Trio (18 page)

She nodded.

There are sessions here but you can’t compare it to the open sea. That’s real sailing.’

‘And how do you do that?’

‘Well, the wife, Marge, and I, we have a sloop, thirty-five footer, six berth, moored over in Holyhead. You could crew with us sometime.’

‘Really?’

‘Sure. We aim to be going out Whit week. There’s always room for a friend or two. This’ll be our tenth summer.’

‘What will I need?’

He laughed and promised to help her with a list. She spent her next day off acquiring a sleeping bag and a good-quality waterproof jacket as well as woollen socks and leggings, hat and gloves and a small rucksack. She drove down to Holyhead straight from a strategy meeting in Manchester. It took an hour longer than she had anticipated, the route congested with lorries heading for the ferry to Dublin.

Marge was a small energetic woman with wrinkled, tanned skin, small black eyes like currants and a ripe Welsh accent. She cursed in Welsh and teased Felix mercilessly as a lazy bastard. A friend of theirs, Tom, a reserved man, made up the foursome. Pamela was never so happy. The daylight hours were full of work, handling the boat in the fine salt-spray, learning to tack and jib, to gauge the changes in the conditions and to navigate the seas. The constant song of the ocean in her ears and the ever-changing light filling her vision. The evenings, when they put into some small town or harbour, consisted of huge amounts of food, numerous bottles of wine and rowdy card games interspersed with rambling conversations and stories of other trips.

Well before midnight, Pamela would roll into her narrow bunk and fall asleep, lulled by the gentle rocking of the craft and the water lapping at her dreams.

The boat became her second home, apart from the winter months when the weather was too fierce. Marge and Felix became her firm friends. The following summer she crewed part-way for a tour of the Greek Islands. There were plenty of opportunities for casual encounters and though the boat was too small for secrets Marge and Felix were easy-going and, beyond the odd wink, didn’t tease her about her conquests – at least not until the man in question had gone.

She loved the travelling too, and hungered for new sights, for foreign landscapes and food and climate. Those places that they couldn’t reach by boat she visited in the winter – holidayed in Bali and Nepal, California and Zimbabwe. She worked hard and played harder. She and Lilian would take a short break every year, usually somewhere in Europe. Lilian joked that unlike her daughter she certainly hadn’t got her sea legs as she spent all but the very calmest of crossings hanging over the toilet.

Joan

They met at the theatre. Rosencrantz and Guilderstern Are Dead. But you could say it was the house that brought them together. When Joan had first bought the place, investing her money from her run of songwriting success, she had acted sensibly. She had a vigorous and costly survey done which revealed a staggering list of essential repairs. On the basis of that she had beaten the sellers down and been able to pay for the work to be done. The house had been re-roofed, fully insulated and rewired. She had a new central heating system put in and an efficient boiler. The mortgage had been a huge responsibility but she had rented rooms out to actors appearing at the Stephen Joseph Theatre for the season. She soon acquired a reputation for offering upmarket digs, albeit at proportionally higher rates, and as soon as the season’s entertainments were confirmed those actors with the leading parts and the higher incomes who didn't have allegiances to landladies elsewhere would ring and book their stay.

Joan regularly got comps from her lodgers. Penny had been at the theatre with two colleagues from school. In the course of interval chit-chat Penny had talked about looking for a house and the rising prices – she’d been married but was getting a divorce. Joan had a spare room. One of her actors had given back word after a more attractive offer from television. Joan had offered her the room to rent while she looked for a place. Penny came round the next day to look at the place and to explain a bit more about her situation. She had a child, a nine-year-old daughter. She was a teacher and was due to take up her first headship in Pickering after the summer. Previously her husband Henry had been able to take Rachel to school and bring her home. He was a self-employed accountant and could choose his hours. Now Henry had met someone else and they were going to get married as soon as the divorce became absolute. Rachel had been adamant that she wanted to stay with her father. Penny was still reeling from that. They had agreed that she would have Rachel to visit every weekend.

 A child wasn’t something Joan had bargained for but she didn’t object, it was only going to be a temporary arrangement.

Joan hadn’t imagined that anything else would develop. Penny and her dog moved in. Over the summer holidays Joan and Penny got to know each other. The theatre was dark, the actors gone for now. Penny would walk the dog each morning right along the bay. Early, before the holiday-makers hit the sands with their flasks and picnic rugs, rowdy children, knotted hankies and transistor radios. Joan asked if she might join her one day and the walk became a habit.

When Rachel came to stay Joan found that apart from her size she wasn’t so very different from some of her more tempestuous guests.

Penny and Joan grew closer almost imperceptibly. They began to share meals and to accompany each other to social events.

Joan found herself watching Penny as she moved about the kitchen or while she prepared papers for school. She was drawn to her: she had a broad face, hair the colour of corn which she wore long, a generous body, more rounded than Joan’s, and she had a bright mind; Joan relished hearing her talk, the intelligence and authority with which she considered ideas, encouraged her charges, commented on affairs was stimulating.

Joan began to feel awkward. She was falling in love. They had never discussed sexuality but a few choice, arch comments from one of the more camp lodgers had made it plain to all and sundry where Joan’s inclinations lay.

But it was Penny who made the first move.

Joan had built a fire one night. The house was quiet. The next cast were coming the following Monday. Penny had finished work for the week. They sat watching the flames and drinking whisky, listening to classical guitar: John Williams.

She was laughing at Penny, who was lambasting Margaret Thatcher, describing how this woman had done her level best to shatter British society, wreck the Welfare State, close the pits, encourage individual greed, suck up to the Yanks, and then had the brass-necked cheek when re-elected to quote St Francis of Assisi: Where there is discord, may we bring harmony . . . where there is despair, may we bring hope. ‘And what has she done since?’ Penny demanded. ‘Unemployment sky high, more privatisation . . .’

