Chasing Men (33 page)

The Professor was gone. Even at this minute, his room was probably being cleared and disinfected, his clothes packed in suitcases and bags, the pictures stacked
higgledy-piggledy
, with little consideration for their intrinsic or artistic value or what they had meant to the dead man. The flamboyant silk pyjamas would be destined for an Oxfam shop along with the bottle-green velvet jacket. The little dancer would be pawed over at auction. His wife would have lost her significance and be yet another fleshy nude in an obscure gallery, if that. Maybe the paintings would languish in an archive or basement somewhere: most would never again see the light of day. Hetty wondered if the home would keep quiet about the many works belonging to him on the walls, or whether the beneficiaries would allow them to remain. At least at Swallow House they had been displayed and gave pleasure, as the Professor had insisted they should.

‘I loved him, and I grieve for him,’ Hetty whispered. ‘Oh, poor man.’

She abandoned the minor tasks she had been doing and cast around for a way to honour his memory, but none came easily. Then she decided to take a long walk across the common towards St Veronica’s. If Father Roger were available and free she might explain, a little, about her extraordinary friend. If not, then she would say a prayer for the Professor and maybe light a candle, then return on the bus. The ritual would have meaning and would soothe her battered spirit, if nothing else.

It was a Thursday evening; the service was a Sung Eucharist. Here, too, to her disappointment, her low mood obstinately lingered. The ceremony seemed meaningless, the liturgy irrelevant. Her flagging interest was aroused, however, by the new arrival: the curate. A female, as Roger had feared, thin and ungainly with a nervous manner and buck teeth, who had previously been a teacher in a northern town.

‘Call me Alice,’ she said, with a toothy grin, as Hetty introduced herself.
Alisss
.

‘I hope you’ll be very happy here. What did you teach?’ Hetty enquired politely.

Alice rolled her eyes. She wore a dove-grey, full-length garment and a dog-collar. Her hair was brown, drawn back from the plain face. ‘Classics.’
Classsicks
.

‘Really? Roger will be pleased. He buries himself in the great philosophers.’

‘Ooh, yes, he told me. We’ve been arguing already. I’m into Marcus Aurelius myself.’

This left Hetty at a distinct loss. It came to her that she was marginally jealous. Should Roger ever decide that humankind merited as much attention as a shelf of books, the lady curate would be in pole position, with Marcus-whoever in tow. The woman had an eagerness about her that Roger would find either an irritation – or endearing. Hetty tried to speak to him, but he was busy with parishioners wanting banns called. He kept glancing over his shoulder with a frown at his new assistant, who scurried about like a little grey mouse and seemed to be everywhere.

Hetty was half-way out of the door before she remembered the origin of her errand. She went back inside, purchased the biggest candle in the box, and lit it in front of a side altar. Then she knelt for a moment, and prayed that the Professor, somewhere, had been reunited with his love.

Sunk in reflection, Hetty descended from the bus on her way back from the church. It was dark and had been raining; the street-lights cast pools of harsh yellow on the wet pavements. The whole episode had served to intensify her sense of pain and loss.

With head bowed and damp tissue in hand, she looked about for Brian to buy a
Big Issue
, but he was missing. His absence felt like a further blow, some other partial responsibility she had wilfully ignored. Chiding herself as she came to The Swallows, she pulled off her gloves and started to unlock the street door.

A noise came behind her, a loping pace up the path. Wary that some unauthorised person might try to push inside, she swiftly removed the key and let the door close.

‘Oh, don’t do that, Hetty. I’ve forgotten my keys.’

It was Christian, in his black tracksuit, a rollneck sweater hiding the Adam’s apple. His head was up, the blond hair unruly, a flush high on the cheekbones. A fleck of spittle marked the side of his mouth. He appeared agitated; his eyes would not meet hers.

Hetty’s hand began to shake. Jerkily she held up the key to the lock a second time and began to turn it. Then she removed it once more, with the door still shut.

‘Where have you been, Christian?’ she asked him coolly.

‘What? Out for a run, that’s all. None of your business, Hetty.’

