Chapter eighteen #2
I racked my brains, trying to work out the dates.
Was it possible that someone was writing these reminiscences as Ray? Could Martine be doing an odd creative writing project? But why would she be leaving them at Rosemount? Surely she’d have said something when I showed her the first pages. And she was never at Rosemount.
It could be a coincidence. Lots of people dyed their hair copper in the sixties – it was fashionable – Cilla Black, Jane Asher. Ann-Margret.
‘Heather wanted colour photos from the sixties but when I went through the albums,’ Jackie was saying, ‘I couldn’t find a single colour photograph before I was born.
I don’t know where they’ve gone. There are gaps, as if they’ve been taken out at some point, so I guess Mum must have put them in frames and forgotten. ’
Wordlessly, I turned back a few pages in the book; in the colour pictures that began in the seventies, Martine’s hair was covered up with a Pucci print scarf, or a hat.
As the seventies wore on, her signature blow-dry made its first appearance, the palest champagne-grey, effortlessly swept into face-framing waves.
Martine had had that look when I met Fraser, ten years ago. I’d never thought about what colour her hair had been when she was my age; with the solipsism of youth, I think I’d more or less skimmed over the idea of her ever being anything other than exactly as she was then.
‘Dad loved Mum’s hair long,’ Jackie explained. ‘It’s why Cara was being so touchy yesterday about Mum’s haircut – she felt it was the wrong thing to do for their anniversary.’
‘When did Martine go grey?’ I asked. ‘If that’s not a rude question.’
‘Early thirties?’ Jackie’s phone pinged, and she checked it.
‘Quite young, anyway. She always says it was having Cara and Heather so close together but I think it’s just something that happens to redheads.
Probably why she took the colour photos out of the albums, now I think of it.
So as not to be reminded. Mum can be so vain, bless her. ’
I pretended to flip casually but I was looking for something specific, something solid to back up my suspicions, and there it was: a family shot of Martine’s graduation, with her parents . . . at Manchester University.
It was her! My heart quickened, and then the mathematical part of my brain kicked in.
Martine had gone to university in 1964, studied for a three-year degree, then done a teacher-training qualification, then she’d got engaged to Ray in 1967.
But she’d still have been in Manchester at that point. With whoever was writing the memories.
Who up at Rosemount had danced all night, eaten baked beans in bed, then tripped the light fandango with Martine in Manchester? Who was the lovestruck teenager, now an greying soul with a heart that clearly still beat faster when it remembered her? Was it someone I’d met?
‘Jackie, can I ask you—’ I started.
‘Wait a second, I want to show you something. Here!’ Jackie had finished checking her phone, and was turning pages in the book again.
She opened it at a studio portrait of Martine and Ray, and Jackie and her three boys, and Cara and baby Cooper: three generations of Hendersons.
All were barefoot, in white shirts and jeans, as per the trend, although thankfully, Ray’s bare feet were concealed behind a child.
He had one arm around Martine, who looked carelessly stylish, with the very same pearls that she’d worn for her engagement gleaming beneath the open neck of her white shirt; Ray was gazing at her with frank adoration.
‘This photo session was our Christmas present to Dad one year.’ Jackie touched the photo gently. ‘He loved it. Said he’d made a lot of good decisions in his life, but marrying Mum was the best. Everything in his life came from that.’
‘They look so happy,’ I said.
Jackie put a hand on her upper chest, overcome.
‘When I think about how lucky they were to have met their one straight away, and how lucky we were to have grown up in the middle of that . . .’ She managed a watery smile.
‘I need to be kinder to Mum. I know she’s still grieving.
When you’ve lost the only man you ever loved, the one person who knows you better than anyone, anyone’s going to behave oddly .
. . Sorry.’ Jackie wiped her nose. ‘What were you going to ask me?’
‘Nothing,’ I said.
Martine hadn’t emerged from her room when I left.
‘I’m going to have another chat with Dr Robson,’ Jackie said confidentially, as we said goodbye. ‘She was quite snappish with me when I asked her again about Dad’s memorial. I might ask about anti-depressants.’
She went on to tell me what I’d already heard from Fraser: that following a family conference, it had been decided that Martine would need a more organised system of support from the siblings, if she was to stay in Coleridge Drive, and they’d all do their bit.
‘Fraser’s going to set up her grocery delivery and a Ring doorbell and a fall alarm, and whatever electronic stuff will make her life easier,’ she went on.
‘Cara’s in charge of anything that can be done remotely, and Heather’s going to .
. .’ She trailed off, with a frown. ‘You know, we didn’t pin down what Heather’s going to do. ’
‘Will Fraser be staying overnight when he comes back?’
‘I assume so.’ Jackie was distracted with her phone. ‘Sorry, Perry’s texting, forgotten his banking login again. Fraser’s going to put in a few discreet cameras so we can keep an eye on Mum. Is that terrible?’
‘Worse if Fraser actually knows how to install secret cameras?’
Jackie looked up from her phone, amused. ‘Fair point. To be honest, I prefer the system you and I’ve set up, actually talking to her. I know it’s a bit of an imposition.’
‘It’s not at all,’ I said. ‘I learn something new every day from her.’
‘We do appreciate this, Beth. And Dad, wherever he is, definitely does.’
I smiled to acknowledge the sweet compliment Jackie intended, but to be honest, I wasn’t so sure Ray would appreciate my involvement, if he had the first idea.
Safely back in the flat, I read the two Nessy memories through again, this time with the photographs of Martine and Ray at the front of my mind.
I didn’t know what I was supposed to think about this, let alone what I was supposed to do with a secret that could undermine a family’s understanding of each other.
