Meeting Lydia

by Linda MacDonald

  “Reunion?” he enquired gruffly.

  Marianne nodded.

  She followed the man across the hall and down the little passage to what had been the Headmaster’s drawing room. Already she could see bunches of purple and silver balloons within and a few bodies standing around and chatting. She was immediately reminded of old grammar school discos with their feeble attempts at festivity, and the second-rate music system playing to an overly lit and almost empty room. She entered, blinking, eyes getting used to the lighting, glancing left and right, assessing the threat.

  There was a small bar in the corner with a group of men chatting close by. Two were dressed formally in suits, one was in jeans and a shirt and the other two in trousers and sports jackets. They could have been anyone, but they were men of a certain age and she knew that there was every chance that among them were the ghosts of the past, now palpable.

  She went over to buy a drink, peering around the room, no longer the drawing room of old with its sofa and armchairs and portrait of a beautiful woman on the wall. Now it was furnished like a typical northern pub with dark wooden tables and stools. On some tables at the side there were plates of sandwiches and pastries, covered with cling-film.

  There were only about a dozen people present and yet again she was the only female – a similar ratio to when she was in the third form, but hopefully not for long. Abi and Susannah were both expected. Soon … please!!

  The man with the beard and the golfing pullover had seamlessly slunk behind the bar and she asked for a glass of white wine. She needed courage. She was just fishing in her bag for her purse, when there was a light tapping on her shoulder.

  “Remember me? Barnaby Sproat … Bas …” said a large figure coming out from the huddle of men with a brandy in hand. “Let me get that. It is Marianne, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, thank you!” Marianne was surprised at his friendliness, suddenly hot, and she began to take off the pashmina, looking for somewhere to put it.

  She smiled and draped the pashmina over a nearby chair. “I was going to say that you hadn’t changed, but of course that would have been ridiculous after all this time.” Her words were intentionally ambiguous, all part of the plan. The once athletic King Cockerel was looking distinctly bedraggled despite the flattering lighting. He was now the size and shape of someone who was overly fond of fish and chip suppers washed down with a gallon or so of beer. His face was big and round and she noticed the beginnings of a purple hue around the nose and jowls and made a mental note to warn Johnny. He was wearing a blue shirt and oversized jeans with the crotch fashionably, but unintentionally, low. His buttons looked as though they might pop at any moment and she noted the perspiration on his forehead and the beginnings of damp patches under the arms.

  “It’s been a long time,” he said. “A frighteningly long time … Quite a few here from our class, and a few more expected.” He shook his head just like he used to do, but the dark fringe was long gone for although still remarkably thick, his hair was cropped to about a centimetre and was peppered with grey. “Willie and Susannah Colquhoun have put all of this together – with the on-site caterers. They’ll be back soon.”

  Then there were the predictable exchanges about each other’s jobs and families. Barnaby Sproat said he was managing director of Coverdale’s, one of the factories along the coast between Maryport and Workington. They made some crucial component for a well-known type of vacuum cleaner. Marianne wondered if there was any connection between the words corporate and corpulent. Certainly one seemed to lead to the other. He said he was married to Glynis who had been Miss Slypt Disc at the local night club in the early 1970s, and that they had two girls and a boy. The boy, evidently, took after his father and was very good at sport. He was currently at university and they hoped he might one day play rugby for England.

  Marianne then told him about Holly and Dylan and noted how he didn’t listen properly to what she was saying and kept scanning the room and shifting from one foot to the other.

  “I don’t recognise anyone,” said Marianne apologetically. “Quite embarrassing!”

  “That’s thirty-three years for you! Or is it thirty-four?”

  “Boys change such a lot from eleven.”

  Barnaby Sproat panned the room again, pointing out those who were present. He still used only surnames. Glanville, Lanigan and Hopkins; combined they were her nemesis. Now she had a chance to make them squirm.