The rudeness of the reply confirmed her suspicions. She was blocking the entrance, her hands held out as if the locked door were not enough to bar the way. In the corner of her eye through the lighted window she could see Doris moving about in her kitchen. The old woman waved briefly. Hetty responded with a weak smile, then focused her entire attention on Christian.

‘It
is
my business, because I make it so. I’ll let you in if you’ll come to my flat for a minute. I want a word with you.’

She was not entirely sure why she did it, any more than she could have explained her secret dance for the Professor, except that it was exactly the right action for the moment. She waited, fiddling with the antique perfume phials on the mantelpiece; switching on the
side-light
then switching it off again. As Christian, who seemed to be panting slightly and fidgeting, edged into her room and circled her, she put down her bag and gloves and turned to face him.

‘I know what you’ve been up to, Christian. You’ve been on the common, and you’ve been with some other man. For money.’

The fidgeting stopped. ‘Rubbish. You shouldn’t make accusations like that.’

‘It isn’t rubbish. I’ve seen you heading over the road more than once. And I saw you in action, by the bushes. I wasn’t spying, but you were with a boy in a baseball cap and white jeans. Money changed hands. Don’t deny it, Christian. What were you up to?’

‘You seem to know already, Miss Public Morals,’ Christian sneered, with a guttural edge she had never heard before. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

‘Christian. For heaven’s sake. Why do you want to mess about like that?’

‘It’s not messing about. It’s sex. Rough trade. Terrific.’ The sneering tone was still present, but was wavering. Christian’s eyes were unnaturally wide and darting about as if searching for escape. Their colour, dark and unfathomable, was the same murky blue-green as the antique glass on the mantelpiece behind him.

‘But Markus adores you. Doesn’t that count for anything? What happened to loyalty? You shouldn’t hurt him, Christian, you can’t. You’re part of a couple, not just a single man. You can’t ignore that bond. If he knew what you’ve been up to he’d be destroyed: you must realise that. If you’re having any difficulties in – in that direction, sex, I mean, you should sit down together and talk about it.’

‘Oh, yeah? Like you did with your husband, I suppose, Hetty.’

She saw red. The air screamed at her, and burst in vivid starry showers about her head. Fury welled up inside, and bitter righteousness, and an overweening need to punish, and to underline the grossness of what had taken place. She did what she should have done years ago, with the man she had married, who had betrayed her as thoroughly as this boy was betraying his lover … His casual cruelty was about to shatter what was most precious and elusive in human life, the love of another person …

Hetty raised her hand and with every ounce of force she could muster, slapped him hard across the cheek.

‘Oh!’ He held his face as if she had taken a knife to it, and staggered back. Behind him one of the glass bottles fell, and smashed to tiny pieces in the hearth.

Now it was Hetty’s turn to breathe heavily. ‘You fool,’ she hissed. ‘You unremitting miserable bastard, Christian. You have the love of someone who’s worth ten of you. Wants to spend his life alongside you. If you lose him, you’ll never get anyone as fine, or as suited. For God’s sake, stop it. Or you’ll regret it forever.’

Suddenly the anger drained from her as quickly as it had come, and she pointed to the hallway. ‘Go on, get out. And mind what I say.’

He stumbled away, still holding his cheek, his eyes fearful and clouded.

Hetty slammed the door after him, shook her stinging fingers and collapsed into the nearest armchair, still in her coat. The dull twinkle of the broken glass merged with her own tears, until the room swam with her misery.

Christian did not hear the words she addressed to his vanished form as he trudged haltingly up the stairs. Even as she heard him hesitate then tap on his own door and enter, she had admitted to herself what had been true all along.

‘You’re right, Christian. I should have seen the holes in my marriage years ago. And instead of pretending everything was rosy, tried to put matters straight. But I didn’t. Bloody
complacent: it’d sort itself out without any intervention on my part. How could my adored husband want someone else? Why should anything ever change?’

She raised her still throbbing hand in the air, swept it proprietorially around the tiny flat, at the prints on the walls, the shabby furniture and the ill-fitting curtains, the pathetic china and shards of glass, the cheap television set: mute witnesses to her fate.

‘And look where
that
got me.’

Hetty was soon in agonies over her party and wishing she had never decided to hold it. Since nearly everyone greeted her invitations with enthusiasm, she began to worry as to how the numbers – possibly as many as forty – would fit inside the flat.

