How It All Began (28 page)

She returned to Laura’s inviting flow: “. . . So, come down at the weekend and have a look. Oh, Nigel sends his regards, says if he can be of any help . . .”

M
ark was complacent. “Three thousand words. The lead piece for that issue, it will be. I just need to go over some references, and then I can get started. He was fascinated to hear about the memoirs, of course.”

Not quite true, that. The editor of the learned journal had rolled his eyes at the mention of Henry’s name: “Good Lord, is he still around? I had imagined him dead and buried, along with his line of history.” Mark had had to maneuver with subtlety, indicating amused agreement while not entirely disassociating himself from Henry, whose patronage could not be jettisoned, not yet anyway.

“I’m wondering if I shouldn’t contribute some kind of commentary,” said Henry. “Add weight, don’t you think?”

Mark did not. No way. “I feel we should save you up for the memoirs. Raise anticipation—your name will be mentioned, of course. Very much so. We want to use this as a sort of trail.”

Henry frowned, but did not press the point. “You may be right. So you’ll be getting to work on it right away?”

“Exactly. There’s a deadline—not too imminent, thanks be. One doesn’t want to rush this—it’s too important, as an offshoot to the archive, and the memoirs. Of course, it means work on the archive will have to wait, for a while.” Mark pulled a face. “I feel a bit frustrated there. But first things first.”

And in fact, I can knock this thing off in a trice, he was thinking. And then back to the Scottish Enlightenment while I’m apparently fine-tuning it. And some more pottering around with the archive in due course, when I’m ready.

“Quite,” said Henry. “And in the meantime, work on the memoirs is going most satisfactorily.” He beamed at Mark: such an asset he has turned out to be, this young man. One is working with renewed enthusiasm, having him around. “Oh—we have company this afternoon. My niece is coming to tea. Join us. Corrie has made a Victoria sponge, I believe.”

He was right. “Well, actually, no thank you, Uncle Henry,” said Marion. “I’ve not long had lunch.” She observed Mark, tackling a lavish slice. Have fun.

“So I hope you’ll come to see me there,” she went on, addressing Henry. “Everything is rushing ahead, and I should be moving in a few weeks’ time. I could show you the cathedral, and my friend Laura says The Swan does a good lunch.”

Genial acceptance. “I shall look forward to that, my dear. I dare say young Mark would escort me.”

“Of course.” A winning smile from Mark. “I’d love that. I haven’t been there for ages. Such a pretty cathedral precinct, I remember. Is your house near there, Mrs. Clark?”

The purpose of Marion’s visit has been to explain her plans to Henry, toward whom she did feel some sense of responsibility, as his only relative.

“But I shan’t be that far from London, and I dare say I’ll be coming up quite often.” And this Mark is apparently well installed, she thought, so it’ll be up to him to cope if there’s some crisis. She enthused about her new home. “Tiny, after what I’ve got, but I just love it. Such luck, getting a buyer at once, for the London house. And Laura has been such a help, down there, finding a builder for me. And her brother too—sorting out a problem with the council, he’s been so kind.”

“We shall take a day off to visit you,” said Henry. “Mark is of course hard at work on a rather crucial article. I should explain . . .”

A smooth interruption from Mark. “Actually, I seem to remember that Mrs. Clark heard all about that when last she was here. But yes, that’s well under way now.” Another smile at Marion: see, I’ve saved you from a further five-minute discourse. “Are you sure you won’t try the sponge? Just a sliver?” Why should I suffer alone?

“Well, perhaps,” said Marion. “But really just a small piece.” All right—point scored.

“And the memoirs progress,” said Henry. “So all in all this is a hive of activity. Rose is kept busy, one way and another.”

Marion held her cup out to Mark. “Thank you, I’d love some more tea. Oh, yes—Rose. I thought she sounded a bit distracted when I rang. How is her mother, by the way?”

“Her mother?” Henry looked perplexed. “Oh, the mother. Yes, there was some accident, wasn’t there?”

Charlotte was not too bad, as it happened. She was crutch-free now, around the house, the stairs were less of a challenge, she had managed a bath without Rose to help her in and out.

“Home next week,” she said. A statement, not a query. Try it anyway.

“Week after next, just possibly,” said Rose. “We’ll see.”

We’ll see. How often have I said that? thought Charlotte. Now it’s I who am seven, or thereabouts.

