Meeting Lydia

by Linda MacDonald

  Edward and Marianne were first into make-up and they sat in their form room in the main building being decorated with greasepaint by an ex-movie actress who was a friend of Mrs Russell’s.

  “Darlings you look wonderful,” she said in a deep dramatic voice, surveying her handiwork. She was the same age as Marianne’s mother, but had a modern very short hair-cut and wore masses of black eye-shadow and eye-liner. “Break a leg,” she added, as they got up to leave the room. Marianne thought this was a very strange thing to say before such an important performance.

  Then it was out into the wintry night across the passage that separated the schoolhouse from the Hut, through the wooden door and up the steps at the side of the stage.

  Edward and Marianne hovered in the wings. The curtain was down and they could hear the audience murmuring beyond. They were shaking with fear and excitement, mouthing their words, breathing ever so slightly faster than usual. Marianne’s throat felt dry. What if she forgot her lines? What if she let Edward down? No, it would be fine, she hadn’t forgotten them during any of the rehearsals so why would she now? Yet still she fretted.

  Edward looked at her over his shoulder. “Time to go!”

  “Good luck,” said Marianne.

  It was too late for a last look at the script. Edward as Lydia had taken position on the dainty little settee and was languishing – literally – and apparently reading a novel.

  Mr Russell said a few words to the audience at the front of the curtain, Tom Sowerby began pulling the curtain ropes, and slowly, gradually, the bright lights came up onto the stage and Marianne knew this was her cue to enter.

  She rushed from the wings, clutching her pile of books, past the seated Lydia, turned and, remembering to address her words outwards so the audience could hear, she breathlessly began.

  LUCY: Indeed Ma’am, I traversed half the town in search of it: I don’t believe there’s a circulating library in Bath I ha’n’t been at.

  LYDIA: And could not you get The Reward of Constancy?

  LUCY: No, indeed, Ma’am.

  LYDIA: Nor The Fatal Connection?

  LUCY: No, indeed, Ma’am.

  LYDIA: Nor The Mistakes of the Heart?

  There was a ripple of appreciative and encouraging laughter from the dark depths of the Hut. Edward was really laying it on.

  LUCY: Ma’am, as ill luck would have it, Mr Bull said Miss Sukey Saunter had just fetched it away.

  More giggles and a guffaw from the back. It was the first time Marianne felt the thrill of making an audience laugh and the feeling would stay with her always.

  LYDIA: Well, child, what have you brought me?

  And here Lucy went through each one of the pile of books she was carrying, handing them to Lydia, who glanced at them dismissively and dropped them on the settee. As each one fell, the audience laughed. It was going well; it was fun; it was just the best thing Marianne had ever done.

  And for the next hour and a half the little stage witnessed one of those watershed events in the lives of those who cavorted and gestured and swooned and twirled.

  At the end of it all, the cast lined up for the curtain call and held hands. Edward next to Marianne didn’t make a fuss about this, and they all walked to the front of the stage and bowed. The clapping echoed loudly in the Hut and when the lights came on, happy, smiling faces of adoring parents beamed at their offspring with pride and affection.

  In her father’s car on the way home after the performance, Marianne sat in the back with her grandmother, her head in a whirl of excitement, the lines and the applause reverberating, and her heart dancing with a passion of the sort that only eleven-year-old girls can know.

  “I cannot get over Ian Dangerfield. His Mrs Malaprop was superb,” her mother was saying.

  “Clearly an exponent of the language of the fan,” said her father.

  “Those gestures! Incredible for such a young boy. Must have an old crotchety aunt.”

  “Comic timing down to a tee,” said her grandmother.

  “And Clarissa’s son was very good as Captain what’s-his-name, though his feet did look rather big in those boots.”

  And what about Lydia? Thought Marianne. Say something about Lydia. Wonderful, wonderful Edward! She was still wearing full make-up, but with her school uniform, and the smell of the greasepaint filled the car.

