An Affair to Remember (21 page)

Philippa lies on her back, pads over her eyes, plugs in her ears, deaf and blind to the sleeping world around her. Without her nightly seven hours she’s no good to man or beast, and it’s essential she’s at her best tomorrow.

Clarrie and Sel are naked in the eighteenth century repro bed. Clarrie rests her head on Sel’s stomach, her hair brushes his thighs. “Sometimes I wish things were different.”

Sel’s until now limp cock slowly begins to stiffen. “A vain hope, love; things are as they are, and we have to cope with them as best we can. This man, this salesman; why him?”

“I suppose because he was the only one around and he was so, well, basic. I know that’s no excuse, but what else can I say? Do you mind dreadfully?”

Sel is quiet for a minute, then: “Do you mind I don’t mind?” he asks. Clarrie closes her eyes in exasperation. He has, as always, managed to elude her.

“What will happen tomorrow, Sel, what will they find?”

“The baby, dear, the baby, what else?”

Chapter 12

Emmie wakes with a start. It must be late; she can hear the milkman outside. Then it all comes back to her: last night; Sid; everything. In the excitement she must have forgotten to set the alarm. Crikey it’s eight thirty! Karen must have arrived; well, at least she’d have been able to let herself in. Dragging herself out of bed, Emmie pads over to the mirror; gives herself what the women’s magazines refer to as a frank appraisal. She looks different somehow; not happier exactly, but different. Be that as it may if she didn’t have a nice hot cup of tea she’d die, she really would. And after that she’d ring Browns, find out about Sam. Mr Woodhead had sounded a bit miffed last night when she rang to say she wasn’t coming after all, but she couldn’t have gone, not with Sid arriving like that out of the blue. In any case by what Mr Woodhead had said, it looked as if Sam had gone clean off his chump, for the time being anyway, and what could she have done about that? She wasn’t surprised really, he’d been heading for some sort of breakdown ever since they’d moved here – come to think of it, ever since they got married.

Downstairs, as she plugs in the kettle and sets out her own personal brown teapot with the cup and saucer from Margate her Gran had given her when she was eight years old, and was, miraculously, still going, she wonders what will happen to Sam – hospital or the bin? She’d visited her Aunt Aggie in the bin once, Mum had taken her. Pale faces and locked doors, she remembered. An old man had shown her his privates. “Don’t look, Em, turn away,” Mum had ordered, but she had.

Whatever happened she’d have to stick by Sam; she was his wife after all. But then of course she wasn’t his wife, was she, she was Sid’s wife, and if that got out not only would Sam be in the bin, but she’d be in the nick for bigamy. The water boiled, she pours it on the tea bag in the pot and sits down at the kitchen table. She won’t have a biscuit this morning, somehow she isn’t hungry.

What had possessed her to tell people Sid was dead? OK, he’d buggered off without giving a forwarding address. Just a note to say he was sorry: there was no one else, but he didn’t think he was the marrying kind after all. And what a shock it had been, coming home from work that Monday to find her marriage up the spout. She had to admit she’d not been too broken hearted to see the back of Sid. On the whole they’d got on pretty well, but somehow or other things between them had never, so to speak, caught fire, had they, and there were no kids to think about. It was a shock all the same, mitigated somewhat by the fact he’d paid a year’s rent in advance on their flat and made all his savings (a sizable amount) over to her. It had been a stupid thing to do, though, she reflects, taking a sip of tea before it’s had time to settle down properly and burning her mouth in the process, to tell people Sid had died, not just buggered off and left her. But she’d felt such a fool, and believing her to be a widow had somehow made people more sympathetic. And it wasn’t as if she’d gone to that Bureau to find a husband, just someone to take her out now and again and be a friend. But meeting Sam had driven her off course: she’d known at once there was no way someone like him would have looked at her if she’d told him she was still married and couldn’t get a divorce because her husband had left her without a forwarding address. Of course, as things turned out it would have been a great deal better if he never had. looked at her. But there you go.

Anyway, it was all water under the bridge now, she tells herself, taking another sip of tea; let’s face it, she’d been a fool, and there was nothing she could do about that. However, it was all very well to be philosophical, but dwelling on past mistakes, coupled with the inexplicable events of the here and now, not to mention knowing she’d made an idiot of herself over Jack Fulton, does nothing to raise her fluctuating spirits. Indeed, everything suddenly seems altogether too much and the tears start to flow in earnest. Take me away, Sid, please take me away, she prays between sobs, to anyone who might be listening, and at that very moment, miraculously, the phone rings.

