Four New Words for Love (15 page)

The place modestly flourished. The nest egg modestly grew. But the pace of growth was dictated by the modest means of the local clientele, so she hazarded all on the move to the High Street,
where she now sits across her replenished coffee and Christopher’s flat white. The gamble paid off.

She was surrounded by people whose average age she would soon approach and whose income she could match. She had a string of liaisons behind her that she had terminated without gaining a
reputation for promiscuity, and no ties. She was as respectable as her dead parents could have wished. She knew what was what in the bedroom and in the balance sheet. And she was bored.

She first met Marjory at a church function she tolerated in order to try to establish business contacts. Vanessa looked at Marjory and saw a ruthless social climber who didn’t have the
saving grace of humour, or of realising her own restrictions. Her only interest lay in the exemplification of a type. Vanessa wasn’t interested in social theories; she’d seen plenty of
types. Vanessa found Marjory a bore.

Sex never scandalised Marjory, it was just something other people engaged in, like eating liver or playing golf. Had Vanessa’s past come to light Marjory would only have been disappointed
that rumour fell so short of the mark.

Vanessa was still bored. The menopause had left her less urgent and more discriminating. The disadvantage of the High Street was the available men it brought within her compass: a
self-publicising roué with a dying wife. And then she met Christopher.

He was married, but unaccompanied, as he guilelessly walked into her shop looking for advice on the purchase of a present for his wife. Not putting two and two together she sold him a length of
taffeta, knowing it was unsuitable for the wife of the man she’d just met. She wanted him to come back and exchange it because she wanted to see him again.

But he didn’t come back. Instead she was confronted by the hag of mock gentility who had sparked reciprocal dislike at the church social. She now did put two and two together, logically
but not emotionally. This seasoned campaigner of erotic trysts, who had seen most things, couldn’t see Christopher and Marjory coming to grips. This cheered and excited her.

‘I believe you sold my husband this piece of cloth.’

‘Yes.’

Pushing the bolt away with the back of her hand. ‘I don’t need this.’

‘Of course not. Your husband didn’t explain the circumstances. This will do you no favours. Perhaps something darker that will look at you, something earthy, like those delightful
tea-cosy colours for that social we so enjoyed. Something
serviceable
.’

‘I’ll take the money.’ It took her a hundred yards before she realised she’s been bested.

Vanessa thinks of Christopher constantly. His fidelity in such an obviously unsuitable match serves to make him more attractive. In the few social encounters where they do meet, some force
compels her to cross the room in a conspicuous diagonal to talk to him, stand near him. She is a repository of thwarted impulses, accumulated like tree rings. ‘I am here!’ her mind and
organs shout. ‘Drink deeply!’ She is aware she is making herself ridiculous. That first infatuation, suppressed by her dentist, has bloomed on her posthumous fertility. He is
unfailingly polite and offers not the least morsel of encouragement.

His wife dies. She phones condolences and is met with a bewildered voice that does not recognise hers. She stands outside the church, not wishing to intrude on his grief, if that’s what it
is, but to be acknowledged. He makes the forty foot trip from steps to hearse without registering anything in his peripheral vision. Her heart tugs at his immaculate cuffs. As the vehicle slides
past he is frowning at his feet, concentrating on the day’s sequence that must be got through, and she stands, watching it disappear, as the other mourners register her presence with varying
degrees of politeness. She decides to wait. Time’s efficacy is proverbial, but how much do they have? And now fate has delivered him, widowered, with a destitute dog and an incipient
loneliness she can sense, mirroring her own, looking frankly at her across two cooling coffees and a cooling universe.

‘How are you coping?’ she asks.

‘Well, as I said, I got rid of the cleaner but’

‘No. Sorry to interrupt. I don’t mean the bread and butter things. I mean how do you fill a gap made by the absence of someone who’s been a part of your life for so long?
I’m not trying to pry and I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, it’s just that I don’t know. I’ve never had that kind of thing taken away from me.’

In other circumstances he would think this as intrusive as dreadful morning television, prying mawkish revelations. But there’s a frankness to her gaze that tells him her motives are as
far removed from those people as it’s possible to be. Her reputation for privacy is well known. She must have understood the adverse speculation it invited. God knows, Marjory and her ilk
made interior life around here more difficult. He senses that in her last sentence Vanessa has revealed more about herself to him than she has to anyone else around here.