  “We’ve got plenty of cold cream at home,” her mother had said to Mrs Russell who had seemed none too pleased at Marianne being hurriedly whisked away. It wasn’t the done thing apparently, but Marianne’s parents didn’t care about done things when it came to escaping the discomfort of small hard chairs.

  And Marianne was none too pleased either for she wanted to savour the glory with her peers and spend a little more time in the company of Edward. For once some sense of camaraderie reigned between her and the boys, and even Barnaby Sproat had complimented her on her performance and treated her with something bordering on respect.

  But what about Lydia? Edward had been astonishing in his portrayal of the flirtatious young woman – especially during the heart-stopping moment when he had been unable to free the clasp on the necklace and had angrily torn it from around his neck, flinging it at Captain Absolute with all the conviction of having practised the move at rehearsal. Beads went everywhere, but with true professionalism, Edward carried on delivering his lines. What a hero he was!

  “Raymond Salkeld was a scream,” continued her mother.

  “But were the lines he was saying, the lines in the play?” said her father.

  “When he said ‘I forgot me words!’”

  “Priceless!”

  “And Lydia was good too, don’t you think?” Marianne chirped from the back.

  “Lydia? Oh yes … The Harvey boy … Yes. Totally convincing; very clear. Heard every word,” said her father.

  “That dress was a dream,” said her mother.

  “He was the best, I thought,” said her grandmother, perceptively.

  Marianne settled back in her seat, satisfied.

  But now, thirty-three years later, half a lifetime of passions since then, Marianne sat by her computer, such joys long forgotten, her life in disarray, the Friends Reunited search facility open on the screen, sobbing for the girl she once was and the woman she might have been but for the dark days of Brocklebank that haunted her still.

  13

  Never Enough

  Last September … He loved me then, thought Marianne. What changes a year can bring … Now I am totally alone with the shortening days and the flat grey skies … and memories …

  A persistent drizzle misted the windscreen of Johnny’s car causing the wipers to squeak irritatingly. Holly had just been dropped off at Sussex University to begin her law degree and Marianne and Johnny sat stony-faced on the journey back home, Johnny driving because he nearly always did when there were two of them, and Marianne in charge of the map, her thoughts in disarray.

  Although settled back into their respective routines of the academic year, the atmosphere between them was less than convivial. Johnny had continued drinking more than he should, and Marianne wondered if it was her fault for being cranky, or if there was something more sinister behind his eagerness to escape to the pub or to reach for the bottle.

  She was still hot and she hadn’t told him yet.

  Johnny’s eyes were glassy and he had been very quiet since they waved goodbye to Holly. Marianne knew what a wrench it was for him to lose his darling, precious, beautiful daughter to that world of ebullient youth. It had been bad enough when he could meet and vet her boyfriends, but to live in ignorance of whom she was choosing to spend time with, was something he would find extremely difficult.

  That was the problem with being male. Men knew what it was like to have a young man’s thoughts and fantasies and reckless urgency towards the act of copulation. Knowing his dear daughter might be on the receiving end of this frantic pursuit of pleasure would be just too much to bear.

  Seeing Holly bouncing o
ff gleefully to join the other freshers had been both reassuring and heart wringing at the same time. She was sociable and well-adjusted; popular and pretty. Young men and women would flock to share her company. She would be fine. She didn’t need them any more.

  For Marianne herself, she was losing a friend, a confidante in recent weeks, someone to shop with and tell you with utmost honesty that the pink, skin-tight, sparkly t-shirt from the trendy high street store was far too ‘young’ for you but that the style was okay, it was the fabric that wasn’t and that if you could find the same thing from a more up-market store, then that would be fine.

  She would miss Holly’s increasingly competent efforts to cook supper and her help with the minutiae of life like the washing-up and the cats and the laundry and the rubbish.

