Encounters (46 page)

‘Perhaps I give lousy parties.’ Wearily he bent to collect the glasses round his feet. ‘Do I gather you didn’t enjoy it?’

‘It was another party.’ I knelt to help him. ‘Sandra didn’t stay then?’

He shook his head. ‘She often doesn’t. She has to be at work early tomorrow, poor love. I’m surprised she stayed so long.’

‘I expect she was enjoying herself.’ I rose, my hands full of glasses and went through to the kitchen. The bloody tea towel still lay on the table; plasters, antiseptic, coffee cups heaped anyhow around it. In the sink the tap slowly dripped, etching more deeply the groove in the stained enamel.

‘I’m glad you met Sandy tonight.’ James came in behind me. ‘Did you like her?’

‘I hardly spoke to her.’ I knew my voice sounded guarded but I couldn’t help it.

‘She’s a super person, Laura; one of the best.’

‘I shouldn’t let yourself get too fond of her, Jimmy.’ I spoke very quietly, gathering up the towel to rinse in the sink. ‘I’m sure she’s nice, but …’

‘But what?’ He flared up at once in her defence. ‘You know your trouble, Laura. You’re a cynic.’ His hands shook as he pushed a trayful of glasses onto the table. ‘You always look for the worst side of people. You never take them at face value.’

I watched the red stain flowing out into the running water and gurgling away down the sink. ‘I’m sorry, Jimmy,’ I said. I thought of Sandra’s surprised face and tousled hair as she sat up from the arms of another man in James’s own bed. ‘I’m sorry. I suppose it’s just the way I’m made.’ I went and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘Take no notice of me. You’re right. I am a cynic and I’m afraid I always will be.’

I went slowly back into the studio and looked around. After all, for all I knew James was well aware of what Sandra was like. Whether he did or not I had to let it rest there. I could say no more to James about it.

I wandered over to the beautiful bronze nude and gazed at her serene expression. It was Sandra, of course. I should have recognized her. Gently I blew the cloying ash from the angle of her elbow and went to turn out the lights.

S
ally paused to pick up another piece of driftwood and throw it into the bag she had dropped on the frozen sand nearby. Her back ached and her eyes were sore with the icy glare from the sea and for a minute she straightened and gazed back along the beach. Far away near the dunes she could just make out the distant figure of a man.

Her heart leaped. Forgetting the bag she ran a few steps towards him, pushing her hair out of her eyes as the persistent stinging wind blinded her momentarily, hiding him from her. Then she stopped and waited.

His was the first figure she had seen on the beach in three days, the first in fact since she had watched him walk away. It had to be him. She had known he would come back …

They had been walking along the edge of the sea in the rain, watching the pock marks hammered by the shower into the heavy slate of the tide, picking among the seaweed for shells, slipping them, sandy and wet and cold into their pockets, staring out across towards the distant rocks where the smoothness of the sea humped itself into an uneasy swell. It was a lonely place, a place of solitary wheeling seabirds and infinite wind-torn skies, a place where one could dream and think; a place where one could feel free. She had been happy and at peace, linking her arm through Oliver’s, savouring the salty rain on her lips, the sting of the cold clean air on her cheeks and she had not guessed what he was thinking; there was no warning, no premonition, of the outburst which was suddenly upon her.

‘I can’t stand this any more, Sally! When are we going to stop coming to this dreadful place?’ He had pulled away from her, his gesture angry and impatient. ‘Don’t you ever long for company and lights and sunshine?’

She stood for a moment unable to say a word, stunned into silence by her total surprise. Then reproachfully trying to refocus her thoughts, to understand what he was saying, she turned to him. ‘I thought you loved it here.’

‘I do.’ He hurled a pebble at the water. ‘It’s just that sometimes I would rather go to other places; do other things. I feel trapped in this place …’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.’

She couldn’t have said anything worse.

‘No, that’s your trouble. You don’t realize. You think everyone else is the same as you. You don’t bother to try and put yourself in their place. You adore it here, so everyone else must. You revel in introspection so you think it must be good for others too.’

‘Oliver! That’s not fair; you said you liked it here. You said you loved the quiet …’

‘Well, I’ve changed my mind. So let’s go! First thing tomorrow. Right?’

And then, as though at a signal, it started; the flying words, the recriminations which had led to the bitter analyses of their oh so short marriage, both of them saying things they didn’t really mean, hurling the insults into the face of the rain.

