The Widow's Tale (17 page)

I
remember going to Rome sometime in the 1970s. It may have been my very first visit. We were only there for a couple of days, before moving on to somewhere else. I don't recall what John was doing – probably drinking Italian beer and reading an English newspaper – but I'd gone wandering off on my own, and came out into one of the big piazzas, and just strolled into a church to have a look around.

It was a beautiful place. And so utterly different from anything I'd seen before, with all this incredible gilding and ornamentation … amid a rather grand dilapidation. Anyway, after I'd stood and looked up at the ceiling for a couple of minutes I had a walk around and found this magnificent painting. A huge, great thing it was. And I was still standing there gawping at it when some old lady came along and stood beside me. After a little while she said something to me. Unfortunately, my Italian was close to non-existent. She was pointing and nattering away, and for all I knew was casting some ancient Italian curse on me.

I wasn't exactly thrilled with the situation – didn't have a clue what I'd done to upset her. And the more I tried to explain that I didn't understand her, the more agitated she became. Until, finally, she grabbed my hand and
prised apart my fingers. I was thinking, Oh my God, now the crazy old witch is going to read my palm, and tell me what a miserable life I've got stretched out before me. Or how I'm going to get knocked down by a horse before I've even reached my prime.

Then she placed a coin in my hand. And pointed to the wall just below the painting. Well, I was still completely baffled. Still dithering and flapping. But she kept on pointing, until I bent over and saw a metal box on the wall, with a little slot in the top. So I took the coin she'd given me and popped it in, and the moment it clunked inside, the whole wall lit up. It was almost blinding. And the painting that I'd just been squinting at was suddenly bathed in light.

I've forgotten which painting it was now, but there's every chance that it was a Caravaggio. I'd like it to have been a Caravaggio. Some writhing, reaching tangle of limbs and bodies. Full of blood and lust and anger. Or an apostle with dirt on his feet and down his fingernails. One of the ones that landed him in all sorts of hot water. Whatever it was, having the light suddenly come flooding onto it made it feel like a revelation. An illumination, in both senses of the word.

I'm sure that the principal reason for having a coin-operated light above a painting, as I soon discovered they have in churches right across Rome and Italy, is to protect such priceless works of art from unnecessary exposure, as well as generating a little money along the way. But it must have occurred to someone, at some time or other,
that the actual mechanics allow the viewer to have their own personal epiphany. And I must say that I, for one, truly appreciated it.

M
y daily walks have gradually been venturing ever more westward. I would have hiked all the way there and got the bus back if it were practical, but realistically even that's too much of a stretch. So in the end I just used my little car for what little yellow cars are designed for and drove out there. It can't have taken me more than half an hour.

I've dropped by a couple of times already – once soon after I first arrived and again a few days ago. On my most recent visit I parked up in the village and was leaning against the car, pulling my boots on when the front door of the nearest cottage flew open and some irate little man stuck his stupid head out to tell me precisely where I was and wasn't allowed to park.

Apparently, people out in the sticks are of the opinion that not only do they own their own drive and the stretch of road in front of their garden, but the fifty feet of road to left and right. He actually rather startled me, but I just carried on tying my boots. And when he paused to take a breath I assumed an expression of extreme bewilderment and called out to him, ‘Hang on. Didn't you park on
my
street the other day?'

This succeeded in tripping the old bugger up for a couple of seconds.

‘Which street is that then?' he said.

‘Exactly,' I said, and pointed an accusatory finger at him. Then I slammed the car boot, turned and went stomping off up the lane. I believe I may have muttered, ‘… you bloody moron,' under my breath as I went. In fact, I know I did.

I have to say, I felt pretty pleased with myself – for standing up to him and for coming up with what seemed like quite a sharp little riposte, right off the cuff. Of course, nobody likes being called a moron – not even a moron – and I hadn't gone very far before I began to wonder whether he might've heard me. And if he had, whether I might return to my car to find that he'd been slashing my tyres, etc. Which was a little unlikely, considering it would've been pretty clear who'd done it. And meant I would've just come back a little later and smashed all his windows. Oh, it's easy to see how these things get out of hand.

So, despite the principle, I vowed not to park there next time. And this morning managed to find a little patch of ground at the side of the lane where people had obviously parked before, away from any houses and not blocking any gates to fields, or likely to upset the natives in any conceivable way.

