Chasing Men

Hetty pulled her collar closer. The wind whistled down Aviary Road, leaves swirling damply in its wake. Above her head the wooden for-sale sign swung and creaked; it reminded her of a gibbet. The thin estate agent shuffled his feet and thrust bony hands deeper into his overcoat pockets. He sniffed. ‘’Fraid that’s the best there is. For a hundred and eighty thou’ you won’t get anything smarter, not south of the river.’

‘It’s a staggering sum. For that I could buy a grade-two cottage with timbered walls and open fireplaces in Dorset.’

‘This isn’t Dorset. I have three more clients booked to see it this afternoon. Aviary Road is
quite
desirable. Now I’m sorry, Mrs Clarkson, shall I cancel them, or what?’

He didn’t sound sorry. Weeks of fruitless searching had confirmed his pessimism. The bijou apartment she had hoped for, overlooking a park, in immaculate condition with secure parking, a snooty concierge and a private swimming pool, was not available to her except in her dreams. Even if she blew every penny of the divorce settlement, took on a hefty mortgage and left herself with no savings whatever.

‘I’ll take it,’ she said weakly, and immediately regretted the decision.

‘Glad to hear it.’ He pulled out his mobile phone, prodded it like a piece of dodgy meat and issued brief instructions. ‘That’s settled. Come into the office this afternoon and you can initial the papers.’ He chuckled, as if at a private joke. ‘Hope you like the neighbours. Some of them are a little – ah, odd, I hear. But, then, what can you expect, at that price?’

It was a question of choice. Or, rather, of precious little choice. Several weeks later, keys in hand, Hetty stood in the grimy shrubbery that passed for a front garden and examined her purchase with more care.

The block was an undistinguished brick edifice about thirty years old, one of several built in the oversized grounds of a Victorian mansion long since demolished. Hers, the one called The Swallows, contained six flats; others nearby were larger, each named after birds. Here and there, mature trees were a reminder of what had previously flourished, though their leafless state added to the air of desolation and neglect. Or perhaps not neglect exactly. There was no litter; the paths to the front porch and around the back to the bins were tidy and unbroken. Someone had pruned the rose bushes and cut back a buddleia. A large ginger cat peered at her curiously from under drooping bushes then waddled off, tail held high. With a bit of luck, in spring she might see green from every angle of the flat.

As she fumbled with the security lock Hetty caught sight of herself in a window. She straightened up automatically, as if somebody else might be watching. The woman who stared back at her was neither slim nor tall. No longer married, but not a spinster, dried out or shrivelled up. Still ripe. Not exactly pretty, but not plain either; brown hair tinged with grey, hazel eyes, a clear skin without wrinkles, a ready smile, mostly. Not young, not old. Nondescript? She sighed, and pulled a rueful face at her reflection. ‘Not sure who I am,’ Hetty murmured to herself. ‘Perhaps it’s time I found out.’

The hallway was dingy. The jute floor covering was stained, though upstairs, on what she must now call her landing, it was cleaner and less scuffed. She tried the key in her
front-door
lock. It was stiff, but worked: a good omen.

Inside, a pile of glossy circulars slithered like snakes away from her feet. Hetty riffled through them. Leaflets for home-delivery pizzas were stacked on the kitchen window-ledge alongside a flowery ‘Good Luck In Your New Home’ card from her mother, postmarked Amsterdam. Off on another Saga coach holiday, probably. No letter with it. Hetty’s mother was not given to organised effusions of maternal emotion.

The flat’s alarm was off. Trying to remember the estate agent’s instructions, Hetty played with it experimentally, panicked briefly when it started to howl, then sensed a personal victory when she managed to switch it off and on correctly. Stephen would have laughed indulgently at her efforts and taken the key from her hand. Now she would have to do everything herself. A shiver ran down her spine.

The lights worked. One bulb was missing. The bathroom had cheap, pale-green tiles. It required a thorough scrub but was a fair size, with a modern shower. The kitchen needed a roller-blind. Hetty began to make a list. It would be days before she could move in, maybe longer. She must resist the temptation to splurge, to redecorate in a hurry or buy expensive new curtains. No Stephen to pick up the bills.

‘So, sod the new curtains,’ Hetty said aloud, with a shrug. They would have to wait until she found a job.

‘Hello? Anyone there?’ The voice was unmistakably an East Ender’s. A short woman in a flowered dress peered round the door. A faded cotton apron was swathed across a bulky torso; she smelt faintly of fried onions. Her hair, frizzy and almost white, was bundled up in a headscarf tied as a turban. In her arms was the fat ginger cat Hetty had seen in the garden. Its orange eyes examined her coolly.

‘Yes.
I’m
here.’

‘Oooh! Are you going to buy it? It’s been empty ages.’

‘I might,’ Hetty answered cautiously. So the estate agent had been economical with the truth when he implied he had lots of customers. That explained why he was so keen to tie up the deal. Then, ‘Well, yes, I have. I’ve just signed for it. It’s mine, as from today.’

‘Oooh!’ the woman said again, her eyes round but red-veined, like ox-eye marbles. Her front teeth were prominent and square, a bit battered, and brought to mind nothing so much as a stout old mule. Yet there was something of the gypsy about her. The cat struggled to escape and was restrained. ‘Needs a bit of money spending on it. But it’ll be nice to have somebody living here again – you’re the flat over mine. You’re not a noisy person, are you?’

