Black Valley (5 page)

‘So, how are things?’ Bob had pushed his specs up into his hair, and was narrowing his eyes against the bitter wind.

‘Fine, really. Busy. You?’

‘Not too bad. Hanging on in there.’ He paused. Jess sensed there was something he wanted to tell her. Perhaps that was why he’d asked her to lunch.

They walked on in silence. Jess looked at the paving stones to the side of the walkway, where there were a series of carvings set into the stone like fossils: shapes of seaweed, starfish, wet
sand, birds’ footprints, mermaid’s purses, shells. Sculpted into the stone, running along the top, was a wavy, indented line, like a trail – or perhaps it symbolized the
water’s edge.

‘Shall we try the Norwegian Church?’ she said. ‘They’ve done it up.’

‘If you want. But it’s just soup and sandwiches, really. I wanted to treat you.’

‘Thanks. That’s sweet of you, Bob.’ There it was again, that stiff politeness. ‘Actually, I’d rather something . . . you know, informal.’

‘Fine.’ He looked a little downcast, but he didn’t try to argue.

They walked on. Jess went back to following the trail marked out on the stones. Just as they came up to the little wooden church, it petered out. She’d never noticed that before. She
wondered whether it had been the artist’s intention for that to happen, or whether the council had just run out of money, decommissioning the sculpture at an arbitrary point. Whichever it
was, it disturbed her slightly; something so familiar, that she’d assumed had a meaning, suddenly ending like that, for no good reason.

When they reached the Norwegian Church, they went inside and took a table by the window, with a view over the Bay. In the distance, you could see ships at sea, so far out that they barely
appeared to move. The cafe was a cosy little place, the wooden walls festooned with twinkling lights, the windows slightly steamed up, a tempting smell of coffee in the air.

Jess ordered the fisherman’s lunch – sweet herrings, mostly – while Bob decided on beef burger, salt potatoes and a couple of bottles of Hereford ale, one for each of them.
Jess didn’t resist. She rarely drank at lunchtime, but that afternoon she was due to go to the funeral of one of her ex-patients, and she felt she needed a spot of Dutch courage.

When the beers came, together with rosemary bread and olive oil, they made conversation for a while, dunking the bread in the oil, and then she said, ‘So what is it you’ve got to
tell me?’

‘How d’you know I’ve got something to tell you?’

‘You never normally take me out to lunch.’

He grinned. The beer was beginning to relax them both.

‘I suppose you’re right. But you know how it is. We’re both busy . . .’

Jess nodded.

‘Anyway . . . well, I was going to wait until later to tell you.’

‘Later?’

‘Over pudding, coffee.’

She laughed. ‘You mean a bottle of wine later.’

Bob looked pained. ‘I just wanted to enjoy being with you for a bit before I told you. Just in case you—’

‘Oh go on, Bob, spit it out. Whatever it is.’

‘OK.’

But then the food came, and they started to eat, aware that in a few moments the chance to savour their food might vanish, if things became awkward.

‘I must say, you’re looking really nice, Jess.’ Bob swallowed a mouthful, leaned over, and poured Jess more beer. ‘Is that a new dress?’

Jess had taken her coat off. Underneath she was wearing a fitted plum-coloured dress in fine wool, with a line of tiny silk-covered buttons at the bodice.

‘I’ve had this for ages. Haven’t you ever noticed it before?’

‘Oh. I’m not sure.’ He was flustered. ‘Shall we get another beer?’

‘No thanks. I don’t want to be weaving up the aisle.’

Bob looked nonplussed for a moment. ‘Oh God, yes. This funeral. You poor thing.’ He poured out the rest of the beer from his bottle and ordered another. As he did, his jacket fell
open. Jess noticed that his belly was straining a little under the elegant cut of his shirt. He was gaining weight, and she was losing it. They were both struggling, she realized, with the
separation and all it entailed. Both missing, if not each other, the security that had characterized their lives over the past two decades.

‘Well, I suppose I should get this over.’ He paused. ‘The thing is, I’ve been seeing this woman.’

There was a silence. Of course Bob is seeing other women, Jess thought. We’re separated. It was me who asked him to leave. Why wouldn’t he be playing the field? He’s an
attractive man. But she still felt a stab of jealousy. And humiliation, because her tenderness towards him had been misdirected. He wasn’t struggling with the separation at all. He’d
gained weight because he was happy, contented. She’d been wrong about that.