“Sid here, Em. Just thought I’d give you a tinkle, I was worried see… last night…”

Emmie gulps, stands up straight, comes to a decision. “Sid,” she says, aware of a totally unexpected and unlooked for feeling of joy at the sound of his voice, “Sid, can you come round please, I don’t think I can cope much longer…”

*

“Bring back the child’s body,” his mother orders, “the old woman has killed him, she was seen. Go, go quickly before it is too late, she leaves today with her mistress and the wedding party.”

He, Sam/Brian, looks at her, desperate, pleading. “Mother, I have done what I can, begged and begged for the body, but was turned away with insults and denials. I offered gold, it made no difference. The old woman took the cup I offered to help the boy on his way, but would not be bribed, said it was better that I did not know where he lay; that Octavia’s father, even the bridegroom were asking questions, said surely if I loved Octavia I would not want her to suffer her father’s wrath if he discovered the truth.”

“If you will not, I will go.” She looks at him with scorn. “The boy was of your loins, my son, he must have decent burial according to our Faith; the Christ to watch over him, Peter and Paul to guard him.”

“He has the cup,” he pleads again, “to help him on his way –”

She does not answer, turns from him.

Now he’s stumbling along the track as it winds steeply down through trees, the ground hard and rutted with wheel marks; hair in his eyes, sweat pouring from him. Stung by his mother’s words, he’s returning once again for one last try. Would he be too late? It was a hopeless errand anyway, he knows this. The old woman had refused to give the body up, she will refuse again, there was nothing more he could do to persuade her. And Octavia, the new Octavia he no longer knew or understood? He had gone down on his knees, begged her to tell him where the child’s body lay, but she had smiled and shrugged her shoulders in disdain: “I neither know nor care,” she’d said. “Forget him, he is gone – as will I before long. Marry one of your own kind, a girl who can give you sons – forget me as I surely will forget you,” and she’d turned away and left him. He’d done his best, what more could he do? Anyway, was it so important, after all? The Christian God was merciful, Marcus the preacher had told them so. Surely He would not be angry if the boy’s body was buried without due ceremony? The child possessed a soul, Marcus said, and it was this that journeyed on to heaven, leaving the body an empty shell within the earth to rot. Surely the Christ would understand?

Reaching a bend in the track he becomes aware of the sound of horse’s hooves behind him. Turns. A face looks down at him from above the foaming horse, a fair young man with one golden earring, his arm raised. A sword glints in the sun… a searing pain. Nothing…

Sam opens his eyes, sits up, aware of a pain in his chest. He appears to be in bed in a strange room. Slowly the pain recedes. Bemused, he looks round the room; where on earth…?

*

Eight thirty am. Beatrice is in the doorway of Sel’s office looking pale, but on the whole normal. Sel, seated at his desk, spectacles on nose, jumps nervously. “Good morning, dear, you slept well?”

“Like the dead. All this country air I suppose.” Sel smiles in relief; whatever or whoever was there has left her, at least for the time being.

“Just so,” he says.

“Oh dear, what’s happened to your lovely mirror?”

“Broken, alas, those wretched builders obviously didn’t fix the holding plug properly and it fell off the wall in the night. A shame really, it’s been in Clarrie’s family for years, she’s quite upset.” What on earth was he talking about – how did he manage to invent such rubbish?

“What a dreadful shame! I do hope it doesn’t bring bad luck.”

“Goodness me, of course not. Merely the result of a careless workman not doing his job properly. As a matter of fact I never liked it anyway. Now, and much more important – how are you feeling?”

“Super! Absolutely super. Raring to go.” Where? Sel wonders, aware of a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. Outwardly, however, he manages to appear calm.

“Good to hear,” he says, probably too heartily, “but perhaps in the light of –”

“No need for worry on that score, I’m absolutely fine now. Is there anything you need done urgently, or shall I get on with the tape I started yesterday? I didn’t manage to get it finished because of our visit to Granny Bogg and then… well then… Oh no!” Light dawns; she’s beginning to remember. “What happened yesterday, Sel, what did I do? Tell me. What?” But Sel’s already on the job: hastily removing any objects from his desktop within her reach, he whips out one of Dr Hardcastle’s little yellow pills.

