Fraser's Line (4 page)

‘I feel exactly the same,’ he replied. ‘There’s no way I’m going to go through this again.’

‘Tell me what you do with yourself. Are you still working? What do you do?’

‘I’m in kitchens,’ he said, simply. Instead of trying to prompt him further she looked at him with a smile, and waited. Fraser felt compelled to go on. He told her how his father had died when he was very young, and how he had always loved making things. ‘I did a City and Guilds course in design. Then I joined a kitchen company. But it wasn’t very satisfying working for someone else – I couldn’t control things, and the complaints were mostly justified. I didn’t like that. I wanted to run a business with the priorities I believed were important – I don’t like fobbing customers off with promises that can’t possibly be kept. So I managed to break away, and set up on my own. At first I worked from home, and did absolutely everything myself – finding the customers, ordering the supplies, and installing the kitchens. Gradually my business grew enough to take on a partner, but apart from John, and a girl to do the books, that’s as far as I ever wanted it to go. Otherwise you start losing control again.’ He’d got so involved in his account for a moment he’d almost forgotten that this woman opposite was a total stranger. Feeling he was going on too long, he began to apologise.

‘Not at all – I’m interested in people and rather nosy about what their lives are all about,’ she said. ‘Do you have a family?’

He told her about Sarah and Joanna, and about Sarah’s family.

‘As a matter of fact I had my lunch there today, and spent a glorious afternoon playing trains with George and Kate. Do you know,’ he said, leaning towards her a little, ‘for the first time I actually forgot my own pain for an hour or so, I got so absorbed with what we were doing.’

‘That’s good.’ She sounded as though it really was a source of pleasure to her that he had experienced that brief relief. ‘Is there anything else that helps?’

‘Yes – seeing my lovely 85-year-old mother. Tomorrow I shall be visiting her. And she always makes me feel comforted, even if she doesn’t always remember that Edie has died.’

He started to tell her of his concerns about his mother, living on her own, and her increasing frailty and forgetfulness.

‘The way your eyes are glowing when you talk about your mother,’ she said, ‘I can see you have a tremendous fondness for her. Did she bring you and your sister up entirely on her own?’

‘She did, and a marvellous job she made of it. She has always been the best mother in the world – amazingly strong, and caring. I really want to do the right thing by her now. Margaret’s pressing for her to go into a care home, but I know she would hate it. I go and see her as often as I can, and I’ll try and visit more frequently. I think I may give work up soon, or at least make it part time. She deserves to be cared for now – she’s done so much for us.’

‘You have a lot of concerns.’

‘I suppose no more than other people. I imagine you have a fair number too.’

‘Some,’ she agreed. ‘Look, I think I probably should get back now – I’m going to visit some friends myself tomorrow, and have a fair amount of driving to do.’

‘I’m grateful to you for rescuing me from a black hole this evening,’ he said. ‘I had been dreading it, and it was turning out to be a very deep black hole – but thanks to you the evening hasn’t been all bad.’

She smiled. ‘Perhaps the pub was more aptly named than we realised. Anyway, I’m glad if I’ve been able to help you, as that helps me too. Perhaps I can be of some use in the future if you feel the need of an ear to bend. I wonder if, perhaps, you would like to have my phone number? Just in case you should feel you want to speak to someone?’

‘Thank you, I should like that,’ he said, aware that initially his behaviour had been unfriendly.

She fished in her handbag for a scrap of paper and wrote her name – Angela – and the number. Then she passed it over to him.

‘You’ve actually been a bit of a godsend,’ he said, taking the paper and stuffing it into his jacket pocket. ‘The thing is, all I know is that you’re Angela. May I know your surname?’

‘It’s Gabriel,’ she replied. ‘And now I must fly.’

Marjorie stood at the window of the front room in her little house where she so often stood when she was expecting a visitor. It would be lovely to see Fraser drive up tomorrow – he was always so kind to her, and never told her what to do, which was more than you could say of Margaret. Her second name was bossy boots. Marjorie knew both her children worried about her, and that Margaret really only wanted to help her. She wished she was not a nuisance to them. One of the worst things about being so old was feeling you had become a burden to your children.

