The Frances Garrood Collection

by Frances Garrood

“They’re behind the clock on the mantelpiece, where you left them yesterday. Mother, I really need you to tell me. How did you know about Clifford?” For if her mother had managed to find out about her affair, then maybe other people had, too. Perhaps she hadn’t been as careful as she had imagined.

  “Told you. I’ve always known. Oh — there they are. That’s better.” Maudie gave Mavis a gleaming porcelain smile. “Am I going to confession?”

  “Mother, you went last week. There’s no need to go again yet. Now, about Clifford.”

  “Oh, him.” Maudie sniffed.

  “Yes. Him. How do you know about him?”

  “I hear things,” Maudie said enigmatically. “Got my hearing aid, haven’t I?”

  “Then why didn’t you say anything before?”

  “What’s to say?” Maudie shuffled over to her favourite armchair, dragging her catheter bag behind her. “Anything on the telly?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. It’s only eight o’clock.”

  “That problem woman. She’ll be on. I like her. She does DNA and all sorts.”

  “It’s Saturday. I don’t think she’s on on Saturdays. It’ll probably be cartoons.”

  “Those’ll do.” Maudie sat down. “Have I had breakfast?”

  “You had porridge.”

  “I don’t like porridge.”

  “Well, you ate it.”

  “Without my teeth?”

  “You said you didn’t need teeth for porridge.”

  “Did I? What did I have on it?”

  “Brown sugar. Look, Mother, it’s really important to me, I need to know how you found out about Clifford, and I want to know how much you heard.”

  “When?”

  “Last night. When those — those friends of mine were here.”

  “You had a party,” Maudie said. “Didn’t ask me, did you? Nice people, though. I liked that — that what’s her name? With all the rings and things.”

  “Gabs?”

  “That’s the one. The tart.”

  “Mother!”

  “Well, that’s what she is. She told me so herself. Turn the telly on, would you, dear?”

  “I’ll turn the telly on when you answer my question,” Mavis said.

  “What question?”

  “About Clifford.”

  “Who’s Clifford?”

  Mavis sighed. Conversations with her mother frequently went like this. One minute Maudie would remember things quite clearly; the next, they’d be forgotten again. Mavis could never be entirely sure whether her mother was playing games; she was quite capable of feigning forgetfulness if it suited her. But now, she could tell from Maudie’s expression that the conversation of a few minutes ago had been forgotten and that to persevere would be a waste of time.

  Mr. Strong’s Gentlemen’s Outfitters, being an old-fashioned shop, closed after lunch on Saturdays, so after Mavis had made Maudie a sandwich and settled her for her afternoon nap, Clifford picked her up in his car for one of their rare afternoons out together.

  She could tell straight away that there was something bothering him.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked as soon as they were out of sight of the house.

  “Well, I don’t suppose it’s anything much really, but I’ve been getting this pain in my chest.”

  “Have you seen a doctor?”

  “Not yet. I’ve made an appointment for next week. But chest pain’s always worrying, isn’t it?”

  Yes, thought Mavis wearily. And so is a persistent cough, pain in the legs, lassitude, and headaches, all of which had afflicted Clifford in the last few months. Since his retirement, Clifford had become a hypochondriac. Whether it was because he no longer had enough to occupy his mind or because several of his friends had recently died, Mavis didn’t know. But while she tried to be sympathetic, Clifford’s preoccupation with his health was beginning to get just a tiny bit boring.

  He spent a great deal of time on the internet looking up various diseases and had self-diagnosed, among other things, heart disease, cancer, brain tumours, and a rare condition with a long German name that even he couldn’t remember. All these fears had proved groundless, and Mavis was beginning to lose patience. They had little enough time together as it was, and now much of that was taken up with Clifford and his health concerns.

  “Yes,” Clifford continued, warming to his subject. “My great-uncle died of a heart attack, so you see it runs in the family.”

  Mavis doubted whether the illness of a single great-uncle (who probably smoked, because in those days, didn’t everyone?) could be said to constitute a risk to the rest of his family for all time, but decided not to say so.

