Time to Say Goodbye (44 page)

He drove back to London, left the Rover in the office car park, and took his overnight bag in search of a pub that would offer him a room. He approached the Boot and Bottle, a hostelry where he had frequently gone with his fellow workers for a pie and a pint, which he knew charged ten shillings a night for bed and breakfast. He signed in, paid for two nights in advance, asked the landlord to put together a plate of sandwiches and a pint of bitter and headed for the stairs. He knew from experience that the clientele of the bed and breakfast side of the business consisted mainly of travellers dealing in various commodities, knew also that they were not generally curious about their fellow clients, and once he had ensured that the room was clean and the bed comfortable he made his way his way down to the lounge bar and soon fell into conversation with a couple of the other residents, one of whom specialised in fancy biscuits and the other representing a large firm of chocolate manufacturers. By the time he sought his bed he realised that he had enjoyed the evening, even enjoyed the food and the beer, because he had not had to prepare it and it was eaten in undemanding company, with much laughter and a general of air of bonhomie, for the talk had turned on the peculiarities of women in general and wives in particular. He felt normal, a man amongst men.

‘My missus makes me ring her up at least twice a week, telling her where I am and the name and telephone number of each B and B,’ the chocolate rep said. He was a small, fat man with a crop of untidy brown hair and a tendency to wheeze after talking for long. He raised his eyebrows in a comical gesture. ‘Do I look as though I inveigle barmaids up to me room for a spot of the old ’ow’s your father?’ he asked plaintively. ‘But there you are; my good lady thinks that because she fancied me twenty years back, others may do the same.’

Will laughed with the rest. ‘Are you ever suspicious?’ he asked, only half jokingly. ‘Do you imagine that your missus carries on when you aren’t there?’

The fat little man blew out his cheeks and gave a long whistle. ‘Nah,’ he said dismissively. ‘We’ve got six kids, four boys and two girls. She’s got no time, let alone no inclination, to play arahnd.’

Again Will laughed with the rest, but when he was alone he thought rather guiltily that it had never occurred to him to wonder what Imogen did when he was working at his desk in the city, and knew that it would never occur to her that he might be unfaithful. And though he tried to deny it, the moment he thought of Imogen, alone in the cottage, he was attacked by guilt. She was such a sweetie, or rather she had been such a sweetie; how could he have simply walked out on her, knowing she had no relatives to whom to turn, suspecting that she had lost touch with most of her friends?

But it was no good repining, and anyway he would make it up to her when he returned to the cottage, somehow get past the guard she had kept between them. And, remembering the fat little man with the jealous wife, he comforted himself with the thought that at least neither he nor Imogen, no matter how furious, had accused the other of infidelity. That’s a point in our favour, he told himself as he snuggled down in the single bed. His last thought as sleep overcame him was to wonder with a good deal of pleasant anticipation what the landlady would give them for breakfast. Even if it was just coffee and toast it would be prepared by someone else! But poor Imogen would be making do with tea and bread and margarine. He decided he would make her a proper cooked breakfast when the day following his return dawned.

Satisfied, he slept.

Will allowed three days to pass before once again he drove the Rover along the winding country roads, and as he approached Cornerstowe, and the cottage, apprehension began to build. How would she greet him? With anger, or reproaches? Or perhaps with shy friendliness? You could never tell. He arrived at the village green, which was deserted save for two old men sitting on a bench, savouring the last warm rays of the sun, and then turned into their lane. As he parked the car he saw that there were no lights visible in the cottage, nor smoke ascending from the chimney. He tapped lightly on the back door, then tried to open it and found it locked. Frowning, he fished the key out from under the flower pot, turned it and entered the kitchen. He immediately knew that the place was empty, that the Rayburn had not been lit, nor the fire in the living room kindled. He crossed the room and put a match to the paraffin lamp which hung above the scrubbed wooden table, and as the lamp hissed into life he saw the note.

His heart gave an uneasy lurch but he forced himself to pick up the sheet of paper and sit down, taking a few uneven breaths as he started to read. He knew of course that it was from Imogen and read it carefully, taking his time. It began abruptly.

