Encounters (50 page)

We were not going to meet that evening so I let myself into the silent flat and went straight to bed, worn out with misery.

I knew I looked pale and haggard the next day when I met André for coffee after his last tutorial. I saw him give me a sharp look and then as we sat down he let out a sharp exclamation.

‘Suzie, where is our ring? Why are you not wearing it?’

I jumped guiltily. That morning I had slipped it on, tried to recapture the joy of having it on my hand, had worn it all the time I was making my toast and coffee and then just before I left for work I had taken it off, kissed it longingly and placed it in the drawer.

‘I didn’t want to wear it to work, darling,’ I lied hastily. ‘I was giving pottery lessons and I didn’t want to get it covered in clay, or take it off and have to leave it lying around.’

He accepted my explanation with a smile and a squeeze of the hand, but he still looked crestfallen. Like a disappointed schoolboy … I stopped myself abruptly. There I went again, harping on his youth. I forced myself to smile.

‘Where are we going this evening, André?’ I said, trying to change the subject. ‘What about that French film you wanted to see?’

But he shook his head. ‘Suzie, I know something is wrong. You must tell me.’

I glanced up at his anxious face and sighed. ‘All right. But not here. Can we go back to my flat?’

‘What is wrong with here?’ His chin suddenly took on a stubborn set and he gestured round the dark café with its intimate little tables. The atmosphere was fragrant with coffee and cigarette smoke and there were only two other couples there.

‘All right,’ I said quietly. ‘I’ll tell you here. Darling, I love you more than I can ever say, but I don’t think I should marry you.’ To my surprise the words sounded very calm and reasonable.

André’s expression did not change. He had obviously been expecting this. ‘Can you tell me why,
chérie
? Is it that you don’t want to live in France?’

His hand was trembling as it held his cup and I felt a lump come to my throat.

‘No, no. Of course not. It’s because I am so much older than you. Don’t you see? I don’t think it would work.’

He gave a pained sigh. ‘But we have been over this so often, Suzie.’ He sounded a little impatient. ‘I told you that for me this is not a problem. It just does not matter.’ He accentuated the words by striking the table with his fist. The cups rattled on their saucers and there was a moment of silence at the other tables. Then the muted murmur of conversation continued.

I looked down at my coffee, embarrassed. ‘It doesn’t matter now, but in ten, fifteen years’ time, what then? When you are forty and I am nearly sixty; how will you feel about it then, André?’ My voice cracked as I spoke and immediately his hand caught mine. It was reassuringly firm.

‘In France a woman is considered to be at her most attractive in her fifties and sixties,
chérie
. That is when she has the experience to please her man. She is mature. She is no longer just pretty and frivolous; she is beautiful!’

He gazed deeply into my eyes and smiled suddenly. ‘Look at Deneuve. She is fifty!’ He shrugged his shoulders in the very Gallic way he had.

I had to laugh. ‘But I do not have quite the same advantages as her.’

‘No,’ he snorted. ‘But for me you are much better. Listen.’ He captured my other hand and leaning across the table gazed at me earnestly. ‘You are worrying about what will happen in twenty years’ time. My love, if we have so much as twenty years happiness we shall have a great deal to thank God for. Do you not think that to ask for more is being greedy? You are saying, “I want a promise of half a century perhaps of perfection” – but who knows what will happen then? Let us take our happiness now, while we have it. We will leave the future until it comes, eh?’

He was silent for a minute and then abruptly he released my hands and began to drink his coffee.

I sat for a while unable to think of anything to say. I wanted so much to be convinced, but somewhere deep inside me there was still a niggle of doubt. His argument sounded so reasonable. I was facing problems which might, probably would, never occur.

‘What would your parents think?’ I said at last, cautiously.

André’s face broke into a beaming smile.
‘Enfin,’
he said triumphantly, ‘she has seen how foolish she is. They will love you. I have already written to
maman
and she is longing to meet you.’

He stood up. ‘Come on. Let’s go to see that film.’

He was irrepressibly happy for the rest of the evening and eventually I cheered up too. We laughed and much later as we wandered back through the warm night towards my flat, we began to make plans. Once more he left me at the door. He had a few more essays to mark, he admitted with a grimace. He blew me a kiss from the corner of the street and was gone.

I opened the door of my flat and was amazed to find my father sitting there sipping coffee.

‘Your mother lent me the spare key,’ he explained lazily. ‘Where’s young André got to?’

‘Young …?’ My heart missed a beat. ‘he’s gone back to the hostel. Why?’

‘Just as well.’ My father heaved himself to his feet. ‘Your mother told me all about it, Sue. You know it just won’t do, don’t you?’

‘Why not?’ My hands were suddenly terribly cold. ‘We have discussed it a great deal. I’m going into it with my eyes open.’

