Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman

Chapter Seven

Early on Sunday morning, I fumbled into consciousness. I had been woken by the sound of footsteps in the hall and someone mounted the stairs.

It was Nathan coming up with the breakfast. As he always did on Sundays. ‘This is our time,’ he said, when the children were big enough to make their own breakfast and then so big that breakfast had become a vague memory. ‘fust you and me.’ Sometimes, he did not wait for me to finish but took away the tray. ‘Our time.’ Lately, conscious of my early-morning face, I had retreated under the sheets and he had found me there.

The air in the bedroom felt sour and despairing, and I no less so. I lay without moving, without curiosity, even, fear absent. If it was the mad axeman about whom Poppy had had nightmares my death at his hands would be easy. No more than a gentle sigh of acceptance and a plea to do it quickly.

‘Mum?’ Sam peered round the door.

Briefly happiness streaked through me and I struggled upright. ‘Sam… you’ve come.’

‘Of course.’ He advanced into the room, bent over and kissed me. ‘I couldn’t let you be on your own. Dad phoned me last night and told me of his extraordinary decision. I couldn’t think what else to do. Except something stupid, like bringing you flowers.’ He looked down at me bleakly. ‘I had no idea.’

‘Join the club.’

He reached over and took one of my hands. I clung to him. ‘You must have got up at the crack of dawn to get here,’ I said.

Sam would have set the alarm in his bachelor bedroom in his elegant town flat, slid out from beside the sleeping Alice, dressed so quietly that she did not stir. Perhaps he had not even told her where he was going. Perhaps Alice had not been there.

Sam was never at his best with high emotion, and he patted my leg awkwardly. ‘You look awful. When did you last eat?’

‘I don’t know. It must have been yesterday, but I attacked Dad’s whisky… OK,’ I admitted, ‘not good, but it won’t become a habit. And I felt entitled to a glass too many.’

He sighed. ‘I’d better get you breakfast.’ Parsley head-butted her way into the bedroom. Sam picked her up and placed her in my arms. ‘Here, take your dysfunctional cat.’ He moved round the room, pulling back the curtains and piling my clothes on to the chair – uncharacteristically I had scattered them on the floor. Damn them, I had thought, fighting with my jeans and sweater, which I had seemed unable to remove last night. Maybe clothes have a point of view too – maybe they’re protesting at my fate.

It was not a good idea to think too much about the previous evening, and I buried my face in Parsley’s warm fur and battled with a heaving stomach. ‘Sam, don’t make me any coffee.’

‘You drink far too much of it anyway.’ He went out and closed the door.

Parsley rebelled at the straitjacket, and I released her. Her green eyes questioned my trustworthiness before she settled down beside me.

Sam returned, bearing tea and toast on a tray. The tea had slopped into the saucer and the toast was spread with the thinnest scraping of butter but my heart melted.

‘Eat now,’ he commanded.

The toast fragmented on my tongue. I thought briefly of other breakfasts – thick, white toast, lashings of butter and an icing of bitter marmalade – which I had shared with Nathan. Already, they seemed to have taken place way back in another life. ‘Was Dad all right when you spoke to him?’ I asked.

Sam’s brows snapped together. ‘Not too bad.’ He was trying to shield me from anything that might cause me additional misery. At the same time he did not want to hear any fierce, hot words against his father.

I shut my eyes and tried to summon the perfect loyalty to Nathan that only yesterday had been so easy, so automatic. I did not want Sam to shield Nathan. Greedily, I wanted to claim all of my children’s loyalty and affection. Circles of light slid across my vision, and my breath sounded harsh and laboured in my ears.

‘Mum,’ he said, ‘please don’t look like that.’

I pulled myself together. ‘Sam, c-could I have some more tea?’

After I had got dressed, I made my way downstairs and went into the kitchen. Sam was flicking through the Sunday Times, keeping half an eye on the bacon he was grilling. Sam liked a cooked breakfast. So did Nathan. Except on Sundays, of course. A little dizzy, I leant on the doorpost and observed Sam for a moment or two. A turn of the head, the flicker of a muscle, and he looked just like his father.

