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Not Funny Not Clever

Page 12

by Jo Verity


  She was way behind on sleep. Should things continue like this, it threatened to be a long week. But never mind. If it all became too much, she could concoct a reason for cutting short her visit. A crisis boiling up at the school. A plumbing calamity. Something wrong with the cat.

  Lying on her bed, she gave in to the cocktail of fatigue and comfort, and it wasn’t long before she drifted off to sleep.

  A phone invaded her dreams, jangling her into wakefulness. Gathering her thoughts, she lay waiting, expecting the machine to cut in. But the phone kept ringing and, judging by its volume, she guessed there was an extension somewhere upstairs. Thoroughly awake now, she went to find it.

  The handset stood in its cradle on the table next to Diane’s bed. ‘Hello?’

  Silence for a second, then a man’s voice, ‘Diane?’

  ‘No. She’s not here at the moment. Can I take a message?’

  ‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘No it’s fine thanks.’

  ‘Can I tell her who called?’

  ‘I’ll call another time. Thank you.’

  The line went dead.

  His voice had sounded reedy, as though he were using a mobile. Could he have been foreign? His English had been perfect but he had said so little that she couldn’t be sure one way or the other. She dialled one-four-seven-one only to be told that ‘the caller withheld their number’.

  Sitting on the bed, trying to hang on to the man’s voice, and his exact words, she was conscious of being an intruder in this bedroom. She took a furtive look around. A few of Diane’s clothes were draped over the chair near the window. A pile of sheet music and another of spiral-bound sketchbooks stood on top of the chest of drawers. A towel dangled half in, half-out of the linen basket. This was Diane and Carl’s private space. They shared this king-sized bed. (At least for the time being.) Before leaving, she smoothed the duvet, eliminating the evidence of her being there.

  ‘Sorry I took so long,’ Diane said. ‘I bumped into a couple of my final year students and we went for a coffee. They’re trying to persuade me to go to Greece with them. It’s tempting.’

  ‘Are they good-looking by any chance?’

  She poked her tongue out. ‘Very.’

  Diane was wearing a turquoise shift nipped in at the waist by a wide belt. Her hair was fashionably messy, her limbs tanned. She wore cork-soled sandals which revealed silver rings on several of her toes. She looked about thirty, thirty-five at most, and she made Elizabeth feel like a fuddy-duddy elephant.

  ‘Was there anything in your pigeonhole?’

  Propositions? Broken hearts? A pack of lies?

  ‘Lots, but nothing exciting.’

  ‘Oh, I almost forgot.’ Pants on fire. ‘A man phoned about an hour ago.’

  ‘Did he leave a name? Or a message?’

  ‘No. But it did cross my mind…’

  Diane raised her eyebrows. ‘What? You think it was Marin?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘God,’ she laughed, ‘maybe I should bugger off to Greece. It would be one way of sorting out my problems.’

  ‘Oh, and I had a call from my neighbour. She says my cat’s off colour.’ Elizabeth pulled her phone from the pocket of her shorts, as if it would corroborate her story. ‘He’s … he’s not eating properly.’

  Diane raised a finger in the air. ‘That reminds me, what we shall have for supper?’

  Jordan appeared at the back door. ‘Can I have a drink, please?’

  ‘Where’s Carl?’ Elizabeth asked, pouring him a glass of water.

  He shrugged. ‘I came back on the bus.’

  ‘What? On your own?’

  He gulped down the water, placing the empty glass on the worktop before replying, ‘I’m not totally clueless.’

  ‘I didn’t for a second think that you were. Does Carl know you—’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘And how was the rehearsal?’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘You worry too much,’ Diane said when Elizabeth told her. ‘He’s a smart kid. Carl would have made sure that he knew where to catch the bus and that he had money for his fare.’ She looked around. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Back in the tent.’

  While Elizabeth washed lettuce, Diane peeled hard-boiled eggs. ‘I’ve been thinking about that phone call. Could the man have been Irish, by any chance?’

  ‘Not an Irishman, too?’ Elizabeth raised her hands to her ears. ‘No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.’

