After breakfast, Eleanor and Sarah drove to Woodbridge for the farmers’ market, while Roger helped Mark conquer a wild corner of the garden.
‘So how’s it been with Hannah gone? Did you cry at the airport? God, I’ll be a mess when the time comes.’ Sarah and Mark had one son, Tom, aged fourteen, away staying with a friend for the weekend.
‘I was a model of restraint.’ Eleanor gave a small smile.
‘There’s a surprise.’ Sarah paused by a stall selling meat and game. ‘What shall we do for supper?’
‘Venison? Duck breasts?’
‘Ooh, that reminds me – Julia and Roland are getting divorced.’
‘How on earth does that remind you? Isn’t Julia the one with the long face like a horse?’
‘Neigh-neigh,’ Sarah whinnied. ‘The tall one with the smeary spectacles.’
‘Oh, I know, with the husband who always talks to your bosoms and it makes you think you’ve spilled something on your top?’
‘Yes, them. Shall we go for the venison?’
‘Good idea. So why are they getting divorced, then? God, aren’t other people’s marriages so much more fun to discuss than—’ She turned to the stallholder. ‘Can we have two packets of the diced venison, please?’
‘Because they stopped loving each other.’
Eleanor gave a snort. ‘Well, that’s hardly a reason! God, you’d have no married couples left at all if everyone threw in the towel just because they’d stopped adoring each other.’
Sarah said nothing, just rummaged in her bag for her purse.
‘Oh, well – you two, sure, but you’re not normal. Ordinary mortals, I mean.’
‘Come on, Mark and I argue and get on each other’s nerves.’
They drifted on to a stall piled high with autumn fruit. ‘Have you considered having an affair?’ Sarah said.
‘Sssh!’ Eleanor dropped her voice. ‘I barely let Roger see me without my nightie done up to the top button – I’m hardly going to let a total stranger ogle my cellulite and greying pubes, am I?’
Sarah patted her own tummy.
‘Mark can’t even see my greying pubes because my tummy is in the way, lucky him!’
Eleanor laughed.
‘Anyway, now promise me you’ll do more wood engravings with Hannah gone? I love our two: the one of the pond with the ducks, and that one with the huge oak arching over the path. People always ask about them, you know.’
‘Thank you. I was hoping to have more time with them both away…’
‘Could you ease up on the gourmet meals for Roger every evening so you’d have a bit more time and energy left for yourself?’
‘But he works so hard; he likes to have proper food when he comes home.’
‘Ha! Mark considers himself lucky if his ready-meal isn’t still frozen in the middle.’
‘Well, he’s very lucky to have you for a thousand other reasons – who cares about the catering?’
‘So your logic is what? That Roger’s not so lucky to have you, therefore you must make perfect banquets to compensate him for his sub-standard wife? Bonkers!’
‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’ Eleanor tried to think. ‘You know how I was brought up. My mother took charge of all things domestic. Not that my dad even noticed really – he would quite happily live in a tent as long as it had bookshelves.’
‘But that’s their generation. Most men we know at least cook supper once a week or empty the dishwasher or something.’
‘Roger tames the garden. I wouldn’t expect him to cook as well.’
‘El?’ Sarah’s face looked suddenly very young and anxious. ‘Do you think it’ll be OK, with just the two of you…? Sorry, should I not ask? It’s none of my business – tell me to sod off if you like.’
‘Don’t be daft. Ask away.’ Eleanor fiddled with her zip. ‘Look, I’m not pretending that everything’s perfect. Every marriage has its problems—’
‘I know.’
‘It’s just…’ She burrowed down into the upturned collar of her coat. ‘What’s the point in working oneself up into a state about it? Roger has plenty of merits: he’s generally very reliable, he mostly means well and he does love me. Plus, he’s not mad, alcoholic, or a wife-beater. What more is reasonable to expect?’
‘Well, personally I think that’s a fairly low standard to have to meet. Can we go for coffee yet? I’m freezing.’
‘I’m so glad you cracked first. I need cake.’
