The Best of Friends Page 9

  It was raining when Hilary reached the cash-and-carry warehouse car-park, warm, sticky summer rain that made the asphalt surface greasy. She did a little nifty manoeuvring to deprive a man in a van from the last space near the check-out door, and then turned the radio up for a few seconds to drown out his fury. She’d have been just as furious in his place, she reckoned, but only if she were a man. Men were amazingly irrational about anything to do with driving; cars reduced them once more to cavemen, all snarls and clubs and prowess. She got out, locked the car smartly and gave the van driver a wave and a smile.

  She didn’t mind these visits to. the cash-and-carry. It was partly that the shopping, though profoundly utilitarian, was straightforward and manageably packaged, but chiefly, she suspected, because it got her away from the hotel while still being, to comfort her sense of obligation, hotel business. Her sister, Vanessa, had come with her once and been amazed at the world it revealed, a world of monster tins of baked beans, of giant rolls of kitchen paper, of soap-powder boxes as big as paving slabs, of bacon slices apparently packed a pig at a time. Like all Hilary’s family, Vanessa had been amazed too that this life could really be what Hilary wanted. Laurence was rather a dear, they all agreed, but not really a go-getter. And what of Hilary’s brain? And her training? In her family’s eyes, a wasted professional training was a sin so black it was hardly to be contemplated.

  Hilary fed her plastic membership card into the meter by the entrance and pushed her way through the turnstile. There was music playing, the kind of soft, bland, unmemorable music that is supposed to lure you into believing that household shopping is not a repetitive chore but has instead a warm-hearted glamour all its own. Ahead of her, the neon-lit aisles of the warehouse stretched away, as tall as cathedrals, dwarfing the shoppers and the shopping and patrolled by immense fork-lift trucks, picking packs and bales off the steel shelves as delicately as giraffes picking the topmost leaves off trees.

  Hilary had no list. After almost twenty years there was no need: a roll-call of necessities lay in her mind like a card in a card index. She remembered Vanessa being impressed by that, and saying if only she could remember patients’ details so precisely and then there being a little pause while both of them reflected on the contrast in their lives, Vanessa with her orderly practice and manageable hours, Hilary with her ceaseless commitment to something Vanessa could not see as a career but only as an occupation. Hilary had spoken to Vanessa the night before, not for any specific reason except that she had suddenly, and uncharacteristically, wanted to.

  Vanessa was married to a solicitor and had two diligent daughters, one a dentist, one training to be an accountant. The dentist was married and it was the trainee accountant, still living at home, who had answered the telephone.

  ‘Oh Aunt Hilary! How are you? Well, fine, I suppose, except for these exams. I’ll swing for myself if I don’t pass them, I swear it. No, she’s right here, doing the crossword, not busy at all. Sure thing. I’ll get her.’

  ‘Hilary,’ Vanessa said, coming on the line, ‘I will not be misrepresented. I was not doing the crossword, I was composing an enormously strong-minded letter to the Telegraph about the scams in medical insurance. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Hilary said. She visualized her sister in her comfortable Putney sitting-room with its bird prints and ample armchairs. ‘I think I may just need to complain.’

  ‘Ah,’ Vanessa said. ‘Anything specific?’

  Briefly, Hilary had wondered if calling Vanessa was an idiotic thing to do, given Vanessa’s forceful practicality. But then, Vanessa was her sister and there was no-one else, just now, to say these things to and they needed, Hilary felt violently, to be said.

  ‘Well. Sitting comfortably?’

  ‘No,’ Vanessa said. ‘Hang on a tick. There. Fire away.’

  ‘The hotel is full and has been for five weeks. Staff problems are pretty grim. George has decided that we were all right in advising him not to go into hotel management and is throwing his course up, after a year. Adam has made no attempt to get a summer job and is driving me mad. I don’t like the company he keeps either. Gus is fourteen which he can’t help but he just seems to exacerbate the Adam thing. Laurence declines to do anything much about anything except cook and Fergus has left Gina and we’ve had her here for three weeks until I blew and said she had to go and live her own life, not ours.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ Vanessa said. ‘Why did he go? I thought they had the perfect life.’

