Fran Macilvey

‘Faith, Hope and Love’ Part 15

Strange, how we get on with doing. One night with Arthur changed my life, turned it upside down. I felt different, like a woman properly loved, and while I rejoiced in the discovery, I began to mourn the years I had waited, hoping for love and understanding. Now I had tasted it, only to have it snatched away. Arthur was not nearby to reassure me.

Days passed. Christmas and New Year threw me into a blaze of activity, of cooking and baking for the two of us and extending impromptu invitations to neighbours. The weather turned blustery and cold, so that I hardly ventured out in the dark evenings, but huddled with Sylvester on my lap while Elaine stayed over with friends, read, or we watched movies and chatted. Tears came to my eyes at odd moments, remembering the years Karl had hauled a tree into the lounge and decorated it with tinsel and lights, or while gazing out at the dark, remembering Karl’s comforting hands clasping mine as we walked, giggling, though the snow after an enormous Christmas lunch. Friends visited, dropping off festive cheer, and each time the doorbell chimed or the phone rang, my heart leapt, then sank with disappointment.

He did not phone. Perhaps I had dreamt our whole encounter, made it up to please myself? Then, at the oddest moments, as I was washing the dishes or setting out breakfast with teaspoons and egg-cups, I would remember his hands on my shoulders or the strength of his kiss on my mouth, and I knew he had meant what he said, and that what we felt for each other was real.

I felt rediscovered, but I could hardly shout about it. As hours lengthened into silent days, I mourned the loss of Arthur’s company while I carried on being the best mum I could. Many times I could have stopped in the middle of the living room or the kitchen or the bathroom; I wanted to lie down in the garden, the hallway, the bedroom and cry myself to sleep. But things needed doing; and the resumption of Elaine’s school timetable kept at me and kept me going.

Spring was on the way in again, when the phone rang. I was standing outside with a handful of damp washing and clothes pegs, thanking God that I could hang out the laundry on that light, breezy morning, when I heard the bell trill and moved clumsily to the front of the house, leaving the linen where it lay. I had grown so used to nuisance callers trying to sell me insurance, upgrade my telephone tariff or remind me to claim compensation, that I was a little abrupt.

“Hello?” I queried, my tone efficient.

“Hello… Remember me?”

I almost dropped the phone in shock, and my hands were suddenly slippery. “What the buggery are you doing, phoning me now?” I snapped, furious and sad all at once.

“Sorry, Marian, I know…”

I nearly put the phone down, but something in me held out for better.

“I know I have some explaining to do.”

“Yes.”

“Can we meet up?”

“I hardly think so, not now…and… Where are you?”

“Actually, I’m home.”

I slammed the phone down. Strange, that quiet, obedient me should be so forceful all of a sudden, but a fury I hardly recognized gave me strength, even though I wanted to weep and kiss and give in. The phone rang again and when I didn’t pick it up, the doorbell started. He was there on the other side, and I would not let him in, until I listened and heard him saying, “Vivienne lied to me…”

My heart understood, and I pulled open the door, to see Arthur’s thin, angular frame silhouetted against the light. Before we said anything else, our arms clasped each other and held on, tighter all the time, pushing as if we wanted to get inside each other, trembling with emotion, with anger, confusion, sorrow and joy.

“I came back, you see,” he said. “I came back because I want to be – happy.”

***

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‘Faith, Hope and Love’ Part 14

I woke to shards of dark light, a cold space in the bed beside me and the familiar quiet noises of the house in early morning. I guessed it was about six. As my thoughts stretched back, I sat up with a jolt, seeking warmth and reassurance… What had it been?

Shivering violently, I slipped out of bed and shrugged into my dressing gown. Slanting rays of light crossed the landing and I tapped faintly at the bathroom door, hoping to hear a familiar voice, but the door swung in, revealing emptiness. The shaving light glowed over the mirror.