  How empty the house would feel without the trail of teenagers wanting food and sometimes an extra bed. No more ‘could you collect me’ phone calls from parties in the dead of night. No more heated discussions about whether she could do this or that. Not that Holly had tried to push the boundaries farther than she was allowed.

  Someone at work once said to Marianne that there were two children in her destiny. The woman called Maggie had firmly taken her hand one day when her guard was dropped, and had read the intricate pattern of lines and grooves that tell the story of a life and of lives created.

  “We’ve just Holly,” Marianne had said, puzzled all the same.

  “Are you sure?” asked Maggie, furrowing her brow and shaking her wild red curls until her gold chandelier earrings tinkled and chimed. “Are you sure? There’s definitely two here. I can see two as clear as day or my name’s not Maggie.”

  And Marianne turned her head away, hoping those who were gathered watching with the curiosity of a group of cows wouldn’t see the pain, for she never spoke of the time when she thought just maybe …

  When Holly was three and delightful, with ribbons in her hair and sunny giggles, always dancing, twirling; when every day was a rainbow of chatter and discovery; that was when she thought just maybe … when she felt something different. There was the slightest change about herself … hard to explain … but something not quite usual.

  She hadn’t told Johnny … wouldn’t tell Johnny until she was sure.

  Then just nine days later, there was the pain. Excruciating pain. She had almost screamed at the traffic lights, begging them to change to green so she could rush home to her bed to hide. Such pain in her belly and in her heart, knowing somehow that this was the last chance and that if not now, then never.

  “There’s definitely two,” said the woman called Maggie who was Celtic and fey and picked up the slightest things from out of the ether. “Is there something you haven’t told us, Marianne?”

  Marianne shook her head, blinking back the tears, knowing that Maggie was right.

  After that moment, that precious painful moment that Johnny would never know, she went back to working full-time, and five years passed and Johnny said perhaps they should accept it just wasn’t going to happen, that Holly was everything; Holly was enough. They were happy, weren’t they? Now was not the time to start again with the nappies and the sleepless nights and the never-ending tiredness.

  Marianne agreed, and back they went to the days of their youth; to being careful, just in case.

  Now Holly was gone, and Marianne’s world seemed dark and all the hundreds of ‘what might have beens’ tumbled around in her brain.

  “It’s just us now, Mari,” said Johnny, his eyes on the grey road ahead.

  ‘Just us’ hadn’t seemed so bad this time last year, but now it meant emptiness, loneliness, loss. She had no answer; she was too choked with holding back the tears.

  The following week, still unused to the quietness, Marianne decided to make an effort to be less frosty. “You’re home early,” she said to Johnny, giving him a hug and a smile. She was in the kitchen washing and chopping vegetables for a stir-fry.

  “Postponed the meeting till tomorrow. Charmaine had forgotten and made an appointment.”

  “That’s a nuisance.”

  “These things happen.”

  Normally Johnny complained furiously if plans had to be changed; if the staff in his department hadn’t read the school calendar and meticulously put all the meetings into their diaries or Year Planners. Marianne sniffed. No doubt Charmaine had thrust her ample bosom in his face when she told him. Tarty cow.

  “We did say we’d go out for a meal tomorrow … Now Holly’s gone,” said Marianne. How alien and empty those words sounded.

  “We can do that anytime. We could do it tonight!” Johnny was the impulsive one.

  Marianne waved her knife over the chopped onion and the bowl of sliced chicken and Johnny shrugged.

  There was a pause. Marianne continued chopping and Johnny went to hang his jacket over a chair in the living room, calling as he did so, “I thought we might invite Charmaine round for supper one evening.”

  “Are you serious?” Marianne had been counting the weeks till Charmaine’s departure and now not only was she a permanent fixture at Cedarwood, working in the same department as her husband, but she was even supposed to befriend her and invite her round for supper.

  “Er, yes.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?” asked Johnny, returning to the kitchen and sitting on a stool, the very same stool on which Charmaine had sat in secretarial pose with legs crossed seductively, when Marianne first discovered her existence.