  ‘He’s behaved disgustingly. He said she’d changed into someone he couldn’t stand. She’s devastated and the awful thing is that I’m terribly sorry for her and can’t take another minute of her, all at once.’

  ‘I see,’ Vanessa said. ‘Isn’t there another friend who could help?’

  ‘Not really. Not of that closeness. I don’t know why. The hotel business is hopeless for making friends; there’s no time and you don’t seem to meet people in the right way. And Gina and Fergus weren’t everyone’s cup of tea, always needing to fight in public and the house being too precious to entertain smokers or drinkers in. I suppose I’m just tired.’

  ‘Yes,’ Vanessa said. ‘You sound it. And Laurence?’

  ‘I told you. Stays in the kitchen. To be honest, it makes me as cross as a bag of cats.’

  There was a pause. Hilary waited for Vanessa to remind her, in an elder sisterly way, how she, Hilary, had been impatient since childhood and prone to easy exasperation, with plenty of examples of Hilary’s behaviour on family holidays or at family Christmases.

  Instead, Vanessa said unexpectedly, ‘A bit of hearty dislike now and then, Hil, doesn’t damage real love, you know.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘You’re having a bad patch. Laurence reacts one way, you another. That’s all. He mightn’t be mad keen on you just now, either.’

  ‘Lord,’ Hilary said. ‘Do you talk like this to your footballers?’

  ‘No. We talk about their knees. Their knees are the centre of their world. Your centre is different. Poor old George.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Is Adam doing anything really silly? Drugs?’

  ‘Flirting, I think.’

  ‘Nip that one,’ Vanessa said. ‘Sharpish.’

  Hilary gripped the telephone.

  ‘There’s always so much, isn’t there? For one person.’

  ‘That’s life, Hil. Let me know if I can do anything about Adam. I know a bit about it from one of the boards I sit on. You don’t want to let it get too far, that’s the thing.’

  Hilary thought of the two white tablets she had found wrapped in foil in the pocket of a pair of Adam’s jeans, while sorting the laundry. Confronted, he’d said they were just a bit of buzz, party poppers; he’d never taken anything heavy, promise.

  ‘How much did you pay for these?’

  ‘Not much,’ he’d said, staring at her, but she’d noticed a considerable tenseness in him as he flushed the tablets down the lavatory under her instruction.

  ‘You’re a perfect fool,’ Hilary had said. ‘A stupid, childish, bloody fool. And the only minute thing that redeems you is that I slightly suspect you meant me to find them and get you off the hook. Well, you may be off the legal hook, but you aren’t off mine.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said to Vanessa. ‘Thanks. I’ll let you know. And thanks for listening.’

  There had been another slight pause then and for the second time Hilary had waited for Vanessa to say, predictably, that none of this unsatisfactory problematic complexity would have come about if only Hilary had stuck to her proper priorities in the first place. But Vanessa only said, ‘Ring any time, Hil. I’m always home by six, except Thursdays.’

  It was the closest, Hilary reflected, dumping a shrink-wrapped twelve-pack of bathroom cleaner in her trolley, that Vanessa had ever come to affection. She had never been affectionate, as a child or an adolescent, nor shared clothes or experiments with hairdye in the bathroom. She was punctilious in doing things
for people, in remembering birthdays and hospital visits and good-luck cards for exams, but she didn’t want to be thanked for them. Long ago, Laurence and Hilary had speculated with much hilarity on Vanessa’s sex life with Max, her solicitor husband, who grew fuchsias in his spare time and was fanatical about maps. Did they do it at all? And if so, how could you manage it with the minimum of touching? By using a chair? Or a stepladder? Or a trapeze? Some of the suggestions had become pretty disgusting, Hilary remembered, adding aluminium foil and a five-gross box of guest soaps to the bathroom cleaner, and they’d laughed themselves sick. A bit sad, now, to think of all that laughing.

