Breaking the Chain (15 page)

‘A man who does a reliable job,’ Wynne agreed. ‘Is this your own make? It’s delicious.’

‘I could always go back to work full time,’ Phoebe said, ‘if things get difficult.’

‘Oh, I hope it won’t come to that,’ Wynne said. ‘I expect your Duncan will see to it that it doesn’t. I’m so glad you’ve got yourself such a good man, my pet. I used to worry about you so much in the bad old days.’

‘Well,’ Phoebe started, ‘now that you mention –’

‘I’m glad to have got you on your own, Phoebe,’ Wynne interrupted, ‘because I’ve got something to say. I would have said it earlier, but I wanted to speak to you first so you’d have time to think about it properly before telling Duncan about it.’

‘Heavens!’ Phoebe said. ‘You make whatever it is sound very serious. Is it?’

Wynne’s face looked suddenly anxious, almost pleading. She put down her toast and marmalade, took one of Phoebe’s hands in both of hers and squeezed it. She seemed to be having difficulty in talking. A flush had begun at her neck and was travelling up her face to her greying hairline. She let go of Phoebe’s hand and pulled at the collar of her woollen polo-necked jersey.

An unbreathing moment of dread took hold of Phoebe. ‘What is it?’ she asked urgently. ‘You’re not ill? You look so well …’

‘No,’ her mother said. ‘It’s nothing like that. It’s good news …’ She looked shy. ‘I’ve got myself a new man,’ she said in a rush. ‘He’s moving in with me next week.’

Phoebe saw her with new eyes. ‘But …’ she said, swallowing,
‘… that’s great! I’m really pleased for you.’ She saw her mother relax and realized with surprise how tense she must have been.

‘You don’t mind?’ Wynne asked.

‘Of course not. Why should I?’

‘I thought you might think … Oh, I don’t know … that I was stupid or too old or something.’

Tears came to Phoebe’s eyes. ‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘You silly old thing. Come and give us a hug.’ They came together by the table and embraced. The top of Wynne’s head was level with Phoebe’s chin. Phoebe could smell the scent her mother always used. She struggled with a conflict of emotions but was conscious above all of her mother’s relief and love, as expressed in the surprising strength of her encircling arms.

‘I think it’s brilliant,’ Phoebe said, into her hair. ‘What’s his name?’

‘George,’ Wynne said. ‘Oh Phoebe, I was so worried you’d be upset. I can’t tell you. And yet, just lately I’ve been so happy, the happiest I’ve ever been …’

I
am
glad, Phoebe thought. I truly am. I want her to be happy. But now I can’t talk to her about my problems; it would spoil everything for her.

A new thought struck her. He’ll be there, she thought, this unknown George, at the house in Hexham, all the time. It won’t be an unconditionally welcoming place of refuge for me ever again.

The next day was Thursday. Phoebe got ready for work with reluctance. It was her mother’s last day, and she resented having to leave her for a boring morning at the theatre office.

‘Don’t worry about me now,’ Wynne said. ‘Duncan’s taking me round to his mum’s house for coffee and a walk round their garden. I specially want to see that pond you told me so much about; I’ve a fancy for one myself.’

‘If you’re sure?’ Phoebe said. ‘See you at lunchtime then.’

She wheeled her bicycle out and walked it up the lane. The weather was grey and cool with a freshening westerly wind and spots of rain. She stepped in a puddle by mistake and mud slopped over the toes of her leather boots and crept messily up
their insteps. She pulled up the hood of her kagoul with an irritated flick. I look a mess, she thought. In the old days in Newcastle she had dressed tidily for work, had driven herself there in her carefully polished car and, once there, had taken a pride in her job. And now? Was she ‘letting herself go’? It seemed to be impossible to emerge from their lane in any sort of order, so she had given up trying to look smart. Few of her good clothes now fitted her anyway; she supposed she must have put on weight. Nowadays she went to work in jeans and sweatshirts. No one commented. It didn’t seem to matter. She was only the secretary. Worse still, the work was boring and underpaid. The theatre was badly supported and its programme uninspiring.

Today, Phoebe remembered, was the beginning of four days of pantomime produced by the local amateur dramatic club. She was glad she had no involvement in it, other than answering the telephone and writing letters. The only possible excitement of the day might be a letter about a lawsuit against them, which an elderly woman was currently pursuing, over a plant tub she had tripped over in the dark on her way to the theatre from the car park the previous November. Never mind, Phoebe encouraged herself, only two days until the weekend!