  14

  TUESDAY: 7.50PM

  Elizabeth didn’t have a vast choice of clothes, but anything she wore would be an improvement on last night’s inside-out shirt. And besides, it didn’t much matter what she looked like, did it? She was only going to spend a couple of hours with someone she’d never meet again.

  She settled for the black shirt, beige linen trousers and black pumps. Neat and low key. The trousers, which had been in her bag since Sunday, needed pressing. As she leaned on the iron, releasing little puffs of steam to ease out the stubborn wrinkles, she reflected on what had happened as they ate supper. Carl had been describing the rehearsal and, in particular, the athleticism demanded of the soloist. Suddenly Jordan, straight faced, jumped up and began dashing around, impersonating the percussionist rushing from phantom drums to bells to xylophone. The whole astonishing performance couldn’t have lasted more than fifteen seconds and he’d seemed unfazed by the applause that followed. It had been both unexpected and amusing. But it crossed her mind that a few swigs from the bottle of Merlot left ‘breathing’ on the kitchen worktop might account for his startling behaviour. Another thing to watch out for.

  After changing, she brushed her hair, applied a skim of lipstick and a smear of eye-shadow then inspected the result in the bathroom mirror. Yes. The same old Elizabeth Giles had followed her to Wales and was there, gazing solemnly back at her.

  ‘Five minutes everyone,’ Carl’s voice boomed through the small house.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Cool.’

  Jordan clearly respected Carl and seemed ready to listen to what he had to say. Maybe he’d taken to him because he didn’t come across many gentle, considerate men who were prepared to make time for him. She’d never asked Alex how he got on with the boy. Ignorance of her son’s liaison rendered it less real and consequently less painful. Alex was capable of being irresponsible – downright infantile at times. With only eleven years separating them, he could easily be Jordan’s brother. If that were the role he played in the setup, Ms Fry certainly had her hands full with her two ‘boys’. (But that was her choice and the solution lay with her.)

  Checking the mirror again, she added a pair of earrings – dangling silver triangles decorated with malachite. Mustn’t be too low key.

  Jordan had showered and done something asymmetric with his hair. The wax, or whatever was holding it in place, had transformed it from almost-blond to nothingy-brown. He was wearing fresh jeans and a T-shirt which she hadn’t seen before. It was black (again) with STUTT – no, STUFF – and a rudimentary fish doodled, in fluorescent orange, on the front. A five-year-old would have been proud of the drawing.

  ‘Are we going via the hedge?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘Seeing as it’s an official invitation, why don’t we walk round?’ Diane said.

  The visitors advanced up the drive and, as the house came into view, Elizabeth feigned surprise. ‘It’s lovely.’

  The blue car was parked where she’d seen it yesterday. Alongside it stood a battered red estate car with a roof-rack on top and a bike-carrier strapped to its rear. To the left of the house, a tangle of bicycles lay on the ground, blocking the entrance to a garage. A diminutive columned porch surrounded the front door which stood wide open.

  Diane hovered on the doorstep. ‘Hello? Anyone at home?’

  ‘Come on in. We’re in the kitchen.’

  Dafydd Jones and his daughters were standing at a table in the centre of a large but homely kitchen, spearing pineapple chunks and cubes o
f bright yellow cheese with cocktails sticks.

  ‘I was all for caviar and champagne but my daughters insist we have these,’ he said, pointing to two grapefruit halves, already prickly with sticks.

  ‘Seventies stuff is totally “in”, Dad,’ Angel said.

  ‘And caviar is so … salty, don’t you think?’ Elizabeth said.

  ‘We’ll leave you kids to get on with it,’ Dafydd said. Wiping his hands on a tea cloth, he led them across the tiled hall to the room which had been the scene of the ‘thunder party’.

  ‘You met last night, I think,’ Carl said, nodding between Elizabeth and Dafydd.

  ‘Very briefly,’ Elizabeth said.

  Dafydd smiled. ‘Yes. Sorry if you were worried. I should have let you know Jay was with us.’

  ‘No harm done,’ Elizabeth muttered, eager to leave it there.

  ‘You and Diane are old friends?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. We were at school together, back in those trendy old cheese-and-pineapple days.’

