The Widow's Tale (15 page)

I
couldn't now say for certain how much time elapsed between me seeing Paul in Cambridge and my coming up to Norfolk to spend the weekend with him. A month, maybe. Perhaps a little longer. At the time, I'm sure, it must have felt like an eternity, and long enough for me to become convinced that Paul would lose interest and for the whole thing to wither on the vine.

As far as John was concerned I was simply visiting some old friend from college. Rather than spin some intricate web of lies involving a real person I conjured up an entirely fictitious individual. It just seemed a good deal easier and, in the event, John had less trouble with me hiking off to Norfolk for the weekend than Ginny, who'd perhaps paid a little more attention to our conversations over the previous couple of decades and was now finding it difficult to give credence to this dear old pal of mine who'd just popped up, completely out of the blue.

Anyway, on the Friday morning John pecked me on the cheek and went off to work. I remember standing in the kitchen and giving it serious consideration, but felt not the merest flicker of guilt. In fact, it took some restraint on my part not to jump in my car and plough straight into the rush hour. As I recall, I managed to wait until about half past nine before setting off, but I must've still
got up here by mid-afternoon. Checked into the hotel, unpacked, made myself a cup of tea, and still had a good couple of hours to hang about.

It was Paul who recommended the hotel – a place which, even back then, was fairly grand. The village was probably somewhat scruffier and I doubt there were quite so many letting agents. But it was still a pretty little place. We'd arranged for Paul to join me straight after work on the Friday evening, which meant we'd have all of Saturday together and possibly some of Sunday, depending on whether he managed to swap shifts with a colleague … or something along those lines.

It really doesn't seem that long ago. But, to put it into some sort of context, at the time mobile phones were still considered to be the toys almost exclusively of city traders. I mention this only because, having bathed and powdered myself and done my best to make myself irresistible in every conceivable way, I didn't dare leave the hotel to take a stroll out on the saltmarshes – the same saltmarshes on which I now seem to spend half my waking hours – in case Paul tried to call me via the hotel switchboard. So I just flitted about the room and sat and waited. Then flitted about the room some more.

It had been established a good couple of weeks earlier as being quite impractical for me to stay with Paul. The whole situation was
difficult
. Was
complicated
. And, in the vaguest way, something to do with the cottage being tied to the trust which employed Paul. As if my very presence would have provided sufficient grounds for the
terms of the lease to be broken, or the neighbours to be scandalised. Or to set in motion some other inexplicable process, which would lead to Paul finding himself thrown out and wandering the lanes of Norfolk, destitute.

Of course, I now know this to be absolute claptrap. In my defence, all I'll say is that it didn't seem so at the time. It seemed a little odd, but not suspicious. Paul had sworn blind that there was no beautiful, dutiful wife squirrelled away back at the cottage. And he appeared to be just as frustrated by the situation as me. I simply thought to myself, ‘What quaint, anachronistic codes of behaviour they have out in the shires.'

Paul finally pitched up around five-thirty. I stood and watched at the window as he pulled into the car park. I was desperate to run down to him, but didn't want to jump all over him in public – wanted to do that when we were alone. So I was obliged to spend another few minutes pacing my room. Then stood at the door, watching the lights above the lift, until it finally reached my floor. And the doors slowly crept open and I went belting down the corridor and threw my arms around him.

More than anything else, I just remember being so utterly, utterly relieved. I felt that I was myself again. Felt like I could breathe. For what it's worth, Paul seemed about as pleased to see me as I was to see him. And the rest of the evening proceeded in pretty much the way we'd both anticipated, the only surprise being that we both got quite seriously drunk.

After breakfast on the Saturday morning we had a stroll
around the village, then drove over to Holkham Sands, where we sat and looked out over that long, wide beach, with that endless sky above it for what seemed like the entire day. I'm not generally one for trying to quantify my little moments of happiness. What good does it do you in the end? But I doubt there have been many days in my life when I've come close to feeling half as hopeful as I did that afternoon.

I'd love to know what we talked about, wrapped up in the confines of Paul's jacket and each other's arms. I can't recall a single word. Though the words aren't particularly important. What's important is that sense of calm and warmth. And resolution. Most of which is as lost to me now as the conversation itself.

I was still high as a kite later that evening, back in my hotel room, when Paul told me, ever so quietly, how he'd split up from his partner earlier that year, whilst going to great pains to point out how this had all happened long before the two of us had met. Rather perversely, I took some reassurance from this news – from the fact that there
had
been someone. But that she was now well out of the way.

It was pretty clear that he was still quite cut up by the whole thing. Indeed, I remember comforting him. And when I look back now I find that scene particularly sickening. Possibly because my sympathy was so utterly disingenuous, and masked nothing but my own insecurities. And possibly because Paul was prepared to accept such consolation when, as it later transpired, the
relationship whose demise we both purported to mourn was, in fact, far from dead.

