Chapter fourteen #2
‘It’s spring!’ Martine seemed in a good mood.
‘And I’ve been meaning to have a good clear-out for ages.
Before you say anything, I am very sure about what’s in the bags.
There’s no point keeping wardrobes full of unworn clothes, especially when Ray spent most of his time in the same three pairs of trousers.
As I told Jacqueline, her father would much prefer someone else to have the benefit of those good jumpers, instead of letting the moths get to them. ’
I shot a quick glance across the car. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t being nosy.’
‘No, no, I know you’re not, Beth. But as I tried to explain to Jacqueline, there’s no point being sentimental about things that he never even wore.
He didn’t care for pink. Never did. But Jacqueline did some course or other and decided that that was his colour, so she insisted on giving him the same pink jumper year after year.
’ She sighed. ‘I tried to hint that he’d prefer a cologne, or some shaving soap.
But no. Once she gets something into her head . . .’
‘Are they in the bag?’ I asked, trying to lighten the mood. ‘I wouldn’t say no to a cashmere jumper.’
‘There are at least three, and you’re very welcome.’ Martine gazed out of the side window. ‘I highly recommend a declutter, Beth. It helps you see the important things. It doesn’t mean you’re throwing memories or people away, just stuff.’
The bitter aftertaste of her conversation with Jackie was almost tangible, and I wondered if Jackie had chalked up the purging of Ray’s wardrobe as more ‘irrational behaviour’.
It seemed pretty reasonable to me; generous, even.
But then I supposed it wasn’t my dad’s dinner jackets being thrown out like last week’s Sunday papers.
‘What’s happening with the piano?’ I asked. I’d been out with Tomsk when Jackie had called by to rescue it, but she’d sent the cryptic message crisis averted! and three thumbs-up.
‘The school doesn’t want it! Can you believe that?’ Martine widened her blue eyes, outraged. ‘Apparently it’s “surplus to requirements”.’
‘Oh.’
‘But,’ Martine went on, ‘I was sorting through some old photographs to show you, you remember you asked me about where the diaries used to be in the town? And I suddenly thought: Rosemount! I got in touch with your friend Mr Levison, and he couldn’t have been more delighted.
Talked about having recitals and singsongs and all sorts.
He’s arranged to have it collected later this week – the removal men have already been in touch. ’
‘That’s incredibly kind of you,’ I said.
She flapped her hand as if most people had a baby grand they needed to get shot of. ‘I think it’ll be rather at home in that library, don’t you think? I’m sure there’s someone up there who’ll enjoy playing it.’
I wondered, from the satisfied expression on her face, whether she had someone particular in mind.
If Naomi at the charity shop recognised me as the ‘You’re the problem!’ lady, she was gracious enough not to show it, and she accepted Martine’s treasure trove of tweed, lambswool and John Grishams with open arms and a Gift Aid form.
Before I’d hauled her donations inside, I’d opened the boot of the car, and let Martine tell me which of Ray’s unworn Christmas jumpers suited me best. All of them, it turned out.
‘See? Much nicer on you than on Ray,’ she said, once we’d established that baby pink suited my colouring perfectly, and also that Ray and I took the same size in knitwear.
‘Are you absolutely sure?’ I asked. They were all Brora or Johnston’s of Elgin; it had to amount to hundreds of pounds’ worth of cashmere. ‘Won’t Jackie mind?’
‘I doubt she’ll notice, darling.’ Martine raised an eyebrow. ‘She never seemed to notice her father not wearing them.’
‘Well, thank you, Martine and Jacqueline – and Ray,’ I said.
‘There, everyone’s happy.’ Martine tapped me on the arm. ‘Now, let’s get these inside, before Jacqueline pops up from behind a hedge and impounds Ray’s sports jackets. You wouldn’t . . .?’
‘No, thank you,’ I said, firmly.
Martine had requested ‘a little pottering time’ in town, so I took myself off to the Wild Dog Café, where we arranged to meet in an hour.