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine,” she said lamely.

  “No one can be sure,” Clifford told her.

  “Well, no one can be sure of anything. But your blood pressure’s okay, isn’t it? And your cholesterol?”

  “That’s no guarantee.”

  “Of course not. But you’re pretty fit —” Clifford had recently bought a rowing machine— “and you eat all the right things.”

  “But,” said Clifford, who was not to be deterred from the matter in hand, “you read about people dropping dead when they’ve just run a marathon, don’t you? You just can’t tell.”

  “Cliff, can we talk about something else now? After all, there’s nothing you can do about it at the moment, and this is our precious afternoon together.”

  “Aren’t you concerned, then?”

  “I’d be concerned if there really was something wrong with you, but we don’t know yet, do we?”

  “I’d be concerned if it were you,” Clifford said rather plaintively.

  “Yes, I’m sure you would.”

  But Mavis wasn’t sure. It occurred to her, not for the first time, that Clifford was becoming increasingly self-centred. She realised that this was partly her fault. She had always given in to him, letting him have his own way and allowing him to make the decisions, simply because it was easier. But there were times when she too wanted attention, when she also would like her feelings to be considered. Such occasions were becoming increasingly rare.

  She decided to change the subject.

  “Are we going to Dennis’s?” she asked. Dennis was a friend of Clifford’s who worked abroad for much of the year. In his absences, Clifford kept an eye on his flat for him. While she had never met Dennis, Mavis suspected that Dennis knew exactly what purpose the flat was used for in his absence, but chose to turn a blind eye. Clifford, who could be very naïve, maintained that Dennis had no idea. They didn’t tend to use the flat except for the purposes of lovemaking because it was some distance away. It was also very cold.

  “I’m sorry, darling,” Clifford said now. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. Until we know my heart’s all right, I think we should lay off for a while.”

  This had happened during both the cancer and the brain tumour scares, and Mavis was both annoyed and disappointed.

  “You do understand, don’t you?” Clifford continued. “It would be awful if something went wrong, wouldn’t it?”

  Mavis had a brief and horrifying image of herself and Clifford, locked together in that most embarrassing of clinches, being loaded onto a stretcher to be disentangled (and in Clifford’s case, treated) in the hospital. But it only lasted a few seconds.

  “I think it’s worth the risk,” she said boldly.

  “Mavis, I can’t believe you said that.” Clifford pulled into a side street and switched off the engine, turning a reproachful gaze upon her. “You must see that my health is important. To both of us.”

  “A bit too important,” Mavis said, surprising even herself. “What about me? What about my health?”

  “Why? What’s wrong with you?”

  “Well, nothing at the moment, but —”

  “There you are, then. There’s nothing to worry about, is there?”

  “Maybe not. But I’d like to feel you were just a bit interested.”

 
“Of course I’m interested!”

  “Well, at times it certainly doesn’t feel like it.”

  “Funny. That’s what Dorothy said.”

  Mavis felt a brief moment of solidarity with Dorothy. If it was difficult having an affair with a hypochondriac, it must be even harder being married to one.

  “So, what are we going to do?” Mavis asked.

  “Well, I thought perhaps a walk? The fresh air might do me good.”

  It was a cold, damp day, the billowing grey clouds pregnant with rain, and there was a bitter wind.

  “Well, it wouldn’t do me good,” Mavis said. “And I haven’t got the right shoes.” Only the right knickers, she thought bleakly. New French knickers, bought specially for the occasion as a treat for Clifford, who had a fondness for such things (Mavis herself found them rather draughty). “If that’s all you can suggest, I think you’d better take me home.”

  “What, already?”

  “Yes. Already.”

  Mavis knew she would probably regret her decision, for she was scotching the possibility of salvaging anything pleasurable from the wreckage of their afternoon, but she was seriously annoyed.

  “Well, this is great, isn’t it?” Clifford said as they drove off again. “I make the time to come all this way over to pick you up, and you ask to be taken home again just because I won’t — because we can’t go to Dennis’s. What a waste of an afternoon!”