  “Thought Harvey might have shown face,” continued Barnaby, scratching his purple nose and sniffing, but Grossett said he was off digging things up in the Scillies. Always knew he’d do something requiring Brain. Always was a shade exotic. You and him always top of this and that. Rest of us poor buggers never got a look in. Remember him looking pretty in a pink dress in that play we did. Still got the photo.” He tried to affect a more refined accent, but the west Cumbrian tones were the dominant rhythm in his speech and she was reminded of John Prescott’s efforts when confronted with a microphone for a news interview.

  Marianne merely smiled, not wishing to divulge the nature of her re-acquaintance with Edward. If Barnaby Sproat knew how many emails had been sent between them, questions would be asked and he would want to know more.

  “Did you hear what happened to Wally?”

  Before she could answer, Waverly Grossett came and introduced himself. He was a tall man, well over six feet and with enormous hands and feet. His jacket sleeves were a shade too short and an inch or two of hairy wrist protruded from the ends of each.

  “Marianne,” he said warmly, gazing through his glasses with the expression of a well-meaning horse.

  Barnaby Sproat nodded, mouthed to Marianne, ‘see you later,’ then winked at her and returned to the group by the bar.

  Marianne nodded back, but inside her brain was racing and she was plotting and calculating.

  Waverley continued: “Pity Ted isn’t here. He said you’d been in touch. Gave him quite a surprise, I think.”

  “Friends Reunited has a lot to answer for,” said Marianne. “In a good way.”

  “We’ve always sent Christmas cards. Ted has little time for anything else. Always on the move. Don’t know where he finds the energy. He said you were teaching … Don’t know how you teachers cope. My wife did it for a while … Not any more.”

  “Edward did tell me what you were up to, but I’m afraid I can’t remember.”

  “An accountant, for my sins. He did say you remembered who I was, though, on the photograph, and that can’t be bad. I wasn’t here very long.”

  “You used to come and talk to me and Abi and Susannah when we were in the fourth form, and the other boys used to hang back uncertainly as if they weren’t sure what to say.”

  “I have sisters,” said Waverley by way of explanation.

  Marianne exchanged pleasantries with ease, part of her mind on a different plane, logging information, emotion and little snippets that she thought might be of interest to Edward when they resumed communication. She was also vaguely aware of other people arriving, older people that she hadn’t known well, and of back slapping and exclamations.

  Then the person who Barnaby Sproat said was Pete Glanville, began coming over towards them, swaggering a little. He was still incredibly tall, but trimmer now than he had been all those years ago; quite good-looking too and didn’t he know it. He patted his thick brown hair, felt his tie and curled his lip Elvis-style as he entered their space.

  Somebody’s been at the Grecian 2000, she thought. Then, friends reuniting brings out the bitch …

  Remember me … Nostalgic sensations fluttered moth-like within during those milliseconds of time when she knew he was approaching and knew he would speak to her. I was the girl whose bag you stole, whose books you threw across the room, whose homework you splattered with a fountain of inky droplets and whose blazer you scuffed with your muddy shoes. I was the girl who was never part of your games with marbles or conkers or paper planes. You called me swot when I did well in test
s; called me everything but Marianne; never Marianne; usually that name that had me crying at home when the day was done and the lights went out. The name that under the surface was always me until I met Lydia again. What are you going to call me now, Pete Glanville? I could call you Bastard, but I won’t.

  “Marianne?” His tone was soft; hypnotic; seductive. He fixed his brown eyes on her face, then for an instant looked her up and down, like some men can’t seem to help. She knew she was sexy tonight in her long strappy dip-dyed dress, with her dark brown hair shining with magenta henna highlights and loose on her shoulders; that she passed the test even if she was forty-six; but still she despised him for it.

  In her mind’s-eye she saw herself mouthing fuck you Pete Glanville, and throwing her wine in his face. But she just smiled girlishly and held out her hand.

  “Pete … it’s been a long time … What are you up to these days?”

  “If you want a new Audi, then I’m your man,” he said. “Living in Whitehaven with my second wife Joanne. Two boys at University, one potential lawyer and the other looks like getting a first in chemistry but hasn’t the foggiest what to do with it. Don’t know where they get their brains from!” He laughed loudly.