‘No, I don’t think so. Are you?’

‘Me? Nah. I live with Thomas here. The cat. Only rented, mind, can’t afford to buy. I don’t have many visitors. Only me gentleman friend.’ The woman simpered. ‘That’s Jack and he’s very quiet. My name’s Doris Archibald, but most people call me Mrs A. I like my place. It’s not bad round here, honest.’

Hetty realised that her own expression might be home-counties haughty or suspicious, probably both. Was this one of the odd neighbours? She extended her hand and smiled warily. ‘I’m Hetty Clarkson. Or I was. I might take my maiden name again – I’m not sure yet.’

‘Bad idea, that. Nobody’ll be able to find you in the phone book if you change your name. That’s why some folks do it.’ Mrs A ventured further into the room. The cat wriggled; ginger hairs detached themselves and floated to the floor. ‘Carpet’s okay. Kitchen’s quite respectable. I can help with unpacking, if you like. Were you married long?’

Hetty hesitated. Was caution advised? Was it necessary? The woman seemed harmless enough. She took the plunge. ‘Over twenty years. Is it that obvious?’

‘Course. You’re not the first, you won’t be the last. These flats are full of ’em. Lots of marriages break up, these days. Singles come and go here all the while. At least you had him tied up proper. My niece Lindy had two kids by a chap and never saw an altar. So when he takes up with a younger lass and shows her the door, her and the kids got nothing. Did you do all right? Must’ve done, to buy this place. Got family, have you?’

Hetty stepped back. ‘What is this, Mrs A? The Inquisition?’

The cat hissed and threatened to escape. The prospect of cat hairs everywhere to add to her woes made Hetty feel weary.

Mrs A appeared chastened. ‘Sorry. You look done in. Cup of tea?’

It would be best, now, to move as quickly as possible. The journey from Dorset was too far, the trains too uncertain; the furtive glances from Stephen too powerful a reminder of what she had to leave behind. He stood on the landing by the guest room she had occupied for the last few months, his big shoulders blocking the light. Behind him, in the main bedroom, could be glimpsed the carved four-poster bed they had found in Winchester. His, now, not hers. She carried on packing clothes, mementoes and photographs into suitcases and boxes, and tried to ignore him.

‘Will you still be here at the weekend?’

She took a decision. ‘No. I’ll take a few things tomorrow. Hire a van. Then that should be the last you see of me.’

‘Hetty…’ He extended his hand, then let it drop. ‘Thank you for being so … understanding. You could have been bitter – made it awful. It has helped. We did have some good times together, didn’t we? And there’s the children. We can stay friends. I hope you’ll be – okay.’

She bit her lip. I will be okay, she thought, but no thanks to you, Stephen, she should have retorted. He turned, discomforted by her silence, and trudged down the stairs. It might have been easier to have a row, a shouting match; behaving as civilised people, as both instinctively did, left so much unsaid.

His habits need no longer detain her. His preferences, his little quirks. What had been going on in his mind? How could she have missed it? He was not a bad man, far from it. She pinched herself, once, hard. It had happened: her husband had fallen in love with another woman. She had lost him, even as she had congratulated herself on her wonderfully stable marriage. This was not a nightmare from which she might wake up, dazed and breathless, thankful to return to complacent normality. This was the reality.

He hoped they might stay friends, and no doubt they’d meet at family events: Peter’s graduation, Sally’s engagement – if any man of hers ever got round to it. Their daughter worked for Britannia Airlines in Luton and fell in love with pilots. But Stephen wouldn’t be there as her husband, or as
her
closest friend. Somebody else would be on his arm.

Friends – real ones, human beings – would be at a premium from here on. A sob rose in her throat and was forced away. It would feel dreadful and disorientating to be alone, not be part of a couple. Most social activities were designed for pairs. Their acquaintances were mostly couples: from work – Stephen’s work – from the village, from the summer fête and church events she had actively supported. In all their activities, indeed, the Clarksons had been a visible and successful part of coupledom. They had tended to shun singles who didn’t seem to fit in. Nothing whatsoever from her previous life could be taken for granted. Precious little could be taken with her, except regrets. None of it prepared her for what was to come.

But help was needed right now. She snapped the locks on the first suitcase, lugged it to the top of the stairs, then tipped it flat and kicked it down to the bottom like a sled on a hillside. The second one went down more slowly, banging against the banisters, but did not burst open. Solidly made, both were too heavy for her to lift more than a few yards – chosen by Stephen, they were made for a man to carry. She followed them down to the hallway. Stephen had disappeared into the garden.

Her hand shook a little as she reached for the phone. She kept her voice steady and light.

‘Sally? Glad I’ve caught you. Yes, it’s Mum. Listen, darling, I shall need another pair of hands. Mostly lugging boxes in and out of a van and up and down stairs. No, I don’t think I should ask your father to pitch in. Or his pals from the golf club – I don’t need any of them averting their eyes. Tomorrow morning? Thanks, that’ll be lovely. Wear jeans, darling. ’Bye.’