Love of Grace and Angels

  If only they had arranged a convenient place for her to wait, he thought, then he could drive around the city and pass by the rendezvous point until she appeared. But they had no such contingency plan, nothing to counter the unforeseen triple whammy of lateness, early congestion and lack of parking. All they had was the usual arrangement of walking from coach to car, with Art carrying The Tardis, her small but unfeasibly heavy bag that contained so much. She didn’t know it was called The Tardis.

  If the city were more accessible, he would definitely keep driving past the coach stop, he decided, for he knew his mother would not dare stray an inch. But he also knew that if she were not there, he would find himself tangled up in an unforgiving one-way system that, considering the state of the roads, might take an age to circuit. Of course, if she knew where he was then she wouldn’t worry at all and would placidly wait for him to collect her. But if she didn’t know in advance, which she didn’t, she would react badly, and the resulting endless reproach and criticism would be unpleasant for everyone concerned. His wife would never forgive him, nor would his mother, and for that matter, neither would he. In silence at the dining table later that day, they would form a triangle of accusation.

  Perhaps he could wait where he was. It was an easy walk from the coach drop-off and surely she would remember the route? Most people would begin the walk knowing they would meet up. But not his mother. There was no use fantasising about what might be.

  Of more immediate concern was the miniature traffic warden scribbling furiously in expectation of coming tickets, publicly teasing himself as he indulged in the joys of anticipation. But even with the predatory warden slavering greedily at every vehicle, it would be easy enough to cruise up and down for a while, pausing here and there without drawing too much unwanted attention. At the very least it was worth trying to call her, he decided, wriggling the phone from a pocket and dialling as the car rounded a monument for the fourth time. At least he could say he had tried.

  Art was distractingly thirsty, but his stomach rumbled hopefully, a sign, perhaps, that his hangover was passing: a lucky escape in the circumstances. He sighed as he looked at the display on his phone. It seemed that somehow he had missed her call only ten minutes before. There was no text message or voice message, for his mother’s fingers were no longer nimble and her mind no longer young. That which had once been contemporary and progressive now strolled happily and stubbornly in the past, although in her heart she believed herself to be as enlightened as she ever was. At least she had called, he thought, and if nothing else it proved she was somewhere; not that being nowhere was physically possible, but then again nowhere wasn’t the worry. Her not being was the worry, being dead somewhere all alone. He shook off ridiculously morbid thoughts and dialled uneasily, anticipating his mother’s fury at being abandoned. Unsurprisingly, her phone was switched off, and without leaving a message Art pushed it back into his pocket.

  He conjured up the image of his mother switching on her phone to use it and turning it off again when finished. He could not fathom why she persisted in this, how she could justify such dedicated thrift, since the cost issue had been explained repeatedly. He wondered if it had become more a matter of privacy, of his mother defending herself against perceived intrusion with no consideration for those who might need to call her. Everybody knew she kept it for no reason other than it was a present from Art, accepted on the clear understanding it would be for emergency use only. But in his mother’s eyes, urgent situations didn’t happen to other people. Why would anyone want to call her, she’d asked? Many modern inventions, in her opinion, connected people at too high a price and she preferred to keep herself to herself.

  Despite the excuse of advancing years, her attitude frustrated Art no end and he wondered why it was that she couldn’t simply keep up and fit in like everybody else. Not that he would ever say so, not to her face, but plenty of older people embraced modern technology; finally the world need not be such a lonely place. Obviously for a woman resisting change, the greatest devil of all was the Internet, and so a plethora of virtual friendships that could have been a Godsend would never be. Like so many, his mother favoured the convenience offered by the exempting phrase the exception that proves the rule, and when Art explained how he had both booked and paid for her coach ticket without leaving the house, she’d forgotten her disapproval. For a few unguarded seconds, it seemed she was admiring of such connection. Naturally, Art seized the moment and offered to buy her a computer. This was answered with a resounding silence that would have withered the courage of a dozen less compliant sons. With the window of opportunity obliterated before it was truly established, Art wished he had kept his mouth shut.

