Perhaps those who inhabit this world are bored with the predictability and mundanity of life. Harmless but lonely souls wanting to share a word or two between the frenzied moments of bustling twenty-first century existence.
‘Think you’ll have more kids?’
‘Too late, husband’s a Jaffa.’
‘What’s a Jaffa?’
‘Vasectomy … Seedless! Ha!’
‘ROFLOL!’
And occasionally, the innuendo, the hope for something bordering on cybersex. Men lurking, looking for relationships as recompense for their isolated lives spent in front of the computer. They may be old or ugly, or just downright strange; low down in the pecking order when it came to choosing a mate. Or they may simply be sad and disillusioned as their dreams have gone unfulfilled and they hurtle toward retirement with no hope of recapturing the joie de vivre ever again.
Middle aged spouses who have long since stopped trying to please. Roof over head, sperm provided, children begat, job done. Men wondering where their ‘can’t get enough of them’ wife has gone. No more high heels and lipstick, perfume and tantalising underwear. Who is this woman in the slippers, with the Bridget Jones knickers? Retreat to the snooker hall, the golf club, the wine bar, the sofa. ‘I ain’t doin’ nothin’ for her no more!’ Taken for granted; start picking, wanting something better, something more, something impossible.
Marianne sighed. She sighed a lot these days. Sighs exemplifying a thousand disappointments, a thousand concerns for a life that seemed to be stretching into an abyss. She had good reason to sigh. Yesterday, something happened that seemed to justify her paranoia.
It was now early November and she and Johnny were getting used to life without Holly. There was an emptiness in the house; a quietness that they both felt but dare not speak of lest it was taken as criticism. It hadn’t taken much to spark a disagreement this past year, but since Holly had flown, disagreement seemed to be all there was. There was no more idle chatter and laughter from the throng of optimistic teenagers coming and going and phoning and texting, filling the house with an energy that only the young possess. Now the focus was on him and her; their every move, their every word, scrutinised for hidden meaning.
“It’s like living with a crocodile,” said Johnny two nights ago when she made some derogatory remark about him flicking through the channels while she was watching a wildlife programme.
She didn’t speak to him for the rest of the evening, breaking yet again her long-kept rule that one never should go to bed on an argument.
And what happened yesterday? It was almost too hurtful to contemplate. Marianne had finished college early and thought to surprise Johnny, to try to heal the crack before it became a chasm, and to meet him from school and go for a meal together, somewhere more exotic than The Lotus Blossom down the road.
Cedarwood was a large red brick 1950s building surrounded by London plane trees with their grey patchy bark that peeled naturally and shed the sooty damage that was caused by pollution. In summer the trees burst forth magnanimously with their thick green canopy, but now the leaves had almost fallen, just a few still hanging on to the twigs as the shrivelled elderly cling to existence in a nursing-home.
Nowadays the school was ring-fenced with wrought iron and as she approached the gates, she caught sight of Johnny coming out of the side doors and she began to smile and was just about to shout and wave when he turned back to look over his shoulder. She saw his lips move, but was too far away to hear what he said. Then he held the door and she had come out. All smiles and energy in a dark brown leather trouser suit, blonde waves cascading down her back and a pink beaded bag slung over her shoulder.
Marianne’s stomach had somersaulted and she froze on the pavement, watching her husband offer a helping hand to Charmaine as she negotiated the step on three-inch heels. They were giggling like school kids, sharing a joke, no eyes for anyone but each other, in a space of their own. They didn’t see Marianne gazing through the bars of the fence as they walked down the path, through the car park and out of the side gates. Charmaine tossed her hair coquettishly, and Johnny seemed to be drawn along in her wake. They looked like lovers on a date as they strolled down the road that would take them to The Duck and Bull.
Marianne had turned away to go back home, her head hanging and her feet dragging. She blew her nose and wiped her eyes, and hoped that no one had seen her humiliation.
And instead of dinner with Johnny and some attempt to bridge the gap between them, she put a meal for one in the microwave and turned on the computer.
More and more she found herself trawling the Friends Reunited files, knowing she was becoming addicted, but sure it was just a phase that she would tire of eventually. Why was she doing this? Why was she spending a Friday afternoon eavesdropping on these lonely souls in the chat room? Was it because she was lonely too? Holly gone, Johnny down at the pub, too tired to work or speak to friends?
It stopped her from thinking. For an hour or so it stopped her brain chattering on uncontrollably about insecurities, the M word and the possibility that Johnny may be having an affair.
She had tried to find Susannah a couple of times before. Perhaps she was spelling Colquhoun incorrectly. She could try looking at the page for Waterside, the school she went to after Brocklebank. Finding her way round was second nature now.
Find school. Click.
Find area. Click.
Letter of the alphabet. Click.
Click on the name of the school.
Two different addresses. Hmm. Click the one in Main Street.
Year of leaving?
1974. Susannah was older. Click.
The list of names appeared before her eyes. Blue writing on a green background. Strange and unfamiliar names of unknown people who had lived unknown and different lives not many miles away from her own.
