‘I understand what you mean.’
But Mum’s disdain for aeroplanes was forgotten as she anticipated setting off on her travels, and she could hardly contain her excitement.
‘Imagine, Cass! Just flying off like that. I can’t wait!’
‘But won’t you be lonely, going off on your own?’
‘Oh, I’ll find people. I always find someone to talk to.’
‘And where, Mum? Where are you going to fly to?’
‘I don’t care. Anywhere. Somewhere sunny, with sea. An island, perhaps.’ She was ironing her holiday clothes — an eclectic selection of cotton skirts and blouses, some of them dating back to our early childhood — between skippy little Chopin waltzes.
‘Most people,’ I said, ‘choose their destination before planning their wardrobe. Shouldn’t you at least pick a country to start from? You don’t have to stay there if you don’t like it.’
‘You’re right. Let’s choose a place. Help me, Cass.’
So we got out the atlas (which, needless to say, was wildly out of date, but as Mum pointed out, sun and sea and islands don’t move around even if empires do), and after some discussion, settled on the Greek islands.
‘Little white houses and blue sea,’ said Mum, who had once received a postcard from Crete. ‘Perfect.’
‘And you can move from one to another,’ I said. ‘They look quite close to each other, and there are bound to be boats sailing between them.’
‘Yes. And there’s Athens, with all those statues and pillars and things. Do you think they speak English?’
‘Bound to,’ I assured her.
‘I’ll take a phrase book, in case.’
‘Good idea.’
‘And I can speak a little French.’
‘That might be useful,’ I said, although even my imagination had trouble envisaging my mother trying to make her way round Greece in schoolgirl French.
A fortnight later, Lucas and I took Mum to the airport.
‘I hope she’ll be OK,’ Lucas said, when we’d waved her off. ‘I hope she doesn’t do anything silly.’
‘Of course she’ll do something silly. This is our mother we’re talking about. But she’ll find people to bale her out — she always does — and if the worst comes to the worst, I can always fly out and rescue her.’ I lowered myself into Lucas’s new and very posh car. ‘But it’s going to be very strange without her.’
This was certainly true, for without Mum, the whole household wilted. It was like the occasions when she had one of her famous depressions; the spirit of the house seemed to die. Everyone went about their business as usual, but — to use Mum’s favourite word — the fun seemed to have gone out of everything. Greta went round looking tragic, the ready tears even nearer the surface than usual; Call Me Bill grumbled because he had to iron his own shirts (Greta refused); and the Lodger, a peevish little man with no sense of humour, complained that there didn’t seem to be anyone in charge (there wasn’t). Richard popped in from time to time ‘to cheer us up’ with recitals on his ukulele (these proved counterproductive); and as for New Dog (not so new now, with arthritis and an increasingly unreliable temper), he took it upon himself to guard Mum’s bedroom, lying in the doorway and growling at anyone who came near him. He allowed me to step over him to change the sheets and give the room an airing, but he bit Greta’s ankle when she tried to gain access.
‘New Dog iss nasty cross animal,’ she complained, when I escorted her to the doctor for a tetanus injection. ‘Time he put down, I think.’
‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ I told her. ‘Mum would never forgive you.’
In any case, I was fond of New Dog, and I was also sorry for him. Mum was his friend and his rescuer, his protector and his companion. As far as he was concerned, she had always been there, and he was quite naturally upset and confused by her sudden disappearance.
Over the weeks, we received a series of postcards from various parts of Greece. Some of these were of the cheery wish-you-were-here variety (although I very much doubt that she wished any of us were there; we would only have spoiled her fun); others were wistful and occasionally even homesick. But on the whole she appeared to be enjoying herself. She had, she told us, met ‘lots of interesting people’, she knew several phrases of Greek, and was now adept at Greek dancing.
‘What is she doing?’ Lucas asked, when he called in to hear news of her progress. ‘There’s only so much time you can spend doing holiday things. What is she actually doing out there? Does she plan to stay there forever, or what?’
