by Jo Verity
When Bill took early retirement, a few months before the move, Sally continued working. It was possible for a writer to write anywhere. She needed to make occasional sorties to a decent reference library and sometimes she visited a castle or a battle site, to get a feel of the place. Now that she had become a minor celebrity in the world of educational books, she was often invited to give talks at schools. Bill usually accompanied her on these jaunts, as minder and bag-carrier.
Anna assembled the crockery in two neat piles and stood up. Bill made no move. He stared at his huge hands resting, clasped together, on the table. ‘To tell you the truth, things haven’t been too good between us recently.’
She started to laugh. ‘Don’t tell me Sally doesn’t understand you. If ever a woman understood a man …’ She faltered, horrified to see him pull out a hanky and blow his nose.
‘I don’t know so much about that. It’s not straightforward. It may look like it from the outside, but she treats me a like a child. Keeps bossing me about. Belittles me in front of people.’
‘But she’s always done that, Bill. The first time I met you she was telling you off for wearing the wrong tie. She doesn’t mean it. And you love it. You know you do.’
‘Not all the time, though. She must see that it’s getting to me but she doesn’t stop doing it. Sometimes I think she can’t bear to have me around. That’s why she does all this lecturing. It gives her an excuse to get away from me.’ Anna could see that they weren’t going anywhere for a while and sat down again. ‘I couldn’t wait to finish teaching so that we could spend more time together. Now I spend most of the time on my own.’
He was crying in earnest now, his face blotchy and wet. She would have put her arm around him but she was wary of physical contact. He trumpeted into his hanky and several people turned to stare at the sobbing man. It was an unusual sight and they shifted their gaze to her, no doubt wondering why a wife was doing so little to console her distraught husband.
The muzak and the smell of stale food were overpowering. ‘Fresh air, that’s what you need.’ Hauling him to his feet, she piloted him through the maze of tables. He stumbled past the shops and out through the automatic doors. They found a seat next to an overflowing litter-bin, surrounded by cigarette ends, but the breeze was cooling and they were less conspicuous here. He stopped crying and took deep breaths to calm himself.
His face started to return to its proper colour and he sniffed occasionally. ‘Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t mean that to happen. Can’t think what came over me. It’s just that you’re so…so…’
‘You’re probably overtired.’ When things became difficult, Anna’s instinct had always been to go to sleep, or advise someone else to. ‘Look, why don’t I drive the rest of the way? You have a nap. We’ll be home in no time.’
Without any show of resistance, he slipped into the role that she had seen him adopt so often. He became a small boy. She guided him to the car, as if he were a sleepwalker. It took her back to times when the girls, beside themselves with exhaustion, needed to be coaxed and cajoled into bed.
Roughly, to avoid misinterpretation, she fished in his trouser pocket for the car keys and eased him into the passenger seat. Once he was strapped in, she reclined the seat until he was almost horizontal. He didn’t argue or attempt to touch her. There was a tartan rug on the back seat which she tucked firmly around him, pinning his arms against his sides. His compliance surprised her.
She drove out of the service station and joined the motorway. It was dusk and the traffic had thinned. Because of the reclining angle of the passenger seat, she was sitting abreast the mountain of Bill’s stomach and his head was almost on the back seat. She was thankful that it was too dark for overtaking traffic to catch a glimpse of what appeared to be the Scottish mummy alongside her. Before long, to her great relief, he began to snore and she reflected on what he’d told her. Had she noticed a change in Sally’s behaviour? Had there been any indication that all was not well? Or was he playing for her sympathy? Apart from the physical upheaval of the move, they had all made changes to their working lives. She couldn’t be sure if, amongst it all, she would have spotted cracks appearing in the Davises’ relationship. Or the Webbers’ or the Redwoods’, come to that.
But there had been changes in her relationship with Tom. Insignificant things, if taken in isolation, and she had pushed these misgivings into the corner of her mind. Family concerns and this recent problem with her snoozing passenger created distractions but the car headlights, cutting through the darkness, seemed to illuminate this growing mound of uneasiness.
