by Jane Corry
We never ask questions like this. It’s an unspoken agreement between us that we trust each other. Just like it’s a ‘given’ that we each work crazy hours.
‘Just a colleague.’
‘From the practice?’
Why am I interrogating him like this?
‘No. It’s a woman I used to work with. I bumped into her again at the conference and it turns out that she’s interested in the painkiller research I was telling you about.’
Normally this is where I tune out, but the word ‘woman’, along with that earlier snatch of conversation I’d overheard, makes me feel … well, uneasy. So too does the way my husband isn’t meeting my eyes. I think back to how he’d got back late; how he hadn’t responded (yet again) to my suggestions in bed.
‘You’re meeting up at nine p.m.? Tonight? On a Sunday?’
He gives me a challenging look. ‘Yes. You heard correctly. She’s writing a paper and wants to know more about my findings.’
‘I wasn’t eavesdropping,’ I say sharply. ‘I was just coming to say goodbye before I go to Dad’s.’
He brushes my cheek. ‘Hope you have a good trip. Give my best to him.’
‘Will do.’ I turn to leave and then, before I can stop, I find myself asking it. ‘So when did you work with this woman?’
‘About three years ago. She was a locum at the practice.’
Three years ago? Round about the time when Stuart stopped making love to me.
‘What’s her name?’
‘Janine.’ He answers without meeting my eye.
I go back and give the kids one more kiss before going. But my mind is running riot. Is it possible that my husband is having an affair? No, I tell myself, walking briskly to the station. As I’ve always believed, he’s just not the type. No more than I am. Yet as I clamber onto the train – making it by the skin of my teeth – I can’t explain the sense of unease in the pit of my stomach.
Then another email comes through. It’s from the twenty-four-hour claims team at our home insurance company. I read it through twice. And then text Sally.
Dad lives in a 1970s honey-brick bungalow that had been quite cutting edge when he and Mum had moved in soon after it was built. I’d been a kid then. When I tell people that I grew up by the sea, they usually say how wonderful it must have been. When I go back now, I have to admit it seems pretty idyllic. But as I was growing up, all I could think of was getting away to London.
Dad loved living here. Long ago, he’d told me how he’d ‘done the London bit’ when he’d been young (he’s about ten years older than Mum), and that when she’d got pregnant, he’d wanted me to have the fresh air that they hadn’t. I suppose each generation tries to give their offspring the chances that they didn’t have. Isn’t that why Stuart and I cut costs on other things so we can afford ‘luxuries’ for the girls like acting classes, drawing courses, driving lessons (for Melissa) and nice clothes? All these would have been out of the question when I was young. I still remember having to make do with only one pair of non-school shoes, unlike some of my friends whose parents were better off.
I never yearned for a brother or sister. The three of us were happy as we were. Of course, with hindsight, I realize that Mum – who’d been an only child like Dad – must have been putting on a great show. We did things together at weekends. We looked for shells on the beach. Once, Mum found a beautiful one with a mother-of-pearl sheen inside which she gave me for my special ‘treasure box’. Dad built me kites from balsa wood and wrapping paper. We did jigsaws – one of his passions, although Mum always said they bored her to death. We took long nature walks along the coast. Mum would often tell me stories about her own childhood in Wales. ‘How I miss the valleys,’ she’d say wistfully. When I went to secondary school and got the role of Nancy in the Christmas production of Oliver!, Mum and Dad filled the front ten rows with all their friends. ‘Reckon you get this acting lark from my mother,’ she told me proudly. ‘She’d have adored you. In all the am-dram groups, she was. Wanted to be a proper actress but then she had me.’
My grandmother had died before I was born but I loved the idea of carrying on the tradition. Except that I was going to go one further. This was no hobby. I set my sights on being a proper actress. Even so, I might not have done it without the encouragement of our English teacher, who organized the annual musical.
‘It’s a tough world but I don’t see why you can’t try,’ he told me when I was in the sixth form. ‘Someone’s got to make it big, so why not you?’
