‘No, she’s with the Passchendaele Sisters,’ she said, in her softly spoken, high-pitched voice.
Tom was about to ask what she was talking about but realised he didn’t really care. ‘Bluebeard? Is he here?’
‘No need to call him that. I haven’t seen him for a few days. Can I get you a tea?’
He remembered her choice of herbal tea and shook his head. ‘So what exactly are you playing at, Rachel?’ The black cat sauntered in, purring to itself.
‘Sorry, what do you mean?’
‘Come on, you know damn well, cosy chats with Julie, gossiping with Adrian.’
She grinned. ‘Well, you know, I thought it’d be nice to see her again.’ Her voice seemed squeakier than normal.
Tom decided to sit down after all. The cat made a beeline for him and rubbed against his legs, arching its back. ‘What, old friends together, that sort of thing?’
‘Yes, why? What’s wrong?’
‘Julie’s not stupid, you know. You were hardly friends in the first place, so why now, all of a sudden?’
Rachel stood still, her head tilted to one side. ‘Because,’ she said slowly, ‘she doesn’t deserve you.’
‘What? What’s that meant to mean? Is that why you went round for a cup of coffee?’ She nodded. Tom stared at her, his mouth open. ‘Oh God, what did you tell her? There’s nothing to... Oh, you didn’t, did you? About Lewisham?’
‘Well... sort of. Charlotte came back.’
‘Oh, for f... You mean, seriously, you told her about a drunken kiss? A one-off?’ Rachel made no response, merely pulled on an earring. ‘Please tell me you didn’t.’ She nodded her head. Tom rolled his eyes. ‘For Christ’s sake, Rachel, what are you playing at? You make out to Adrian as if it’s still going on, and now you’re bent on telling my wife. You’re talking about my marriage here, what gives you the right to mess it up?’
In an instant, Rachel’s coy tone of voice disappeared, replaced by venomous derision. ‘I don’t remember you having any reservations when you were kissing me the other day.’
The cat, startled by the sudden rise in volume, darted out of the room.
‘What? I didn’t kiss you; you pecked me on the lips.’
‘Sometimes, Tom Searight, you can be such a coward. You’re so damn spineless.’
‘What?’
‘You didn’t finish it with Julie then and you’re not finishing it now. Your marriage is messed up, has been for years, but you still need someone like me to expose it for the sham it really is.’
Tom screwed up his eyes in puzzlement. ‘What?’
‘She’s having an affair for goodness sake and what have you done about it? Have you confronted her?’
‘No, but–’ He wasn’t prepared to tell her.
‘Exactly. Because you’re worried about what you might learn. Well, perhaps you need to learn the truth. She’s having an affair. What does that tell you, Tom? You can’t just sweep it under the carpet and hope it’ll go away. Something’s wrong and you need to face up to it – but no, you’re too spineless. That’s why I went to see her.’
‘No, no, I’m sorry; I’m still not with you. I got the spineless bit loud and clear, but I’m still none the wiser.’
‘Because telling her – about you and me – would make her realise, both of you realise, how mismatched you two really are. I was trying to bring the inevitable out into the open.’
‘Oh, so you took it upon yourself to play God.’
‘She’s fucking your daughter’s teacher, for pity’s sake. You can’t forgive her for that; you can’t call that a marriage. Don’t you have any pride?’
‘I give it to you, Rachel, there’s a logic in there somewhere, a bloody twisted logic, but a logic nonetheless.’
‘You’ll thank me for it in the end.’
He stared at her incredulously. ‘Not likely. Mind your own bloody business.’
‘How can I, when I know she’s not your destiny? She’s just a fill-in.’
Tom laughed. ‘Is she? We’ve been married fifteen years. That’s one hell of a fill-in. So, come on, Rachel, tell me, where does my destiny lie?’
Rachel sat down at the far end of the settee. She looked at him and said quietly, ‘I think we both know the answer to that.’
