by Clare Ashton
“That floozy sneaks in everyday, I’m sure of it,” Barbara said from over the wall. “Goes up the new ‘fire escape’ as they’ve been calling it. All that noise we’ve had to put up with, so Caroline Argent can come and go as she pleases. Sordid. That’s what it is.”
Richard was holding his belly, an attempt to stifle the giggles.
“It’s like living next door to a brothel.” And a door slammed.
Richard snorted and covered his mouth, and the combination of that and their petty neighbour was enough to ignite fury inside Maggie. It burned her face. That or she was having another hot flush, which made her all the more angry.
Her vexation must have been obvious because Richard’s giant form of six feet four pushed off and strode its languid way towards her, greying hair flopping over his forehead and amiable face full of amusement. And if he didn’t remind her so much of Jude, their appearance so similar, it was a face she could happily have slapped right now.
“You could stop all this,” he said, voice all tempered and reasonable. “Tell everyone we’re separated and this goes away.”
“Does it? Does it really?”
“Of course. And we have to tell them at some point.”
Yes, it was all very obvious, if he must know. “But does it have to be tonight? I haven’t seen Eli for months and I don’t want to piss on familial happiness as soon as he steps through the door. Welcome home, son. You’re just in time for Mummy and Daddy to announce their divorce.”
Richard smiled at her, like she was an adorable child. She hated that.
“It’s because he’s coming home that we should. We can explain to them both we’re getting along fine.”
Maggie’s eyebrows shot up.
“Getting along in our own way,” Richard clarified, “which has done us very well over the past thirty years. And we’re both staying in the family home should they need us.”
Maggie knew he was right. It was the perfect time to acquaint the children with the new arrangement.
“Don’t you agree?” Richard asked kindly.
Yes, she did. She nodded, reluctantly and petulantly. Christ, why was he always so fucking reasonable? It drove her insane.
She gazed at her beloved house, their beautiful three-floor Georgian brick terrace. It had been a rough diamond thirty years ago, a rare project in a flourishing town. It had felt like a millstone around her neck at times. They scrimped and saved to renovate the wreck and it never stopped needing their love and attention – the roof under constant repair and the plaster still occasionally falling off the walls. A millstone worth many hundreds of thousands of pounds – all worthless until they died of course. It was when they’d looked to buy a small property each they’d realised how little they could buy with that large sum in Ludbury. Maggie had turned back her fond gaze on the house and appreciated it for what it was – her home, in a town she adored, where her family had grown up. It would just be a little more divided.
“Should we tell them about Caroline?” Richard asked.
“For Christ’s sake, can we let them down gently? Can we not tell them about Daddy’s lover yet?”
“I thought you said you didn’t mind. She can stop visiting.”
“I don’t mind. It’s just…”
She was telling the truth, strangely, even though when they’d agreed he could take a lover she thought it would be bothersome. She’d always thought of Richard as a cerebral, sexless creature, despite being handsome in his sixties, his classic style of chinos and Oxford shirt standing him well, and having competently fathered two children. His passion for archaeology and everything long dead seemed so consuming she was surprised he’d had the time, let alone the inclination, to pick up a living, breathing girlfriend. Perhaps they’d bonded in the countryside, Caroline out walking the dogs and Richard wandering about trying to find another bloody tumulus. Maggie couldn’t imagine how else they’d met.
“You’ve been happy sleeping apart for years,” Richard offered.
Yes, she had. Very happy. There was nothing like hot flushes and night sweats as an excuse for kicking a large heater of a man out of bed, especially one who snored like a pneumatic drill.
“And I’ve been ensconced on the top floor for over a year.”
This was true. They met for breakfast often. They dined together at night many times. But she rarely saw him in between and they’d lived separate lives, while sharing this still treasured friendship, for many months without a single argument, by which Maggie meant one where Richard became unreasonable too.
