A Rather English Marriage (9 page)

The kitchen had been Grace's domain. The two of them were happiest when Roy was working away in his cubby-hole under the stairs and Grace was baking, the wireless loud
enough for them both to hear it, concentrating on their separate tasks while sharing laughs or enjoying the music together. They preferred the wireless because it didn't force them to sit passively. They had delayed getting a television for as long as possible, but as Vera and Alan grew into teenagers, they had bullied them into it.

‘It's hopeless if you don't know what's happening on
Coronation Street,'
Vera had complained. ‘Everyone at school talks about it next day, and
What's My Line?
and
Six Five Special
and all those …'

‘It's a terrific laugh, Dad!' Alan had pleaded. ‘I've seen lots of things at Stan's and they're ever so funny. You and Mum would love it. There's loads of plays and sort of concerts and things.'

Grace had interceded for them, so Roy had given in. From then on Alan sprawled in front of the television every evening, his grey-trousered legs and big feet stuck out in front of him, his eyes glued to the black-and-white screen. It was a battle to make him do his homework. They'd had to compromise and let him work while it was on, but it wasn't the same with the manic laughter of strangers filling the house. Vera had always been more conscientious, but then girls were like that.

Roy Southgate sat at his kitchen table, staring at a plate of sardines and a cup of tea. He'd been to visit Alan. The place always depressed him and upset his stomach. Not even the tantalizing smell of fried sardines on toast could restore his appetite.

It had taken him several weeks since Grace's death to pluck up the courage to go and see his son, and the visit had not gone well. He had hoped that June, Alan's wife, might be there, but she'd left him to cope on his own. Alan was unpredictable; he might weep and be maudlin with self-reproach or he might launch on one of his tirades, grinding round like a treadmill, rehearsing all the old grievances. Roy had learned that there was no point in trying to disagree or even interrupt; it was best to let him have his say.

‘How are things, son?' Roy had asked placatingly as he sat down.

‘How do you
think
things are? Not much choice, is there? You can have it like a steak in a French café: bloody or fucking bloody. Too much time to think, that's my problem. Too much time to work out where it all started to go wrong. Remember my tenth birthday? Oh no, you wouldn't, would you? But
I
do. There was the cake, “made with
real eggs
, Allie darling”, there were the candles, there were all the
nice
little boys and girls from school.'

What's wrong with that? Roy thought silently; and for a moment Alan's imitation of her voice conjured up Grace with unbearable vividness.

‘And what about Stan? He was my best friend, but Mum wouldn't have him in the house, oh no, because he was a nasty rough boy, his Dad kept a barrow in the market. Never mind that he always saw we got the best vegetables;
Stan
wasn't good enough for my precious birthday party. It all had to be perfect, see, everyone polite and nicely mannered.'

If we've got as far as Stan, it'll be Chrissie next, thought Roy, knowing better than to point out that, with the allotment, they didn't need Stan's father's vegetables.

‘And then finally I got myself a girlfriend. About a year later than everyone else, because
I
had to be back straight after school to do my homework,
I
mustn't lead my sister into bad company or distract her from her brainy bloody exams. The only kids Mum approved of were the prim-and-proper goody-goodies at
Sunday
school. But at last I plucked up courage – and, believe me, it took some doing - to ask a bird out. Chrissie. God, I remember Chrissie. She was funny and she was pretty and she was about as different from my constipated family as chalk and cheese. But
I
picked her, right? Me. Myself. Aged sixteen.'

Yes, Roy remembered Chrissie, too. Bold eyes thickly rimmed with smudgy black paint, short skirts fluffed up with grubby nylon petticoats, bruises on her neck and thighs and a guttural laugh to go with her hoarse, breathy voice. Vera had
seen the two of them together after school, and eventually Grace had persuaded Alan to bring her home for tea one Saturday. Roy winced as he recalled the girl's sharp mockery. ‘Oh Mrs Southgate what a
delicious
cake! What a
wonderful
cook you must be! Oh yes
please
, I'd
love
another cup of tea …' - shooting sly glances at young Alan in a conspiracy that excluded his parents and his sister and made fun of their home. Grace had been bewildered, hearing the polite words and sensing the sarcasm behind them.

