New World in the Morning (14 page)

I tried to phone again at three-fifteen but she had probably stopped in Canterbury for lunch.

I gave up after that. My train was at three-forty-five. And I wanted to take my time over walking to the station.

Indeed, I wanted to take my time over every aspect of these next three days.
See and appreciate. See and appreciate.
I should have had this inscribed (yes, seriously, I mean)—tattooed—across the underside of my left wrist.

“I really hope,” I said, “that you and…Wendy?…have a great time at…at Herne Bay, is it?” No. Mavis and her friend were spending the bank holiday at Broadstairs—or, at any rate, what would be left of the bank holiday. It hadn't occurred to me: I should have suggested we shut the shop for three days, not just two. Oh, damn! How selfish could a person get? Yet maybe it wasn't too late—“Why don't we put a notice on the door?” But she swiftly salved my conscience.

“No, Mr G.” With a vehement shake of the head. “Wend couldn't have got away until after lunch tomorrow. And Mum as well…I couldn't have left Mum for
three
whole nights! She's in enough of a hu-ha as it is. But she's not an invalid—that's what I say—and while I can, I've got myself to think of. Haven't I? I tell her it will do her good.”

“You're right, Mavis. Occasionally everyone has themselves to think of.”

“But you make sure you have a really great time, too. Knock 'em all for six! I mean—both on the cricket field
and
on the dance floor.”

“Naturally,” I said. “Oh, but, Mavis—by the way—did you happen to mention the dance-floor bit to Junie?”

“You're not trying to tell me she doesn't know!”

I paused, in the face of her astonishment. “If it's deception,” I said, “it's only deception on a very small scale. I just don't want to run the risk of making her feel…oh, I'm not even sure what the word is.”

“Jealous?”

“No—left out.”

“Okay, then. Well, I think it's lucky you warned me.”

“It wouldn't have mattered.”

“You know something?” she said. “I sometimes feel you're almost too good to be true.”

“Yes, so do I. And surely we can't both be wrong?”

But talking of warnings…I now remembered Ella's bracelet. Dear Lord, three days in which I'd failed to allude to it! Certainly I'd had other matters on my mind but that was no excuse. Not when I was juggling with my daughter's happiness. Her development. Already she appeared cynical enough. Both my children did. (Strange: they could scarcely have been raised by parents any
less
so!) If she found out I'd lied about the bracelet, that might seem the ultimate betrayal.

And apropos of looking after my family, there was something else I had been thinking about—though this time not at all for the attention of Mavis. In fact I had been wondering whether I ought to contact John Caterham—or, indeed, his wife. (Whenever I remembered her I had to remind myself that, no, she wasn't visiting her sick mother; at least, it would have been amazing if she were.) But the odds against Junie trying to reach me in Lincolnshire were so great I really didn't want to beg that kind of favour. John would instantly suppose our marriage was in trouble and I would care about that. I had no wish for any wrong ideas to call up either sadness or self-congratulation in someone who'd once used to play for us, repeatedly, an old seventy-eight of his mother's: ‘They tried to tell us we're too young…' (That, maybe more than any other, had always been
our
tune, Junie's and mine.)

Yes, I believed in covering my tracks, of course, but why on earth should Junie ever seek to reach me? In the event of an emergency she had her whole family living practically within earshot.

No. There were risks and risks. You didn't want to get obsessive.

Obsession wasn't cool.

“Why on earth are you wanting that old thing?” asked Mavis, as she held the door open. I had the stick lying along the top of the holdall.

“Oh. To play a joke on someone.”

“That sounds hilarious. Boys together. Have fun.”

I gave a comical nod at the quantity of stuff I was needing to carry. “Be a bit of a waste if I didn't!”

“More than a bit,” she said. “It would be tragic.”

14

But I abandoned all idea of tapping my way towards our meeting. It wasn't so much I lost my nerve as that it came to seem quite juvenile.
That sounds hilarious
…a faintly teasing echo? At any rate I left the stick on the train. It would probably end up in some lost property office and people would wonder what had happened to the poor blind soul who'd had to stagger on without it.