Tom scowled at her; did she mean that, did she really think there was still a spark, just because of one kiss? ‘Oh God, you’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?’ he said. ‘Waiting for your chance and then, all of a sudden, it’s there, handed to you on a plate. But you’re wrong, Rachel, you’re so wrong.’
‘But you wouldn’t go back to her after all this, surely?’
‘No, but...’
‘So what do you mean?’ Her voice faltered.
‘I mean, whatever happens between Julie and me, don’t think I’m coming back here, cap in hand.’
Rachel drew her knees together and placed her hands neatly on her lap. ‘But, but I thought...’
‘Christ, it was sixteen years ago. And that kiss, in Lewisham, it was just a laugh, you know that...’
She sprang to her feet again. ‘Oh, was it indeed? Well, I’m pleased you thought it was so amusing. I actually thought I meant something to you, I thought...’
Tom closed his eyes. He’d gone too far. She suddenly looked very small. ‘OK, OK, I’m sorry.’ He stood up. ‘Look, I didn’t mean to be so flippant. You did mean a lot to me, but hell, Rachel, it was a long time ago. When you finished with me, I was upset but I got over it; I sort of presumed you had too.’
She shook her head. ‘I only finished it cos I hoped it would force the issue, make you realise what you were missing.’
‘And now? Do you really think I could do it to Charlotte? I know Abigail’s father walked out on her, but I couldn’t do that. I’m not being spineless; I’m just trying to be a decent father to my daughter.’ Tom surprised himself by the extent of his own sincerity.
She rolled her eyes and smiled ironically. ‘That’s what I mean when I say she doesn’t deserve you; you’re too good for her.’
‘Perhaps.’ Even in the midst of an argument, Rachel could make him feel positive about himself.
‘Well, you’ve made your feelings perfectly clear and now I feel stupid.’ She turned her head to avoid his gaze. ‘Go on, you’d better go. Abigail will be back soon wanting her dinner.’
‘All right. I’m sorry. You sure you’ll be OK?’
She nodded.
‘Will you get Adrian off my back?’ he asked hesitantly, fearing he was pushing his luck too far.
She nodded again. ‘Just go, Tom. Just go,’ she said, softly.
Tom stepped outside and closed the front door gently behind him. He looked at his watch. It would take him ages to get back to Enfield. As he walked down the street, he sighed. He never realised that a passion could lie dormant for so long. He just hoped to God that she wouldn’t try it again.
*
Charlotte sat at the mirror in her bedroom studying her reflection, singing along to ‘Air Hostess’ by Busted. She backcombed her hair, adding copious amounts of hairspray, but still it wouldn’t stay in the style she wanted it to, her hair was just too thin. She’d inherited her mother’s hair and how she hated it. What she really wanted to do was to dye it black, but she knew she lacked the nerve to be so radical.
It felt strange not having her dad around. In fact, more than strange, she hated it; she really missed him. It must’ve been one hell of an argument for him to walk out like that. And so suddenly, no warning whatsoever. And did he walk out, or did Mum kick him out? Maybe their winning numbers had come up on the lottery and Dad had forgotten to buy the ticket. Whatever it was, it must have been serious. And what if Dad didn’t come back? He’d become one of these weekend dads; might be quite cool, actually. Charlotte knew from her friends at school that the weekend dads (and it was rarely, if ever, the mums) always tried to make up for the guilt by buying them loads of presents and taking their kids to places they never went to when
they lived at home. But given the choice, she’d have him back any day.