‘I’ve no idea. I hope not.’ New Dog wasn’t the only one who was missing Mum.
‘Well, I think she’s being very irresponsible.’
‘Oh Lucas, Mum’s always been irresponsible. In any case, doesn’t she deserve a break? She’s never really had a holiday before, and we’re managing OK without her. And it’s hardly affecting you. You don’t even live here any more.’
‘That’s not the point. Besides, the baby’s due in six weeks. Doesn’t she care about her new grandchild?’
I imagined that few things were further from Mum’s mind than Gracie’s baby, but I decided not to say anything. Lucas wouldn’t understand.
Meanwhile, I had been spending my own inheritance. I had found a small attic bedsit with lots of light and stunning views. It was exactly what I’d had in mind as a studio, and while it was hardly big enough to live in all the time, there was a gas ring, a shared bathroom, and room for a narrow bed. I painted it white, put up blinds rather than curtains and furnished it from a second-hand shop in the village. The effect was clean and simple and airy, and best of all, it was mine. Greta approved of it, Call Me Bill brought me a bottle of wine to celebrate, and Gracie disliked it on sight. I knew I’d done the right thing.
Mum returned after an absence of eight weeks, unannounced and unexpected, brown and cheerful and full of news, the most interesting of which was that she had blown all her money.
‘What, all of it?’ I asked. ‘You’ve spent all your money?’
‘Every penny.’ Mum opened a bottle of ouzo which she’d brought home with her, and poured everyone a glass, while New Dog bounced and wagged at her feet in a frenzy of delighted welcome.
‘But Mum, that was your chance to save something for — well, for —’
‘Exactly. For what? No, Cass. I wanted to enjoy it, and I have. I never expected it or asked for it, I’ve had a wonderful time, and now it’s gone. I’d probably have wasted it anyway.’ She grinned. ‘You know I’ve never been any good with money.’
‘I don’t know what Lucas will say.’
‘Then we shan’t tell him.’ Mum knocked back her ouzo. Obviously she’d been practising. Personally, I thought it was revolting.
‘At least you’re back in time for the baby.’
‘Oh yes. Gracie’s baby. How is she?’
‘The same.’
‘Iss fat,’ said Greta helpfully.
‘Is she still making a fuss?’ Gracie had been making very heavy weather of what had been on the whole a pretty uneventful pregnancy, and Mum had little sympathy with her.
‘Oh yes. You’d think that no one had ever had a baby before.’
‘Poor Lucas.’ Mum grimaced. ‘And you, Cass. How’ve you been?’
‘I’ve bought this gorgeous studio! You’ve got to come and see it.’
The next day, Mum visited my little attic.
‘A garret. A real garret. Oh, Cass! How romantic!’
‘Yes. Isn’t it?’
‘You’re not leaving home, are you?’ Mum said, eyeing the bed.
‘Not exactly. But I can sleep here if I need to; if I want to work late. It’ll be a bolt-hole if I need one.’
‘That’s all right, then.’ Mum looked relieved. ‘I’d hate you to leave home, Cass.’
‘I know you would. But Mum, I’ll have to go one day. I can’t live at home forever.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because — because people just don�
��t. I shall be twenty-nine next year. Twenty-nine. It’s time I was a bit more independent.’
‘I don’t see why.’
‘Mum, I’m an adult, with my own friends, my own career. With my pay from the gallery and the sales of my paintings, I may not be rich but I make enough money to live on my own. I don’t know anyone else of my age who lives with their mother.’
‘Are you ashamed of me? Is that it?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mum. It’s got nothing to do with being ashamed. It’s to do with — with how I feel about myself.’
‘And about me?’
‘Well, yes. Perhaps. I think you and I maybe depend on each other more than we ought to. I love you, Mum. You know I do. You’re my best friend. But we need to — separate a bit.’
