as the fruit was weighed.
‘He’s having time off. Because of the op.’
‘Oh, dear.’ She wondered what kind of op: heart bypass, lumpectomy, prostate, but the boy didn’t say and she didn’t press him. Norman was of the generation who kept their personal lives very private.
She left with her purchases and let herself into the flat. They’d transferred most of their possessions to the cottage, so it seemed more spacious these days, but forlorn and impermanent too. It was difficult to get the balance right. She had hoped that moving to the country, back to her roots, would shore up family life; instead she could see it was fragmenting and she missed their old unity, the time when they weren’t all sprouting in different directions.
She put down her bags and wandered about, flicking light switches on and off, making a cursory sweep of the rooms for evidence of a female visitor: an unfamiliar scent, make-up remover pads, a lost earring. She didn’t find anything. But since the notion that Alex had deceived her was distressing enough, she didn’t look very hard. She lit the gas fire and turned on the radio and thought about ringing home, but what would she say? Best to sleep on it.
The next morning, she took her address book into the kitchen and flicked through it over a cup of coffee, debating who to catch up with and wishing she’d kept in closer contact with friends and neighbours. When she heard the snap of the letter box she went into the hallway, mug in hand.
A single letter lay on the mat. A proper letter, handwritten. Not an invoice or a bank statement. She bent to pick it up. The hand-writing was familiar and she knew with chill clarity where she had seen it before. She hadn’t forgotten the postcards from Rome. She didn’t need to turn over the envelope to see the name of the sender on the back flap. This time, however, Carlotta Galetti had addressed her letter solely to Alex.
Although she was fully dressed, Jess returned to the bedroom and climbed back into bed. She abandoned her coffee mug and pulled the blankets around her. She rested the letter on her knees and stared at it. Why after all this time had the correspondence started again? Did Alex know about it and, if so, why hadn’t he told her?
She longed to open the envelope, though she wouldn’t be so devious as to hold it over the steam from a boiling kettle – or rip into it with a fingernail and claim it was an accident. She reached for the phone beside the bed. The children would be at school; Alex should be in his study, working on a feature. There was no more reason to delay. He’d be expecting her to ring him, to tell him how the factory visit had gone. He answered on the fifth ring.
‘Alex?’
‘Hey, what’s the matter?’
She couldn’t fool him for a minute, could she? He’d heard the quiver in her voice. ‘Why d
idn’t you tell me about Norman?’
‘Norman?’
‘He wasn’t in the shop. Because he had to have an operation. Was it for something serious?’
‘How would I know?’
‘You must see him regularly. Didn’t he say?’
‘Och, I think he was complaining of varicose veins, from all the standing around. Why are you so concerned about Norman? Didn’t things go well yesterday?’
‘They went fine.’ She nestled the receiver in the crook of her shoulder and rotated the envelope in both hands. She couldn’t hold it back. ‘I have to tell you, Carlotta Galetti’s written another letter.’
He must have been startled too: there was silence at the other end of the phone. Then a groan, ‘Oh, Christ, Carlotta.’
‘Yes. We thought she’d given up, didn’t we?’
‘What does she want?’
‘I don’t know. It’s addressed to you.’
‘Oh.’
‘Can you think why?’
‘Haven’t a clue.’ He spoke with a false lightness, which disturbed her.
‘I could open it,’ she said. ‘I could read it to you.’
Did he hesitate or did she imagine it? Was it because Barney’s remarks had spooked her that her mind was flying down dark paths?
A hundred miles away Alex said, ‘Go ahead, then.’
‘Are you sure?’
He was speaking very close to the mouthpiece, his tone soft and seductive. ‘Ah, Jessa-mine, what terrible things can she possibly have written?’
She steeled herself. ‘Okay, I will. Hang on a minute.’
She slit the envelope carefully, not wanting to damage the contents. A sheet of paper fell out, the squared graph paper favoured by Italians over plain or lined. The previous letters had been typed but this was written in a hand so similar to Lily’s it was uncanny – though she didn’t want to think about that. She held it at a distance and brought it closer as her eyes tried to focus. She picked up the phone again. ‘I can’t read it,’ she said. ‘I mean, before she wrote to us in English, didn’t she? But this one’s in Italian. She’s assumed you’d be able to understand it. But I don’t.’
‘Oh, shit, this is my fault.’
‘Why, what did you do?’
‘I can explain, Jess, but not on the phone. If you can wait till you get home…’
‘Explain what?’
‘What happened when I saw her.’
‘You saw her! Without telling me! How could you?’ But they had spent so much time apart lately anything was possible. ‘What else have you been keeping quiet?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Maybe I should ask Barney.’
‘Barney?’
‘The busker. He thought we’d broken up, Alex. Whatever could have given him that idea?’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake! Why would I hide anything from you?’
‘You already have,’ Jess pointed out unhappily. She looked to see how Carlotta had signed off – whether there was any suggestion of intimacy – but she dropped the receiver as she did so, cutting off the call. Would Alex think this was deliberate, would it make him angry? Surely she was the one who had the right to be angry? She was the one who’d been misled. She delayed ringing him back. If their telepathy was as strong as it ought to be, then he’d contact her. He’d know what she needed to hear.
She waited. One minute. Two. The end of the letter read, ‘Saluti, Carlotta-Concetta’, which was odd but told her nothing. Her resolve broke and she dialled the cottage number. It was engaged. He was calling her, of course. The trill didn’t come at once, but a few moments after she’d replaced the receiver. She lifted it.
‘Hello?’ said a voice that was not Alex’s.