Will, you said you were going away for a couple of days and that we would talk when you came back. I’m going away too. I feel cabined, cribbed and confined, as Shakespeare put it. Before we married I earned my own living and can do it again, given time and opportunity and somewhere to lay my head. Please don’t be cross. I shouldn’t have blamed you over losing Tom Tiddler; it was no one’s fault, but it’s changed me. The Imogen who screamed at you and told you to get out wasn’t the one you married. That one’s dead and buried, so forget me as I mean to forget you. Imogen.

Will read the letter three times, aware of a coldness in the pit of his stomach. The last thing he wanted, he realised, was to lose her altogether. His own eyes blurred as he saw that her tear stains had almost obliterated her signature. He looked wildly round the unaccustomedly tidy kitchen and realised he did not have the slightest idea where to begin to look for her. Suddenly he could not breathe. He had to get out of the cottage, away from the village; he must go back to London, go to work tomorrow as usual, and wait for her to contact him when – if – she wanted to come home. Numbly, he locked the door, got back into the car, and drove away.

When Will went into the office next day he was immediately accosted by his boss, who entered his room breezily, already talking as he came. ‘Morning, young Carpenter. Have you talked to your secretary yet? What do you think?’

Will, who had just started to open his correspondence, looked up cautiously. Mr Carruthers had told him several times that he would progress faster in the firm if he took advantage of offers to stand in for branch managers when locums were needed. Before Imogen fell pregnant he had occasionally done this and had rather enjoyed the change of scene and extra responsibility, but since moving to Farthing Cottage he had felt unable to consider leaving his wife even for a couple of weeks. Now, however, he decided he would at least listen to any proposal Mr Carruthers might put forward. Accordingly, he pushed his mail to one side and eyed his boss. ‘No, I haven’t seen Miss Gibson yet, so you’d better explain. Fire ahead,’ he said.

Mr Carruthers did so and it was immediately obvious to Will that his suggestion might, in the long run, be just what he needed. The manager of the Jersey branch meant to retire – indeed he had to do so – when he reached his sixty-fifth birthday in a few weeks. All had been arranged; his deputy was to have taken over, but then had accepted a job with a French insurance firm paying a salary well in excess of what he was currently earning.

‘So if you decide to take the plunge, St Helier will want you at once,’ Mr Carruthers finished. ‘At first it would be as relief manager for just a couple of weeks.’ He looked at Will under his lids. ‘But you’ve been to St Helier before, and liked the people, the set-up, the island . . . what would you say to something more permanent? That little wife of yours . . . she might welcome a change of scene . . .’

Will, though tempted by the thought of making such a move, had started to say that Imogen was not yet able to cope without him, but Mr Carruthers’s last sentence gave him pause. After his stint in the St Helier branch a few years before, he and Imogen had spent a wonderful holiday on Jersey, staying for a fortnight in a beautiful little cottage a stone’s throw from the beach, yet near enough to walk into town, for the island was small; nothing, he thought rather confusedly, was very far from anywhere else. It had been one of the happiest times they had had, and the thought of Imogen’s possible pleasure when he told her that they might live on the island was sufficient to make him say at once that he would accept the position.

He had been looking down at his hands, clasping each other on the desk top, but now he raised his eyes to his boss’s face. ‘Do you know, it might be the answer?’ he said slowly. ‘I don’t know if you’ve guessed, but ever since we – we lost our baby, my wife’s been uneasy in Farthing Cottage. She says it reminds her . . .’

‘Quite,’ Mr Carruthers interrupted. ‘My sister-in-law lost a child, and for a few months my brother thought . . . but let’s just say I quite understand, and think that a move away from . . . away from the area might be the very thing for you both. You would need to make arrangements; the firm will put you up in a boarding house, of course, until you find somewhere you would like to rent. Property in Jersey’s expensive but rents are reasonable, and I imagine you would let your cottage to begin with, just in case it didn’t work out?’

