Authors: Angela Huth
Dan was still agitated. He wanted to know what I thought of his new idea, and also of his plan to give up the old one. Impossible question to answer truthfully. I simply said it was good, but it might be difficult. Dan shrugged. Plainly he wanted more from me, but I was incapable of giving it at that moment. So he asked what I felt about Bert’s plan to leave. Again, I was in no position to answer. I hadn’t had time to think, and I didn’t much want to think. So I said I was impressed that he was so convinced it was the right decision, and he might surprise us all by taking enthusiastically to solitude. After a pause, he then asked what was it about Bert – what was it that warmed and attracted people so often? I think it’s his
talent to convey
, I said. He can make everyone see things just as he sees them, amusingly, seriously, whatever – but always scintillatingly. – Always one of your priorities, said Dan. But I think it’s more than that. He didn’t mention what else he had in mind, and I was too tired to ask. As for Carlotta? he asked then. How do you feel about her going? I shrugged, and said I felt nothing very much. We had grown further apart, of late, though I wasn’t sure why. Dan was annoyed she’d been so rude to me. I said that was no matter. I suppose I’ll miss her sometimes, I said.
We went on sitting there, drinking fizzy water, till the quartet came to an end. After a spell of silence I said what a pity we’d failed – with Bert and Carlotta, I meant. But then match-making hardly ever works.
We didn’t try very hard, said Dan, and thank God it didn’t, I can’t think of two people so unsuited. They’d drive each other barmy. Unless they happened to meet under our roof, he doubted they’d ever see each other again. Bert’d be ruminating on the marsh while Carlotta was living it up in New York. Worlds apart, no inclination to meet.
I daresay you’re right, I murmured. By now it was very late. We went up to bed.
After they’d gone Isabel and I sat, as we so often do at the end of the evening, at the table in the window. Protected by the music we both love, we made little attempt to talk. I don’t know what Isabel was thinking – she had on her pre-occupied look – and certainly wasn’t that excited by the thought of my new play. Warned me it’d be difficult. – But then it wasn’t the right time to probe for her real opinion, and considering how badly the whole thing went down at dinner I don’t think I’ll be seeking any more opinions at all. Just get down and write it.
The re-assuring thing, though, was that plainly she had absolutely no idea it was anything to do with real life. Unless Carlotta spilt the beans, in some angry moment, Isabel would never discover the single incident that set me thinking of my new idea. The fact that Carlotta was off to America was a very great relief: double-sure safety. My own guilt I could continue to hide. Regret, combined with a persistent edge of desire unfulfilled, would fade one day, and the skeletons facts could then be buried.
I followed Isabel upstairs, longing for the morning, the cleared desk, the beginning. Ahead of me, her blue skirt moved from side to side in the way that I knew and loved so well. But tonight, mimicking her fatigue, the silk was swaying more languidly than usual, and the slowness of our progress up the stairs filled me with longing.
In our room, with a hand devoid of energy, she undid the skirt and let it fall to the ground. She stepped from it as if from a pool of water drained of sunlight. Then she turned to me: such innocence. She had no reason not to trust me, and it must always remain like that. I knew she would never ask, so the innocence, with Carlotta far away, could be preserved.
We moved to the bed. She made no protest at hurry I could not disguise. In the darkness we were able to discard the strangeness of the evening, and suddenly the sky paled through the windows. There were only a few hours left till morning, and the new beginning.
I can hardly believe it – it’s a really weird thought but Elli’s been here almost a year now.
I remember so well how it all happened, the morning after the rentals had had Bert and horrible Carlotta to supper. I came down early wanting to show them my history essay, which I’d tried very hard with, and for once I was down first and the kitchen was an absolute tip. They hadn’t cleared away anything. I’d just pushed aside some pudding plates to make enough room for my cereal, when the phone rang and rang, and in the end I answered it.
I’m glad I did because it was Elli, sobbing and sobbing. It was quite difficult to understand what she was saying, but apparently her mother had gone off with her revolting young boyfriend, leaving a note saying she was finally off for good. Her father had thought she was away on some sort of business trip, but when he read her letter he had sort of hysterics, and rushed off in his car to find her, leaving Elli alone. It was Saturday morning, no school. She was desperate.