Stung to retort, Roy said, ‘She was a hussy. She was rude and ungrateful to your mother, after she'd put herself out to do you proud.'

‘Do me proud!' Alan snapped back. ‘
Proud?
I cringed with shame every time I walked through the front door!'

‘No need for that. Mum and I did our best for you both, gave you a secure home, plenty of love.'

‘You never loved me.
You
never loved anyone except each other…'

Oh my dear wife Grace, let me hold my tongue and remember dear you, worrying about their schoolwork and their vaccinations, having their teeth and eyes seen to regularly, giving them the right sort of food so they'd grow up fine and strong. Roy looked across at his son. It had worked, too. Alan looked remarkably fit, considering: a well-built man with a pasty complexion, features set in an angry scowl but splendid white teeth. Grace's years of devotion had paid off handsomely. Their son was a handsome man.

Alan's tirade had got as far as June. He had been twenty-three when he met her, not living at home any more, but somehow June was their fault as well.

When eventually Alan fell silent, Roy felt he could not leave without having described Grace's funeral. He told his sullen son about the hymns they had sung, the people there, the gathering afterwards.

‘Junie couldn't come, but, then, I didn't really expect that, the boys would have been upset, and it's not a thing for children. She'd have been ever so welcome, of course. She and
your Mum, well, it may not always have been easy, but by the end they'd a real understanding.'

‘And Sheila? Would Sheila have been,' he mimicked,
‘ever so welcome?''

‘Now Alan, Sheila's different, you know that.'

‘No she isn't. She's the same. Just, exactly, the same.'

Roy lowered his eyes and looked at his empty teacup. Nearly time to go.

Alan was talking about Sheila, and for the first time his words were tender rather than vicious. He was saying things his father had never heard before. ‘You've never met her, Dad. You and Mum refused to meet her, and I don't suppose I ever thought you would. It flies in the face of everything you stand for. But if you had, you'd know what I mean. Sheila's different. She was born for me, and I was born for her. What we had, we knew right away, was something special. It was magic. It was – well, it was like you and Mum. We was meant for each other.
That's
why I'm here.'

Roy was moved. He reached across the table, but Alan snatched his hand back and busied himself lighting another cigarette.

‘Never forget,' Roy had said finally, ‘your mother loved you. Nothing changed her feelings for you. You were her son and she loved you, till the day she died.'

Alan sucked viciously on his Dunhill. He made a whistling sound as he inhaled, lighting each cigarette from the butt of the last before crushing the filter convulsively into a saucer.

‘OK, Dad, I tried - do you hear me?
I
tried
, and you wouldn't listen. And here's another thing. These sodding fags. Don't bring me tips next time, you hear?
Every
time I tell him, every
single
time, but does he listen? No. He brings these lousy filter tips. I need a good hard smoke, right? Got that? Un-tipped.'

‘These are the most expensive, son. I thought they'd be a treat.'

‘Don't need a
treat;
I need a proper smoke. Not these yuppie fags.'

In the last five minutes Alan had talked fast, urgently, purging his venom, as Roy's greatest source of joy turned into the stuff of accusation and bitterness.

‘You and Mum,' Alan had said, ‘the perfect couple. So devoted. Just like newly-weds, weren't you? All your lives. Everything to each other. And me? What about
me?
What about Vera, for that matter? Never occurred to you there might be anything wrong with
her
, did it? There she was at whiter-than-white bloody Twigs, one of the
nice
girls at Tunbridge Wells Grammar School. Oh what a thing to be proud of! Come off it, Dad! She was fucking
loony
. “I wonder why your sister's so lovely and slim when you're such a
big
boy, Allie?” Shall I tell you why …?'

