‘I hope you find that Lewis. I really do. It’s the rarest thing – a marriage like that. Mine wasn’t like it and I don’t think my parents’ was. What about your parents? Were they like that?’
It was a long time before he answered.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I wish I did know. I don’t really remember a great deal about their relationship. If I’d known she was going to die so soon in my life then maybe I would have remembered more. I wish I had.’
The man who had arrived in the boat had walked up the beach and disappeared. After another long, thoughtful silence, Helen continued.
‘It was like he had a picture of how he wanted his wife to be. And I had to conform to that. And his picture wasn’t me at all. He must have known that when he married me. I made no secret of it.’
She sounded like she was talking more to herself than to him.
‘He shouldn’t have been surprised. But he was – and once he realised it he wanted to change me. I had to change.’
‘I can’t imagine why anybody would want you to change,’ said Lewis. ‘You’re beautiful as you are.’
She turned to him, smiled weakly and held his gaze for a few moments. Then she turned away again.
‘I tried for a while. I really did. I remember I used to lie awake for hours at night, wondering how I’d done that day and how could I improve the next. But no matter what I did it was never enough. And that’s when the War came along. I know it sounds terrible but I was so happy the day that War was declared.’
She paused.
‘I was so, so happy. I was walking on air for the next few weeks. My torture was at an end. There was a period after the War started when he was still about the house. But then came the day when he had to go off. It was like a huge dark cloud had lifted. All the tension was gone from the house. I had never liked the house – it was his family home that he had inherited, but now I could see its beauty. There was a wonderful sense of peace there. It was such a pleasure not to have him in the house. Or in the bedroom. I felt lighter. Like I’d been born again.’
Lewis felt a peculiar stab of jealousy as she mentioned ‘the bedroom’. He wondered where it had come from.
‘When I married him I had lots of friends of my own. But if we met them for a drink, he would criticise them afterwards. Only small criticisms – a dig here, a snide remark there. Or if they came to the house, he’d be in one of his moods. Or he’d be bright and cheery while they were there but then I’d pay for it for days afterwards. So I started to see them by myself. I would make some excuse about Robert not being able to come. But then he didn’t like me going out on my own. The result was that, one by one, they just dropped away.
But now I was able to start calling them up again. It was glorious. Like being released from prison. They all remarked on it – how it was marvellous to have the old Helen back.
“We shall write every day,” he told me, when he finally went off. But what he really meant by that was that I was to write every day. And I did. I was happy to do it. That hour I spent every day, packing my letter full of all the little happenings in my life, was a small price to pay. There was lots I didn’t tell him, of course – things that I was doing that I never could have done when he was there. He came home on leave once or twice but I didn’t mind. I knew he’d be going away again.’
Lewis felt the jealousy again. He wondered if, when he came home, she had to – ‘submit to him’ was the phrase that came into his head. She looked at him.
‘Do you know what I found myself hoping?’
‘No.’
‘I know you’ll think this is terrible but I found myself hoping that he would be killed.’
She reached out and took his hand. Her eyes seemed to be boring into him.
‘That’s terrible, isn’t it?
He didn’t know what to say. He thought it was terrible.
‘And do you know what my only fear was?’
Lewis saw fear in her face now. Her grip on his hand had tightened.
‘That the War would end?’
‘That he would be wounded. Maimed. Disabled in some way. And that they would bring him back and that I’d have to take care of him. For the rest of my life. A life sentence.’
‘Why didn’t you just divorce him?’ asked Lewis.
She let go his hand.
‘Yes, it sounds easy, doesn’t it? Just get a solicitor to send him some letters, go to court, sign some papers and it would be all over. Several times I nearly did. I called up solicitors, made appointments, but then I would phone up and cancel. I thought it wasn’t fair to do it to him while he was out there. After all I was part of what he was fighting for. What more noble thing can a man do for a woman? I decided I’d wait until the War was over. He would come back and then I would do it.
But this thing of him coming back wounded began to eat into me. I knew that if he came back like that – blind or in a wheelchair or needing to be fed or taken to the toilet – I knew that then I would never be able to leave him. It got to the point where I dreaded the postman coming or seeing a telegram boy. Finally, at the end of May, I couldn’t take it any more. I left. I left on the first of June. I decided I would leave first, find a new place and then I would write to him.
The letter is actually written. It’s on my dressing table. Every morning I look at it and wonder, is today the day?’
‘But why wait? You’ve done the difficult bit now, haven’t you? And surely he’ll be worried that he hasn’t heard from you.’
‘Because I’m a spineless coward, that’s why. I’m still taking his money. As soon as I send that letter he’ll stop giving me money.’
‘But surely if you go to a lawyer?’
‘Oh Lewis, what grounds do I have for a divorce? Does he beat you, Mrs Hope? No, not at all. I live – or used to – in a nice house. I have more than enough money. What do I have to complain about? My husband is grumpy sometimes. He likes things to be a certain way … to be just so. No solicitor would take the case. And if I did I wouldn’t get a penny off him.’