‘Yes, but is he?’ He put his arm round my shoulder. ‘Listen, Sue. The last thing I want to do is hurt you; but think of him. He is young and in love. He sees you as some perfect English dream he’s thought up for himself. But when he takes you home, what happens? His friends are married to girls fifteen years your junior. Are
they
going to be your friends? He is bound to make comparisons. He will be too loyal perhaps to hurt you if he can help it, but one day you can bet he will take a little mistress …’

‘Father, how
can
you! I was furious. ‘How can you be so horrible and unkind? You make me feel ugly and old and
unloveable
.’

He held me close. ‘Sue, Sue. I’m sorry. It’s because I’m trying to save you from being hurt later.’ Sadly he looked at me and then he smiled. ‘But of course, it is for you to make the final decision, my love. Whatever you decide we’ll stand by you.’ He dropped a quick kiss on my forehead and then said, unbelievably, ‘Have you ever thought of having an affair with this chap, Sue? Just to get it out of your system.’ He looked embarrassed. And I felt suddenly horribly ashamed. I had been having ‘an affair’ as he meant it, with André for months now and here he was suggesting it! Putting aside all his principles and suggesting something which would shock him so profoundly. I wanted to cry and after he had gone I did. I cried myself to sleep.

Next morning I sat for a long time at my dressing table gazing at the mirror, my fingers gently trying to coax the lines of exhaustion from beneath my eyes.

I had considered André. I had considered my mother and father. I had even considered Gwen and Phil. Now at last wasn’t it time to consider myself? Wasn’t André right to say think of today? Who could tell what the future would bring? What did I want? Now.

Slowly, deliberately, I reached into the drawer, found my precious, beautiful ring and slipped it onto the fourth finger of my left hand. I stared at it for a long time then I stood up. Today I would wear it. Tomorrow could take care of itself.

M
rs Benton was old and very frail and she seldom went outside her house, relying instead on Mr Folkestone, the ‘paying guest’ who lived upstairs to do her shopping for her. But she didn’t feel cut off from the world for she had her front window. For hours at a time she would sit in the rocking chair which had been her mother’s gazing out at the road, occasionally moving the net curtain aside so that she could get a better look.

It was a lonely life, but Mrs Benton never complained for she had one especial interest, and this was the young man who lived in the house directly opposite. He had lived there with his mother for about six months now and his name was Jeremy. She had persuaded George, the postman, to tell her that much. Jeremy Hall. He was tall and good looking with soft floppy chestnut hair and green eyes. George thought he lectured at the technical college three miles away, but he could not be sure. Certainly Jeremy left nearly every morning at about twenty minutes to nine on his blue scooter and more often than not he had a stack of books with him which he strapped behind his seat. Some days he came home early, at about three and others not until after six.

Mrs Benton had made up a story about Jeremy. She pretended to know all about him and his family and his work and in her imagination he would come across and see her and tell her his troubles and his plans. And she would listen and nod and stroke the cat which purred on her knee.

That cat was all the family Mrs Benton had now. Once she had a daughter and a son-in-law and a little grandson, but they had all gone to live in Australia. There had been letters at first and then just cards and then nine Christmases ago even they had stopped. Her grandson must be about twenty-eight now, she thought wistfully. Sometimes in her dreams Jeremy would call her ‘Grandma’.

One afternoon it was raining particularly hard. Mrs Benton saw Jeremy come home, the rain streaming from his hair and coat, his books carefully wrapped in a polythene bag. She knew his mother was still out shopping for she had seen her go half an hour before. Jeremy dived into the house, beginning to take off his coat even before he shut the door. Mrs Benton nodded. Sensible boy. It would not do to catch cold. She wished she could afford to buy him a proper briefcase for those poor books.

She rocked back and forth a couple of times and then leaned forward again in astonishment, for someone was coming to her own door. Or to be exact an umbrella was coming. A pretty pink and red floral umbrella. Mrs Benton raised the corner of the curtain expectantly. Yes, it was definitely coming up her front steps.

Suddenly deciding that she must answer the door herself and not wait for Mr Folkestone to do it she heaved herself slowly to her feet and groped for her sticks, waiting impatiently for the ring on the doorbell. But it didn’t come. Disappointed Mrs Benton hoped whoever it was would not go away before she got there and she shuffled as fast as she could in her floppy slippers out into the hall and groped for the door latch.

Standing on the doorstep was a girl, dressed in a tightly-belted blue mackintosh, the umbrella daintily twirling around her head. She had long fair hair, darkened into streaks by the rain, and enormous grey eyes.

