The Widow's Tale (7 page)

I
seem incapable of stringing two decent nights’ sleep together. Last night I was awake for a good couple of hours. As if what my body and soul need right now is a two-hour intermission to their slumbers. And, let me tell you, 3 a.m. in late January is a very lonely place to be.

I could have got up. It’s meant to be better for you – to make yourself a cup of tea, or have a bath, or do more or less anything. I’ve forgotten the rationale behind it. Perhaps simply to prevent one’s bed becoming fixed in one’s mind as the place where one fails to sleep.

But there’s not a lot for me to do round here. The TV’s out of action. So it would just be more sitting around reading or staring into the fire. Writing these notes always feels like more of a daytime occupation. And, despite all the evidence to the contrary, as I lie in the dark I maintain a sort of deluded optimism that having just missed sleep’s bus ten minutes earlier, another one will be along in no time at all.

I wouldn’t particularly mind if lying there didn’t inevitably seem to lead to me picking over all my anxieties, which then has a habit of slipping into an all-out panic attack. In my darkest hours I begin to think that nothing is connected. That every single thing on this planet is cold and blank and utterly disparate.

Last night, as I tossed and turned in my tiny bedroom, I remembered that odd little bedsit I had for my first couple of terms at college. It was on the first floor of a rather decrepit town house, with another two floors above it. And one night, when it was still warm enough to have my window open and the lights were out, I heard this odd noise come drifting in from one of the other flats.

It took me quite a while to work out what that sound was. Oh, innocent, innocent child! At first I thought it might be some animal, trapped or injured somewhere out in the garden. Or someone hurting somebody else. But it slowly dawned on me what was going on in one of the rooms above me. And, I won’t lie, I thought it was just about the most thrilling thing I’d ever heard. I could hear the girl puffing and panting. Her little squeals of delight. And as the two of them carried on at it I could hear them talking – just the odd few words, about how much they loved each other. But, I mean, Hell’s teeth. When was the last time I exchanged any sort of pleasantry whilst having sex?

Anyway, I was utterly spellbound. In fact, I was so entranced by the whole thing that I made the mistake of trying to open the window another couple of inches to get an even better earful. But the window must have squeaked as I tried to lift it. And all of a sudden the sound of the couple fucking ground to a halt.

I could hear them listening. There were one or two dark mutterings. Then I heard a window being firmly closed somewhere else in the building. And that was the end of that.

Sometimes, marooned in the middle of the night, I remember some of the men I slept with before John and I got married. Not that there were that many. Just a handful of encounters which took place a long, long time ago now. It’s my own little archive of first-person erotica. And sometimes that’s enough to get me off to sleep.

I
really can't imagine anything worse than having a bunch of complete bloody strangers wandering round my home. And yet every year, in dozens of towns up and down the country, people throw open their doors and willingly surrender themselves to precisely such an intrusion when they have those dreadful Open Houses, and every Tom, Dick and Harry can come shambling in and admire the artistic endeavours of the home-owner who's half a term into an evening class in Watercolour at the local Tech. What really gets my goat is the way the weekend bohemians who host these things swan around the place as if they're bloody Velázquez, when the actual stuff that's up on the walls is about as sophisticated as a potato print. And it's perfectly clear that the only reason anyone's calling in is not to admire their gnarled lumps of pottery or home-made hats, but to have a gander at the size of the garden, or see what things look like with the sitting-room wall knocked through.

Perhaps I'm just plain antisocial. Certainly, I like to have some say over who comes and goes. All I know is that for those first few days after John's death it felt as if the house's fortifications had been breached and that I was overrun by the barbarian hordes. People were ringing and booking themselves in for a little visit. Others would
just show up, unannounced. And they all needed to be fed and watered. Or at least to have their solemn half-hour in my company. My home became a sort of shrine. Until, after four or five days, at Ginny's insistence, I just let the phone ring. Then crept out at midnight and locked the front gates.

Putting aside the actual intrusion, I simply didn't have the strength to be dealing with other people's emotion. Not that they came around, I'm sure, with the intention of offloading all their grief onto me. They would just start talking and within a couple of minutes they'd fall apart. It was all quite genuine and heartfelt. But after it happened for the tenth or twelfth time I began to think to myself, What the hell am I doing counselling all these bloody people? I've got my own grief to be getting on with.

And, I must admit, I pretty quickly got pretty sick of hearing all the wonderful things people had to say about John. What a wonderful raconteur/good listener/generous soul he was.
Really
? I'd think to myself.
My
John? It was quite something to witness this man I'd known all my adult life being sanctified. And to such a degree that once or twice I was sorely tempted to point out a few of his less appealing habits. Not that it would've done any good.

And everyone had their own little story of when they last saw him and, in their own clumsy way, was determined to try and draw some significance from that final conversation. As if John had somehow known what was coming and had dropped something prescient, and even valedictory, into their exchange, regarding that new
cheese shop up on Malden Street or the possibility of getting the house rewired.

But what I wasn't expecting – and, frankly, why on earth would I have been? – were the offers of sex. Five in all, and all five made within ten days of John dying. Two from close friends or relatives on John's side; the other three from husbands of friends of mine.

I've since had apologies from two parties. Mumbled, stumbling little speeches, with minimum eye contact – just like most apologies, I suppose – but neither one offering any real insight into their motives. I mean, were these offers made on a charitable basis? As a sort of little pick-me-up? Or should I conclude that all five of them had had their eyes on me for years? Had just been too polite to make a move whilst my husband was still living and breathing, but now suddenly saw me as fair game?

Who knows? In my kinder moments I'm inclined to think that it must just be some strange phenomenon born out of the circumstances. Sex being the only obvious refuge in the face of Death. And perhaps I'm not in a position to be too critical. All the same, allowing me to complete my first month's mourning might have been an idea. Just to show that they were, y'know, the
sensitive
type.