‘It’s not self-indulgence – we’re supporting the local economy.’
‘The business rates are bound to be horrendous round here. Should we have a cream tea, maybe, just to help them get by?’
‘You’re very thoughtful that way. Come on.’
Just outside the tearoom, Sarah turned suddenly and hugged Eleanor.
‘I’m just worried about you, that’s all.’
Suppertime. The combination of delicious food, good wine and the pleasant tiredness earned by a long afternoon walk slowly worked its magic. The conversation ambled easily this way and that, with no particular direction or focus, just an unhurried ramble along a network of meandering and criss-crossing paths.
‘Where did you say you bought this wine?’
‘… read about it in the Sunday Times…’
‘… well, while they’re not strictly speaking a legitimate expense, one could…’
‘… those brambles at the back of the garden…’
‘… should have bought there fifteen years ago…’
‘… really wish she’d do more wood engravings, don’t you, Roger?’
‘… she actually put the bottles in her bloody wellingtons!’
‘Did Tom call earlier?’
‘I wonder what Hannah’s up to.’
‘… give more of your hard-earned cash to the Government than you have to?’
‘Daniel loves it there, but we’ve no idea if he’s doing any work …’
‘… any more mash?’
‘… very good investment…’
‘You can Skype Hannah from here if you like.’
‘Don’t be a complete pig, Markie. Save some room for pudding too.’
‘…she sent these incredible photos…’
‘The cream’s in the fridge.’
‘Was that really the second bottle?’
‘What’s the time difference?’
‘Should I put it in a jug or do we not care?’
‘Who wants coffee? Eleanor, herb tea?’
As they sat in a mellow daze of wine and candlelight, Eleanor said, ‘Sarah and I were thinking we might take a quick dip in the sea tomorrow.’
‘Yes, care to join us, chaps?’ Sarah squeezed Mark’s arm. ‘Or are you too chicken?’
‘Cluck, cluck.’ Mark flapped his elbows. ‘Way too chicken. It’ll be freezing.’
‘Have you completely lost your marbles?’ Roger reached for the coffee pot and topped up his mug. ‘It’s not a matter of being “chicken”, it’s a matter of common sense.’
‘We thought it might be fun.’ Eleanor sipped her herbal tea, looking down into the depths of her mug.
‘Fun! What’s fun about catching pneumonia?’
‘You know Sarah and I used to swim in the Hampstead ponds every weekend, and it won’t be—’
‘Exactly. You used to swim there. Fortunately, sanity has prevailed and you haven’t been for months.’
‘Ah, don’t rise to it, Roger. They’re having us on. They’ll jump about on the beach shrieking, then run off to the tearoom.’
‘No, we won’t!’ Sarah gave him a playful shove. ‘That’s so unfair.’
‘Not unfair.’ Mark put his arm around Sarah’s waist and pulled her close. ‘Mean but accurate.’
‘You’re practically fifty years old, darling. You’ll give yourself a heart attack.’ Roger removed his glasses and started to polish them. ‘It’s sheer folly.’
Eleanor stood up and started clearing away the coffee cups.
‘I’m sur
e there’s a perfectly adequate heated swimming pool somewhere nearby,’ Roger called through.
Sarah came into the kitchen.
‘Well, I’m still up for it if you are.’ Sarah lowered her voice. ‘But I’m not fussed if it’s… awkward or whatever for you.’
‘I think…’ Eleanor’s voice sounded detached, almost robotic in her ears, ‘… that I would really like to go for a swim in the sea.’
They came back into the dining room.
‘We’re definitely going.’ Sarah laid her hand on Mark’s arm. ‘If you don’t believe us, you can stand on the shore and watch.’
‘I’m certainly not encouraging you both by being an audience.’ Roger stood up and gave a massive yawn.
‘Still, you have to admit they’re brave at least, Roger?’ Mark leaned back in his chair. ‘Crazy, yes, but brave.’
Roger snorted. ‘I’ve never understood why reckless behaviour is so often considered to indicate courage.’