Roy stood up abruptly and took his plate across to the kitchen sink. He scraped congealed sardines and cold toast into the swing-top rubbish bin, rinsed his plate under the hot tap, sniffing to make sure that no trace of sardines remained, and stacked it in the double-decker wooden plate-rack. The knife and fork could go straight back into the cutlery drawer. He'd make a fresh cup of tea. Looking out of the kitchen window into the back garden, he noted that, already, the flowers were past their best. The roses needed dead-heading. That had always been Grace's job. Not now, thought Roy Southgate and, as the picture of her dear, stooping figure carefully wielding the secateurs filled his mind, he said out loud, ‘Grace, my Grace, my dear old darling Grace, how shall I carry on without you?' It was too late now to go up to the allotment, but tomorrow he would choose fresh flowers for the shrine.

Dusk had fallen, and the hedge cast long shadows across the close-cropped lawn. A few steps from the back door stood the clothes-line, strung like a giant cobweb, throwing its angular webbed shadow. How many vests and underpants had she pegged out over the years; how many socks suspended in pairs by their toes; how many grey school uniforms and blue milkman's shirts? She'd never cared for drip-dry, said they smelt funny and she'd rather see everything starched and crisply ironed. ‘If a job's worth doing, it's worth doing well' was
Gracie's motto. Her flowered dresses, aprons and blouses had flapped in the breeze, and Vera's pretty teenage skirts had danced on the line as, later, Vera herself ought to have run and danced in them. Now the clothes-line sagged, motionless and empty in the sharp evening light.

In an effort to distract himself he went into the lounge and sat in his armchair. He turned on the wireless at his elbow and searched through the airwaves for a comforting voice, but found only high-pitched drama or laughter or the howl and thump of pop music. He switched it off and settled down to think instead about Miss Hope's visit.

She had dwelt on the plight of the Squadron Leader, apparently much worse off than himself, a man shipwrecked on an island of desolation, not even eating or looking after himself properly. To Roy, trained by the Army to a lifetime's discipline, it was hard to imagine. The poor old fellow must be desperate, quite frantic with grief. He felt he ought to do something, perhaps offer to cook him a meal or visit from time to time - they had, after all, the shared experience of those last days to bind them - yet he could not bear the thought of leaving his house and abandoning the images of Grace waiting in every room just out of the corner of his eye. He knew, though, what the man must be feeling: poor widower - the emptiness. Roy, pondering, sighed, and slept.

The clock was chiming eleven as he woke to the telephone's shrill summons. It had been ringing in his sleep, incorporated into the dislocated events of some urgent dream landscape. He stood up, hearing his knees creak, and went out to the hall.

‘Hallo?' he said, thinking, Must be Vera.

‘Mr Southgate? Willatts here, governor, Ashford Prison. Bit late to disturb you.'

‘No, no – I wasn't… What is it? What's happened?'

‘Your son, I'm afraid, Alan Southgate. He's all right. Found in time. He's in the hospital wing. Doctor says he'll pull through.'

‘What happened to - what did he do, sir, please?'

‘There'll be an official inquiry. Its findings will be conveyed to you in due course. The matter will be properly investigated.'

‘I thought he was sharing his cell.'

‘He was troublesome late this afternoon, after visiting time. My men had to put him in isolation. Checked regularly, of course. Just as well. If you wanted to visit tomorrow, I think we could make an exception. In the circumstances.'

I've only just been, thought Roy. Tomorrow's Sunday. What about Grace's flowers?

‘Could I make it after lunch?'

‘After lunch will be fine. Tell my men on the gate. I'll leave a message there in the morning.'

‘Please tell me: you're not … Is he really all right?'

‘Doctor says so, Mr Southgate.'

‘Can he talk? Is he asking for me, or anyone? Has his wife been told?'

‘He's under heavy sedation for the time being. I have spoken to Mrs Southgate, Mrs June Southgate. And, as I say, there'll be a full inquiry in due course.'

‘When he wakes, I'd be obliged if someone could tell him I'm on my way.'

I will
not
say thank you, Roy Southgate told himself fiercely.

‘Anything else?'

‘No, no, that's all,' said Roy. ‘Thank you. I mean, goodbye.' ‘Sorry about this. Bad time. His mother died recently, I believe?'

Seven weeks and three days ago.

‘Yes,' said Roy. ‘I have just lost my wife. Goodbye, Mr Willatts.'