Sensing my presence, he swung round. ‘I didn’t have time to eat.’ He hooked out a chair from under the table with his foot. ‘Come and sit down.’

I sat and watched him as he demolished bacon and toast, then put down his fork. ‘I just want to say that I don’t know what Dad’s doing, but please don’t think of him too badly’

That was just like Sam. From the word go he had been such a fair, modest person, with an innate sense of natural justice. Even when Poppy had been born and displaced him so thoroughly, Sam had got on with his little life and quietly accepted that he was no longer the prime focus of attention.

‘I don’t know what to think, Sam. Or, rather, there’s too much to think about and I can’t take it in yet. For one thing, I feel shamingly foolish. Stupid, even.’

‘You really had no idea?’

I shook my head.

‘It could be that he’s woken up this morning and realized he’s made a monumental mistake.’

‘Your father told me that he wanted some freedom, and he meant before it was too late. Of course, it’s perfectly natural to have thoughts like that but -’ My voice broke. Sam frowned and I realized that, at this time in his life, Nathan’s ambitions made no sense to him and he would not understand. I bit my lip. ‘It’s going to take a bit of forgiving.’

‘That suggests you think he might come back.’ I shrugged and Sam asked earnestly, ‘Would you like me to talk to him?’

I shook my head.

Sam shoved away his plate. ‘You’ll have to deal with Minty.’

‘I’ve thought of that.’

He smiled grimly. ‘I wouldn’t like to be in her shoes.’ He got up and slid an arm round my shoulders. ‘I’m pretty sure Dad’s going to find out that he’s made a mistake.’

Sam’s championship reminded that there were important, unchanging things amid this mess to which I could cling. I had been lucky. Some families did not have that glue of memory.

‘Give me Poppy’ Nathan steadied himself on the path that led precipitously to the beach. ‘I’ll take her.’ He handed me the picnic basket and swung Poppy into his arms. She gave a little cry of excitement and flopped against him. ‘Stay still, wriggler.’ He kissed her neck, and began a careful descent.

The path was treacherous. I bent over Sam: ‘Keep close to Dad.’ Clutching his spade and bucket, Sam padded behind Nathan, placing one sandal carefully in front of the other, negotiating the loosened stones and pot-holes. I flung the rug over my shoulder like a plaid – a Jacobite soldier off to war, said Sam – and brought up the rear, with the Thermoses rattling in the picnic basket.

‘I’m in front,’ yelled Poppy.

The weather had been dry and hot, and in places the path had crumbled away. Tufts of thrift and wild marjoram pooled across the slopes on either side and, high above, the swifts called to each other. We edged down until we reached the stony lip of beach. At the last minute the path vanished, and we had to jump.

‘Go on, then.’ Nathan swung Poppy to the ground and, a sprite in yellow shorts, she raced across the stones towards the sea, which glittered in the summer sun. Sam jumped and looked back at me to make sure I had witnessed his prowess.

‘Rosie?’ Nathan turned back. I had been about to launch myself at the beach but he caught me and swung me down. In that brief moment of contact, I heard the thud of a steady heartbeat. My own raced with exertion. ‘Light as a feather,’ lied Nathan.

The heat pulsed off the rocks, too much so for comfort, and we chose to sit by one draped with cool, insulating ropes of seaweed. Nathan spread the rug and I anchored it with stones. Poppy’s skinny white limbs waved like an insect’s as I pulled off her T-shirt and shorts. She escaped me and, stark naked, hopped around trying to insert a leg into her swimsuit. I captured my giggling daughter and covered her with kisses. Over by an adjacent rock, Sam had made a base camp for his possessions and he came over to request that they were not touched. I assured him that they would be safe.

From here, the view was of uninterrupted water and the cliffs hid the sprawl of bungalows and houses that crept over the wildness. There was no one else on the beach. The sun made our eyes water, and the coconut scent of the sun-tan lotion on our hot skin was whipped away by a salty breeze.