Luckily Mama came down at that moment and I quickly explained everything. Mama said we’ll go and fetch her
now.
So we did.
Poor Elli. I’d never seen anyone so miserable in all my life. She was crying so much she could hardly pack. Mama was incredibly efficient about everything, and so kind and comforting that soon after we got back home Elli stopped crying. In fact we had rather a nice day. We went to a film, and then Mama took us out to lunch because she said Papa needed a long uninterrupted day to begin some new play.
Elli does go home some weekends, to her father, who’s very happy for her to be living here as he’s away so much he can’t really look after her. But really it’s like having a sister, and it’s lovely. We do have some arguments, but when we disagree she goes to her room above mine and we keep to ourselves till whatever the disagreement is peters out.
She really loves the rentals. I think she wishes hers were like mine. She often says how lucky I am, and I know that’s true. Her mother occasionally sends a post card from some foreign country, with no address so Elli can’t write back. How can any mother be so mean? I think Elli’s beginning to get over it a bit and it doesn’t seem to have affected her work. In fact she works terribly hard, much harder than me, and comes top in lots of things, which Mama and Papa praise her for and I get quite jealous but I know I’ll do just as well once I put my mind to it. Her parents are apparently getting divorced and I don’t know what will happen in the end. But Mama says she can stay here as long as she likes, she’s one of the family. Sort of unofficially adopted.
Since she’s been here time seems to have gone awfully quickly. Next term I really am going to start working as hard as Elli, as I want to do well. Papa’s been working at his new play most evenings and a lot of the weekends. Luckily he doesn’t ever try to tell us what it’s about, though I know it’s called
Hiding.
Elli and I thought that was, like, a pretty boring title. I mean, who’d ever buy tickets to see something called
Hiding
? Papa didn’t ask my opinion of the title, but very tactfully I suggested he shouldn’t be too set on it, and maybe an even better idea would come to him. But whatever it’s called I hope it works this time. He never minds about all his failures, but he’s so brave, never whinges on.
Once, a few weeks ago, I was in his study. His desk cupboard was open and I saw these
stacks
of manuscripts. I said what are all those? And he just said: rejections. But he smiled, and said no matter, he wasn’t going to give up. He said that in a funny way being rejected goads you into trying even harder, and he was convinced that one day he would succeed. I suppose Papa’s a good example.
Mama’s been having her own sort of success: masses of orders for masks which are really, really beautiful. I asked her if she could make me one for a birthday present to put up in my room. She said if she has time, but she’d an order for six for some famous carnival in Rio, and a film company wanted some, too. So she’s been terribly busy and sometimes looks tired, but happy. They’re certainly mega-hard workers, my parents. I’m not sure I’ll ever be like that unless I find something, like them, I really want to work at because I love it.
This time last year I thought it might be history or archaeology – I rather like the idea of going on digs and discovering bits of the past. But recently I’ve gone off all that and I’m into designing furniture. I did a drawing of a futuristic kind of chair that Mama promised me she thought was very elegant. Elli wants to be a model. She’s so thin and pretty I suppose that wouldn’t be difficult, but in a gentle way Mama told her it wouldn’t be a very rewarding life apart from the money. I don’t know. Wondering what I’ll be and do haunts me a lot, but I suppose there’s lots of time to decide.
Bert sometimes comes to see us. I think we all miss him a bit. Apparently he loves Norfolk and says he’ll never come back to London. The other day he took us all out to dinner, and then when he came home he gave both Elli and me £10 each! So I suppose he’s still rich. I like Bert a lot. He’s so sort of, like, warm, and easy to talk to. I said to Elli the other day – well, night, we stay up talking quite late sometimes – that if Papa ever had some terrible accident and died, then I’d like Bert to marry Mama and be my stepfather. She agreed that would be good. But of course he’d never, ever be able to replace Papa. No one could. And I don’t even like to imagine, not for a single moment, my parents being dead. Elli said it was as if her parents were dead already.
Poor her: I’m so glad she’s with us. It’s like having the sister I’ve always wanted.
My goodness, as I always say, the good Lord does come up with his surprises. Who would ever of thought, this time last year, that my meeting with Henry in the pub would have turned to this? This wonderful friendship. I thank my lucky stars. I thank God every night in my prayers.
