New World in the Morning (3 page)

“You hadn't reckoned on the house at all. Whoever would have thought we'd end up in a rectory?” I smiled, wryly. “And without my having to take holy orders?”

Indeed, the whole thing had seemed extraordinary. (Miraculous, said Junie.) Suddenly we'd heard that a new rectory was being built actually in the church grounds, some half a mile away; this present one would soon be up for sale. We'd known instantly that it was meant for us. Yet our utter conviction hadn't saved us from anxiety, nor obsession. We'd likened it to being in love. It was in fact more stressful. I'd never experienced such fear of ultimate frustration: there could exist no other house so wholly right for us. It was ridiculous how childish we had been. Well, no—not me. Junie.
Now
she had grown placid but that was only because of years of trust in my protection.
Then
she had seemed as mercurial as I myself had been stoical and strong.

Stoical, strong
and
resourceful. We went to Junie's parents; asked for help. I was in the mood to barter: an unacknowledged pact. They'd known me for three years, had all but adopted me. Groomed me, tagged me. They themselves had married young and—they said—been happy as lovebirds. Likewise they'd always claimed I had no need of university. ‘Gilding the golden boy,' was what they'd called it. (Golden Boy: my epithet at school.) More honestly they could have called it, ‘Risking his faithfulness.' No, they said. Better to settle down in a good job, get married, raise children, stay in Deal. The Fletcher clan was nothing if not familial.

Staunchly so.

The house belonged to the Church Commissioners, who knew there were other parties interested and had therefore decided, finally, on a sealed bid auction.

We had no idea, of course, what our competitors were offering. We became reckless. Didn't care if we went too high. Didn't care how long it might take to pay back Junie's parents.

Pay them back, that is, the difference between the sum we'd offered and the far smaller sum which a building society had offered
us
. In order to be eligible I had hurriedly applied for a position at Lloyds Bank in the town.

The day we learnt we'd got the house should have been, as Junie said, one of the most exciting of our lives. It was only a pity I suffered from a toothache during most of it—and perhaps, too, a small bit, from reaction.

“But yes,” I agreed now, “we have been
very
fortunate.”

For a while we appreciated in silence what we had.

Then I prodded the grass with the tip of one shoe. “It'll soon need mowing.” I hadn't cut it yet this year. “Isn't it amazing how those daffodils keep hanging on? A week ago—ten days ago—I really thought their time had come. You've got to admire their tenacity.”

“Resilient,” said Junie.

I laughed. “Are they resilient? All right, you've got to admire that, too.”

After a further few minutes I yawned. I withdrew my hand from hers and sensuously stretched out my arms. It was an evening that induced contentment and gave a pleasant preview of approaching summer.

“You wouldn't feel like walking Susie with me?” I asked.

“Oh, that would be nice, darling, but I can't. For one thing I've got some pies in the oven: pies to take tomorrow. And for another it would mean leaving Matt on his own. I know he's quite a big boy now and that we shouldn't be away for long but all the same…”

“He is quite a big boy now. Do you realize it's his birthday in under a fortnight?”

“How can I forget? He gives us plenty of reminders.”

“If we were Jewish he would then be fully adult.” I was aware my feelings were confused.

“It's
my
birthday in about six weeks. I think I'll be fully adult, too. Oh, I'm not so sure. Maybe.”

“As you know, he wants some dumbbells. If you like I'll order you the same.”

“Why not take him on your walk?”

“He's just got in a bath. To celebrate completion of his project. He's been lent a Stephen King and means to have a wallow.”

I called the dog and went out on my own.

5

We walked down to the sea. I found a stick for Susie to chase along the shingle and, during intervals of hurling it, tried to skim flat stones across the waves. Moonlight set a path upon the water and the sky was packed with stars. For a full minute I stood there with my head thrown back. I imagined I was Captain Kirk, commander of the starship Enterprise, now speeding boldly through the galaxies. It was fun to think of him unshakably protecting us.

“Good evening, Mr Groves.”

It was Moira Sheffield. I'd been so caught up in space I gave a start.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I feel we interrupted some important metaphysical reverie.”

“Yes, I was whizzing through the stars with Captain Kirk.”