In the kitchen, the dishwasher door slammed shut.
Sunday morning. Eleanor and Sarah stood on the shore. In the end, the husbands had elected to go to a nearby pub for a pre-lunch pint while the women braved the ocean.
‘If we’re shivering now, how cold will we be once we get our clothes off?’ Sarah said.
‘You stay here if you like, but I need to do this. I don’t know why really, but I need to.’
‘Right, come on then.’
They tugged off their boots and jackets, jeans and jumpers until they were down to their swimsuits underneath. Eleanor looked at Sarah in her bright blue costume with white polka-dots and a small frill of a skirt around the bottom, then down at her own functional black Speedo, devoid of frivolity.
‘Oh my God!’ Sarah cried out as a small wave splashed over her bare feet. ‘Shit, we may be about to die. Roger was right.’
Usually Eleanor took her time getting in, but now she simply ran straight into the sea and launched herself headlong. The cold slammed into her, snatching her breath away. She surfaced with a gasp and struck out with strong strokes away from the shore, then turned to swim parallel to the beach, letting the waves lift her body, swimming fast to try to keep warm.
Sarah, not such a strong swimmer, swam a few token strokes, then quickly scrambled out again and scurried over to their pile of towels and clothes on the deserted beach.
Eleanor trod water for a minute, and turned to look out to the open sea and the steel-grey sky stretching to the horizon in a vast arc. She was no more than a speck in the scheme of things, of no greater significance than a single, sea-smoothed pebble or a tiny seahorse. The thought held no fear for her, no disappointment even. It was as it should be. The sea would keep rolling in regardless of whether she were there or not; the sun would set, the moon rise; the world would turn. Around her, the waves rose and fell. She could just keep going, until the cold and the weariness got too much… then let go… surrender to the sea… descend to the cool, blue-green depths. Her body would be embraced by tendrils of seaweed; limpets would cling to her; sea-creatures would colonise her. The images swam into her head, oddly comforting. Already, the cold was making her numb but it wasn’t unpleasant. There was no need to think any more, no need to try. She took a deep breath, then leaned forward and started to swim away from the shore.
‘El!’ Sarah was shouting from the beach. ‘Eleanor!’
Eleanor stopped and turned round, lifting her head up to see what was the matter. Sarah was right down by the water’s edge, waving and beckoning frantically. ‘Come in! El, come back! Come back!’
Eleanor looked at her friend for a long moment. She looked suddenly very small, hunched in her towel, her wet curls hanging round her head. It reminded her of taking the children to the beach when they were little, wrapping them up in towels, cuddling them close, the smell of salt and suntan cream on their skin, their lovable little faces close to hers. The children.
‘Come in now!’ Sarah yelled.
Eleanor swam back in quickly and picked her way up the stony beach to Sarah.
‘What’s the matter?’ Eleanor asked. ‘Why all the shouting? Are you all right?’
‘Yes. I thought – you – sorry – I…’ Sarah tried to put a towel round Eleanor but her hands were shaking. ‘I was worried you – you seemed – I thought you – you must be getting too cold. El?’
Eleanor could feel her friend looking at her but she didn’t meet her eyes as she briskly dried and dressed herself, then together they hurried back up the beach.
After a pub lunch, Roger said they had better be making a move. The journey had been so bad on Friday evening, and he was anxious not to endure a repeat performance.
It was grey and drizzly on the way home and the traffic was foul anyway, despite their early departure. Eleanor could feel Roger’s irritation expanding, filling up all the available space in the car until she could barely breathe. She imagined opening the car door and stepping outside, saying casually that she had decided to walk to London instead, picturing the expression on his face. Disbelief? Anger? Scorn?
Roger fiddled with the radio, giving each station barely more than a second before moving on to the next one.
‘Would you rather listen to your audio book?’ Eleanor suggested.
‘You haven’t heard the beginning. You won’t know what’s going on.’
‘I’ll catch up. Go on if you’d like to.’
‘Well. Thank you. Yes.’ He smiled at her. ‘But could you…?’
