Love and Devotion (38 page)

‘It belonged to an aunt,’ this particular old lady said now as she pointed towards a cabinet that was packed to the gunwales with pieces of china and silver. Strictly speaking it wasn’t a cabinet, it was a
credenza —
trust the Italians to come up with a posh word for a side cabinet with display shelves at either end. This was a very fine Victorian example - burr walnut with a marquetry frieze, a central panelled door flanked by two glazed doors, tapering columns with gilt metal borders, a plinth base and bun feet, and only a modicum of wear and tear. The patination of the wood was exquisite and he ran a hand up and down one of the elegant columns. A shiver ran through him. Without inspecting the back or even opening the door, he knew he was looking at four thousand pounds’ worth, give or take.

‘What do you think of it?’ the woman asked anxiously, as though he was judging a favourite child.

‘I think it’s beautiful. But do you really want to part with it?’

‘Oh, yes. My friends and I are planning a holiday and I thought this might help pay for it.’

Will could hear Jarvis hissing in his ear.
Beware Laddie! Remember those SOLs!
‘Where are you and your friends thinking of going?’

‘A coach trip to Scotland. My husband, when he was alive, wasn’t much of a traveller, but now I’m on my own, I’ve decided to have some fun. Do you think this might pay for a few nights in a guest house?’

Thinking of his mother’s fondness for travel since she’d been widowed, Will said, ‘I’ll be dead straight with you. This will pay for more than a coach trip to Scotland. You could go on a luxury cruise with the proceeds.’

‘Oh, dear me no. That would never do. I get seasick just having a bath.’

He smiled. ‘What I’m trying to say is that this is a really fine piece of furniture. Its value is about three and a half thousand pounds. Maybe a tad more.’

‘Really? Are you sure? It just belonged to my aunt. She was nothing special.’

‘I don’t know about your aunt, but this I am sure about.’

‘Well, in that case, we’d better have that cup of tea. Goodness. What a day it’s turning out to be.’

Two cups of tar-strength tea later, he was on the road with the
credenza
in the back of his car. He’d given the woman a fair price and knew that Jarvis would be frothing at the mouth when he laid eyes on it. It was a beauty. The kind of find that brightened the darkest of days.

He drove back to Kings Melford, where he was meeting Marty for lunch at Brian’s burger bar. For once, Marty was late and Will chatted to Brian about the weather, the lack of punters and the cock-up the government was making of everything. ‘It’s all them spin-doctors,’ was Brian’s considered opinion as he slapped two burgers about on the hotplate. His conviction was such that Will didn’t feel inclined to argue with him. Instead he wrapped his fingers around his polystyrene cup and scanned the market for Marty’s approaching figure. It wasn’t like Marty to be late. Perhaps a client had overrun and kept him. He took a sip of his hot chocolate, glad of its sweet warmth.

The forecast was that winter was on its way. Just as it should be. It was, after all, bonfire night in two days’ time. He thought of all those years he’d put on monster displays of fireworks for Gemma and Suzie. There’d been times, looking back, when perhaps he’d been a little reckless. One year he’d nearly blown his hand off. Maxine had gone berserk, screaming that he was out of his mind and that he could have got them all killed. Very calmly, despite the searing pain in the palm of his hand, which he was trying to subdue with a packet of frozen peas, he’d said, ‘I think I’ll just pop along to the hospital if that’s okay with you.’ That was the year he’d spent seven hours in casualty and a week off work. He still had the scar and sometimes, when he stretched his hand open too far, he was reminded of what an idiot he’d been.

He caught sight of Marty hurrying over and waved. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ Marty said, his face flushed red from the cold.

‘No worries. Difficult client I presume?’

‘Yeah, something like that. Have you ordered?’

‘Naturally.’ He turned to Brian. ‘How are the burgers doing?’

‘Ready when you are.’

They took their lunch and strolled through the market - Brian’s only table and set of chairs were already occupied. ‘How’s Suzie?’ Marty asked, as they stood absently browsing a CD and DVD stall.

‘Other than not liking how pregnant she now looks, she’s well. The sickness has eased off.’

‘And Maxine?’