Maybe it was his faith – and my parents’ – which meant I wasn’t as surprised as perhaps I should have been when I was accepted by one of the well-respected drama schools. I was on my way! I couldn’t wait to be off, packing my bags with such haste that I put the tension between Mum and Dad down to the fact that they were going to miss me. ‘Don’t worry,’ I announced cheerily. ‘I’ll be back at Christmas.’
What I hadn’t banked on was that Mum would no longer be there.
Dad broke the news in a phone call just before I was about to audition for Portia in The Merchant of Venice, our first student production. Stunned, I poured all my grief and anger into my feisty character. ‘You were amazing,’ said one of the other students when I came offstage. ‘So realistic!’
Only then did I burst into tears. He held me while I sobbed bitterly and then took me to the pub for a drink. His name was Matthew. He was a mature student, nine years older than me. (He’d spent time in America, travelling, which sounded very grown-up to me.) But most important of all, he understood my grief. After his own parents’ divorce, he’d spent his teenage years being handed over from one to another. ‘That must have been awful,’ I said.
His eyes had glistened with tears. ‘It was.’ Then he cupped my face in his hands, looking straight into my eyes. ‘You’ll learn to get used to it. I’ll help you.’
The porch of Dad’s bungalow, I notice now as I stand inside, waiting for him to answer the bell, is dirty with boot marks on the tiles and there’s a spider’s web in the corner. I’d often suggested to Dad that he might like to get a cleaner in, but he always got so defensive. ‘I’m more than capable of looking after myself, thank you very much.’
These phrases have become more regular over the years. ‘Waste of good money.’ ‘I can do it myself.’
In vain, I pointed out that I was happy to pay. ‘Very good of you, but I’d rather you kept it for the kids. ’Sides, I don’t want strangers poking around my private papers.’
But a cleaner might keep an eye on him. His arthritis had got worse in the last few years and he was distinctly unsteady on his feet. What if he fell? I’d contacted the council with my fears – surely they could send someone in to help with housework and so on? It turned out that he was just above the level needed to qualify. Besides, even if he hadn’t been, I was pretty sure that Dad would have turned it down rather than have strangers in the house.
Through the glass door panel, I can see a shape making its way towards me. He’s lifting the letter box on the other side. ‘Who is it?’
‘Me – Poppy.’
‘Poppy?’ There’s the sound of bolts being undone until the door finally opens. ‘What a lovely surprise!’ He puts his arms around me and gives me a big bear hug.
I hug him back but inside I’m really worried. Is his memory getting worse? ‘It’s not a surprise, Dad. I told you I’d be here. I even gave you the time of the train I was getting.’
‘No you didn’t.’ I can hear anger in his voice now. These changes of mood make me desperately sad. He used to be so different.
‘You said you were in a spot of bother,’ I say firmly but gently, stepping inside. There’s a smell of burning. Then a high-pitched whine. Looks like I’ve come just in time. ‘Dad,’ I say, ‘your smoke alarm is going off.’
‘Oh, that.’ He bats away the smoke coming out of the kitchen. ‘It’s just the cooker. Needs fixing.’
I head for the source. ‘It’s because you’re fry
ing cornflakes!’
‘Of course I’m not.’
‘Look, Dad.’
His voice is cross, as if I am responsible. ‘Well, I don’t know how that happened.’
The top of the cooker is covered with congealed food (not just the cornflakes). Ugh! Heaven knows when it was last cleaned. The oven is just as bad. ‘No wonder it doesn’t work, Dad. The vents are blocked up. You’re lucky there hasn’t been a fire.’
But my father isn’t really listening and I decide it’s best not to press the point. ‘Give me a few minutes to clear this lot up and then I’ll cook you something else.’
His voice is impatient and cross. ‘I’m not hungry now. Lost my appetite, I have.’
I give him another hug. ‘It’s all right, Dad.’
‘I know it is. I just wish you wouldn’t treat me like a child.’