‘We separated when you were nursing. You were miles away then.’
‘Yes. But I did keep coming home, didn’t I?’
‘To sort me out.’ Mum’s voice was bleak.
‘Well, yes. Sometimes. But also to sort myself out.’
‘So what are you going to do?’ Mum asked, after a pause.
‘Nothing at the moment. I’ve got my studio, and that’s a start. And I’ll just see what happens.’
But of course nothing would happen unless I made it happen, and I could see myself living at home forever unless I took some kind of initiative. Although life on the whole was good, I was feeling increasingly trapped by my situation. On the one hand, there was Mum, who undoubtedly did need me. Even if she felt free to take off to Greece for a couple of months, she did so in the knowledge that I would still be there when she got back, to support her as I had always done. But there was also that other problem; the problem I had carried with me all my adult life and which I felt powerless to address.
Given my circumstances, I suppose it was inevitable that when a man finally did make an appearance, he was to be much older than I was.
And, perhaps also inevitably, married.
Thirty-nine
I have often wondered about that phenomenon by which two people can know each other for some time, and then, quite suddenly, be struck by the same powerful spark of mutual attraction. But so it was with Edward and me.
My art classes had ceased a while ago, but we still saw each other from time to time when he came into the gallery with his paintings. We always passed the time of day, and he was generous with his encouragement when it came to my own work, but it certainly couldn’t be said that we knew each other well; we were acquaintances rather than friends.
He was a softly spoken, gentle man, attractive rather than good-looking, with the stooping demeanour so often adopted by the very tall. Later on, I found it hard to imagine that I had failed to notice anything special about him, although I’d certainly admired and even envied his ability. He favoured oils rather than watercolours, and his stormy skies and blazing sunsets always reminded me of the seascapes of Turner. While my own style was very different, I would have given a great deal to be able to produce paintings as good as Edward’s.
It was Humphrey who observed what was happening almost before I was aware of it myself.
‘I think Edward is becoming rather attached to you,’ he remarked, assembling matches and tobacco and beginning the complicated ritual of the pipe-smoker.
‘And I like him.’ We were having a leisurely cup of coffee in the course of an unusually quiet morning.
Humphrey eyed me thoughtfully.
‘You know what I mean.’
I lowered my eyes, blushing.
‘I thought so.’ Humphrey took a puff of his pipe, and leant back in his chair. ‘Be careful, Cass. That’s all. Just be careful.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I think you know what I mean.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes, Cass. You do.’ He looked at me over his half glasses. ‘I’m very fond of you. I always have been. And I worry about you.’
‘There’s nothing to worry about. I’m fine.’ My voice sounded bright and brittle, and even as I spoke, I knew it would take a lot more than I could manage to pull the wool over Humphrey’s eyes.
‘If you say so. But you’re a vulnerable young woman, and Edward’s — well, let’s just say that there are complications in his life. He’s also a lot older than you. I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret. Either of you.’
‘I haven’t done anything.’
‘Yet.’
‘I — we — haven’t done anything,’ I repeated. ‘And there’s no reason why we should.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do say so.’
‘That’s all right, then.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you can always talk to me, you know.’
‘Yes. I do know. Thank you.’
Afterwards, I thought about what Humphrey had said, and wondered exactly what it was that he had observed. Edward and I had spoken to each other no more than usual, and had spent no time at all on our own together. And if I had recently become acutely aware of his physical presence, of his smile and the tone of his voice when he spoke to me, then I found it hard to believe that anyone else could have noticed. Whatever it was that had developed between us was certainly there, but up until now it was as though it had been lying in wait, unacknowledged, biding its time until one of us should take notice and do something about it.
It wasn’t until a week later that Edward asked me out. ‘Would you care to come for a cup of tea and a bun before you go home? There’s — a picture I’d like to discuss with you.’
‘Yes. Thank you. I’d love to.’