At lunchtime Wynne enthused about the pond. ‘Of course, it’s much bigger than I’d need,’ she said, ‘but Duncan’s built it ever so well, hasn’t he? I only wish I lived nearer so he could make one for me too.’

‘Well, you n-never know,’ Duncan said, smiling.

‘How was Hope?’ Phoebe asked.

‘Very charming, but I could see she was down, poor woman. Duncan warned me about her moods. Rick being burgled didn’t help, I doubt. It would unsettle anyone.’

‘Burgled?’ Phoebe said. ‘Rick?’

‘Over Christmas, Hope said, but nothing obvious taken and no mess; most peculiar.’

‘But why did he think he’d been burgled then?’

‘There was a window broken in his basement and mud on his carpets,’ Wynne said.

‘Could have been his own boys,’ Phoebe said.

‘More than likely,’ agreed Wynne.

An uncomfortable idea occurred to Phoebe. ‘Does your man have any children?’ she asked her mother.

‘No,’ Wynne said. ‘His first wife couldn’t.’

‘Oh.’ Good, Phoebe thought. At least it’s only one person I’ve got to share you with.

‘I’m sorry I can’t stay, pet,’ Wynne said, understanding. ‘I’d love to be with you longer, but I’ve got to get back to work myself.’

‘And back to George,’ Phoebe said, teasing.

‘That as well.’ Wynne blushed like a girl. It seemed to Phoebe as if they had reversed their roles, and she was now mother to Wynne. It felt odd and unsettling. It sent her a message, long overdue, but now coming through strongly. It was time to grow up. She was on her own.

In Nancy’s Christmas entry for 1956, there had been no mention of Hugh. Phoebe was curious as to what exactly had caused their break-up. Was it a big event; the discovery of Nancy’s affair with Peter? Was it an act of cruelty; the sudden death of love? She leafed backwards through the diary, looking for the moment when their marriage finally died.

Saturday, 7 July – at the cottage. Hugh insisted on working on his book today, even though it’s the weekend. It doesn’t seem to be going well and he’s worrying at it like a monkey with its fist in a bottle. If he could just relax a bit, I’m sure the words would flow better. Actually it has suited my purpose very well. I seized the moment and packed a lot of my books into cardboard boxes and stowed them in the boot of my car. There’s not much left in the cottage that belongs particularly to me now. I’ve been taking clothes and odd things over the last few months, whenever I’ve had the chance, and collecting them in the flat. I’m amazed that Hugh hasn’t guessed my intentions. He still seems not to know about P. I shan’t tell him. P.’s not the reason anyway. Hugh and I seem to have nothing in common any more. Our marriage has simply petered out (unintentional bad joke!) and we’re already leading mostly separate lives. Hugh will be much better off without me. It will give him the chance to meet someone else and have the children he’s always wanted. As for me? I shall be free to get on with my own life without being shackled by guilt and irritation and the crushing weight of Hugh’s disappointed expectations. I’m not deceiving myself that P. will leave H. for me – after six years – why should he? But meetings will be easier, and I shall be able to put our on/off affair onto a more equal footing, and fit it in on my own terms. I’ve decided that I’m not good at marriage. I shall be much happier living on my own and having lover(s). The more I think of it, the more
I realize that I never really loved Hugh. I just felt sorry for him and he needed me. I now know that sympathy and need can very easily be confused with love. I wish I’d known it ten years ago. In fact our separation should be very easy. I shall make over this cottage to Hugh. He’s much happier writing here than in London, and he’s got the odd friend in the village who will help him. I shall send him enough money to keep him going for a year, and after that it will be up to him to earn his own living. I shall keep the flat (which was mine anyway) and pusskin Claude (ditto). Thank goodness I’ve got a well-paid job and capital which can finance all this. I know I’m fortunate. Now I’ve written all this down, it seems very logical and unanswerable. I hope Hugh will see it that way tomorrow.

Sunday, 8 July. A terrible day, made worse by uncaring wonderful weather. First Hugh tried to hit me, then he burst into tears and grovelled. I had to leave my darling Claude behind. When it came to it, I just couldn’t leave Hugh totally bereft. I meant to explain things to him in an unemotional way, but it was hopeless. How could I ever have thought it possible? Just had to get in the car and go. Could hardly see for tears as I drove away. Never realized until today how much I love that little cat. Eleanor is staying with me for a few days, thank goodness. My beautiful, soft, silky, sociable, stout-hearted, wicked Claude, how shall I ever manage without you?

