Elaine sees that she is going to have difficulty keeping civil. She looks round for help. Why does no one come up to ask what that blue flower is called, or why their roses keep getting mildew? But the garden is ticking over nicely, with little groups of satisfied customers cruising to and fro.
Linda’s attention has shifted. “We’ve been looking out for Nick too.”
“He had to be somewhere else today, unfortunately,” says Elaine. No way is she going to explain to this intrusive relative that she has recently required her husband to leave home because he once had an affair with her sister.
Linda is disappointed. “What a shame. Sophie wanted to meet Nick. She’s working in publishing, you see.” She shoots a proud glance at Sophie, who glimmers prettily. No, she is not like Kath—it is just that there are these eerie reflections.
Linda asks what Polly is doing. Elaine counters with Web design. At least this is saving her from any more crass garden-observations, though she is uncomfortably reminded of her mother and Auntie Clare trading child achievements.
Sophie pats her mother’s arm: “Don’t forget . . .”
“Oh—” Linda reaches into her bag. “I’ve got something for you, Elaine. We were going through old photos and I found one I thought you’d like. I daresay you’ve got lots of her. But still—” There is a respectful lowering of the voice; she holds out an envelope.
Elaine knows what is coming. She feels like saying: Thank you, but I’ve seen enough old photos of Kath to be going on with.
This one is inoffensive enough. Kath sits in a white plastic garden chair, under a striped sun umbrella. She looks directly at the camera, with an air of compliance. Some obligatory photo call.
“In our garden,” says Linda. “A couple of years after she was married, I think. She dropped in, quite out of the blue—off to see friends in Cornwall. But I gathered she’d just had that nasty little upset, poor dear, so she was rather under par.” Linda gives Elaine a furtive look—regret, and complicity. “Such a shame—”
Elaine thrusts the photo into her pocket. “Thank you. How kind.” She becomes brisk. “Have you been down to the woodland garden yet? At its best in spring, of course, but the Astrantia are just coming out. I wish I could take you indoors for a cup of tea, but I should be around in case anyone needs me.” She is ignoring what she has just heard, and also stashing it away for future contemplation.
But Linda is not to be disposed of quite so easily. She is talking about Kath. It becomes clear that this was not an isolated meeting. Elaine is surprised; apparently Kath had kept up a spasmodic relationship with Linda, over the years. Why? Linda is not Kath’s style at all, she has probably never set foot in an art gallery or a concert hall in her life, she would never attend an arts festival, she does not pot or paint or take arty photographs. She is the opposite of the kind of people Kath sought out as friends. So why did Kath bother with her?
Linda is saying it was always a red-letter day when Kath breezed in, a real tonic she was. . . . Kath is cocooned in clichés as Linda talks, and Elaine is further exasperated. Can’t the woman see that this is a travesty of Kath? She is reducing Kath to her own humdrum vision, she is re-creating her as some cheery health-visitor. She has no right to this tone of knowing intimacy. She has no right to Kath.
And now the winsome Sophie chips in. She simply loved Kath. I mean, Kath was just so cool, she always looked so marvelous, and she was such fun, she’d turn up with these lovely silly presents.
“Actually,” says Linda, “we think Sophie has something of Kath about her.” A fond glance at her daughter, and a shift to the tone of regretful respect. “Sophie was devastated when—when she—so sad. We couldn’t believe it.”
Enough. Elaine can stand this no longer. These two helping themselves to Kath. It is an invasion, a presumption. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m going to have to leave you. I need to check out the car park. Do go and see the woodland garden. Nick will be sorry to have missed you.”
Later, she cannot think why she said that. Nick did not give a toss about Cousin Linda. And Nick is not here, he is no longer a part of the place. Why did this hollow remark insert itself, as though she needed the armor of marital solidarity, of normal service?
Later, she hears Linda again. “That nasty little upset . . . under par.”
But later is on hold until after six, when the garden empties, the customers and the cars depart, Jim and his nephew pile into the red truck, Pam goes off to the pub with an admirer from the village. Alone, Elaine checks the ticket sales and is quietly pleased with visitor levels, locks up the shop, goes into the silent house. Only then does that other aspect of the afternoon come bustling in. Cousin Linda hangs around all evening, saying that again. And again.