‘Hello,’ she said, startled because Mrs Benton had opened the front door before she had plucked up the courage to ring. ‘I am sorry to bother you, but I wonder if you,’ she hesitated a moment looking at Mrs Benton’s arthritic hands and then went on, blushing prettily, ‘I wonder if there is anyone who can help me? It is silly really, but I can’t get the top off this jar.’ She held out an enormous bottle with a screw top lid. ‘There isn’t anyone else in the house I’ve moved into round the corner and I must have this open.’

Mrs Benton smiled. ‘Of course, dear. Come in and I’ll call Mr Folkestone. I am sure he can help you.’

Then she stopped suddenly. How silly. What did a lovely girl like this want with a couple of old fogies like herself and Mr Folkestone? No, she had a better idea.

‘On second thoughts I don’t think he’s in.’ She frowned and leaned a little more heavily on her sticks. ‘But I know who can help you, my dear. You run across the road there and ask Jeremy. He’s such a nice boy and I am sure he’s very strong.’

She stood watching as the girl turned back down the steps and made her way across the wet pavement. Then she closed the door. She did not want them to see her watching. As fast as she could Mrs Benton shuffled back to her chair, lowered herself painfully into it and twitched back the curtain.

The beautiful girl was knocking on Jeremy’s door and after a moment or two he opened it. He had put on a thick rust-coloured sweater, Mrs Benton could see, which went beautifully with his hair.

She watched the girl explain and hold out the jar and she saw Jeremy laughing as he took it. He opened it with one quick tug and handed it back to her. Then they stayed talking for several minutes before the girl turned and waving, set off home. Jeremy stood and watched her go out of sight round the corner before he shut the door.

With a sigh Mrs Benton let the curtain fall.

Soon after that Jeremy’s schedule began to change. Often he came home much later than before and his scooter would turn into the road from the opposite end to the college, from Mrs Benton’s end. She wondered whether he had changed his job and day-dreamed excitedly about the day when he would come and tell her all about the new people he was meeting and especially about the girl in the blue mackintosh.

Twice she saw her go back to Jeremy’s house. Once she went in. It was teatime on a Saturday and his mother was there. And once she just collected him at the door and together they walked off up the road, talking excitedly and holding hands.

Mrs Benton’s pleasure and happiness in seeing them together like that would only be bettered by one thing and that was the piece of excitement of her own which was coming. One of her rare expeditions outside the house. Mrs Carnaby who used to lodge with her before Mr Folkestone had written to say she had bought a car. She was coming to town for the day especially to take Mrs Benton to see the Christmas decorations in Hartleys and help her do her Christmas shopping.

Leaning heavily on her two sticks, but with her eyes sparkling with delight, Mrs Benton walked slowly and determinedly down the aisle between the scarf counter and the gloves. Mrs Carnaby tactfully leaving her on her own for a while knowing there were chairs for her to sit on here if she got tired. She paused now and then to look at the lovely squares of chiffon and silk, hanging her sticks on her arm as she gently touched the cool beauty of the fabrics.

Then she looked up to see which counter she would visit next and there, almost next to her, stood Jeremy and with him was a tall dark-haired girl wearing a scarlet coat. Mrs Benton had never seen her before. He had his arm round her. ‘Choose, Angela,’ he was saying quietly, in a deep pleasant voice, very much as she had imagined he would sound. ‘Choose which you’d like, my dear. I think this one suits you.’ He held up an emerald green silk scarf studded with tiny black stars. Mrs Benton glanced up at the maker’s placard over that section of the counter and gasped. Had he any idea how much that scarf would cost?

Evidently Angela at least did have, for at once she said, ‘No, Jerry darling, I can’t let you. It’s much too expensive.’

Then the most terrible thing happened. Mrs Benton, turning from the counter, saw
her
coming towards them across the shop. Still wearing her blue tightly-belted mac, her hair swinging beneath a black velvet head band. Her face was radiant and for the last few steps she almost ran. ‘Jerry,’ she called breathlessly. ‘Jerry, love, I thought it was you.’ Then she stopped dead. She hadn’t seen Angela who had been hidden by Jeremy’s broad shoulders and now suddenly she was face to face with her. Uncomfortably Jeremy let fall the green scarf. He unwound his arm from Angela’s shoulders.

‘Pam, I didn’t know you’d be here.’ His voice was uncertain and Mrs Benton, now unashamedly staring, saw an uncomfortable flush spreading to his cheeks.

‘No, I can see that.’ Pam’s eyes blazed. ‘Please, Jerry, don’t stop your transaction on my account.’ She leaned forward and plucked the scarf from the pile again. ‘It suits the lady perfectly I should say!’ She pushed the scarf into his hands creasing the silky folds. They do hold football matches in strange places nowadays, Jerry, don’t they? I never dreamed you’d be playing here when I rang you yesterday. And with such a lovely opponent. No wonder you couldn’t come to the cinema with me.’ The girl’s voice was taut with grief as she rushed on. ‘I suppose fields get so muddy don’t they and men are so boring to play with …’ She turned and walked quickly away, her head held high, but not before Mrs Benton caught sight of the tears in her eyes.