Leaving it, I crept quietly downstairs and found nothing to remind me of last night: no half-cup of tea, no warm kettle, no shoe lying by the sofa. I dithered in the half light. Should I phone, or go back to bed? Hovering, I dialled Arthur’s number, but there was no reply. I wearily climbed the stairs and ran a bath, lowering my aching body into the hot water to wash away the indecision hanging over me. Had there been a man in my bed last night? Had we revealed ourselves, urged and wept? Incredulous, I slowly shook my head, soaped my body and dreamed.

An hour or so later when Elaine woke up, our house looked as it always had, just the two of us. So easily did she brush her hair and slowly put on her shoes while reading and eating toast with jammy fingers; so easily did life slip by in its usual holiday patterns, I felt as if the whole of last night must have been a dream. While Elaine was arranging to meet up with her friends for some last minute Christmas shopping, I was tidying, furtively wrapping presents. Not until later did I start seriously to wonder where Arthur was. Without his reassuring presence, the house felt too large.

Around mid-morning, three things happened at once: the doorbell rang, the phone went and the post arrived. Automatically I picked up the handset and said, “Wait a moment, please, there’s someone at the door…” before stretching to the latch and pulling it open. On the step was a box with my name and address on it in handwriting I did not recognize, and an assortment of junk mail that the mailman had left perched on top. I went back.

“Hello? Hello…sorry about that, the doorbell….”

“Marian, it’s me.”

“Oh! Arth–”

“Sorry to leave you this morning so early, but I thought it best to go while Elaine was asleep. I didn’t want her to catch me there, you know.”

“Very thoughtful… Where are you? Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine, absolutely….fine.” Memories of last night fizzed down the line. I felt weak at the knees. The slightest push would have toppled me.

I managed to say, “I could do with a hug, right now….”

“I would love to. The thing is….” My heart dropped into my boots and I could feel a drum beating in my ears. I leaned on the wall, my breath coming in short gasps.

“I’m coming back, Marian. But there are some things I have to tidy up first. It’s something I need to do before we become any more…” The words were rushing out now, probably in a mix of confusion and guilt. “I’ll get everything sorted.” There was a long pause. “If I had stayed, I might not… I won’t be away long.”

“But–” Arthur’s words flew over my head. I could pick out the odd phrase.

“Away? When will you be back?”

“Not sure. A week or two, probably.”

“Where are you?”

“A service station, a dive somewhere.”

I was shivering violently, my teeth chattered with emotion, cold and disappointment.

“Well” I swallowed, forcing some words out, “I hope you get everything sorted and– ” My voice broke, “I – I will always be here for you.”

“Thanks Marian. I’m sorry to go away like this, but I can’t leave the situation just hanging.”

I nodded, but of course, he could not see me. I grinned sheepishly, but still he could not see me. Cross with myself for wasting time, I forced out some more words, barking them, to delay weeping.

“Are you trying to let me down gently?”

“No! Of course not. Is that what you think? I don’t get my kit off for just anybody, you know,” he whispered. “Please Marian, wait for me, please?”

“Yes, of course I will. I wish you could have told me before you left.”

“Yes, I wanted to wake you – I would have liked to, but then I might not have come away. You know how it is, sweetheart.” His gentleness undid all my sharpness and I wept quietly. Feeling I had nothing to lose, I took a great leap and said, “I love you, you know. I hope you can come back soon.”

“I will, my lover, as soon as I can, I promise.”

It was only after I had put the phone down that I realized I had no idea where he was.

The box had been left by Arthur. In it, I found a letter: “Dearest Marian… I’m so sorry to have to go away, but my affairs with Vivienne need my attention.” In the box I found a large, gangly pot plant that would need watering. “I would be very grateful if you could water Lilian’s peace lily for me, now and then. Just until I get back…”

***

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‘Faith, Hope and Love’ Part 12

We finished our meal in shaky silence. All the time, I was praying: for the right words, for the right time and place, and so that everything would be all right. After our baked potatoes we had fruit and hot drinks. From my wide selection of ‘horrible’ teabags, Arthur chose ginger and ginseng and I had peppermint. My nerves were jangling.

“So, what is your great secret?” Arthur re-opened our discussion. “What is so awful that you look as white as a ghost, Marian? You can tell me – you can trust me.”

