Keeping Time: A Novel (2 page)

If only the skies weren’t consistently hosing the place down.

But that was Liverpool.

Daisy, feeling good. Wearing a new dress—navy with beige trim—that fell just below her knees. Sensible low-heeled navy shoes. Smiling during the conversation. Buttering her bread. Ordering the lamb. Ignoring nagging unpleasantries pecking away at her. Going over what she had lately been thinking about: hitting Dot up with a proposal.

Waiting for the appropriate lull in the conversation, then turning her
attention to Dot, to get her idea out. Daisy, full of hope and slowly gathering excitement at spilling the words.

But then Dot blew her away, speaking first. Mentioning innocently that she was going on holiday for the summer. To Spain, where her daughter had a house. Shooting down Daisy’s idea before it even got out of her mouth. Not giving Daisy the chance to say a little while agoed to ulthat she’d been thinking the two of them should go on holiday together. To Ireland. Or Scotland. Even Wales.

When Paul was alive, he and Daisy had traveled several times a year. Both loved exploring; together they had covered much of the globe. But Daisy hadn’t been anywhere in the last four years—not since Paul died. She hadn’t even thought of it. Until recently. Startling herself, imagining traveling again—on a much smaller scale, of course. Places she could drive to. She just had to figure out with whom. Dot’s face had presented itself, and after thinking it over for some time, Daisy had concluded that Dot would indeed be the ideal travel companion. They liked the same things, needed their tea at precisely the same time, craved the same schedule of bed at night and waking in the morning, were equally active—which was to say they were unusually energetic for their ages—and were both devoted to the same evening ritual: Cointreau with mixers. Dot was as good a stand-in for Paul as Daisy could imagine.

But no sooner were the words “Dot, I’ve been thinking” out of Daisy’s mouth than Dot dropped her bombshell. Daisy, nodding, smiling, wishing her well, her disappointed eyes sweeping around the table of faces to see if anyone else might be a candidate.

Dismissing each in turn. That creeping feeling again. Of walls closing in, of dreams swirling down drains, of possibilities not yet lived like dandelion seeds on wings of birds, launched, full of potential but never hitting the ground. Unable to shake the feeling that her best days were behind her. Paining her to find travel on that list, too—that great, sweeping list.

Sighing. When Paul went, everything went. Except her house, 24
Rosemary Lane. Still hers. It was not going to be stored away like short skirts, high heels, her passport—not if she could help it. Dennis and Amanda could go. Let them go to Chessex, but not with her.

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TWO

WEDNESDAY, STILL RAINING. All of England under a deluge. People wondering if it would ever stop. Newspapers and television carrying stories of overflowing rivers, flooding streets, jammed motorways. Water, seemingly everywhere.

And where there wasn’t water, there was dampness—lodged in houses, clothes, teeth, bones. People shaking their heads, trying to make the best of it. Citing how green the grass was, how happy the June flowers.

Daisy, at work. Seated behind the front desk at the local library, her part-time employment since Paul died. The shop had quickly become too much for her to manage by herself. She offered it, but neither son wanted it. Dennis was happy enough writing for the magazine
Artifacts, Archaeological Treasures, and Antiquities
. Talking about starting another book to follow up his last. And Lenny? Out-of-shape, overweight, never serious Lenny worked too hard at not working. A real job to get the mower out Ahatt with real responsibilities would interfere with his minimalist freelance photography divorcé lifestyle. So Daisy rented the shop out, including the apartment above, and set about living on the income. The library job was just to be out and about in the world. To keep her head in the game.

To get the bestsellers before they hit the shelves.

Daisy, three pages into a home improvement manual. The plumbing
chapter. An interruption, cutting into her concentration. She had been staring at the illustrations of shower heads and the pipes leading to them for more than thirty minutes, making every effort to prevent the black ink from diffusing into inscrutability. The interruption—a welcome hand on her shoulder—therefore, not at all perturbing. Turning to see Grace Parker looking down at her.

Daisy, preparing an answer as to why she was nose-deep in the mysteries of plumbing repair when Grace hit her with something else: “I’m leaving. I wanted to tell you personally.”

“Leaving?” Daisy, wondering if she meant the room. The day? Forever? Hoping it wasn’t the last.

