employed over the years, interested me in the slightest. Most of the time I scarcely noticed what I typed or took down in my shorthand pad or filed away or said politely on the telephone. I was a pleasant enough colleague, I think, not difficult or hostile, but I did not care one way or the other about the work that went on, and over time that becomes indistinguishable from mental dullness. I could be relied upon to do as I was asked, nothing more. It seemed enough to me. Ditto at home with Mother, although I did develop what she called a ‘nasty sarcastic streak’. I know what she meant. I could sometimes come out with remarks that were rather bitter-sounding. And sarcasm without wit (which I have never possessed) comes across rather sourly. Without quite realising it, I became sour.
I had long, long since stopped going to Mr Hapgood’s, of course. Once or twice towards the end I saw through the glass bit of the shop door that there was a woman with dyed blonde hair behind the counter, and on those days I walked on home. Gradually I stopped even looking to see if she was there and didn’t go near the place. Mr Hapgood had grown a little distant, anyway, by then.
Incredible, you will be thinking, that she could even think of carrying on with that awful man, even after she knew he was getting married? How could anyone be so naПve? But it wasn’t naПvetй, quite, although I was as ignorant and unwise as the next provincial schoolgirl in 1951, and out of my depth. If you think depravity’s involved, I’m not even sure I was much less depraved than he was. But there was more to it than that. I had been lonely since Father died and at the end of every school day my heart sank at the thought of going home. At least going to Mr Hapgood’s put that off for an hour. At least, in the smoky back of the shop, I got a welcome of sorts.
And I think I was overwhelmed by something else, a sort of knowledge that had been growing over the years, more in my bones than in my brain, a thing I just knew without noticing I’d been learning it. So when I told Mr Hapgood that yes, I would keep coming, it felt not like a decision that I was making but like a reflex reaction to a blow that I had been expecting. It was quite clear and unsurprising. The fact was that with Father gone, I had nobody. Nobody. The feeling this gave me was unbearable, as if I were made of something weighty but without colour or life, like damp ashes, so worthless I could be swept into a sack and tipped out somewhere and never be missed. So I would have clung to anyone who stopped me feeling like that. I would have stuck to anyone who wanted me, and I was in no position to much mind who they were, or even what it was they wanted me for.
So for a time Mr Hapgood was a kind of intermittent relief from that feeling. But when that episode finally closed the feeling came back, of course, and I managed to live for years and years either feeling it or in danger of feeling it, so it turned out not to be unbearable after all, in the strict sense. I bore it, I even learned to pretend it wasn’t there. But I’ve done enough of that now. I cannot bear to feel like that ever again, not now that I have been truly free of it, living here.
It was my own fault, that day of the strawberry picking, letting a mention of next year slip out of my mouth, but it helped me. Because when that unbearable feeling stole over me again, as I stood there, after I had watched them walk away from me, that was the moment when I knew I would do anything, I mean absolutely anything, to keep us all together.
July
Steph was pressing the little studs on Charlie’s pale green shorts and tucking in his T-shirt, wondering which of his several hats he might wear today. It was going to be hot again, too hot for jam making, really, but the fruit had been picked yesterday and would not last out the day.
‘We’re going to make jam, Charlie,’ she told him. ‘Aren’t we? Are you going to help me make the jam? Are you going to have a taste of the jam?’ She popped an acorn shaped hat of green gingham on his head. Charlie looked back at her coolly. It was a morning on which Sally had, surprisingly, left calmly and in good time, so Charlie had already had a peaceful breakfast with Steph and apparently was scrutinising the day ahead with equanimity. They were both startled by the sudden loud pang-pang-pang of Sally’s doorbell.
A very tall, elderly man wearing smeared glasses and dressed in a light linen jacket and an open-necked shirt stood on the doorstep. He raised his panama hat and smiled experimentally. ‘How do you do. I hope Sally told you to expect me?’
He asked this in a way that suggested he assumed she would have, so Steph felt somehow in the wrong when she told him that Sally had not. The man wriggled his full lips. ‘Oh, dear. I did tell Sally. I told her expressly that I would visit today. I was supposed to pop in yesterday evening, which frankly would have been more convenient, but she rang and said Charlie was too tired. So I said I would come today instead, and she said I would have to be here early. Do I take it I’ve missed her?’ He looked at Charlie for the first time and chucked him under the chin. ‘Hello, young man! Helloooh!’
Steph wondered how she could ask him who he was without sounding rude or suspicious. Before she could say anything he turned from Charlie, who now had hold of one of his forefingers, and said, ‘And you must be Nanny, am I correct?’ The words were followed by a parting of the lips, offering Steph a view of greyish teeth that appeared to be huddling in his mouth for shelter.
‘I’m the childminder. Steph.’
‘Well, how do you do, Steph. I’m Charlie’s grandfather. Mr Brookes, or Reverend Brookes if you like, but in mufti today, not in fancy dress! Actually I’m on holiday.’ He grinned at her. The sun was falling directly on his face, and Steph, seeing nothing beyond the obscuring rainbow glint of grease across the lenses of his glasses, could not be certain if his eyes were friendly.
‘Oh. Oh, that’s nice. Nice weather for you.’
‘Yes, only wouldn’t you just know it- I gather it’s wet where I’m going! I’m off later, you see, for a week’s walking. Up north, probably in the rain! Anyway, I thought I’d pop over before I head off, and see my grandson. I did tell Sally I would, but evidently she’s forgotten to tell you. Eh, Charlie?’
‘Oh.’
So this was the, what was it Sally had called him? The uptight bugger, the miserable old sod, the one Sally preferred when he was depressed. Steph’s heart went out to him. He was just old and awkward, a big embarrassment of a man, too tall for his clothes and too helpless to clean his glasses, yet here he was on the doorstep making an effort. But what could she do?
‘Well, I’m sorry Sally’s not here; but we were just going. Charlie and me, we were-’
‘Going? Going where?’
‘Oh, we don’t stay
‘I take him up to my house. There’s lots of room and the garden and everything, and a pool.’ She added, ‘Sally knows. We keep lots of his stuff up there, there’s nothing here for him. And, er, well- well, I need to get off, they’re expecting us. Takes a little while, what with the pushchair.’
‘Oh. Oh, I see, yes, I’m sure, but you see, I’ve come nearly eighteen miles. Though of course you’ve got your routine, I wouldn’t want to…’
‘Well, come on in for a minute, anyway,’ Steph said, comfortably. He was nice, she was deciding. And he had come specially, and must be wearing that hat just as a sort a joke. It was typical of Sally to take against him. Sally did seem always to be furious with the wrong people. ‘Come on in and have a cup of coffee. What a shame, you coming all this way and Sally never saying.’
Charlie’s granddad seemed as mystified by the cluttered house as Steph was. He stood frowning, looking round the kitchen as if he were wondering if he could bear to stay in such a muddle even long enough to drink a cup of coffee.
‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘Don’t bother with the coffee. I’ll give you a lift. And then perhaps I could spend-’
‘Oh, no! No, don’t, there’s no need, honest. Kettle’s on, won’t take a minute. And we like the walk. Don’t we,
