Aunt Margaret's Lover (24 page)

Chapter Twenty-one

It isn't very pleasant but Judith and Dad are
just
about managing to do it gracefully. All her things have been collected.

What went wrong? Judith says he just never let her get close. Dad just smiled when I asked him. Things move on, he said. It doesn't seem to affect his work. Nothing does. Now there is a

lesson.

Jill stands, holding the letter, staring out of the window, dazzled by the morning sun. David puts his head round the door and says that he is going now. Back at seven. Don't forget the oil in the car. She hears the door bang, watches this husband of hers walk across the gravel of the drive, open his car door, struggle with it slightly in the fierce wind, sit, close it and start the engine. Gone at last. She sees the fields, the new growth, buffeted and sparkling in the cold, sharp sunshine. Beyond their land the sheep track up the mountain is clearly delineated, as if spotlit. 'Might go for a walk this afternoon,' she mutters to herself, putting the letter down, scratching the back of her hand, which does not really itch. She looks out of the window again and shivers, for although the month is May. it is cold out there. I will remind Margaret to bring warm clothing, she thinks, and she will have to remind
him
too. She dials her friend's number. She puts the phone down before it can be answered. No, she does not want to talk to Margaret yet. She must assimilate. The tone
of
the letter has the half-suppressed excitement of involuntary delight - as if it were written by someone who could say more but daren't. In fact it is both half-suppressed and bald in its information. 'I met him very rece
ntly
,' it says, 'and I think he is A Good Thing. I think you'll like him, and David as well. And - yes - we sleep in the same bed! Just to save you asking. I thought about putting you through the embarrassment of deciding what to do etiquettically, but didn't think it was fair on him. Well, you old romantic, what do you think? I think he's someone you'll approve of at last. He makes Roger look like what comes out of the tap when the washer's gone . . .'

Jill ponders this last as she zips up her anorak and slips her feet into her
Wellingtons.
She does not want to go out there today, she really does not, but the activity will be good for her, help her to think, help her to come to terms. Ye gods! she thinks, as she strides across to where the others labour, what have I got to come to terms
with?
This is my friend, this is my friend who has been lonely, unaroused, self-sacrificing, afraid, and who has now, finally, found something romantic and exciting. So why do I need to come to terms? I'll get over it. It has just been a bit of a shock, that's all
...
How cleanly these carrots come out of the ground. As she moves along the line, bending low, grunting, feeling the satisfactory ease of the culling, she tries to put out of her head thoughts of being unarouscd, lonely, self-sacrificing
...

Gradually, as she moves bent-peasant fashion, she catches up with Sidney. 'Just damp enough, the ground,' he says, and she watches his
huge raw hands which work swiftl
y at the task. If only he were less bucolic, more rugged, she might be able to have some kind of fantasy about him. She agrees the ground is easy today. And then finds herself saying, because she is still puzzled, 'What comes out of the tap when the washer has gone?'

He looks at her. More woman's madness, she reads in his face. He sucks his pipe. Humour the boss. He would much rather work for a man. He considers. Then says slowly as if he were Solomon, 'Drips.'

She stares. Of course.
Drips!
How very, very funny. She stands up and laughs and this time she makes no excuses for herself. Let them think what they like. It
is
funny. That is precisely what Roger was - a drip. She returns to the soil. I wonder, she thinks, what this one will turn out to be?

Later, after supper, when David is sitting in the settee -she considers it as 'in' instead of'on' because he sort of sinks into it and becomes a living extension of it - she tells him about Margaret's news. David's first and only question is 'What does he do?' And on hearing that he is an architect, David says, 'Good. I can ask him about that pitched roof on your storehouse.' He is satisfied with that. What Jill thinks is that while the men are off doing men's things, she will be free to discuss this new and interesting phenomenon with her pal. She has put off telephoning her for some preliminary discussion - the normal procedure - because she wants to sound full of enthusiasm and approval, and she hasn't quite got there yet.

'They sleep together,' she says to the newspaper.

David reveals himself and laughs good-humouredly, but he doesn't close the pages, merely peers over them. 'I should bloody well think so. Better put them next to Giles's room or they'll be keeping us awake all night.' He laughs again and folds the paper ready for the crossword.

'They've only known each other a short while.'

'Earplugs then,' says David.

He is nice, thinks Jill. My husband is a very nice man and I am very fond of him. She goes and sits beside him and they peer at the clues.

'Some G & S to get you in the mood for housework?' he says.

'Pinafore. Clever me.'

He pats her shoulder. 'Woman's clue,' he says. She checks his expression. It is
almost
innocent. 'I'd better go and get their room ready.'

'Whose room?'

'Margaret's . . . and
..
. er. . . his.'

'Bit soon, isn't it? You've got over a week. Do we know his name?'

'Simon. But she seems to call him Oxford.'

David does not look up but he says, so that she could smack him for his percipience, 'You don't sound as if you approve. Any thing's better than that other bloke.'

'Roger.'

'I shouldn't think he
could.
⁷

'Could what?'

'Roger,' said David smugly.

'Oh, you only didn't approve because he showed no interest in the Flymo.'

'Rubbish. Besides,
everyone
likes riding on the things. And a help with cutting the grass wouldn't have come amiss. No spunk. What's feminine and royal in pink beads?'

'Pearly queen.'

'Where would I be without you?'

