Chances (15 page)

Why should I feel so damned guilty now? Vita wondered and the feeling haunted her for the rest of the working day.

‘Tinker – just lock this stuff in the second shed. It needs a clean tomorrow morning. Thanks, Spike – that’s great. Yes – just there. Jonty – whoa! Whoa! You need two people for that – cheers, Boz.’

It was the end of a hot day for Oliver and his lads. They gathered in the office where, from the small fridge, Oliver under-armed each of them a can of Coke.

‘Beautiful!’ Spike said after a long drink, while Boz burped quietly and appreciatively.

‘Here, guys – good work today. Go and have a pint on me.’ Oliver handed twenty pounds to Spike, who was closest.

‘Oi, Dad!’ Jonty protested.

‘We’ll have takeaway fish and chips, Jont.’

Jonty pulled a face as if it was a poor alternative though actually he loved fish and chips. They’d have it off the paper and watch crap on TV; the sitting room would permeate with the sweet-sharp tang of vinegar and the lingering scent would be strangely pleasant still the next morning.

‘Isn’t that –?’ Tinker gestured with his can of Coke to the corner of the office.

And they all regarded Vita’s monstrous cagoule.

‘I could drop it off at that shop she works in,’ Boz offered.

Oliver considered it for a long time. ‘It’s fine,’ he said eventually. ‘We’ll take it in on our way home.’ He could feel Jonty staring at him. He glanced at his son, who nodded.

‘Laters!’ called out Boz and Spike.

Tinker saluted Jonty. ‘Tomorrow, dude.’

‘Come on, kiddo, let’s go.’ Oliver headed to the car with Vita’s cagoule over his arm.

Jonty followed, aching but content.

Oliver slung the cagoule onto the back seat.

‘You know that shop is actually called That Shop,’ Jonty said.

‘Yes. I did. Actually, we pass by pretty near to her house – we’ll leave it on the doorstep there. Or something.’

Jonty was quiet. His father thought he must be starving and exhausted. Actually, Jonty was unravelling a knot of thoughts that had been hurled to the forefront of his mind from goodness knows where.

‘Dad,’ he said, ‘don’t let’s do that tonight. Why don’t you take it back yourself sometime. To That Shop. Or to Her House.’

Oliver thought, My son’s obsessed with fish and chips. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘no problem.’

And Jonty thought, It’s not a problem, is it, Mum? Was I out of order to say that to Dad? She’s nothing like you. She’s probably nothing at all. It’s just that it seemed to suit Dad, putting his hand out to steady her while she was having a meltdown. And when she was all pissed off and pretty, his eyes were – I don’t know – just not the dull eyes they usually are. They changed a bit.

And then Oliver parked up at the chippy.

And Jonty let him sling an arm casually around his shoulder as they walked over to buy their fish supper.

His dad entered the shop and Jonty followed him in, aching but content.

The cagoule stayed in the car a further two days. Oliver had put it in a canvas Tesco shopper. He didn’t want to see it because it brought Vita to mind and that was unsettling. Perhaps he would give it to Boz after all, to drop into the shop in town. At first, Vita didn’t realize she’d left it because she had no intention of going out into the garden anyway and therefore had no use for it. But then Michelle invited her over for dinner and while she was there, Vita relayed the whole sorry saga. Even Chris came in to hear the last half, having heard his wife helpless with laughter, begging for mercy, threatening to wet herself.

‘This isn’t for your amusement,’ Vita said, though she was at pains now not to see the funny side. ‘It’s a serious matter. It’s ruining my summer in the short term – and in the long term, surely it will jeopardize the resale factor of my house?’

‘Not if you include the wellies and cagoule with the sale price,’ said Chris.

‘Oh, sod off!’

‘He’s joking,’ said Michelle.

‘I know,’ said Vita, ‘and it’s funny and it’s not funny and what am I going to do?’

Chris wandered off.

‘What
am
I going to do?’ Vita used her finger to trace lines over the condensation on her wineglass.

‘You’re not going to poison the poor tree, are you?’