  “You know why not.”

  “No. I don’t. Tell me. What is the problem with Charmaine? You’d like her if you got to know her properly. She’s really nice; an interesting person; good fun; great sense of humour.”

  Suddenly the good intentions of just seconds earlier began to slip away and the light welcoming mood began to turn. Marianne could feel it trickling down through her body and into the floor, but she was powerless to stop it. Her mouth opened as if controlled by puppeteers and words came forth that good sense would have kept inside. “I suppose she laughs at your jokes?”

  “So?” Johnny helped himself to a piece of carrot and bit on it with a loud crunching sound.

  “You’re so dense sometimes.” Yet more words from the bag of tricks.

  “Christ, Mari!” he snapped. “You laugh at my jokes.” “And she calls you ‘John’.”

  Johnny gave Marianne one of his long, lingering blue-eyed stares of incredulity, and in his tone she thought she heard a touch of a sneer. “Is it because she’s young and pretty? Is that the problem? Is Mari feeling a tad insecure?”

  Marianne winced and stopped chopping. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re crazy! D’you think I might have an affair with her? Is that it? D’you think she’s a threat?”

  “No … yes … maybe.”

  “And why would I?”

  “Because …”

  “Because what?”

  Marianne wanted to say because I’m hot and crabby and plummeting towards the menopause, towards over-the-hill, towards unattractive in comparison to the likes of Charmaine, but instead she said, “Just because. That’s all. You should know.”

  “Well I don’t know. I’ve never given you any reason to doubt me. I don’t understand what’s going on. Thought I understood women. Thought I understood you – but it appears I don’t.” Johnny shook his head.

  Marianne returned to slicing carrots into meticulous julienne strips. She tried to hide her face from him. She could feel her eyes brimming.

  “Tell me Mari. What is it? What’s up?” he asked with no trace of sympathy.

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh come on.”

  “You’re out all the time. Drinking.”

  “Sometimes I need to unwind after work.”

  “You can unwind here.”

  “Like now, you mean?” His tone was more than a shade sarcastic.

  “Touché.” She shuddered.

  “If you carry on like this, I’m goi
ng out.”

  Marianne put down the knife and turned to face him, her temper rising and the manipulator tweaking the strings once again. “That’s your solution to everything these days. Pub … booze … It’s affecting your judgement; it’s affecting us.”

  “Complete bollocks,” said Johnny. “I’ve not been drinking today … Yet!”

  “You’re not listening to me about Charmaine. You’re not taking on board what I’m saying.”

  “But what you’re saying is ridiculous. You’re making mountains out of molehills.”

  Marianne turned on him, her voice raised. “They’re mountains to me! I need you to try to understand. You may not agree with me, but you could accept that I might see things differently from you.”

  “How many fucking times do I have to tell you, there’s nothing to see?” Johnny began to shout. “I’ve told you not to worry. Are you saying you don’t trust me? After all this time? That’s a bloody insult.”

  Marianne was incensed. She could almost see the red mist and her head felt like her brain was fighting with itself. “Don’t try and make out it’s my fault. Why are you speaking to me like this? All I want you to do is listen to my opinion and validate it. If I feel something, I feel it. It may not be what you think I should feel, but you could acknowledge it.”

  “What the hell d’you mean, validate? Don’t start being all psychological with me.”

  “Psychological! It’s my job. This is who I am. There’s no need to be personal. Just stop … Stop before you say something you regret.”

  “You are too analytical. Always making things so complicated. It makes my head hurt.”

  Marianne began to feel the familiarity of something from long ago when the Brocklebank bullies closed in. “That’s one of the reasons you married me. Because I understood you; helped you sort things out. How can you throw that back at me now? Just stop!”

  But Johnny didn’t seem as if he had any intention of stopping. “With you everything has to be dissected. Everything! No wonder you see things that aren’t there. You’re mad …”