A Perfect Marriage Page 11

  ‘I must go,’ I said distinctly. ‘Jeff has a meeting with some prospective clients on the way back.’

  Celia started, and looked up at me in astonishment. ‘I thought you’d gone already.’ She pulled the bedclothes up to her chin with her claw-like hands, as if she’d been surprised in a condition of exposure.

  ‘Goodbye, my dear,’ she said in a sprightly manner.

  I kissed her forehead. Her skin felt like paper and was very cold. I turned back when I reached the doorway. She was watching me. I waved and blew her a kiss. She waved back, like a small child full of wonder. Her expression moved me almost to tears and I had a feeling this would be the last time I would ever see her.

  Yet I wouldn’t have wished upon her a long period of confinement in a bed in a care home. I thought of my mother, who would be turning sixty soon, and my father who was about to retire. Once Celia went, my parent’s generation would be next in line for the grave. That thought filled me with a sense of loss, followed almost at once by panic; it was as if I had stepped onto an express train and was speeding towards infinity. In the corridor I wiped my eyes and filled my lungs with air that smelled of roast mutton and Brussels sprouts, mingled with disinfectant.

  I found Jeff and Charlie in the gardens at the front of the house. Jeff was parading up and down the lawn, while Charlie ran about showing off for the benefit of a group of old women sitting in a conservatory at the side of the house. The women nodded benevolently at her. As I approached, Jeff barked an order at Charlie. She appeared instantly, causing more nods of approval from the spectators at the sight of her obedience.

  ‘I’m running late,’ he said sharply.

  ‘It’s half-past four. We’ve got plenty of time to get to the Fosters.’

  Jeff didn’t deign to reply. When we reached the car, I opened the door for Charlie and buckled her into her seat. Jeff started the engine and Charlie fell asleep almost at once.

  ‘I hope I don’t end up like Celia,’ Jeff said, accelerating.

  ‘How do you want to end up?’ The panic I’d felt a few moments before returned and my heart began to skitter. I wanted to jump out of this vehicle that was hurtling me towards the future. I wanted to grab Charlie and leap out, to make a run for it while I could. But I knew I never would. I didn’t have the guts for it.

  ‘Sailing around the world on a yacht,’ Jeff said. ‘Having a heart attack asleep in my bunk one night.’

  ‘That’s very romantic.’ I was surprised that my voice was steady when my pulses were racing and my palms clammy. He appeared to have forgotten our boat trip to La Spezia for our honeymoon. That incident of violence was the first of so many random acts of anger, of petulance.

  ‘And what about you? I’m sure you’ve got your ending all mapped out.’ His tone was mocking.

  ‘I don’t know how I’d like to end up.’

  ‘How unlike you not to have an answer. You’ve got one for every occasion.’

  ‘Do I? How unbearable. Perhaps I’m going into a decline.’

  Jeff laughed. ‘You could follow Celia’s axiom and indulge yourself. But maybe you do that already, by being too morbid.’

  ‘You sound bitter.’ Perhaps he was also affected by our visit to Celia. Maybe it reminded him of his own mortality. ‘Do I make your life so unpleasant?’

  ‘No. I love you actually.’

  ‘Why?’ I was surprised by what he had said. Neither of us had mentioned love for some time.

  ‘Habit.’

  ‘Do you think we should separate?’ The words slipped out of my mouth, without conscious formulation in my brain. Although I’d thought of this as a possibility many times before, I immediately regretted mentioning it. Long ago I had decided to stay with him, because of Charlie. I wanted her to have a family that lived together. A normal family, if there was such a thing. A family with two parents who would see her every day.

  But Jeff seemed to be unfazed by my question. ‘No.’ He sounded sure of his answer, but his calm certainty made me think that he had thought about this before. ‘There’s too much at stake.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Our house. Charlie. The relationship we’ve built up over the years. And I’d hate to have to start all over again.’

  ‘Charlie. Yes, there’s Charlie.’

  ‘Are you happy, Sally?’