I’d brought my laptop to type up the new notes from the drop box, and one of the notebooks Lewis had sent for the project work.
So far I’d only written one conversation in it – Nigel Callaghan – and since he’d more or less interviewed me, that barely filled half a page.
It was literally the most exquisite notebook I’d ever seen, and it made me want to write something meaningful in proper ink on its creamy pages, intriguing stories and moving insights that would live up to the splendour of it.
I wondered if that had been Lewis’s intention in sending me something so gorgeous; it would fit with his general ‘inspire to aspire’ ethos.
Or maybe he just understood the magic of stationery, I thought, smoothing a clean page flat. I hoped so, anyway. It would be something he and I had in common. Either way, I liked the way Lewis approached things: efficiency with a human touch. Lewis was basically the anti-Christian.
(You know what I mean.)
In an effort to bolster my sparse notes, I did a search for Nigel online and was amazed at how much came up.
Nigel Callaghan was a bona fide BBC correspondent who’d filed reports from Vietnamese battlefields and collapsing regimes in Nairobi; some of his reports had been so historic that clips were on YouTube, Nigel shouting urgently over the sound of helicopter blades and distant gunfire.
He’d been a good-looking man in his younger days, rangy and dynamic in a safari suit, with long swept-back hair and intense eyes.
Courageous, too – he was often stained with sweat, or smoke, or, in one startling clip, blood. It wasn’t clear whose.
I jotted down some questions to ask him next time, although I wasn’t sure he’d offer any answers.
Nigel was the expert in getting people to talk, and clearly knew every trick to avoid doing it himself.
But there were so many things I wanted to ask: what had it cost to live through moments like that, how had he managed to stay calm and analytical while narrowly avoiding having his head blown off?
How it felt to come home afterwards? Whether .
. . I paused. Whether being so close to danger had affected his personal life, and the choices he’d made.
Had he decided not to marry, or had work got in the way?
I couldn’t possibly ask him that. It was too intrusive. But if he offered the information?
‘Beth! Beth!’
I looked up. Martine had returned, and was draping her coat on a chair by the window, at a prime-spot table with a view of the high street.
‘What on earth are you doing, hiding away in that dark corner?’ she demanded. ‘You can’t see a thing from back there! Now, what can I get you?’
I tried to say I wasn’t hungry – not wanting to be the fat girl sitting in the window eating cake – but she flapped her hand. ‘I’m getting myself a lemon tart. Would you like one?’
After a moment’s hesitation, I admitted I would.
‘Good,’ said Martine, and went up to order. She made things very easy.
‘Did you buy anything?’ I asked when she returned. ‘I see you’ve got some bags.’
‘Just some essentials,’ said Martine, then, with a half-frown, reached into her shopping bag and pulled out a large black Staffordshire pottery dog, his soft eyes and nose and ears picked out in dull gold. ‘And this. I couldn’t resist.’
‘He’s adorable!’
‘Isn’t he?’ She positioned him between the sugar bowl and the tiny cactus, facing out on to the high street. ‘He’s a Jackfield spaniel. Made in Shropshire, probably Victorian.’
‘Is he valuable?’
‘Not really.’ Martine angled the dog so the sun glinted off his faded chain.
‘They were working people’s ornaments, so not the highest quality, but they were precious to their owners.
Worth more in a pair, but so many get broken or lost. You can snap up singletons like this for a few pounds.
I must admit, they’re my secret weakness. I hate to see them on their own.’
That explained the shelf full of odd dogs in the flat. ‘Are you trying to match them up?’
‘Sometimes I do, yes! But I rather like seeing them in little gangs. Ray absolutely hated my wally dogs – tat, he called them. I was allowed two pairs in the house, and they had to be matching. Most of my collection ended up above the garage. I promised him I’d stopped collecting a few years ago.