She wondered about the time Tom spent in his office. In the beginning he’d been as keen as she was on growing their own food but he now was spending less and less time working with her in the garden. When they had house meetings to discuss the running of Pen Craig, he was contributing little to the debate and giving in without a fight on matters which had once been important to him.
Insulated from the world, they covered the motorway miles. In the darkness nothing looked familiar and, at one point, she thought that she had missed her exit. She drove for ten minutes before reaching the next junction and then felt a twinge of disappointment that it was, in fact, the one she needed. Her chance of adventure evaporated as she left the motorway and joined the winding road that led home.
The sounds of a middle-aged human male, rousing from sleep, came from the bundle alongside her. Her women friends all agreed that men make an alarming amount of noise when they do almost anything. Waking up, washing, nose-blowing, sneezing. ‘Perhaps Peter should put it forward as a research topic at his next conference,’ Jenny had suggested, after they had listened in awe to Mark blowing his nose.
Bill grunted and coughed into wakefulness, embarrassing her with the intimacy of the moment. His vulnerability was something that should only be witnessed by a wife, or lover, and she fixed her eyes firmly on the road.
The wrapped torso rose from the darkness, yawning. ‘I must have dozed off.’
She was anxious to keep conversation to a minimum, not wanting to risk any further confidences. It appeared that he, too, was happy to travel in silence. Perhaps he was regretting his outpouring at the service station. They were in the middle of nowhere, but a roadside pub, its eaves decorated with fairy lights, loomed to her rescue. Without discussion she pulled off the road, into the pot-holed car park. It would not do to arrive home with Bill in the passenger seat of his own car. ‘It’s only about half an hour from here, as far as I remember,’ she said.
He stood in the car park, tidying his clothing. He ran his fingers through his ruffled hair, pushing it back. She handed him the keys.
‘Fancy a drink?’ he asked, pointing at the door of the pub.
‘I think we should get home. I’m quite tired.’
He didn’t try to persuade her.
They started the last lap of their journey. Apart from a word here or there, they spoke little. He exuded a hangdog aura. Poor Bill. If he wanted to lay his soul bare, he would have to find another listener. She would not become his confidante.
Tom was in the yard, bent over the recycling bins, sorting cans and bottles. He straightened up, watching Bill park the car. The bright security-light leached the colour from his face and he looked tired. She hurried across and kissed him, holding on to him longer than she might have done, explaining why Sally wasn’t with them. Bill followed with her holdall.
‘Bad traffic?’ asked Tom.
They hastened to justify their extended journey time. ‘Dreadful.’ ‘Nose to tail.’
‘Tea?’
Making eye contact with Bill, she shook her head slightly and he gave the right answer. ‘No thanks, mate. Few things to do.’
‘Thanks for the lift.’ Linking arms with Tom, they crossed the yard and went into the house.
The kitchen smelled of burnt bacon and oranges. Tom had tidied the surface clutter into piles, pushing them into corners of the windowsills and worktops. There was a plate of sandwich
es, inexpertly covered with cling film, on the table. Sinking onto the shabby sofa, she kicked off her shoes while he made tea in the brown pot. She leaned her head back and shut her eyes.
‘You OK?’ said Tom.
‘Mmmm.’
‘You needn’t eat them.’ He waved the plate towards her. ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d be hungry.’
She wasn’t but she ate three sandwiches and drank two cups of tea. He watched her as a parent watches a convalescent child taking solids for the first time after a long illness.
She told him about Dorothy and her father’s determination to marry. ‘I didn’t get much out of him but he seems to be happy enough.’
‘Are you feeling any better about it?’ was his only question.
He sat next to her and she relayed snippets of Flora’s news. He nodded and smiled as he listened to the latest details of job and flat. This daughter made sense to him. The ups and downs in her life resulted from outside influences and, consequently, could be solved by conventional methods. She avoided taking on the woes of the world and concentrated on sorting out her own difficulties. It was easy to talk about Flora.