‘Not too much change there yet.’

‘She’ll come round.’

‘Even for a lawyer you sound unfeasibly sure.’

Marty shrugged. ‘People just need time to adjust.’

‘My, you’re philosophical today.’

When Marty didn’t respond, Will said, ‘You okay? You don’t seem your usual self.’

Marty picked up a CD of an old Sex Pistols album. ‘Do you remember us thinking this was the last word in world-changing music? How we ever fell for it, I’ll never know. It’ll take more than a few clever lyrics and bashed-out chords to change the world for the better.’

His voice low, Will said, ‘Put the CD down and tell me what’s wrong.’

Marty frowned. ‘Who said anything was wrong?’

‘It’s written all over your face. Is it work?’

‘No.’

‘What, then?’

They walked on. ‘It’s no big deal,’ Marty said quietly. ‘I’ve just come from a doctor’s appointment. That’s why I was late. Sorry I lied. And please, no jokes about lying, cheating lawyers.’

‘Hey, never mind the apologies or quips. What’s wrong with you?’

‘I have a lump where us chaps would prefer not to have such things.’

‘Oh, shit!’

‘No, we’re not quite in that yet. But who knows.’

‘So what did the doctors have to say?’

‘He confirmed what I already knew: that I had a lump. He’s now organising a visit to the specialist for some tests.’

‘Are we talking cancer?’

‘Too early to tell. That’s what the tests are for.’

Will threw the remains of his burger in the nearest bin. ‘It’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘No worries. Absolutely no worries.’

‘Now who sounds unfeasibly sure?’

 

 

 

 

She was not depressed, Eileen told herself firmly. Run down, maybe. Overwhelmingly fatigued, most certainly. Angry, yes. But depressed, no. She had pills to deal with that. It was Bob who was depressed. It should be him sitting here in this stuffy waiting room queuing to see the doctor. It was him who needed help. Not her.

She’d only agreed to come because of Dora. ‘You’re worrying me, Eileen,’ Dora had said. ‘You’ve told me yourself you’re not sleeping properly and that you feel completely done in. Perhaps, you know, in view of everything you’re going through, you need some stronger medication. Just to tide you over.’

Eileen didn’t think stronger drugs were the answer. It was courage she needed. Courage to confront Bob and make him talk to her and to hell with the consequences.

She reached for another magazine and flicked through the glossy pages, envying the young women their slim figures, their perfect faces and their come-hither eyes. She had been pretty once. Not eye-catchingly beautiful, as Dora had been, but attractive in an easy-going, homely kind of way. Attractive enough to catch Bob all those years ago, that much was true. But now she felt old and dowdy. She felt worn out most days, exhausted with the daily grind of just staying on top of things, of not letting the ME take control entirely. If she fully enjoyed a day it was always at the expense of another. She had to pace herself continuously. If she went shopping today, then tomorrow she would have to rest. If she didn’t, she would end up paying the price and be forced to rest for two days. And there was always the worry that this was it, that she would never get better. Statistically, though, she knew that there was a good chance she would; she just needed to be patient.

More impossibly perfect bodies passed before her eyes. She stopped turning the pages when she came to a piece about a grandmother of two having a make-over. Eileen stared hard at the before and after pictures. The transformation was more subtle than she might have expected, but it was a transformation all the same. There was a sparkle in the eye of the woman, a lifting of the corners of her mouth and chin.
‘I did this for me,’
the caption read beneath one of the photographs of the grandmother posing with her hands on her hips, shoulders back, head held high.
‘Not for my husband, or my family. For me.’

Dora would strongly approve of this woman, Eileen thought. Dora who rarely left the house without full make-up, matching handbag and shoes, and a pashmina tossed casually around her shoulders. Wonderful Dora who, despite the heartbreak in her life, always came bouncing back. She was currently bursting with happiness over a new man she’d met through her Soiree Club. ‘You have to meet this one,’ Dora had gushed. ‘He’s just the sweetest man alive.’

‘There have been sweet men before,’ Eileen had pointed out cautiously.

‘Ah, but this one is the real thing. And so very interesting. He used to run his own wine-importing business. He wants to take me to Barcelona for a long weekend.’