Something is happening to the empty house, the Nick-free house, the tranquil and compliant house. Initially, it had been just that: there was no longer the hovering irritation factor, the Nick-generated annoyances, the intermittent requirements and provocations. Elaine’s grateful relish of solitude is marred by some subliminal disquiet. She is fine, just fine; she is sitting there at the end of a demanding day, a glass of wine in her hand, something simple in the oven, and then a creeping malaise sets in. The place is too still; its small disturbances are all mechanical—the phone rings, the fax clicks and grinds, the microwave beeps. Its blankness makes Elaine restless; she finds herself wandering around, turning on the television—the background chatter that always so exasperated her in Nick’s time. She makes phone calls just for the sake of it, needing to be occupied and purposeful.
She keeps the phone on answer, in case Nick rings, but hovers near to listen, picking up at once if it is not him. When she hears Polly’s voice she experiences a mixture of pleasure and apprehension, but is clipped and careful in her responses. Polly’s voice brims with agitation and concern, which frequently spill over into further exhortations and appeals.
“Please,” says Elaine. “Can we not talk about this.”
“But, Mum—”
He doesn’t know what to do with himself, says Polly. (Did he ever? thinks Elaine.) It’s pathetic, says Polly, and I mean really pathetic. He doesn’t shave some days, and incidentally he’s buggered up my washing machine—I had no idea he was so untechnical. And he won’t go and look at flats, in case you’re wondering; he says he’d rather be here.
I can’t believe my father is living with me, says Polly.
Actually, Elaine can’t quite believe it either. Much of the time she is on course, she is calm and cool and ordered. She deals with each day in a systematic manner, as she ever did. Her attention is on the matter in hand, whether it is a session with Sonia over paperwork or a client visit or a stint at the drawing board on some design. She is operating at full strength. But then there come those moments when she is suddenly adrift. She is dazed by events, and she is confused. What exactly is it that has happened? Nick is no longer here, apparently because she sent him away. Kath is in her head more than ever before, but her response to Kath swerves wildly. Sometimes she is angry with Kath: “Why Nick?” she demands. At other times she is trying to recover a shadowy, elusive Kath who seems to be saying something that she cannot quite hear, and occasionally she is startled by some uncontrollable reaction of her own. She had been affronted by Cousin Linda, jolted into resentment by that tone of casual intimacy; Linda was nothing to Kath, nobody, she had no business talking that way.
Elaine goes into the house. Sonia has left the usual pile of letters and memos; there is no reference to Nick. A note on the kitchen blackboard tells her Pam has detected some suspected honey fungus on one of the old chestnuts; below this, there is Nick’s scrawl: “Sorry you weren’t here.”
He has taken a few more of his clothes. The almost bare wardrobe is disconcertingly eloquent, as is the empty space on the driveway where his car is not.
Don’t be silly, you’re my sister. That is what she had meant. Sisters don’t talk about love. And anyway I don’t talk about love. I’m n
ot that sort of person.
Polly and Nick
Listen, I’m not seeing Dan anymore. It wasn’t going anywhere. As of last week. All perfectly sensible and grown-up—at least I was. So that’s that. A free woman. Though actually there’s this guy . . . No, there might be this guy. Early days yet—I could be quite wrong. So enough said.
Yes, my dad’s still in the flat. I mean, I’m really sorry for him, but it’s driving me crazy. Here I am, I’m thirty, and I’m apparently living with my father. Yes, of course I’ve tried that, the place is ankle-deep in stuff from rental agencies, he won’t even go and look. He says he needs to sort himself out first, get his head together. What does my dad do? You mean work-wise? Well, basically, my dad doesn’t really do anything. He talks about doing things, and messes about with ideas that might eventually lead to doing something. It wasn’t always like that. He had his own publishing company, way back. Rather successful, actually. But Dad wasn’t so hot on the money side, got overstretched or something, and it folded. And by then my mum was doing so well. . . . Actually, my dad’s lovely, in his way. I mean, he’s still about ten and a half—fifty-eight going on ten and a half. It’s always rather driven Mum round the bend, I can see that, but that’s how he is, like a sort of overgrown boy, enthusing away about this or that, and actually it’s eating me up seeing him like this. Mooching around. Not talking much. Looking old suddenly.