I
've come up with a new way of eating, which I shall henceforth refer to as The Japanese Style. I guess it's just sort of evolved over the last few months, and these last couple of weeks in particular, and is down to the fact there's no one around to actually watch me eat.

Whereas I have always done the traditional eating-at-a-table and using-a-knife-and-fork routine, in London lately I found that I was just plonking myself down in front of the telly and eating my dinner off the coffee table. And up here in Widow's Cottage, I've got into the habit of just bringing the brim of the bowl right up to my mouth and gently shovelling in the necessary amount of food. Like the Japanese do when they're eating noodles. It makes much more sense if you think about it. Rather than the whole balancing-food-on-the-back-of-a-fork business, then lifting it up for a couple of seconds to see just how much falls off before delivering whatever's left into your mouth.

Some people might consider it simply slovenly behaviour, whereas I'm sticking with the Japanese thing. Of course, I wouldn't do it in public. But if no one else is around where's the harm? Who knows, I might start licking my plate clean. Or dispensing with cutlery altogether and just using my fingers. Or wiping my mouth on the cuff of my sleeve.

Actually, if I'm looking for somewhere to live, perhaps I should consider Japan? All that fish and rice is meant to be so very healthy. Someone famous once said that if you feel like a stranger in your own country, you might as well live abroad where feeling like a stranger doesn't feel so bad. Or something along those lines. I've never been to Japan (another good reason for going) but it does seem about as different from Britain as you can imagine. Except for the imperial past. And the island mentality. And the obsession with tradition.

Maybe that's not such a good idea after all.

G
inny's texts and messages have been steadily increasing in frequency ever since I got here. If I walk far enough out on the saltmarshes with my phone turned on it will suddenly have a little fit of bleeps and squeaks, as a backlog of communication finally finds its way through to me. So far I've done a stalwart job of ignoring them, but they've been getting more and more barbed and the text that reached me this afternoon simply said, ‘ITD JUST BE NICE TO KNOW THAT YOURE NOT DEAD.'

That woman sure knows how to prick my conscience. So earlier this evening, having braced myself with a large glass of Semillon, I pulled on my coat and hiked out to the phone box, down by the quay.

It's been a long time since I visited a proper old-fashioned phone box. The door seemed to require an incredible effort in order to open it. Perhaps that's why we stopped using them? When she answered the phone and heard my voice she launched into a tirade of high sarcasm and bad language, which I allowed to just sort of wash over me until she managed to calm down a bit.

There was a short pause, whilst she got her breath back.

‘Where the bloody hell are you, anyway?' she said.

I had a quick think before replying.

‘East Anglia,' I said.

Another short pause down the line. Perhaps she was biting her tongue – telling herself not to be too hard on me.

‘You couldn't be a bit more …
specific
?'

‘Norfolk,' I said.

‘OK …' she said, as if she was talking to a child now. Or a very stupid adult. ‘And what are you doing up there?'

‘I'm on the run,' I said. I was being more honest than she might have appreciated.

‘Who from?' said Ginny.

‘That's what I'm trying to work out,' I said.

I quite like the idea of me being some sort of fugitive. Someone who's considered potentially dangerous to the public.
Do not approach this woman. She's full of booze and
ten different types of bitterness. And has a vile tongue on her.
Call the authorities and we'll pop her with a tranquilliser
dart – like we do the rhinos when they get out
.

Ginny and I talked, rather hesitantly. And at some point I asked, perhaps a little self-indulgently, what she'd been saying when people asked after me.

‘Just that you're having a bit of a break …' she said.

For a moment there I thought she was going to say something else.

‘Say the word,' said Ginny, ‘and I'll come and get you.'

Again, there was something very appealing in the idea of me hidden under a blanket in the back seat of her car and Ginny sneaking me across the border.

A long pause whilst I turned it over in my mind.

‘Are you ready,' she said, ‘to come back home?'

For the first time in the conversation I found myself getting a little bit choked. I shook my head. Not that she could hear that.

‘Not quite,' I said.

There was a long silence. Then Ginny asked me what it's like up here, at the moment.

‘Wet and windy,' I told her. ‘What's it like down there?'

I imagined her looking out of the window.

‘Dark,' she said.

A little pause, all cold and empty. Then …

‘I read a poem the other day,' she said. ‘It made me think of you.'

OK. Now I was interested.

‘Really? What was it called?'

I could hear Ginny thinking.

‘I can't remember,' she said. ‘It was in some anthology.'

And it transpired that she couldn't even remember what it was about – just that I would've liked it. So, now I'm always going to wonder about this poem. And become convinced, no doubt, that contained within those few lines of verse was some piercing piece of wisdom – a key to unlock the big bad door.

And, what with me wondering about this mythical poem, and Ginny trying to remember what it was about, our little conversation sort of fizzled out. I had this vision of Ginny sitting in her living room, surrounded by detectives wearing headphones, and tape recorders. The detective sitting nearest Ginny mouths the words ‘
Keep
her talking
', as some sweaty telephonic expert fiddles with his hi-tech machinery.

‘I've got to go,' I say.

‘Really?' she says.

No. Not really. It's just that hearing her voice is making me feel funny. And not really helping me at all.

So we say our goodbyes. I tell her that I love her. And I hang up the phone.

The sweaty electronics expert is shaking his head. The chief detective's cursing.

‘Another ten seconds and we'd've had the bitch.'

And I'm alone in my old-fashioned phone box, with a Siberian breeze whistling round my ankles. I stand there listening for a minute. Then I heave the door open, squeeze my way out of there, and head off into the dark.