‘I promise not to ask annoying questions about who anybody is or what’s happened so far.’ She smiled back.
‘Good girl.’
True, she had no idea who was who or what was what, and it was a thriller with what seemed to be a gratuitously convoluted plot. Still, the actor reading it was very good, with a warm, mellow voice; it was like listening to a cello piece if she just let the sound and timbre sink into her. She relaxed back into her seat.
‘It was a good weekend.’ Roger patted her leg. ‘I’m glad we went.’
‘Me, too.’ She rested her hand on his for a moment.
Back at home, they had supper on trays in front of the TV, an occasional treat they allowed themselves. At ten o’clock, they watched the news headlines, then Roger clicked off the TV.
‘Let’s go up then, darling?’
‘It’s still early. Don’t you want to watch the rest of the news?’
‘Well. I thought we might… you know.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Remember?’
‘Oh, of course. Yes. That’s right.’ She stayed on the sofa a moment longer. She really had hoped to see the full weather report for tomorrow at the end of the news.
Eleanor took their plates through to the kitchen and loaded them into the dishwasher. Poured two glasses of water to take up. Went to the freezer to take out two portions of a homemade casserole for supper tomorrow. Set out cups and plates and cutlery for breakfast. Cloth napkins from the dresser drawer. Watered the houseplants on the kitchen windowsill. She really ought to trim that little weeping fig – the shape was awfully lopsided…
‘Darling? Are you coming?’ Roger called from upstairs.
‘Just coming now! Sorry!’
She checked the front and back doors were locked then slowly climbed the stairs to bed.
13
Parts of the Puzzle
Even now, after so many years, Cecilia was loath to admit that she rather enjoyed making mosaics. It appealed to the less obvious facets of her character, that diligent, clever, rather painstaking schoolgirl she had once been before she had rebelled against her conventional parents. She liked the puzzle-making and solving elements of it, seeing the fragments come together in her mind then, tangibly, before her eyes – pointillist patches of colour and tone coalescing into an image. She had always been rather dismissive of her own mosaics, though whether this was pre-emptively because she feared other people would dismiss them as mere craft rather than Art with a capital A, or because they had been her only lucrative creat
ive endeavour over the years, she could not be sure.
Outwardly, she had always championed the value and significance of crafts. How typical it was, after all, that the fruits of women’s creativity should be undervalued, relegating all those exquisite patchwork quilts, lace so fine and intricate it looked as if it had been worked by angels, beautiful embroidery… tapestries… basketry… all dismissed as merely decorative, or perhaps useful yet devoid of meaning. Men’s work, by contrast, was exalted for its epic themes, its seriousness, its scale – the giant canvases of Turner, the lumbering bronzes of Henry Moore. Small wonder that men’s work survived when it was kept in the hallowed, hushed halls of national galleries while women’s work gathered moth-holes, cobwebs, mouse droppings in dusty drawers and mouldered, forgotten, in old cupboards.
While she banged the drum for the cause, a bit of her also believed that mosaics were ‘not proper Art’ or, rather, only felt of value if they were ancient. No one dismissed Roman ones for being just attractive tiled floors, did they? Once an artefact had been buried and then unearthed two thousand years later, it became something else altogether, uplifted by the patina of age and history.
At her friend Ursula’s, over a cup of rooibos tea and a regrettable wedge of worthy flapjack, Cecilia attempted to resist her urgings to take on a mosaic commission for a wealthy friend-of-a-friend; apparently, the woman had been wowed by the large frieze of Adam and Eve on the end wall of Ursula’s patio, which Cecilia had done some ten years before.
‘I’m very busy. I’m not sure I could take on anything large,’ Cecilia said. They both knew this wasn’t true but Ursula, good friend that she was, let the remark slip by unchallenged.
‘Go and take a look, at least. She lives in this unbelievable house in Hampstead. Pots of money from her divorce settlement.’
‘She’ll want something ostentatious and vulgar, won’t she?’
Growing Up for Beginners Page 9