My mum? Well, frankly, I think my mum has flipped. I mean, I’m just hoping and praying it’s temporary, because my mum isn’t a person who flips. My mum is someone who has been on course since she was about five. Well, yes, of course it’s about something, but all this is so over the top, because what it’s about is over and done with. Long ago. I won’t go into it but . . . well, I do feel a meal is being made of it, and everyone just needs to calm down. God, families . . .
Ah—stepparents. No, I don’t know about stepparents. We’re the old-fashioned nuclear family. How many? Wow! A serial marrier, evidently, your mum.
Anyway, so there it is—my dad on the sofa and beer cans in my fridge and dirty shirts all over the bathroom and various arrangements on hold and my mum saying can we not talk about this. Plus, I’ve got some really complex client stuff going on right now. I mean, I just don’t need this.
Listen, I’ll have to go—oddly enough they pay me to work here. That’s another thing—I can’t really talk to people from the flat anymore. It’s not that he’s listening—it’s just that, well, I’ve lost my personal space.
Actually, no—tomorrow evening’s no good. I’m seeing this guy Andy.
Don’t jump to conclusions. I’ve said—it’s early days. We’ll see.
This is so embarrassing. The thing is—I couldn’t ask you up to the flat because my father’s there. He’s—well, sort of staying with me at the moment. It’s a long story. That’s why. That’s absolutely why.
Oh, I see. You thought . . . God, no. Definitely not. I mean, yes, I’ve been in a relationship, but that’s over. Actually, this is quite a difficult time for me—nothing to do with that, that’s not a problem at all, we just weren’t going anywhere—no, this is, oh . . . family stuff. Look, I’m not going to load this onto you when we hardly know each other.
Are you? Well, I think that’s nice. I mean, a lot of men don’t want to, frankly. They’d rather not know. Listening’s just not their thing. Actually, that was a big problem with . . . with this person I’m not with anymore. I just felt he wasn’t there for me whenever I had something going on. Know what I mean? Oh God, I’m making myself sound like I’m in perpetual crisis, it’s not like that at all, it’s just that, well, when you’re involved with someone, you expect . . . Look, I’ll have to go—I’ve got a client meeting in half an hour.
Thursday? Yes, as it happens I could do Thursday.
Oh, Mum, I told you I’m not seeing Dan anymore.
And then last night I came home and he wasn’t here. No, no—not the man—and he’s called Andy, by the way. Dad. Dad wasn’t here. I mean, usually he’s just sitting in front of the telly every evening—and incidentally he’s drinking too much. I wasn’t going to mention that, except frankly I think you should know. But he wasn’t here, and at eleven o’clock I’m like some mother with a teenager out at a disco, watching the clock and thinking accidents and stuff.
The car? Yes, of course the car was gone. And he doesn’t understand about parking in London—he leaves it on yellow lines and gets a ticket just about every day. And by the way he was really pissed off you weren’t there when he went to get it—that was the point of going, if you ask me. Seeing you, not getting the car.
Oh, he came back, yes. Nearly one o’clock. By which time I’m climbing the wall, about to start reaching for the police. He’s been out of London, he says. Someone he had to see. And it was a long drive and he stopped off on the way back and he got a bit lost. And then he went to bed, and of course I’m so wound up I can’t go to sleep, and now I’m wiped out today, just when I’ve got a panic on with a job that’s overdue.
No, he wasn’t drunk.
Mum, don’t mind me saying so, but if you need to know whether he’s remembered that the car is due for its MOT, I think you should ask him yourself.
Oliver and Nick
“ No!” Oliver abandons his screen, swivels round in his chair. “I’m not here!”