But it wasn’t Susannah Colquhoun that immediately caught her eye, but Ted Harvey.
Marianne paused, emotions beginning to bubble. Ted … Ted? … Edward … Ted Harvey … Edward Harvey … Lydia. ‘… But I have lost him Julia … put myself in a violent passion and vowed I’d never see him more.’
Lydia … Lydia … Memory flashbacks to the good-natured, bespectacled boy in the third form who had an impressive brain, who excelled at Latin, who touched her heart. Could this be him? Could it be her Edward at last? Her first crush? But her Edward wasn’t Ted. She couldn’t imagine him as Ted. It didn’t suit him at all. But who else could it be? Surely there wouldn’t be two Edward Harveys in the same year at the same school?
She looked for the information sign that would confirm identity, but there wasn’t one. This Ted Harvey was being mysterious; if she wanted to know if it really was Edward and what he was doing, she would have to send him an email.
Big decision.
She didn’t want to intrude. After all, they were never friends. Mere acquaintances in the prep school soup. Ted Harvey would be living his life – whatever that may be – with never a thought of her. Probably with wife and kids and a whole host of friends, and he might not want to be found by her. And she would never have contacted him by any other means. Even if she had known where he was, she wouldn’t have sent a letter or picked up the phone. Friends Reunited offered a way to legitimate communication that would never have been possible before.
She would wait, think, sleep, dream …
When Johnny came home she didn’t say a word about going to meet him or seeing him with Charmaine, and for most of the evening they barely spoke. Johnny collapsed in front of the TV with a bottle of red wine and Marianne sat in the dining room marking essays, stopping periodically to muse about contacting Edward.
Next afternoon, when Johnny was off walking, she called up Friends Reunited again. What if this Ted Harvey had disappeared off the site overnight like her old friend Tom? What then? She should have taken her chance while she had it.
But no, he was still there, his name beckoning; a thousand memories hidden in those few letters
. A wave of heat engulfed her as she clicked on the envelope and watched the box open up and fill her screen invitingly.
If you are who I think you are, then I knew you as Edward and also as Lydia Languish, she wrote in the blank white space. That would deter any imposters! I remember once in the third form at Brocklebank, you stood next to a map of Scandinavia and when asked to point out the capital of Finland, said, ‘Oh hell, where’s Sinki?’ The class thought it so funny. She smiled at the memory of the reaction to the joke and Edward looking surprised. It’s been such a long time. I saw you when a few of us were at Waterside attending a science conference in the sixth form, but was too shy to say hello.
What would justify her writing? She couldn’t tell him of her childish admiration. That would scare him away.
I was looking for Susannah Colquhoun when I spotted your name on the site. I am curious to know what has happened to us all and am hoping to lay a few ghosts to rest. This was true at least. I remember you were very good at Latin and a fierce competitor for the form prize. After the dress rehearsal of The Rivals, I tried to have a girlie chat with you and wondered why you didn’t respond!
Still in touch with Abi Ross. She is now into alternative therapies and is a qualified homeopath. We went to take a look at Brocklebank a few years ago. It is now a hotel and conference centre and the Hut is a glorified chalet!
After a degree in psychology at Sheffield, I became a teacher and now work in a Sixth Form College in northern Kent – more civilized than a school! Have dreams of writing a novel, but so far it remains a series of half-formed thoughts and scribblings.
Married to Johnny and one daughter, Holly, at uni studying law.
Would love to know what has happened to you over the years.
Best wishes,
Marianne.
That would do for now. Just in case is wasn’t him; she didn’t want to waste time writing screeds of memories.
She hesitated over the send button. To send or not to send?
How often in one’s life does the tiniest decision have the most enormous consequences? A link in a chain, but for which there would be no job, no house, no friend, no lover.
She hesitated, and hesitated again. What if it wasn’t him? What if it was and he didn’t reply? What if, what if … And the image of Johnny holding out his hand to the leather-clad Charmaine persisted in her brain. She needed distracting.
Rain flung itself at the windows like rice tinkling on the glass, and a wind began to howl. She shivered.
In truth, it didn’t matter if it wasn’t him. There was nothing to lose. If he didn’t reply, surely she wouldn’t take it personally. Not from Edward.
The heat bathed her whole being as she clicked on Send.
Then she heard the front door open and in came Johnny, his hair blown tousled in the way she loved.
17
Phonecall
Once the email was sent, Marianne resolved to give it little thought. Some of her efforts to contact friends had taken weeks before yielding a reply. Edward Harvey might not reply at all. It wasn’t as if they’d known each other very well; just two children sharing an education for three years. The sweeping rota, spelling tests and Latin; rivals in more than one sense; mirror fragments reflecting memories of long ago; glittering on the one hand, yet the legacy, a shattered image, a shattered self.
There were no other boys from that class that she would write to. Thoughts of the worst of the bullies still inflamed her. She was angry at their disregard for her emotions; bitter that a chunk of life had been tarnished and that all these years later their actions were still festering and working their malice. How could she forgive?
Edward was the only one that she felt positive towards. In mailing him she could confront the ghosts in safety. Yet she feared to place too much importance on it lest she be disappointed.