Partners were to be included. Sally answered promptly that she would be alone. Doris promised to ask Jack. Her mother would be on the arm of the Colonel, and if not him, then of someone else. The couples – Larry and Davinia, Clarissa and Robin, the McDonalds – had accepted, the former still as if doing her a favour. The men in number six had not responded, and she had not seen them since her furious confrontation with Christian, but neither had she noticed any more nocturnal wanderings. The BJs would attend, with current boyfriends; Father Roger asked, gruffly, if the new curate might come; Rosa, Kate, Bob and the entire television crew would be there, along with assorted other halves, adding another dozen.

After some discussion, Swallow House had agreed to bring Moira, Phyllis and Millie to the party for the first hour, as representatives of the book club. The assistant matron would drive the minibus and take them home. ‘An hour's enough,' was the advice. ‘And please don't give them too much to drink: they're enough of a handful as it is.'

‘No problem, Hetty,' said Annabel, when the danger of crushing was confided. ‘You can use our place as well. D'you need anyone to sleep over? Our sofa's a Put-U-up …'

Party day came: Rosa had scheduled it as a non-shooting date. In the morning Hetty fitted in the hairdresser and a manicure, then fretted about each stray hair as she furiously cooked, dusted and tidied. The
Star Style
suit was waiting on its hanger with a fuchsia blouse. The flat was soon pristine, with new cushions on the sofa, spring flowers in every vase, glasses from Oddbins ranged alongside crates of wine, sale or return. The Lladró statue had a green ribbon, to match the surviving perfume phials. A CD player had been borrowed from the BJs with suitable music.

In the late afternoon Sally and Doris arrived and busied themselves with the food. Rather than peanuts and dim sum, Hetty had decided to draw on experience; hot
boeuf bourguignon
, wild rice, baked potatoes, coronation chicken, salads, an assortment of ripe cheeses and fresh breads would be the fare. The meaty smells would emanate from the kitchen and tantalise her guests, as in the seduction scenes she had twice set up. Not that she was planning an orgy, but what had entranced both a rum cove like James and a sophisticate like Norman should satisfy the entire social spectrum. Neither man was on the list, though she had left a vague message on Al's answerphone.

‘Almost done, Het.' Doris wiped her hands on a tea towel. The turban concealed a forest of rollers and pincurls. ‘You're short of plates, so I'll bring up some of mine.'

Around six came an interlude. Hetty and Sally sipped sherry and watched the news.

‘No Erik?' Hetty decided to be direct.

‘Finished,' Sally said.

‘Oh?'

‘It was going nowhere, Mum. I clung to it simply because I was afraid of not having a man – you know, when people ask, you like to say that you've got a boyfriend? But I've seen
you on your own and you're fine. And now, so am I.'

‘Thanks. But it's not the ideal state.'

‘Maybe nothing is.'

Hetty laughed ruefully. ‘When you're in a couple you're fighting, or lying, or taking each other for granted. But when you're single, you have no one to be possessive about, no one to care exclusively about you. And a reduced role in society, less respect, more – pity. And self-pity. Then you daydream of coupledom once more.'

‘Do you?' Sally was curious.

‘Not in my
head
. But my actions belie my words – why else would I go to an agency? I count my blessings, but work and friends are not quite enough.'

‘If some decent chap turned up tonight and asked you to share his life, would you be thrilled?' Sally asked slowly.

‘I'd be amazed.' Hetty laughed again. ‘No one's in the offing. The liaisons I've had so far have been highly unsatisfactory. Sharing with a wife is
not
my idea of fun.'

Her daughter collected the glasses and washed them without further comment; but when her mother went into the bedroom to change, Sally tiptoed to the phone.

‘Hetty! Mwah, mwah!'

Davinia was getting plumper, but Larry seemed delighted. As they removed their coats and peered nosily around, he pinched Davinia's rump playfully. ‘She's becoming domesticated at last,' he boasted. ‘We're trying for another baby. We have two boys – I'd like a girl.'

‘I'm having hormone treatment,' Davinia whispered. ‘That's why I'm fat. Had trouble producing enough eggs.'

