The Second Life of Sally Mottram

by David Nobbs

  So Sally had stood in the cold at the gate of ‘Ambleside’, and had endured the unpleasant experience of watching two people discussing her, and wondering what had been said when Peter Sparling had shaken his head, and when PC Cartwright had suddenly turned round to have a look at her by the gate.

  Then they had shaken hands and Peter had come striding over the cut grass.

  ‘Sally! Sally! I am so sorry,’ he’d said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Come in. Come in.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you.’

  ‘Will you be all right, lovey?’ PC Cartwright had asked.

  ‘I’ll be fine. Thank you.’

  Sally was going to be brave. She wasn’t even going to be upset by this woman she had never met before calling her ‘lovey’.

  ‘We’ll come and let you know when it’s all right to go back.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Not long, I wouldn’t think.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Purely routine, lovey.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Myfanwy and Peter Sparling had made Sally comfortable by the roaring fire, and had plied her with gin and tonic. Myfanwy, who talked like a mountain stream, had found more words for ‘sorry’ than most people even knew. Sally had told them of PC Cartwright’s confusion over Kenneth. They’d had to laugh. In fact Sally had laughed too, and in that charged moment the laughter had become hysterical, and then, just as the laughter had died, Kenneth had farted, and none of them had been able to look at each other. They had controlled themselves heroically, and in the flat silence that always follows hysterics, Peter and Myfanwy had apologized for laughing, and Sally had said, ‘No, please. I wanted you to laugh. That’s why I told you. Life must go on.’

  And she had thought, ‘Must it?’ Back home all alone now she recalled that moment and she thought, ‘Must it? But how? How can it?’

  After that, they had talked soberly. The Sparlings had raised Barry to something only just short of a saint, the question of why he had done it had been raised but not answered, and Sally had said, ‘But why didn’t he leave a note?’ with such force that even Myfanwy had made no attempt to provide a facile answer. Sally had seen that Myfanwy was very close to tears, the easy yet genuine tears of South Wales. Myfanwy had lowered the emotional tension but only slightly by saying, ‘I can’t believe that only … what would it be? … four hours ago … Peter and you were talking quite casually having no idea what had happened. I can’t get my head round it.’ And then they had reminisced about a trip the four of them had made to Whitby for fish and chips at the Magpie, and they had agreed that they should have done that sort of thing more often, but you don’t know what’s going to happen, do you? That’s right, you don’t. Just as well, perhaps. And Peter had said, ‘I can’t get my head round it either, Sally. There we were, you and I, talking about the weather …’ a frown had passed across his face as he’d remembered Sally’s strange comment about lightning and tsunamis ‘… and we had no idea what had happened,’ and all the time Sally had been wondering, underneath the talk and the socializing and the memories and the gin and tonic and the log fire, how far they had got at ‘The Larches’, whether they had taken Barry down yet.

  Father Time is a playful patriarch. Sally would have said that they had been sitting there for two hours at least, but it turned out that it had only been just over an hour before PC Cartwright had come to tell her that it was all right for her to go home.

  She hadn’t wanted to have to talk any more. There was nothing anybody could do. The rest of her life was up to her now, though of course she had no idea of the immense consequences of that thought. But she hadn’t liked to leave straight away. Even at this dreadful moment that would have seemed like a betrayal of the social code here in the posh end of Potherthwaite.

  At last she had decided that it would be all right to leave. The Sparlings had insisted on escorting her home, and she had been glad of that. The street lamps in Oxford Road were few and dim, and there was no chance of the moon breaking through the thick motionless clouds.

  They had offered to come in. They had invited her to collect a few things and go back and stay with them for the night, and she had known that they had meant it most sincerely. It had been tempting, and she had very nearly agreed.

  Now that she stood, all alone in her sitting room, all alone in the house, she felt hugely grateful to the Sparlings, but she would resist the temptation to go back. She could hardly bear to stay in the house on her own, though. Was there anywhere else she could go?

  Of course there was.

  There was even a place to which she wanted to go.

  There was a place to which she must go.

