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Authors: Marcia Willett

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BOOK: Second Time Around
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Tessa replaced the photograph and sighed a little. Families: everyone seemed to belong to someone.
‘Everyone except me,' she said aloud sadly, and Felix opened an eye and sat up.
She smiled ruefully at her self-pity and pulled herself together.
‘You wait,' she said to him. ‘One day I'm going to have lots of children and at least two dogs. And I shall live here on the moor. You wait and see!'
Felix sighed deeply and lay down again, putting his head on his paws and watching Tessa whilst she moved to and fro making herself some tea. The kitchen was warm and presently he dozed. Tessa sat on at the table, drinking her tea, listening to the slow ticking of the clock, staring across at David's painting on the opposite wall. It comforted her to be in such surroundings; in a family home with an old dog lying asleep in the corner. For this moment in time it was her home, her dog, her kitchen. She sighed, looked again at the piece of paper lying on the table and, slipping quietly from her chair, went to telephone Mrs Carrington.
 
 
IN THE END THE Christmas holiday turned out to be very different from all that Isobel had imagined. Out of the unhappiness that had dogged her through the autumn a desperate hope had been born. She became convinced that when Helen came home for Christmas she would have relented a little, become mature enough at least to be prepared to communicate with her mother. The few telephone conversations Isobel had with Simon confirmed that Helen was growing up and Isobel allowed herself to believe that the season of goodwill might extend its promise of happiness to her. Simon agreed to have a serious talk with Helen and, when they had discussed the best approach and Isobel had made her points—as much for Simon's ears as Helen's—as to her regrets and guilt, she suggested tentatively that he might meet her for a Christmas drink for old times' sake.
He hesitated so long that her pride almost made her say, ‘Forget it! Don't bother! Another time, perhaps?' but her need kept her silent and he reluctantly agreed. As she went about her work she buoyed herself up with the knowledge that, as yet, Sally had not moved in with Simon. Their relationship might still come to nothing. As she shopped and cooked and spent her two days a week at the bookshop she allowed herself little fantasies in which Simon realised that he still loved her and that Sally had merely been a kind of sop to his injured pride; a consolation. She imagined Helen coming home at the end of a busy, happy term with a sense of fulfilment and contentment which
might blossom into a generosity towards her mother. All these things were possible and Isobel clung to them.
The blow fell two weeks before Christmas when Isobel and Simon met for their drink. She was at the Crabshell before him and her heart described its usual upward leap as she saw him come in. She stood up and waved to him across the crowd and he smiled in recognition and grimaced comically at the noise and the quantity of people crammed into the bar. Her spirits soared; it was going to be all right, she just knew it. He pushed his way to her table and gave her the usual kiss on the cheek. His face was cold against hers and he wore a thick jersey over his jeans.
‘What a row!' he said. ‘Is the whole of Kingsbridge here?'
‘I think so.' She felt so happy she could only smile and smile at him. She was still clutching his arm and he made no move to shake her off.
‘You were very lucky to get a table,' he told her.
‘Aren't I clever?' She grinned at him and his expression softened as he looked down at her. There was that strange feeling of familiarity accompanied by the knowledge that they were, somehow, strangers which excited Isobel and made her heart bump.
‘Very clever,' he acknowledged. He moved a little away from her and she was obliged to release him. ‘Are we eating?'
‘I thought so.' Isobel sat down again, glowing with this new happiness. ‘I've just come from the shop. It's been hell today. Everyone ordering books. We're really busy.'
‘Well, that's good, surely?' Simon sat down and picked up the menu. ‘It would be worrying if you weren't busy two weeks before Christmas. What are you eating?'
Isobel shrugged. The food was of secondary importance. ‘I think I'll have some pasta. The seafood tagliatelle is good. What about you?'
‘Steak and kidney pie.' Simon shut the menu and looked towards the bar. ‘I'd better order if we want it this side of Christmas.' He glanced at her glass. ‘More wine?'
Isobel shook her head. ‘Not just yet.'
