A Rather English Marriage (25 page)

It was easier to think of her childhood (unconsciously his face softened): his little darling, his tiny, pretty daughter nestling on his lap or dancing round holding out her skirt. How had that little girl come to this? Grace, oh my Gracie, where did it go wrong? What happened to the carefree future we planned for our children, with no war, no bombs, no separations, and a decent house of our own? We built up healthy young bodies full of good, fresh food, sent them to good
schools, gave them the step up, so where is the
happiness
we planned for them? No consoling ghost rose before his eyes; and where her soothing voice had always been, a roar pounded in his ears like the sea.

His need to talk to Grace was overwhelming, but Roy couldn't face going through to the dining-room to the shrine. He feared that the unwatered flowers would have dried to withered shells, the shiny frames of the photographs be dulled by dust. Instead, he walked stiffly into the hall and picked up the telephone.

‘Molly!' he said with relief as she answered. ‘It's Roy. How're you keeping?'

Despite his struggle for self-control, he could not prevent his voice from breaking. ‘I'm ever so sorry,' he wept, ‘I didn't mean to burden you … It's nearly a year since she died, my darling Gracie …'

‘I knew her too,' Molly's voice reminded him. ‘She weren't your possession, Roy Southgate, you remember that.' As he choked his sobs down the telephone, she relented. ‘There, there,' she soothed, ‘there there.'

‘I know,' he gulped, ‘she weren't just mine –
our
Grace, our dear Grace, but I
miss
her so – and now Vera … Vera and Stan.'

Although there were a few flowers in the back garden, and one or two early roses blooming delicately on their unpruned stems, he neither picked them nor looked in to the dining-room to water the flowers there before setting out. He wished for the thousandth time that he could stride, as he used to in the old days, but any attempt to hurry was bad for his heart. Stiff-legged, aching in every part, he made his way down the hill for tea at Molly's.

Liz bent over a table in the front of the shop, admiring her long fingers and coral nail varnish as she arranged a group of trinkets. She wore a white cotton shirt to show off her early tan, sleeves pushed up to display her slender, sinewy brown arms and the double bangle on her right wrist. She had tipped a basket on to its side so that a jumble of covetable small objects spilled invitingly towards each customer entering the shop. Few had cost her more than five pounds in the street markets of Genoa, Portofino and Rome; none, now, was priced under fifteen pounds. Shift half these, she thought, and my trip's paid for; shift them all and I've made a decent profit.

The brilliantly choreographed windows of Italian boutiques; the apricot-skinned women whose social and love lives were conducted with such
élan
under the discerning eyes of sleek, well-tailored men in restaurants and cafés; the laughing, flirtatious, casual young with their loose hair and fresh faces – the spectacle of Italy's exuberant pavement life had given Liz new impetus. She herself had attracted many admiring glances and comments. In Italy, a middle-aged woman was still desirable. Here in England, she thought tartly, you were – what were the expressions? – a wrinkly; a crumbly; almost a pariah, unless you had the time and money to stop the clock. Yet in Italy, had she wished, she could have had a number of erotic adventures in darkened hotel rooms during the long, warm afternoons. Only the fear of Aids had stopped her.

She spent the morning dressing the shop window in subtle colour combinations that made everyone else's look dull. Customers were soon drifting in, exclaiming, embracing, envying, demurring, deciding and finally, thank God, buying.

Five minutes after she got home that evening, the telephone rang. She knew it would be Reggie and was tempted not to
answer. She needed a bath and a drink or two before dealing with that problem; but in case it was her troubled daughter, Alicia, she picked up the phone.

‘Darling!' she cooed, soft and low. ‘How lovely to hear your voice! How
are
you?'

‘Long time no see,' said Reggie gruffly.

‘I know, sweetheart. Hold on, let me just reach for my drink.'

She went through to the kitchen, opened the fridge, took out a bottle of Muscadet, found a corkscrew, opened the bottle and poured a pale glass of wine. Taking a packet of cashews from the cupboard, she walked leisurely back to the telephone.

‘Hello? Hello? Are you still there? Liz?
Hello!'
Reggie's querulous voice rose to a panicky crescendo. Silly old fool, she thought, calm down, of course I'm bloody here.