‘Of course I’m not going to poison the tree.’

‘Or cut the bark like he told you.’

‘No, Michelle, I’m not going to touch the bloody –’ Oh shit, thought Vita, oh shitting shitsville. ‘My cagoule,’ she groaned.

Michelle didn’t understand.

‘I’ve left it,’ Vita said, ‘there. At the yard.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Michelle. And then she thought about it. ‘And are you emotionally attached to that cagoule? Or can you just go to Millets and buy another?’

‘It was one of Dad’s,’ Vita said. ‘It didn’t really fit. But.’

‘But?’

‘Should I leave it, then?’

‘I would!’

‘Or should I go and get it?’

‘I wouldn’t bother.’

‘Right,’ said Vita, slowly. She trusted Michelle’s advice whenever she asked for it. But she was quietly aware that the advice she sought hadn’t actually been asked for.

‘So,’ she said, ‘so I shouldn’t go back to the yard to pick it up?’

‘Nah,’ said Michelle.

‘Or phone.’

Michelle started to shake her head. Then she stopped. She looked at Vita squarely, thought to herself, I’ve seen that expression before. She thought, Vita’s eyes are scanning, flitting, sparkling. She thought, V’s head is full of something she’s not saying.

‘Vita?’

‘I hate him for not being able to cut down my tree.’

‘Vita?’

‘He’s quite a lot older, anyway.’

‘Vita?’ Michelle was warning her to continue, as if to say, I have a half-smile – make it a full one.

‘He has a lovely – manner.’

‘And?’

‘Oh shit! Oh shit – OK!’ Vita put her hands over her face and spoke quickly, groaning as she did. ‘He has lovely forearms too. OK? And he’s handsome in that rugged, I-manhandle-trees-for-a-living kind of way.’

‘Vita!’ Michelle pointed her finger at her. ‘You go back there! In a flippy flippy skirt and your cowboy boots and a bit of lippy!’

‘Mushroom!’ But Vita’s face was out from behind her hands and her cheeks bloomed pink with delight.

‘And you say, Oh deary me! I left my jacket and there’s white wine in my fridge and would you like to come over after work to have a glass! That’s what you say.’

‘Stop it!’ But Vita didn’t want Michelle to stop; her eyes were dancing and she was grinning.

‘And then you say, Oh and please could you wear your nice T-shirt and don’t wash your hunky forearms.’

Vita giggled into her glass. Michelle hadn’t heard that larky, joyous sound for a long, long time. She held out her glass and Vita chinked hers against it. But then her smile vanished and she took a long, thoughtful sip.

‘Vita?’

‘What am I thinking?’ She shook her head vigorously at herself. ‘What am I saying!’ She looked at Michelle and shrugged helplessly. ‘I forgot. He has a son. And you don’t get one of those without a wife, partner, girlfriend, whatever. He’s probably blissfully ensconced.’

‘If that’s the case – don’t go there,’ said Michelle.

*

Jonty was out at the cinema. Oliver was trying to settle in front of the television with a nondescript ready meal. He’d really wanted to watch this programme, part of a series on the coastal landscape of Britain. But he couldn’t concentrate and not just because the food was revolting.

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake.’

He switched off the TV, chucked the foil tray in the bin and left the house.

‘I can’t believe I’m doing this.’

The residential areas of Wynford gathered in three sections, forming a triangle around the town centre. The Tree Houses were at one apex, Tim’s place was at another and Oliver’s home was at the other. He climbed into his car and drove to Vita’s without wondering what he’d say when he arrived. He just drove. Bruce Springsteen sang out about jungleland and Oliver joined in, not listening to the words. He pulled up outside and left the car quickly, striding up the path as if a pace any slower would allow thoughts to seep in.

But she wasn’t there.

She was at Michelle’s.