Of course, I always knew he was an especially good man. When I was asked to take a second look at the identification parade, I spotted that. I can spot goodness a mile off. Seeing his face in my mind’s eye on the way home – I remembered that. And then the extraordinary coincidence of meeting him in the pub, and to think I’d been in two minds whether to go. If I hadn’t dared, to this day I might still be in my old life: no good friend, no outings and conversation and care and understanding. Sometimes I still can’t believe what’s happened, and I say to Henry is this really happening? And he laughs, doesn’t think me silly, and tells me it really is.
Henry and I took things very slowly, just to my liking, just to his. I was so pleased a few days after our first meeting, when he phoned to remind me of the Friday drink. I hadn’t had such a nice invitation for years, and what a good time we had. He told me a little of his wife, Mary, and made no bones about missing her. Apparently she was a lovely woman, wife and mother, a dab hand in the kitchen and spent every spare moment with her head in a book.
But he learned to live on his own, he said: it was different, but possible. He didn’t feel the need to mourn. ‘You can miss without mourning,’ he said. And he kept himself very busy, was comfortably off, the building trade being in good shape. He helped his children a bit, but otherwise was saving for his retirement. He rather fancied a little place down on the south coast. I told him I used to know Frinton, but gave no hint I thought that was a lovely dream which I wouldn’t mind sharing.
After that second drink he insisted on walking me home – said he didn’t want me mugged again. I didn’t ask him in for a cup of tea. I didn’t want to put him off by appearing to be a woman with designs. And it must have worked because after that we met quite regularly, at least once a week. And then we began to branch out. We went to the cinema sometimes, and out for a meal. He said he was going to educate me in foods of the world. I was a bit nervous about this, of course, having something of a temperamental stomach. But he persuaded me I’d be all right, and over the next few months there was hardly a restaurant in the Shepherds Bush area we didn’t visit: Indian, Chinese, Italian … the lot. Sometimes the food gave me indigestion, but I didn’t tell Henry. I’ve always believed you should keep some things to yourself. I don’t suppose I’ll ever be keen on garlic, so I just make sure I avoid it. But I think Henry’s pleased I enjoy trying things out, and he likes teasing me when I’m faced with a big plate of something mysterious, all spicy smells and bright Eastern colours, and I don’t know where to begin, while he snatches up the chopsticks like an old pro.
Sometimes he takes me up to the West End. We went to a musical on my birthday, and I don’t think I can ever remember such a lovely evening. My feet were tapping all the way back on the tube. I wouldn’t have minded being a tap dancer in another life, I told him on the way home – something I’ve never confessed to anyone. He said he thought I’d have been a very good tap dancer, I was so nimble on my feet.
It wasn’t for six months or so I invited him round to my place. He’d paid for so many meals I really felt I should do something in return, though he said that wasn’t necessary at all. Anyhow, it all worked very nicely. It was a Thursday, a non-working day, so I was able to spend the whole afternoon cooking – some French stew out of a book Mrs. G lent me. I didn’t want him to think I was just a cottage-pie woman. I wanted to show versatility. And amazingly he loved it, praised me to the skies. He hurried off after we’d watched the news, saying it was time I visited his place.
I went one Saturday for the midday meal. His house was nice enough, though in need of a little tender loving care of the sort men aren’t up to. It was all I could do not to ask for a duster, but I restrained myself. When we’d cleared away we watched the football together on the couch, and he brought me a cup of tea at half time. Such luxury. I could hardly believe it was happening.
At some point I did tell Mrs. G about Henry: well, she kept on pointing out how cheerful I looked and I was only too happy to explain. I was careful to emphasise the nature of our friendship. I didn’t want her to go thinking I was about to fly off with him. No, I assured her: Henry and I are at the age when a close friendship is better than a love affair. We rely on each other, have good times together, take care of each other. What more could anyone want at my age? She looked a bit quizzical when I said that – well, I suppose someone as beautiful as her would want a love affair for the rest of her life. But she said how pleased for me she was, and often at our coffee breaks, nowadays, we talk about Henry. It’s lovely having someone to talk about.