Encounters (3 page)

‘How could I be? I only saw him for a few minutes.’ She realized suddenly what he had said and for the first time she saw what she was doing to him. ‘Robert!’ She ran to him and put her arms around his neck. ‘It’s not like that. Perhaps he didn’t even exist! Perhaps he was a dream! I don’t know. That’s why I‘ve got to find out, don’t you see? And he was crippled, as you call it, too. I told you. Look,’ she hesitated. ‘Come back with me. Come and meet him yourself. Please.’

He shook his head and tried to smile. ‘No. You go. Whatever it is you have to prove, Victoria, you have to do it alone.’

Lady Penelope opened the door herself. She was a slim, elegant woman in her early eighties, with bright intelligent eyes. Once she had poured the tea she sat quite still behind the tea tray listening with complete attention as Victoria told her story.

When Victoria finished there was a long silence. ‘Stephen Cheney,’ she repeated at last.

‘He and I knew each other once,’ Victoria said softly. She looked down at her hands, covertly twisting her wedding ring around her finger.

You and I were lovers once, in a land, long ago.

‘You do know him?’

‘Oh yes, I know him.’ Lady Penelope frowned. ‘After tea, I’ll take you to him.’

‘He looked so ill.’

‘Yes, poor boy, I expect he did.’ Lady Penelope glanced up at Victoria. ‘What made you and your husband come to look around this house?’

‘The agents sent it. My husband has just been invalided out of the army and it seemed the sort of place we would like to live. We inherited Robert’s father’s house in London and neither of us wanted to live in town, so we sold it. But I’m afraid this is going to be too expensive.’ She smiled anxiously. ‘Mr Turner from the agents said you’d already had offers above the asking price.’

‘Even if I hadn’t I wouldn’t sell it to you, Mrs Holland.’ Lady Penelope’s smile belied the harshness of the words. ‘This is not the house for you, my dear. You’ll see why presently.’ She stood up. ‘Now. If you’ve finished your tea, I’ll take you to see Stephen.’

The heat wave had broken at last and the air was cool and damp after a night of rain as they walked slowly round the side of the house, through the laurels and across the lawn beneath the cedar tree. The west wing was still tightly closed up. No music rang across the grass. Victoria stopped and stared at it. The whole place gave off a sense of deep sadness. Lady Penelope watched her, but she said nothing and after a moment she moved on. Victoria stayed where she was. He had been here. On the grass. Near the flowers. She closed her eyes. She knew already where they were going.

Her hostess moved with deceptive rapidity in spite of her eighty years and Victoria found herself almost running to keep up with her as they cut through the shrubbery and found themselves on another unkempt lawn. Beyond it a high yew hedge separated them from the church.

Opening a gate in the hedge Lady Penelope glanced at Victoria. ‘I hope you’re strong, I think you are.’

She set off up a path between huddled gravestones, overgrown with nettles, some of them lost beneath moss and lichen. One of them had been recently cleared. They stopped in front of it.

Stephen John Cheney
Born 20 June 1894. Died 24 August 1918
in God I trust

‘I remembered the name when you mentioned it on the phone.’ Lady Penelope poked at the grave with her walking stick. ‘I came up yesterday to see if I was right, and cleared the stone. Then I went back to the records. We still have the nursing home ledgers in the house. My son found them years ago. I suppose they got overlooked with all the other stuff at the end of the war. Stephen died two days after they amputated his arm.’

‘No.’ Victoria stared down at the grave. ‘No. You don’t understand. I saw him. I spoke to him.’

‘There is no Stephen Cheney now, my dear.’ The old lady’s voice was gentle.

You and I were lovers once, in a land, long ago.

‘It’s not possible.’ It was a whisper. ‘He gave me a rose.’

‘Everything is possible.’

‘Perhaps it was his son – or his grandson,’ Victoria said uncertainly.

The old lady shrugged. They both stood, staring down at the mossy tombstone. Both knew somehow that Stephen had had no son.