It was breakfast time—Gerry already gone, Rose about to go—checking her mobile, reading a text.

“Well, let’s aim at that, not see.” Must make my stand, seven or seventy-seven. “Anton this afternoon—he’s always a morale booster. Though frankly I don’t think he really needs me anymore. He’s afloat on his own. Will you be here? I know he likes to see you.”

Rose put the mobile in her bag, stood up. “I’m not sure. I may go into town with Sarah after work. See you later, anyway.” She went.

This untethered look she has acquired. Never entirely with you. What’s up?

Charlotte cleared the table, moved about the kitchen, rejoiced in these new abilities: I can put things into the dishwasher, I can change the rubbish bin liner, I can clean the table and the worktop. I am a free woman, or nearly so.

But what’s up? Anything, or nothing? Stop looking over her shoulder, Charlotte. Mind your own business.

I understand, says Anton’s text. It is difficult now at your mother house. Better perhaps you are not there. And soon it is Saturday.

“ ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in . . . in possession of a fortune . . .’ There! It is difficult—much work with the dictionary, and only three pages. But I start.”

Charlotte laughed. “Well, I never meant you to take literally everything I said. Whenever did I mention this?”

“Oh—back a few weeks. But I take notes always—write down names. This is a famous book, I think?”

“Very. Tiresomely so. The one novel everyone has heard of—a sort of prototype for fiction. Don’t struggle on unless you’re enjoying it.”

“It is a good change from tax regulations,” said Anton. “And the newspapers. I read much in
The Guardian
now, every day.”

Charlotte sighed, smiled. “We must face up to it. You don’t need me anymore, do you?”

He spread his hands. “Always I need—I want to ask you, what does this mean? Why do they say that? But I think I must not take your time—there are others who need you more. For ‘I go to the shop,’ ‘I sit on the chair.’ Or ‘The night Max wore his wolf suit . . .’ ”

“That was an unorthodox departure,” said Charlotte. “An experiment for an unusual student. I’m not sure I’ll dare use it again. But I suppose you’re right. The Bangladeshi ladies could come.”

“When will you go to your own home?”

“Don’t ask. Yes, do ask. Rose and my hip permitting, in a couple of weeks or so, perhaps. There can be someone who will come in daily, apparently, and help me do what I can’t, and shop and so forth.”

“Rose,” he said. Half to himself, as though he simply wanted to say the word. “Rose. I’m sure she will arrange things for you very well.”

“She does, bless her. I am lucky.”

“You are. You are lucky, that you have Rose.”

“She’s out—you won’t see her today. She said she might be.”

He nodded. Fell silent for a moment. Then spoke briskly. “So perhaps the Bangladeshi ladies will come now. Or the builder. I remember the builder who cannot read. And the lady who does not really care if she read or not.” He laughed. “And I thank you. I thank you with all my heart. Because of you I shall now I hope get a good job—a job I can like. Because of you I shall say goodbye to the building site, and the site manager.”

“And because you’ve been so determined. That, most of all.”

“And the stories,” he said. “Because I must know what will happen.”

“Indeed. Powerful things, stories. And now you’re going to get on with your own story. Next chapter—accountancy job, flat of your own and no more slumming it with the boys. And I’m very glad that our stories happened to coincide like this—to bring us together. Even if we spin apart now.” Spoken with warmth. I suppose I won’t see him again, she was thinking. Pity. Then— “But keep in touch—let us know how things go.”

He sat looking at her, as though he had to consider this. He half shook his head. “Yes. Perhaps. Yes. I . . . I have to think . . .” For a moment it seemed that he might be about to come out with something, then he shook his head again. Stopped speaking.

Charlotte was concerned. What have I done? Overstepped the mark in some way? Embarrassed him? She got up. “We need a cup of tea—come and give me a hand.”

In the kitchen, she talked of what he might read now. “I’ve got
my doubts about
Pride and Prejudice
. Why don’t you try an Ian
McEwan—you said you’ve read him in translation. Or John Updike—some transatlantic fresh air. Right—can you get a couple of mugs from the dresser.”

“These blue and gray?”

“Fine. Though I broke one of those the other day. Rose took it on the chin—just laughed.”

“She laughed?” He stood looking at the mug in his hand. “Then I must be careful.”