I walked across a couple of fields and joined the coastal path without much trouble. And it was only half a mile or so from there over to the reserve. I've been up and down that path a few times now, half expecting to just bump into him. And earlier this week I found the point where
the path is closest to the cottage, which, to be fair, is not that close at all.

Thanks to my expensive new binoculars I have a pretty good shot at seeing what's going on there. I should certainly be able to see if anyone comes or goes. Which, unfortunately, they didn't. I found a nice little spot, not far from where I came and pitched up however many years ago it is now. And, having reminded myself of it, became quite upset and had to sit down for a couple of minutes to try and pull myself together.

Anyway, apart from seeing the cottage and apparently nobody being in it and getting upset all over again I didn't get an awful lot more done today. Although I like to think I got in some practice at pretending to be a budding birder – a performance which consists of little more than staring into space, sometimes through a pair of binoculars. And nodding knowingly at the few authentic birders who happen to cross my path.

I
f you're not careful, the way the story ends will ruin the memory of whatever went before it. In fact, it has nothing to do with being careful. That's just the way it is. It's human nature, I suppose, to turn everything into a story. And when we look back at a particular incident we can't help but see it through the prism of what's in between.

It's happening with John. Why wouldn't it? Death casts an awfully long shadow. It happened with Paul as well. I now find it pretty much impossible to recall us sitting on Holkham Sands, all wrapped up in each other's arms, without seeing black clouds on the horizon. Sometimes I want to tell that younger version of myself to enjoy every last second. Sometimes I want to warn her how badly it's all going to end.

Two or three weeks after my little affair finally hit the buffers I came up here, booked into the same hotel I'd stayed at earlier and just sort of drifted around Paul's general neighbourhood like some malevolent spirit. Actually, that's not quite true, because, to be fair, I had next to no ill intent. On the contrary. I somehow imagined that Paul would miraculously sense my presence and see the error of his ways.

The words ‘glutton' and ‘punishment' come to mind, for some reason. And, in retrospect, it's hard not to feel that, rather than beat myself up, a little wrath directed towards the chap in the cottage might have been more appropriate.

I wandered up and down the path and did a little spying, and spent a couple of hours sitting in his local, quite petrified lest he actually walk through the door. Then, when I was pretty sure I'd plumbed the very depths of self-loathing, I got back in my car and drove home.

It would be fair to say that I pretty much went to pieces. I have no idea how long that particular depression lasted, or how I finally managed to coax myself out of it. What I do remember is a little scene with me and John in the kitchen. And me being snippy with him over something or other. Honestly, I hardly knew I was doing it. But he suddenly exploded, and said, ‘I've no idea what the hell is eating away at you. But whatever it is I wish you'd get over it. Because I'm heartily sick of you taking it out on me.'

Or something along those lines.

It's not often I will admit to being totally silenced. I'll usually come up with something, even if it's not very nice. But I was still nailed to the spot and standing there, open-mouthed, when John turned and marched off to another part of the house. I really don't think it had occurred to me that I was being so horrible to him. I mean, I knew that I was feeling bad – about as bad as I'd ever felt. And when you feel bad it's only natural to want to spread it around. But even I could see that if there was one person
who didn't deserve to get it in the neck for the failure of my affair it was the man to whom I'd been unfaithful. The sudden appreciation of which did nothing but make me loathe myself even more.

I
was in the pub the other night at my usual table and, I imagine, two or three drinks to the good because I'm not usually one to strike up a conversation with complete strangers. But I'd noticed that the couple on the next table had an OS map spread out before them and were trying to come up with some way to occupy themselves the following day. It sounded as if they just wanted to go for a walk and were starting to get a little fractious, since they weren't really familiar with the area. So, like some slightly inebriated fairy godmother, I leant over and suggested one or two walks they could do.

They were there again the following evening and told me how they'd followed my advice and what a wonderful day they'd had, and so on. And I found myself being hailed as the fount of all things local, despite the fact that I only pitched up here myself a couple of weeks ago. The woman, who was a few years younger than me, asked if I lived in the village. And before I knew it I heard myself confiding to her that I'd actually grown up in the area and how I was now spending a month or two in a rented cottage while I contemplated moving back here permanently.

It wasn't so much the lie – or even the lie's dimensions – which shook me, so much as the utterly shameless way in which it came galloping out of me. One could argue
that the latter half of the yarn might actually hold some water – though even the idea of me scouting the area for somewhere to live was fairly pushing it. It was the notion of my having spent several years of some apple-cheeked childhood in north Norfolk, wandering around the local meadows – if such a thing exists in this part of East Anglia – making daisy chains with my non-existent sisters, and all of us dressed in matching pinafores.