“It’s not as bad as that!” I exclaimed, and he laughed softly. I noticed his laugh and loved it.

“Where to start?” I wondered aloud. “I have cerebral palsy, as you’ve maybe worked out by now. And I don’t do sex very well. That’s all.” Seeing Arthur’s quizzical expression, I hastened on, “I mean, I do love, and passion and all the usual emotions…but the sex has always been – difficult.” I settled on that, treading warily, cautious. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing, use the wrong words. “It feels easier to just forget the whole thing, sometimes.”

“You mean you, what, you never have sex?” Arthur’s eyebrows were up, and he was looking straight at me. I tried not to blush, pretended he was a sex therapist I was never going to see again.

“More or less. I’m never very sure and it’s not something I can talk about much. Who would understand?”

“Perhaps you are just so used to being brave that you never give yourself permission to experiment?”

“Well…” I was searching for reasons why and how and if and what and when, none of which came easily to mind. I like to understand things, but this was one dilemma that only Karl had explored with me. He had been my only other friend when it came to matters of sex. Even then, our life together had been comfortable, which is another way of saying we compromised a great deal.

“Let’s just see how it goes, shall we?” Arthur’s words cut into my thoughts, and part of me felt disappointed. Was this the usual brush off? I steeled myself for rejection, for the retreat.

“Okay,” I quietly accepted, but Arthur continued, “I just mean, let’s have fun and see how far we get, hey? I am quite happy to take a chance with you.”

“You mean, you don’t mind?” I felt small.

“Why the fuck would I mind? I haven’t had sexual relations in about a decade, so you could call me a bit rusty too. If you don’t mind taking a chance on me, I think I could stick with you. I’m sorry Marian, but either you have had lousy luck, crap lovers or zero confidence – probably all three.”

I couldn’t help laughing with relief at the honesty blazing out of Arthur’s face. The earthy obscenities sounded right at home, jolting me into the real world.

“You’ve got to realize – we all have problems, we all have things to sort through, and I don’t mind. Why would I mind? Are you contaminated or something? I don’t think so. If you are happy to be with me, then I am happy to be with you. Let’s both take one day at a time, okay?”

We finished our meal quietly. Our silence felt intimate and relaxed, as if we finally knew there would be no more surprises. Arthur got up and I thought he was going to walk away, out. But he only fetched a drink of water from the tap, drank deeply and glanced at the clock on the wall. “Perhaps it is Elaine’s bed-time?” The clock said ten past nine.

“Yes, I’ll go and see her. You could go through to the living room and put the fire on? I’ll be back in ten minutes or so.” I left Arthur clearing up in the kitchen, looking puzzled, amused and thoughtful.

“Mum?” Elaine was already in her pyjamas brushing her teeth when I got upstairs to check on her. Clothes were littered around the hallway, but I don’t mind stooping to collect them and putting them in the basket. It’s something to do while Elaine is in the bathroom, cleaning her teeth, brushing her long hair.

“Yes, what is it, my darling?”

“Is Arthur a nice man, do you think?”

“I think so, yes. He is being very kind to me.”

“Yes, but lots of people are kind. I mean, are you going to have sex with him?

“We shall see, shall we?” I answered her, with a cheerful grin. I am used to Elaine’s straight talking. In her, I encourage openness around sex, boys and making babies. Sex is nothing to be ashamed of, I have always said.

***

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‘Faith, Hope and Love’ Part 11

“How long will you be away?”

“I don’t know, Marian, that’s what worries me. I have spent the last sixteen years nursing. D’you suppose I want to do it again? For Vivienne whom I hardly know? A man needs to get away from bodily functions every so often.”

We sat in companionable silence tinged with unease, while the potatoes baked and then, as I flung together a collection of cheeses, sardines, ham, chopped tomatoes, salad and some hummus, I wondered that Arthur had so recently come into my life. Already he felt a comfortable part of it. How would it feel if he went away?

He caught my eye, and said, “You know I don’t want to go. I may be able to stall for a few days. Would you like that?”

Of course I would, and my insides felt as though they had turned to water. I did not move too quickly to agree, though – it felt important to be polite – and now, I saw his impatience.