‘“That kind of thing” is a bit of an elastic category. I think the kind of thing any couple has is unique. I don’t think anyone outside can really understand.’

‘I think there are lots of types who just rub along, not noticing that they have less in common.’

He decides to reciprocate her confidence. ‘Marjory and I didn’t have less in common. I don’t think we ever had shared interests in that way.’

‘You and I have things in common,’ she blurts, and bites her lip, losing her composure for the first time in twenty years. She hails the rainbow girl to cover her confusion. Again he
thinks something is expected of him.

‘I don’t know what your interests are, Vanessa.’

‘I’m not talking about hobbies or superficial things like that.’ She snaps it back, over her shoulder while settling their bill. The waitress is confused, believing the remark
addressed to her. Vanessa smiles at her, rectifies the misunderstanding with an exorbitant tip. When she leaves Vanessa has no reason not to turn back. He knows her curt response was a defence
mechanism. She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly while contemplating her coffee and looks at him.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. Stop waving, Christopher, it does matter. Some things are too important to be misunderstood. I’m not talking about hobbies or all
the things people do with other people just to avoid doing them on their own. I think often they’re just contrivances to avoid loneliness. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong
with that I’m just saying it shouldn’t be mistaken for something it’s not. Communion. I think some people even do things they don’t much like because doing something
slightly unenjoyable in company is preferable to them to being on their own. You’re nodding. Do you agree?’

‘I’ve always been a bit suspicious of people who can’t stand their own company.’

‘And you can obviously stand yours. I’d go further. I’d say you were flourishing, Christopher.’

‘I don’t know about that. You seem fine.’

‘Solitude has its place. But you can get too much of a good thing.’

‘Yes. I’m sure.’

‘Have you found that out yet?’

‘I didn’t need to.’

‘That’s the kind of thing I’m talking about. The thing to have in common is a caste of mind. Not dominoes or bird watching or... or... whatever. The rest is
incidental.’

The waitress returns with the receipt. He welcomes the distraction. He doesn’t think he knew Marjory’s caste of mind after a lifetime of contact, such as it was. He wouldn’t
presume to know someone else’s after the brief exposure he and Vanessa have had to one another. But, he thinks, perhaps that’s him, and Marjory and Vanessa. Perhaps with Marjory there
wasn’t any caste of mind beyond what he gleaned. Perhaps Vanessa is emotionally clairvoyant. Perhaps she reads him like a book because he’s obvious. Vanessa smiles sadly, accepts the
slip of paper and crushes it into her saucer when the girl leaves.

‘Thank you for the coffee.’

‘Your turn next time.’ It is on the tip of her tongue before she stops it. The effort of suppression has allowed sincerity to skip the queue. ‘Don’t you want
someone?’ There is an intonation, a note of entreaty, she can’t take back. They both know she means ‘Don’t you want me?’ He looks more puzzled than alarmed. Want? Want
has never come into it since his mother’s death. It never occurred to him since that his wanting anything could divert the world by a fraction.

‘I’m sorry, I’ve no idea what I want or if it even mattered.’

The contents of her handbag suddenly preoccupy her. She rummages for half a minute and looks up with a counterfeit smile. Her courage touches him.

‘Your dog must be bored.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. He’s beyond fatalism. However,’ again pulling himself up, ‘I must be going.’

Ideally he would have liked another twenty minutes to gather his strength, but he feels the most diplomatic thing he can do is leave. Having untied the dog he turns ponderously to wave goodbye.
She is a vague silhouette behind the mirror of the opposite façade that a burst of sunlight intrudes between them. She smiles at his chivalry, knowing from his sudden shadow and narrowed
eyes that he probably can’t see her. There is a confusion in his retreat as the dog takes the other side of the lamp post and doubles back with the shortened lead, encircling
Christopher’s ankles.

He executes a clumsy pirouette and walks in the dog’s wake to extricate them both. She feels this display of patience has aged her ten years on the spot.