  FOUR

  A lovely evening

  Olive’s heart sank at the sight of the dining table. Jill had laid it beautifully, and it was lit by two tall candles in handsome, gleaming candlesticks. The room was quite small, with pale green wallpaper. Smart red curtains covered the French windows that led to the back garden. There were six decanters on the sideboard. She would never match this.

  She caught Arnold’s glance and had an uneasy feeling that he could read her mind.

  She didn’t like the starter, which was a peach stuffed with a mixture of yoghourt and mild spices. She didn’t like peaches or yoghourt, she didn’t like mixtures, and she didn’t like mild spices, although she didn’t dislike them as much as she disliked spices that weren’t mild. It crossed her mind that they would need to find a good doctor pretty quickly. She would miss Dr Renwick. She hoped Harry wouldn’t ask them who their doctor was. They would have to go to him, if he did, and she didn’t want the state of her kidneys to become public knowledge throughout the cul-de-sac.

  ‘This is just something rustled up from the store cupboard,’ said Jill.

  ‘It’s delicious,’ said Olive. ‘How clever of you to be able to rustle things up.’

  Harry gave her his ‘don’t overdo the compliments, it’s a form of running yourself down’ frown, and of course, now that she had said it was delicious, she would have to eat every mouthful.

  ‘I always eat slowly when I love things,’ she said.

  Harry gave her his ‘when you’re in a hole, don’t dig’ frown.

  The others had finished. She could hardly get it down. To help herself get through it she thought back to that brief romance forty-eight years ago. Well, not so brief. A few months. But a few months in which they’d had so much shyness and ignorance to overcome, so many inhibitions to let out, that it had never reached its climax, or any climax. She wondered what her life would have been like if she had married Arnold. She wasn’t attracted to him now. She couldn’t imagine life with him. She felt that she ought to say something, and was on the point of asking him if he’d ever been back to Cheltenham, when she realized that this question would have let the cat well and truly out of the bag.

  In their brief, urgent, almost whispered chat, back in the chandeliered lounge, while Harry had helped Jill fix the drinks, after consideration of the fact that it was a small world, after the horrified realization that they had last seen each other forty-eight years ago, after the lies about how kindly time had treated them, Arnold had made it clear that he didn’t want to tell Jill and Harry about it. She had thought this unwise. There was nothing to hide, so why hide it? She would have been horrified if she had known his reason, which was partly mere laziness and dislike of emotion past, present or future, but also at least a touch of shame. Olive was not now a trophy about whom one would boast.

  At last, in the chandeliered dining room, she had finished her starter. She smiled at the company. It was evident to them that the smile was hard work.

  ‘Delicious,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll get the main course.’

  Harry and Olive both realized that Arnold wouldn’t lift a finger. He’d been Head of History for twenty-nine years, after all. The fact that there had only ever been one other teacher in the department, and he had been eithe
r on work experience or a supply teacher, was of no account. Arnold had gone down in history as Head of History. He had thought it a great job in this modern world – to be paid to live in the past.

  Harry waited a few seconds – he was not entirely insensitive, despite what people said – and called out, ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Thank you,’ called out Jill from the kitchen.

  Harry hurried off, and a curious thing happened. Both Arnold and Olive realized that they had nothing whatsoever to say to each other. They couldn’t analyse their months of ‘walking out’ as it had been called in those distant days. It had been enjoyable, they had both felt romantic at times, but nothing worth recalling had happened. Do you remember the day we got the dates mixed up and went to the wrong film? Do you remember that French restaurant where we didn’t know what globe artichokes were and had to be shown how to eat them? Do you remember when I snagged my stockings on the door of the taxi? It was not the stuff of rich reminiscence.

  Nor was ‘So what have you been up to?’ likely to yield a great harvest.

  When I qualified as a teacher I taught history in Hereford and then in Hartlepool, where I met Jill. Shortly after that I was appointed Head of Department here, and remained it till I retired. I’m writing the definitive book on the history of Potherthwaite, which is also the only book on the history of Potherthwaite.