  “I’d rather be at home than walking about in the cold listening to you going on about your health,” Mavis said.

  “Oh, that’s how you feel, is it? Well, I wish you’d told me before!”

  “So do I,” said Mavis with feeling.

  “What are you trying to say exactly?”

  “I’m trying to say that I’m sick and tired of hearing about your health problems. For years I’ve accepted that I have to come second to your wife and family, but I will not play second fiddle to an imaginary heart condition!”

  “Oh, so it’s imaginary, is it?”

  “Quite probably.”

  “You’re an expert, then?”

  “Not on heart conditions, no. But I know you pretty well.”

  “That’s what you think,” said Clifford, swerving violently. “Now look what you made me do! I nearly ran over that cat!”

  “It’s not my fault if you aren’t looking where you’re going.”

  “So you’re an expert driver, as well?”

  “I would be if you’d let me.”

  This was a sore point. When Clifford and Mavis had first got together all those years ago, he’d promised to teach her to drive. Like so many of his promises, it had come to nothing, and Mavis had never got round to making alternative arrangements. This of course was largely her fault; she could easily have obtained driving lessons elsewhere. But the fact that she was responsible for her nondriving status served only to inflame her resentment, for there are few things more infuriating than finding that you are to blame for the situation in which you find yourself.

  “You’re probably too old now, anyway,” Clifford said.

  “Too old for what?”

  “Too old to learn to drive.”

  “Clifford, that was a horrible, cruel thing to say!”

  “The truth hurts,” said Clifford comfortably.

  “Oh, so the truth hurts, does it? Well, try this for truth.” Mavis was getting into her stride. “You are becoming an old, fat bore. You seem to think of nothing and no one but yourself. And I’ve had enough of it!”

  There was a stunned silence.

  “Did you say I was old?” Clifford said after a moment.

  “Yes, I did. You’re a lot older than I am, and you say I’m too old to learn to drive. That definitely makes you old.”

  “And fat?”

  “Yes. Just look at your beer belly!”

  “And a bore?” There was a dangerous note in Clifford’s voice.

  There is a moment in a row — especially one that has been building up for some time — when suddenly there are no holds barred. All the ammunition comes out of the arsenal, and to hell with the consequences. The satisfaction for the combatants is as brief as it is deep.

  Mavis was aware of all this, but there was no going back now, and so she might as well enjoy the moment (if enjoy was the right word). It was years — literally — since she and Clifford had had a row, and this one was long overdue.

  “Yes. Just listen to yourself. Headaches, chest pain, indigestion… There’s always something to complain about. Have you any idea how deeply boring it is having to listen to you?”

  “It must be, for someone with your sparkling personality,” said Clifford, driving much too fast. “And there’s your dazzling career, of course, too. We mustn’t forget that. And if we’re talking about looks, you’re perfect, I suppose? You haven’t a grey hair on your head, have you? And you probably think you’ve got the body of a supermodel, too. Lucky me. What have I done to deserve you?”

  “How dare you!” Mavis cried. “You’ve enjoyed my body for years — you’ve said so often enough — and as for age, well, you — you stole my youth, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, please! Don’t be so bloody melodramatic. I never stole anything. You gave yourself to me of your own free will. I always promised to leave Dorothy —”

  “Oh, Dorothy! Yes. I forgot. All those empty promises. How many years is it now? You were never going to leave Dorothy, were you? You were lying all along!”

  The row raged all the way back to Mavis’s front door, where Clifford drew up with a screeching of brakes. He didn’t get out to open the car door for her (Clifford’s manners were usually impeccable), and so Mavis had to make her exit unaided. As she straightened up, an icy little breeze found its way up her skirt and into the French knickers, reminding her of past treats and present disappointment and further fuelling her anger. She slammed the door.

  “So that’s it, is it?” Clifford yelled through the open car window.

  “That’s it,” said Mavis, getting out her house keys.