Then I was on my way back from the shop yesterday when the same couple crossed the road to join me. They seemed to be going in my general direction. And the chap – Donald, I believe he's called – said that they'd been wondering if I'd care to come round to their cottage for dinner. Nothing fancy. Just a bit of pasta, or maybe a nice piece of fish. And, again, as if suddenly possessed, I heard myself apologise, but explain that unfortunately I'd already arranged to meet a friend in a nearby village, but thanks for asking. Then I headed straight into Widow's Cottage, and watched in horror as they carried on down the alley and went into a cottage about four doors away.

What on earth is the matter with me? Is there some medication I've neglected to take? Not that long ago I was quite desperate for company. But now, when someone actually invites me round for dinner what do I do but turn and run. To be honest, I wonder if there isn't some sort of snobbery at work here – that, in a nutshell, I simply have no desire to fraternise with anyone who's been up here even less time than me. Or perhaps I was so embarrassed by my earlier flights of fancy that I daren't spend more
than a couple of minutes in their company in case I'm caught out. Or have to sit there and witness even taller tales pour out of me.

On the other hand, it might just be that I genuinely don't want to be spending the whole evening with a couple of near-strangers, no matter how kind and considerate they appear to be. Perhaps I'm doing us both a favour? By the time they opened the second bottle of Pinot Grigio they'd be thinking, Christ on a bike, this woman's completely nuts.

Anyway, in an act of self-flagellation I must've rerun our little conversation in my head a hundred times. But it wasn't until an hour or so later that it occurred to me that, having announced that I had plans for that evening, it would now look pretty peculiar if I just sat in the cottage on my own all night. And I couldn't very well hide out in the pub – either pub, come to that – in case they happened to pop in there and trip right over me. So, short of turning all the lights out and just lying on the living-room floor in the dark for the entire evening, I decided to drive out to a pub in one of the villages, where I spent a weirdly sober couple of hours sipping tomato juice (with a dash of Worcestershire sauce, for extra pep) and reading the paper from front to back.

By half past nine I'd had enough and went out to the car, already fretting about how I was going to have to creep back down the alley to the cottage. But between closing the car door and starting the engine my plans apparently changed and I found myself pulling out of the
car park and, instead of heading east back towards the cottage, headed west along the coast.

I left the car at my usual spot, and carried on along the road for ten or fifteen minutes until I reached the point at which the little lane turns off it and leads up towards the reserve. Of course, I didn't have a torch, so as soon as I was under the trees I was bumbling about all over the place. But my eyes slowly got used to the dark, and after fifty yards or so I could see the house lights in the distance and just followed the lane towards them.

The cottage has its own tiny drive, so I tiptoed between the gateposts into it. Then I just stood there, looking. Wanted to be certain it was the right place. There were no other houses anywhere near it. But when I could finally make out the little lean-to at one end that confirmed it for me.

The lights were on in the hallway, but there was no way of knowing whether anyone was home or not. It looked like a lovely little place – felt lived-in and small enough to be cosy. I was edging my way across the lawn when I caught my foot against something and nearly fell right over. I just about managed to keep my balance and bent down, to see what'd nearly tripped me. It was a child's bicycle, lying on its side in the grass, where it'd been abandoned. Judging by its size and the fact that it wasn't fitted with stabilisers I estimated that it belonged to a boy of about five or six years old.

I was still bent over, staring at the bike, when the tops of the trees to my left were suddenly splashed with white
light, and I heard the crunch of gravel as a car began to make its way along the lane.

I hadn't a clue what to do. And for a few seconds I just crouched there, stock-still, as the car slowly bobbed in out of the potholes and headed towards me. I thought about running round the back of the cottage but doubted I had enough time to do so. Thought about heading off into the trees, but had no idea what was out there, and was pretty sure there was some sort of fence in the way. So by the time I'd finally managed to snap myself out of my little trance my only option was to run back across the lawn towards the gateposts, with every chance of tripping over another bike along the way, but managed to stay upright until I reached the edge of the garden, then ducked down, just as the car went by.

I didn't move. Then I worked out that the car had actually carried on up the track, and had no intention of turning into the garden. It must have been heading off towards the visitor centre or some other building up there.

I couldn't have cared less. I just counted my blessings, got to my feet and went stumbling back down the lane as quick as was humanly possible. And before the people in the car had finished doing whatever it was they were doing and came along after me.