  Fed up, Art stopped cruising for spaces. He was pissed off. Pissed off that he had got so drunk, pissed off that he was running late, pissed off that his mother’s phone was switched off, pissed off with the traffic. He pulled out and around several waiting cars double parked by watchful drivers hopeful of a space, and circuited the monument for the final lap. It was time to head away from the centre a little, to park out of sight of the warden and wait for her to call again. If she’d called once she would certainly get back in touch. There might even be time for a short nap. Art’s eyes felt gritty and tired. The day had got off to a bad start and was unlikely to improve with the arrival of his mother. What a relief it would be just to cancel, he thought.

  To his great surprise, his phone rang. Once more he had to wriggle it from his pocket, but his foot, previously so light of touch, depressed the accelerator sharply as his leg straightened in an attempt to free the phone from a fold of fabric. Before he could react the car shot forward and catapulted a stranger into the last few moments of life.

  Chapter 4

  GRACE

  Somewhere, far away, day was slipping calmly into night to the rhythmic refrain of crickets and frogs. Here, it had just begun. All around the blush of existence was slowly returning to a world that without light can have no colour at all, and from sleepy greyness life returned. Blackbirds had been singing for an hour or more, clear notes greeting early autumn with a harmony no different than the heralding melodies of a hot summer evening. Such a chorus could break a fragile heart as easily as mend it.

  It was cold, a fact Grace registered only when the central heating switched on with a noisy click. She re-tied her thick dressing gown and opened the backdoor, stepping out to claim the first sharp breath of fresh morning air. It was beautiful and but for the birds, silent.

  ‘Penny for them?’

  ‘You made me jump!’

  Her husband began to make a cup of coffee. ‘You’re up early. Couldn’t sleep again?’

  ‘No, not helped by all the wine I’m afraid. Makes me so wakeful. Don’t know why I bother.’

  ‘You only had a couple, Grace.’

  ‘I know. But these days a couple is enough.’

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘No thanks. I just had some tea.’ He already looked on edge, she thought, a pity considering he had only just woken up. ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘Fine. I’ve got a meeting later. Things are a bit tense at work and it’s on my mind. You know how it is. Work-head. But I won’t be gone for long. You’re out anyway aren’t you? With the girls? Birthday shop.’ His shoulders relaxed as he spoke, but only fractionally, as if some great weight were shifting rather than lifting.

  That great weight was something of a mystery to Grace, an undefined millstone the man carried with him to bed, to work, in the garden, everywhere he went. What was it, she wondered, that could be so private or terrible that after so many years, far more than thirty, she should be excluded from the secret. Deep down in the depths of her subconscious, hidden and protected from admission, a nagging suspicion of infidelity lurked. It was a terrifying notion but perfectly insulated so as not to be heard. Hovering on some superficial plane, Grace generally endured the sad mediocrity of her increasingly lonely existence without complaint, unable to recognise that she was
in denial. Times between, all she felt was downright miserable.

  ‘You’re not going out yet though, are you?’ she said, impassively, ‘it’s barely past dawn.’

  A familiar dullness began to creep into her bones; a flat feeling that rescued her from down times but also smothered the ups. Not that life held many ups anymore. Happiness was more and more about emotional control, and tedium was a welcome break.

  ‘Of course not. Good night last night, wasn’t it?’

  Grace nodded and smiled in agreement, ‘Very pleasant. Art’s very amusing, in a morose kind of way. Like that comedian on the TV, he even looks like him.’

  ‘I suppose he does… a little.’

  ‘But Art’s funnier.’