She watched him as he fought his way to the bar and then stretched herself with a kind of nervous excitement. She'd been into Rainbow and treated herself to a new outfit she couldn't afford: a long skirt in soft lambswool and angora with a matching wrapover cardigan which belted tightly round her narrow waist and was worn over a cotton polo-neck jersey in the same earthy shade. The tweedy terracotta colours lent a glow to her paleness and she had been so delighted with the result that she had bought a pair of dark brown leather ankle boots to finish off the ensemble. Her dark hair was loose, held in place with a twisted silk scarf and she felt a delicious sense of luxury and confidence. She sipped her spritzer and saw that her hand trembled a little.
When Simon returned he was carrying a glass of wine as well as his pint. ‘I decided I would,' he said, putting it beside her. ‘I'm not sure I can face that again in a hurry.'
‘Very sensible,' she agreed. ‘So how are you? How's the play coming on?'
Simon always produced the sixth-form play at the end of the Christmas term and he was perfectly happy to discuss it at length. They were still talking about it when the food came. Simon unwrapped his knife and fork from their paper napkin and said,
‘Bon appetit
' and Isobel raised her glass to him and finished her spritzer, revelling in their new-found intimacy. She realised that she had missed lunch and that she was very hungry, and she forked up her pasta with relish. Simon asked after Mathilda and she made light, as she always did, of the strange relationship she had with the old woman in her isolated cove. She told him about Mathilda's plans to divide her property between her unknown relations and Simon frowned a little.
‘But where would that leave you?' he asked her. ‘After all, she's getting on a bit, isn't she?'
Isobel felt her nervousness returning. She put down her fork and swallowed back some wine. ‘She says I'll have the right to stay put,'
she said, trying to sound unconcerned, ‘but it was a bit of a shock. I've got to think about it, of course. Have you …? What are your plans? Any news? When's Helen home?'
Simon finished his pie and pushed his plate aside. ‘That's one of the things I wanted to talk about,' he said.
He looked so serious that Isobel took another gulp at her wine and picked up her fork again. ‘I'm longing to see her,' she said, spearing a shrimp. ‘Have you mentioned anything to her yet? About … you know. Me longing to see her.'
‘The thing is,' he said slowly, ‘the thing is—she isn't coming home.'
‘Isn't … ? But why not?' Isobel felt a jolt of disappointment but, underneath the disappointment, a tiny hope flared up that she and Simon would spend Christmas together.
‘A girl she shares with has parents who have a house in Italy,' he was explaining, ‘and she's invited a group of them to go home with her. There's skiing, apparently and goodness knows what and naturally Helen can't resist.'
‘Well, I can't say that I blame her.' Isobel's hope was expanding. ‘I can send her present to Durham. With luck she'll get it before she goes.'
‘I'm sure she will.' He smiled at her, relieved by her philosophical reaction. ‘Anyway, she'll be back after the New Year. She's coming home then for a week or two.'
‘Well then,' Isobel grinned at him, warmed by his smile, confident that all was going to be well. ‘That just leaves you and me.'
His face was suddenly suffused with colour. He looked so distressed that Isobel put down her fork, a sudden anxiety seizing her.
‘I shan't be here either,' he said abruptly. ‘Sally and I are going to the Lakes. When I heard that Helen wasn't coming down we decided to have a little holiday. Her parents live near Kendal.'
They stared at each other. Her disappointment was so great that Isobel was silenced. She had been so sure … This is the second
time, she told herself. The second time I've made a fool of myself in a pub. Pride made her pull herself together and she nodded, trying to smile.
‘I'm really sorry about Helen,' he told her. ‘Maybe when she comes down later on …'
She knew that he was offering her a way out; that she could pretend that it was only Helen she cared about.
‘It would be wonderful,' she said quickly. ‘It means so much to me, as you know.'
‘Of course.'
She couldn't bear the pity in his eyes. ‘Well, I'll send her present on, then.' She racked her brain for something to say and smiled at him quickly. ‘Look, I really ought to be getting back. I must make supper for Mathilda and …'
She was on her feet gathering her belongings together and he stood up awkwardly, unable to help her. Politely, like strangers, they wished each other ‘Happy Christmas', uttered meaningless inanities, kissed briefly and then Isobel found herself on the quay, the cold frosty air cooling her hot cheeks. She hitched the long strap of her bag over her shoulder and stared down into the inky water which reflected the fairy lights strung along the embankment. The pub door swung open and a gust of noise and laughter spilled out, light shafting across the quay towards her. Hastily, lest Simon should come out and see her with the tears wet on her cheeks, she turned aside and hurried away to the car.
