Quarter Past Two on a Wednesday Afternoon (2 page)

The estate agent brought the Baverstocks on their first and second viewings, but on their third visit, with the offer accepted and solicitors engaged, they came un accompanied, to take measurements for curtains and furniture. Don did most of the talking, while she smiled and made tea and listened, retreating into silence.

‘We’ve looked at so many, but this is the house for us. And it’s the garden that sold it to us.’ Mrs Baverstock was a young woman of, surely, Rose’s age, sleekly casual. ‘It’ll be wonderful for the boys.’ Too sure of herself, assuming the right to have anything she wants. The husband had a notebook and an air of wanting to get on with things, looking around the room as if for flaws.

Three boys, they told Don in answer to his questions; eight, ten and five. They asked about schools. They expressed polite interest in the house in Cranbrook, in the reasons for the move; Don said that it was time for a change, for downsizing.

They can’t wait for us to move out, she thought, so that they can take over, bringing their boys and their noise. They’ll dig up my plants and install decking and a swing, a barbecue.

‘It’ll be a wrench, I’m sure.’ Mrs Baverstock has asked them to call her Joanne, and her husband Tim; but, having taken against them for planning to live here, she doesn’t intend to call them anything. ‘Your children grew up here, did they? That’s a lot of memories to leave behind.’

Children. They’d seen Rose’s room, of course. They’d tramped in, talking loudly about bunk beds for the two older boys.

She knows Don can’t lie. He nodded, looking at her uneasily, but this time she did speak. ‘A daughter, Anna. She lives in London.’

What business of theirs, anyway?

‘Boys!’ she said to Don, when they’d gone. ‘I can’t see this as a boys’ house. Boys in my garden! They’ll kick footballs. Scuff the lawn. Break stems off plants.’

‘Come on, love. It can’t be helped. And you’ll have your new garden.’

Always, to hold herself steady, the garden is where she retreats. Mentally she places herself in dappled light under the pear tree, looking across at the wide border and the massed flowers of the
Veilchenblau
rose – mauve, almost blue, against the fence.

And whenever she wants to, if she listens, she hears the girls’ voices, one calling to the other from the swing, or Rose giving Anna instructions. Eventually they will come in, hungry, in search of biscuits, or choc-ices from the freezer: Anna with dirty fingernails and dishevelled hair, Rose as if from a world of her own devising. There they are, playing, secure in the green enclosure of childhood, where it is always summer.

Anna was painting the bedroom walls. Martin was at Ruth’s today, and she’d decided to get on with the job alone, to surprise him when he came in. As soon as he left, she caught a bus to B&Q, taking a taxi back with her purchases; then she changed into jeans and an old T-shirt, moved and covered the furniture, and spread newspaper over the carpet. The hours passed in a succession of radio news and CDs, mugs of coffee going cold on the windowsill while she painted and painted.

She and Martin had put off the job of redecorating, getting only as far as choosing a colour. Now, giving the whole day to it, she found an unexpected pleasure in the task: the dip into cool green, the loading of the brush with enough but not too much paint, the nudge against the side of the tin; then the custardy glide, as scuff-marks and small blemishes disappeared beneath a skim of perfection. It was years since she’d painted. The feel of the brush in her hand recalled the art rooms at school and at college, years ago when there had been time to think of nothing but making marks on paper or board. Then, earning a living had seemed irrelevant, a worry she needn’t face yet; devoting herself for hours on end to the picturings of her imagination could be seen as a virtue. An artistic future had surely been her due, waiting for her to claim it. She had almost forgotten, but this felt good, the ache in her neck and arm as she edged colour along below the cornice, standing on a stool to reach. Stepping down to the floor, she admired her work, the stretch of wall gleaming and flawless.

Martin had suggested that her picture could hang here, above the bed, but now Anna wasn’t sure. Expecting him to dismiss it as immature, she’d felt touched that he liked it and thought it too good to be hidden in a cupboard. She washed her hands and went to fetch it from the spare room, laying it on the old curtains spread over the bed.