“If you would like that, perhaps you could just tell me?” It sounded crosser than he intended, but I was startled.

“Yes, I would love you to stay, but not simply for my sake.”

“Well, why would I stay, if not for you?”

“You might not feel like going, travelling, you know?” Something pulled me back from committing more.

“I suppose… There is that, yes.” His fingers were drumming ever so gently on the table top, fiddling with his cutlery.

“Let’s eat,” I said, noticing that the oven timer marked fifty minutes. Surely, these baked potatoes would be ready? Our silence felt edgy now. We ate with only the noise of our knives and forks, and Elaine’s music coming from upstairs, to ease the silence.

“Marian.” I lifted my eyes and saw that Arthur had been watching me as I was cutting a particularly stubborn piece of potato skin.

“Give me your hand,” he said, and immediately I stopped chewing, took a sip of water and offered him my left hand, which he held firmly.

“I would like us to get together more. I feel you are pushing me away but I am not sure why. Is it me?”

“No, it has nothing to do with you.”  I liked Arthur too much to beat about the bush.

“What is it then? Can you tell me? You know all my secrets, yet I know almost nothing about you, except that you drink weak tea and went to boarding school. Why do you insist on being so solitary?”

So there we had it. Now, I had to share my secrets too, which I had always felt so alone with. My secret fears. I was so frightened that I began to shiver. I feared that if I told the truth, Arthur would shake his head regretfully and walk out of the kitchen.

I gazed into Arthur’s face, and all I could see there was openness and love. Gently, I leaned over to him and whispered in his ear, “If I tell you, will you leave me?”

“No, I promise I will stay right here.”

***

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‘Faith, Hope and Love’ Part 10

Middle-aged mothers are so unlikely to fall in love again. I caught myself glancing at Arthur’s mouth, wondering what his lips tasted like, whether his hands were warm. I remembered that I had offered to listen.

“So!” I tried to sound business-like, not bossy. “Would you like to tell me about your boy?”

“There isn’t much to tell, really. I met Vivienne when I took Lilian for a respite break to the seaside in the early days. We were still coming to terms, you know. In Cornwall, I met this woman walking along a nearby beach road. She looked beautiful and I imagined she must be kind, with looks like that. I was a bit taken by surprise, I suppose. I invited her out for tea while my wife was safely ensconced, and before I knew it, we were having an affair. She had no husband. She invited me to share her bed. More or less insinuated she could take Lil’s place. I was very stupid. I never asked if she was taking the pill, or anything. I just assumed that no-one who invited casual sex would be unprotected. Anyway, she became pregnant and then said she wanted to marry me, but I couldn’t have left Lilian. Things turned nasty very quickly after she said she was going to keep the baby. I’ve been sending her regular maintenance for the boy. He’s eighteen now, at school. I never told Lilian, and to be honest it was very easy keeping the whole thing a secret.”

As his story tumbled out, I realised he was very easy to listen to, with a deep, calming voice that seemed to wrap itself around me.

“Last month, out of the blue, I got a phone-call from James saying that his mother was ill. You know the rest. I don’t know what to do.” Arthur had been setting the table with precision and now placed a last spoon with careful finality. Our eyes met in a mutual grimace and I understood he was levelling with me. He had a decision to make.

“Does she have any other family?” It seemed the right place to start, at any rate.

“She has three brothers, who all have families, and she has her mother still. That’s as much as I know.”

“Why do you need to go and see her, then?” I asked, aware of how selfish I sounded. “She has plenty of help nearby, and her boy is grown up now, isn’t he?”

“Yes… He’s just about to start at University. But he can’t decide whether he should stay on at home, to look after Vivienne. It seems like a lot to ask from a young lad…” Arthur paused, looking reflective. “There is probably something more to this, though. I mean, I hardly keep in touch with her – she told me very clearly to leave her alone – and now, after all this time, comes this call, this crisis. Am I just supposed to drop everything?”

***

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‘Faith, Hope and Love’ Part 9

“Arthur,” I coaxed, “Look at me.”