Charlotte tried on some lipstick. The colour was called ‘dark auburn’. She puckered her lips and having applied lavish amounts of the stuff, kissed the mirror leaving a smudged kiss shape on the glass. She hadn’t noticed much difference in her mum yet. She always seemed a bit short-tempered when she’d just got in from school, but that was nothing new. It must be awful having a job that always left you feeling pissed off. There was no way Charlotte would be a teacher. No, she wanted to be a vet or perhaps a dog trainer. The problem with being a vet, though, was that you had to pass exams and, frankly, Charlotte found it difficult concentrating at school. She was amazed she’d got off so lightly after the parents’ evening; just the usual stuff when she’d been expecting a roasting. They’d only mentioned it in passing; they seemed too preoccupied somehow. Her dad had mentioned that Mr Moyes was pleased with her and would have shown them more of her work had he not spilt coffee all over it. It didn’t surprise her; Mr Moyes was clumsy at the best of times. Anyway, Mr Moyes hadn’t worried her because she enjoyed history – about the only subject she did, but what good was a history GCSE to a vet? But Mr Moyes was nice, really nice. It was the main reason for wanting to do well in the First World War project. He really liked the paintings she did. The second one was of a poppy field with one gravestone in the middle and an inscription that read: “To a brave soldier who died in World War One”. She wished now she’d put the ‘Great War’ as her grandfather called it. How were they to know it’d be the First World War, it could’ve been the only world war? Some of the boys in her class were going to re-enact the trenches for the school performance. They were planning to use pillows and cushions as sandbags. They’d need hundreds, thought Charlotte. They were asking people to bring some in from home. Not bloody likely, she didn’t want those smelly boys leaning all over her pillows. Now if it were Mr Moyes, well, that would be different!
Charlotte was beginning to regret her choice for the performance. It meant being the only child in the class doing a solo effort. She wished she’d taken up Abigail’s offer and been part of the girl group singing songs from the war. She’d turned it down because she hated the songs; they all seemed so naff somehow. Charlotte had felt drawn by the story Mr Moyes told the class about Rupert Brooke and how he died following an insect bite. And so she decided to pay homage to the war poets, but there was no way she was going to recite by heart. She’d do a little talk first – just a few minutes on the poets and what happened to them, and then she’d read out a couple of poems, and that would be it. Goodnight. She already felt nervous about the prospect, she’d never been on stage before, but at least it would be over quickly. Hopefully Gavin wouldn’t be there, he’d become a dab hand at bunking off school and there was no way he’d want to sit through the performance.
Charlotte applied a layer of mascara onto her eyelashes, her eyelids flickering wildly with the effort of concentration. She’d been trying to avoid Gavin. Ever since the half-term week when she was almost sick on the stuff, it’d put her off it. It’d taken the shine off somehow. Gavin had promised to find “something stronger”, but Charlotte didn’t fancy it. She daren’t admit it but she was scared of trying anything harder. She liked to be in control of herself, to know what she was doing. And there was always a chance she’d be caught. Her parents would go ballistic! She’d done what Gavin had asked her to do and got him some stuff on the Great Fire of London. In fact, she had almost written it. She was regretting that too. If he got a good mark for it, he’d be sure to ask again, and she had enough to do without doing his bloody homework for him. It’s not as if she could sit his exams.
From downstairs, Charlotte heard her mother call – their favourite soap opera was starting. Charlotte wasn’t bothered about it really; she only watched it to keep her mother company. She had wanted to pop out and indulge in her new habit – have a cigarette, followed by a strip of chewing gum. But tonight she felt obliged to keep her mum company. She was about to wipe the make-up off, but then decided against it. If her mum made any fuss, she’d just change the subject and say how much she was missing her dad. That’ll keep her quiet – play on the parental guilt. It always works a treat, especially when it was true.
*
Tom and his parents were watching the same soap opera as Julie and Charlotte. His whole family seemed hooked on the same one. He couldn’t see the point in them; his own life was too full of triviality without sharing fictional ones. But to his annoyance, he found himself enjoying the everyday intrigues of urban folk and asked his mother numerous questions to help fill in the gaps. His mother was only too glad to furnish him with full biographical backgrounds, while his father complained of not being able to hear the television and turned up the volume with the remote control. The possession of the remote had always been a source of parental friction and tonight, at least, Robert wasn’t going to relinquish control. By the end of the programme, the sound was at full volume, but Alice didn’t seem to notice, simply readjusting the volume of her own voice to compensate. It was only when the closing theme music drowned her out totally did Tom plead with his father to turn it down.
