Second Time Around (3 page)

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Authors: Marcia Willett

BOOK: Second Time Around
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Presently she crossed to the French windows and, pushing them open, went out on to the balcony. There was a brightness now to the morning and she saw that Isobel's curtains had been drawn back. Even as she watched, Isobel came hurrying out, almost running, the long skirt flapping round her bare ankles, a silk scarf floating at her throat. Mathilda watched her leap across the brook and disappear behind the house. She heard the sound of the Morris's engine start up and gradually fade as it bumped its way up the track. As it did so, Mathilda remembered the rest of the conversation she'd been thinking of earlier.
‘And did you find happiness?' she'd asked Isobel at length. There had been a long silence.
‘No,' said Isobel at last. ‘But it was worth trying for, surely?'
‘That rather depends,' replied Mathilda, ‘on what you lost in the attempt.'
There had been a longer, deeper silence and finally Isobel had risen to fetch the cheese and had begun to talk about something entirely different.
Mathilda stood for some time on the balcony, lost in thought. The golden glow behind the cloud brightened and the sun's warmth began to shred the mist, drawing it up, dissolving it. The small wavelets broke decorously against the sand and the brook gurgled cheerfully in the combe behind the house. Mathilda went back into the study and settled herself at the desk.
 
 
A WEEK LATER THE autumn made its presence known with a more determined ferocity. The equinoctial gales roared in from the west bringing heavy rain. The trees bowed beneath their passing and the last plums and apples were shaken from the boughs. Sailors hurried to secure their boats or take them off the rivers and estuaries for the winter and the locals put away their espadrilles and placed gumboots in readiness by back doors. The swallows had left for the south and only the martins were still to be seen, swooping and diving for insects, their second brood still in the nest.
The pub car park was nearly empty. Isobel halted the Morris beside Simon's hatchback and switched off the engine. She felt the usual uprush of excitement at the thought of seeing him and she altered the angle of the driving mirror so as to peer at herself in the gloomy light of early evening. She'd dragged her dark hair back, securing it with a clip at the nape of her neck, and she still could not decide whether this made her look sophisticated and distinguished or merely older and rather severe. Perhaps her face was too thin, too bony to take such a style? She grimaced at her reflection to give herself courage, collected her bag and slid out of the car with her coat round her shoulders to protect her from the rain. As she locked the door she bent to peer through Simon's window. His car was both clean and tidy, inside and out, and she sighed as she remembered how she'd teased him about his habit of cleaning it every weekend.
He was sitting in a corner, well away from the bar, but got to his
feet the moment he saw her. She experienced the familiar shock of seeing as a stranger he who had been her lover, husband, father of her child. This knowledge lent an underlying excitement to all her dealings with him and sometimes she felt almost breathless with longing for him. He bent his head to receive her kiss and she was seized with a desire to hold him and shout at him. ‘Let's stop all this politeness and pretence!' she wanted to cry. ‘It was a silly mistake. It's all over and I'll never do anything like it again. It's cost too much! Please let's go back to how we were.' Instead she sat down and smiled at him.
‘Spritzer, please. Everything OK?'
‘Everything's fine.'
He turned away to the bar and she watched him order the drinks. He looked easy and relaxed in his jeans and sweatshirt, his greying hair a little longer than when they had been together. He was head of the English department at one of Plymouth's comprehensive schools and he was both popular and effective. Isobel mentally prepared the questions she would ask about Helen—the supposed reason for this meeting—and wondered why he had never invited her to his new home at Modbury. It had been a tremendous shock when he'd told her that he wanted to sell the house in Plymouth. Still in thrall to Mike she'd made no protest and had signed the forms obligingly but it had come as an unwelcome surprise to see Simon make such a decision without her advice. That was when she'd realised that; although she was happy with Mike, she was still counting on Simon being there.
I wanted to have my cake and eat it, she thought, watching Simon pocketing his change and picking up the two glasses.
It had hurt when he had chosen the house in Modbury without consulting her, although he had asked her which pieces of furniture or ornaments she would like to take. She knew then that she'd wanted her erstwhile home to stay exactly as it was and, after some reflection, she'd taken only one or two small special things of her own and suggested that he kept the rest himself. Since the Modbury house was smaller than the town house certain items were now superfluous and,
having decided between them what was no longer required, it was agreed that these things should be sold or taken to the dump. Later, Isobel decided that she was glad that Simon had made the move. It might be easier to start again in a new place … except that there was no suggestion that a new start was desirable to him.