‘This woman?’ She tried to keep her tone level, but there was a note of sarcasm in her voice.

‘She’s called Tegan. Tegan Davies. She’s a newsreader on BBC Wales. You’ve probably seen her.’

‘Maybe. What does she look like?’ The question slipped out before Jess had a chance to stop herself.

‘Well.’ Bob looked uncomfortable. ‘Blonde. Slim.’

‘Attractive? Twenty-three?’

It was meant as a joke, referring back to their younger days when they were so politically correct, and they’d laughed over newspaper reports that began, ‘Miss Jane Smith, blonde,
attractive, twenty-three’. This time, though, it didn’t come out as a joke, and she wished she hadn’t said it.

Bob looked embarrassed. ‘Well, she is a bit younger than me, actually.’

Jess said nothing, but continued to eat her rollmop. The fishy taste had begun to make her feel a little sick. She was glad she hadn’t ordered anything heavier.

‘Anyway,’ he continued, swiftly moving on, ‘she’s asked me if she can meet the children. We’ve been seeing each other mostly at weekends . . .’

Jess put down her fork. She had a sudden vision of Bob’s bijou residence in the Bay, an unmade bed, this Tegan woman wandering around in his shirt, all long tanned legs . . . She brushed
it away.

‘. . . And we thought it would be nice if Rose could stay overnight with us sometime, so we could do things together. Take her out for a pizza, over to Techniquest, that sort of
thing.’

‘Rose is too old for Techniquest.’

Techniquest was a sort of mini science museum in the Bay that the girls had loved when they were little. Bob didn’t seem to realize that they’d grown up.

‘Well, OK, maybe a boat trip.’

Jess knew Rose would love that. But she didn’t say anything.

Jess picked up her fork and began to eat again. Bob’s suggestion was not unreasonable, she knew. But it angered her. Why couldn’t he screw his girlfriend during the week, and keep
the weekends free for his daughter?

‘It depends, really, on how serious you think this relationship is,’ she said. ‘I don’t want Rose meeting every girlfriend you ever have.’

‘Of course not.’

Did that mean that there were others?

‘But Tegan is different.’

So there had been others.

‘She really wants to be part of my life. And that includes my children.’

‘And you? What do you really want?’

Bob stopped eating.

‘You know my position, Jess. I never wanted us to separate.’ He paused. Jess could see he was upset. ‘I’m sorry I let you down, I really am. I’ve done everything I
can to make amends. But since you won’t – can’t – forgive me, I’ve had to move on.’ The waitress came over with a bottle of beer. He took it from her and poured
it out, offering Jess more, too. Although she’d previously declined, she nodded assent.

‘I can’t guarantee that Tegan and I will stay together, but I like her. She’s a nice girl.’ He checked himself. ‘I mean, woman. I think Rose would like her. And
Nella, too, if she’d countenance meeting her.’

‘I think that’s doubtful.’

Since Bob had moved out, Nella had become quite hostile to her father. She seemed to have decided that the rift was all his fault, despite Jess being scrupulously fair towards Bob in discussing
it with her. She’d tried not to criticize Bob in the girls’ presence; she knew only too well, from dealing with her clients, just how destructive it could be for children to witness
continuous acrimony between their parents, and she was determined not to visit this particular misery on her own.

Bob took a sip of his beer. Rather more than a sip, in fact. More like a gulp.

‘I can’t see a problem with it, Jess. Can you?’

Jess gave a sigh. ‘No. Not if it’s a long-term relationship.’ There was a slight tremble in her voice as she spoke. She’d got so used to Bob loving her, wanting her, and
her pushing him away, that it was a shock to realize he’d given up and moved on to someone else. ‘But please, be discreet. Don’t throw the fact that you’re sleeping with
Tegan in Rose’s face. She’s at a very important point in her development. It could really upset her.’

‘Of course. I’ll—’

Jess interrupted him. ‘I don’t want to know about your domestic arrangements. All I ask is that you make it easy for Rose. She loves you, you know.’ Jess could feel the beer
going to her head. ‘She misses you.’