  Although uncommonly attractive, Grace had a face bearing a naturally imperious expression. It was not a true reflection of her character, quite the opposite in fact, and over the years she had consciously tried to soften it. But there were times when this naturally haughty look was a convenient gift of nature, for without any intention on Grace’s part it disguised emotion. Art had been a delight; a refreshing change from her husband’s newly developed negativity and reticence in all things, always acting as if to give into anything heartfelt were a sin. In reality, Grace had nothing to be ashamed of, but still she felt guilty for having thoroughly enjoyed the company of another man under the nose of her husband.

  ‘He is very amusing, as you say. She is, too. Very sharp.’ He smiled, ‘I’m going back up. Coming?’ He nodded to the stairs.

  Grace thought for a moment. He had that look about him that said that if she went back to bed he would want something from her, and this morning that something was not a thing she felt inclined to, even though such occasions had become a rare occurrence.

  ‘No. I’m enjoying the peace, watching the sunrise, but you go.’

  There was no look of disappointment, not even for appearances sake. He smiled and vanished up the stairs.

  Once he had gone, she made another cup of tea. Already the kitchen had taken on a warm glow as the orange sun rose beyond the distant hills. As if any confirmation were needed that night had finally ended, streetlights began to switch off one by one. Grace understood the intimate peace of dawn was finished and, unavoidably, another day had begun; not only that, but the arduous and seemingly endless task of living required yet more of her, for when she met her daughters later that morning for coffee she would have to perk up, to put on a show, make that cold face look open and pleasant. Pretend. They were grown women, proper adults, but still their lives took precedence over hers. Was that really as it should be, she wondered, to never see your parents as people in their own right? If nothing else, she reassured herself, to hear of her daughters’ hopes and dreams, misfortunes and disasters, would be a welcome distraction. And whatever their faults, she dearly loved their company.

  Closing the door to keep in the heat, Grace sat outside on a low wall, sipping her tea and wondering how much longer she could bear to exist in such trying circumstances. Life had once been so good, when the girls were young, yet somewhere along the way, at some freakish moment unseen, she had failed to notice it veering off the rails and begin the tumble into decline; falling now into a mire of emptiness, each laborious day suffered only in the vague hope that she was mistaking the signs of irretrievability; hoping that she was mad because mad might be better than losing everything. But how do you extract the truth when you cannot bear to ask the question? And after so many years, how can anyone bear to ask?

  Sometimes she wondered if it would be easier to have a confidant, but Grace had never been one to share her feelings because she’d never had the need, the result being that she now felt she had no one to confide in, even if she’d wanted to. This was not true, of course, for Grace had many friends, but because they all expected stability from her, assumed her strength, she could not bring herself to burden them. Certainly she fantasised about it, conversations rolled around in her head most of the waking day, but convinced she would be letting everyone down – including her husband – she kept her own counsel and kept her mouth shut.

  Three times now she had thought of leaving, of simply walking away. But it was impossible. Everything was part of her, of them. And what if she was abandoning not an errant and selfish husband, but a man in genuine need? Maybe he was ill, or heading for bankruptcy; maybe he had accidently fallen in love with someone else. It happened. Who could say? He could say, but that was not the point. It was impossible to tell what was going on and so waiting seemed the only realistic option, apart from asking, of course, but that required an honest answer and already lies had been told. That discovery had been a shock. To look at a person, converse with them about everyday things and only moments later see another in their place – a stranger bearing the same voice, face and clothes – is what happens when the one part of your life you trust beyond all doubt looks you in the eye and lies. Grace felt he might as well have stuck in a knife and killed her, at least that would have been honest.