  She pushed her trolley on down the aisle towards tissues and lavatory paper. She should have brought Adam with her, to help carry, but she’d left him with the mowing and Gus with the job of neatening the lawn edges with shears. She’d agreed to pay Gus two pounds and Adam two pounds fifty an hour. Was it mad to give Adam any more money, or if she didn’t, would he then seek to acquire some by illicit means? She sighed. There was no white lavatory paper, only pastels, the colours of fruit yoghurts. Perhaps green was the most bearable, forty-eight rolls in two bales. And I must do something about Sophy, Hilary thought, I promised her a job this summer and then her wretched father chucked this giant spanner in the works and I clean forgot to do any more about it. Poor Sophy, dripping about that house with Gina either moping or trotting off to her counsellor. She can help wash up and do the bedrooms a bit, I don’t suppose she’ll mind what. Poor Sophy, Hilary said again, half aloud and suddenly grateful for Adam’s robustness even if it did lead to waywardness, poor little Sophy. Sweet really, and a good girl, but such a drip. She stretched up and retrieved a giant box of scouring pads. It wouldn’t be any good, ever, expecting anything dramatic from Sophy.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘IT’S ALL RIGHT, dear,’ Dan said. ‘I’m just a bit tired.’

  Vi parked a bright-blue jug of orange gladioli on the occasional table in his sitting-room.

  ‘Can’t think why. You haven’t done nothing all morning.’

  He was sitting in one of his chintz armchairs with a newspaper, neatly folded, on his knee.

  ‘It’s the heat. Just seems to flatten me.’

  ‘You haven’t got a pain?’ Vi said, peering at him. ‘You got a pain you’re not telling me about?’

  He shook his head, smiling.

  ‘No pain.’

  ‘I could bring you a bit of lunch. A slice of pie and a bit of salad—’

  He shook his head again.

  ‘No thanks, Vi. It’s the heat. Can’t fancy anything much but lemonade. How’s Sophy?’

  Vi sat down opposite him. She was wearing a summer dress patterned with emerald and yellow splashy flowers, and she began to pleat the skirt of it over her knees.

  ‘Not talking.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘It’s not that I think she should go on and on about it, but I just wish she’d say a bit. About her father. I mean, good or bad, he’s her dad and he isn’t dead, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘Has he been in touch?’ Dan said, unfolding the newspaper and then folding it up again exactly as before.

  ‘Gina says he rings every few days, but Sophy won’t speak to him. She says she’s writing him a letter.’ Vi snorted. ‘Letters! Letters are a load of trouble, if you ask me; you can never take nothing back that’s in a letter.’

  ‘When I was in the Merchant Navy,’ Dan said, ‘I lived for letters from Pam. But I dreaded them too because she wasn’t much of a hand at feelings, wasn’t Pam, and sometimes a letter left me feeling worse than no letter. I thought she was hiding something or leaving something out.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have been like that,’ Vi said. ‘I’d have told you straight.’

  Dan put a hand out to her. It felt cold.

  ‘I know. I know. But you’re a very different kettle of fish, thank God.’

  ‘You’re cold,’ Vi said, dropping his hand.

  ‘No—’

  ‘Let’s get you in the sun. We’ll put you in a chair and I’ll get my sewing.’

  Dan said, ‘I’m happier here, dear, honest. It’s the light. It’s a bit bright for me today. And I’m not cold. I’m never cold when you’re here.’

  She looked at him, sitting there so tidily in his pale-green shirt with a paisley-patterned tie and a fawn sleeveless jersey.

  ‘If anything happened to you—’

  ‘It won’t,’ Dan said. ‘We old sailors are tough as old boots. Pickled in brine. When have you known me to be ill?’

  ‘Always a first time. Did you sleep last night?’

  ‘Like a top,’ Dan said, too heartily. ‘Anyway, you asked me that. When you came in with my tea.’

  Vi giggled.

  ‘Fancy my new nightie?’

  He smiled.

  ‘Bit bright—’

  It had been fuchsia pink, with white lace round the yoke; a dramatic sight under her mackintosh.

  ‘Oh, you and your bright. Anything other than beige and you put your sunglasses on—’

  ‘I love you,’ he said.

  She was suddenly still. He leaned forward a little.

  ‘I’ve never loved anyone like I love you. Didn’t know I could.’

  She thought she might cry. She scrabbled about in the sleeve of her dress, hunting for a tissue.

  ‘Oh Dan—’

  ‘You’ve changed my life,’ he said. ‘Brought the sun in. Honest.’

  She blew her nose fiercely.

  ‘What about you?’ he said.

  She blew again.