‘Sweetheart? Sorry … couldn't find my cigarettes. Now tell me how you've been? Have you been good without me?'

Reggie, mollified, told her about his accountant, at which point she sipped her wine and began to pay attention, and his nieces, at which she listened very carefully indeed.

‘They're curious to meet you,' Reggie was saying, and she thought, I bet they are!

‘They sound sweet girls,' she said neutrally.

‘I said they must come down one day, one Sunday perhaps, for lunch, spend the afternoon … maybe with their father and stepmother.'

‘Hang on!' she laughed. ‘Not all at once. Why don't I just meet the girls first? Maybe we could have a drink with them in town one evening? Then if that goes all right, the rest of your family.'

‘Jolly good idea,' said Reginald. ‘Oh, and by the way, if we're doing the social hoo-ha, what about your children? Isn't it time I met them?'

‘Sweetie. Certainly, if you'd like to. Are you sure? Hugo's out of the country, of course – he's in Malaya at the moment, or maybe it's Australia by now. But Alicia's around. I'm sure she'd be thrilled to meet you.'

‘Have dinner with me tonight,' Reggie said impatiently. ‘Then we can discuss it.'

‘Not tonight, darling, I'm knackered. Flying's so exhausting. Need my beauty sleep. How about next Thursday?'

‘Next
Thursday?' he grumbled. ‘Why wait till then?'

I've got him in the palm of my hand, thought Liz. What am I getting myself into? I need to sit down and work it all out. Suppose things at the shop suddenly got better? Do I want to tie myself down like this and be patronized by his snobby relatives? It's been great, my freedom. Travelling light was good fun. Absence may have made his heart grow fonder, but it hasn't done wonders for mine.

‘Don't bully me, sweetie,' she cooed. ‘I'm dying to see you, too, absolutely dying to … but Thursday's really the first free evening. Possess your soul in patience, hmm? Now, where shall we meet?'

They agreed. Eight o'clock. He'd book a table. He mumbled and grumbled a bit, but eventually let her go. He's just a silly old buffer, she thought from her new perspective. This house is fine: bit small, but fine for me on my own. I've been over-pessimistic about the shop – all it needed was a fresh eye and some different merchandise. The whole world is full of interesting people and half of them are male. I'm fifty-two and I look ten years younger. What on earth was I thinking of? Marry
Reggie?
I must have been mad.

Roy caught the train to London and got off at Clapham Junction. He had timed his visit so as to be able to talk to June by herself, before the boys got home from school. She had a pot of tea brewing up for him, and offered a plate of biscuits.

She smoked unceasingly, lighting one cheap cigarette from the butt of the previous one. He was amazed at how scrawny and scruffy she had become … June, who had always taken care of her looks. She had given up the usual heavy make-up, and her hair, normally bright orange, had returned to its natural mousey brown. Only the ends betrayed a once vivid tint.
She had lost weight. Her arms were criss-crossed with fine scars: as though, he thought, she'd been dragged through a hedge backwards – which, come to think of it, was what her hair looked like, too. Her black tights were full of holes and her shoes were down-at-heel.

‘Junie!' he said, stung to pity. ‘You don't look well. You been neglecting yourself?'

‘Course I have,' she retorted. ‘Ain't much choice. Money's down to next to nothing, the Social don't give you a penny more than's enough to scrape by on. I can smoke or eat, one or the other, and I can't do without the fags so I don't eat. But don't you worry about Joe and Billy: they get fed all right. Not that modern muck; good nourishing stews I cook them, breast of lamb, split peas, all the stuff me Mam taught me. Thank God she did, or it'd be five nights from the fish 'n' chip shop and two nights you goes without. Plenty round here live like that; those mean Paki shops don't give you tick, not if you're on Social.'

He kept quiet and let her get it off her chest before asking, ‘Heard from Alan lately?'

‘Billy had a card for his birthday and he sent us all an Easter card, and that's been our lot. When I rang the prison and said I'd visit, I got a message back that he'd said not to come. Tell you the truth, I thought he might have tried to do himself in again, and I couldn't face seeing that a second time, so I didn't go. You been down?'