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘Salisbury.’

  ‘But now you live…?

  ‘In west London.’

  ‘Ahhh. West London.’ He nodded, as if the compass-point explained everything.

  They sipped wine and discussed what meteorologists did for small talk. (The weather obviously being strictly out of bounds.)

  ‘Holidays. Football.’ He turned to Elizabeth. ‘Cars, of course.’

  ‘You’ve taken the week off?’ Diane said.

  ‘Yes. The girls like coming to Cardiff but it’s not much fun for them if I’m at work.’

  ‘How long have you lived here?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘In Cardiff? Since I finished college. In this house? Getting on for three years. It’s too big for me, mind you, but I love it and, whilst I’m gainfully employed, I intend staying here.’ He stood up and rubbed his hands together. ‘D’you fancy the guided tour, Elizabeth?’ He looked at Diane and Carl. ‘I’ve already bored you two with it, haven’t I? Pour yourselves another glass of wine. We won’t be long.’

  Elizabeth was taken aback. Offering to show a stranger around your house was a crass thing to do but Dafydd’s proposal seemed guileless, his delight in his home so genuine, that she couldn’t refuse.

  Anyone would love this house. The rooms were spacious, the ceilings lofty, but the place felt welcoming. Well-proportioned doors and windows were enhanced by elegant mouldings. The workmanship was top quality, the details bold and unfussy. Every element was pleasing, giving the house its sturdy dignity and honest charm.

  When they came to the bedrooms, Dafydd explained that Angel and Mimi shared a room, apologising before opening the door on the girly pandemonium.

  The room next to it was smaller and undisturbed, festooned with posters of dinosaurs and racing cars.

  ‘This is Tom’s room. He’s my son.’

  ‘He’s not here?’

  ‘No. He’s in Disneyland. The proper one. Gwenno and Sam – that’s her new bloke – have taken him and Sam’s lad.’

  ‘You must miss him.’

  ‘I do. But I can see that Dad can’t compete with Mickey Mouse.’

  He’d saved his own room until last. ‘This is where I sleep.’

  The room was decorated in neutral colours – creams and browns. The cool air smelled faintly of lemons. A flat-screen television hung on the wall opposite the double bed. A well-worn leather armchair faced the open window. The room was tidy but there were signs of occupancy – books on the bedside table, a sweatshirt tossed on the bed, an empty glass, a set of keys and a pile of coins on the chest of drawers. It was a man’s room.

  A shiny black cello case stood in the corner and three small oil-paintings hung above the desk. ‘You play the cello?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. But very badly. When I was sixteen I was all set to do music.’

  ‘What made you change your mind?’

  ‘A rugby match. I broke my wrist. Feel.’ He ran his right index finger along his left forearm then held it out for her to do the same.

  Uncomfortable at being invited to touch him yet unable to refuse, she skimmed his arm with her finger.

  ‘Press harder,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be feeling.’

  This frisson?

  ‘A lump. It was a messy break. I never regained full flexibility in the wrist joint. End of musical career.’ He placed his hand on hers and pressed down. ‘Feel it now?’

  ‘I think so.’ She reclaimed her hand and folded her arms across her chest, tucking her hands into her armpits. ‘You still play?’

  ‘Now and again. But only to myself.’

  She half-expected a smutty reply – Nothing more satisfying than gripping something curvaceous between my thighs – but instead he raised the back of his hand to his forehead, declaiming with middle-European inflection, ‘I play, and sink of zee life I might ’ave led.’

  ‘Don’t you like the life you’re leading?’

  ‘Not entirely.’

  She sensed that she had strayed over a boundary and she apologised. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’

  ‘It’s okay. And I know I’m a lucky lad in lots of ways. But we all take an imaginary ramble down Frost’s “other road”, once in a while, don’t we? Of course he, plucky man, chose the one less travelled.’

  Scientist, musician, sportsman and, it seemed, poetry buff.

  She crossed the room to take a closer look at the paintings – a still life and two seascapes – leaning forward to study the choppy seas and glossy apples.

  ‘These are beautiful.’