It was. “I’m retiring.”

Retiring! Sirens, bells, alarms, whistles. Daisy, not knowing what to say. Certain her mouth was hanging open, unable to close it. How old was Grace, anyway? She had to be younger, but by how much? Half a decade? A whole decade?

“Two weeks from today.”

Daisy, focusing on Grace’s ears. She had noticed them fleetingly in the past, but now she couldn’t stop considering them. On this tall, attractive, statuesque, silver-haired, clear-skinned, minimally wrinkled woman hung the pointiest ears Daisy had ever seen. They stuck to the sides of her head as if a pavement artist or political cartoonist had created them for the comedic effect of exaggeration. Daisy could see that Grace tried to cover them with her hair, but at her age that was a tall order. She had probably been able to hide them easily enough in her younger years, but old age insisted on revealing things. Yanking away crutches when we needed them most.

Daisy, apparently, on the ears too long. Grace’s hands speeding to their defense, patting her hair down over them.

Caught. Daisy, disgraced. Recovering quickly. Saying, “Oh, Grace, my Mondays and Wednesdays won’t be the same without you. Of course I’m happy for you, very happy.”

“Thank you. It’s hard to leave after so many years, but Hal and I feel that it’s time. We’re selling the house, buying a flat, and traveling. We have four children scattered around the world. We might as well start enjoying life now while we’re still healthy enough.”

Daisy, nodding kindly. Voicing appropriate words and sentiments.

Very much wanting to go home.

DAISY COULDN’T REMEMBER the last time she had been in a hardware store.

Standing out on the pavement under her umbrella, gazing into the shop window, trying to remember. Concluding at last that it was probably with a grape lollipop in her hand and Mary Janes on her feet, on a Saturday afternoon generations ago with her father. Not wanting to delay the second foray any longer, in she went.

From what she could tell, sauntering through the aisles, not much had changed. Same musty, dusty attitude. Same lighting. Same sense of reassuranceEEP IN THE NIGHT. Daisye close that they could fix life’s problems. Armed with a digital camera loaded with pictures of her shower head, Daisy hurried to the back of the store to get assistance from the old man—older than she was, she was sure—behind the counter. He carefully studied the photographs of her shower head. Clutching her small silver camera in his wide red hand, he was able to diagnose the problem.

The shower stem valve, the portion behind the wall, must have a frayed washer. Replacing it was easy, nothing to it. Simply change the washer in the valve.

In no time at all, spread out before her on the counter, all she needed to replace the part. The man telling her how to do it—slowly, patiently, acting as if he had all the time in the world, which he probably did since she was the only customer in the shop. Assuring her the job could be
done easily in less than an hour. Not expressing the slightest doubt about her ableness, which was something she would be forever grateful for.

And forever perplexed by. Assuming he must be either blind or crazy, but for the moment, anyway, his lack of doubt feeding her like nutrients.

THE FOLLOWING SATURDAY. Already. The rain, continuing. Dennis’s call coming like clockwork. Ready for it, Daisy, picking up the phone, saying she had found someone else to mow her lawn and that he needn’t worry about such things anymore. Thanking him for having done it for so long.

Her revelation, met with silence. Then sputtering, questions, apologies. Dennis, feeling his mother’s words were an accusation. In time, however, reconsidering. Seeing how reasonable it was. Why not get some kid to mow, pay him a few pounds? Dennis, suddenly quite pleased with the news. Not saying a word about The Carillion. Talking instead about Gabriel’s graduation party that was scheduled for the following day. Saying he would pick her up at three. Hanging up, his brain crowded with to-do lists.

Daisy, feeling both good and bad—good because she had managed to get the news out about the kid and the mowing. Good because Dennis had accepted it. Bad because it was totally made up. She hadn’t actually done a thing about getting anyone to mow. Thank goodness for the rain. If it never stopped, she would never have to.

She headed into the bathroom, ignoring the increasing drip, to get ready for lunch at the club. Stepping over the neatly organized href="page-te

THREE

NOTHING TO IT. Just unscrew the shower head from the wall, peek into the shower stem, find the frayed washer in the valve, pluck it out, replace it with the new one, put the shower head back on, and screw it on tightly.