  Jeff had never asked me this before, and I felt surprised. ‘It’s sad that Celia’s dying like this; all on her own in a home full of ancient people. I’d always thought she’d had a good life until she started talking like that this afternoon.’ I paused while Jeff negotiated us out of the slip road and onto the motorway. ‘Mum is finding this all very difficult, you know. Celia’s always been her favourite aunt, and she’s the only one of that generation left.’

  We drove on in silence for a while. ‘You’ve not mentioned yourself. What about you?’ Jeff said. ‘Are you happy with your life?’

  ‘I’m sad about Celia, but other things are OK.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Charlie and all that.’

  I found it impossible to say what he may have wanted to hear: that I was happy with him. I was unhappy with him, but also suspected that one could never hope to be completely content in a relationship. I certainly didn’t want to tell him yet about the idea of postgraduate work. It seemed that I no longer had the ability to make up my own mind about anything but waited passively until I was told what to do. Was it fear of what his reaction might be? Or was it a lack of character on my part? I didn’t have the answers to any of these questions. But I felt calmer at the thought of being a student again.

  ‘That’s really peculiar,’ Jeff said, his tone sarcastic. ‘Here you are with a marvellous opportunity to be unhappy. After all, Celia is dying, and we’ve squabbled all afternoon. And now you tell me that you’re OK.’

  ‘You sound aggrieved,’ I said. ‘As if I shouldn’t be.’

  Jeff didn’t reply at once. He directed his attention to some skilful changing of lanes to enable our car to move four places up the queue of traffic. Pleased with this achievement, he turned to me. ‘We’ll be there in five minutes. Do try and be your usual charming self when we meet these clients, Sally. This could be a good job. The Fosters have got good taste as well as a lot of money. And for Christ’s sake, keep Charlie under control.’

  Keep Charlie under control. Yes, that was important. But what the hell was Jeff doing about keeping himself under control?

  Chapter 25

  NOW

  A wind has sprung up and is rattling the kitchen window frames. Charlie and my mother are still embroidering anecdotes while I have been transported to Buckinghamshire and back. Now they are reminiscing about the day that Charlie and the son of the Coverack inn-keeper almost succeeded in launching my father’s boat.

  The dining room clock strikes half six. ‘Time to think about what we’re going to eat.’ I jump to my feet.

  ‘What about a glass of something first?’ Charlie says, winking at me. Her grandmother is very fond of a little tipple as she calls it. I get out the bottle of white wine I put in the refrigerator this morning.

  ‘Lovely idea, Charlie,’ says my mother with alacrity. ‘Will you join me?’

  ‘No. I’ve got to do a bit more homework after dinner. I’m sure Mum will though. And I’ll sit with you while you knock back a glass.’

  ‘You’re so crude, Charlie. I sip wine, I don’t knock it back.’

  ‘Very lady-like, Gran. Would you like to see some photos Marge sent me?’

  ‘Marge, your step-grandmother?’

  ‘The very one. They came today.’

  I open the bottle and pour two glasses. ‘Drink it upstairs,’ I tell my mother. She looks tired and will be more comfortable in an armchair talking to her beloved Charlie. But I’m not being entirely altruistic; I don’t want to hear them talking about the photos and I’m expecting Anthony to call shortly. If my mother overhears the conversation she’ll be full of questions.

  ‘The B
lake bloke’ll be ringing soon,’ says Charlie, as if she can read my mind. ‘So she wants to be alone.’

  ‘Who’s the Blake bloke, Sally?’

  ‘Awesome new admirer,’ says Charlie, grinning. ‘He’s in the States at the moment. Phones every second night. Like, at seven o’clock on the dot. You were out the other night, Granny, when he rang.’

  ‘Does he live there?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘He’s just a friend. He’s working there this term.’ I busy myself extracting vegetables from the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. The conversation behind me has a life of its own, with or without my involvement.

  ‘How old is he?’ my mother says, switching her interrogation to Charlie.

  ‘Dunno Gran.’

  ‘Charlie!’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen him. Mum knows. Ancient, I expect.’