  I was Harry’s secretary. He was fun. He was good-looking. He had hair in those days. We married young, had three children, all of whom have done just about OK. I stayed as Harry’s secretary. He was in and out of things, no one else could understand his affairs. His business affairs, I mean. He’s never had the other kind. Well, as far as I know. No time. We’ve lived in nine houses. Harry has a boat. I hate boats.

  None of that was worth going into, so they didn’t go into it. But the curious part of it was that in not having anything to say they found common ground. They hoped Harry and Jill would take at least a few minutes; they were restful together.

  And Arnold smiled. Olive could have had no idea just how rare his smiles had become – there hadn’t been many in Cheltenham, but lately there had been very, very few. But when she saw that smile, just a little frisson of regret passed through her, and she understood for the first time what Jill had once seen in him.

  The smile emboldened her to ask a question.

  ‘Don’t you think we should tell them? Wouldn’t it be easier? Don’t you think if we don’t we’ll be treading on eggshells?’

  ‘Don’t forget I was a history teacher, Olive,’ he replied.

  Somehow I don’t think there’s any danger of that, thought Olive.

  ‘If we tell them, it becomes part of our shared knowledge, it lives on in all our memories and will become a part of our common experience. If we don’t tell them it will remain a piece of history. It will fade.’

  ‘Do you want it to fade?’ Olive was surprised by her boldness.

  Arnold paused, thinking carefully what to say.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ he said. ‘It was good then, but there’s no point in its being part of our lives now. It has no relevance.’

  ‘I’m not good at secrets. I almost mentioned Cheltenham earlier.’

  ‘It’s fresh in our minds. It’ll fade. The whole thing will be forgotten. Shh. They’re coming.’

  Harry was carrying a huge dish, which he plonked on a mat on the table. Jill brought a smaller bowl.

  ‘That smells lovely,’ said Olive.

  ‘Just a casserole. The old standby,’ said Jill.

  ‘Lovely,’ said Olive.

  ‘Haven’t you even poured more wine, Arnold?’ said Jill.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Arnold, looking anything but sorry. ‘The host fails in his duty yet again.’

  He stood up, lifted the white wine bottle, poured a small amount into Olive’s glass.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Olive. ‘Lovely. I can’t drink red, I’m afraid.’

  Harry gave her his ‘don’t advertise your shortcomings’ frown.

  Arnold poured regrettably small amounts of red wine into Harry and Jill’s glasses, and nothing into his own.

  As she served the food, Jill told them that Harry had been chatting about his boat.

  ‘What sort of boat?’ asked Arnold.

  ‘Oh, are you interested in boats?’ said Harry.

  ‘Not remotely,’ said Arnold. ‘I was trying to please Jill by being proactive in the conversation, as a good host should. It seems I’ve chalked up another failure.’

  ‘Don’t be disagreeable, darling,’ said Jill. ‘And you still haven’t told us what sort of boat it is?’

  ‘She’s a thirty-foot yawl,’ said Harry.

  Arnold and Jill hadn’t any idea what a thirty-foot yawl was.

  ‘Tell Arnold what you said, Harry,’ said Jill.

  ‘I said that I’ve got to bring her round from Emsworth, that’s where I keep her. Olive doesn’t sail.’

  ‘I tried,’ interrupted Olive, ‘but I got very sick.’

  Harry gave her his ‘I think you’re forgetting the frown I gave you a few minutes ago’ frown.

  ‘So Harry suggested, because it’s a big ask to do it on his own, that I help bring her round to somewhere nearer. That’s all.’

  ‘Quick work!’ gleamed Arnold.

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Arnold,’ said Jill. ‘We’re talking boats, not sex. I love you, God knows why sometimes.’

  ‘This is lovely,’ said Olive. ‘Spicy.’

  ‘I’ve told you you should put more herbs in your stews,’ said Harry.

  ‘I have to ask you this,’ said Jill. ‘Arnold’s life has been here and we’ve grown to like it, in a funny sort of way, but what’s brought you here from … where was it?’