Sandra is unsympathetic—downright uncooperative, in fact. “Mr. Hammond rang earlier,” she says, the receiver held out at arm’s length. Does she realize who Mr. Hammond is, by any chance?
Oliver attempts to face her down, and fails. He crosses the room, takes the phone. “Ah. Nick. Hello there.”
He is in a lather. Not more of this blasted business? First Glyn. Now Nick. Heaven preserve him from Elaine. He can hardly follow what Nick is saying. Nick rattles away. Something about wanting to catch up, out of touch for far too long. Must meet.
“I’m pretty tied up just now,” says Oliver. He talks of deadlines, urgent schedules. “Maybe in the autumn.” Sandra is listening with interest.
Nick forges on. He talks in broken sentences. He seems to be saying that he is not at home right now, that he has had a few problems recently, that he’d like to have a talk about the old days. He sounds slightly manic.
No! wails Oliver—speechless, defenseless. Nick is saying that he’s got nothing much on today, as it happens, so he’ll drive over. Be with you about six, OK? Pick you up at your office—I’ve got the address. Take you out for a meal.
Well, unfortunately . . . protests Oliver. This evening I . . . But Nick is no longer there. And Sandra is gazing at him, speculative: “Remind me just who this Nick Hammond is?”
When Nick walks into the room Oliver is horrified. This is not Nick, surely? This paunchy figure with thinning hair? With melting jawline and bags under his eyes. Yes, we’ve all of us matured, some rather more than others, but Nick? Nick was eternally young, it seemed, stuck forever at about twenty-eight, as the rest of them hit forty and edged towards the big five-oh. Well, evidently even Nick is not exempt.
Nick is talking as soon as he is in the room, without preliminaries—a feverish account of his drive, and some difficulty with a recalcitrant clutch, and being jinxed by the one-way system. He is on edge—that is immediately apparent.
Oliver gathers himself. Sandra is observing intently; she has found that for some reason she needs to work late and thus is still there when Nick arrives. “Well, hello,” Oliver says, genial but not overintimate, for Sandra’s benefit—the greeting appropriate to an associate. “Good to see you. Sandra Chalcott—my partner.” He turns to Sandra: “We’ll be off, then. See you later.”
“Is a curry all right with you?” he says to Nick. “There’s a place just near.” He steers Nick along the street. Nick talks. At least in that sense he is the old Nick, but his talk skitters off in all directions, it is doglegged, herringboned, it leaps from one unconsidered trifle to another. He is in London a lot these days, he says; possibly he may do a book on Lo
ndon squares—fascinating subject, London squares; Polly sends greetings, at least Polly would if she knew he was seeing Oliver, but come to think of it she doesn’t; Elaine is extraordinarily busy these days—one doesn’t seem to set eyes on her from one week to the next; he has been thinking of writing something on Brunel, but is finding it hard to get down to it, things get in the way so. . . .
Eventually, over a plateful of chicken tikka masala, he falls silent. He stares at his plate. His hair no longer flops over one eye, Oliver notes; it has somehow peeled back from the front. Without that pelt, Nick seems exposed, laid bare.
Nick looks up. He puts down his fork, picks up his beer, drinks deeply. “The fact is, I’m a bit bothered about something.”
He shoots Oliver a wild look. He seems now like a schoolboy in disgrace; a chastened sixteen-year-old peers out from the softened jowls and the pouchy eyes.
“Ah . . .” Oliver assumes an expression of neutral interest: Continue if you must.
“Elaine’s got herself into a terrible state about a photo. Do you remember a photo of me and Kath?”
Oliver contemplates his lamb korma. “Yes,” he says, at last.
Nick pushes his plate to one side. “There’s the most awful fuss, actually.”
“I know,” says Oliver.
“You know?”
Oliver sighs. Bugger it all! “Glyn came to see me.”
Now panic flies across Nick’s face. “Oh Christ! What did he want?”
“He wanted to know if Kath went in for . . . for that sort of thing. For having affairs with people.”
“What did you say?”
“I said I didn’t know. What would you have said?”
Nick hesitates. He seems to be reflecting—not a process Oliver associates with Nick. “I’d have said the same.”