He goes back to his chair in a strop and turns the television up loud. I put the muck from the oven in the bin, which is, of course, overflowing. I go out of the back door – unlocked! – and that’s when I hear the voice from over the fence.
‘Everything all right there?’
It’s dark by now but in the light from the back door I can still make out the face of Dad’s neighbour, the one he doesn’t talk to any more.
‘Fine, thanks,’ I say, leaning over to remove the lid of the dustbin. ‘Just the smoke alarm.’
‘I didn’t mean that, love. I was talking about the police turning up this morning.’
I straighten up. ‘What do you mean?’
Her voice sounds smugly excited, the way it does when someone is conveying bad news and relishing every minute of doing so. ‘Didn’t your dad tell you? He forgot to pay for petrol when he filled up that car of his. Drove straight off from the garage, he did. Luckily they got his registration number and the police paid him a visit. Did they press charges? You can get a criminal record for that, you know.’
Is that what Dad had meant when he’d told me he was in a spot of bother? I wish I could wipe that look off this woman’s face. She might mean well but I don’t like the way she’s talking about Dad. ‘How do you know all this?’
She has the grace to look abashed, but only slightly. ‘My daughter-in-law works in the garage. Your dad needs someone to keep an eye on him. The other night, he went to bed with the back door wide open. I had to go round and wake him.’
‘Thank you,’ I said curtly.
‘The thing is,’ she continues, ‘where’s it all going to end? If you’re not careful, he could do something that harms himself or someone else.’
The implication is clear. I am not being a good daughter. I don’t answer her for fear of losing my temper. This woman doesn’t know anything about the things I have to deal with in my life. How dare she judge me like that?
Going back inside, I find Dad bashing the remote control against the arm of his chair. ‘Bloody thing. Why won’t it work? In my day, you just had an on/off switch.’
‘Dad,’ I say, trying to sound calm. ‘Did the police press charges when you didn’t pay for your fuel this morning?’
I expect him to deny it. Instead, he rubs his eyes as if suddenly exhausted. ‘It was just some stupid mistake on my part. I forgot. It’s their fault. They ought to have someone to put the petrol in for you like they did in the old days.’
‘Things have changed, Dad,’ I say softly.
‘Too damn true.’ He begins thumping the remote again. ‘And I don’t like it. Anyway, in answer to your question, they’re not going to press charges. But they gave me a “verbal warning”, like I was a bloody schoolkid.’
I say nothing and, leaving him to the television, head into the kitchen to sort him out with something to eat. It’s really dark outside now.
I ring home to check everything’s all right. ‘Fine, love,’ Betty assures me.
But she sounds hesitant.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Absolutely. The girls are doing their homework.’
‘Can I speak to Stuart?’
‘He’s gone out to some meeting.’
But that wasn’t meant to be until later.
I ring my husband. It goes straight through to answerphone.
Then I see I’ve had a text. From Matthew.
How’s it going with your dad?
BTW, I’m in the area tonight.
Fancy a drink at the hotel?
In the area? Really? Did he honestly expect me to believe that?
On the other hand, says a little voice inside me, it would be nice to have some company after everything with Dad, and now this new confirmation of my suspicions about Stuart. Once more I wish I had a best friend to talk to. I don’t want to confide in Sally. Although I have let her in on the odd gripe about my husband or the girls, this feels too personal. It would mean explaining my history with Matthew …
I text back.
Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?
The reply comes instantly.
I’m not stalking you if that’s what you mean! It just happened that I’ve been called down for a voiceover audition in Eastbourne tomorrow morning. It’s an early start so I thought I’d stay locally for the night. Sandra’s with one of the carers we use when I’m working. It’s not a million miles away from you so thought I could drive over. But no worries if you don’t feel like it.
I feel stupid. He thinks that I think he’s after me.
Sounds like a good idea
I text back.
I could do with someone to talk to.
Great. How about an hour from now?
It’s just a drink between friends, I tell myself. My husband is out too, isn’t he? But it still doesn’t feel totally right.