‘Maddy wrote her a letter, too,’ said Anna. ‘Oh, she hasn’t phoned, has she? Maddy, I mean?’
‘I know who you mean. No.’ The ticking clock and the carrumph of the central heating boiler, cutting in, were the only sounds to break the silence. Now she should tell him about Bill and Sally. Explain that their friends were having difficulties. Expand this to justify Bill’s need to talk to a sympathetic friend. Talk about his state of mind. And, if Tom looked as though he was ready for it, go that final step and let him know that his best friend appeared to have a crush on her.
A car door banged, somewhere across the yard.
6
When they moved, Tom had decided to forgo his daily newspaper. There was no means of getting one delivered and the radio gave him the all the news he needed. Occasionally, however, the craving for good editorial or informed comment was irresistible and he would succumb. The nearest place to get a paper or a magazine was in Cwm Bont, where the post office doubled as general store. The village also boasted a pub (The Lion), a hardware store-cum-gift shop, a chapel and the village hall. Finally, there was a garage with a couple of pumps. By no means the cutting edge of retailing but a godsend when there was no time to drive the twelve miles to Ludlow.
After breakfast, Tom announced that he was planning to stroll down for a paper. Anna was surprised that he hadn’t left Pen Craig, at all, over the weekend. He’d spent most of the time working in the outhouse, preparing the floor for her wheel and kiln. He looked delighted when she offered to keep him company and they decided to make a decent walk of it, going the long way round.
The utility room was crammed with coats, jackets and overalls. A mountain of muddy wellingtons and walking boots rose in the corner. Hats and gloves littered the top of the freezer, as though several snowmen had crept in here to melt. It was obvious that country folk lived in this house. ‘It’s blowing in from the west,’ said Tom as they pulled on waterproofs. They had become weather experts, too.
Before setting off, Tom took her to inspect his handiwork. It had been too late last evening when she arrived home, but now, in the daylight, she could see what a wonderful job he was making of the floor. He had salvaged bricks from what must once have been a walled garden, cleaned off the mortar and was setting them in a herringbone pattern. While she was away, he had completed about two square metres of floor. Slow progress but the result was stunning.
‘What d’you think?’ he asked.
‘It’s beautiful.’ She was entranced by the colour of the old bricks and their satisfying geometry.
‘Remind you of anything?’
‘Of course. The square in Siena. Remember sitting there, by the Gaia Fountain, watching those boys showing off on their scooters?’
He grinned and everything between them was fine. The drive home last night had been exceedingly stressful and she’d allowed herself to become fanciful.
Crouching, she ran the palm of her hand across the brickwork. He’d started in the corner where she would be working, and had created a terracotta island in a rough sea of concrete. ‘It’s a dreadful shame to cover it up,’ she said.
‘Now I’ve perfected a method for setting it out, the rest will be much quicker, and it’s very rewarding, watching it grow. I think I’ll have enough bricks to do the whole floor.’
She hugged herself as she imagined working in this peaceful place, filling shelves with interesting pots. She had it in mind to make mugs, plates and bowls for everyone, each piece unique, to remind them of their reasons for coming to Pen Craig. ‘Thanks, love. It’s the nicest present I’ve ever had.’ She kissed him.
They left the buildings and crossed the patch of rough grass towards the swimming pool. A detached stone building faced the pool; Tom suggested it had probably started life as a cowshed, or perhaps a dairy. In the brief period when the house had been a hotel, it had been done out as a kind of summerhouse, where guests could shelter from the weather and read or watch the swimmers. Although the fate of the pool remained undecided, there was unanimous support for retaining this summerhouse. It made a perfect meeting place, large enough to accommodate them all, and it had taken on the ambience of a common-room. They’d never planned to live communally (although that was the impression family and friends were determined to have) but this communal space was a great asset. They had installed a wood-burning stove, a refectory table, some well-worn leather sofas and an upright piano, donated by the Redwoods. Here they’d eaten their Christmas meal with the depleted complement of guests who had managed to reach Pen Craig before a foot of snow fell, making the place unbearably beautiful but infuriatingly inaccessible. Jenny had taken it personally, as if some Welsh witch had summoned up the blizzard to foil the upstart incomers. Her ‘Country Life’ event had been thwarted by power cuts and unfinished shopping. Everyone else had taken it in their stride, even those, Flora amongst them, who had failed to negotiate the last few miles and been forced to spend a couple of days in the Travel Lodge, out on the Ludlow bypass. (By all accounts, they’d had the time of their lives and were planning to reconvene on the A49 next Christmas.)