The children raced off, thought better of it as the stones bit their bare feet, and skipped their way to the edge of the water, squealing as the water splashed over their toes. Nathan sat down on the rug and stripped off his shirt. ‘They’re growing up, aren’t they?’

At six and four, this was overstating the case a little. ‘Way to go,’ I said.

Nathan always got burnt unless I took action. He was not someone who thrived in hot climates. I opened the sun-tan lotion, tipped a pool into my cupped hand and rubbed it into his back. ‘More,’ he demanded, ‘just there,’ as my fingers explored the area by his neck that was knotted and painful with tension.

After a bit he got up and joined the children. I pulled out my book, lay on my stomach and read. Every so often I looked up and watched my family failing to outwit the sea. The book palled and I dropped my head on to my arms. I could hear the sea vibrating, the tiny hiss of displaced sand and the click of stones. If I lay still and quiet enough, I thought, I could melt into this elemental world of sun, water and wide, open horizon.

Sam ran back with a fistful of shells to show me before transferring them to his base. ‘Poppy won’t get them there,’ he said.

I sat up and put my arms around his shoulders that felt so childish, so vulnerable. ‘Poppy doesn’t get everything,’ I reassured him.

He gave me one of his challenging stares. ‘Yes, she does.’

My fingers must have pressed too hard at the junction of his shoulder and arm, just where the nerves flowed under the skin, and he flinched. ‘No, Poppy doesn’t,’ I promised. ‘Wait and see.’

He pulled himself free.

‘Why don’t you help me get the picnic ready, Sam?’

He laid the rug with four different-coloured plastic plates and distributed the individual sandwich parcels I had made and labelled: on Sam’s I had drawn a smiling face, on Poppy’s a big teddy bear, on Nathan’s a pair of sunglasses. On mine, I had written, ‘Sleep’. Then he put out matching plastic mugs, carefully matching the colours to the plates.

We ate cheese and cucumber sandwiches, and drank orange juice. Poppy refused to eat either the cucumber or the cheese and gave them to me. For pudding we opened a packet of bourbon biscuits and a bag of apples.

I edged up beside Nathan so that our thighs touched. Hard, taut muscle alongside softer, sand-dusted flesh. Large though my feet were, Nathan’s were bigger, and the comparison always made me feel ridiculously feminine and cherished. ‘Happy?’ I asked.

He leant over and rubbed his nose gently on mine. ‘Never happier.’

I sighed with contentment. Nathan straightened and rubbed at his reddening forearms. ‘Can’t ask for much more,’ he said. ‘Can we?’

‘I’ll have to get back,’ said Sam. He clasped his hands on the tabletop, and his thumbs knitted together. ‘I think you and Dad need to get together.’

He was hoping to leave with some hope, and it was a relief to have to think about his needs. ‘I’ll make you some sandwiches.’

I cut bread, and buttered it, noting with surprise how competent my movements were. I took care to slice the Cheddar thinly. Tiny parings fell on to the table; I brushed them away.

Sam watched me and accepted the neat foil packet. ‘You didn’t need to do that.’

‘Oh, yes, I did. You don’t know how much. Thank you for letting me.’

‘I was just wondering,’ he said, ‘if you and Dad aren’t sorted out, maybe you’d like to come to Greece in July with Alice and me?’

I launched myself in his direction, caught him round the waist and kissed him. ‘Certainly not, but you’re the most wonderful son for even considering it.’

He held me tightly. ‘Thought I should ask.’

‘A sacrifice too far.’

‘Have you talked to Poppy?’

‘Not yet, but I will.’

‘She’ll take it badly’

‘I know’

When Sam left, number seven Lakey Street returned to silence. I switched on the radio but it was playing a violin concerto. Each sweet, perfect note cut into me, like a knife slicing my flesh. I gasped, gagged, lunged forward, snapped it off and fled from the kitchen.

My study was on the first-floor landing, a space kidnapped from the turn in the stairs. Its window overlooked the garden and fitted badly. I kept a rug on the chair to wrap round myself on cold days when I sat at the desk I had squeezed into the space. The family scoffed at the term ‘study’, and at the idea that I needed one. For years, the children had had their own way of making their disapproval felt: they made a point of thumping up and down the stairs as noisily as they dared – ‘Shush, Mummy’s working in her study,’ they told each other, in whispers guaranteed to penetrate the Tower of Babel. I sat there now, so cold that I had wrapped the rug round me twice.