‘Great,' Hetty enthused. ‘It's so lovely to see you so settled.' It occurred to her that Davinia, too, might have lied about her age. If she were forty rather than in her mid-thirties, the fertility treatment could be explained. On the other hand, in their circle it did not do to get pregnant easily: a tale of woe and torment was desirable.

Clarissa and Robin came next. He was portlier and more full of himself than ever, and was propelled by a harassed Clarissa, dressed in a satin suit and a cream fur jacket. ‘Auntie Millie says she's coming! Heavens, Hetty, what possessed you? Now I'll have to talk to her.'

‘No, you won't,' said Hetty firmly. ‘Unless you'd like to, of course.'

Clarissa screwed up her eyes. ‘Where shall I hang this jacket, Hetty? Robin insists I wear it – he's been defending mink farmers in court. It
is
mink. I don't want it nicked.'

‘Hmm. On the bed? Or maybe
under
the bed would be best. I doubt if anybody here would be drawn to it, but it is beautiful.'

Clarissa hugged the jacket to her bosom, and went to find a drink.

The McDonalds appeared with Doris, as if by prior arrangement. The couple slipped into the room and stood, backs to the wall, with glasses of wine, and murmured to each other, tapping their fingers to the Madonna beat. Whenever Hetty checked they said cordially that they were content. Evidently they needed no more than to be left undisturbed.

And behind Doris, with a bashful grin, came Jack. He shook hands formally with Hetty. Cradled in the crook of his arm was a litre bottle of whisky, its neck label marked ‘For
Export Only'. Fallen off the back of a lorry, his hostess concluded, but she accepted it without remark.

The living room was becoming cramped; the decibel level had risen to the point where the music could no longer be heard. Not even Bruce Springsteen could compete. The front doorbell rang every few minutes and another face, wreathed in smiles, showed itself, more hugs were exchanged, another bottle was pressed on her until the gifts were ranged on the bookcase slightly out of line like tipsy sentinels, along with caskets of chocolates and an Italian sponge cake from Davinia. The air was redolent of scent and aftershave, the aromas of food, wine, cigarettes and Robin's cheroots. Her mother swanned in with the Colonel, waxed moustaches a-bristle, and spoke gaily of their latest Saga holiday. When the
Tell Me All
crew and researchers, who had met beforehand, strolled in arm-in-arm and merry, the party began to take off.

‘Good Lord, Hetty, I had no idea you knew so many people.' Larry was at her side, his eyes darting and inquisitive. The throng was starting to spill out into the corridor.

‘Not everyone's come yet. The girls from across the hall are missing, and the old ladies from the home. Father Roger, and Rosa. That'll be about it, though. Fortunately.'

‘It feels like half the neighbourhood is here.'

‘Why not? Why shouldn't I know a lot of people? You sound astonished, Larry.'

‘I am, sis. Gob-smacked. We were expecting to help make up the numbers. You don't think of your divorced, middle-aged sister as the heart and soul of the party.'

‘Maybe you should,' said Hetty, but she tried to keep the tartness out of her voice. Then, relenting, she pressed her brother's hand. ‘I'm so glad you both came.'

Larry seemed genuinely confused. ‘Maybe we should get together a bit more, huh?'

Hetty could not answer, but a lump came to her throat. She moved away, and found Clarissa at her elbow.

‘Het, I have to tell someone. But you'll keep it to yourself, won't you?'

Clarissa seemed excited and edgy. Hetty wondered with a sinking heart whether it was a new lover or a new shopping centre her schoolmate was about to extol.

‘I'm going to take a leaf out of your book.'

‘You are?' A lover, then. Poor Robin: he would not manage well without Clarissa.

‘Yes. I was convinced you were going to fall flat on your face, and you haven't. Sodding marvellous, I call it. So I told myself, “Old girl, maximise your resources.”'

‘You're talking in riddles, Clarissa.'

‘Listen. I'm going to do something I should have done years ago. Get an education,' said Clarissa, chin up. ‘You saw that textbook? I'm going to be a BA with honours. Or, at least, in about four years' time,' she added hastily.

‘You are going to
university
?'

‘Yes,' Clarissa answered huffily. ‘Don't be so shocked, Hetty. Some of us have a brain, you know.'