As they passed the summerhouse, she spotted Bill peering out of the window. She suspected that he’d heard them talking and stationed himself on their route. He opened the French windows and came out to join them. She thanked him again for the lift. ‘Any news from Sally? When’s she coming back?’
‘Emily’s being a bit prima-donna-ish so Sal’s going to hang on. Play it by ear. I’m on my own for a couple of days at least.’ He sighed. ‘Flippin’ quiet without her, as you can imagine. Still the old boy scout training’s paying off. I can still incinerate a few sausages.’
Tom fell for it. ‘You’re eating with us tonight, isn’t he, Anna?’
Bill needed no persuading and beamed his acceptance.
A threesome with Bill did not appeal to her. ‘How about inviting the others? We haven’t had a get together for ages. Nothing elaborate.’
Tom nodded agreement. ‘Couple of bottles of wine. Just the job.’
‘Where are you two gadding off?’ asked Bill. She had to admire his persistence. Tom took the bait, again, and invited him to join them on their expedition. Bill had the decency to mumble a few words about ‘not wanting to muscle in’ but he was already zipping up his jacket.
‘Look. Why don’t you two go down to Cwm Bont and I’ll see if Celia and Jenny are around.’ She watched Bill’s face. Either he was an accomplished actor or she was getting steamed up about nothing.
Anna’s culinary forte was peasant fare – basic and tasty. She left the fancy stuff to Sally or Celia and the really fancy stuff to Jenny. After a few minutes’ consideration, she plumped for beef casserole followed by rice pudding. And maybe a fruit salad for the faint-hearted. That would do. She preferred impromptu invitations. They removed any expectation of perfection. To cater for t
he extra mouths, her fortnightly supermarket session would need topping up and she wrote a list of things for Tom and Bill to get from the village.
She surveyed the cars in the yard. When everyone was at home, there were seven. Theirs was the only one-car household. They’d agreed that they could manage with a single reliable vehicle and a small trailer. Tom had always hankered after a trailer to transport the fruits of his skip raids and this one had already paid for itself in scavenged materials. ‘Recycling. It’s recycling, love,’ he would say, stacking his booty of bricks or timber in the corner of the outhouse.
There were six cars today. Peter’s Jag was missing. She knocked at the back door of Number Three, which was no longer called ‘Number Three’. Within two months of occupancy, it had been re-named ‘High Trees’ and had a nasty cast-iron plate, screwed to the wall, to that effect.
Jenny invited her in. ‘Coffee?’ she asked, going over to the chrome machine. The Redwoods had machines for doing most things. Coffee maker, juicer, toaster, bread maker – all top of the range models, pristine and unscratched, as though they were fresh out of the box. Copper pans, graded by size, hung from a rack above the Aga. Bunches of dried lavender scented the air. A huge turquoise bowl, piled high with lemons, limes and aubergines, stood on the table. (What sort of a meal could Jenny make with those?)
‘It’s not a dinner party – just a meal. Bill’s on his own and it sort of went from there,’ Anna explained while the machine hissed and gurgled.
Jenny, too, was on her own. Peter had left early to do his regular ‘list’ in Reading and she had nothing planned. ‘Shall I bring dessert?’ she asked.
‘It’s all under control, thanks.’ Anna was determined that the evening should not be railroaded into an ‘event’, which tended to happen when Jenny was involved.
‘Did you meet your father’s girlfriend when you were down there?’