I sometimes wonder what I was hoping for. How I thought things might ultimately turn out. That I would simply leave John and trot off to the sticks to be with Paul? A man who understood the weather … and appreciated the seasons … who could confidently identify the birds and plants and trees? And that the two of us would find our own untied, uncomplicated cottage, where we would raise chickens and grow our own potatoes? Well, frankly, yes. I think that was pretty much the long and short of it. And I'm still a little shocked at just how readily I would have abandoned John and my dearest friends for this relative stranger. Unless all I was looking for was an excuse to do precisely that.

On the Saturday night, as we sat at our table in the hotel restaurant, I remember Paul glancing around him in what I wrongly interpreted as a man impressed, or even intimidated, by his surroundings. It would be a couple of months before I put two and two together and realised that it was far more likely the fear of him seeing a member of staff or fellow-diner who had some connection to his own village. Someone who might convey to his ex-partner (who still happened to live just down the road from him) that he was out having dinner with another woman – and a much older woman at that.

But before I was able to review that scene in a new light, and even before we'd sat down to have that dinner, when I'd rather patronisingly thought that Paul had never
eaten in a decent restaurant, I have one other treasured memory. We were lying in bed up in my room and Paul happened to pick up a book that I was reading. He must have found a passage that he liked the sound of and read a couple of lines from it out loud. I remember that I was lying next to him, with my eyes closed. He stopped. And I asked him to carry on. I remember the words taking shape in the room. That lovely, lovely voice. I felt … such safety. I could feel myself begin to drift away. Like a child, being read to by a parent. And, like a child slipping into sleep, you sometimes force yourself awake. Perhaps because you don't want to go to sleep just yet. Or because you're worried about the strange dreams that sleep might bring. Or simply because you're happy here, with that steady voice slowly falling all around you. And that you want to stay right here, forevermore.

Well, that was about as good as it got. On the Sunday morning Paul made a call to one of his colleagues – a conversation which was, apparently, inconclusive. And I was informed that he'd have to drive over to the reserve and see what was going on. After a moment's thought I announced, quite breezily, that I might as well hang about for a couple of extra hours and that he could ring me once it was clear what was happening. But Paul doubted that it would be worth it. I took a breath. Actually, I said, it would be quite conceivable for me to book another night at the hotel. I could easily come up with some excuse for John. Then Paul could pop back over in the evening. But before I'd even finished I could see that Paul was beginning to
get irritated. And that the more I tried to accommodate him the more irritated he became.

I hadn't a clue what was going on. I could feel myself floundering. But what so upset me was the cold, clear realisation that I wanted Paul more than he wanted me. In any relationship one or the other of you is always in the driving seat. Over time, that power may grow, or diminish. It might even shift from one party to the other. But at any point both people know, deep down, who has the upper hand. Who can walk away and not get hurt. And if you're somehow convinced that you're in the one relationship which exists on a plane above and beyond such selfish forces – a relationship which is poised in perfect and permanent equilibrium, then all I can say is you're fooling nobody but yourself.

On that Sunday morning I was suddenly confronted with the fact that it was me doing all the clinging. And Paul withdrawing. Paul applying the brakes. You'd think I might have had some idea which way the wind was blowing. But when you fall that badly for someone it's probably because of something you need rather than something they have to offer. I wonder how long it took me to work that out? All I know is that, at the time, it was as if the ground had just opened up beneath me. We said our goodbyes and had a little hug. And I think I just about managed to hold it all together until he was out of sight. Then I rather fell apart. In fact, it would be no exaggeration to say that I felt that my whole world was at an end.

I
've still not got much of an appetite, or inclination to cook myself a proper meal. I should probably make more of an effort. I should eat my greens. I should eat more beans and lentils. Should give up the fags, and keep my weekly intake of booze down to whatever is currently governmentally acceptable. I should drink less coffee and drink more water. A lot more water. Should positively drown myself in the stuff. I should do more exercise. I should learn to love myself. And every morning I should bow down to the sun. But, generally speaking, I find I really can't be bothered. I'm newly widowed, for Chrissake. Give me a fucking break.

As I've already noted, this time of year I get a little obsessive about the extra minutes of daylight. You do sometimes sense darkness's grip beginning to slip. But it's never quite fast enough.

I've always been of the opinion that the seasons are a good month or two out of synch with the weather. That when the days really start to stretch out it's only spring and, heat-wise, we're rather lagging behind. Then, before you know it, it's getting on for the longest day and you find yourself thinking, ‘Hang on a sec. What the hell are you talking about?
Mid-summer
? There's barely been a
week when it's been properly hot.' The seasons just need a bit of a nudge – one way or the other … I'm not entirely sure which way – then we could all relax a little and it would all make a lot more sense.

