The First Time I Saw Your Face
First published in Great Britain in 2012 by
Quercus Editions Ltd
55 Baker Street
7th Floor, South Block
London
W1U 8EW
Copyright © 2012 Hazel Osmond
The moral right of Hazel Osmond to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
eBook ISBN 978 0 85738 032 6
Print ISBN 978 1 84916 419 1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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THE FIRST TIME I SAW YOUR FACE
Hazel Osmond lives in Northumberland with her husband and two children and has, for many years, been an advertising copywriter. In 2008, she won the
Woman & Home
short-story competition sponsored by Costa. She is also a keen amateur actor and has worked her way up from ‘maid who drops tray’, via Lady Macbeth, to performances at the Edinburgh Fringe. Her first novel
Who's Afraid of Mr Wolfe?
was shortlisted for the RNA's Romantic Comedy Novel of the Year Award 2012. She is currently writing her third novel.
Also by Hazel Osmond
Who’s Afraid of Mr Wolfe?
To Northumberland – huge skies, great views, big hearts
CHAPTER 1
Yes, the statue was definitely winking. Down came one of the Roman centurion’s silver eyelids and there was a twist of the head which made the plume on his helmet ripple. The little cluster of tourists gathered nearby gave a variety of squeals before they went back to taking photographs, snapping indiscriminately at the statue, the front of the Abbey, a guy hanging about with a dog on a piece of string and, sometimes, themselves.
Mack, sitting a few yards away on a bench, felt a small finger poke his leg. ‘Why is that silver man winking at you?’
He turned to look at the girl attached to the poking finger.
‘Don’t know, Gabi,’ he said with a shrug and went back to trying to work out whether under all that silver paint there was someone he knew.
He was not surprised when his answer proved to be nowhere near good enough for Gabi and the poking finger was in action again.
‘Come on, Uncle Mack,’ she said, in a voice that reminded him very much of a talk-show host’s, ‘you can tell me.’
‘OK, I’ll come clean.’ He leaned into her. ‘He’s not really a Roman centurion: he’s a spy and I’m a spy and this is how we pass messages.’
‘Don’t fib. You’re not a spy, you look after Granny and you write particles—’
‘Articles.’
She patted his leg, but did not acknowledge the correction. ‘Besides, spies have posh cars and lots of girlfriends.’ That seemed to conclude the debate as far as she was concerned, and he didn’t know if he felt like laughing or becoming intensely depressed about the way she had, with a four-year-old’s clarity and cruelty, boiled his life down to ‘Granny’ and ‘particles’. That did just about sum it up. She was definitely spot on about the lack of posh cars and girlfriends.
He looked over at the centurion again and got another wink. There was a further wave of Euro squeals from the tourists who, Mack guessed, from the cut of their jeans and general glossiness, were Italian.
He was mulling over how bizarre it was that a group of Italians was staring at a man pretending to be Roman, when the statue not only winked at him again, but did a little jig, which sent the tourists into giggling, retreating clumps. As they drifted back and regrouped, Mack wondered where they were off to next: Oxford? Stratford? Would all the places merge into one long blur of history
and fiction when they got home? Jane Austen mixed up with Inspector Morse and Anne Hathaway?
‘Come on,’ he said, helping Gabi down from the bench, ‘let’s go and see what Silverus Maximus is up to. Your mum will be back soon.’
‘Mum and Fran and Granny,’ Gabi corrected him, and then added as if enthused by the idea, ‘How many teeth do you think Fran will have left?’
‘All of them, it’s only a check-up.’
‘And Granny, will they be able to mend the broken one?’
Yes, ready for her to break a different one next time.
‘Should think so. Now, can I put your mittens on?’
‘They won’t fit you.’ She waved her hands at him to make sure he got her joke. With the chubbiness of the very young child still about them, they made him think of little, fat starfishes.
He decided to drop the mitten idea and, as they set off over the flagstones, braced himself for the tide of questions that would be coming. It was one of the many things he loved about Gabi, her ability to ask questions that made him look at the world in a new way, but sometimes they fried his brain. Particularly the animal-related ones. Today she was interested to know whether the dog on the piece of string knew it should really have a lead and if it did, how would that make it feel – sad? Or free? And that pigeon with a ring round one leg, did that mean it was married? And if it was, where was Mrs Pigeon?
Mack knew it could have been worse: she could have asked him why some of the angels on the front of the
Abbey were falling from the ladders they were meant to be climbing. He didn’t want to think about that. Every time he passed them they reminded him of his own spectacular fall, although that hadn’t been off a ladder; more off a career, out of a revolving door and on to a pavement.
Leaving the marital status of pigeons behind, they reached the makeshift plinth, mingled with the Italians and looked up at the centurion. There had been a certain amount of artistic licence employed in the creation of his uniform, which not only featured the regulation breastplate and a sword held aloft in a ‘Forward to victory’ way, but also something that in a previous life had probably been a tigerskin rug, but was now a cloak, thanks to the addition of a gold-coloured chain and clasp. Mack hoped it provided some protection from the cold bite in the air, otherwise under all that silver it was probable that the centurion’s legs were blue. Hard, standing on a wintery plinth in Bath, when you were used to the seductively warm breezes of Rome.