  ‘Ancient like your mother?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘What does that make me?’

  ‘Antediluvian!’

  While I can’t help laughing, I’ve had enough of them both. ‘Off you go now,’ I say, clapping my hands like I used to when Charlie was a child and I was shooing her out of the way. ‘You can entertain each other in the living room while I get on with cooking.’

  Alone in the kitchen I start to make dinner. Preparing vegetables is a form of therapy; cutting up the onions and braising them slowly in olive oil; slicing through the fleshy courgettes; arranging the cod pieces on the bed of vegetables and pouring over the top a sauce of coarsely chopped tomatoes and herbs. I am placing the dish in the oven when the phone starts ringing. Involuntarily I look at my watch. Seven o’clock precisely. Impeccable timing.

  As I wash my hands, I hear my mother’s footsteps overhead, clicking to the phone in the living room. I run to the downstairs phone and pick up the receiver; I’m too late, my mother is speaking on the upstairs extension.

  ‘Yes, Sally is at home. I’ll get her for you. Whom shall I say is calling?’ My mother pauses and I hear Anthony’s voice saying his first name. I should speak now but I’m curious to hear if my mother will be able to think of a reason for continuing the conversation. I’m not disappointed. ‘Anthony who?’ she says, although she already knows his second name. It’s time for me to break in. I say ‘Hello.’

  ‘Sally, you’ve reached the extension.’ My mother’s voice is as gay as if she’s hosting a drinks party. ‘That’s lovely, just in time. I’m Sally’s mother, Anthony. Goodbye.’ There is a little click as she hangs up.

  ‘So you’ve met my mother.’ I shut my eyes so I can concentrate on Anthony’s voice. I find that I am laughing; because of my mother and because it’s Anthony on the line again.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ he says. ‘It seems like more than forty-eight hours since we spoke last.’

  I sit down on the floor and lean against the wall. Peace at last; the sound of Anthony’s voice and the smell of dinner cooking.

  Chapter 26

  THEN

  Jeff picked me up from our house in Islington a few minutes before three o’clock; I could tell he was pleased that I’d put on the navy blue dress he’d bought me for my birthday and a smart pair of heels that I rarely wore. Charlie’s school was not far away but to save time we drove to collect her. All three of us, Jeff, Charlie and me, were to visit Celia in the care home in Buckinghamshire. Afterwards we were to meet the Fosters.

  Normally I would visit Celia once a month on my own at the weekend, leaving Charlie with Jeff. Celia was not easy with very small children, perhaps because she’d had none of her own. But Jeff always was keen on any opportunity to kill two birds with the one stone, as he put it. His potential clients, Mr and Mrs Foster, lived not far from Celia. Jeff had started his design business nearly three years ago. We had a huge mortgage and were finding it a struggle to make ends meet, and getting this new job was important to him. He also thought that bringing Charlie and me to meet the clients might swing things in his favour.

  Jeff and I were early at the school, but so too were many other parents, mothers mainly. Cars lined both sides of the road, many of them on the yellow zigzag road-markings prohibiting parking. It was a bleak March day and the low grey sky drained the colour out of everything. At the gates to the school, a small crowd of women waited. I suppose it was the weather that made them look depressed, like wives and girlfriends clustering around a pithead after a mining disaster. Although I joined them, I didn’t feel like chatting that day. With Jeff waiting impatiently in the car it was important to be ready to make a quick getaway.

  When the doors to the school opened, the first wave of small children surged out. Charlie was one of them and I watched her race across the schoolyard: the crotch of her tights had descended during the day to the level of her knees but that didn’t seem to handicap her. I held out my arms for her to jump into. We hugged and I took her bag, and kissed her smooth round cheek. She looked tired, with dark crescents under her eyes; this was her first year at school. Her pale blonde hair, smooth like her father’s, was always neat, even after she’d just woken, but she lacked his natural tidiness. Her grey school tights had a hole in one knee, which hadn’t been there that morning, and a fresh piece of Elastoplast covered the perennial wound on her kneecap. The accident that had torn her tights must also have ripped the cotton thread holding up her hem, for a deep pocket drooped down to one side of her tunic. She was wearing her school jumper inside out: the label stuck out behind her like Paddington Bear’s: PLEASE LOOK AFTER THIS CHILD THANK YOU. Her face answered my inspection with an innocent beam; she was oblivious of her dishevelled appearance. It was impossible not to smile back.

