An Affair to Remember (9 page)

“Search me.” Jack buries his face in her hair, sniffs her expensive perfume, must have cost a bloody fortune. Wasn’t this bird just a little out of his league? Truth to tell, he’s getting the tiniest bit impatient; the barmaid back at the hotel was showing signs of interest, and he’d got a date.

Clarrie pauses to light another cigarette, takes a puff, goes on with her story. “Using this weird voice, not like her own at all, she said that to destroy the rookery was out of the question, it belonged to the rooks, was their home and that was that. What on earth can she have meant? I mean it was none of her business anyway, and she hadn’t even seen the rookery.”

“Funny lady,” Jack tosses his cigarette out of the car window, sits up, “she sounds a bit bonkers to me, but keep me posted. Look pet, it’s time I made tracks, I’ve an early start in the morning and there’s still a mountain of paperwork to do.”

“Oh naff off,” Clarrie bites him on the ear, opens the car door and eases herself out. The Grove fox wakes, stretches himself, and watches incuriously from the shadow of the oak tree as the two cars turn and make their separate ways down the hillside, their headlights flickering in the gathering dusk. When the sound of their engines has finally died away he trots out from under the tree and lopes off into the night. Sommewhere quite close an owl hoots, then silence.

Back at Brown End Beatrice stands in her sea green sunken bath looking at her naked body in the mirror. The mirror, covering the entire wall, has a pink tinge to it designed to make anyone looking at themselves in it appear to have a tan normally only acquired after long months spent in the sun, it also, miraculously, irons out any blemishes. Slowly Beatrice raises her arms above her head, her straight blonde hair, damp now from steam, just brushing her nipples. I look beautiful, she thinks with something like wonder, and smiles into the cheating glass; her image smiles back at her with a hint of mockery.

*

“Turn it off, Sam, will you. I can’t stand any more of this rubbish.”

“At least it’s better than most of the rubbish they churn out these days, actually I think it’s rather interesting. Anyway, it finishes in five minutes, surely even you can wait that long. Read a book if you’re bored.”

Emmie purses her lips; remains silent; the tension between them, always there, becomes total. Sam, having made his stand, continues to watch, but in truth finds it impossible to concentrate: his mind slipping back again and again to the tall, fair haired girl with the sad, lost eyes he’d encountered in the Grove this afternoon. They’d met before, he knew they had, and in trying to remember where, he experiences for the first time in his life a feeling almost akin to anguish.

“And that’s all for tonight from
Re-living the Past
,” says the smooth, young presenter, as five minutes later the disputed programme comes to an end and the credits roll. “Next week our guest will be the eminent American Romanologist, Professor Marcus Travers, whose subject will be fraternisation between the Roman colonist in Britain and his predominantly Celtic neighbour. Just how far, if at all, did this fraternisation go, and indeed help to form our national character? We shall also be discussing with the archaeologist, Sigmund Entwistle, his latest book,
How Roman are We
?…”

“I couldn’t care less, I’m afraid!” Emmie, who has been riffling through a copy of the latest
Vogue
, slams it down on the coffee table and switches the TV off. “Honestly, Sam, how you can watch this rubbish I simply do not know. Who are these Celts anyway when they’re at home, I thought they were a football team.”

Ignoring the question which he rightly assumes to be purely rhetorical, Sam gets to his feet and makes for the door. “Just popping out for a quick jar, I said I’d have a word with Josh Bogg and find out about that fishing.”

“Charming!” Emmie purses her lips again; he wishes she wouldn’t. “You spend the entire evening hogging the TV and when you’ve had enough, slam out to the pub. I don’t know why I bother, really I don’t.”

“Quite frankly, neither do I.” Sam puts on his jacket, patting the pockets to make sure he has his cigarettes. “Don’t wait up.” Emmie leaves him to it, she hates pubs anyway, common sort of places, give her a nice, snug cocktail bar any time. Nearly ten o’clock, she could give Jack a quick buzz, he must be back from his business date by now. Now where has she put his number…?

“Jack, dear, it’s Emmie, just thought I’d give you a tinkle.”

“Hullo, pet, how’s my favourite girl then? I’m afraid you’ve caught poor old Jack on his way up to bed.” Jack winks at Chloe, the barmaid, standing beside him – they happened to be on their way upstairs when the phone rang. Chloe gives his cock a squeeze and giggles conspiratorially.