  ‘Emsworth. Chichester Harbour. Near Chichester, not surprisingly. Family.’

  ‘Oh, you have family in Potherthwaite?’

  ‘No. We have family in Emsworth.’ Harry laughed. Jill tried to laugh. Olive smiled faintly. Arnold’s face didn’t flicker. ‘Just joking. No, we have a son and two daughters within thirty or so miles of here, all in different directions. I got the old map and compass out and, believe it or not, the most equidistant place was right here in Potherthwaite, and I said to Olive, we’ve got to start somewhere, let’s start there. And this house came up and, Bob’s your uncle, here we are.’

  ‘And how nice that is,’ said Jill. ‘Isn’t it, Arnold?’

  ‘It’s providence,’ said Arnold dryly.

  ‘Well, don’t expect too much,’ said Jill. ‘The town is in the doldrums, if I can put it that way to a sailing man.’

  ‘Maybe we can help to take it out of the doldrums,’ said Harry.

  Jill gave him a look.

  ‘Do you mean that?’ she said.

  Harry shrugged.

  ‘Not really, I was just making conversation really,’ he said, ‘but no, if there are things going on, count us in. Eh, Olive? Mustn’t let the grass grow under our feet.’

  Olive didn’t even bother to reply to this absurd suggestion. To imagine that she wanted to be counted in to anything! And the only thing to do with grass was to let it grow under your feet. That was the whole point of grass. She took another mouthful. It was far too spicy for her.

  ‘I know you taught history, Arnold …’ began Harry.

  ‘Head of History for twenty-nine years.’

  ‘Quite. But what was it you said you did at the hospital, Jill?’

  ‘Jill was the big noise in the endoscopy department,’ said Arnold.

  Olive found herself crunching on a chilli. She wanted to spit it out. How could she?

  ‘Some said she was the endoscopy department. What she doesn’t know about the large intestine isn’t worth knowing.’

  Olive gasped, retched, put her hand over her mouth and rushed out of the room.

  Harry jumped up.

  ‘She won’t know where it is,’ he said. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘At the end of the corridor, last door on the right,’ said Jill.r />
  Harry rushed out, followed by Jill. There was no sign of Olive.

  She emerged slowly from the last door on the left.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Wrong room. I’m afraid I’ve thrown up all over your vacuum cleaner.’

  ‘Will you be all right,’ said Jill, ‘or should I ring Dr Parker? That’s our doctor. Marvellous doctor.’

  ‘No, no, I’ll be all right now,’ said Olive. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Dr Parker. We’ll need a doctor. We must sign on with him, mustn’t we, Olive?’ said Harry.

  ‘Her,’ said Jill.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s a her.’

  ‘Better still. That’s marvellous, isn’t it, Olive?’ said Harry.

  ‘Lovely,’ said Olive. ‘I’m so sorry, Jill. It’s a top-of-the-range Dyson too.’

  FIVE

  The Fazackerly sisters

  It wasn’t pleasant walking along Oxford Road in the dark – it was very inadequately lit – but she didn’t trust herself to drive the car. She knew that she was still in shock. Besides, she’d had quite a lot of gin and tonic with the Sparlings.

  She walked past ‘Mount Teidi’ – the Hammonds tried to live in Tenerife even when they were in Potherthwaite. Barry had joked that their house should have been named Mount Tidy.

  Barry would never joke again.

  She hesitated outside ‘Ambleside’. It was tempting to call in, so tempting.

  No, she must be strong.

  Why? Why on earth should she be strong? She walked towards their gate, even reached out for the latch.

  But she walked on. She hesitated in the pool of yellow light from each street lamp, then plunged on into the darkness of the Potherthwaite night.

  A girl ran out of the drive of Dr Mallet’s house and nearly collided with her. Sally’s heart almost stopped. The girl looked terrified too, and the large vase she was carrying slipped out of her hands in her shock. She grabbed for the vase at incredible speed, got her arms round it, gained control of it just before it hit the ground, and ran off with it at a great pace. Sally had a vision of golden hair and a very slim body.