  For a moment, their words hung suspended like breath in the cold air between them, waiting for someone to reach out and rescue them, to make everything all right again. Mavis knew that this was a make-or-break moment, but she couldn’t bring herself to climb down, and she was pretty sure that Clifford wouldn’t, either.

  “Goodbye, then,” said Clifford.

  “Goodbye.”

  As she stood on the doorstep feeling the first fat drops of rain down the back of her neck and watching Clifford’s car sweep off down the road, Mavis thought that she might be going to cry, but she was relieved when the moment passed. It would be a shame to risk red swollen eyes and a headache for Clifford. He wasn’t worth it.

  Her mood was not improved when she found that in her absence, Maudie, most unusually, had got out of bed and had been busy in the kitchen. This had happened only once before and was possibly due to the after-effects of last night’s wine, but today it was the last straw. Much of the kitchen and Maudie herself were covered with flour and jam and butter, and several items of crockery appeared to have been smashed. The cat, who was rarely discomfited, had taken refuge on top of a cupboard.

  “What are you doing?” Mavis demanded.

  “Making a little pie, dear. Your father likes a little pie when he comes home from work.”

  “Mother, Father has been dead for eighteen years.”

  “Has he, dear?” Maudie’s eyes filled with tears. “Why did no one tell me?”

  “They did tell you. There was a big funeral. Remember?”

  “Did we have cooked meats afterwards?”

  “Yes, we had cooked meats afterwards.” Mavis fetched a dustpan and brush and began clearing up the mess.

  “And flowers?”

  “And flowers.”

  Maudie cheered up a little. “Well, that’s good.”

  “Yes.” Mavis tipped the last shards of china into the bin and filled a bowl with soapy water.

  Maudie s
huffled towards her, leaving floury footprints in her wake. “Is it time to go to confession?”

  “We are not going to confession! I am going to clean you up, and this mess, and then you are going to go and watch television while I make supper.”

  Maudie’s face crumpled.

  “You shouted at me,” she said in a bewildered little-girl voice. “Mavis, you shouted at me!”

  “Oh, Mother, I’m sorry.” Mavis immediately regretted her outburst. “I’m so sorry. I’ve just had an awful afternoon. I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

  “Is it because of Father?” Maudie asked.

  “No. It’s because of — Clifford.”

  “Who’s Clifford?”

  “My man friend.”

  “What man friend?” Maudie licked raspberry jam off her fingers and then wiped them on her cardigan.

  “Oh, never mind.” For it seemed that the existence of Clifford had still not returned to Maudie’s befuddled brain.

  Mavis was surprised to find that she was disappointed. For if Maudie really did know about Clifford, then it would have been nice to talk about the afternoon’s row, to gain a little sympathy and, if not some understanding (understanding was not Maudie’s strong point these days), at least a little support. But this was obviously not to be.

  That night, after she had put her mother to bed, Mavis was once more overwhelmed with rage and grief. How could Clifford have said all those awful, hurtful things? How could he? After all she’d done, all she’d been through for him, all she had sacrificed. She thought of the years she had given to Clifford, of her youth and such physical attributes as she had once had; all, all had been Clifford’s. Her body had been entirely his, for she had had no other lover, and she very much doubted whether anyone new would want it now. Her fertility, too. That had been wasted on Clifford. As she undressed for bed, she took off the pretty camisole, the stockings, the suspender belt — all garments that had been bought to please Clifford rather than herself. The knickers were a particularly cruel reminder of the events of the afternoon, and in another moment of fury, Mavis ripped them to shreds and stuffed the filmy pink fragments in her wastepaper basket.

  But while she tried to keep her anger stoked up with memories of Clifford’s faults, his many virtues kept creeping into her mind to spoil her mood. Clifford’s chivalry, his compliments, and his loyalty — all these came to the surface of Mavis’s mind. For she knew that the things he had said had been spoken in anger and that he probably hadn’t meant them. And if he had been unreasonable, she had undoubtedly been the one to start the row.