For her A-Level exhibition she had given it the title
Shore
. In a tall, narrow frame, it showed a stretch of shoreline, low tide lapping at the left-hand frame. In the foreground, the prints of bare feet were sharply delineated, fading into the tideline as they receded to the small, indistinguishable figure walking alone by the sea’s edge. Only her art teacher had understood that she meant the title ironically:
Shore
, when she was sure of nothing but absence and uncertainty. The painting asked a question that had never been answered, even now.

Anna admired the light through sea-mist, the smudged suggestion of low cliffs at the horizon. I painted that, she thought, wondering if she could still do as well. Perhaps she ought to make time, join a class; there were plenty of opportunities. She had forgotten what it meant to her, back in the days when she was never without a sketchbook and pencils. But – she angled her gaze at the picture, and at the point on the wall where she supposed it might hang – did she really want to invite Rose into the bedroom? To install her, even that imagined glimpse, above the bed?

She would stow it back in the cupboard, after all; tell Martin that she didn’t like it any more, and they could choose something together, something new. She slid the picture back into its sleeve of corrugated cardboard, thinking that next time she went home she’d take it with her, replace it in the portfolio with the rest of her work.

Home
– she was doing it again. Home was not here but her parents’ house, the home that would soon belong to someone else. It was the only real home she knew; everything since had been temporary, and after more than a year she still thought of this flat as Martin’s. Home was Sevenoaks, the quiet cul-de-sac, the shady garden, her old bedroom. Once her parents moved out, it would be gone from her life, an idea she was finding impossible to grasp. She had been astonished – dismayed too – by her mother’s decision to leave, but, knowing that her father thought it a good thing, had helped all she could, searching RightMove, making contacts, even accompanying them on some of their viewings. Soon everything would be packed up and moved; she’d have to go through the belongings stored in her bedroom and in the loft, and either bring them here or dispose of them. More significantly, Rose’s things would have to be confronted, and decisions made. Who would do that?

In her parents’ spare bedroom – Rose’s room – Anna’s student portfolio was kept in the cupboard. She hadn’t looked at it since the time when Martin had shown an interest, but the other Rose picture, the watercolour she’d kept back from the exhibition because it was too private, was among the paintings and sketches stored there. It showed the garden, and the pear tree where the swing had been hung when she and Rose were children. Anna had painted Rose under the tree, reading: bare legs stretched out, feet with toenails newly painted a dark and somehow provocative purple. The bottle of nail polish was on the grass beside the lounger. Sunlight dappled Rose’s face and glossed her hair; her head and shoulders turned towards the onlooker with an expression that was partly smug self-containment, part annoyance at being interrupted.

Anna had never shown that painting to anyone but her art teacher. Now, with it clear in her mind, she couldn’t tell whether it was painting or memory she was seeing. She had expected to feel relieved – a sense of closure, as people said – that once the house was sold she would never see the garden again, never stand in the silence of Rose’s room. Instead she felt only loss; the loss of her childhood, of herself as Rose’s sister.

Briskly she carried the
Shore
painting back to the spare room and put it away. She wished she hadn’t been tempted to look; she should have known better than to poke a stick into that particular pond. Again she looked at the bedroom walls, now drying nicely; she was glad to have finished before Martin got back, to tidy away the sheets of news-paper, the brushes and tins. Martin hated clutter.

At the sink, washing out her brushes, she realized how late it was: nearly eight o’clock. Looking out at the street below, the canopy above the jeweller’s and the lit windows of the Cantonese restaurant opposite, she heard someone calling, and a siren from the direction of Clerkenwell Road. Voices carried in the chilly air; people hurried along the pavements, faces half hidden in scarves and upturned collars. It had been a day of piercing cold, the kind of January day that felt marooned in midwinter, the hours of daylight a brief reprieve before darkness fell again.

She was hungry now, her thoughts turning to food. It was Monday tomorrow and Martin was due to make an early start, driving to an appointment in Aylesbury. She took a ready meal out of the freezer – beef stroganoff, his favourite – and put it in the oven, then changed her clothes, brushed her hair and checked her mobile. He hadn’t left a voicemail or text message. When she called there was no answer, which presumably meant he was on his way, driving.

Anna thought of calling Ruth, but instead phoned her parents. It was her mother who answered, sounding cheerful and a little distant.

‘Yes, everything’s fine. Our buyers came round yesterday, Mr and Mrs Baverstock. Fortyish, I should think, or late thirties. Nice enough. They’ve got a young family. Boys.’