‘I learned the names on all these stones, walking to church every Sunday over the years,’ Lady Penelope said slowly. ‘My family have lived in this house for more than a century. We had to move out during the last war, just as we did during the first one. But they didn’t use the place as a hospital again. The last time round it was the home guard. I brought my husband here in 1940, but we never lived here. He was killed in 1941, before our son was born.’ She paused for a moment. ‘The house is too much for me now. And my son doesn’t want it. So, sadly, it must go.’ She smiled. ‘Are you all right? Do you want to sit down?’

Victoria was fighting back her tears.

‘I’m sorry. It’s such a shock.’

‘There was no gentle way to tell you.’

‘You must think I’m mad.’

‘Oh no, my dear. I don’t think you’re mad. Far from it. On the contrary. I’ve heard their music from the old gramophone. I’ve smelt the Lysol in those wards. But I‘ve never seen any of the boys. You are lucky.’

‘Am I?’ Victoria tried to smile through her tears. ‘Why did I know him? Why did he know me?’

He had touched her; given her a rose. She could hear his voice … see his eyes. She stared down at the grey stone, seeing it swimming through her tears. ‘How?’ she whispered. ‘How?’

There was a long silence. Lady Penelope was staring across the churchyard into the distance where, through the trees, they could see the hazy mountains bathed in the afternoon sun. ‘Maybe you knew one another in a previous life,’ she said at last. ‘Maybe you should have known each other in that life – his life – but he died too soon and you missed one another on the great wheel of destiny. Who knows? If it is still meant to be, you’ll have another chance. You both stepped out of time for a few short minutes and one day you’ll find each other again.’ She put her arm around Victoria’s shoulder. ‘When you reach my age you know these things. Life goes round and round like the records those boys used to play endlessly on those hot summer afternoons. Once in a while the needle slips; it jumps a groove. That’s what happened when you walked out through that door onto the terrace. You and Stephen heard the same tune for a while – then the needle jumped back. If it is meant to be, you will see him again one day.’

‘You really believe that?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘But it won’t be in this life, will it?’

‘You have a lover in this life, Victoria,’ Lady Penelope pointed out gently.

‘You mean Robert?’

‘If he is your lover as well as your husband.’

‘Yes, he is my lover as well as my husband.’ How could anyone doubt it? How could Robert have doubted it? She had left him alone, his face a tight mask of misery. But he had made no further attempt to stop her coming.

‘Then don’t hurt him.’ It was as if the old lady knew what had happened. ‘Stephen has had his life; now you must live yours.’

‘How does it work? How could I see him? Was he a ghost?’

Her companion shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter what he was. He was real. For you. And for me.’

They were both looking down at the grave.

‘He told me he was afraid they would take off his arm,’ Victoria said sadly. ‘He was so frightened. I wish I’d said something to reassure him.’

‘Your being there reassured him.’

‘Did it?’ Victoria bit her lip. ‘Do you mind living in a haunted house?’ she asked after another long silence.

Lady Penelope smiled. ‘Every old house has its ghosts, my dear. You grow used to them. I’m fond of mine. But that poor boy from the agents hates it here. He doesn’t understand.’

‘Why did you say we couldn’t buy the house?’

Lady Penelope smiled. ‘If you hadn’t seen Stephen, it wouldn’t have mattered. But you have and you recognized him. You cannot live in a house with two lovers, Victoria. It wouldn’t be fair to your Robert, or yourself. Or to Stephen for that matter.’

‘But fate must have brought me here.’

Lady Penelope smiled. ‘There are times, my dear, when we have to turn our backs on fate. For the sake of our sanity. Always remember that.’ She glanced towards the house. ‘I’ll go on back, my dear. You catch me up when you’re ready.’

Victoria stood looking down at the grave for several minutes after the old lady had gone. She made no attempt to reach him. Her mind was a blank. The churchyard around her was empty. There were no ghosts there now. Wandering on down the path she passed a wild climbing rose, scrambling over some dead elder bushes. Picking one perfect bud she took it back and laid it on his grave. Then she turned away.

As she walked back across the lawn she glanced up at the windows of the west wing as they reflected the late afternoon sunlight in a glow of gold. One or two of them were open now, she saw, without surprise. And, faintly, she could hear the sound of music. But the gardens were empty.