“Yes, I am fine with…” she almost called her Floozy, which annoyed Maggie even more. “I don’t have a problem with you seeing someone, Richard. It’s just…”
Richard smiled at her in gentle defiance. “It’s just…?”
“Did she have to be a bloody Tory?”
Richard laughed loud.
“Seriously?”
“I knew that was bothering you.” He was still laughing.
“And a Tory county councillor. Not simply a Daily Mail sheep. A bloody fully-paid member of the Conservative Party.”
Still, he was laughing.
Maggie thrust her hands onto her hips. “Seriously.”
Richard wiped his eyes and sighed, his face red from the giggles. “You see, the funniest thing is that you’re quite similar.”
“Bollocks.”
“No, really.”
“Do you mean apart from our fundamentally different world views?”
And her impeccable bleach-blonde hair, perfect makeup and spotless navy suit. It was a blessing Caroline was older, even though she hid her jowls with a floral scarf, and even though it worked very well and Caroline looked fantastic.
“You should talk to her sometime,” Richard persisted. “I honestly think you’d get on well.”
“I maintain my position: bollocks.”
“There's more that unites us than divides us.”
“Regretfully, at this point, post-Brexit referendum, I'd have to reiterate: bollocks.”
Richard shook his head, a very amused smile still lightening his face. “You know, I never got over how much you swear. You speak like the queen but swear like a navvy.”
“Blame mother for the plummy accent and my socialist father for the cursing – God rest his soul – not that he believed in one.”
Richard thinned his lips. "I wish I'd met him."
"Me too,” Maggie shot back. “He would have told you never bed a capitalist."
"Apart from the fact that he did with your mother."
"That’s why he'd know. Because mother's the worst. She votes Lib Dem."
Richard roared with laughter.
And reluctantly Maggie smiled. They got on better now they didn't have to. Richard seemed to enjoy arguing with her more. He used to hide in the attic to recharge in between facing his whirlwind of a wife. Now he lived there permanently he seemed more at ease when they met.
Divorce was going to suit him. But what about her? Where did this leave Maggie? It was much easier to face the world post-divorce with someone at your side and Maggie found herself envying his right-wing Floozy. She kicked herself mentally for persisting with Mrs Petty's slur.
Richard opened his mouth and inhaled the beginning of a sentence, when the doorbell chimed inside the house.
"That'll be Jude," he said, instead of whatever was on his mind. "So, are we going to tell them?"
Maggie took a deep breath, “Yes.”
"One at a time? Ease them in with hand-holding?"
"Why can’t we tell everyone at the party? Get it over and done with."
Richard raised his eyebrows. Maggie was sure he'd learned that trick from her. He never did anything so sassy when she met him thirty years ago – the quiet archaeology researcher.
"I'm not trying to be dramatic," she said.
His eyebrows went higher. Now that was his own trick.
"Really,” Maggie persisted,
“One at a time. It's for
the best.”
Maggie’s heart pounded.
“OK?” Richard peered at her.
“Fine,” she growled. “Now, bugger off and open the door."
And Maggie knew it was for the best, although as she watched him go, fear gripped her so tight it made her gasp. She reached for the wall and every limb shook.
Chapter 3.
"Dad!”
Jude greeted Richard with arms out. He dipped beneath the doorway and the hanging red leaves of Virginia Creeper and put his arms around her shoulders.
“Hello sweetheart,” he murmured beside her ear. He gave a powerful squeeze that winded her a little, but it was comforting to have him so physically present. Her father’s solidity gave Jude confidence in the stability of the world.
He stepped back and smiled at her. He looked well, the best in years. He seemed in higher spirits every time she visited of late. She’d wondered when he’d retired, six months before, if it had been a mistake. For a while he became withdrawn, more reclusive in his attic library, but she held no anxiety for his happiness today.
“Abby with you?” he asked.
“Yes.” She gestured to her friend who was pacing along the pavement at the bottom of the garden steps, issuing advice on the phone to a patient.
Richard pursed his lips. “Always on duty.”