  The tea cooled quickly in the early morning air, and Grace tossed the cold remnants of her drink onto the lawn and went back inside. She could hear her husband moving around upstairs and wondered what Art and his wife were doing at that moment. They seemed so together, a real pair. Grace could not imagine either of them feeling as she did now. It had been an enjoyable evening with just the five of them since their other friend, Ted, was single again, his second wife having run off with an itinerant window cleaner shortly before Christmas. No one expected it to last. The woman was lazy and spoiled, and unless she continued to enjoy being washed, buffed and polished three times a day for her entertainment, she would soon grow bored, for there was little else her new beau could afford to do to humour her. Princesses of this nature come often but only at a price. The remorseful begging to return home had not yet started, but everyone knew it soon would, because she had already left an answer phone message for no reason that was obvious. But Ted was ready for her. There would be no passionate reunion. The brief lunatic episode that made up the marriage provided great dinner party material and with the initial rawness healed, the tale was often told and retold. Window cleaners do not feature in pornographic humour for nothing.

  Ted was young. Sort of. Had he been younger still and Grace didn’t know quite so much about his various antics, she would have thought him a good match for her eldest daughter. It was really no more than a passing thought, but one she knew Ted shared. People’s eyes were so often little windows to their hearts and other significant organs, she thought. Younger than Grace he maybe, young enough for Primrose he was not. Grace’s husband had seen him off; good naturedly suggesting their friend keep his amorous ways to himself. Serious advice disguised as humour.

  Grace made her way up the stairs. It was time to shower and dress, to nibble half-heartedly at breakfast, to stare at the papers, to sit with a husband who would probably not speak yet used to gabble endlessly about whatever crossed his mind.

  *

  The look lasted longer than Grace found comfortable.

  ‘I do love you, you know,’ he said. ‘And I know things have been a bit … tense … but it’s really not you. It’s me. I’m sorry. From now on it will be better. Promise. I love you, Grace.’

  Grace tucked the book she was carrying inside her bag and looked at him. It felt odd hearing him say words so often found in women’s magazines, or in romantic films and books; the book now in her bag. The same few sounds, arranged this way or that, weaving endlessly through the plot and rarely said in conjunction with the lingering gaze that would either secure the girl or boy’s affections or end the relationship, whichever was appropriate. If only fictional characters would look at each other a little more often and observe reaction, she thought, it would shave a good hour from so many films in desperate need of editing, and protect countless trees from a papery fate. And in real life, if only we could zoom in and focus on pertinent expressions, then time spent either puzzling about, or unders
tanding nothing of, the other person’s feelings could be used for thinking of less troublesome matters: lovely things that don’t tug where tugging is most painfully acute. In her youth, Grace enjoyed a little romantic fiction for what it was. By early middle age she could not see the point. Now she was again softening in its favour despite its flaws. In whatever form it came, she was learning how to resist the urge to turn away from all things frivolous and instead indulge in the luxury of diversion. And what could be a more pure form of escapism than one requiring a nose pinching and eye shutting leap of faith? Besides which, she was lonely, and romantic fiction was like a faithful friend.

  ‘It’s been a long time since you said I love you,’ she replied. ‘I love you too. Now off you go. Seems a shame to work on a Saturday.’ For whatever reason, Grace found it hard to look him in the eye. ‘Have a good meeting. I hope you get what you want. I’ll see you back here later. Perhaps we can have something special for dinner tonight.’

  ‘That would be nice. We didn’t do much last night, for your birthday, I mean.’

  ‘We had dinner with friends.’

  ‘But not because it was your birthday. I’m sorry I didn’t organise anything. Or give you anything.’

  Grace said nothing.

  ‘Give the girls my love.’

  ‘I will. Now go.’

  They exchanged a kiss and Grace watched her husband drive away to do whatever it was he needed to do, buy a house or view an empty factory or something else entirely. Was it possible to say I love you and not mean it? She didn’t think so. That is why people cannot pretend, why they cannot bring themselves to utter the words to just anyone, even when it is hurtful not to, apart from some men between the sheets, pre ejaculation. But it could easily become nothing more than a habit, she then supposed, in which case the words would lose significance implying that it was indeed possible to say it and not mean it, after all. Grace sighed wearily, casting thoughts of love and meaning to one side. It was exhausting stuff only the limitless brains of hormonally charged teenagers were properly equipped to deal with.