  “No,” said Marianne, purposely, delighting in his look of surprise when she didn’t contradict him. She spotted a couple of gold crowns at the back and a slightly mismatched white canine.

  “And don’t you look good,” he said. “Am I allowed to say that? I heard you were teaching psychology in London-town … Rather you than me.”

  Typical Salesman patter. But still she smiled as if she was lapping-up the compliment.

  Then a pair of sneaky eyes caught her gaze: Jeremy Lanigan, Pete’s sidekick; he of the hockey stick around the ankles; the sitting in the mud. He wandered over with beer in hand, still the same rosy cheeks and lopsided smile, still suiting the nickname Titch.

  “You two still mates?” She offered, nodding at Jeremy.

  “Haven’t seen each other for more than twenty years until tonight,” said Pete, squeezing his erstwhile friend’s shoulder and re-asserting his superiority. “We had a lot of catching up to do. Tell Marianne here what you’ve been up to. Quite the star is Jerry!”

  Jeremy Lanigan flushed and the rosy cheeks became one with the rest of his face. “Just finished a summer season in Skegness.”

  “Doing what, exactly?” asked Marianne.

  “Bit of stand up; continuity … you know.”

  “Didn’t know you had comic inclinations,” said Marianne.

  “Oh he was always playing the fool,” said Pete.

  Yes, at my expense, thought Marianne, but she nodded. “So how’s life treating you?” Jeremy also looked at her intently. She wondered if he was assessing the skin-damage, the crows’ feet, the wrinkles. It was unnerving to be scrutinised like this, but she was guilty of the same, noting every detail. So much information could be absorbed and processed while the mouth smiled benignly and the voice made engaging small-talk.

  “Very well,” said Marianne, disinclined to tell the whole truth and quickly disseminating the Johnny, Holly, uni, teacher, information rather as a parrot might, a touch of boredom in her voice. Then she remembered Dylan saying ‘Wicked’ when she gave Charmaine a piece of her mind. Time to put the plan into action. “And I’m on the verges of writing a book …” she added sparkily and with emphasis, nodding at Pete and Jeremy in turn.

  “What kind of book?” asked Pete.

  “A psychology book?” asked Jeremy.

  “Oh nothing academic. Just a novel,” said Marianne.

  “Ahhh …” said Jeremy.

  “What about?” Pete looked impressed and expectant.

  “Inspired by my Brocklebank memories … You know … Being in a boys’ prep school; being the only girl in the class for a while … Thought there might be some mileage in it.” She tried to sound casual. Like it was the kind of thing that anyone might write.

  “When you say inspired … how inspired?” asked Jeremy, rubbing his eye.

  “I have been told my memory for life events is unusually clear … and most fiction is rooted in fact.”

  “I remember nothing,” said Pete, rather too quickly.

  “Well that’s a shame,” said Marianne. “Because the past shapes the present. We are all victims of our past.”

  Pete and Jeremy took a gulp from their pints in unison, eyes roaming around the room over the rims of their glasses as if looking for a suitable reason to escape.

  Before they could move, Barnaby Sproat rejoined them, looking hotter than ever.

  “Listen to this Bas … Marianne’s telling us she’s writing a novel,” said Pete, heavy with meaning.

  “A book eh? Aga saga? Chic lit? Corset-ripping pot-boiler?” Barnaby Sproat guffawed again and his face lit up like a giant pumpkin at Halloween. “My wife Glynis likes those.”

  Marianne looked sternly at him. “I hope your wife would enjoy it … but my intention is that it won’t be trivial.”

  “It’s about Brocklebank,” said Jeremy, and Marianne thought she detected a faint tremor in his voice.

  “Am I in it?” asked Barnaby, jutting his chin like Del-Boy.

  “I’m going to explore the themes of bullying … and midlife crises – associated and otherwise. Things like self-esteem … body-image … the relationship between the two. I thought it would be topical … And interesting to explore how little things in the past can damage the rest of your life.”