Emmie sighs, she wishes he didn’t work so hard… “Sorry to ring so late, dear, I just wanted to hear your voice, and make sure it’s OK for tomorrow, I was so disappointed about this evening.” There’s a bit of a pause, Emmie, straining her ears, thinks she can hear someone giggling. Don’t let him back out now, oh please don’t let him back out.

“About that, pet. I was going to ring you in the morning; I’m not sure I can make it tomorrow either, we’re rushed off our feet at the moment and I’m up to my eyes… Look, I’ll give you a ring 11 am tomorrow, how’s that, there may yet be a window.”

A window! “Oh Jack!” A tear drips down Emmie’s nose. “But you promised…”

“I’m ever so sorry, pet, I was looking forward to it too myself, but work has to come first. Look, if I don’t get to beddybyes pronto, I’ll be falling asleep on my feet and we don’t want that to happen, do we, especially as the phone’s half way up the stairs. Mind how you go and we’ll speak in the morning…”

The phone goes dead. Oh God, the tears are coming fast now, and Emmie’s so upset she doesn’t bother to wipe them away. He’s gone off her already, found someone else more likely; someone younger, prettier. Men, they were all the same… She collapses on the chair by the phone, her head between her hands: what is she going to do, what in the world can she do?

Sam stands on the bridge below the village looking down into the river, the stones of the parapet are still warm from the sun, and the sound of water gurgling over the pebbles he finds soothing. The moon has just risen and he can see it reflected in the deep pool a few yards upstream. He’d never intended to go to the pub, he just needed some air, and if he was being honest, to get away from Emmie. Emmie made him feel not only guilty, but angry and helpless as well. And the more he tried to think what he should do about her, the more hopeless their situation seemed to become. And now, well now, he’d met this girl. The girl who seemed to think his name was Brian and in some extraordinary way he felt he already knew. One good thing though; he’s bound to see her again. As the Woodheads’ secretary she might well have to deal with grocery orders! There’s a thought. For the first time it occurs to him that a village grocer wasn’t a particularly romantic occupation. Even in this day and age a major in the British Army had a certain ring to it, but a grocer… Closing his eyes he sees a little old man in a skull cap, wire spectacles and a baggy, moth-eaten cardigan, sitting spider-like in his fusty shop, and smiles to himself in the darkness.

The church clock has just struck eleven, he should be getting back. Emmie would be in bed by now, hopefully asleep; he might watch a movie on TV before turning in, he certainly doesn’t feel ready for bed yet himself. Indeed, oddly enough, he feels more alert than he has done in years. He glances up at the moon again: almost a harvest moon, full, and with a faint yellowish tinge to it, floating over the church tower. Perhaps he’ll stay a little longer, have just one more cigarette. As he lights one, a fish rises in the river below making a slight splash; you can see the ripples in the moonlight – what a night.

“
Do
you
remember
the
fish
,
Tavey
?”

The voice is his, a little deeper than normal, but his. How could it be? He hadn’t said anything. Must be someone else, someone with the same sort of voice. Had to be. Heart beating a little too fast, he looks about him – nothing. Looks again more thoroughly, even down into the river, but the pub shut half an hour ago and there’s definitely no one about. And no one has answered the question. Whoever Tavey is, he/she isn’t here. He’s aware of a tingling excitement, mixed with fear. What was happening to him? Was he going off his head, having a breakdown, had Emmie finally driven him round the bend?

No. He knew in every part of him it wasn’t that; knew that it was in some way connected with the girl he’d met this afternoon, who he was now certain he had met before. With this knowledge came the knowledge that although their meeting had been of huge significance and importance to them both, it was up to him; Sam Mallory, ex-army major, now a humble grocer; to find out what that significance was, and if called upon, to do something about it.

Chapter 6

“Good morning, Mr Woodhead, I hope I’m not late.” It’s 8.45 the following morning, she stands nervously in the doorway of Sel’s study, she’s wearing a navy blue linen skirt and pale blue shirt; she hopes she looks business-like.