But she has already gone, out of the door, padding up the stairs, into the large bedroom at the back of the house, window half covered with cautiously budding wisteria that trails its tendrils in the wind. The room smells of old rose petals from the dish by the bed. The coverlet is smooth, dark red silk, something someone brought back from China, inherited from David's grandmother. It was their first double-bed cover, now relegated to the spare room to make way for the new Italian print from Conran. She runs her fingers over its cold sheen. It feels infinitely sensual. She bends her head and touches her cheek against it. The nice thing about this kind of silk is that it doesn't show the creases after lust, she remembers. It billows like a conjuror's robe and lies back smooth and flat and innocent afterwards. She had forgotten that. She goes to the top of the stairs and calls her husband. 'Come and help me test something out,' she says, and goes back into the room to lie on the bed. The scent of the petals is erotic, so is the touch of the silk and the memories.

Downstairs the telephone bleeps. David answers it and she can hear the resonance of his voice. She lies there, waiting. When the resonance has gone, she lifts her head and listens. Far away she can hear the tinnier sound of the television. She draws up her knees and lies there for a while longer, staring at the ceiling, smelling the scent of the petals, trying to think enthusiastically about Margaret's lover, until David calls to her that the news is on.

Chapter Twenty-two

Judith wanted to know about Dad's past because, apparently, he would never speak about it. I decided to respect his silence.

He's making some curious paintings at the moment, really exuberant and colourful, with a lot of joy about them. He says they are to do with me. Also lots of drawings.

It was a very funny hotel. A bit of a risk, he said, but we agreed afterwards - or was it during? - that it was worth it. An old manor house just south of Hexham and Corbridge, set in (according to the guide book) an area of outstanding natural beauty. This part was true; it was the description 'hotel' that was eccentrically wanting. For the place was much more as if we had stumbled upon a country house weekend. As new - or prospective! - lovers, it was not the place to choose if you had the hots.

All the things that Oxford had chosen it for were correct --the view from the bedroom, the four-poster bed, the antique furniture and paintings, the good food and wine served in an oak-panelled dining-room, its individualism — but we were more like guests in the true sense of the word than anonymous arrivals who had come here for a romantic coupling before paying and passing on. This helped to heighten the anticipation of our lovers' denouement. We were kept on our toes from arrival to bedtime, and opportunities for groping or game-playing were few.

We arrived later than intended because of a puncture. That neither of us got cross boded well. He got out and got under while I sunned myself at the side of the Al and read up on Hexham Abbey and Roman Corbridge, just supposing we had time to go there .
..
Part of me, watching him perform that quintessential male task, was titillated - God knows when liberation will truly overtake the soggy inner pleasure of being looked after - and part of me was embarrassed, for he had removed his shirt and lay on a rug. I kept turning my eyes from Hexham Abbey's Saxon crypt and fifteenth-century paintings to his chest, ribs and hairy bits, and I couldn't help but think that soon they would be less a distant view and more a sensual fact. . .

Our conversation going up was fairly general. We talked about the hospital project he was working on in Oxford, joked about Verity, pointed out things of interest along the way. For some of the time we listened to
Tristan
and
Isolde
-
not very appropriate perhaps, but beautiful. The weather, which had been sharp and cold and blustery, had turned kind and there was an air of holiday happiness about the jaunt. At one point, after we had been stuck behind a pig truck for several miles and he demanded that I held his nose, the laughter nearly made me say, 'Lovers who laugh together stay together,' but I stopped myself just in time. No doubt Mr and Mrs Crippen shared a few jokes in the early days . . .

'How are you feeling?' he asked, as we turned left at Darlington. 'Fine,' I said, and wished I could add, 'Except for the tom-toms in my solar plexus when you ask me questions like that. . .'

Probably the only irritating aspect of our journey northwards was that he seemed to be a great deal more relaxed about everything than I was. Something to do with having taken control, I suspect. So when we finally arrived and stood holding hands and staring at the ivy-covered frontage of Marston Manor, I was amused to see erupt from the peaceful portico a tall thin man of latter years, in tweed jacket and beige cavalry twill. He rubbed his hands and strode towards us, saying, 'Welcome, welcome. Bit late but never mind, never mind . . .' Then he extended one of the rubbed hands to shake Oxford's, then mine, and to take finally both our overnight bags. True, I thought, as I followed his jolly gait into the building, the sign saying 'Hotel' was very small and discreet - but this was much more a scene from Brideshead than a touristical exercise.

Oxford signed us in and mine host led us up the heavily carved staircase to our room, called by him the oriel room, which was more like a dowager's boudoir than a guest room. The bed was a tapestried affair and had certainly not been bought at recent auction. The two armchairs matched the hangings of both bed and window and the walls were panelled. Panic set in that we were not going to have a bathroom but the heavy wooden door to this was merely half hidden by an old brocade curtain. What I love about traditional ownership is that it always includes wonderful fabrics just draped casually about as if organic - faded certainly, threadbare perhaps, but gorgeous stuffs nevertheless. The bedcover was straight out of a Veronese dusty, rich washed-out pink, embossed with silk embroidery, and so heavy that when I lifted a corner and let it fall back against the pillow it made a satisfying flump.

Mine host did not do anything with the gentle demeanour of paid staff. He strode to the curtained door, flung it wide and revealed a large white bath, black and white tiled floor and contrastingly rich tiles on the walls.

'Edwardian,' he said, when I went 'ooh'. 'Bit OTT, but at least they did it out before the local authority chappies slapped a preservation order on it. Rather have plumbing than a Victorian Gothic dressing-room any day. What?'

We nodded. Both of us were, quite undeniably, speechless. He closed the door and gave the curtain a tweak. 'Bath and wotsit's newish. Plenty of hot water. All you need to know, really.' He went to the bedroom door and stood outside in the corridor. I had one of those moments when I went all watery, thinking that Oxford might tip him. It was the sort of thing that Roger might have done.