  “Don’t forget I’ve got a would-be lawyer in the family,” said Pete with a hollow laugh.

  “My brother is a lawyer and you can’t sue for libel if it’s true,” said Marianne brightly.

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  “I know about midlife crises,” said Jeremy, and Marianne wondered if he was trying to steer the conversation to the lesser of the evils.

  “In any case, the characters will be largely fictitious …” she persisted.

  She noticed them shifting their weight, looking at the floor, not wanting to be the next one to speak.

  “Largely …” she said again with emphasis, giving them each a meaningful glance.

  “Have you had to do a lot of research?” asked Jeremy, a little awkwardly.

  “There’s nothing like personal experience!” She grinned broadly … teasingly. “They say there’s a novel in each of us. They say you should write about what you know. And bullying … Well there was plenty of that, wasn’t there?”

  “Are you being serious, or having us on?” said Barnaby.

  “Deadly serious.” She stressed the deadly, half smiling, a glint in her eye. Got them worried, and how little effort it took. Guilty consciences oozing out of every pore.

  “I can’t remember much about being here,” continued Barnaby.

  “Yes, that’s what Pete said. Selective amnesia, I expect,” said Marianne. “But now you’re back in this environment, it’s sure to spark a memory or two.”

  Over Pete’s shoulder Marianne saw Abi coming in with, she presumed, Susannah and her brother Willie. She decided this would be an opportune moment to leave the conversation, while there were still unanswered questions. With any luck they would talk about her and rake up the past; blame each other and proclaim innocence. ‘It wasn’t me’, they would say. ‘Bully? Me? Surely not? She can’t mean us.’ And all the while their hearts would beat the faster rhythm of uncertainty, and they would wonder what she might say next and whether they ought to apologise.

  “Ooh, Abi Ross and Susannah Colquhoun,” she said. “’Scuse me a moment.”

  Then she turned to greet her one-time bodyguards and there were smiles and air kisses all round.

  “Look at you!” said Susannah, in the way that people do when they feel they have to say something vaguely complimentary, but can’t think of words that sound sincere without being patronising.

  “And before you ask,” said Willie Colquhoun, with his familiarly disarming grin, and whose hand she shook
because he hadn’t been too much of a pest once his sister had arrived in the school, “I work for the Forestry Commission. Pa spent thousands on my education and wanted me to be a brain surgeon. What he got was a tree surgeon instead. Haw-haw.”

  Marianne wondered how many times he had made this quip before and how many times she might hear it this evening. She laughed politely.

  “Susannah’s the success story in our family,” he continued, much to his sister’s embarrassment. “Trains racehorses in the Pennines. Got a possible National hope in the yard at the moment, haven’t you Soos. Hawaiian Dream Girl … Might be worth a few bob each way ante-post.”

  “Don’t take any notice,” said Susannah. “It’s very early days and mares haven’t the best record at Aintree.”

  Yet again Marianne found herself outlining the job, husband, kids aspects of her life that seemed a prerequisite to any further communication. She wondered whether an information sheet of such basic history should have been circulated prior to the event.

  Of course Abi knew all this and stood by politely.

  Susannah was wearing a black trouser suit and had her brown hair fixed on top of her head in a bun radiating sculpted fronds and speared with a couple of what looked like red chop sticks. “Is that Timothy Hopkins over there looking like a turkey? I wonder who dressed him this evening. He should be encouraged to take that suit off for a start.”

  Marianne giggled. “Do you remember when he attempted the Deer Leap and nearly fell in? Clinging onto the edge and having to be hauled up by Mr Russell?”

  The Deer Leap was a fearsome chasm; a jump across a wide expanse where a stream had carved a deep gorge and the banks were constantly eroding.

  Susannah nodded and the sculpted fronds vibrated.

  “I remember that you were the first girl ever to attempt it!”

  “Marianne remembers everything,” said Abi.

  “Is that good, or bad?” said Susannah. “I remember very little – probably just as well! Even last week seems hazy – but that’s age … or too many G & Ts!”