I waited, and slowly his gaze came up, his dark eyes meeting mine. “Listen. You have done nothing wrong.” He moved his head from side to side, not exactly agreeing with me, not sure whether to contradict. So I repeated, “You have done nothing wrong. Only what so many others before you have done.”

Arthur bowed his head, and I could see tears dropping into his lap, onto his trousers. He retrieved a freshly laundered handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. Whispering so quietly that I had to strain to hear, he said, “I don’t know what to do.”

“Do you have to do anything?”

“Well, I think perhaps I should.” He answered. There was another long shuddering sigh. “It all seems like such a mess,” he confessed.

“That is what people do. We mess up all the time. And then spend ages feeling guilty.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“I am sure you have better things to do.”

”Come with me.” I took his hand, and moved with him out into the hall. It felt strange but wonderful to be assertive for once. Putting on my coat, I waited as Arthur shrugged into his favourite dark waterproof. Together we left the house. My porch light triggered as we went up to the front step and when the front door clicked shut behind us, we embraced in the dark hallway. It felt like the obvious thing to do. I stood into his height, and he leaned into me. Supporting each other we held curves that were growing more familiar, inhaling the scent of wet coat and pullovers washed in scented laundry liquid.

“Come,” I said.

“What, here?” His unexpected humour hit my solar plexus and sudden gusts of laughter exploded from our chests, when there was another scrabble at the front door and we both looked around guiltily, not wanting to break up the joke, not just yet.

“Elaine’s back!” I whispered as we broke apart. On second thoughts, as we watched her familiar shape fix the key in the lock and put her shoulder to the glass panel, we inched closer together and were holding hands when she looked in and up at us, her eyes bright and shining from her bike ride, her dark hair loose and untidy, framing her pretty face.

“Hello Elaine. Come in.”

“I’m okay, Mum, don’t fuss!” I forgot that she was getting older. Each day she was choosing her way with more certainty by herself.

“Fine, love.” I gave her a quick hug and a peck on her smooth, cold cheek. “Meet Arthur.”

“Oh, hello” she answered, politely, nodding. She threw off her coat and boots at the foot of the stair and went up to her room.

“Supper is baked potatoes, okay? A wee bit late today.”

“That’s okay, I had something to eat at Lisa’s,” she called back.

I gestured to Arthur and we headed through to the kitchen. Out of habit, he stooped slightly as we went through the hall to the back sitting room. Our kitchen is an old-fashioned long, thin room at the rear, with a stone floor and kitchen cupboards that have been there since the 1970’s and which seem ageless.

“I’m sorry we only have a few hard chairs and a bench to sit on.”

“That’s all right.” I knew that Arthur really didn’t mind. Somehow it felt comfortable having him here, though I worried that maybe the kitchen was too narrow and small for him. Before I could fret, he seated himself on the bench and pulled me into his lap.

“Better?” He asked.

“Yes, much.” The sudden familiarity filled me with heat. I felt heavy against his legs, but he held on tight, so that I just had to relax and accept him taking most of my weight. Physically, he was much stronger than I realized. “Must get on.” I said self-consciously. “Let’s put some tatties in the oven, at least. The rest is just to be set out.” Miss Prim had come into the kitchen. But we did need to eat, and I gently disengaged from his embrace, resisting the urge to turn and kiss him full on the mouth. My gaze darted away, not from rudeness, but because I suddenly felt we had crossed a line. Help! I swallowed self-consciously and Arthur seemed to know he would have to help. Very gently, he allowed me to stand up and himself stood, all business, like a patient boy at my side.

I flipped open cupboards, flapping more usual. I would rather have worked unobserved, but he was standing beside me, his closeness shaking me just enough to put me off my stride. Laughing suddenly, I took a deep breath and thought, “Come on, get a grip!” as I retrieved tin foil, busily tearing a sheet, wrapping four medium potatoes and putting them in the oven.

***

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‘Faith, Hope and Love’ Part 8

One afternoon when I was outside, I heard Arthur’s voice drift over the fence. “Marian! Hello?”

I straightened up. “Hello, Arthur.”

“I have to go away for a while.”