Joan was still giggling when she sensed a shift in the atmosphere. She glanced at Penny, who looked back at her steadily.

‘Joan.’

Joan felt time slow, felt her blood thicken and warm at the tone. She opened her mouth a little. ‘I . . .’ Suddenly lost for words. She who crafted them, who selected and shaped words and rhythms and sounds to sway emotions to make hearts ache or soar or hips shake and feet tap. She had no words.

Penny moved from the big armchair still holding her gaze. Moved to sit beside her on the old, brocade couch. And kissed her.

A kiss, a stroke, her hands on Penny’s neck and then slowly, cautiously running down her sides, hesitating. Another kiss and Penny’s hands on her breasts, squeezing gently, Joan answering with a murmur, undoing the buttons on her cuffs. Silently they undressed. Joan was trembling with desire, shivering lightly. They lay side by side and she kissed Penny again. Her lips, her neck, her nipples. Moved down to kiss her belly, the inside of her thighs, her vagina. Feeling her own breath growing harsh, her sex clench and flush with heat. Penny calling softly. ‘Yes, oh, yes!’

Afterwards they lay sprawled on the rug, drinking more whisky. Joan lit a cigarette and took a drag, narrowed her eyes and shook her head, a tiny smile on her lips.

‘What?’ Penny said, her fingers still tracing circles and figure eights on Joan’s belly.

‘Nothing. Just glad. I’d been falling for you. I didn't know what to do about it.’

‘Me being an ex-married lady and all,’ Penny teased.

‘I didn’t know if you . . . if it was just me. I wanted to be sure, I suppose. I never thought you’d get there first.’

‘If we’d waited for you we’d have been old and grey. Bit scary though. You're sure?’

‘Oh, yes.’ She lifted Penny’s hand and kissed her palm. ‘Positive.’

Lilian

Pamela came home for a weekend every six weeks or so. In-between times Lilian ached with loneliness but was careful never to let on. She was determined not to cramp her daughter’s style. Pamela was crazy about her sailing; she worked hard and played hard. No sign of settling down though she was twenty-eight already.

The evenings were the worst. She was still working days at the sorting office and dreaded the thought of retiring in two years time when she reached sixty. She seemed to watch the television all the time, couldn’t be bothered with her sewing any more. Even cooking for one was a joyless task. Often as not she’d open a tin and have a bit of toast with it. She still saw Monica and the others for an evening out and she’d friends through Church, where she helped out with jumble sales and fairs. She tried to keep busy.

The phone rang late one night. It was November, the weather was foul – cold, with gusts of wind and rain battering at the house. She had gone around and put newspaper down to soak up the rain leaking in through the kitchen window and checked the curtains in the other rooms to try and keep the heat in.

When she heard the ringing she assumed it would be Pamela or Sally or Monica. But none of them generally rang so late. Her heart kicked in her chest. Bad news?

‘Hello?’

‘Is that Marion?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Marion. Is Marion there?’

The woman’s voice was slurred. The skin on Lilian’s back tightened. Marion. Pamela had been Marion. This couldn’t . . . A cold fear shot through her bones.

‘I think you’ve got the wrong number.’ She put the phone down quickly. And waited to see if it would ring again, chewing at her nails compulsively.

Her mind skittered round the prospect that she dreaded. But they couldn’t do that, could they? They weren’t allowed to. It was just a coincidence, that’s all. She was holding her throat, her knees felt weak. She went and sat down. They wouldn’t have this number, anyway, or this address. The phone was quiet. She finally went upstairs.

Lilian filled a hot-water bottle and put it at the foot of her bed. The sheets were clammy when she got in, there was a lot of damp in the bedroom in the winter. She warmed her feet then pulled the hot water bottle up and curled round it. But even when the chill had gone she still couldn’t sleep. Her back was tense and stiff, her stomach ached, stitched with fear.

She tried to imagine telling Pamela about the adoption but the prospect appalled her. It wasn’t a good time. She’d such a lot on at work. And Lilian was sure the revelation would upset Pamela, it would be hurtful, and she was happy now, settled. She couldn’t bear to spoil all that. If she did drag up the past what good would come of it? Pamela had had enough to cope with losing her father. Lilian was her mother, the only mother she needed. Plain and simple. That was that. But no matter how she argued to herself there was the grip of guilt dragging at her.. she hadn’t done anything wrong. She was just protecting her daughter. When she finally slept it was fitfully. She dreamt of Monica giving her a parcel for Pamela with the wrong name on it and when Lilian opened it there was a baby inside. And then she realised with horror that she’d left the baby in the parcel and she was going to be caught and punished. The doctor came in and told her the baby hadn’t survived and she tried to run away but her legs wouldn’t move.

Pamela

Bradford had made Pamela’s career. Ten years later she had reached the highest echelons of senior management and been relocated to Head Office in Liverpool. Conditions were good. She earned enough to pay the mortgage and bills on the eighteenth-century stone cottage she had bought outside Chester and to finance her passion for travel. Money was not an issue. Lilian accompanied her on the nearer trips – a week in Venice, a cruise on the Norwegian fjords – but Pamela travelled further afield on her own.

She sat on the hotel balcony looking out over the fountains and the tropical gardens to the wild forest beyond. The Pavillion was an old colonial building dating from the times when Portuguese aristocrats holidayed here. The place was rich with marble, stupendous floor tiles, pillars and archways and gilt chandeliers. There was little wood, it rotted too quickly with the humidity.