“Yes, she is.” Jude smiled. “You’re having some work done?” she said, peering up.
“What’s that? Oh, yes.” He turned to the building work in the gap between their home and Mrs Petty’s. Two men stood at the top of a spiral staircase and chattered in a language Jude couldn’t quite catch. A quarrel had erupted with a great deal of gesticulation and, whatever the dialect, definite cursing.
“They’ve been at it all day,” Richard murmured behind a hand. “Silly buggers mis-measured the position of the new external door. It won’t open because the stair rail’s in the way.”
“Oh dear. Is Mum upset?”
“A little. I learned a new medieval curse at least.”
Jude laughed. Her mother’s background as a history teacher and Middle Ages specialist added colour to their lives.
“She called their boss a yellow-bellied magsman when he tried to charge for the remedial works,” Richard said.
“I would have loved to have been there.”
“No, you wouldn’t. I know that much.”
He was right. Although Maggie’s escapades amused them both, neither were antagonistic personalities, both tending to well-considered views and responses, and preferring to avoid Maggie’s tirades.
Behind Richard, Maggie’s silhouette glided down the hallway and warned of her imminent arrival, quick movements betraying her spiky persona. In the shadow of the house, Jude could have sworn a frown pinched Maggie’s face, but when her mother burst outside she greeted Jude with a joyful smile and fierce love in her eyes. Jude was about to embrace her when the thud of a sash window opening, high up next door, stopped Maggie in her tracks.
They looked up to see a Union Jack flutter out and hang down the wall. It might have appeared a random event except for the black lettering adorning the material. “British jobs for British workers,” was written large and loud.
Mrs Petty’s face stared down at them – chin raised, nostrils flared and two beady eyes in disapproving slits. It wasn’t her best side and it wasn’t her best look.
“What the…?” Maggie’s face had gone from love to scorn in less than a second. Her changes in mood were legendary and in middle age she was at the peak of capriciousness.
Maggie thrust her arms into the air, her upturned palms shouting her incredulity as much as her voice. “What the hell…?”
“What’s up with her then?” the builders shouted down, and Jude recognised their sing-song accent at last.
Maggie shot a disdainful look with the power to curdle sour cream at Mrs Petty. “They are British you meddling sprout.”
“Then they should speak English,” Mrs Petty hit back. “I don’t care where you’re born or what your culture is. You should speak the language of our country when you’re here.”
“They’re Welsh you ignorant, racist fathead. You know the country, Wales, the one you can actually see from the church tower?”
The two blokes at the top of the stairs looked pleased, very pleased. They faced Mrs Petty and shouted with fists in the air, “Cymru am byth!”
Mrs Petty’s face plummeted. It was as if she could taste that curdled soured cream. And before Maggie could ridicule her more she disappeared into the shadows without another protest.
“Unbelievable,” Maggie spat.
“Well,” Richard said. “I think we can safely say you won that round.”
“Pah! That’s not the point. It’s not about winning, it’s about divisive attitudes. I have a good mind to hoist a European Union flag in retaliation.”
Richard put his hands on her shoulders. “And would that calm matters? Would it help dispel these divisive attitudes?”
“Probably not, but if the Queen can wear an EU flag to the opening of parliament when she’s pissed off, I can bloody well raise one.”
Richard sighed. “The trouble is that Barbara, for all her xenophobia, may have voted to remain in the EU. Who’s going to work on her son’s industrial farm if we don’t have cheap migrant labour? He’ll not want his crops to rot in the ground. And on the other hand, some of your socialist chums voted to leave.”
“They voted for proper investment in our healthcare, and 350 million pounds every week was very persuasive. But that pledge was withdrawn, the day – and I mean the day – after the vote. And why that wasn’t criminal and didn’t invalidate the result I will never understand.”
“So, Mum,” Jude said. “How about a little tolerance for everyone, including the Brexiters? You know it’s a complex issue.”
“No, it’s not. We’re fucked, well and truly fucked. The whole Brexit issue has divided us all and fuelled racism and bigotry.”