‘Oh.’ Anna couldn’t adjust to the speed of this; her mother’s decision to move, and now, barely two weeks after her parents had put in their own offer, a buyer for the Sevenoaks house.
And how did you feel about meeting them?
she wanted to ask.
The thought of them taking over our house?
But something in her mother’s tone discouraged her, a note of bright determination that might be too easy to flatten.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’ve been painting the bedroom,’ Anna said. ‘Now I’m waiting for Martin.’

‘Why, where is he?’

‘He’s been over at Ruth’s.’

Usually her mother showed faint distaste when Ruth was mentioned; much as she approved of Martin, and his stabilizing influence on Anna, she preferred not to acknowledge his previous life, his marriage and his two sons. Anna expected her to change the subject, but instead there was a pause, then: ‘Ruth’s? Do I know who Ruth is?’

Anna felt cold. This wasn’t the first lapse.

‘Mum, of course you do.
Ruth
. Martin’s ex-wife. He had to help her sort out some financial stuff – her mother’s accounts and suchlike.’

‘Ah, that one,’ her mother said, as if Martin had had several wives. ‘Her mother died.’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ Anna was thankful not to have to explain again.

‘Of course I remember. It’s just that there’s such a lot to think about, with the move.’

‘I know, Mum. It’s a huge upheaval. I’ll come over and help you sort through stuff whenever you like.’

‘Oh … not yet,’ said her mother, vague again. ‘There’s plenty of time to think about that sort of thing.’

When another hour had passed and Martin still hadn’t returned, Anna gave in and phoned Ruth. Was it breaking a taboo? But if a rule did exist, it wasn’t of her own making.

Ruth answered at once. Yes, she told Anna, Martin had just left. He hadn’t expected to stay so late, but there’d been a lot to sort out.

‘I could come too, another time,’ Anna offered, wanting the conversation to be more than transactional. ‘You know, if there’s anything …’

‘Thanks, Anna. Actually, that might be good, in a week or two.’

‘Whenever you want. Are you OK?’

Silly question.

‘Yes,’ said Ruth, though she sounded doubtful. Even, perhaps, a bit sniffly.

‘I’ll call next week, shall I?’ Anna told her, already planning to do it when Martin wasn’t around.

The drive from Woodford would take about half an hour, depending on traffic. Anna set the table and put out salad, then made up the bed in the spare room.

When he came in, Martin gave no sign of noticing the cooking smells or the laid table. Anna went to him for a kiss, and he gave her a peck on the cheek, perfunctory, almost irritable.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, more sharply than she meant.

‘Nothing. I’m tired, that’s all.’

‘Come and see what I’ve been doing!’ Taking him by the arm, she pulled him towards the bedroom door. ‘What do you think?’ She stood triumphant, looking at the immaculate walls, and the bed still covered with old curtains; childlike, she waited to be praised and petted.

He glanced around. ‘You didn’t say you were doing this today. I thought we’d agreed on the blue?’

‘This is the one,’ Anna told him. ‘You called it blue, but it’s the one we chose. Bluey-green. Greeny-blue.’ Last weekend she had bought sample tubes and had patched each colour on the wall near the window, writing the names in faint pencil.

‘No, that one was blue. This is green. Definitely green.’

‘I
know
it’s green! Jackman’s Green. It was you who said— Oh, never mind.’

‘It’s fine,’ Martin conceded. ‘I’m not saying I don’t like it. And you’ve done a good job. We can’t sleep in here tonight, though. It’ll take a day or two for the paint smell to go away.’

‘I know. The bed’s ready in the spare room, and I’ve moved our things. Let’s go and eat.’

Martin moved away. ‘Actually I don’t need anything. Ruth made us a meal.’

‘Oh, great.’ She followed him back to the kitchen, all expectation of pleasure draining out of the evening. ‘Why didn’t you let me know? And why are you so cross? Didn’t you have a good time with Liam?’

‘I’m not,’ Martin said, looking directly at her for the first time. ‘Liam was fine. It’s all a bit wearing, that’s all.’

‘What is?’

He puffed out his breath. ‘So much to sort out. I thought Ruth would have done more by now.’