‘Ten days ago,' said Roy, and drew a deep breath.

‘From the look of you you needs another cuppa first,' said June.

If he had thought the news might come as a relief to her, finally putting an end to the uncertainty, he was wrong. She broke down, heaving tears from some subterranean well of misery. Her wan face became raw and corrugated with weeping. As soon as she had regained control of her shaking hands, she pulled hard on a cigarette. Roy watched her with horror and sympathy, his own grief rekindled by the sight of hers. Alan's marriage might not have meant much to him, but to
his wife it was real, and, in spite of everything, she was racked at the prospect of its ending.

Finally he got up and walked round to where she sat. She stretched out her raw, skinny arms and wrapped them round his waist, leaned her head against him and shuddered into silence. He patted her hair and stroked her shoulder. Touch is what we all need, me as much as her, he thought. Touching her comforts me, makes me flesh and blood.

‘I'm still the lawful wedded wife, aren't I, though?' she asked him finally, as they sat facing one another once more across the plastic-covered table. ‘He hasn't got two wives, just because he went through a form of marriage with this other one. I'm his real wife?'

‘You are, love,' said Roy. ‘But he seems dead set on going ahead and getting this divorce. I don't know the rules nowadays, but far as I remember, you can't stop him. Or only for a time.'

‘I can
try,'
she said fiercely. ‘I don't have to let him go without a fight. I'm the lawful wedded wife and I'm the one's got his children. Never mind Gloria, even though she's been putting her wages towards helping me and the boys – but he can't deny Billy and Joe.'

‘When are they back?' asked Roy.

‘Any minute now – that's if they don't stop on to play football in the playground, or with a detention more likely.'

‘They good boys, good at their lessons?'

‘Not bad, considering. Little Joe ain't half bright. Nothing's hard for him.'

‘Alan could have been a clever lad,' said Roy, ‘if he hadn't been lazy.'

‘Yeah – and look where it's got him!' she said bitterly. ‘And me. I could have done my As, got a decent job. My teachers wanted me to stay on. Then I went and fell pregnant with Gloria, fucked it all up, pardon my French. Now listen, Dad: you've to go down to the prison with the boys – they'll come if you promise them that posh car again; they liked that – and let Alan see them. He can't say no to them visiting, and
maybe if he sees them – not me, them – maybe
then
…' Her hopes trailed away into silence.

‘I'm not holding out any promises,' said Roy. ‘But I'll give it a try. Chin up, lovey. Tell me what you need for their tea and I'll nip down to the shops.'

It was early evening by the time he got back to The Cedars to find Reginald sitting on the terrace behind the house, a whisky bottle and ashtray on the table before him. The contrast between this lush, flower-filled garden and the barrenness he had just left overwhelmed Roy. All his life he had been a staunch Conservative. It was his personal tribute to Mr Churchill. But at moments like this he understood what those Labour types were on about. Reginald had so much – and God only knew how he'd earned it, if at all – while poor Junie had so pitifully little.

‘Ha!' barked Reggie when he saw him. ‘Southgate! Back are you? Bit bloody late. Getting peckish.' He must have seen something of Roy's desolation in his face, for he added in a gentler voice, ‘Fetch yourself a glass and have a snifter first.'

A balustrade ran around the edge of the terrace and from it stone steps led down into an extensive back garden. A line of pleached apple trees made a decorative frieze along the end wall, in front of which was the vegetable patch. Paving stones led through the lawn from the terrace. Birds sang. The low sun cast slanting shadows.

Roy put a glass on the wrought-iron table and sat down heavily. His legs hurt. He took his glasses off and wiped his eyes.

‘Stiff whisky's what you need,' said Reggie. ‘Don't bother about cooking tonight. I'll go to the pub, get something there.'

In the pause, the unspoken question ‘Anything wrong?' hovered between them. Roy needed to hear it, although Reginald was unable to say it.

‘Oh sir,' said Roy, ‘I wish my Grace was still alive. I'm ever so worried about my grandsons, I don't know which way to turn. She would have known what to do. She always did.'

‘Don't have to talk about it unless you want to,' said Reginald, who would have preferred not to get in too deep. Roy didn't notice.