‘Y
ou know, I’m not sure that I do want to see you again after all, Joe.’ I leaned back, beginning to enjoy myself, and shifted the receiver to the other hand. ‘How long did you say it was?’

‘Oh, come on, Pen. Don’t be like that.’ His voice was starting to sound the tiniest bit tetchy.

I hoped the smile on my face didn’t come over in my voice. ‘OK, then. As it’s Christmas. You can come for the night. Spare room.’

‘Spare room?’

‘Spare room.’

I put down the receiver and stood up. Twenty minutes, he had said. Twenty minutes to tidy up, fix my hair and nails, slip into something infinitely casual and arrange to be very, very busy when he arrived. I glanced out of the window. The village street glistened beneath the dusting, melting snow. Rather as it had been when he walked out on me three years before. I had sworn I would never see the swine again.

Well, three years and a couple of morale-boosting affairs can do a lot for resolutions like that one. Anyway, I was curious. What had happened to my Joe in the last three years? I put a couple of logs on the fire and poured myself a drink.

I stayed where I was at my writing desk when I heard the car drive up outside. I counted to ten when the bell rang and then, slowly, walked to the door.

Damn. The sight of him could still make my pulses race. I stretched out a hand. ‘It’s good to see you again, Joe.’ There were tiny unmelted snowflakes caught in the crisp curl of his hair. But his eyes were the same. Mocking; insolent; irresistible … ‘Come and have a drink.’ I put my hand on the door behind him to push it closed, but his foot was in the way.

‘Pen, I’m not alone …’

As his voice tailed away I felt my nerves begin to throb warningly. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve brought a woman, Joe.’ My voice was melodious, but I could see it made him uneasy.

‘Of course not, I told you. It’s all over. There’s no one. But …’

Never in all the time I’ve known him have I seen Joe look shifty before. His eyes skidded away from mine and fixed, concentrating, on the battered coal scuttle on the hearth. I was taut with suspicion.

‘I’m all alone, Pen,’ he had said, on the phone. The liar. ‘All alone, and it is Christmas Eve. Couldn’t I come?’

I had been trying to forget it was Christmas Eve, in spite of the cards around the room, in spite of the coloured lights around the church and the village pub. Christmas is for families, not for the orphaned unmarried like me, however sociable we might be the rest of the year. But the crackle of sentiment in his voice had got to me.

‘Come on in, Joe,’ I said now, wearily. ‘The house is getting cold. You’d better ask her in. One drink and you can go to the pub. Both.’

I turned my back on the door and stood, folding my arms defensively around me, in front of the fire. What did I care how many women he brought. No doubt he’d come for my approval before popping the question to someone who had finally been fool enough to say yes. It was the sort of crazy tactless thing Joe might do. I kicked a log and watched the shower of sparks. Whoever she was, she was a bitch.

There was a click as Joe quietly pushed the front door shut behind him with his foot. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten …

Slowly I turned.

Nobody. He was standing there with a basket in each hand, and he was looking sheepish again. What the hell was he up to?

‘OK, Joe. Have a drink.’ I sighed and went for the bottle as he set down the two baskets and came forward.

He took the glass from my hand. ‘You’re a real brick, Pen. Did I ever tell you that?’

Of course, I could have stepped back in time to avoid that kiss; as it was I stepped back just a little too late. As an experiment it was a success.

‘I like your hair long. You look fabulous; really good.’ He took a deep drink from his glass. I waited smugly for his eyes to water as he swallowed, but they didn’t. I was impressed. It was neat and he had taken a big gulp. Perhaps he had been practising.

‘Happy Christmas, fella,’ I whispered. ‘Now, stop flannelling and show me this friend.’

‘His name is Paul.’ He set down the glass.

‘Paul?’

I watched as he went to the shopping. One of the baskets was stuffed with blankets and – I felt my eyes growing enormous – a small baby.

I stood there, for the first time in my life speechless, as Joe tenderly scooped it up and brought it to the fire. It had delicate, tiny features and warm pink cheeks. It was asleep.

‘Isn’t he beautiful?’ Joe’s voice was very gentle.

‘Whose is it?’ I don’t think my voice was as harsh as it should have been. It really was, now he came to mention it, rather beautiful.