Jeremy and Angela looked at each other, then Angela suddenly gave a nervous giggle. ‘Jerry, what have you been doing? I didn’t know you ran a harem, my darling. How intriguing.’ Her smile was suddenly frosty. ‘I didn’t think simpering blondes were quite your style though. You’ve never shown any interest in them in college.’

Mrs Benton’s blood was boiling. So that was it. A girl from the college. Pam wasn’t a simpering blonde. She was beautiful and sweet and …

Placing her sticks firmly on the carpet she began to walk forward, intent on saying her piece, but already the two young people had turned away.

‘There’s no need to be vicious, Angela,’ she heard Jeremy’s voice, suddenly loud in the discreet hush of the shop. ‘Pam is a lovely person. She’s hardly a harem. She’s a very dear friend and I won’t have her hurt.’

‘You mean you’d rather hurt me?’ Angela’s voice, though as low as his was loud, came surprisingly clearly across the thick carpeting.

‘No, but you’re better at taking care of yourself. You’re tough, Angie and Pam is vulnerable and lonely. She knows no one here.’

‘It sounds to me then as though you ought to rush after her to console her, Jerry dear.’ Angela dropped the hushed voice and faced him suddenly beneath a shimmering Christmas mobile. ‘And don’t worry about me or that lovely Christmas present. As you so rightly imply I have others to turn to for comfort,’ and she swept away, leaving him standing on the carpet.

He hesitated for a moment looking after her uncomfortably then he shrugged and, suddenly seeming to make up his mind, he turned and almost ran after Pam, disappearing into the crowds of afternoon shoppers.

Mrs Benton breathed a sigh of relief. He had made the right decision, of that she was sure.

The next few days Mrs Benton could hardly bear to leave her chair at the window in the evenings; but there was no sign of Pam. Jeremy came home at his usual time, went in and uncompromisingly slammed the front door. If he went out again it was not until after Mrs Benton had gone to bed.

Then one traumatic evening Angela turned up. Mrs Benton clenched her fists angrily, twitching the curtain in her anxiety. He let her in, but she stayed no more than ten minutes. When she left she paused for a moment on the doorstep to hurl abuse at the figure inside the door and then she ran down the road.

‘Good, that’s finished.’ Mrs Benton sat back satisfied. Then she stiffened. Jeremy had come out on his freezing doorstep to look after Angela. He gazed for a moment then as he was about to turn away he looked straight at Mrs Benton’s window. It was too late to let the curtain fall and pretend she wasn’t watching. She felt herself blush, but to her surprise he didn’t seem to be cross at being spied on. He gave her a friendly grin and a wave. Then as if suddenly realizing that she must have seen everything he jerked his thumb in the direction of Angela’s retreating back and with a heavenwards glance of exasperation gave a dramatic shrug of his shoulders. Then with another wave he had gone.

Mrs Benton let the curtain fall gently. He had let her in on his secret. She was an accomplice and he knew she was there. She was so happy that evening she didn’t know what to do. In the end she treated herself to half a glass of sherry in celebration.

Three days later she was watching some damp wintry flakes of snow nose down past her window at lunchtime when Jeremy came home unexpectedly early. He had no books on his scooter. She watched him undo the strap on his crash helmet and, leaving the helmet on the seat of the bike, he ran indoors. He had not even glanced in her direction. She could not suppress a tiny feeling of disappointment, but this was soon forgotten as she saw Pam. The girl walked slowly hesitatingly down past Mrs Benton’s house, and then almost reluctantly crossed the road. She hesitated so long on Jeremy’s doorstep Mrs Benton almost got to her feet in anxiety and then miraculously, before she rang, the door opened. She stood for a minute on the doorstep before she disappeared inside. Mrs Benton’s fingers were not so arthritic that she could not still just cross them in an emergency.

She was so intrigued about what would happen she forgot to go and make her own lunch. Instead she sat and rocked and watched.

Forty-six minutes later, by her watch, the door opened and Jeremy and Pam both appeared on the doorstep. He slammed the door behind them and together they stood for a moment by his bike. Then at last, gently, he gave her a long, lingering kiss. He watched as she turned away and walked quickly round the corner. Then he reached for his helmet and strapped it on. As he was about to mount his machine he seemed to remember something. He paused and glanced across the street towards Mrs Benton’s window. She hadn’t moved the curtain today, so he couldn’t possibly see her, but even so he gave that cheery grin and waved and then this time, just for her, he gave the thumbs up sign.