“Are you in this evening?” she asked Johnny who had quickly settled onto the sofa, and was watching the sports results on Grandstand. She had hoped he might offer to do the supper like he used to do most Saturdays. But more and more he was reverting to the traditional male stereotype; coming and going when he pleased, leaving the cooking and all the other domestic stuff to her, expecting things to be done for him from shopping to washing to cleaning. Selfish pig, she thought, but with so much tension in the atmosphere, she didn’t want to provoke an argument about something as trivial as cooking supper.
“Would you like me to be in?” He looked up at her questioningly. There was a touch of ice in his tone.
“You know I would.”
“Then I will be. What are you cooking?”
“Roast chicken.”
“And roast parsnips?”
“Of course!”
She busied herself in the kitchen preparing vegetables, slicing with the expertise of a chef. She liked cooking so long as it wasn’t for an army of people. Any more than four and she went to pieces, near-disasters usually finding their way out of the oven.
Then the phone rang in the hall.
“Johnny … phone.”
It continued ringing.
Marianne wiped her hands on a tea towel and went to answer it.
“Hello? … Yes …” Her heart sank. “Yes he is … I’ll get him … Hang on.”
Johnny was pretending to be asleep. “John,” she said with emphasis, touching his shoulder. “It’s Charmaine.”
Johnny started and faked a yawn. “What does she want?”
“No idea.”
She returned to the kitchen making sure she left the door open. Her chopping took on a quieter sound as she listened intently. Visions of the leather-clad woman accompanying her husband out of Cedarwood swam before her eyes.
“Hello,” he said, and Marianne could hear the smile in the word. “What can I do for you?”
There was a long pause during which Marianne bristled with indignation.
“But of course you must … No problem at all … I’ll start them off. In fact Mick’s free first thing …
“You’ll need to take out a second mortgage,” he laughed.
Marianne wondered what they were talking about and how easily he had slipped into being Mr Charming when all she had from him so far today was grouch, grumble and curse.
“Will it be a gold one? … Yes … Beware pineapple juice – anything acidic – for the first week or two after. I got electric shocks when I had mine done.
“Complete rip-off … Don’t know how they can justify it … Could buy that guitar I was telling you about …”
What guitar? thought Marianne. Yes, he sometimes still strummed away on his old acoustic, but she knew nothing of any desire to upgrade it. Surely his old rock-star fantasy wasn’t resurfacing?
“Did you hear the gossip about Andy Erikson? … No? … Caught in flagrante in a broom cupboard with Erin-the-art-student! Disrobed is an understatement.
“Did he now? … Randy old sod! … Hope you told him where to get off …
“He says he’s a qualified hypnotherapist, so watch out. Used to lodge with Gwyneth and she reckons he’s into the black arts … Something about a pentacle on the carpet …
“No … pentacle … A five-pointed star … you know … mysticism and devil worship … mumbo-jumbo if you ask me …”
Marianne had ceased chopping altogether and was listening intently from behind the open door. Johnny used to tell her all the goings-on at Cedarwood, but not this piece of gossip. Was she no longer his confidante? Did he tell Charmaine what he once told her? Jealousy swished its tail and she felt sick and faint.
“Surely you don’t believe it? A sane woman like you?
“Gemini! … What does that mean? … Yes, that sounds just like me … Ha, you flatterer! What about the bad bits? … You’ll make a convert out of me yet …
“And are we compatible then?”
Marianne froze, anger building. How dare he give that woman time of day on astrology when he dismissed it outright if she mentioned it.
“Well t
hat’s good to know!”
She heard the phone ping as it disconnected, and click as he replaced it in the cradle. She couldn’t stop herself from following him back into the living room. Johnny was lowering himself back onto the sofa, running a hand through his hair. Marianne thought he looked pleased with himself.
“What did she want?”
The smile faded and Johnny lowered his gaze. “Oh, she’s got a dental appointment. She’ll be late in on Monday. Crown, by the sound of it. Nasty.”
The puppeteers began to gather again.
“She shouldn’t bother you at home.”
“Why not? It’s easier to prepare if I know.”
“Told you she’d get dependent.”
“Mari … she’s a friend. Just because you refuse to invite her over …”
“I didn’t refuse.”
“No?”
“I don’t trust women like that.”
“Like what? How can you say that? Please don’t start all that again. Stop being so possessive.” Johnny got up from the sofa again and turned off the television.
“And what was all that stuff about star-signs? You never take any notice if I mention them.”
“She’s an Aquarian – apparently we get on …”
“Bastard.”
“What? … Mari …”
Marianne flounced out, eyes brimming, and bolted up the stairs. What was the matter with her? She was losing it big time. Her mouth opened and words came out where once she would have kept diplomatically silent. Immediate regrets, but too late. And she wouldn’t say sorry – couldn’t say sorry – because it wasn’t her fault, was it? It was that damned woman with her magazine glamour and her fluffy charm; and her damned husband being led astray when once he had been so loyal. Bastard!
Meeting Lydia Page 11