And besides. What if Moira hadn't remembered the reference to Pew? Or hadn't made the connection?

Or if she'd got there late? Imagine! Everyone stepping out of my way, maybe feeling that they ought to offer help.

But she wasn't late.

Even though, to begin with, I scarcely recognized her.

It was crazy. I'd been expecting somebody taller. And her hair was still red—of course it was—but somehow not the shade that I remembered. She wore less makeup perhaps, didn't appear quite so…well, so glowing or dynamic. So Technicolored. Was this, then, the woman I'd been walking with, waltzing with—been up in heaven with, while dancing cheek to cheek?

Yet then I saw the reason for my doubt. It was simply the people cutting in between us, thrusting across my line of vision, causing disturbance. I'd forgotten how unceremonious London could be. As soon as I actually reached her—and she smiled—the image instantly grew strong again, clear-cut and distinctive.

Evidently she'd had something of the same problem. “How absurd! I didn't see you—despite your height! I'm getting too shortsighted.”

It was ridiculous: the things that could flash across your mind at moments of maximum tension.
Too
shortsighted, I thought. Shortsighted itself was already too shortsighted.

But I merely set down my baggage and extended my hand. She unhurriedly shook it…laid her other hand across it…then we both leant forward to kiss lightly on the lips.

I had many times asked myself how it would be during these first few moments. Now I had my answer. Apart from the
very
first of them, that one brief second or two, it had been wholly spontaneous and natural and right.

“I was feeling a bit jittery,” she laughed.

“
You
?”

“Well, weren't you, then—just a trifle?”

“Oh, possibly. But only the smallest sort of trifle.”

And I definitely wasn't going to let on that the closer we'd come to Victoria, then the more time I'd spent in simply wondering whether, first, I could bear to use the lavatory or, second, I could even be said to have any choice in the matter. It's purely nerves, I had told myself, stop panicking, it's purely nerves. But then I'd remembered that perhaps it wasn't; from the minute I had tried on my dinner jacket I had forgotten about my earlier constipation. So now it
could
be a question, I'd realized, either of inevitable contamination aboard the train or of having to make straight for the men's cloakroom on reaching the station. (“Moira, just look after these an instant; gotta run; talk to you when I get back!”) Either way, not the most propitious lead-in to a love affair. I shouldn't even have been thinking about such things. Moonlight, champagne and roses would have made a better mix. And that was the period, too, during which I'd decided to dispense with the walking stick. Hadn't felt I could achieve the right insouciance.

But then the Fates had been kind again. With a good twenty minutes still to go, the old man who'd been sitting beside me all the way from Folkestone, yet without addressing a single word to anybody, now began to fuss about the train being late: he had a very tight connection to make out of Liverpool Street. Suddenly he seemed even more agitated than I was—in my efforts to reassure him, my own agitation imperceptibly fell back. He appeared so soothed by what I said that I was then able to start a simple conversation, with the object of distracting him.

He told me he was going to stay with a married son near Cambridge; but that he'd never got on so well with
him
as with his other boy, who was living in Vancouver and for the past seven years had been busily saving up to get him over. Seven years! That struck me as pathetic, since it didn't appear this older son could really be going at it all that hard. But then, fair enough—judge not—I didn't know the situation.

What I did know, however, a surprisingly short time later, was what the old man called the greatest mistake of his life: thirty years earlier his wife had been unfaithful and at the time he'd been unable to forgive it; had walked out and been too proud ever to return. When eventually he'd overcome that pride, and had been on the brink of asking whether she might take him back, he'd learned that she had fallen asleep with a cigarette in her hand. And if he'd been with her, he said, such a thing could never have happened.