At least Sally hadn’t meant them …

When they regained the cottage at last Oliver had heaped the driftwood onto the fire till it blazed and ostentatiously made himself a bed on the sofa in front of it and Sally had crept into the cold bedroom alone.

The next morning she had been watching the cool early light slanting across the sands from the sea. She had leaned on her elbows and taken a deep breath of the salty air, watching the darting swooping flight of the terns as they skimmed the green water. They had not spoken since the night before.

Behind her Oliver was stirring the coffee in an old saucepan on the stove, filling the kitchen with the pungent bitter smell of it.

‘Well, have you made up your mind? Are you coming?’ His voice, coming out of the silence, had sounded politely casual. She could hear him picking the strainer off the draining board, carrying the saucepan to the table, pouring it into the two cups.

‘I’m staying, Oliver.’ She did not turn.

‘OK. I’ll leave you the car. I shall walk up the shore to the village and pick up a bus.’

‘Fine.’

They might have been discussing their plans for any day of the holiday.

‘Your coffee is on the table,’ he said softly and she heard him pick up his own cup and walk away into the other room. Then, at the door he hesitated. ‘I’m sorry, Sally.’ His voice was slightly muffled. ‘It’s probably not your fault.’ And the door closed behind him.

But she had not believed him. Her knuckles were white on the edge of the window and her eyes blurred with tears as she stared at the dancing terns and still she did not move or make any attempt to call him back. What had happened? What had gone wrong? Why should last night’s row more than any other have led to this? Of course it was her fault. It had to be.

She had watched him later, striding up the beach until he was a tiny speck in the distance. Then with a sick knot of misery tightening in her stomach she saw him turn up into the dunes and he was lost to sight.

She stayed on at the cottage on her own. At first she was sure he would come back and she waited for him, never going out of sight of the pretty white-washed building which had turned so swiftly for him from dream to prison, trailing disconsolately near the cold sea’s edge, gathering driftwood for the fire, sketching the sunsets, the fingers which held her pencils numb with cold, uncertain what to do. She could not go home. Without him it would not be home – and her only certainty was that he would not have gone back there either.

They had chosen the Victorian cottage of their dreams the day he had asked her to marry him, walking down the street arm in arm, pointing at the terrace of little houses, deciding without argument that they would choose the one with the white front door. When days later they had seen the agent’s board go up it had seemed like a special omen and Oliver had bought the cottage, selling without hesitation the flat he had owned for fifteen years. Half his furniture had had to be sold too and some of his books, to fit into so small a house, but they were happy and in love and he did not seem to care.

And when she told him of the sea where she had gone so often as a child he had agreed to come, loving her shy eagerness and he had said he liked the empty shore, liked it enough to come again when the November gales were lashing the coast and they had huddled together before a fire of wood which he had chopped all afternoon and they had laughed and planned. And one of their plans had been to come again. And now it had all gone wrong as if he had awakened from his dream and, looking round, had hated what he found.

And yet he had come back.

After a few minutes watching she began to run again, afraid he might stop and turn or, like a mirage on the sand, shimmer and dissolve as though he had never been.

There were only the two of them on the whole beach. It was too far from the village to encourage trippers, even in the summer and the fishermen kept away except for the occasional boy digging for worms. She ran a few steps more and then she stopped uncertainly trying to get her breath, her hands defenceless at her sides, her shoulders stooped with disappointment. It was not Oliver at all.

He came on at the same steady pace; tall – taller than Oliver and much younger, nearer her own age perhaps; his blond hair longish and windblown, his jeans bleached white by the sea, rolled to the knees.

‘Hi,’ he said when they were close enough to speak.

‘I’m sorry.’ In her confusion she was staring at him angrily. ‘I thought you were my husband.’

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you.’ He bowed gravely, giving a strange old-world courtesy to the otherwise obvious reply.

‘You didn’t pass him, I suppose?’ she was floundering now, trying to conceal her embarrassment. ‘I was expecting him back any moment.’ Why was she so uneasy in the face of his politely distant manner?

‘I’m afraid the beach was deserted.’ He resumed his walk slowly and she found herself turning to walk beside him. In the distance the tide was licking gently round her bag, nudging the pieces of driftwood, teasing them free of the canvas.

She gave an exclamation of annoyance as she noticed and he saw too, following her gaze. ‘I’ll get it,’ he called and before she could protest he had broken into a loping run, splashing carelessly into the ice cold water and scooping up the precious fuel.

He was laughing when she came up to him. ‘Making a camp fire?’