‘This is my son.’ There was no mistaking this time the pride in his voice.

And there was no mistaking the jealousy and disappointment that swept through me as he said it; silly fool that I was, still caring for a man like him.

‘Do you want to hold him?’ He spoke with the voice of one about to bestow a rare and lovely treat. I stepped back and firmly picked up my glass again.

‘I’m not used to babies,’ I said. ‘I’d drop him.’

‘I expect you want to know where he came from?’ The shifty look had gone and the old mischievous grin was back, teasing me.

I raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ve no doubt you have as many gooseberry bushes in town as we do here.’

‘His mother doesn’t like children. We had a conference when we split up and she said I could take him. So I did.’ He was grinning all over his face.

‘So you did.’ I was stunned. ‘Do you
know
anything about babies, Joe?’

He shook his head. ‘She gave me a manual. It’s quite straightforward, really. I’ve got all the gear. It’s in the car, actually.’

‘But, Joe, what’ll you do when term starts? Who will look after it then?’

Joe, like me, teaches.

He shrugged. ‘I’ll find someone to keep an eye on him.’

Gently he laid the child down on the sofa and unwrapped a layer of shawl. I was torn between indignation and curiosity.

‘Hadn’t you better tell me who his mother was? Is?’

‘Was. It has all been made legal. A lovely lady, Pen. You would like her …’

Like hell, I thought.

‘… She’s tall and dark and quiet, but absolutely set on being a top dancer. And she’ll do it. She’s good. And she’s definitely not the maternal type. She nearly killed me when she got pregnant. Lovely girl.’

He positively licked his lips.

‘You are a swine, Joe.’ I thought it was time I said it out loud.

He laughed. ‘You know, none of them have ever been like you, Pen. None of them.’

It was my turn to look modest. ‘And how many of them have there been, if I might enquire?’

He shrugged. ‘Trade secret, love. Who’s counting? It’s you I’ve come back to.’

‘You and who else,’ I said.

When he went to unpack the car I had a look at the baby. It was very like him, I had to admit.

I pulled back the shawl to have a better look and the infant Nureyev opened its eyes – and then its mouth. I leaped back as though it had bitten me. The squalling was deafening.

Joe was beside me in an instant. ‘Did Penny frighten you, den?’

I put my hands over my face. ‘Joe! I don’t believe it. Not you. Not baby talk. Surely your son is an intellectual?’

‘Of course he is.’ Joe drew himself up. ‘Who is an intellectual, den? Daddy’s boy.’ He laughed. ‘You should see your face, Pen.’ He put his arm around me and gave me a squeeze. ‘Come on. Are you going to feed him? It’s time he was asleep.’

‘Me?’ I hit an unseemly falsetto. ‘I couldn’t feed him.’

‘Why not? Women do these things by instinct.’

‘Evidently his mother doesn’t. And neither do I,’ I said firmly. ‘It’s all up to you, Joe.’

I watched fascinated as he bent and, rummaging in a paper bag, produced a feeding bottle.

‘It’s only got to be warmed up.’

‘Can’t we give it brandy, or something, just this once?’ I quavered. Babies, it seemed, unnerved me completely.

He remembered where the kitchen was; and the kettle; and the mixing bowl. Damn him, he was completely at home!

I hovered ineffectually, listening with increasing unease to the baby’s screams from next door.

‘Pick him up, will you. Tell him it’s coming.’

I had been afraid he would say that. Nervously I edged an arm under the convulsed little bundle and heaved it up. It was surprisingly heavy. To my amazement it stopped crying at once, and after a moment, beamed at me. I found myself beaming back. I felt ridiculously pleased.

‘See, he likes you.’ Joe appeared with a towel wrapped around his waist, the bottle in his hand.

I watched goggle-eyed as he stuffed the teat into the baby’s mouth and tipped the stuff down and I almost asked if I could have a go myself.

‘I knew you’d turn up trumps, Pen.’ Joe took his refilled glass from me and raised it in salute. We had made the baby a bed in a drawer upstairs after he had changed its nappy – blessedly out of sight, to save my sensibilities – and it had gone off to sleep at once. Its mountain of belongings tidied away, my cottage began to look familiar 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.