‘Would you like me to stay over with you?’ I ask Dad. ‘I’ve got a hotel room but I could cancel and sleep on your sofa instead.’
‘We’ve been through this before, Poppy.’ Dad can be quite gruff when he wants to. ‘I wander round the house if I can’t sleep and switch on the telly. I’m best off on my own.’
‘If you’re sure.’
‘I am.’ He yawns. ‘Why don’t you get going? Tell the truth, I could do with an early night. I didn’t have my usual afternoon nap.’
‘I’ll be back in the morning,’ I promise, kissing his rough cheek.
He hugs me back, warm and loving again. ‘Don’t bother, love. I’m going to bingo with Reg down the road. And I’ve got my jigsaws to keep me busy. You go back to those girls of yours. They need you more than me.’
I’m not sure that’s true, I think to myself as I take the taxi I’ve already ordered from Dad’s house to the hotel. One minute he seems so independent and the next he’s so confused he’s got the police after him. What am I going to do?
As soon as I walk into the hotel foyer with its huge Christmas tree in the centre and squashy sofas, I see Matthew. It’s as if he is waiting for me.
‘Great timing,’ he says. ‘I only just got here myself.’
I’d been wondering on the way what we would do when we met. Will we go for the cheek-to-cheek air kiss? Shaking hands would be strangely formal, wouldn’t it?
But instead he simply gives me a sympathetic look. ‘How did it go with your dad?’
‘Pretty awful,’ I say.
‘Poor you. Let’s have a drink and you can tell me all about it.
We walk, with a space between us, towards the bar. It’s all very proper and correct. Yet as we sit down and I start telling him about how Dad could have set the house on fire, I am amazed at how natural I feel with Matthew. It’s so easy to talk to him, despite – or maybe because of – our past. Why don’t I feel like this with Stuart? I think of the awkward silence that had stretched out between us at our lunch earlier today.
Then I think about Sandra, and how Matthew had fallen for her, and the way the two of them had treated me. We were so young then. We’ve all changed.
Here I am now, a mother of two with a husband who no longer wants her. And here’s Matthew, no longer a TV
star, devoted to his sick wife in a wheelchair. Matthew orders two glasses of Chardonnay.
‘How is Sandra?’ I ask.
Instantly, a strained look crosses his face. ‘Not good. I felt awful leaving her for this audition but, as I mentioned, we’ve got this amazing carer who she gets on with. It’s not like that with all of them. The pain can make Sandra understandably cross with people at times.’
His voice trails away as if he’s said too much.
‘Of course,’ he adds, ‘we have to pay for some of this help, especially if I’ve got a last-minute job. The social care side only goes so far.’
‘That must be difficult,’ I say.
He leans forward towards me, but not too close. ‘That’s why it’s so good to talk to you, Poppy. You knew me from the days when our lives were so different. You knew Sandra too. I’m aware I behaved badly but …’
‘It’s OK.’ I can’t help it. I touch his shoulder in recognition of what he’s saying. ‘We were just kids.’
‘I know.’ His tone sounds a bit brisk now. ‘But that’s all in the past now. Talking of kids, you haven’t told me much about them. You’ve got two, you said. Boy and girl, wasn’t it?’
‘Two girls,’ I correct him. I’m sure I’d told him that before. If I hadn’t, I should have done. ‘Melissa and Daisy.’
‘Pretty names.’
‘Thanks.’ I glow inside. ‘They mean the world to me.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Would you like to see some pictures?’ I’m already scrolling down my phone to show him.
‘The little one is so like you were!’ he exclaims.
I blush. ‘I was plump too.’
‘Nonsense. We all loved your curvy look.’
I blush again.
‘Melissa takes after Stuart,’ I say quickly, to hide my embarrassment and bring us back to safer ground.
‘Have you got a picture of him too?’
I scroll back to find a family shot. My husband has his arms around the girls. He is at the far end of our little group from me.
‘He must be so proud of you,’ says Matthew.