She felt herself blush. ‘No. It’s for the cottage. There’s a load of logs in the shed but I can’t chop them so I’m stuck with driftwood.’

He looked at her gravely, the wet bag in his outstretched hand. ‘Does your husband not chop wood?’

She bit her lip. ‘He … he forgot to do it before he went. He had to go away for a couple of days, but he’s due back anytime …’ her voice trailed away.

He nodded, glancing at the white-washed cottage set back against the grassy dune. ‘I’ll come up and chop some for you if you like.’

‘Oh but I couldn’t let you.’

‘For the price of a meal?’ Again the easy grin.

And suddenly she found she didn’t want to refuse. She was sick of her own company, sick of collecting firewood, sick of the smoky damp flame it gave in the lonely little room while she went over all the things that had gone wrong, the mistakes she must have made, the disappointments he must have known during the short time of their marriage; as she wondered what had happened to the wonderful closeness she and Oliver had shared in the first few carefree weeks. How could it so suddenly have turned to such bitterness? Whatever it was that had happened she did not want to think about it any more. Not for a while. For a while she would let herself forget if she could.

She found she was grinning back at the young man. ‘OK. It’s a deal.’ And she turned up the beach and led the way.

Throwing down the bag on the doorstep he went straight to the wood shed heaving out the heavy logs and reaching for the axe. She stood for a moment in the doorway watching as he lifted it high above his head and brought it down with a crash onto the first up-ended log, splitting it cleanly and evenly with one blow and then she went into the cottage.

She threw open the kitchen window and reached into the cupboard to see what she could find. She had not bothered to walk up to the village store for food; she had not been hungry. But she found eggs and suddenly she found she was looking forward to cooking again. She reached for the heavy iron skillet which hung on the wall above the cooker and began her preparations to the steady sound of chopping outside. By the time the food was ready he had laid her fire and filled the log basket and there was a neat stack of wood piled in the woodshed.

She could hear him whistling merrily as he washed in the little lean-to bathroom and then he was at the table, his tall frame dwarfing the room. The omelette was succulent and rich, full of herbs and she saw his look of appreciation as he took his first mouthful.

He raised his glass. ‘To the cook. My compliments.’

She acknowledged the gesture with a grave nod. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Your husband is mad to go away, even for two days with food like this at home.’

He meant it gallantly, making conversation, but her mood was too fragile to cope with the pretence any longer. She stared hard at her plate.

‘I don’t think he’s coming back,’ she said quietly. ‘He’s left me.’ It was the first time she had really admitted it even to herself.

He stared. ‘Why?’ he asked quietly.

She shrugged. ‘So many reasons. So few. I don’t understand. We were happy I thought …’

Glancing up he saw that she had laid down her fork and was biting her lip.

He frowned, staring at the top of her head, at the curtain of honey blonde hair and the golden slightly freckled complexion. Her knuckles were white beneath the taut skin of her hands clenched on the edge of the table top.

‘How long have you been married?’

‘Only a few months.’ Her voice was a whisper. She glanced up. Her lips were smiling but her lashes were salty wet. ‘Sorry. Ignore me. Women get so emotional.’

‘So do men,’ he said, very quietly. He put his hand lightly over hers. ‘Tell me about him.’

‘He’s older than me, you see. A lot older. He’s tall and fair, a bit like you, but his eyes are grey and he’s older …’ She was looking past him out of the window of the small low-ceilinged room. It was very quiet suddenly. He had not moved his hand. ‘He had never married before. A lot of women wanted him, but he was so independent, so free … He didn’t want to be tied down.’

‘Until you came along.’

She looked directly at him for the first time. ‘Until I came along. But why? Why me?’

‘You’re very beautiful.’

She seemed to be considering for a moment. The colour rose imperceptibly in her cheeks and she gave a faint smile. Almost reluctantly she slid her fingers out from beneath his.

‘That would not matter to Oliver. I think he believed I was deeper than I was – someone else, some dream he had conceived of the ideal woman. Perhaps he thought he could mould me to be her. But he found he couldn’t do it. And it’s my fault.’ She pushed back her chair and stood up abruptly. ‘I’m sorry. Your omelette is getting cold.’

‘It’s fine.’ Picking up his fork he grinned, his blue eyes sympathetic and gentle. ‘Can you make coffee as well as you cook?’

She grimaced ruefully gathering up her own plate, the food untouched. ‘Oliver always made the coffee.’