  Hand-in-hand we hurried to the car. Jeff had parked it in front of the others in the street and the engine was running. I strapped Charlie into the back and climbed into my own seat. Jeff was already pulling away while I was shutting the door.

  ‘Have you got any other clothes for her?’ Jeff said. ‘Those tights look a bit of a mess. What happened, Charlie? Did you fall over again?’

  Charlie began to describe in great detail what had happened to her. Something to do with her second-best friend and a boy from the year above who’d picked on her third-best friend, and how in the ensuing scuffle she’d fallen over and torn her tights.

  ‘I’ve got some clean clothes,’ I told Jeff when she’d finished. I knew that our appearance would matter when we visited the prospective clients; an up-and-coming designer shouldn’t have a family dressed in rags. ‘But Celia won’t mind. She’s past caring for appearances now, if she ever did.’

  ‘Why is Celia past caring for appearances?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘Because she’s old and tired. And she’s always thought that how you behave is more important than how you look,’ I said.

  ‘Because she’s going to die very soon,’ said Jeff at the same. He glanced at me, and I narrowed my eyes in warning. I’d wanted Charlie to learn about Celia’s imminent death gradually.

  ‘Why is she going to die very soon?’ Charlie said.

  There was a short silence. I waited for Jeff to reply. When it became obvious that he wasn’t going to, I said: ‘Because she’s very old.’

  ‘Does she want to die?’ Charlie’s voice was anxious.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she’s old. Because she’s had a very good life, but now she’s come to the end of it, just as we all must. And because she’s too weak to cope with living any longer.’

  There was a pause. Perhaps Jeff’s right, I thought. This is the time to discuss death with Charlie.

  ‘Will she go somewhere after she dies?’ Charlie said after a couple of minutes.

  ‘We don’t know. Some people say there’s a heaven, and that the spirit of the person goes there after the body dies. But some people think there’s nothing after death, that people simply die, and the spirit dies with them. But no-one knows for sure.’

  ‘What’s nothing when you die?’

  This was
a difficult one. ‘Nothing is when the spirit isn’t living any more. The spirit’s the bit inside you that thinks and feels.’

  ‘But if Celia dies and is nothing, we remember her,’ Charlie said. ‘And we’re still living. So she can’t be nothing.’

  The conversation was becoming complex. I hesitated before replying. ‘Yes, you’re right, Charlie. As long as those of us who’ve known Celia are alive, she’ll be living in our memories. But to Celia after death, she’d be nothing, because her spirit and body would be no more. That’s if there’s no heaven. No one knows if there’s a heaven or not.’

  ‘What do you think, Mummy?’

  ‘I don’t know, cherub. I’m agnostic.’

  ‘Agnostic.’ Charlie repeated the word carefully. Her vocabulary was expanding rapidly and it was clear that she liked the sound of this new word. ‘What’s agnostic?’

  ‘Not knowing about something for sure. And recognising that you don’t know.’

  After a minute’s silence Charlie said: ‘I don’t want to die.’

  ‘You won’t for a long, long time.’

  ‘You shouldn’t think about it anyway,’ said Jeff.

  I felt annoyed with him. ‘How can you tell her that, when you brought up the subject yourself?’ I whispered.

  ‘I believe in telling the truth,’ Jeff said sharply. ‘Besides, there’s no need to complicate things by suggesting there’s nothing after death.’

  ‘You’re being inconsistent. If you tell the truth about facts, you’ve also got to try to tell the truth about abstractions.’

  ‘How can we, when we don’t know of any definite truth about them? It’s better not to confuse Charlie by mixing up what’s real with what’s unknown.’