‘Toby!’
‘Jess? You’re in London! In support of what great cause have the pair of you come up this time?’
‘Actually, I’m on my own. Alex is with the kids.’
‘Ah, right…’
‘And I did the stuff I came to do yesterday.’ She paused. ‘Are you busy?’
‘What, now? Today?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve a couple of tutorials this morning, and then this evening—’
‘But nothing in between? I’m a free agent. I could easily get the train to Cambridge. I haven’t seen you for ages.’
‘Well…’
‘Please?’
22
Jess walked out of the flat without trying Alex again. She’d wanted a change of scene and here was her opportunity; she’d be mad not to take it. Toby had arranged to meet her in a pub called the Eagle, a half-timbered former coaching inn with outdoor seating in the courtyard and three inter-connecting rooms. She searched them all before ordering a drink. She took a bench seat by the window in the main bar and tried to decipher the squiggles of graffiti on the nicotine-stained ceiling.
Toby arrived, full of apologies. ‘God, I’m sorry I’m late!’ Either he had spruced himself up or, in Cambridge, his dishevelment was less out of place. His clothes were sober and respectable: no rips or spills, no unravelling holes in his jumper. Even his tousled hair had flecks of grey at the temples, which made him look distinguished. His scrawny frame had filled out too, giving him gravitas. He kissed her warmly. ‘Have you been waiting long?’
‘I just got here.’ She pointed to her brimming half of Abbot Ale. ‘Honest. Let me buy you a pint. I’ve imposed myself on you.’
‘You’re never an imposition, Jess.’ His words and tone were genuine, but there was something unreadable in his eyes – though that could have been the result of her own paranoia.
‘The buffet lunch is rather basic,’ he said. ‘But I’ve got a formal dinner in hall this evening, so I hope you don’t mind…’
‘Not at all. The aim was to see you.’
The main components of the lunch were veal and ham pie, coleslaw and baked potato. Toby ate methodically, cutting his pie into squares, amusing her with college gossip, but all the time she suspected he was holding something back. Me too, she thought. How could she criticise? Carlotta Galetti’s letter was in her bag. At some point – she hadn’t decided when – she was going to ask Toby if he could help her translate it. Meanwhile they fell into their usual, casual camaraderie.
‘Did you know the secret of life was announced here?’ he said. ‘One day, nearly thirty years ago, Crick and Watson came in for lunch and told everyone they’d found how the construction of DNA worked, how molecular information was passed on through our genes. They celebrated the beauty of the double helix over a pint, a few yards from where we’re sitting.’
‘The secret of life?’ The concept was too enormous to contemplate. ‘Can anyone really know that?’
‘In a scientific sense, Jess, not a spiritual one.’
‘Sorry, that was dumb of me.’
He carried on, ‘The significance of their discovery was recognised straight away, but nothing happens overnight. It’s taken until now to get the ball properly rolling. There’s fantastic potential for capturing information if we can learn how to get at it.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, in the field of archaeology for instance…’
‘Ah.’ She smiled, pushing away her empty plate, raising her glass. ‘I bet that’s what Crick and Watson had in mind, the benefits for archaeologists.’
‘It’s a shame there isn’t more respect for the past,’ said Toby. ‘We could learn a lot.’
‘Don’t you think people need to make their own mistakes? Isn’t getting where you want to be through trial and error part of the secret of life too?’
‘That presupposes you get where you want to be,’ he said.
There was a pipe smoker at the adjacent table. His tobacco was pungent and the fug was thickening. Jess began to cough; Toby thumped her back. ‘Are you all right? Do you want another drink? Or are you ready to go?’
‘Fresh air would be good.’ The pipe smoker puffed on, oblivious.
They left the pub, cro
ssed Kings Parade and headed down Senate House Passage towards the river. The day was by turns overcast and startlingly vivid, the clouds chased by squally gusts of wind. On Clare Bridge they stopped to watch the punts passing through the arches below. A swan gliding regally along the river suddenly flapped its wings and put a punter off his stroke. The student staggered and wobbled and looked about to lose his footing. There came a splash as he steadied himself at the expense of the pole, which drifted out of reach. The swan floated on, stately and unruffled.
Something cold struck Jess’s cheek. ‘What was that?’
‘Rain,’ said Toby. ‘It’s going to pour. We’d better run for it.’ He grabbed her hand as they raced through the Backs. Although the sky had deepened to slate, fringes of light cast halos around the college buildings so they looked unreal, like hyper-illuminated engravings. The first heavy drops spattered at random intervals and they sped up, thinking they could avoid the worst of the deluge. They were wrong. By the time they reached the shelter of Toby’s staircase, they were drenched.
His rooms were on the first floor, overlooking a quadrangle of immaculate green grass, currently being pounded by the rain. ‘You’re soaked,’ he said. ‘Let me get you a towel.’
‘My goodness, you have your own bathroom and everything. You have come up in the world.’
‘If you get responsibilities, you get perks. I’ve been made a Moral Tutor, in addition to teaching, I mean. Imagine!’ He hung up his wet jacket. ‘Luckily I keep a change of clothes here. Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘Sure.’ She peeled off her coat and her boots and her socks and took a tour of his room. Arched alcoves on either side of the fireplace held shelves of books. Invitations inscribed on thick white card were propped on the mantelpiece. An elaborate cornice ran around the ceiling. There was a fine oak desk, a drinks cabinet with a decanter and glasses on the top, three faded easy chairs and a large sofa with plump rounded arms covered in a linen union fabric designed by William Morris.