It had been as simple as that. And while I knew that this had nothing to do with a picture and everything to do with Edward and me, it seemed the most natural thing in the world that we should get together like this.
‘Thank you for coming,’ Edward said, over tea and iced buns in the tea shop next door. ‘I thought you might say no.’
‘Why would I say no?’
‘Because — because there’s an attraction between us, and I thought you might think it unwise, I suppose.’
‘There’s nothing unwise about tea and buns,’ I said, licking icing sugar off my fingers.
‘You know what I mean, Cass.’
‘Yes. I suppose I do.’ After all, why else would we have chosen a corner table when the best tables — the ones in the window — were free?
‘You probably don’t know, but I’m married,’ Edward said, after a long pause.
‘I thought you might be, but I wasn’t sure.’
‘So I shouldn’t be doing this at all.’
‘Probably not. But then I suppose neither should I.’
‘Things are — complicated.’ Edward broke his bun into tiny pieces, and arranged them neatly round the edge of his plate. ‘I do care very much for my wife.’
‘Yes.’
‘And I will never tell you she doesn’t understand me.’
‘Good.’ I had never accepted that so many wives didn’t understand their husbands. It had always seemed to me more likely that they understood them only too well.
‘In fact, I shan’t talk about her at all. Except to say that, in a way, we are already separated.’
‘In a way?’
‘I can’t talk about it at the moment. Not yet. But can you just accept that anything — anything we do, you and I, can’t hurt her. That I would never do anything which could cause her pain.’
‘But surely —’
‘Trust me on this, Cass. Please.’ He picked up a fragment of his bun and placed it carefully in the middle of his plate. ‘My wife is — unwell, and in a way, she still needs me. I will always be there for her. She hasn’t anyone else. We have no children.’ He looked up at me, and there was a deep sadness in his face. ‘But we still need to be — discreet, you and I. There are people — family, friends — who might talk. Who might be upset.’ He pushed his plate away. ‘I don’t want this to be spoiled by other people’s gossip. You deserve better than that. I th
ink even I deserve better than that.’
Looking back, it seems extraordinary that Edward and I could have been so frank and taken so much for granted at this early stage in our relationship. But that was one of the things I liked about him. There was no game-playing, no subterfuge, no pretending things were other than they were. He was very fond of me, he wanted a relationship, but he was married; and despite his mention of some kind of separation between him and his wife, the implication was that he and I could probably never be together. He had laid his cards on the table, and it was up to me to decide what I should do about it.
And yet in a way there was no decision to make. It was as though a path had been mapped out for us, and we were compelled to follow it. Right from the beginning, we both accepted it almost without question, together with the complications and problems that it might entail. There was no rosy mist obscuring the future; no feeling of live now, pay later; none of the blind, careless passion which I had been led to expect if ever I were to find love. I believe that we both knew that our relationship would not come without a cost, and that right from the start, we were prepared to pay it.
But of course, although it may not have felt like it at the time, I did have a choice, and I have often wondered how my life would have turned out if I had chosen a different course. Would I have met someone else? Would I ever have found the happiness and fulfilment that was to come? And perhaps above all, was I justified in committing an offence against a woman I had never met and who had certainly done me no harm, even if that woman were to be unaffected by it, as Edward had implied? I shall never know. We make decisions, and we live with the consequences. All I know is that I have never had any regrets.
On our second meeting, Edward drove me out into the country in his battered Morris Minor. It was a beautiful summer’s evening, and we walked along the river bank and stopped at a pub for a drink. Edward didn’t take my hand, and the only contact we had was when I nearly slipped in some mud, and he placed a hand on my arm to steady me.
We sat outside with our drinks, watching the ducks and swans drifting by among the reeds, and the reflections of the pale green boughs of willow arching into the water. I stole glances at Edward’s big capable hands cradling his beer glass, his profile turned towards the river, the crinkle of tanned skin around his blue eyes, the slightly too long hair lapping his collar.
The Frances Garrood Collection Page 23