“Oh, in that case it was important. It's just that seeing you I didn't stop to think.” She added: “But it's a small world, isn't it?”

“Not when you're looking up at the stars,” smiled her companion. “Good evening,” she said to me.

“Mr Groves…Mrs Dawlish…though I believe you two already know each other.”

“No, no,” said Mrs Dawlish, who was fortyish and pleasant-looking but, in this half-light at any rate, wholly unfamiliar. “It's only that I've been into the shop once or twice; no reason why you should remember. I'm surprised I don't come in daily—it's by far the most enthralling shop in town.”

“Thank you. Yes, of course I remember you.” We shook hands. It occurred to me as somewhat strange that I should be shaking hands with
her
when I had never done so with her friend.

“And by the way,” she said, “I love the fruit bowl.”

Then Susie came bounding back from wherever she'd been and jumped up at all three of us. I called her off sharply—and much to my satisfaction she obeyed.

“Oh, that's all right,” said Miss Sheffield, bending to stroke the chastened animal. “But why Susie? I'd have thought you'd call her Patch.”

“Susie's short for Black-Eyed Susan.”

“Ah.”

I was pleased to be discovered not totally predictable.

“Isn't it a heavenly evening!” said Mrs Dawlish. “I feel we hardly had need of our coats.”

“Mr Groves is evidently a hardier type.”

“Or just more reckless,” I said.

“Doesn't your wife,” asked Miss Sheffield, “tell you that you ought to wear a coat?”

“How do you know I've got one? A wife, that is. Or come to that—a coat?”

She laughed. “Oh, don't be difficult! I may as well reveal it: you were the subject of a spot of speculation. I said you didn't look as if you could be married. Liz said she was certain that you were.”

I had wondered whether they would have spoken of me. And clearly Miss Sheffield's impression had been favourable:
D'you suppose he might be single
? I felt so gratified that—ludicrously—I began to get an erection.

“First…why did you think I could be single? Did I come across as queer?”

“Good heavens, no,” she smiled. “Not at all. You looked too…”

“Young?” I interpolated.

“Let's just say, too unbowed by care and the responsibilities of family life.” She, also, was sounding slightly less than serious. “Too boyish—no, that isn't right. Too happy, maybe? I'm not sure what it was; merely a feeling.”

“And you, Mrs Dawlish? I must have impressed
you
as appearing to carry the world upon my shoulders?”

“He's playing with us,” said Miss Sheffield. “Now that isn't nice. It's not the hallmark of a gentleman. We made ourselves vulnerable and he betrayed our trust.”

“Perhaps I'm simply not as cynical as Moira,” said Mrs Dawlish.

“Yes, she is cynical, isn't she?” I was aware that I was flirting; almost as blatantly as the woman in question.

“Also I think to myself,” went on Mrs Dawlish, “that if a man is in his thirties and interested in women and—well, I may as well say it—as attractive as you are…then certainly he's married. There rests my case.”

“And I suppose,” said Miss Sheffield, “that if into the bargain he has a dog… None of it conclusive, mind, but yes I admit that gradually I might be coming round to your way of thinking. I'm going to lose my 20p.”

“You had 20p riding on this?”

“And finally—most damning of all, the bit that really clinches it—he won't tell us! Now why should he be cagey?”

“Okay, I'll come clean, then.”

“Well?”

“No, I'm not married.”

“
Not
?” exclaimed Miss Sheffield.

“No. You win your 20p.”

“Living with someone?”

“No.”

“Not even that?”

“Not even that.”

“Which just demonstrates, doesn't it, the truthfulness of first impressions? One shouldn't lose one's confidence.”

“Well, what about
my
first impressions?” asked Mrs Dawlish, reasonably.

She didn't get an answer.

“But Mr Groves. How in heaven's name have you escaped so long?”

“
More
cynicism, Miss Sheffield?”

“Oh, but possibly it's justified. I mean—having once been married myself.”

I lost my levity; gave a shrug; said nothing.

“So where does that leave me?” asked Mrs Dawlish. “I still am. Married.”