It would have been very easy to have left the Tesco bag containing the cagoule on her front doorstep. Right there, under the small porch. He could easily leave a note, just pop a Post-it on the door, couldn’t he. It was obvious what it was and who’d returned it – he could just leave the cagoule, in the bag or not, and not bother with a note. Who’d nick the contents, anyway? And look – there’s a little old lady noseying around her front garden a couple of houses up. He could give it to her, and say, Excuse me, but would you mind taking this in for the young lady who lives at the end house?

And then he thought, Young lady is it now? And he thought, Didn’t I call her a madwoman on Monday? And he said to himself, with some reluctance, I like her – that’s all, I just quite like her. And then he realized he hadn’t thought about DeeDee all day but she was in his soul now and seemed to calm his mind, out of the blue. Two more different women you couldn’t hope to meet. Perhaps, thought Oliver, just perhaps, that’s no bad thing. What would his wife advise? She’d laugh at him, tell him not to be such a lummox. She’d see it all very rationally: there’s no one there, Ols – so there’s no point staying and no point leaving the mac because it defeats the object. Go home. Watch the TV. Make sure you record
Skins
for Jonty. Go and eat some proper food. Hang out the washing. It’s the recycling tomorrow – go and sort that. Just stop standing on that doorstep as if you’re trying to figure out the world’s biggest conundrum.

That’s what DeeDee would say.

She’d probably throw something at him too – like a cushion, which she’d then tut at him for not putting back nicely with the others on the bed.

That was DeeDee.

Feeling strangely comforted, Oliver drove away with the cagoule as it was, still in the bag on the back seat. Jonty would never know he’d been gone.

Jonty was having a lie-in the next day. It was Thursday and his dad had told him at the start of the summer break that he didn’t need to work on the days beginning with a T or an S. At the yard, Oliver and the lads discussed the schedule for the day, loaded the trucks and set off. Boz was joining Oliver.

‘One moment,’ his boss said, going to his car and coming back to the truck with a canvas bag from the supermarket. ‘All set,’ he said, ‘let’s go.’

They’d finished the first job by lunch-time and the next appointment was on the other side of town.

‘Sausage roll?’ Oliver suggested.

‘Cool,’ said Boz, who ate anything.

‘I think I’ll just – pop into That Shop.’ Oliver had started the sentence slowly and then scrambled to the end.

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Return that ridiculous waterproof,’ Oliver said. ‘To that – girl. The mad one – who works. In That Shop. Who came. Into the yard.’

Oliver’s manner of speech was very odd. Boz thought to himself, Calm down, mate, it’s only a coat, it’s only a shop. He remembered how, when Oliver had given him a lift there just a few weeks ago, he wouldn’t come in. He’d eventually just loitered outside. His wife, his late wife, had loved the place, hadn’t she.

‘I’ll pop in too, then,’ Boz said supportively. ‘My sister loved her present. Might find something for my mum – it’s her birthday next. The big Five Oh.’

‘Oh,’ said Oliver, ‘OK.’

But then Oliver went very quiet and started to take a circuitous route to town. ‘Actually, you know what,’ he said, slowing down when approaching green lights as if willing them to change, ‘I don’t think I will go just now. Parking can be a bit of a nightmare.’

Can it? thought Boz.

‘And it’s lunch-time – and we have a busy afternoon. And I don’t want to eat into your break. No, it’s fine. We’ll just pick up sausage rolls and head back to the yard.’

‘No worries,’ said Boz. ‘You can give me the mac – I’ll drop it in myself over the next day or so.’

Oliver went quiet. Boz now had the bag on his lap.

It took Oliver until they’d arrived back at the yard to speak again. ‘Actually, you know what, it’s fine. I’ll drop it in on my way home.’

And while Boz ate his sausage roll and ham-and-cheese toastie which, by the time they were back at the yard, had stuck to the white paper bag, he thought to himself, This isn’t about Oliver’s late wife at all. He munched through two packets of crisps. It’s about that lady – the one in the mac, the one in That Shop. And as he washed down his lunch with half a litre of Coke, he glanced at his boss and he thought, Good on you, mate – it’s time.