Nancy had clearly been crying as she wrote the last few sentences. The ink was smudged, and the paper distorted where the teardrops had dried. Phoebe was amazed that anyone could get so upset about an ordinary old cat. Perhaps Duncan felt like that about his dog. She knew that if she were ever to leave Duncan, it would be an absolute bonus to get shot of Diggory too! For the first time she felt out of tune with Nancy. Then she decided that Nancy’s grief couldn’t have been just because of the cat; it must have been the whole trauma of leaving her husband. It seemed that there had been no great drama to precipitate the end. It had just been a gradual wearing down
process which had no obvious trigger, just a weary inevitability. Phoebe wondered what Hugh had been like. Seen through Nancy’s eyes, he came across as a total wimp. Nancy must have been unusually strong for her time. She hadn’t been held back by convention; the marriage wasn’t working to her satisfaction so she had dumped it. Phoebe doubted whether she herself would be so fearless, even though it was a million times easier in the nineties. People did it all the time.

‘Anyway,’ she said aloud, ‘I don’t want to. I still love Duncan … I think.’

Phoebe decided to make a big effort to overcome Duncan’s lack of interest in her, and make things good between them again. She had to choose her moment carefully. At bedtime he was usually very tired and likely to fall asleep at once. It was no use waiting until then. He would complain that he needed his rest. She decided to make her move that evening when he came home from work and went upstairs to change out of his grubby clothes.

At half-past five she took the remains of the gin, some tonic and two glasses upstairs to the bathroom. She ran a hot bath, frothy with expensive bath oil which she had bought for the purpose. Then she went back down to the kitchen and waited. Five minutes later, when she heard the sound of Duncan’s van in the lane, she nipped upstairs, threw all her clothes onto the floor, got into the bath and lay back luxuriously. She had left the door at the bottom of the stairs open, and she heard Duncan coming in through the back door. His first instinct was always to put the kettle on for tea. There was no need for that today!

‘Duncan,’ she called. No answer.
‘Duncan!’
Still no answer. Bloody hell! Phoebe thought. I can’t get out and drip all over everywhere just to get his attention.
‘DUNCAN!’

There was a rattle of claws on the wooden staircase as Diggory responded to her call, rushing helter-skelter up to the forbidden – and therefore extra desirable – upstairs, onto the landing, round the corner, through the open door of the bathroom and nearly into the bath itself. He slid to a halt on the previously white bathmat, got up on his back legs, put his
forepaws on the rim of the bath and started drinking the bathwater with excessive enthusiasm, all the while looking at Phoebe good-humouredly with his soulful brown eyes.

Phoebe sat up abruptly, sloshing water and foam onto the floor at both ends of the bath. ‘Stop it, you fool of a dog!’ she said, laughing in spite of herself. ‘Oh, just look at your paws; covered in mud as usual. Downstairs with you.
Basket!’

‘W-What’s going on?’ Duncan asked, appearing at the door.

‘About time!’ Phoebe said. ‘I’ve been yelling myself hoarse. If I’d been drowning, I’d have gone down for the last time by now; lungs full of water and stone dead!’ Duncan just looked puzzled. ‘Please, Dunc, will you take your ridiculous dog downstairs and then come back up again?’

‘Well, all right. If you s-say so. Digg! Come on!’ They clumped down to the kitchen together.

Phoebe caught sight of herself in the mirror. She did not see the ‘nymph in her bath’ image which she had aspired to, but she felt there was still time to recover from this false start. She ran more hot water and swished it past her with her hands. Then she lay back, covering the parts of herself which were above the waterline with blobs of foam. She waited. She went on waiting. Duncan didn’t come back. He had shut the door at the bottom of the stairs, so she was unable to hear what he was doing. It was no good shouting; she was stuck. Phoebe examined her hands. The skin on her fingers was starting to crinkle up like a washerwoman’s. If he doesn’t get a move on, she thought, my whole body will turn into a pink prune, and Plan A will be completely wrecked. Where the hell is he?

After an aeon or two, Duncan came back up. He was holding a mug of tea and inexpertly trying not to spill its contents. He put it down by her shoulder, next to the taps and made as if to go.

‘C-Cup of tea for you. I’m going to g-get some firewood in,’ he said.