But even before her death—oh, for years and years before it—he'd been the loneliest and most miserable man in all existence. Now the only thing he waited for, apart from a month or two in Canada, was to be able to rejoin her and try to make amends. He had often contemplated suicide but wasn't sure if this might not scupper their reunion rather than hasten it.

He was a simple man, and obviously misguided, but I felt sorry for him and casually inquired his name and whether he lived in Folkestone: I thought that one day Junie, the children and I might all drive over to take him on a picnic or out to tea or something. The name was Jack Bradley but he didn't have time to say where his home was, for at this point we'd started crossing the Thames and he exclaimed that he must hurry off to the front of the train. I wanted to help but he had only the one suitcase, which he'd kept the whole time on the table in front of us, so he was away, very agitated again, even before I could slide across the seat and manage to stand up, let alone collect together my own things. Anyhow, I had his name, so it shouldn't be too difficult to track him down and arrange that outing; and I watched his beetling progress through the compartment with something that was already a bit like solid paternal affection. Or maybe filial. I hoped his journey to Liverpool Street would be an easy one.

And then I realized that we'd arrived and I was feeling fairly calm. Well…hallelujah!

“Oh, possibly. But only the smallest sort of trifle.” I stooped to pick up my belongings.

“What shall
I
carry?”

“How about this? You'll never guess what's in it—not in ten thousand years!”

“I think you've baked me a cake.”

I stared at her. Am even prepared to believe I may have gaped.

“What's the matter?” she asked.

“I gave you ten thousand years. It took you all of half a second.”

“It isn't
really
a cake?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“How extraordinary!”

“Talk about kindred spirits. Do you think we're telepathic?”

“Clearly no other explanation.”

Though it immediately occurred to me that this might have its downside. “Semi-telepathic?” I amended.

“All right,” she agreed, “that
could
be another explanation.” We laughed—why had I ever felt a second's worry? It was all going to be phenomenal from beginning to end. Good old Junie and her splendid cake! “It's certainly quite heavy,” she added, weighing it consideringly in both hands, rather than holding it by the loop. “I hope I haven't said the wrong thing. I hope it's not a jam sponge.”

I shook my head. “Not quite. But are you good at riddles?”

“I don't know. Try me.”

“When would something that isn't quite a jam sponge—yet has strong affiliations—be likeliest to come between us?”

She pursed her lips in reflection; her pupils moved from side to side. “I'll tell you one thing. I may be telepathic but I'm not much good at riddles.”

“You give up?”

“I think I have to.”

I illustrated by reaching over and giving her another light kiss on the lips, while the carton remained at roughly waist-level between us. Then I said: “When would something that isn't quite a jam sponge be likeliest to come between us? Why, when it's like the filling in a Victoria sandwich!” Momentarily, I wished a second's worry
had
given me pause before I'd plunged headfirst into that one.

But the sheer and utter awfulness of the solution made us start to giggle; exactly like my children when in facetious mood. Indeed, Ella had recently told me I sometimes behaved like a retarded ten-year-old, which was a pretty cutting thing to say, as well as a sad one, because all she meant, apparently, was that I often exclaimed
Isn't this fun
if we walked along the seafront licking an ice cream, or had races barefoot on wet sand, or even just set off together to the hairdresser's, her and me and Matt. I answered that I extracted pleasure from the simple things and in this lay half the art of living. Cripes, she'd said, but since she couldn't come up with anything more articulate I hoped I might have made my point. Further to emphasize it—and also to annoy her—I took Matt's hand and we skipped side-by-side along the pavement, laughing hysterically and showing off like mad, despite what seemed a bumper crop of passers-by. ‘The art of living', in fact, was one of those pet phrases I repeated to myself from time to time as a reminder that life was fleeting and we passed this way but once. By and large I considered I knew more than most about the art of living. Sometimes I'd asked various people if on the whole they were happy, only to be told in effect, “Yes, I suppose so…never really thought about it…”

Cripes!

Matt, however, had proved gratifyingly receptive. “You said
half
the art of living. What's the other half?”