While we're on the subject of vegetables, I once read an article somewhere about a report regarding asparagus and how it makes one's pee smell rather musty. It's one of those odd little things, and I must say I've certainly noticed it myself. In fact, I'm sure most people have. Which is rather the point since, according to this report, the population can be clearly divided into people, like me, whose pee smells powerfully pungent after they've been at the asparagus and those whose pee smells just the same.

Anyway, a couple of months ago I was leafing through the Sunday papers, which of course contain very little news at all and consist mainly of prattle and titbits which have been dressed up as something important, when I tripped over an article which claimed to have the latest news on asparagus and pee-related mustiness, and how some new research suggests that the reason some of us smell it and some of us don't is, in fact, nothing at all to do with what's in the urine, and everything to do with what's going on in the nose. It transpires that only some of us have the olfactory wherewithal to identify the scent. Apparently, every last one of us produces musty-smelling pee after eating asparagus. It's just that not everyone can pick it out. Which rather encourages one to take the latest scientific proclamations regarding diet, etc., with a healthy pinch of salt.

Y
ou hear about these couples who retire to the country and how hubby does all the driving – how, in fact, she doesn't drive at all. Then, three or four months into their new rural life, when they've barely started the redecorating, he has a heart attack. And suddenly she's out in the middle of nowhere, doesn't know anyone, and there's only one bus into town every second Wednesday and Country Life doesn't seem like such fun after all.

You can either read it as a cautionary tale against moving out to the sticks when you're in your sixties or becoming too dependent on one's spouse. With regards to the latter, in all fairness, I think it rather creeps up on you. In our house I always tended to take care of the domestic bills, etc. – not necessarily because I'm such a whiz with a spreadsheet, but because I probably just had more time. So I suppose I should just be thankful that I'm not one of those widows who's never seen a gas bill and goes into anaphylactic shock at the very thought of one. It tends to be men who don't have a clue how to operate the cooker, or imagine the creation of spag bol to be a thing of great complexity. But then, given the current standard of my diet, I'm not really in a position to criticise.

It's the solitariness (if such a word even exists) that floored me. You suddenly appreciate how that husband
of yours – the one you always moaned about – was such a significant fixture. If only in the sense that his routine (what time he left for work … what time he got back, etc.) gave your day some structure around which to organise your own. Otherwise, you really do start to rattle about the place. And the chores really do suddenly seem a complete and utter waste of time. Not that I ever aspired to be the 1950s idea of a housewife with the pinched waist, pointy tits and proud smile as I placed some frazzled carcass on the table (with those little paper chefs' hats covering the ends of the ribs). It's just that you do somehow end up using the person you share your life with as some sort of motivation for getting things done. Even if you do rather resent it at the same time.

For me, the epitome of the desperation of solo living these days is having to drag the wheelie bin out to the road before dawn on a Tuesday morning. Then dragging the bloody thing back in the afternoon. And it's not simply that I want John to be doing it for me. There just seems to be something supremely futile to it. ‘How many more bloody times', I would wonder, ‘am I going to drag this stupid great lump of plastic up and down the bloody drive?'

And in the evening there's no one to ask if you'd remembered to do it. Or to whom you can say, ‘Those damned bin men didn't come round again.' One of the biggest shocks upon joining the ranks of the widowed/widowered is that Bin News is something you tend to keep to yourself. Unless you happen to collar some
unsuspecting neighbour and get it off your chest to them.

Apparently, wheelie bins haven't quite made it up to north Norfolk yet. Either they drag their metal dustbins out into the lane or just pile their bin bags up in a great heap. It's all terribly olde-worlde. Wednesday is bin day. I'd put it in my diary if I had one. Maybe I'll put it on a list.

One or two of the villagers have started nodding at me. We are, officially, on nodding terms. Who knows, another year or two and we might actually have a conversation. I suppose they're used to people pitching up for a week and doing the whole ‘Hail fellow, well met' routine on the way to the paper shop, then the next week they're gone, and someone else is unloading the car. And the people who were super-friendly are back home in the city being miserable again.

On the subject of redecorating, I find it very hard as I sit before the fire of an evening not to speculate as to precisely what I'd do with this place if I actually owned it. And not just re which carpets to take up (A: all of them). Or which woodchipped walls to strip (see answer to previous question). But how to rejig the kitchenette in such a way as to create a little more storage space, or even sufficient room to be able to turn around.

You wouldn't want to start knocking down walls, partly because there aren't actually any to knock down except the one between the bedrooms, since one of the few things this cottage has got going for it is its modest dimensions. It sort of fits quite snugly around you. I'm
sometimes sitting at this table or slumped in the armchair and it occurs to me that if I reached my arms out I might be able to touch both walls. Of course, I couldn't. But I wouldn't be far off. And the idea that I might be able to reassures me somehow.