Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman

twenty, so why not you at fifty? But I had grown used to you being predictable, and why should you have been?’ I looked down at my hands, resolving that I must not make this gesture a habit. ‘Perhaps that’s the real trouble with marriage. The groove becomes so worn and so smooth that you forget to think about it. Properly. Painfully. Until it’s too late. But you mustn’t worry. I’ll be all right. So will you.’

‘Clocks don’t turn back?’

I shook my head. ‘You have Minty to think of.’

‘So I do.’ Nathan picked up the wineglass, thought better of it, placed it carefully on the sideboard and began to weep. They were very final tears.

An hour later, Nathan left Lakey Street. By then he was dry-eyed and pale. He kissed me briefly and said, ‘We’ll keep in touch, whatever happens.’

‘Of course,’ and I added, ‘You can move in here as soon I’ve got the flat sorted out.’

Anything holding you up? Can I help?’

‘Only the details.’

The front door closed behind him and I was left in the quiet, shadowed, changing house.

Chapter Twenty-six

I exchanged contracts on the flat. I did not talk about it much, and Sam and Poppy were forbidden to make any reference to a new life or new beginning – which, of course, it was. Gently, gently to catch the monkey, I instructed them. I was still shaking out my damp, crimped wings, and I wanted this rite of passage to be made without fuss or grand gestures.

I began to pack my half of the house. Soon, the landing was stacked with boxes. My study disappeared and the cream and white order of the kitchen went with it.

In the attic, I stumbled across an old-fashioned attache suitcase, labelled ‘Jack’s clothes’ in Ianthe’s handwriting. It was stuffed with baby clothes, the ones I couldn’t bring myself to throw away. A tiny smocked dress. Sam’s first dungarees. A pair of scuffed red shoes.

The dust made me sneeze – or perhaps I was crying.

Right at the bottom, hidden in tissue paper where it might have been overlooked, was a flat cap made of tweed. My father’s.

I buried my face in it. Where’s my little chickaninny?

I returned the dress, the shoes, the dungarees and the cap to the case, with layers of tissue paper, and lugged it down to the landing.

A quiet spring ticked away, a healing time, punctuated by calls from the solicitor and the estate agent. I continued to work for Kim two days a week. More often than not Vee sent over a book. If you get any thinner, I’ll kill you. Neil Skinner rang up and booked me in for more research work in June, this time on arts funding. An invitation arrived in the post to the wedding of Charles Madder and Kate Frett. A note was enclosed: could I come to a small lunch party the day before because Charles would particularly like to introduce me to his children?

Poised behind spring was summer, a riot of colour and sensual tease.

Along with the garden, I waited too: I waited to slough off an old skin, for those new wings to dry in the sun, and to step forth clean and newborn. In a manner of speaking, I was on the road again.

Kim and I were discussing the merits and demerits of a book on interior design. Kim was leaning over the desk and his tie was getting in the way. I was slumped in my chair, sipping cappuccino. We were enjoying ourselves arguing over whether purple walls and gilding had mainstream appeal. (Not.) We also talked figures and contracts, publishers and readers. Into this agreeable interlude came Poppy’s phone call. ‘Mum, I need to see you.’

After work, I made the detour to Poppy’s and rang the bell in what appeared to be a silent flat. Eventually, the door opened, revealing a tearstained Poppy in glasses.

She led me into the kitchen and I almost tripped over a pile of unwashed clothes dumped on the floor. The sink was stacked with china and an astonishing number of wineglasses. Something was boiling in a saucepan on the stove.

‘Grief,’ I said.

Poppy frowned. ‘I was trying to tidy up. Richard hates mess.’ She bit her lip. ‘I had no idea that he was a tidiness fanatic. He was never like that before. Anyway, I can’t seem to get it right. Then we quarrel and he comes home even later. I have all the time in the world, Mum, and I do nothing. I don’t know where the time goes, and I get cross so I do even less.’

I switched off the gas under the saucepan, picked up the rubber gloves and said, in a practical way, ‘I’ll wash up if you get on with the other things.’

Poppy did an abrupt volte-face. ‘Oh, Mum, there’s no need to go overboard.’

‘Wouldn’t it help?’

Poppy flung a couple of tea-towels on to the floor. ‘I don’t see why I should give in to him. Just because he has a job, he thinks he can come home demanding supper.’ She raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Wake up, Richard. This isn’t the nineteenth century.’

I rescued the tea-towels and nudged the pile of laundry into a corner. ‘Darling, it’s very hard giving up travelling and freewheeling for domesticity but it can and must be done, by most people anyway.’ Poppy sniffed sceptically. ‘If you had a job you might feel better.’

‘I don’t seem to have cracked that either.’ Poppy had decided to aim for publishing on the editorial side. ‘Actually, I was offered one as a sales assistant but I thought it would silly to do something I had no intention of sticking to.’

‘Wouldn’t it have been better to get a foot in the door? Knowing how books sell must be quite useful, Poppy, and if you had a job you would not be dependent on Richard.’

Ianthe’s voice, loud and strong.

‘You’re such a dinosaur, Mum. Richard agrees with me that it’s no use compromising.’

I sighed. ‘Then why the upset?’

‘I don’t know’ Poppy hunched herself into a small, perplexed ball. ‘I don’t why I’m behaving so badly.’

I gave in to my mothering impulse and snapped on the rubber gloves. I knew what Poppy was talking about – of course, I knew. Olive trees and a wine-dark sea. Fountains in the sunlight. They were enticing, radiant mental wallpaper. I said carefully, ‘Poppy, you chose to get married.’

She exploded out of her torpor. ‘But I didn’t want to become dull and colourless.’ She aimed a kick in the direction of the laundry. ‘I can’t understand how Richard has changed. He wasn’t like this before. It’s as if he’s been swallowed up and there’s an impostor in his place. All this will-you-get-supper-because-I-go-to-work nonsense. I know I’m lucky, and I’m not starving and I’m not a refugee and my relatives haven’t all been massacred but, I’m sorry, that makes no difference when your spirit is sore.’

I pulled her close enough for the rim of her glasses to bite into my cheek. My poor Poppy. She would have to flex and bend. ‘Mark time, Poppy. For a little while. Then you’ll become used to it. Don’t muck up and don’t give up yet. You’ll regret it if you do.’

She sighed and snuggled into me. ‘What do I do, Mum? You know. You’ve been through it.’

‘Your father and I were lucky enough that we both knew what we wanted.’

In my case, it had not taken rocket science and Nathan had spotted my needs at once. At our fifth meeting, he had sat beside me in a cinema and during the adverts he took my hand. ‘I want to settle down, Rose, and I think you do.’ He lifted my hand and kissed my fingers, one by one. ‘I want to marry you.’ A little later, he asked, ‘Take me up to Yelland. I would like to see where you were as a child. Then I shall understand important things about you.’

How powerful another’s understanding can be. It works miracles. How richly the imagination can build up love with words and images. How grateful I was for it. How I latched on to the promise of order and love that Nathan offered.

I kissed Poppy’s tangled hair and repeated, ‘Don’t give up.’

Her eyebrows twitched together. ‘He’s a devil. What on earth made me marry him?’