Hetty squeezed her arm wordlessly, unsure how to reply. She was by the door when the bell rang again. It opened to reveal Christian on the threshold, with Markus behind.

Christian's height filled the door frame. He stood awkwardly, his expression taut and serious, lips pressed into a line, but as he bent his head and entered the packed room, he held both her hands tightly for a long while. Then he kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Oh, Hetty,' was
all he could say. Markus pushed him further into the room with jocular force and handed over two bottles of champagne trailing gold ribbons, and uttered more accolades of affection than Hetty could take in.

A commotion arose from the street below. Hetty craned from the window then ran downstairs, calling Markus to accompany her. The Swallow House minibus was at the kerb, parked askew. On the sidewalk clustered the three elderly residents accompanied by a stocky woman in a nurse's uniform, who toted a carrier-bag packed with necessaries for the outing. They were remonstrating with a tramp.

‘You've got the wrong house!' If stout Phyllis had had an umbrella she would doubtless have set about hitting the man over the head.

‘Go away!' shrieked Moira in support. ‘Leave us alone! We haven't any money.'

Hetty noticed that Millie had her head down and her hands buried in the depths of her coat pockets. The wealthy old lady liked to show off her riches on fingers and wrists. ‘Markus, maybe you could help the ladies inside.' Hetty was crisp.

As he did so and trundled them up the path, the assistant matron in tow, carrier-bag close to her chest, Hetty turned fiercely to the tramp. He was dressed in a relatively clean tweed coat and had shaved that day, but had a wary set to his shoulders. ‘Brian, were you begging from my guests?'

‘I only asked them if they had any change,' he whined.

‘You've scared them witless. And what is this? I thought you'd stopped begging.'

‘Old habits die hard.' He cringed under her disapproval. ‘You having a party?'

The racket from the lighted flat was unmissable; denial would have been pointless. Hetty sniffed, but the only odour she could detect on him was soap.

‘I been to the refuge. The deli owner said you was having a gang in. Had a bath, new clothes. See.' He unfastened the tweed coat. Underneath was an ancient tuxedo jacket with a white dress shirt, but no tie. Teamed with baggy black jeans, the effect was comic but gallant. His eyes betrayed a yearning Hetty had not witnessed before.

‘Goodness, Brian,' she giggled, ‘you're a sight for sore eyes.' She hesitated still. Then, ‘I must be insane, but if you want to come up for a quick – ah, orange juice, you're welcome. First, you'll apologise to the ladies. And the moment you misbehave, I'll have you thrown out of the window. Savvy?'

Back up the path they went, with Brian following in a rapid shuffle like a grateful dog. At the entrance he plucked at her sleeve. ‘Is it yer birthday? I haven't brought nuffin'.'

‘Your presence is enough, Brian,' she answered gently, and wondered what other surprises might be in store.

The buffet meal was dished up to cries of approval and further reflections from Larry as to her incredible progress. Hetty drank two glasses of wine and chewed a bread chunk with a slick of Brie, but was too keyed up to be hungry. The elderly ladies, whom Hetty increasingly thought of as ‘the old BJs', were ensconced side by side on the sofa with trays on their laps, served by an attentive Doris and a reluctant Clarissa. The assistant matron stood, feet planted apart, plate in one hand, fork in the other, and chatted to Christian, who still looked rather pale. Markus had discovered that he had filmed with Bob, Gerry and Phil from the crew; they were embroiled in reminiscence. Brian had apologised as instructed and been brushed away;
his dress shirt brilliant and incongruous in the light, orange juice in hand, he was squinting up at Robin, who seemed unfazed by this unconventional audience. Hetty recalled the hint Brian had dropped, once, that he had been a businessman, a millionaire. It was not impossible.

Hetty stood on tiptoe and checked around for her own family. As she watched, her mother moved seamlessly from one side of the room to the other, over to Larry and Davinia, with the Colonel, glasses in hand, behind. Soon the two couples were conversing animatedly, especially the women. Hetty felt a sudden pang. The links between the various branches of her family might well become stronger as a result of the party tonight. But it would feel strange, after such coolness, to develop close relations with such as her brother once more. Maybe more parenthood would mellow them; this new baby might wreak not havoc but improvement.