Bleakness flooded through me at the prospect of his leaving, though that did not seem to be the right time or place to say so. It was none of my business, after all. I had no claim on my neighbour, especially at this time of year: goodwill, festive whatnot, family time. But the absurd hope remained, that we might have been part of his plans.

“When are you thinking of going away?”

“Tomorrow, unless something better turns up.”

“Would you like me to, I don’t know, water the plants or anything?”

“Come over, we can talk about it.”

Ten minutes later we were in his living-room, me perched on the couch, Arthur seated in his usual chair by the window. The room was familiar by now, yet something had changed. I was puzzled and then I understood – it was cold. In place of the usual warm glow from the fireplace, there was only darkness. The standing lamps usually shed a welcome glow. The kitchen, too, was quiet. Where usually there were layers of mess, now it felt too tidy.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Arthur asked, standing over me. I could not see the expression on his face.

“Not really.”

I felt uncomfortable. “Arthur… Is it anything I said?” I tried a smile, but he winced, shifted on his feet and said nothing.

“All right then, anything I did?”

“Of course not!” Suddenly he was flaring, anger shimmering, shaking his body with unaccustomed emotion, which I found reassuring. I prefer anger to indifference any day. He proceeded calmly enough to explain, as if he had been working through his thoughts for a more palatable solution.

“I have to go to Southampton. My friend is ill.” Leaning over me he switched on a light. I longed to lift my hands over his shoulders and pull him closer to me.

“Must you?” I asked, “I mean, must you go? There are surely others who can help.”

“I suppose there are….” His eyes shone both doubtful and hopeful, casting an appealing mess of wrinkles across his forehead.

“Well, then, stay here for a while. The weather forecast is bad. If you have nothing in, you could always come to us.”

I realized I was rambling, but could not stop. “Elaine wants to meet you,” I said. It was a total lie, as apart from her friendly questions, she had shown little interest. Elaine knew very little about Arthur, though she had noticed that I was more cheerful.

“Look,” Arthur said, new decision breaking through the unhappiness in his voice. Once again, he came and held my hands. “I have not been totally honest with you.” A sinking feeling crept over me. “I have commitments in other parts of the country.”

“What? What is it?” I forced myself to speak gently. There was a long pause, so long that I thought Arthur had not heard me. He answered softly,

“I have a son, with another woman.”

“But that’s great!” I said.

“She doesn’t love me,” he went on. “But she has her boy and uses him to keep a hold of me. She has not been well for months and now she sort of expects me to help her. I don’t know what to do. I would so much prefer not get more involved with her than I already am, but James is totally under her thumb and has been calling me, begging me to go down. He says she may be dying. I don’t know what to do.”

I had never seen this quiet, elegant gentleman at a loss before. I didn’t think there was much I could say, but again he forestalled me, “But you are here with me. Thank you.”

“Shall I go and put on the kettle? Or, if you like, you could tell me all about it over supper with us? It is time Elaine met you.” That he made no response to my suggestions concerned me more than all the fuss he could kick up. I hobbled over to his seat and clumsily placed my arms across his shoulders. His hands clasped me hard around the waist as if he was suddenly scared to let go. I leaned into him, and we stayed together, comfortable and awkward, just breathing.

“Do you want a cup of something?” I gestured hopelessly in the direction of the kitchen, but his only answer was to pull me more closely to him. I kissed his cheeks. I stroked his shoulders and felt them relax, inching into restfulness. But his face was down, gazing into nothing.

“I could put the fire on?” Silence.

“I could make us something to eat?” Each suggestion was left hanging in a stillness broken only by breathing, holding arms and closed faces.

***

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‘Faith, Hope and Love’ Part 7

I was quietly stunned by this confession. What astonished me was not so much what Arthur said, but the way he spoke, so calmly, so carefully. I am an emotional woman, and when I speak of things that tug my heart, my voice fills with tremors, my hands shake and my legs raise themselves of the ground. I cannot sit still. Yet speaking of abject misery there was he, calm, gentle and peaceful.