Sel, who’s plainly been on the job since dawn, looks up and smiles. “Call me Sel, dear, everyone does, Mr Woodhead’s such a mouthful, don’t you agree? I have some tapes here for you, nothing complicated, just routine letters and so on, but before you get down to them, perhaps we should make a tour of what I like to call my ‘Ops Room’. I do so love those old World War Two expressions, don’t you? So gung-ho and romantic, although I have to admit I’m not sorry to have been too young to play my part in those particular shenanigans. Now…”

The tour is exhaustive, and she begins to understand why under all that relaxed bonhomie he’s been so successful. Everything in perfect order, nothing left to chance, all the latest office equipment, including a computer and a telex. “Communication, dear, the buzz word of the age, one has, alas, to keep abreast of all things technical, don’t you agree?” He leads the way into what will be her office next door: small, pleasant, with a window looking out across the yard at the back of the house. She nods doubtfully, secretly horrified at the sight of the computer; she’s never even seen one before, is quite sure she’ll never be able to work one. As Sel runs expertly through the contents of the filing cabinet, she looks out of the window biting her lip, a habit she has when especially worried, trying to concentrate. There’s a rook sitting on the gate into the lane, he appears to be looking at her, but of course he can’t be.

Where
’
s
Brian
?

She becomes aware Sel has stopped talking, possibly asked a question. He doesn’t seem cross though, merely sympathetic. He smiles and takes her hand. “Look, dear, there’s no earthly need for you to be nervous. You’re an intelligent girl, that’s why, among other things, I engaged you, and after a day or two all this,” he gestures grandly round the room, “will seem kindergarten stuff and that includes the computer, which so long as you remain its master and not its servant, will serve you well. This is true, I promise, and I’m always – well almost always, I have to admit to the occasional mistake – right.” Then, to her considerable surprise, he bends forward and gently kisses each of her breasts in turn. Kisses them as though they were a single entity, not part of her at all. And to her even more considerable surprise, she doesn’t mind; in an odd way finds the gesture not sexual and thereby possibly threatening, but simply warm and comforting.

“I’ll do my best,” she says, banishing Brian, “it’s just I’m new to computers and I don’t want to make a mess of it.”

“You won’t, my dear, you won’t, there’s not the smallest need to worry. We’ll leave it for a week or two anyway, let you find your way round things first, then I’ll introduce you and we’ll have a go together. Like it or not, it is the future, dear, and grasp the nettle, as they say, before it grasps you. Now… I think you have everything to meet your needs, if you don’t, shout, and the office equipment people (their number’s on your list) are quite helpful when they try. I estimate there’s round about two hours’ dictation on the tapes and if you can manage to finish them by lunchtime – 1.30 by the way – I shall be your eternal slave.” With a gentle pat on her rump and another dazzling smile, he leaves her to it.

Oh God, she’ll never finish all this by lunchtime. Banishing Brian to the nether regions or wherever he belongs, she fits the first tape into her cassette. By the time Juan brings a cup of much needed coffee half way through the morning, she’s sure she’ll never make it, but of course she does. By 1.15 there’s a neat pile of letters on Sel’s desk waiting for his signature, and she realises with relief she hasn’t given Brian a thought the entire morning.

“Here I am to drag you away from your smoking typewriter, dear. Time for lunch. Any problems?”

“None at all. You’re super dictator Mr… Sel. Everything so clear and organised. You’ve no idea what some people are like.”

“I can imagine. Anyway I think you deserve a treat – one of the Woodhead Specials, we’ll take them in the conservatory before sitting down to our simple repast.” Beatrice nods eagerly. Working for Sel was going to be fun. The Woodhead Special was delicious; its ingredients a well-guarded secret, but she thinks she detects pernod.

“It’s lovely,” she says taking another sip, “
Brian
and
I
were
wont
to
–” Oh no, not Brian again.

Sel pours himself another drink, “Brian, is he your boyfriend – or perhaps was; you talk in the past tense?”

“Brian? Oh Brian. He, er, he used to be a boyfriend, quite some time ago actually…”

“Lunch is ready, for what it’s worth.” Clarrie appears in the doorway looking fed up. “Pour me a drink, Sel, for heaven’s sake, I’ll take it in with me. Honestly, I’ve just about had my bellyful of this morning. Juan and Mrs Bogg have had another row, things simply cannot go on like this.”