  ‘My great-grandmother’s handiwork.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised. We’re Celts not Philistines. She was brought up in Swansea. Married a local photographer. They moved to Plymouth and set up a studio there. He took the photographs, she kept the books. When he upped and left her – buggered off to Canada just before the First World War – she took over the business. Her bread-and-butter trade was photographing sailors. They all wanted photos to send home to their wives and sweethearts. She was very successful, I believe.’

  ‘A woman photographer must have been unusual a hundred years ago.’

  ‘Oh, yes. But Welsh women have always been a force to be reckoned with. She also reared three children and managed to paint in her spare time.’

  ‘Has Diane seen these?’

  She hadn’t set out to establish whether Diane had visited Dafydd Jones’s bedroom but the answer came with his reply.

  ‘No.’

  They stood at the landing window and he indicated the string of mundane little houses that backed on to his. ‘That’s where I really belong. I know how fortunate I am to be living here. And the neighbours aren’t bad. Most of them, anyway. Although I do get the occasional trespasser lurking in the bushes.’

  She laughed. ‘I can’t think what possessed me.’

  ‘Responsibility? Anyway, I’m glad I’ve got you on your own for a few minutes. I really do owe you an apology.’

  ‘No worries. It was up to Jordan to let us know where he was.’

  ‘Jordan?’

  ‘Shit. I mean Jay. He’s desperate to be “Jay”. He’ll be furious if he finds out I’ve spilled the beans. You won’t let on, will you?’

  ‘It’ll be our secret. But that wasn’t what I was going to apologise for. I don’t generally proposition women when I’m only wearing underpants.’

  ‘No? So what’s your normal propositioning kit?’

  Now who’s flirting?

  ‘Oh, I’m not fussy, actually. Chinos and a denim shirt are as good as anything,’ he said, describing what he was currently wearing.

  Elizabeth pointed to the stairs. ‘Perhaps we should join the others before they polish off all the cheesy things.’

  Diane and Carl were where they’d left them but Jordan and the girls were playing a noisy game of French cricket in the garden. Dafydd nodded towards the
window. ‘One minute they’re behaving like kids, the next they’re nagging me to let them go to some club in town.’

  ‘How old are they?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘Seventeen and sixteen. We’ll be getting our AS and GCSE results in a few weeks.’

  We. Our. Elizabeth liked the sound of that. The Joneses were a team.

  ‘Tricky,’ Diane joined in. ‘Especially when you think of the things we got up to at that age.’

  ‘That’s not what Dafydd wants to hear,’ Carl said.

  ‘But it’s true. We knew it all and our parents were idiots.’

  Elizabeth couldn’t let that go unchallenged. ‘Diane Shapcott. Your parents never cared what you did. I had a ten-thirty curfew but you were allowed to do what ever the hell you liked.’

  ‘Precisely. As I said, my parents were idiots.’

  Carl poured himself another glass of wine. ‘That’s too complex for a German to cope with this far down the wine bottle.’

  ‘A Welshman, too.’ Dafydd held out his glass for a refill. ‘I’m going to take the girls down to Gower tomorrow. Avoid the clubbing issue and fill their London lungs with sea air.’

  The light began to fade. The French-cricketers came in from the garden and set up a game of Monopoly on the kitchen table.

  ‘It’s past nine already. They’ll never finish it,’ Elizabeth said.

  ‘Has anyone ever finished a game of Monopoly?’ Diane muttered.

  ‘Finishing isn’t the point,’ Dafydd said. ‘Surviving the tedium is the challenge.’

  They discussed the board (and boring) games of their youth – Cluedo, Sorry, Risk, The Game of Life – reaching the conclusion that the boxes were always more thrilling than their contents, and that the more convoluted the rules, the less fun the game tended to be. A round of Desert Island Board Games came down in favour of draughts, with a set of chess pieces for those who felt up to it.

  They moved on to the merits of plain chocolate. ‘I’m sure I’ve read that it’s medicinal,’ Elizabeth was saying when her phone rang. She glanced at the display. Alex.

  ‘You can use the dining room if you like,’ Dafydd said.

 

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