Back in the sitting-room, Charlotte talked book titles. Anton made a list. Then, eventually, he got up, shouldered his rucksack. “So—I go.” He looked round the room. “I say goodbye, and thank you. Thank you and thank you.”

“I know Rose will be sorry to have missed you—she may not have realized this would be the last time. I hadn’t myself, really.”

At the front door, further farewells. He was awkward now, diffident, his usual easy manner in abeyance. Always hard, saying goodbye, she thought, watching him go down the garden path, out of the gate.

“Goodbye?” said Jeremy, incredulous. “Don’t be silly, darling. You’re moving an hour or two from London, you’re not going to Mongolia. You’ll be up and down all the time. It needn’t make any difference to us.”

He knew himself to be flailing around. Here they were in her house—removers’ boxes all around, a most unMarion-like state of turmoil—and she was talking like this. Breakup stuff. Move on stuff. Feel we both realize . . . stuff.

No, no. This wouldn’t do. Apart from anything else, it did the morale no good at all. One was not about to be . . . dumped.

“I
need
you,” he said. Which immediately sounded pathetic. He saw it in her eyes, tried to retract. “We have such
fun
together.”

Actually, not really—not of late.

“What on earth will you do there?” he said. “I’m not going to let you just go off and fester. Look, I want to help you with the move, and
get you settled in, and then we can see how we feel about things.” That’s the way—involve oneself, refuse to be sidelined.

Marion sighed. “Well, no, Jeremy. Thank you, but I’ve got some friends there who are helping out.”

“I can’t believe this,” he said. “After everything . . .” He sounded petulant now, and saw her look change from one of tactful regret to one of irritation. After just about landing me with a divorce, he wanted to say. With that blasted text message.

A shrug from Marion. Well, not quite a shrug—a sort of shrug expression. After what? she was perhaps thinking.

In fact, divorce seems to be off the menu now, though she needn’t know that. Stella . . . He found himself thinking fondly of Stella.

“You should sort things out with your wife,” said Marion briskly. “I rather feel you’re on the way to that as it is. I think that’s what you need, not me.”

He stared at her, churning. Don’t you tell me what I need, he wanted to say. And leave Stella out of this. It was you who got her into it.

Dignified withdrawal, it would have to be. “Well, darling, if this is what you want. What you think you want.”

Later, alone, he rallied. Injury and indignation were laid aside. Stella, he thought. Looking gorgeous, the other night, and what a good time we had. Maybe . . . maybe go home this weekend, if she’s comfortable with that, and I rather think she will be.

There—Jeremy dealt with. Now—the china. Can’t let the removal men loose on mother’s Spode.

Superficially in control, Marion was in fact in some emotional disarray. She had found the scene with Jeremy more upsetting than anticipated, had had difficulty keeping resolute, knowing Jeremy’s capacity to undermine resolve. We did have fun, at points; he’s a charmer, but—oh, feckless, I suppose. I should never have . . . but you do, you do. Anyway, there, it’s done, he’ll soon be over it, despite the fuss. And the wife will take him back. It was never my fault, he knew what he was doing.

She sat amid the boxes. What has happened? My life is in upheaval, and all because of a man I met at a lunch, and something called the financial downturn, and running across Laura in Hatton Garden.

Goodbye to this house. Goodbye to Marion Clark Interiors. Goodbye to lunches at Lansdale Gardens, though as Uncle Henry rightly says I shall be coming to London from time to time, and I’m not going to desert the old boy. Not that he hasn’t plenty of support: Corrie and Rose and now this Mark in attendance.

Am I making a ghastly mistake? Am I going to regret this? But you have to be flexible, swerve off course if it looks right—I’ve not done it enough, I’ve just plowed ahead. And anyway I was swerved. Things happened.

Charlotte continued to think of Anton after he had left. She saw his life in contrast to her own. A man driven by circumstance. Well,
I have had some circumstance too—very much so, just recently—but I have not had to shift country, shift culture, find a new life. Good luck to him—he deserves it.

The front door banged. Rose. Dumping groceries on the kitchen table, a brief greeting—preoccupied, it would seem.

Charlotte said, “Anton has been and gone. This was his last time. Sorry to have missed you, I’m sure. He . . .” Oh, but he didn’t. Leave any sort of goodbye message. Forgot, I imagine. He did seem—stressed.