“Take this, dear, it’ll do you good. And don’t worry, everything’s absolutely fine.”

Beatrice, beginning to shake, waves it away. “No, Sel, please. I don’t need it, I’ll become an addict. It’ll only make me sleepy again and I need to do some work. Sel, please…”

“Very well, dear,” he returns the pill to its box, “we’ll wait and see what the doctor says. Meanwhile –”

“Not the doctor again!” Now she’s not only agitated, but angry. “Honestly, Sel, he’s absolutely useless. He hasn’t a clue, really he hasn’t, and I’m sorry but I don’t want him near me again.” Sel, however, is already at the door calling for help. Known by his colleagues as a good man in a crisis, this is one he simply cannot handle on his own. He looks up and down the passage; not a soul in sight, not even any sounds from the kitchen. Where the hell is everyone? Making soothing noises, he turns back into the office to find Beatrice pointing angrily at the window.

“Who is that man grimacing at us? Julius must have him whipped, he –”

What in God’s name is Ron up to now? “It’s Ron Head, dear, the archaeologist? He’s come to stay and help us with our problem. Don’t you remember we met him off the train yesterday? I think he wants us to join him. Would you like that?”

“Please don’t treat me like a child, Sel.” Bewilderingly, Beatrice is back again. “I’m not mad, either, and only too aware we have to get this thing sorted…” At this point the phone rings. They both jump. Ron, from his position outside the window, appears to be making signs indicating he’s about to join them.

Sel picks up the phone, “Yes?”

“Emmie Mallory here, Mr Woodhead. I’m ever so sorry about last night, but something rather important cropped up. I was just wondering how my… how Sam is. Perhaps I should come round?”

“Look, dear, it’s a little difficult to talk at the moment. May I ring you back?”

“Has something happened? He’s not become violent, has he?”

“No, dear, of course not, he’s just –”

“Two social workers and a doctor…”

“Sorry?”

“I have a friend here, he tells me you need two social workers and a doctor nowadays to put people away. They’re really fussy. He says people used to be put away when there was nothing wrong with them, just to suit their relatives and that.”

“I assure you, dear, in this case such arrangements would be quite unnecessary, and I really must go.” She’s still talking as he gently replaces the receiver.

“Everything OK?” Ron at last. To Sel’s considerable relief he seems to have sized up the situation already and, smiling in a relaxed way at Beatrice, who appears, thankfully, to be calming down, he wishes her good morning.

She smiles back: “Good morning, Mr Head, I hope you slept well. Would you like me to get Juan to rustle up some coffee?”

Ron and Sel look at each other. “That would be most acceptable…”

She hurries out. Ron does the thumbs up sign. “A near thing, eh?”

“You could say that. Allah be praised (can’t think of the appropriate Roman), at least we managed to avoid the rough stuff…”

*

“But how on earth are we going to keep them apart?” Clarrie asks. She and Pippa are breakfasting in her bedroom.

“Well it won’t be for long, after all, and Ron thinks they might help over the dig. I mean they know what happened, or at least some of what happened.” Pippa, in jeans and a pale pink T-shirt, still manages to look pretty formidable, as she bites efficiently into one of Mrs Bogg’s home made croissants. A good person to have around, Clarrie tells herself, but somehow remains unconvinced.

She pours them both more coffee, “But isn’t it playing with fire a bit? I mean, supposing they both went round the bend completely. Apart from the general ghastliness, think of the publicity.”

“If all goes as it should, any publicity there might be won’t do any of us any harm. I mean it’s not as if Sel’s career… well, things have been a little quiet for him lately, haven’t they, something like this might –”

“Other people’s pain might give his career a boost. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Of course not, darling, what sort of a person do you think I am?”

Clarrie, aware that the word ‘bitch’ springs to mind, decides to be conciliatory; things are difficult enough as it is without her adding to them. “Sorry, darling, what with one thing and another I seem to be a little on edge this morning, and obviously if they find what they’re looking for that’ll be great. It might even cause the ghosts in this house to decide to go back to wherever it is they came from, which would certainly be a plus. It’s just poor old Beatrice and Sam; it’s as though they’ve been made some sort of scapegoat.”