“Plainly it was Mrs Sheffield,” I answered, now smiling again, “who was handing out those burdens which make a person bowed! Plainly it's Mrs Sheffield who represents the kind of woman a potential husband must escape from!” Then I recognized how tactless I was being: an actual husband had already done so. I almost apologized but was frightened to compound my gaffe.

“Wrong,” said the butt of all that mild disappointment. (Yet why should I feel disappointed?)

“Wrong?”

“Yes.
I
was the one who needed to escape. And, besides, you had it right before—
Miss
Sheffield; I took back my own name.” She paused. “But as a way of breaking free from all such confusion—how about Moira?”

“Sam,” I said, automatically.

“Yes, I know.”

“And Liz,” said Mrs Dawlish, “if the fact of my being not merely married, but even fairly contentedly so, doesn't altogether rule me out. At the moment I
am
a grass widow, which ought to count a little in my favour.”

“Actually, I—”

“We were just filling our lungs with sea air,” said Moira, “before tripping along to
The Lord Nelson
for a quick one. You wouldn't care to join us?” Even in only the moonlight—especially, perhaps, in only the moonlight—her smile was surely as entrancing as any smile of Lady Hamilton's. Her complexion looked flawless. I felt a longing to touch her skin; to brush the back of my fingers slowly up one cheek.

“Well, thank you, yes, I'd enjoy that. I—oh, hell—I haven't any money on me!” I'd given the last of my small change to Matt; had left my wallet in my jacket pocket when I'd swopped the jacket for a jumper.

“I shall treat you,” she said. “Out of my winnings.”

“And if we have time for any second round,” said Liz Dawlish, “I shall treat you, too. But I shall have to do it, unhappily, out of nothing but the simple goodness of my heart.”

“And how about you, Susie? What's yours going to be? A refreshing pint of five-star water?”

Susie had been sitting on the pebbles throughout all this. Now, as Moira spoke to her, she cocked her head inquiringly as if desperately anxious to understand, and her long white tail swept rhythmically across the stones. She was being a model dog, perfectly behaved. Moira bent a second time to stroke her.

“Good old Susie,” she said, as she straightened up. “I expected you to testify for Liz!” We began to mount towards the promenade, the shingle slipping noisily away beneath our feet.

Here was my opportunity. For the retraction of a lighthearted act of derring-do which I'd performed because I'd wanted to see if I could get away with it—yes, and how it would have felt. My opportunity, after that spontaneous foray into a forbidden world (O brave new world: already having drinks bought for me, unilaterally, by two nice-looking and sophisticated women!) and into that heady kingdom of what might have been. A brief, ten-minute trespass.

But far
too
brief. Impossible to leave so soon.

So why not make it an hour? Playful rascal back to solid citizen by midnight. Contrite but forgiven. And understood. Reassured he hasn't lost his dormant—maybe atrophied—attraction.

“What's this?” I said. “Susie, star witness for the Dawlish camp! Then can't a single man who's lonely be permitted to possess a dog?”

“It truly didn't occur to me he couldn't—not at first. But subconsciously, perhaps, I still think of dogs as belonging to families. Stupid of me. I'm sorry.”

“Actually she belongs to our neighbours,” I told her. “They're rather elderly and sometimes I walk her for them.” Gilding both the lily
and
the golden boy. It all came to me so easily. No trace of guilt; not yet, in any case. Before, it had been fun. Now, it seemed addictive.

“Our?” she repeated. “
Our
neighbours?”

That gave me pause. But she misread my hesitation, thought I hadn't understood the question.

“Do you still live at home, then? With your parents?”

“Oh, no, my parents are dead.” Gilding be blowed: when hoping to deceive you stick closely to the truth. “My mother died when I was a boy and my father…” I hadn't realized I would mention this but suddenly discovered that I could. “Well, my father died just two days afterwards. From then on I was brought up by my gran.”

But now I was faced with a choice: should I resurrect Granny and give my life a flavour of nobility and sacrifice—the grateful grandson honouring his debt—or should I tear away completely from the thought of apron strings (implicit, however uncritically, in the surprised tone of the question) and perhaps invent a commune: a way of living which, ideally, had always quite appealed to me…especially if located on some sundrenched, far-off island? And of course lodgers were another possibility—although slightly more mundane.