She found it hard that her memory let her down these days. She felt so ashamed that she had not remembered about Edie’s death. Poor Fraser, she did so hope he had not been too hurt by her blunder. She knew he would forgive her, as he always did, but even so she wished she had not said it.

Even when she was not expecting anyone Marjorie often stood at the window and watched the world go by. People knew her in the small village and would look to see if she was there, and wave. Those who knew her best would mouth the question ‘All right?’, and she would nod, and they would pass on by. It was a comforting feeling.

Suddenly she felt rather tired and went to sit down. It wasn’t just the world outside that was passing by – her personal world was doing so too. She was well aware that Margaret, and Fraser up to a point, wanted her to go into a home where she could be looked after. When they talked to her about it she would smile obligingly and nod, but she had no intention of doing so. She had lived in this cottage ever since her marriage, and she was determined she would stay there until they had to carry her out – preferably dead.

She loved both her children dearly, but knew in her heart of hearts that her favourite was Fraser. He was a good, kind man, and still, in a way, very vulnerable. She remembered him as a little boy, always happy, and busy, putting things together, or trying to make something, and wanting to help his mother. He was contented with simple pleasures – some materials from which he could make something, and a stick of barley sugar. Apart from the sweetness of it, the simple twisting design seemed to provide a pleasure of its own. And when things went wrong with what he was trying to do, as they inevitably did at times, he did not get into a temper. He raised those solemn brown eyes to her, with a look of pain and bewilderment which tore at her heart strings, silently beseeching her to make everything all right again.

Perhaps the worst sorrow she had to cope with was when he was only five years old, and she knew Allen was not coming back from the war. Her own suffering was one thing, but seeing her little son hurt by the knowledge was far, far worse. How could she explain it to him? All those books so patronisingly ready to dish out practical advice to new mothers were completely silent on the subject of death.

‘Why won’t Daddy come back?’ he had asked. ‘Doesn’t he like us any more?’

‘He loves us dearly,’ said Marjorie, ‘but he’s had to go and live in heaven. He didn’t want to leave us, but he couldn’t help it. Some bad people have stopped him coming back.’

‘Can’t we go to heaven and fetch him?’ pleaded Fraser, his little, anxious, uncomprehending face sending a knife through her.

‘We have to make Daddy very proud of us,’ said Marjorie. ‘You’ll be the man of the house now, and you’ll be able to help me look after baby Margaret.’

He had drawn a deep breath and puffed up his chest. ‘I’ll help you,’ he had said. And he did, as much as a little boy could. He never mentioned his Daddy again.

One of his favourite playthings was his meccano set. He started out with a basic box, and gradually she had added some extra parts. Sometimes he followed the illustrations, but at other times he created something of his own. He would produce a car, or a tractor, and his pride of possession when he was eight was a beautiful crane.

Ben, a classmate, came to play one afternoon. He did not have the same creative skills and watched in amazement as Fraser demonstrated how the crane worked, lifting small items on its hook. Ben kept trying to attach items that were too heavy and in danger of bending the tiny hook, but Fraser wouldn’t let him, explaining that the crane wasn’t designed for anything like that. Then, when Fraser left the room for a few moments, Ben picked up the crane, threw it on the floor, and stamped on it. Fraser couldn’t believe that his prized creation was now a tangled mass of bent metal. He brought it to Marjorie, saying sadly, ‘It won’t work now.’ Marjorie saw the bewilderment in his eyes, and the pain. She felt helpless to retrieve the situation. Fraser couldn’t grasp that anyone should want to spoil something so perfect – it was a side of life he had not come across before, and he never could understand it. The desire some people seemed to have to destroy what was good and beautiful was always beyond his comprehension.

Now Marjorie thought about her son and worried about him. Not only was he having to cope with the sudden loss of his wife, but she had things she had to tell him before it was too late. He was going to find it all so painful that she did not know if she could face it, but she had put it off far too long. She had turned over in her mind the prospect of going to her grave with her secret – but who would be left to give him any comfort? Margaret would support him – she was a fiercely loyal person, and very good-hearted – but she lacked any obvious warmth or gentleness. Fortunately Derek, her husband, seemed quite happy with her whatever her shortcomings. At any rate, their marriage had survived over the years.