For the first time Eileen felt envious of her friend. What did she have to look forward to each week, other than a husband who hardly spoke to her these days? She and Bob could sit in the same room together, watch the television together, even share the same bed, yet all the time they were separated by a distance that was growing wider every day. If only he would share his grief with her.

But that was never going to happen. Not now he’d found someone else to do that with. Another woman.

A buzzer above the receptionist’s hatch went off. Eileen looked at the blue disc in her hand, back at the flashing light and registered that it was her turn to go through to the doctor. She remained in her seat though, suddenly aware that she was on the brink of an important decision. The way she saw it, she had three options. She could go and sit in that doctor’s dull, cramped room and pour out her problems and admit she was terrified her husband would leave her. Or she could simply lie and hold out her hand like a good little girl and accept those magic sweeties in the hope they would turn her head to cotton wool. Or, she could simply walk out of here and ... and do what, exactly?

She was still pondering this question outside in the cold November wind as she waited for Dora’s car to appear round the corner. When it did, Dora said, ‘You were quick. The surgery not busy today?’

‘I didn’t see the doctor. But I think I did see a chink of light. And I need your help.’

 

Bob would give anything to leap in his car and drive down to Warwick and see how Jennifer was. But he couldn’t. In half an hour, when he’d finished cleaning the gutters, he had to fetch the children home from school, and then later he had to get things ready for the firework display he was putting on for them. It had been Harriet’s idea to have fireworks. ‘You always used to put on a good show for us, Dad,’ she’d said. He’d noticed how she’d winced as she said the word ‘us’, and felt the sting of it himself. When the girls had been small, he’d loved seeing the joyful delight in their faces as they’d written their names in the darkness with sparklers. One day he might be brave enough to unearth the collection of cine films he had from those days. But that day, if it ever came, was a long way off. The pain of seeing his darling daughter projected onto the blank wall of the dining room - moving, laughing and staring straight into the camera lens in that bold, challenging way she had - would bring him to his knees. A position from which he was terrified there would be no recovery.

Climbing down the ladder, he stood on the patio and looked at the mess he’d created. Slimy, rotting leaves lay scattered all around him. He began sweeping them up and loading them into the wheelbarrow to take down to the compost heap. When he’d been working all hours and driving a thousand miles a week, he’d longed for days like this, when he could do nothing but potter in the garden, treating every day as a weekend. He must have been mad. How could he ever have thought that this nothingness would suit him? Where was his identity? Who the hell was this half man he’d become, who spent his days wandering the wastelands of garden centres and DIY stores and doing the school run? Where in God’s name had Bob Swift gone?

Jennifer would have the answer. She always seemed to be able to answer his questions. When he’d left her on Saturday night he could have wept. She’d been close to tears herself and if she’d said the words ‘don’t go’ he would have obeyed without a second thought. Instead, he’d made sure she had everything to hand, including his mobile number.

She had finally given in to common sense - and a rising temperature - on Friday evening and told him she was going home. ‘You were right,’ she said.

‘In that case, I’ll drive you home.’

‘What will you tell your wife?’

‘I’ll think of something.’

‘We are going to be sensible about this, aren’t we?’ she’d said when they were halfway through the journey and she’d woken from a deep sleep.

He’d kept his gaze on the road. ‘I’m not sure that I can cope with being sensible any more,’ he said.

‘But your marriage? You mustn’t do anything to wreck that.’

‘Perhaps it’s wrecked already.’

They didn’t speak again until she was directing him to where she lived - a bungalow at the end of a pot-holed farm track. Its isolation worried him, despite her saying that the farmer on whose land she lived was only a phone call away.

She was exhausted from a severe coughing fit when they arrived, and after he’d settled her on the sofa, covered her with a throw and had figured out the central-heating system, he made her some tea then drove to the nearest shops and stocked up on essentials. He knew she wouldn’t eat much, but he bought what he thought might tempt her. It was strange buying food for someone he hadn’t known for long. Did she like mushroom soup? Did she prefer white or wholemeal bread? Butter or margarine? But in all other ways, he felt he knew her so well.