’ Martine paused, gave me a sneaky smile and said, ‘Although, just between us . . .’ then reached into her bag again and produced another tiny spaniel, no bigger than a nail varnish, white with red ears and shiny yellow glass eyes.
‘There’s a match for that one in the flat!’ I said, delighted. ‘I’ve seen it!’
‘I know!’ Her eyes twinkled, then she pretended to look serious. ‘Don’t tell Jackie, after the lecture I gave her about decluttering.’
I promised I wouldn’t, even though there was something unexpectedly touching about Martine, remorseless champion of perfection, collecting stray dogs and arranging them in convivial packs, out of sight of her family.
‘Would you like me to bring its friend over?’ I asked. ‘Now it’s a pair, it can go in the house.’
Martine thought for a moment, then pushed the little dog across the table towards me. ‘No, why don’t you take this and put it with its partner?’
I was touched.
‘Now,’ she said, more briskly. ‘What’s happening up at Rosemount? What fact-checking would you like me to do this week?’
I told her about Nigel Callaghan, and she visibly perked up at the idea that someone who’d been on television was living in Rosemount.
‘Why don’t you come with me next time?’ I suggested. ‘Pam says he’s always complaining about a lack of intelligent conversation – I bet you two would get on like a house on fire!’
I thought she’d appreciate the compliment, but no. ‘I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.’
Too late, it dawned on me that maybe she thought I was trying to lure her up there on Jackie’s instructions, showing her how nice it really was.
‘But do tell me about your other stories,’ she went on, before I could splutter an explanation.
‘How many times have you been told about the year Longhampton Town beat Leeds United in the FA Cup? You’d think Town played at Wembley, not Stanton Road, the number of people who claimed they were there! ’
I flipped through the notes I’d been writing up. ‘Well, someone’s very keen to share memories of the railway lines that were closed in the sixties.’ I turned over the page of spidery handwriting to find a name. ‘Mr Trevor Lowden is still taking the Beeching cuts very personally.’
‘Trevor Lowden.’ Martine raised her eyebrows and took a sip of tea. ‘He would. Poor Sheila.’
‘And lots of stories about the asylum, the scout camps, Miss Hicks at the primary school who had a poodle who could count up to thirty . . .’ I came to the fruit-picking story and stopped.
Should I share it with Martine? It felt very personal. But the writer had shared it with me, and obviously wanted this memory to go on the record. And she might know the people involved; there couldn’t be many red-headed beauties in a small town.
‘What is it?’ asked Martine, seeing me hesitate.
‘It’s a love story,’ I said. ‘But I don’t know who wrote it, because they didn’t put their name on it.’
‘Can I see?’
I passed the pages over and while she was reading, I tried to catch the waitress’s eye to order another coffee.
Now I’d overcome my self-consciousness about being on display in the window, I was rather enjoying watching the passers-by on the high street, and the flower baskets, and the cheerful energy that was a Longhampton spring afternoon.
The waitress came over with a smile. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Another latte for me, please.’ I glanced at Martine. ‘Martine? Another coffee?’
She was so engrossed she didn’t hear me. I wasn’t surprised.
‘Martine?’ I repeated, more gently. Maybe she knew these people. Maybe they were no longer around.
‘What? Oh!’ She looked up, and blinked. ‘Sorry, I was miles away. Yes, another coffee, please. Black with hot milk. Thank you.’
When the waitress had gone, I said, ‘So, bit of a mystery – whoever wrote that didn’t put a name on it. Have you any idea who it might be? It’s obviously someone who grew up round here.’
Martine pushed the paper back towards me, and shook her head. ‘No, sorry. I don’t.’
‘Oh.’ I was disappointed: I’d assumed she’d be able to identify all parties involved, with full family tree. ‘Well, whoever he is, there’s a romantic heart still beating up in Rosemount. That was over sixty years ago and it sounds as if he remembers it like it was yesterday.’
‘Sometimes those are the last things you forget,’ said Martine, and then the coffee arrived and she turned the conversation back to the shops that used to line the high street.