But Fraser was different. He seemed blind at times. It never even occurred to him to question why Edie had stopped coming on the visits. It was lovely to have him to herself, and as far as she was concerned it was a blessing. When he rang to say he was coming she had always asked: ‘Will Edie come with you?’ But she knew what the answer would be, even if she did not know which excuse Edie would have provided on that particular occasion.

‘No,’ he’d say. ‘She’s got some shopping she must do,’ or, ‘She’s got a bit of a sore throat,’ or even ‘She’s gone to stay with her sister this weekend.’ Then she would have a lovely few hours with Fraser. He would do some jobs for her, changing light bulbs, weeding her tiny garden, or carrying any heavy items she wanted moved. Then they would have tea, and chat over all sorts of things, before he left, with his usual warm hug and cheerful wave. She longed to see him the next day – and yet, on this occasion, she dreaded it.

How much would he remember of those early days when they were a complete family? She had no idea, and in filling in the blanks she would be forced to stir up the sad memories, and bring him more pain.

The weariness was setting in. She lay back in her chair aware that sleep was coming. Sometimes sleep was a blessing, but sometimes a curse because it had a way of opening up the recesses of her mind and parading a kaleidoscope of memories before her.

The gloom of a November fog greeted Marjorie as she left the hospital about half past five that evening. She had been working at Charing Cross Hospital since seven o’clock in the morning, and had had only the briefest break for lunch. She should have left two hours earlier, but they were short-staffed, and she had been asked to stay on. In those days nursing was a tightly disciplined profession, with all the nurses terrified of Matron. The wards were run with regimental precision, and cleanliness and efficiency were the order of the day. Being asked to stay on after your normal shift had finished may have sounded like a request, but it was a brave nurse who refused.

The dark, cold evening felt distinctly unwelcoming as she started to ride her bicycle back to the tiny room she rented. There would, she remembered, be very little to eat. She had meant to do some shopping on the way home, but now it was too late – the shops would be shutting. Then she thought of that lovely little corner shop on Slopes Street with the grandiose name of Allan’s Alimentary Arcade. That was usually open a bit longer than the others. She could at least pick up something there.

There were still lights inside, and she pushed open the shop door, which ‘tinged’, alerting the man inside to the fact that he had a late customer. He came over with a smile. He was a young man, with dark, wavy hair, a slightly prominent nose, and the kindest eyes Marjorie thought she had ever seen. She began to apologise but he brushed it aside. He spoke with what she thought was an Eastern European accent.

‘I can see from your uniform that you are a nurse, a profession I admire very much. Please take your time to choose what you want – there is no rush. Have you been working at the hospital?’

‘Yes, she said, ‘at Charing Cross, and I had to stay on. I thought there would be plenty of time to get my shopping done on the way home, but now it’s rather late. Are you always open at this time?’

‘I am open until 6 pm, six days a week.’ He said. ‘I, too, believe in hard work. Can I help you in any way?’

‘I’ll have some eggs,’ she said. ‘They will be quick to cook.’ She thought about bacon – that would have been rather nice – but her nurse’s pay did not run to any luxuries. He put the eggs in a brown paper bag and waited for any further items. She bought some butter, which he weighed on to a piece of greaseproof paper, and wrapped, and a small loaf of bread. That would have to do.

‘This is with my compliments,’ he said, selecting four rashers of the best bacon, ‘and in gratitude for the work you do. Both my parents were nursed at Guy’s hospital before they died and I shall always be glad that they had such good care.’ She tried to protest, but he would not hear of it. ‘There is one more thing – I am trying a new brand of jam, and I am asking my customers for their opinion. There, it is in your bag, and I would be so pleased if you would call in and say if you thought it was good – when you have time, of course. Now I will carry your shopping outside for you.’ He held the shop door open for her, and placed the items in the basket on the front of her bicycle.