* * *

Summer has arrived in a profusion of metropolitan blooms and the smell of mown suburban lawns. It is the first summer Marjory hasn’t seen and, realistically, the last
Felicity will endure. The departure of Mrs Griggs has occasioned more than just the mantle of dust. Christopher is now stimulated by a routine. He has discovered something known as a ‘service
wash’, and a cheerful young woman who delivers his ironing pressed to military standard. The purchase of a microwave has opened vistas. The Hoover lurked beneath the stairs. He found it. The
day starts with a walk on the common with the dog and establishes a cheerful momentum of its own, with the rota of things needing to be done. The phone rings. Usually it is someone from the Indian
sub-continent trying to sell him something. It is Sister Judith.

‘I think you’d better come in.’

‘How bad is she?’

‘Don’t loiter. If you can’t find someone to take care of the dog I’ll do it.’

When he rounds the bed with the dog at the quarter light, she’s waiting for him. As he gets out she gets in, and nods towards the building. Her abruptness forestalls further questions.
Without the dog he doesn’t have to walk around the outside. It’s the first time he’s used these antiseptic corridors. As he approaches the door George steps out, rubs one shining
toecap against a calf, straightens his tie and sees Christopher. A look of anger crosses his face and he walks wordlessly past.

Felicity looks every bit as bad as he expected, although he hadn’t imagined the febrile brightness of her eyes. Perhaps consciousness heightens before it fades. Perhaps he won’t have
to do all the talking as he has recently.

‘I just met George. He wasn’t pleased.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘Even so, pretty rotten luck considering all the number of times we’ve managed to avoid one another.’ He stops. They both know how this reasoning goes.

‘Is the air nice outside?’

‘Beautiful. English summer. Rupert Brooke weather.’

‘Ironic, that I got to see it, such as I can, and Marjory didn’t. She always looked so healthy. I’ve looked like a less unwell version of this for ages. I always thought she
found my illness a bit distasteful, or a deliberate means of drawing attention to myself. George does too. Where’s the dog?’

‘Sister Judith.’

‘Listen to me,’ she says, needlessly. It’s why he’s here. Her quota of remaining words is now so finite he feels he can count them down, like clock chimes.
‘I’ve been thinking. I used to wonder if we were kindred spirits or just similarly marooned. You don’t have to say anything because it doesn’t matter. I know you care for me
but I love you, and if I had to sum up the one achievement in my life I was glad of it’s my time with you. This illness brought us together, and it’s almost worth it. And I’m glad
you’ve behaved impeccably and I know you still would have, even if I were in full health and you were free with Marjory gone. Where’s the dog?’

‘Sister Judith.’

‘Ah. Can I see him?’

He is apprehensive about leaving her. How much has that just cost? He doesn’t want her to go alone, without someone there, without him there, holding her hand. He goes out the window and
returns five minutes later with Sister Judith and the dog. At the sight Sister Judith gestures him to stay where he is and leans over the bed.

‘Is she gone?’

‘No. But you both have to go.’

‘Will you please do something for me? If she wakes will you please tell her I felt the same way?’

‘Yes.’

‘You will remember?’

‘I said yes, didn’t I?’ She exhales, matter of factly. ‘Sorry.’

He has hit the rush hour, as London debouches, and trundles home in sporadic second gear burps. He forages through the fridge and stops to open the French windows. The scent of barbecuing meat
hangs tantalisingly on the evening air. It is too much for the dog, who plunges like a torpedo through the privet hedge that separates Christopher from his neighbour. Christopher groans now he is
compelled to go next door and drag the dog away from two comparative strangers, who should be better known to him.

Both back gardens of identical houses are accessible only via the house, or from a gate set in the back wall which runs the length of the terrace. There is a similar wall that the rear gardens
of the houses opposite back onto, the narrow lane between yielding the odd desiccated condom, and sprouting intermittent vegetation between Victorian cobbles. So Christopher is obliged to walk the
length of his immaculate garden, enter theirs, and run the gauntlet of their hostile scrutiny as he approaches the barbecue. His gate opens easily. Theirs gives two inches to the shunt of his
shoulder, and yields the rest of the arc with a rusty groan. Christopher stands in the gap, apologetic, glasses flashing back twin suns.