I picked up the phone and rang Poppy. ‘Darling, are you all right?’

‘Mum, will you stop fussing over me? I’m fine.’ Her voice softened. ‘But it’s nice to hear you.’

‘Dad didn’t ring you last night?’

‘Out until the wee small hours, Mum.’

‘Darling, I have to tell you something. I’m afraid… I’m afraid Dad has found…’ That sounded so bald and I thought Nathan deserved better. ‘He has fallen in love with someone else and has left home.’

Poppy’s cry of disbelief echoed down the phone. ‘Who? Which woman?’

‘Minty.’

There was a long, long silence. When Poppy spoke, she sounded different – quite old, in fact, and as if a joyous element in her had shrivelled and died. ‘The old goat. Dad’s turned into an old goat.’

‘Please. Don’t say that about him.’

‘But it’s true’

‘It’s a bit more complicated. Obviously, he had come to a point where he felt he must have a change.’

‘I don’t want to hear,’ Poppy shrieked. ‘I wish you’d never phoned. Mum, I can’t talk about it. I’ll have to talk to you later.’

‘Of course.’

At that Poppy calmed down. ‘I should be comforting you – and I will, I promise I will, Mum, but I’ll have to get over the shock first.’

Next, I dialled Timon’s private number.

Timon’s wife, Mary, bitterly resented intrusions at weekends. We had discussed this sometimes at office parties and she told me that one of her tactics was to freeze people out. When she answered the phone I got the freezing treatment. I explained that I would not have dreamt of ringing on a Sunday morning unless it was necessary. ‘Oh, well, then,’ she said, caught perhaps by curiosity, ‘but we do have guests.’ She handed the phone to Timon.

‘Rose, has something happened?’

A food-processor sprang into life in the background, accompanied by a meaningful clash of saucepans. ‘I thought I should explain that I shall have to sack Minty on Monday’

‘I see,’ said Timon. ‘Listen, can you hang on? I’m going to change phones.’ When he came back on the line the noises had stopped. ‘Could you give me the details?’ So I did.

‘Nathan has left you for Minty.’ Timon gave a short laugh that meant, ‘Who would have thought there was life in the old dog?’ which made me angry on Nathan’s behalf. ‘This certainly presents complications,’ he said.

‘I can’t have her in the office. You do understand?’

‘Hang on.’ Timon became formal. ‘There are rules and regulations, Rose. You can’t sack people just like that. I think you must leave this to me.’

I swallowed. ‘All right. But I won’t have her sitting in my office. She will have to go somewhere else.’

Timon cleared his throat. ‘Under the circumstances, you might like to take a day off, Rose. That would be perfectly all right. Take the week.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘you don’t understand. The work is important to me, and I wouldn’t dream of abandoning it.’

‘As you wish.’ He considered further. ‘Leave it with me, and see me at eleven thirty on Monday’

I finished that conversation feeling better. At least I had done something. Made a stand over Minty.

Huddled into the rug, I sat and thought about deceit. How was it possible to live for long periods of time without letting clues slip? In a peculiar way, I felt nothing but admiration for Nathan and Minty because I didn’t think I would have had the wit and style to carry off such a secret. How did Minty square taking such an interest in my clothes, my ideas, my family, which I knew was genuine, with the knowledge that she was taking my husband to bed?

How, for example, did Nathan manage to insist that I sit down with him and review our pension situation when he knew he was not going to be around? Perhaps the effects of harbouring a deep, fearful secret were so debilitating that an autopilot took over the normal, humdrum bits of your life and permitted you to act normally.

Perhaps we all lived on several levels and juggled them without thinking about it. Perhaps one grew so attached to everyday habits and questions – they were so bred into the blood and the bone – that one could not bear to give them up, even though one knew that, by any law of justice, one should do so.