Isobel took her glass and sipped at her spritzer. Simon sat opposite, took a pull at his beer and raised his eyebrows.
‘So …' He let it hang in the air; not quite a question.
‘I just wanted to ask about Helen,' Isobel said quickly. ‘How the holidays went, whether there's any sign of relenting. That sort of thing. Has she gone back to Durham?'
‘Yes, I drove her up at the weekend.' Simon moved a little in his chair, rather as if he found the subject an awkward one. ‘Term doesn't start for a week or two but she's moving out of hall and going into a house with a group of friends. Very nice it is too. A little Victorian crescent near the cathedral.'
Isobel was silent. The pain made it impossible for her to speak. That she was not allowed to take part in her daughter's life was unbearable and she quite suddenly remembered Mathilda's words.
‘That rather depends on what you lost in the attempt …
' Oh, far too much, she cried silently.
‘She's fine,' said Simon gently. ‘Honestly. She's got some really nice friends and she's doing well.'
Isobel nodded, swallowing hard and trying to smile. ‘I'm so pleased,' she said. ‘I just wish that I could see her. You know …'
‘I know,' he agreed. ‘I'm really sorry, love. But now that she's over eighteen it's up to her. I do my best to make her see it all rationally.'
‘I know you do.' She smiled more easily; the endearment had been absurdly comforting. ‘I know. It's just the years are going by.' She looked at him. ‘And how are you?'
‘Oh.' He seemed taken aback by the direct question. ‘Oh, OK. Much the same.' He looked away from her intense stare, made uncomfortable by it.
‘Oh, Simon,' she sighed. ‘It all seems so silly. Such a waste.'
‘Yes. Well …' He hesitated, unwilling to point out that it was her doing.
‘I know,' she said quickly. ‘It's my fault. Do you think I don't tell myself that?'
‘Please, Isobel.' He looked extremely distressed. ‘Please don't go on. I'm sure that Helen will come round. She's growing up. You must be patient.'
‘It's not just Helen,' she said—and stopped.
‘I know it isn't,' Simon said, so bleakly that she looked at him quickly, hopefully. ‘Oh, Izzy …'
There was something almost despairing in his tone and, at the sound of the nickname he had used so often in the past, she found the courage to reach out and touch his hand.
‘Honestly, Simon,' she said, ‘I never really loved Mike. I know that now. It was like I was ill or something. Mad. You know? Couldn't we … ?'
‘Look.' He took her hand and held it tightly, biting his lip, searching for words. ‘The thing is …' He sighed and released her. ‘It's no good,' he said flatly. ‘There's someone else, Isobel. Sorry, but it's best to say it straight out.'
She sat back quickly, clasping her hands together. ‘I … see.'
‘I should have said something before,' he continued wretchedly. ‘I knew how your mind was working but I couldn't bring myself to hurt you.'
‘That's generous of you, in the circumstances,' she said. She picked up her glass and took a long swallow. Simon stared at the table. ‘Do … do I know her?'
He hesitated so long that she knew that she must and her shocked mind ranged briefly over their friends.
‘It's Sally Curtis,' he said at last.
Sally Curtis. Sally of the long brown hair and green eyes who
taught History; Sally who had lost husband and child in a car crash and had bravely started a new life; Sally whom she had invited to a barbecue at the town house and with whom she had sympathised; Sally who had encouraged Helen with her history; Sally … He was watching her compassionately.
‘She's been a good friend,' he said.
‘Yes,' said Isobel. ‘I'm sure she has. And Helen adores her.'
‘That is a bonus,' he agreed. ‘I'm sorry, Isobel—'
‘No, no,' she interrupted him quickly, ‘I should have guessed there was someone. After all, why shouldn't you and … and Sally …'
‘Shall I get you another drink?' he asked anxiously.
‘No,' she said abruptly. ‘No. Just go, would you, Simon? Sorry. It's just … Please go.'
He finished his beer and stood up, his eyes genuinely worried. ‘Will you be OK?'
‘Of course I will. I just want to sit quiet.' Go, she begged silently. Just go before I burst into tears or do something bloody humiliating. For God's sake
go!
‘I'll be in touch.' She felt his hand briefly on her shoulder. ‘Take care.'
She didn't look up until she heard the door close behind him. She stared straight ahead, seeing nothing. So that was that. What a fool she'd been! Humiliation swept over her, staining her cheeks. Simon and Sally Curtis … Sally who was only thirty-something; Sally whom Helen adored and now Simon adored also. The pain was so acute that she could barely breathe and she sat for some moments making an attempt to calm herself. The young barman—probably a student—came to collect Simon's empty glass. He glanced at her curiously and Isobel attempted to smile at him. It was a failure. Her lips shook and she picked up her bag and went out into the windy car park. A gust of wind drove the rain horizontally and she held her coat over her head as she hurried to the car. Once inside she fumbled with
her keys and realised that her hands were trembling. Suddenly she wanted to be back at the cove, tucked away inside her little cottage or—better still—with Mathilda in her tall grey house. Just being with Mathilda would calm and strengthen her.
Isobel started the engine and switched on the windscreen wipers. They wiped away the rain but not her tears and she dragged her hand angrily across her eyes before she pulled out on to the road and headed for the cove.
 