Fair enough, we’d asked the residents to write down their memories, and that’s what this person had done. But why give it to someone else to read? Why not, as Nigel Callaghan would have it, just let it stay in your own head? Why make sure it ended up out in the open?
I had to ask someone for advice, but that was another dilemma. Who?
Lewis was responsible for the story project, and might have an idea, from the confidential information held about each resident, who the writer was.
He was discreet, and I knew he was kind, but his remit extended to neatly cut lawns and customer satisfaction.
Would he be sympathetic to whoever needed to share this story of lost love, or would he consider it something he’d have to address, a form of harassment, even?
I shied away from that: I didn’t want to get anyone into trouble.
I could tell Jackie . . . I dismissed that immediately. Jackie wouldn’t want to deal with the idea of her mother two-timing her father.
And why upset Martine even further? Martine knew that I knew, from the memory she’d already read – that was awkward enough.
And just because her real childhood sweetheart still held a torch for her didn’t mean it was reciprocated.
Jackie was right, she was grieving. It sounded as if a whole afternoon with the family but no Ray had been too much, if she’d taken herself off to bed afterwards.
And – another thing Nigel had said floated into my mind – what if the writer wasn’t single himself?
What if the reason he was writing this down was because he couldn’t speak it aloud in front of his wife?
It was complicated.
I made myself some toast while I thought about it, but ended up giving half to Tomsk, without reaching a conclusion, and went back to thinking about Fraser, and what we’d talk about over coffee the following weekend.
Later that evening, I got a call from someone I hadn’t heard from in weeks: my former flatmate and co-resident in the village of Little Misery, Population 2, Ashley.
‘Hey!’ The forced brightness in Ash’s voice told me that she was nervous. ‘Long time no speak!’
If she’d called me forty-eight hours earlier I might have been less friendly, but right now my life was being soundtracked with romcom strings, and I was willing to extend an olive branch.
‘Hello! How are things? Is Leo stacking the dishwasher to your liking?’
‘He’s learning,’ said Ashley. ‘Listen, I’ve got good news. Zara from the estate agent’s – remember her? She left me a message to say that there’s progress on your flat. The tenants have completed and should be out imminently. Which means you can move in.’
‘She phoned you to tell you that?’
‘She thought she was phoning you. Can you believe she had the wrong phone number attached to the file? Anyway, ring her tomorrow and get on her case.’
‘Yup. OK. Will do.’ I could hear the lukewarm enthusiasm in my voice, but the new flat, perfect as it was, was on the other side of the county, miles away from Fraser and the Hendersons, and much nearer the office. In the space of a few weeks, this had become my home.
Tomsk could tell from the tone of my voice that something wasn’t right. He laid his head on my feet.
‘You don’t sound very excited,’ observed Ashley. ‘I thought you’d be packing your bags before you put the phone down. I still don’t understand why your ex’s family let you move in after what you did.’
After what I did? I frowned, then I remembered that was the version I’d told Ashley: I’d dumped Fraser, not the other way around. ‘Water under the bridge.’
‘OK.’ Ash sounded unconvinced.
‘Actually, I saw Fraser at the weekend,’ I went on breezily. ‘They had a family party and I popped in to say hello.’
‘Oh, Beth . . .’
‘No, it was fine! We talked, and he kept asking if I was single, ha-ha, and we’re meeting for coffee next weekend. So we can talk.’
There was a long silence at the other end. Ashley had never been a big fan of Fraser, despite not having met him.
‘Obviously, I’m not reading too much into it,’ I lied, ‘but I suspect Fraser’s dad dying made him re-evaluate where he is in his life, and what he wants, and maybe he’s realised that he’s ready now to take that next step.’
With me.
‘He’s over forty, Beth. If he doesn’t know what he wants now, is he ever going to?’
Ashley didn’t sound as pleased for me as I’d thought she might. Had I told this right? Fraser had checked on my single status, told me I hadn’t aged in five years, asked me out on a date.
‘You’re sure he’s not married?’ she asked.
‘If he was married or in a serious relationship, he’d have found a way to work it into the conversation, wouldn’t he?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Ashley, deadpan. ‘Men never forget to tell their exes that they’re with someone new when they bump into them at parties.’
‘They do, though, if they think you’re hitting on them, and they’re not interested.’
‘Yes and no.’
‘So, anyway, obviously I’m not reading anything into this . . .’
‘You already said that.’
‘. . . but who knows? I keep thinking about what you said, about how the universe sends you signs. I think this is one.’
There was a groan on the other end.
‘What?’ I demanded. ‘You were always going on about the universe sending signs.’
‘Look, Beth, as your friend, I have to tell you this is a bad idea. You’ve moved on from this, someone better is out there. Don’t go back to someone who didn’t appreciate you first time round!’
She had no idea, I thought furiously. She’d never met Fraser, she didn’t understand our relationship. Ashley thought like a project manager, not a romantic novelist.
‘You’re wrong,’ I started to say, but she talked over me.
‘Tell me one amazing thing about him that you don’t believe you’ll ever find in another man. Just one.’
‘That’s not . . . there’s loads of things.’
‘Apart from comfort and familiarity,’ she went on. ‘Apart from the fact that you invested all that time with him, and you’re the only accountant in the world who refuses to recognise Sunk Cost Fallacy.’
Ashley sighed impatiently. ‘Look, I’m not going to argue. Good luck. But if you don’t call Zara and get that flat locked down tomorrow, I will do it for you. OK? And that’s not a sign, that’s a promise.’
And she hung up.