‘But you could get a job. Start your piano teaching again. Or once I go into the Army, I can give you money.’
Her eyes widened. She took his other hand.
‘Oh Lewis,’ she said, ‘that it one of the kindest things anyone’s ever said to me. Of course I couldn’t take your money. I’m not your wife, for goodness sake. No, with you, it’s enough that I have you to talk to. Come on, I’ve had enough of this gloomy talk. Let’s go and swim.’
He stood and she allowed him to pull her up.
‘Race you,’ she said, and they splashed into the surf together.
23
Lewis and Helen walked home in the still-warm evening. She was silent, responding to anything he said only in monosyllables. He wondered whether she was embarrassed because she had talked so intimately about her marriage. He wondered whether this would be the end of it; that she wouldn’t want to see him again now that she had bared her soul like this. She asked him in and fed him but it seemed to him that their evening was without the enchantment of the previous day. He was surprised and upset by this. He thought that after the intimacy of today they would have been closer than ever. He was saddened to think that this might be the last time he would be here. She seemed sad or distracted or something. She moved the food around her plate but ate very little. At one stage she looked across at him and said, ‘I’m not very good company this evening, am I?’
‘Talking about all that today – it must have brought back lots of unhappy memories.’
‘Things are better now,’ she said. ‘Thank you for listening. You’re a good listener.’
The compliment delighted him.
Later, in the hall, she kissed him goodnight on the cheek. He had waited all evening for her to talk about what they would do tomorrow. When she hadn’t and now that they were at the door, he said, ‘Will you be going to the beach tomorrow?’
‘Maybe not tomorrow,’ she said. ‘But you k
now where I am. Drop in if you’re down there.’
It was hardly an invitation at all. She opened the door and let him out. She said goodnight, her body half hidden by the door. Then the rectangle of yellow light collapsed and she was gone.
It was as though the happiness of the day had evaporated. Since he had met her, she had seemed to be enjoying his company as much as he enjoyed hers. Now, whether it was because of the confidences she had shared today, or for some other reason, she didn’t really want to see him any more. He wasn’t sure he would ever call in on her uninvited. And he didn’t want to become an irritation to her, like a puppy dog following her around.
‘Good evening, Mr Friday?’ asked Mrs Middleton cheerily as he came in.
She was fussing around her little office. Lewis wondered whether it was to see who was coming back and in what state and whether they were bringing anybody with them.
‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Middleton.’
He was in no mood for her chit-chat. He took the stairs two at a time and went to his room. In bed he lay awake for hours thinking about Helen until sleep claimed him.
In the morning he told Mrs Middleton he wouldn’t be home for dinner. He would eat in one of the restaurants in Fowey. But he decided to spend the day at Readymoney. If nothing else, he would be near Helen. Maybe she would be in a better mood today and she would come down to the beach. As he passed by the lane that led to her cottage, he looked up along it but there was no sign of her. At the beach he read, swam and ate his sandwiches. Towards evening, he lay on his back with his shirt over his face, drifting between sleeping and wakefulness.
The waves lapped and birds twittered in the trees above the beach. There was a gentle murmur of conversation and occasionally louder bursts of chatter. Swimmers splashed or squealed in the water. The sounds of summer.
He had wanted to meet a girl during this holiday but then along had come Helen. Now all he wanted was to be with her. In some ways it was stupid, he knew. There was a huge age difference between them but what did that matter if they enjoyed being together? Couldn’t they be friends? Couldn’t they be best friends, even if they couldn’t be anything else?
But he would have liked something else. To be with her – always, every day. To be married to her. They could do it if she got divorced. To wake up beside her in the morning, to eat breakfast with her, to spend the day with her, to help her cook, to read and laugh and go for walks. And then, when it was dark, to go to bed with her. He had seen her tall, statuesque figure in the bathing suit; had seen the shape of her breasts and the lines of her thighs – at least as much as he could because the top of the swimsuit came down to just above her knees. But he wondered what it would be like to remove her clothes. He could feel himself becoming hard, as he thought of unbuttoning her blouse slowly, button by button and then peeling it off her shoulders.
‘Hello stranger. I wondered if you’d be here.’
He was instantly awake. He pulled the shirt from his face and sat bolt upright. He dropped his hands to his lap wondering whether she had seen what was happening to him. He blinked against the brightness. She knelt on the sand beside him.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘No – it’s lovely to see you. Absolutely wonderful. Sit down – have some towel.’
He stood up, shook out the towel and spread it out for the two of them. Her face was bright and happy. Radiant, he thought.
‘Well, I’ve done it.’
‘Done it?’
‘I’ve done it. I’ve posted the letter. I took the train to Plymouth and posted it from there. It says in it that I’m giving it to a friend of mine to post and that she’s touring the West Country.’
Lewis must have looked puzzled. She tossed his hair with her hand.
‘Wake up, you silly boo. If I’d posted it here, he could find me from the postmark. This way he never will.’
‘No, of course. I see, I see. That’s wonderful,’ he said. ‘Well done. Congratulations.’