THE KITCHEN WAS EMPTY. Out of habit Isobel went round tidying up, locking the French windows and drawing the curtains before going upstairs. Having reached the landing she paused to listen at Mathilda's bedroom door before climbing on again, up to the top floor. The study was empty so she opened the drawing room door and looked inside. Mathilda sat reading beside a fire which had burned down to little more than ashes, undisturbed by the rain which streamed down the darkened window panes or the wind which rattled at the catches.
‘Honestly, Mathilda.' Isobel shut the door behind her and crossed the room to the French windows. ‘You could at least keep the fire going. Aren't you cold?'
Mathilda raised her eyes from her book and watched Isobel drag the curtains together. Even she detected a brittle note in the younger woman's voice.
‘I didn't notice,' she said. ‘Is it dark already?'
Isobel sighed and began to rake the ashes together, putting on small pieces of wood until the fire blazed up. ‘You're hopeless,' she said.
‘So you keep telling me,' said Mathilda without rancour.
Isobel laughed. ‘Hopeless and impossible. Have you had any supper?'
Mathilda's brow wrinkled thoughtfully. ‘Soup?' she suggested cautiously.
‘That was lunch,' sighed Isobel. ‘I left you a casserole in the bottom oven. I
did
tell you.'
‘Well, now we can share it.' Mathilda put a marker between the pages of her book and prepared to rise. ‘Are you hungry?'
No, thought Isobel. It would choke me to swallow even a spoonful. She remembered that she had planned that she and Simon would be eating together this evening, so sure had she been that he was weakening.
‘I've had some supper,' she said aloud. ‘But I'll come and watch you eat yours.'
‘Good idea. And then we'll have a game of Scrabble.'
Isobel piled some more logs on the fire and put the discarded book on the table beside Mathilda's chair. She was not surprised to see that it was Alain-Fournier's
Le Grand Meaulnes
in the French. It might easily have been
The Hunting of the Snark
. Months ago she'd asked Mathilda how she was able to read Lewis Carroll one day and Descartes the next. Mathilda pondered. ‘They were both mathematicians, you know,' she'd said at last.
 
LATER THEY SAT TOGETHER, a low table drawn up between them before the fire. After the crowded, active atmosphere of the study the drawing room was almost stark in its austerity; one or two large paintings on the otherwise empty walls; a long sofa against the wall opposite the fireplace; two armchairs pulled up to the fire; a bureau in an alcove. There were the usual bookshelves in the second alcove but it seemed to Isobel that all of Mathilda's taste and personality had been crammed into the study.
Isobel rearranged the Scrabble tiles on her rack and wrenched her mind away from Simon and Sally. Instead she thought of an article she'd read only that morning.
‘Do you believe in euthanasia?' she asked abruptly.

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