 
MATHILDA WAS SITTING AT the kitchen table, eating rice pudding directly from the dish, a book propped against the sugar bowl. She glanced up as Isobel came in, brows raised questioningly.
‘I thought you were dining out,' she said. ‘Oh dear. Have I got it wrong? I'm afraid I've nearly finished this delicious pudding.'
Desperate though Isobel was she gave a short laugh at the sight of Mathilda's comically rueful expression. ‘You might have put it on to a
plate,' she said, ‘but at least you remembered to eat it. It's too much to hope that you had some macaroni cheese first?'
‘Much too much,' agreed Mathilda cheerfully. ‘Was there some? Never mind. This is extremely filling.'
Isobel shook her head at her and sat down at the table. She knew quite well that everything was now finished between herself and Simon and the overwhelming misery that had engulfed her when he had first told her about Sally was flooding back. She had been a fool to allow herself to hope; to persuade herself that the affair with Sally was a passing one …
‘Is something wrong?'
Mathilda's voice broke in upon her thoughts and Isobel pressed her lips firmly together lest she should burst into tears. She shook her head, trying to smile, and Mathilda stood up and went across to the Rayburn.
‘Tea, I think,' she said reflectively.
She pottered to and fro, giving Isobel time to regain her control, and presently the younger woman laughed. It was a rather desperate sound, which almost immediately turned into a sigh, but Mathilda turned to look at her enquiringly.
‘I was just thinking,' said Isobel. ‘The song is quite wrong. All that business about love being lovelier the second time around. Remember it? Something about it being much more comfortable with both feet on the ground? Quite the reverse, in my case.'
Mathilda was silent. ‘I don't think I know it,' she said at last.
This time Isobel's laugh held a note of genuine amusement. ‘No, you wouldn't,' she said. ‘Now if it had been by Hugo Wolf or Benjamin Britten …'
‘Possibly,' agreed Mathilda, placing a mug of tea at Isobel's elbow. ‘I suspect, however, that each composer tends to write about his own experience. Love is a subject which is far too general to pin down to one person's view of it. It's as foolish as saying that the Italians are wonderful lovers or that the French are marvellous cooks. It is hardly realistic
to generalise about the entire population of any country. I imagine that it is the same with love. We each have a different experience.'
Isobel sipped her tea gratefully and wondered what Mathilda's experience had been. Was it some betrayal that had led to her solitary existence in the cove? She knew she could not ask.
‘At least you didn't say, “It all depends what you mean by love”,' she said rather bitterly.
Mathilda chuckled a little. ‘I didn't feel that you were quite in the mood,' she admitted as she sat down again at the table.
‘I'm not,' said Isobel miserably. ‘Mathilda, what shall we do for Christmas?'
Hearing the desperation behind the question, Mathilda brought her mind to bear on it. She guessed that it was very important that Isobel should be distracted from whatever was making her so unhappy and given some sort of work or responsibility. She needed, thought Mathilda, to be made use of, to be kept busy. With a tiny inward sigh she prepared to make her own sacrifice.
‘If you are going to be free,' she said, ‘I should like to ask a favour of you. It would be foolish, at my age, to think that I shall live for much longer,' she held up a thin hand at Isobel's protest, ‘and I should very much like to see an old friend before I die. Delia is really too elderly to travel to Devon and if you would be prepared to take on the responsibility—and if you think the car can cope—I should very much like to go to Oxford to see her.'
‘Really?' Isobel was staring at her in amazement. ‘You mean you'd leave the cove? Good heavens, Mathilda, I never thought to hear such a thing!'
‘Oh, I've been known to go visiting occasionally.' Mathilda watched Isobel thoughtfully, noticing the new interest in her eyes and the colour returning to the pale cheeks. ‘So. Could you manage it, d'you think? It will take some organisation. I'm afraid that my friend is just as hopeless as I am so there will be the travelling to arrange and itineraries and so on. She asks me every year but I have never had the courage to go alone.'
BOOK: Second Time Around
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