After his parents had stopped arguing whether one character deserved what another character had just done to them, Alice said she needed to go and write a letter. She offered to make Tom and Robert a cup of tea, which they accepted on Tom’s proviso that it wasn’t Earl Grey. Robert took the opportunity to confess, after all this time, that he too wasn’t keen on the stuff either. As Alice went off to the kitchen, Robert flicked through the channels. There was a documentary about Hollywood stars having cosmetic surgery which Tom quite fancied watching, but he knew his father would be too squeamish to watch the obligatory surgical scenes. Finally, without asking his son’s opinion, Robert declared there was ‘nothing on’, and reluctantly turned the TV off.
It now meant father and son had to find something to talk about. Robert, as usual, asked Tom about his work. Tom told him about the presentation coming up on Friday while Robert listened vaguely and made no response. Then, after an awkward silence, Tom asked his father whether he’d heard of Arsenal’s latest French signing. Robert hadn’t, and furthermore, he deplored this influx of foreign players into the English game. That was that then. Another silence. But then Alice came in with the tea. ‘Not Earl Grey this time,’ she said, obviously disappointed by her menfolk’s distinct lack of taste. She left them to pour their own tea and hurried back to start her letter in the kitchen. Tom poured. Robert took a sip.
‘Urgh!’ he uttered. ‘Is she trying to poison us?’
Tom gingerly tasted his tea. Heck, his father was right, it was one of those smoky-flavoured ones, Lapsang Souchong probably. Obviously his mother’s idea of a little joke. But neither of them could be bothered to do anything about it and so they persevered in silence, grimacing with each mouthful.
It was Robert’s turn to break the silence: ‘Still planning to go to France this weekend?’ he asked nonchalantly.
Ah, thought Tom, this is the rub, this is what he really wants to know. ‘Yes, it’ll get me out of your way for a couple of days. You can have your spare room back.’
‘Back for what? I never go in there.’
Typical, thought Tom, his father was never one to take an off-hand comment at face value. ‘Well, like you said, Dad, I might find an attractive French bird at the other end.’
Robert glared at him. This was almost blasphemous. As far as his parents were concerned, Julie could do no wrong. ‘What do you mean?’ he barked.
‘I’m only repeating what you said the other night. So come on, tell me, why don’t you want me to go to France?’
‘Like I said before, I think you should leave the past where it is.’
Tom expected more, but nothing was forthcoming. ‘Is that it? I mean this is your uncle we’re talking about. What is it you’re so worried about; are you afraid I might unearth some big family secret?’
‘No, n
ot at all.’ Robert sipped his tea. ‘Grim stuff, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, come on, Dad.’
Robert sighed, but Tom noticed the muscles in his face soften. ‘You do as you see fit, son, but don’t expect me to get overexcited about it, that’s all. It’s just that it’s part of my life I’d rather forget.’
‘But we’re talking about your childhood here.’
‘Exactly.’
Tom stared at his father. ‘Did you get on with your parents?’ he asked carefully.
Robert stared into the distance, his memory bounding back through the decades to his childhood years. ‘My mother – yes,’ he said quietly.
‘And...?’
‘I suppose as I got older I began to resent how she’d never stick up for me in front of my father. I mean she was always very supportive of me, but whenever Father criticised me, which was often, she’d never intervene on my behalf, always held her tongue. I suppose, like me, she was frightened of him.’
Tom tried to pick his words carefully; knowing he was entering new territory with his father. ‘So, was your dad a bit strict then?’
‘Dad? I never called him Dad; it was always Father. Oh, I don’t know, he was fairly strict, but you know, this was a different generation; most boys were scared stiff of their fathers; it was nothing unusual in those days.’
‘If it wasn’t unusual, why do you say you prefer to forget about it?’
‘If you must know, he was rarely nice to me.’ Robert fiddled with the television’s remote control as if reassured that if the conversation went too far he could end it with the push of a button. ‘In fact, looking back, he was downright mean. It was obvious I was a disappointment to him, but I never understood why. I was never good enough. Never as good as Clarence.’
The Red Oak (The Searight Saga Book 3) Page 9