He saw the centurion’s eyes shift his way, the whites looking sludgy against all that silver. Yes, definitely something familiar about the face.
‘Worked it out yet?’ the silver lips whispered, barely moving, and then the centurion jumped down off the plinth, causing a huge flurry of excitement. The sword was lowered on to the flagstones, and Mack felt Gabi cling on to his hand more tightly and tuck herself behind his legs.
‘Show over, show over,’ the centurion said loudly,
making clapperboard motions with his silver hands and using the ‘for the deaf’ tone that has endeared the British to other countries for centuries. The Italians slowly peeled away, some dropping coins in the tub at the base of the plinth, others pointedly looking anywhere but the tub.
‘Peter Craster,’ the centurion said with another of his winks before taking off his helmet. Bizarrely, the hair under it was also sprayed silver. He handed Mack the helmet and then stooped down to pick up the plastic tub, and Mack saw that Peter was from the Roman legion that favoured Y-fronts over boxers.
His mind scrambled to fit a character to the name and came up with a rather posh boy from school, one of the rugger crowd. Ten years ago, which was probably the last time he’d seen him, the guy had been heading for an economics degree at Warwick.
‘Of course,’ Mack said. ‘Sorry, didn’t recognise you, what with all that paint and the um … the uniform. It’s been a while.’
Peter Craster was picking through the coins, transferring them from the tub to a leather purse he had produced from under the tigerskin cloak. ‘Recognised you straight away.’ There was the wink again. ‘Bet you’re surprised to see me like this?’
What, painted silver and dressed as a centurion? No, natural career progression for an economist.
Mack was failing to come up with a polite reply when Peter said, ‘Of course you’re surprised; to tell you the truth, so am I. Went to Warwick, got a job in the City afterwards,
but you know …’ Mack guessed his wasn’t the only career that had taken a nosedive.
‘Thing is,’ Peter lowered his voice, ‘only got the bullet a few months ago and decamped back here, but it’s turned out to be a godsend. Bit of a goldmine.’ Mack looked at the leather purse, and Peter must have got his meaning because, stowing it away, he laughed. ‘No, no. I don’t mean standing here like a tit. I’m just filling in today: one of my lads is having his varicose veins done. Plays havoc standing up on one of those things for hours not moving.’
‘One of your lads?’
‘Yup, collective noun really – I have women too. About twenty people in all on the books now.’ Peter’s silver hands were constantly moving as he described the building of his own little Roman empire. ‘They were just crying out for someone to lead them, you see. I mean you can make little bits and pieces standing around all day, it’s still a steady earner, but the real money’s in events. Getting hired out for parties, book launches, that kind of thing. Not just centurions, of course.’ He laughed as though such a narrow specialisation was ludicrous. ‘Got all the Regency period covered, tourists go mad for that, and Mr Darcy’s a huge hit at weddings.’ Mack had a vision of Fitzwilliam Darcy appearing in a wet shirt just as the vicar said, ‘Does anybody know of any just cause …’
‘Tudors, Normans, Victorians,’ Peter enthused, ‘and now we’re branching into lookalikes. Film stars, pop stars.’ He whistled. ‘You should see my Gaga.’
Mack felt rather than heard Gabi giggle and said
quickly, ‘Glad it’s turned out well for you …’ He trailed off as he became aware that Peter Craster was frowning at him in a way that threatened to make his paint peel.
‘So, you just back here on holiday?’ he asked. ‘Went into journalism didn’t you? London? My mother said something about showbiz gossip? Must be—’
‘That didn’t work out. Just freelancing now.’ Mack handed the helmet back to Peter, hoping it would serve as a full stop to the conversation.
‘Didn’t work out?’ Peter asked, hint untaken.
Mack wondered what would happen to Peter’s paint job if he told him the truth.
It’s like this, Peter; I came home early to find my editor, a bastard called O’Dowd, in bed with my girlfriend. So, in revenge, I dropped his home phone number into an article about a man who was impotent. No one spotted it until the next day, when prank callers began making obscene phone calls to his wife, and the other papers took to calling him ‘Mr Floppy’. That’s when he went ballistic, threatened to remove my testicles with a hot spoon and made sure I would never work on a national paper again.
‘Artistic differences,’ Mack settled for, easily fudging the truth. When Peter looked as though he might have follow-up questions Mack added in a weary tone, ‘Happened about three years ago.’
‘Oh, that’s hard.’ Peter was all concern now. ‘Especially when you’ve got little ones.’
‘No, Gabi is my sister’s – Tess – remember her?’
‘All the same.’ Suddenly Peter’s arm was round Mack’s shoulder. ‘Might be able to help: you’d be a shoo-in for a
pirate lookalike. Earring, eyepatch, let your hair grow longer. Can you do stubble?’ Mack was unable to confirm what his achievements with facial hair were before a business card was produced. He lifted it from silver fingers.
DOUBLE TAKE
Let us be the still life and soul of your party