And so it was arranged. Will put the cottage in the hands of a letting agent recommended by Mr Carruthers, packed his favourite books, his photographs of Imogen and the clothes she had made for Tom Tiddler in tea chests still smelling faintly of their fragrant cargo, and tried not to think what would happen if he had made the wrong decision. As he slipped the keys to Farthing Cottage through the agent’s letterbox and listened to them fall, he wondered when – and if – he would ever return.

Chapter Fifteen

IMOGEN AWOKE. SHE
sat up on one elbow and stared around the room, actually wondering where she was, though this only lasted for a moment. She was in the living room where she had slept ever since her return from the convalescent home; nothing unusual there. She frowned, trying to think back. Something had happened the previous evening, something cataclysmic, something that had caused the strange feeling she had that things had changed.

Imogen swung her legs off the sofa and stood up. She was just thinking resentfully that Will might have lit the Rayburn before he left for work when events jolted into place. There had been an awful row and Will had said he was leaving her and Farthing Cottage for a while. Well, that was all right by her. He could go any time and the further the better, but he might have lit the Rayburn first; didn’t he know how she loved her first cup of tea? He must have come quietly down the stairs whilst she slept, walked straight across the living room and out through the front door. Indignation filled her.

But as she stumped crossly over to the sink and began to work the pump, banishing the last shreds of sleep, recollection came, clear and unwanted. He had left last night, which meant that he could not possibly have started the Rayburn or made her a cup of tea this morning. Well, she had wanted her independence and now she had it; strange how little satisfaction the thought gave her.

Now, with the filled kettle in one hand, she remembered that Will had always tried to keep the Rayburn glowing because he said it was a beast to relight. Ten minutes later Imogen pulled a face, knowing that he had spoken no more than the truth, for she must have used the best part of a box of matches with no result. She lit the paraffin stove instead, stood the kettle on it and then glanced stairwards. She remembered how she had shouted, how she had told him to get out, and felt a tiny twinge of guilt. Had she meant him to leave? She was just wondering whether she had gone too far when the kettle began to hiss and she reached for the teapot. Damn Will Carpenter! Let him go as far and as fast as possible; she had her own life to lead.

But had he really gone? A part of her hoped he had, and yet . . . Perhaps this was just a bad dream, and he would come downstairs presently. On the thought she ran lightly up the stairs, making as little noise as possible, to the tiny landing. Once there she did not even have to open their bedroom door, which already stood wide. One glance was sufficient: it was not a dream but horrid reality. The wardrobe gaped, empty of clothing, and the big suitcase which lived on top of it had gone. Imogen crossed the room and pulled open the top drawer of the chest – it was empty. She turned to look at the bed, neatly made with Will’s hospital corners, and did not need to check for his dressing gown and slippers. They were gone along with all the rest.

Well, she had told him to go and he had obeyed, and if he thought she was going to hang around waiting for him to apologise he had another think coming. As for loneliness, hadn’t she been lonely ever since they moved into Farthing Cottage? Of course she had. She refused to remember the happy busyness of the months of her pregnancy, how she had thrown herself into country life, proud as a peacock when Will commended a cake she had baked, eager to help when a room needed redecorating or seedlings planting out. She made herself a cup of tea and then decided she had better get dressed. After that, she would do some shopping in the village. She checked that their post office savings book was still in the dresser drawer, then examined the contents of the pantry. She needed coffee and sugar, and bread of course. She made a note.

All through the day her mind was in a whirl. One moment she decided she would ring Will at work and demand his return, the next that she would leave Farthing Cottage and forget he even existed. The problem was, where would she go? By the end of the second day, her mind was made up. She would go to London, for where better to hide – until one chose to be found, of course – than in a populous capital city? And she would write a note for Will which would leave him in no doubt that she could look after herself.

She was sipping her tea as she made these plans and was aware at once of considerable relief. She told herself that she had not missed Will; she had just missed having someone else in the house. She would pack her bag – though she would not take everything she possessed as Will had done, just a few necessities – go down to the post office in the village and draw on the account she and Will had kept for the market garden they had hoped to start. Then she would shake the dust of Farthing Cottage, and Cornerstowe, from her neat little brogues, and start on her new life.