“There are opportunities.” But Jude didn’t have the will power, or the answers, it seemed nobody did, and she wasn’t there to argue politics all weekend.
“So,” she changed the subject. She offered her mother a hug – a brief, emotionally loaded, complex hug, which couldn’t be more different than with her father. Whereas her father’s embrace instilled in Jude steadfast love and reassurance, her mother’s fierce embrace filled her with so many conflicting feelings her stomach swirled with anxiety. Fear of what she might say next. Admiration for the fiery woman who’d defended her builders. Excitement about where she might drive the evening.
Jude took Maggie’s arm and persisted with cordial conversation as they wandered through the hallway. “So, why the external stairs? I mean they look great, but they must have cost a fortune.”
“Stairs?”
“Yes, the ones outside?” Her mother still looked shocked at the idea. “The ones you’ve been arguing about?”
“Yes. You’re right. We’re having stairs put in.”
“I know.” Jude laughed. Her mother took being difficult to an extreme at times. “I wondered why. I mean even with cheap foreign labour,” she smiled naughtily, “it must have cost a fortune.”
Maggie tutted and at last focused on the conversation. “Don’t joke, Jude Goodman. Yes, they are costing a bloody fortune, but it’s a lot less than buying two new…. It’s…. It’s worth it. Believe me.”
Maggie’s grip on her arm was firm, her fingers curled over Jude’s forearm, tightening with every step.
“So why?” Jude persisted.
Instead of answering, Maggie sought rare approval from Richard. Her parents locked eyes for a moment and communicated wordlessly in the way established couples do.
Maggie took a deep breath, then uttered, “Well, you know how your father snores.”
“Maggie,” Richard groaned.
“He sleeps beyond earshot in the attic. All the time. Every night. So, I thought we should fit a fire escape for him. J
ust in case. And, and….if he wants to use it as a front door to his book heaven then all the better.”
Maggie nodded defiantly at Richard.
Richard rolled his eyes
“OK.” Jude said. “Sounds…a good plan.”
“Good,” her mother said.
“Good.” Jude nodded.
“Yes. A fire escape. That’s what it is.”
“As you said.”
“Indeed.” And Maggie released Jude’s arm and marched into the main room, her boots pounding the floorboards.
Who knew where Maggie was coming from? What strange lands she inhabited, blowing in from one direction and gusting away again. Richard squeezed Jude’s arm and offered an exasperated smile as he passed. What was up with them now?
Jude shook her head and gazed around the room soon to host the party to celebrate her brother’s visit – an old dining room and parlour knocked into an open plan area. She could remember the rubble and an incensed Maggie, hair white with dust, when it was renovated in Jude’s youth. Grand double-doors led to a modest kitchen behind and as Jude circled the dining table she stroked a finger over its shining mahogany surface that reflected the corniced ceiling. It was a purchase from a house clearance, and now a precious antique, with matching chairs salvaged by the tenacious Maggie over the years.
The room opened into a sitting area with a Chesterfield facing the garden and two chaises longues by its side. Folding glass doors revealed the sunny vista down to the river which could be admired from the comfort of the settees. And although the heritage wallpaper was showing its twenty-five odd years, and the seating was due another reupholstering, the house had a grand decadence which Maggie had achieved on a shoestring, and it was unequivocally the house of Jude’s childhood.
But it seemed sparser for some reason, as if something was missing. Her father’s map. That was it. A print of a seventh century world chart was gone, leaving a pale clean rectangle on the wallpaper. And his globe. Books. Where were they?
Jude caught her mother’s eye for a moment, before Maggie hid behind her glasses and fought with a ball of fairy lights on the sofa.
“Mum?” Jude whispered.
Maggie, she was sure, avoided her gaze. She looked fragile – this frustrating force of nature somehow diminished. Jude’s instinct was to run and hold her but what could ail Maggie. It was almost frightening something could weaken her mother. Jude approached cautiously instead.