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” I said. I meant it. He looked at me, looked into my eyes. Silently he gazed over the wrinkles round my mouth, over my forehead. His hand was raised to my cheek, which he touched gently. He looked at my face like an artist might, examining curves, the fall of hair at the ear, the tilt of the eyelid. I let him lift my face to the side, bring it back.

“You are beautiful” he said.

“Thank you,” I answered.

“I wonder…” he whispered as the minutes ticked quietly past.

“What?” I asked, searching his face for clues.

“Would it matter to you if…?” he started, but broke off. There followed a long pause and then suddenly I clasped his hand, pulled it towards me and started to kiss it, first the palm, then the fingers, many small kisses coming unbidden from me. He did not pull away, but sat with a small smile on his face, which did nothing to discourage me. I kissed the palm again, let the hand drop and then looked for the other, lifting and kissing it too, first the soft folds at the back of the hand, then each finger, tip, hundreds and thousands. To say thank you. I was filled with gratitude that I didn’t know what to do with. Where could I put it all?

“You don’t have to, you know.” Arthur’s self-control maddened me.

“But you have such beautiful hands and I want you to know – you are – beautiful too.”

“And I thank you, too.”

He rose up from where he had been seated next to me, and resumed his seat over the way, in front of the window. I could not see the expression on his face.

***

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‘Faith, Hope and Love’ Part 6

We fell into a pattern. As the winter nights got colder, the leaves drooped and rain fell like wet kisses from the denuded branches of tall trees, I got into the habit of popping round to Arthur’s whenever I had finished gardening. There was always something to tidy: leaves to clear, branches to pull and burn, hands to snarl on old, reluctant thorns. I was happy outside, those afternoons. The work cleansed my thoughts and stretched my body in beautiful, aching curves. And afterwards, there waited Arthur’s kitchen, or the living-room with the French windows where we sat together, watching the shadows and the wind dancing with the remains of the leaves.

“A top-up?” Arthur’s enquiry broke through my thoughts. He found me getting lost in my silences.

“That would be great!” I said, pushing aside tiredness. As I watched Arthur pottering about in the shadows, I felt immense gratitude that he did not feel the need to chat about the latest bad news, the international situation, the lamentable state of his shares portfolio. I could not have borne that. Politeness forced me to smile as I took my mug of water with the hint of chamomile, and the couple of water biscuits that Arthur now kept for me. He paused, “On second thoughts, would you like some spread on them?” I realized I would, some jam or honey. Not low fat, lo sugar or ergonomic and environmentally conscious but just your standard pink, sweet stuff.

“Yes! That would be lovely.”

Arthur lifted my plate to the kitchen counter, fetched a knife out of a drawer and smeared jam from a jar. Watching him looking after me, tears pricked behind my eyes.

“I can do that,” I called, without conviction.

“Yes, I know. But I am up anyway, and you have been working outside all afternoon. I have only been sorting through boxes.”

He was suddenly beside me. “Strawberry all right?”

“Yes, of course!” I croaked self-consciously, a surprising tear slipping unbidden down my cheek. Perhaps he didn’t see it, because he said nothing, but crossed back to his usual chair.

“Penny for them?” His voice was careful and light. In the gathering dusk his voice was penetrating.

“What?” I sniffed.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

”Oh!” Uncomfortable flutterings rose to my throat.

“Just begin anywhere. I will catch up with you.”

“Well, in that case, how about rock buns…?” I was muttering to myself again. I sat up straighter in my seat and looked over at his gentle smiling face. He trusted me. I must not disappoint him.

I said, “It seems that age is catching up with me. I’m rather tired, that’s all.”

“You are being brave again.” He spoke quietly, but I understood him perfectly.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I see you getting about, managing. I see you trying to smile when you knock over the milk bottles and have to bend to retrieve them from a gritty path. I see that you cope.”

“Well, doesn’t everyone?”

“I suppose so. You were going to tell me about rock buns.”