A look of anguish came over Bob’s face. Jess realized, for the first time, that he missed Rose more than he missed her. She wondered whether he’d only wanted them to stay together so
that he could be a father to Rose for a few more years before she grew up and left them, as Nella was close to doing. And she wondered whether, if she’d been a better mother, she would have
let that happen.

‘Right.’ Bob picked up the menu. He never stayed sad for long. He was a doer, not a brooder. That was one of the things Jess had loved about him.

‘How about a nice pud? Let’s see . . .’

Jess looked at her watch. ‘I’ll just have an espresso. And then I’ll have to go.’

Frank O’Grady’s funeral was a subdued affair. Frank was a former client of Jessica’s, who had come to her for help with what he called his ‘sex
addiction’, a condition that had come upon him late in life, after his diagnosis with advanced prostate cancer. He had been a difficult man: unfortunately, the sex addiction had extended to
his relationship with his therapist, and he’d spent most of the sessions with Jess staring at her breasts, ogling her legs, and making lascivious remarks. She’d found the sessions most
uncomfortable, and in the end had resorted to keeping a baggy cardigan in her consulting rooms, which she’d donned especially for his sessions. However, as his health deteriorated,
she’d stopped wearing it, realizing that she had become the last person left in the world who would put up with his behaviour and try to understand him. A month ago, he’d gone into a
hospice; she’d visited him there twice, and on each occasion, though he was painfully weak and thin, he’d found the strength to flirt with her, with a measure of affection, humour and
respect. She’d responded similarly, no longer feeling the need to maintain her detachment, as she’d always had to do in the sessions; and he’d clearly taken comfort from her
new-found warmth towards him. It had seemed like a small victory at the time, and she’d felt quite emotional when each of the visits was over; now that he was dead, she was glad she’d
been patient with him, especially at the end.

The funeral was held at the Crem, as everyone in Cardiff called it. Jess had feared she might be the only person to attend; from what Frank had told her, she knew that he was on bad terms with
his family, had few friends, and didn’t get on with his neighbours. However, she needn’t have worried; as it turned out, there was a respectable gathering of about twenty people. It was
a short, simple service: a woman in her thirties, whom Jess took to be Frank’s daughter, read the lesson; an older woman, who could have been his ex-wife, a carer or a neighbour, laid a small
bunch of flowers on the coffin; a hymn was sung; prayers were said; and then it was all over.

Afterwards, the small crowd dispersed. There seemed to be no plans for a wake of any kind, and Jess knew no one there, so she, too, left discreetly. As she walked down the path to her car, she
saw the hearse for the next cremation waiting, together with a knot of mourners, reminding her that Frank’s body was one among many that would pass through that day. The words
sic transit
gloria mundi
went through her head. There hadn’t been much glory in Frank’s life, she reflected, not towards the end of it, at any rate; but at least, she consoled herself,
he’d had a decent burial, and a good turnout. The part of Cardiff where he’d lived was an old-fashioned place, in many ways; when someone died, whether or not he or she was well liked,
the neighbours in the street turned out to the funeral, simply as a mark of respect for the passing of one of their number. Such rituals continued regardless of whether anyone believed in them or
not; they were just what you did, without thinking, a common kindness extended to all.

As Jess got into her car and drove off, she felt suddenly exhausted. Frank had taken up fifty-five minutes of her day, once a week, almost every week, for the last two years. More if you counted
the effort she’d put into reflecting on his problems, not to mention the wear and tear he’d inflicted on her own psyche with his relentless sexual harassment. Now he was gone. She
wouldn’t miss him; indeed, his passing was a positive relief. However, it left her with an uncomfortable feeling; trying as he had been, the fact that he was no longer alive and irritating
the hell out of her made her feel flat, depressed almost. All that effort, to what end? Like the line imprinted in the paving stones outside the Norwegian Church, Frank’s life had just
stopped. The same with her marriage to Bob. The early days of passion, the arrival of children, the hard work, the gentle passage into familiarity and security and a sense of achievement . . . and
then, quite suddenly, the drop into nothing.

She drove down the tree-lined path. It was raining, just spitting rather than a downpour, and the windscreen wipers were making their familiar scratching noise. She really should get them fixed,
she told herself. It was the sort of thing Bob would have attended to in the past, and she hadn’t quite acknowledged to herself that now it was up to her to do it.