Though there was no need for it, Vita had set up Thursdays as housework days and she stuck rigidly to it. She was hoovering that evening after work when she thought she heard the doorbell. She switched off the vacuum cleaner. Listened. Nothing. Started the machine again. Thought she heard the bell once more. Stilled the hoover. Listened. And yes – there it was. Someone
was
at the door. It could well be Mr Brewster wanting his spare keys. He usually locked himself out of his house at least once a week. She went to open it.

‘Coming, Mr B!’ she called out. ‘Coming!’ She picked up his spare set and made for the door.

It wasn’t the Mr B she was expecting. It was a different Mr B altogether.

‘Oh!’

‘Mr B, eh?’ said Oliver. ‘Preferable to the other names you were no doubt calling me earlier in the week.’

Seeing Vita so flustered put him at his ease. Her eyes were navy again today. Her hair scrunched haphazardly away from her face. She was wearing a tatty man’s shirt and flip-flops.

‘I –’ she said. ‘My neighbour. Mr Brewster. B for Brewster. He’s a little forgetful when it comes to his keys.’

‘A good Samaritan,’ said Oliver, ‘who nevertheless wants to kill her pear tree.’

He’s wearing the T-shirt. He’s in shorts today. I don’t know where to look.

‘I’m not going to kill the tree,’ said Vita.

‘I know you’re not.’

‘If I had twenty thousand pounds, I might.’

‘I don’t think you would.’

Pause. Whose go to speak next? What to say?

‘Er, I have this.’ Oliver gave her the bag with the cagoule. ‘You left it. At the yard.’

‘Oh,’ said Vita, peering into the bag for a long time. ‘Thank you.’

‘Does that mean you haven’t been outside?’

‘Well, I walk to my shop every day.’

‘I meant outside – in your garden.’

‘Oh! Doh! Yes – I mean no. I’m not going out there until there’s not a leaf, let alone a pear, on the tree.’

‘That’s a shame. The weather’s beautiful at the moment.’

‘That’s what
I
told
you
. That’s the whole flipping problem.’

Flipping. He liked her choice of word. ‘I know.’ He hoped he sounded sympathetic.

Pause.

‘Well –’ said Oliver, as if he would be following that with, I must be going now.

‘Oh, OK,’ said Vita, as if he’d completed the sentence.

Pause. Awkward. Both of them. How daft they both felt. How daft she felt she must look. She made a vague attempt at smoothing her hair. They both wanted to prolong this chat, however stilted it was, but neither knew how.

‘Well – if you like, I don’t mind popping in – to clear away the pears? Put them at the back of the garden – try to lure the wasps away?’

Vita looked at him. His head tipped to one side, his face open, honest, genuine, kind. Oh God, all right, rugged and handsome too.

The son! There’s probably a wife, remember!

Vita saw the wedding ring. ‘No – it’s fine.’

‘I was passing anyway,’ said Oliver. ‘It won’t take me ten minutes.’

And Vita thought, For goodness’ sake, stop over-analysing – he’s just a nice bloke. He just wants to help. He probably feels a bit bad. He’s on his way home. He probably phoned his wife first anyway.

‘Thank you,’ said Vita, ‘that’s very kind.’

So Oliver went into Vita’s garden a second time.

She watched from the window. Once or twice he swatted at the air and she thought to herself, See! Those wasps are everywhere, aren’t they!

There was a bottle of wine in the fridge. White. Chilled. No. No. It wasn’t appropriate.

She knocked on the kitchen window and made a C shape with her hand and then a T shape with both. He smiled and gave her the thumbs-up and made the T sign back at her. And then the V sign which she took to mean Two Sugars rather than Fuck Off. And, while the kettle boiled, she watched intermittently as he toiled. She noted the T-shirt stretch across his shoulder blades, his calf muscles tauten, the glisten to his forearms, the way he pushed his hair back from his forehead as he cleared up the rotten pears. And then he was walking over, taking a slight bow at which she was clapping. The tea was made. She wasn’t sure what to do about biscuits.

‘Bastards got me,’ he said, and above his elbow just below his bicep, Vita could see he’d been stung. She felt gently vindicated.