I stifled my reluctance and began slowly, spilling snippets and stories of my childhood: the way my mother would bake miracle melting biscuits once or twice and then never make them again. And later, away at school, while I was being teased and left in among reams of rules that others would easily flout but which clogged me up, how I found motherly friendship with the kitchen staff. They baked all sorts of delightful cakes for us, coconut melts, shortbread, chocolate krispies and rock buns for afternoon tea; our consolation before prep began and dull routines of boarding school closed around us once more.

“But surely, it can’t have been that bad?” Arthur was lightly dismissive.

“Well, I suppose it wasn’t. We got used to it. But there was a sort of neglect that went with it, and a feeling that I could never be myself. I was forever hiding under sarcasm, frowns or routine.”

“There were the holidays to look forward to?”

“Yes. Anyway, the point is, I am unused to having someone look after me. It makes me emotional.” There was a long pause while I ate my jammy biscuit in the gathering gloom, turning away gratefully from my first impulse to weep.

“Perhaps you mean that you don’t look after yourself as well as you might, but that is hardly surprising. You have a wonderful daughter, you cope mostly alone, and you manage.”

“Yup! God, how I hate that word – manage! It is so dull and put upon.”

“We all manage,” he replied automatically. Still, to me the word conjures up such aching compromises, that I stuck with my assessment, my mouth set in a straight line.

With great deliberation I enunciated carefully, “I love rock buns, and chocolate cake and biscuits, and wine and cheese and tea and coffee and steak and chips and ice-cream, though not all at once.” My attempt at a joke fell flat. “So, I am just like everyone else, but none of that stuff agrees with me anymore. In the last few years I have discovered that if I eat steak, or drink a cup of coffee I cannot walk. Do you want to see me crawling around the house? If I eat butter my kidneys ache and my head itches. Ditto cheese. My wrists and fingers seize up. Chocolate cake makes me ill. I am fed up, not being able to do what everyone else takes for granted.”

There! I had said what I wanted, and the world was still here.

“I see. Is that all?”

It was quite the wrong thing to say. I burst into tears. “Yes. Not being able to do what everyone else does!” I managed a wail. “It is not just food, and chores, and not having a job or a husband. But everything,” I finished limply.

“Everything… yes.”

He let me sob and sniff and slowly reach up and out of the other side of my sad hole. I wanted him to put his arms around me, but I just sat in my seat. As I always have.

“And if I said you were lucky, how would you feel?”

I laughed a sad bark and sighed. “I would say, of course, you are right, and I would also say I don’t know. Most of the time I would agree with you.”

There was a movement over there, and over here. Suddenly Arthur was sitting next to me, holding both my hands in his own.

“You are lucky, Marian! You have a wonderful daughter. You can see her every day. You have your own little house, and you don’t have to work for a shitty boss who calls you up in the evenings or on your days off making unreasonable demands. You can please yourself every week day from eight in the morning until half past three or four or whenever your daughter gets home. And in the evenings when there is no-one to talk to, you have your daughter who loves you, living under your roof. I call that lucky!”

I was ashamed and I sat forward starting to say sorry, but he interrupted me. “No, don’t apologise. What did you say, except how you feel? What’s wrong with that?”

I smiled again and sniffed, and he handed me a handkerchief.

“I’ll get it back to you,” I nodded.

“No. Just keep it.” For some reason, Arthur seemed to be avoiding my eyes.

“What is it?”

“I spent years – God, it was months, years – looking after Lilian. At the end she couldn’t speak, she was fed through all sorts of tubes; she slept in one room down the hall. A nurse watched her and I was upstairs. I used to go and sit with her at night, hold her hand and pray that God would come and pull her out of her misery. But it was years. And then one day I looked up and they were taking away her bed, her boxes of pills and the monitor, and the nurses were shaking my hand and getting ready to leave. The cleaners were coming round to clear away the smell of urine and bandages and for the first time in months, I opened the window, with the old-fashioned catch, that looked out over the lawn at the back, with its rose borders and the cherry tree in the middle. It was spring. And finally, Lilian was finished with breathing in jerks and spasms. She was beautiful again, I knew. And I had lost her. She had gone. All that was left was an empty space, the marks on the carpet where her bed had been, and the boxes of sterile gloves and tissues. It was a relief. I felt guilty.”

***
(to be continued)

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