‘Isn’t it? I’m really happy. I’ll have a think about all this divorce and solicitor business later … soon. I’ll probably do something at the end of the summer but right now, we should just enjoy ourselves.’
She suddenly looked anxious.
‘That’s if you’d like to spend more time with me.’
Was she mad? How could she doubt it?
‘Of course. Of course, I would.’
‘But maybe you want to be with people your own age. Find yourself a girlfriend amongst all these holidaymakers.’
‘Who do I know here? We’re both strangers here. What could be better than that we spend the rest of the summer together?’
‘I want to treat you,’ she said.
‘Why, what have I done?’
‘You just listened, Lewis. And in the end, that made all the difference. I heard myself yesterday, just moaning on about how my life was so terrible. I just thought – I can leave it as it is or I can do something about it. And I thought about you. I think I have problems but you’re going off in November and who knows what terrible dangers you might face. We should enjoy life while we can. Who knows if we’ll have a tomorrow? There’s only today and we should make the most of it.
So that’s why I want to treat you. Let’s go back, get washed and changed and I’ll take you to dinner at the Fowey Hotel. What about that?’
24
‘So what did you say in the letter?’ Lewis asked.
They were eating soup at a table by the window, overlooking the estuary. There was a candle lit on the table even though it was still daylight. The dining room was busy and Lewis felt proud to be with her. There were a man and woman at a neighbouring table and Lewis noticed that the man was taking every chance he could to look at Helen. Lewis felt happy and jealous all at once. Helen wiped her mouth with the heavy linen napkin. Some of her lipstick came off on the fabric.
‘The letter that I had originally written – the one that was on my dressing table – that was a long tirade about all the hateful things I felt he’d done to me. But after talking to you yesterday, and thinking about it all … well, I tore up that letter.
I realised that I had allowed him to treat me the way he had – out of fear maybe, or insecurity, or that he would leave me without any money. But you know, thinking about it now, maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe I thought that by trying to be the person he wanted me to be, that I would be showing him that I loved him. That this was what love was – adapting to the other person, dedicating your life to making them happy.’
‘Isn’t it?’ asked Lewis. ‘If I was married to you, I would dedicate my life to making you happy.’
She smiled at this but shook her head at the same time.
‘But don’t you see. It’s not that at all. And I’m telling you this because when you find a girl that you love, you don’t want to make the mistake that I made.’
The waiter came to clear away the soup. He was a portly man in his late fifties or early sixties, balding with a streak of greying hair combed over. Helen looked up at him and smiled.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It was lovely, really lovely.’
‘Why, thank you, Madam,’ the waiter – seeming somewhat surprised – beamed back at her. ‘I shall tell the chef.’
As he walked away past the palm tree in the centre of the room, Lewis thought the waiter had the walk of a much older man. It was as though he had spent too many years, and walked too many miles in other people’s service. He thought the man looked frail and vulnerable and not at all the commanding figure he’d seemed when they had first arrived in the dining room. It was the same sensation, Lewis realised, that he had felt when he had seen his mother undressing in the changing room all those years ago.
‘He’s a lovely man, isn’t he,’ said Helen.
‘He is,’ Lewis agreed. ‘I wonder if he enjoys his job, if he’s had a happy life.’
‘I wonder,’ said Helen. ‘Have you noticed how in posh restaurants, most people trea
t the staff as though they were invisible? The food appears and disappears but there is no acknowledgement of the people who do the bringing and the taking away. Take that man, for instance. I wonder how long he’s been doing this – and how many miles he walks each evening.’
‘I had just been thinking that,’ said Lewis.
Her eyes smiled back at him.
‘My father acknowledges the staff in restaurants,’ he said. ‘But it’s usually because he’s flirting with the waitresses.’
She laughed.
‘Do you think I’d like your father?’
‘I think so. I hope you’ll get to meet him some day. But don’t say I didn’t warn you about him.’
‘I’ll be careful,’ she grinned. ‘Anyway, where was I?’
‘The mistake you made,’ he said. ‘You were going to talk about the mistake you made.’
‘Yes, you see, love is not dedicating yourself to making the other person happy.’
‘It’s not.’
He said it as a statement but it was really a question.
‘No, it’s not.’
‘What is it then?’
‘It’s about being happy in yourself. About having your own life that’s fulfilling and happy and wonderful. Once you have that – once you wake up every day and can’t wait to jump out of bed and start doing – then you’re ready for somebody else. And if they are the same. Actually – they have to be the same. If you’re both like that, then you don’t need the other person to be able feel wonderful about yourself. You just feel wonderful anyway.’
‘But then surely, you don’t need the other person at all,’ said Lewis.
He was enjoying this conversation. He had never had one like it before.
‘No – that’s just it. Then the whole becomes more than the sum of the parts. You are like two magnificent animals – lions maybe, or eagles. Each person has a separate life and then they are part of the life together. It is like being doubly blessed. Can you imagine it – a marriage like that? My parent’s marriage wasn’t like that. And I know you said you can’t remember much about yours. Your father sounds like he was a good man.’
Starlight (The Four Lights Quartet Book 1) Page 13
