Encounters. Barbara Erskine
again.
‘You can’t keep it, Joe. It’s got to go back to its mother.’ I looked at him earnestly.
‘Rubbish. It’s mother doesn’t want it.’ Joe grinned affably. ‘When are we eating?’
Men!
He had to make do with an omelette; hardly Christmas fare, but he produced a bottle of wine from one of his paper bags, so I made the effort to go into the garden where the snow was beginning to settle a little and I cut some frosty thyme. One fine herbe at least. He sniffed over my shoulder as the eggs sizzled in the pan.
‘None of my other women have been able to cook like you. You know, I sometimes used to lie and dream about the nosh I got in this cottage.’ He licked his lips and I had to laugh.
‘I should kick you for talking about all these other women all the time. Why on earth did you leave if I’m such a paragon?’
‘You were a bitch as well.’ He was warming the wine, like the feeding bottle, in a basin of hot water. ‘And I wasn’t mature enough to cope with you. Besides, you were becoming too set in your ways. I could see you getting bossy. My God! You’ve moved the glasses.’ He straightened from the cupboard in the corner. ‘Do you know, Pen, that is the first thing that’s been different in this cottage. Three years and not a bloody thing has changed. That’s what I mean about being set in your ways.’
‘A lot has changed.’ I could feel myself getting defensive. He had caught me on a sensitive spot. I knew I was in a rut without him spelling it out. ‘The walls have changed colour for a start. There are new curtains in the sitting room. I’ve got new chairs and …’
‘Stop!’ he raised his hands in surrender. ‘Stop. I didn’t mean it. Forgive the old campaigner the gaps in his memory.’ He grinned again. ‘So, where are the glasses these days?’
‘On a tray next door.’ I flipped the omelettes onto two warmed plates and piled some French bread and salad round them. At least he wouldn’t starve.
We were half-way through supper when the carol singers came. It was the moment I had been dreading most before Joe arrived. The year before, I had put out all the lights as I heard them down the street, put my head under my pillow and wallowed in self pity as they missed my darkened porch, as I had intended they should.
This time we listened. Happy. The joyous sounds were slightly off key, but who cared.
I hadn’t any change.
‘My God, woman, you’re still after my money!’ Joe groped in his pocket and produced a pound coin.
‘Joe, that’s too much!’ I murmured, but it was too late. And it was worth it.
Oh, it would be so easy to have Joe back. So very easy.
We whispered so as not to wake the baby as we made up a bed for Joe in the spare room. ‘You’re right about things not being the same round here,’ he muttered ruefully as I pulled the blankets over.
‘Dead right, they’re not,’ I hissed back. ‘You promiscuous so-and-so. You keep your child company.’
I didn’t lock my door, though, and I was quite disappointed when the dulcet tones of Joe’s snores began gently to vibrate across the landing.
‘Happy Christmas, darling.’
I was struggling up through layers of exhausted sleep, clutching at daylight. It was dark.
I could feel Joe’s arms around me. ‘What time is it?’ I managed to ask before his mouth closed onto mine. After a moment – a lovely moment – he replied, ‘About three, I should think. I’ve just fed Paul.’
I sat up abruptly, pushing him away. It wasn’t going to be that easy for him. ‘Three in the morning? You’re mad. Go away!’
‘But Penny …’ his voice in the dark was hurt and pathetic.
‘Get out, Joe. I told you.’
I was indignant. Three in the morning is not on, by anybody’s standards. Not after three years. Not after all those other women who didn’t know how to cook.
He went.
At breakfast he was looking innocent again. Dangerously so.
‘Happy Christmas, darling.’
‘You’ve said that once today already, if I remember.’
‘Have I?’ He smiled. ‘I’ve got a present for you.’
In spite of myself I was excited. ‘Really?’ I should have been suspicious.
‘Really.’ He looked suddenly serious. He felt in his pocket and produced an envelope which he pushed across at me. Hesitating I took it. It had something small and hard in it. Without looking I knew what it was. The ring I had thrown at his head so long before. I pushed the envelope back.
‘No, Joe, it wouldn’t work.’
‘It would. I’m more mature now.’ He smiled wickedly and left the envelope on the table.
‘It wouldn’t.’ I got up to make the toast. ‘So, when are you leaving?’ I bent down to light the grill pan. It meant my face was hidden and he couldn’t read my expression.
Ten years, or so?’ He sounded hopeful.
I laughed. And in spite of myself my heart leaped. ‘We’ll try it until lunch,’ I said.
Kate pulled the mini thankfully into the parking space and switched off. For a moment she rested her forehead against the cool rim of the steering wheel, breathing deeply. Her hands were shaking. The first, The lesser, part of the ordeal was over – driving the borrowed car through the overcrowded streets on market day and finding a meter. She leaned over to glance in the mirror and check her hair. Her face was pink and shiny again, her lipstick had turned too red.
She grabbed for her tapestry bag and applied a new layer. It looked artificial and hard. She wasn’t used to bothering with make-up. She never usually dressed up. She had never owned her own car. But today she was endeavouring to be someone quite different. Kate Millrow, painter, recently – very recently – of St Agnes’s School of Art, would never dare to try and sell her paintings to a smart town gallery.
Miss Rowmill (she was especially pleased with the name), artists’ agent and talent spotter would be able to do it every day. Think yourself into the part, Kate, think yourself into the part,’ she muttered desperately as she climbed out of the car and groped for the money. The coin, so carefully hoarded for this occasion, slipped from her fingers and rolled away towards a gutter. Frantically she leapt after it and caught it up before it disappeared down the grille. Even putting the money in the parking meter once she had recaptured it was something of an ordeal. She studied the thing intently, reading the instructions. The slot seemed to be the wrong way round. She couldn’t get the money in. Then at last the needle buzzed across and she found herself with two whole hours in which to carry out her mission. She pulled out the portfolio, locked the car and made her way slowly towards the gallery. She knew it didn’t open until ten so she made her way slowly towards a coffee shop, clutching the cardboard folder awkwardly. Its sharp edges at the top cut into her armpit, at the bottom they sliced into her fingers.
Sitting down thankfully with an espresso she set down her burden. By rights she ought to be at college now, settling into her final year. What had possessed her to think she could make it on her own? The offer of the cottage in the country? Somewhere where she could really paint? There’s nothing much else to do there, Kate. It’ll keep you at it. Then we’ll see what you’re really made of,’ John had said as he handed her the key before setting off on his trek to Katmandu. For a year at least she had the place, rent free, to herself. It was a dream come true. Only