  ‘Same,’ she said in a hoarse whisper. ‘Same.’

  ‘What a thing,’ he said. ‘Us old crocks.’ He was smiling at her.

  ‘Doesn’t matter—’

  ‘No. ’Course it doesn’t. You going to get us some of that lemonade?’

  She stood up, creaking a little.

  ‘I’ll get my sewing.’

  He looked up at her, his gaze soft.

  ‘Which sewing?’ He knew about everything she made.

  ‘The firescreen. The collage. You know. The Owl and the Pussy Cat.’

  He smiled at her again, full of contentment.

  ‘You and me, dear,’ he said. ‘You and me.’

  The man from the estate agency said he would be as quick as possible, but he did have to measure up, he was sure Mrs Bedford could see that. He waved a slim cardboard folder at her.

  ‘I have my instructions, you see.’

  ‘From Mr Bedford.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It would have been nice, wouldn’t it,’ Gina said, knowing she was being unfair, ‘if Mr Bedford had had the courtesy to issue his instructions through me?’

  The man said nothing. He wore a blue suit and a tie, she noticed, patterned with tiny penguins. He looked deeply uncomfortable. It wasn’t his fault, poor fellow, that Fergus, having only once casually mentioned putting the house on the market, should then have the insensitivity to take decisive action without a further word.

  ‘Sorry,’ Gina said. ‘Not your fault.’

  ‘Not exactly,’ the man said.

  ‘Would you like coffee?’

  ‘If it’s no trouble.’

  Gina led him into the kitchen. He looked round. She could feel his admiration.

  ‘The cupboards are elm,’ she said. ‘And the table is beech, made by a pupil of Ernest Gimson’s.’

  The man wrote down, ‘Split-level cooker, plumbing for dishwasher, dimmer switches.’

  ‘And the floor is Bath stone, waxed. My husband found the flagstones in a house that was being demolished.’

  ‘Western aspect,’ the man wrote. ‘Fitted cupboards with shelves over. Door to garden.’

  ‘Are you going to say something,’ Gina asked, getting the coffee-filter machine out of a cupboard, and then changing her mind and finding the instant-coffee jar instead, ‘about how perfectly the house has been restored? Because whatever my private feeling, it has.’

  The m
an said, ‘We will emphasize that it’s a very well-maintained period property, of course.’

  Gina thought, spooning coffee into mugs, that there was a horrible satisfaction in hearing High Place described so after all Fergus’s dedicated commitment to it. It was somehow proof – and this a small if disagreeable comfort – that Fergus had got his priorities wrong, that no house should take the dedicated consideration that properly belonged to people. She wondered if his new house, his new London house, was getting the same loving, focused interest. He’d bought the house, he said, with a business loan, a big mortgage. When High Place was sold, they’d divide the proceeds, exactly as they had divided the contents.

  ‘Don’t go to a lawyer,’ Fergus had said on the telephone. ‘Don’t start all that. Meddlesome and expensive.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There’s no point.’

  ‘Isn’t there?’ she said, beginning to shout. ‘Isn’t there? Don’t you want a divorce?’

  ‘No,’ he said, and again, ‘there’s no point. Is there? Not until you want to marry again, I suppose.’

  ‘And you?’ she yelled. ‘And you?’

  ‘Oh, I won’t marry again,’ Fergus had said with emphasis. ‘Not me. Anyway, a divorce would only upset Sophy.’

  She had banged the receiver down then, and missed the handset, and it went clattering down to the floor on its springing cord while Fergus’s voice called for her without much urgency out of the mouthpiece. It was intolerable, he seemed to have trapped her in every way, parcelled up like a fly in a spider’s web, with no lever to use on him in retaliation.

  ‘Here,’ Gina said, holding out the coffee mug. ‘I’ll show you the house.’

  At the top, outside Sophy’s bedroom door, she paused.

  ‘My daughter’s room.’

  The man, coiling up his steel measuring tape, nodded. Gina knocked softly.

  ‘Soph?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sophy said.

  ‘Can we come in?’

  The door opened, Sophy, wearing her Walkman headphones like a hairband, said, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘This is Mr—’

  ‘Ellis,’ the man said. ‘Mr Ellis from Barton and Noakes. Estate Agents.’