Nothing to it.

First thing Monday morning. Daisy, thinkingLet me see …plCr about her plumbing job during her tea and toast. Washing the plate and tea cup, deciding she needed more suitable work clothes.

Heading to the wardrobe. Peering into it. Nothing. Everything too fine. Certainly no plumber would put on good clothes to set out for a day of work. Turning to her chest of drawers. Rummaging through them, not sure what she was looking for but assuming she would know it when she saw it.

Nothing there sensible for shower repair, although she did find a pink sweater she hadn’t seen in years and now remembered how much she had liked it. Remembered buying it for their trip to Spain. Had a fleeting image of an outdoor café in Barcelona—that sweater, big white sunglasses, and a sun hat with a pink sash. Taking the sweater out, thinking how unlucky it was that Dot would be summering in Spain, probably not only this summer but every summer thereafter, unknowingly robbing
Daisy of the only practical plan she had managed to come up with and relegating travel to the memories slot, not the upcoming events one.

Of course it was hardly Dot’s fault. It was Daisy’s, and she knew it. She should be looking into tours for singles. Thinking maybe she would.

Then thinking she most certainly would not. She had never traveled alone in her life and was unlikely to start now.

She put the sweater in her dry-cleaning pile. Then, Daisy, out of the room, heading for the cellar, admonishing herself not to fritter away any more of the morning searching for clothes to wear to do the repair. She had to actually do the repair, because if she could get some experience with such basics as screwdrivers, hammers, nails, and pliers, she could stay in the house, send Dennis and Amanda on their way, and decide on her own if and when it was time to go.

Down the stairs to the cellar, the old coal cellar that had been converted to laundry use and storage. Recalling a pair of old overalls that Paul used to wear. Thinking she probably would be able to find them, and use them, because they were held up by shoulder straps. It might feel good to wear something of his. He would be helping her change the frayed washer.

It was damp in the cellar. How could it be anything but, with constant rain?

She turned on the light and stood looking at the piles of boxes—some Paul’s, some hers. Thinking it would be interesting to see what was in Paul’s. He was not a hoarder. Seventy-eight years of life were distilled into a handful of boxes. Daisy, approaching the first of them, looking for some kind of label. Nothing was marked. Finding some that were hers, all her old treasures, but now she was not even sure what was in them—except one. She knew one. One that hadn’t been opened since the day it was closed, one that contained a jewelry box.

Daisy, opening a box of Paul’s. Bowling shoes. His and hers. Underneath, ice skates, a black pair, a white pair. And ski pants and ski jackets, plus random hats, scarves, gloves. Daisy, remembering skiing at Saint
Moritz, where they had bought them. Thinking it unlikely she would ever need anything in that box again. Donate it.

Closing that box, opening the next. Old Christmas decorations from years gone by. Daisy, lifting, inspecting, touching, lost for a time in memories. Closing it. Moving on, aware that time was ticking along. Old gardening tools, gardening gloves, packets of seeds never planted. No overalls.

Next box of Paul’s, baby things. Tears springing to her eyes. He had kept their baby blankets! Daisy, gasping, running her fingers over first Lenny’s, then Dennis’s. How sentim@er. Ann, ental Paul had been. How lovely.

She had loved having babies. Never wanted those days to end. She may have been uncertain about marrying—and she was, terribly—but she had never held one single doubt about becoming a mother. Feeling tender inside, once again holding the blankets in her hands. Sniffing each one for some trace of baby scent. Nothing. Just a deep pungent mildew. Putting them back for the time being.

The next box, her own box, her wedding gown. How strange to see it again. Remembering how it had felt to wear it. The conflict. Her mother’s impatience. Daisy, shuddering, her mother’s face in her mind’s eye.

Slowly lifting the gown out of the box, holding it up to her shoulders, leaning forward to see how it fell. She had loved the dress, the fake little pearls, and the high lace neck. Wondering if it would still fit. Thinking it possibly might.

Doing something she hadn’t seen coming.

Trying it on, right there in that gloomy cellar. Stripping off her nightgown and stepping into it. From nightgown to wedding dress. Not even stopping to consider how silly it was. Just doing it. To feel it again.