Is There Anything You Want? (26 page)

He couldn't decide. The last thing he wanted was a scene, and if Ida had been compelled to come running to this new vicar then she would likely have been in a state. Irresolute, he stood in front
of the door, and then began pacing about, up and down the driveway. Given enough time, Ida would come out. All he had to do was have patience, wait for her calmly. He decided to do this just outside the gate. There was a low wall and he could sit on it quite comfortably. He'd hear Ida's feet on the gravel path before she got to the gate, and he'd be ready. It would be perfectly acceptable for him to say he had just come to look for her.

Martin settled himself on the wall and prepared to wait, but hardly had he done so than a car, coming from the opposite direction to his route home, shone its headlights on him and stopped abruptly. He put up his arm to shield his eyes from the glare, wondering why the devil any motorist was doing this. He imagined it must be someone lost to whom he would have to give directions. But then he heard a voice he recognised saying, ‘Martin! What are you doing there? Get in.' He hesitated – how could he possibly explain to Mrs Hibbert why he was here and that he didn't want a lift – but then he heard her say, ‘Ida, lean over and open the door for him. I think it's locked on that side.' ‘Ida?' Martin said, ‘Ida?' and he peered into the car. Ida was staring straight ahead. She was sitting in the back, ignoring him. He tried the back door, which was after all open and not locked, and got in. Mrs Hibbert started the car at once, barely giving him time to close the door. He was quite unable to speak. Several times he cleared his throat but could form no words. It was a very short ride to his house. Pulling up outside it, but not switching off the engine, Mrs Hibbert said, ‘There. Safely home. I hope you both have a good night.' Ida got out, he got out. He said thank you, but Ida walked off up the path without a word. Mrs Hibbert drove off immediately.

He felt shaken and bewildered, and followed Ida like an obedient dog. Only a couple of hours ago he had been confident about how he was going to act and now he didn't know what to do or say. Ida went straight into the kitchen, snapped the light on, pulled the window blind down and took some sausages and the cooked potatoes out of the fridge. ‘Two, or three?' she asked. ‘What?' he said. ‘Two, or three?' He saw she meant the sausages. She was dangling a string of them and cutting them off one at a time. ‘Not yet,' he said. His voice sounded reassuringly strong, even authoritative.
Swiftly, he strode forward and removed the sausages and turned Ida around. ‘Into the living-room first,' he said. ‘Food can wait.' There was no resistance. He propelled Ida through to the other room and half pushed her on to the settee, where he sat down beside her and put his arm round her shoulders. ‘Now, Ida, love,' he said gently, ‘what is all this about, where were you, what's been going on? You must have left the house hours ago, what happened, eh?' She had her eyes closed, but she wasn't weeping nor did she seem angry. Encouraged, he gave her shoulders a squeeze. She didn't react at all. ‘Ida,' he said, ‘how come you were with Mrs Hibbert? How did that come about?'

Her voice was croaky and thick. ‘I went out,' she said. ‘I wanted to get away. I walked. I was just resting when she passed and stopped and asked if I wanted a lift. I was tired, so I said yes.' The reply was so simple and direct, and delivered in a tone so unlike his wife's usual one, that at first it seemed both sensible and adequate, but then as they both went on sitting there, Martin decided it begged all sorts of other questions. ‘Why did you want to get away, love?' he said, quietly. ‘What was wrong with being here, in your own home?' ‘It was hot,' said Ida, ‘it was hot inside, I thought it would be cool outside. I thought it would be cool, and do me good to walk.' Listening to her, the phrase ‘not right in the head' popped into Martin's mind, even though nothing she'd said was mad or nonsensical. He was horrified with himself – Ida was no loony, no nutter. This was just an aberration, an impulse, totally out of character, but there was no need to make anything of it or to be alarmed. A cup of tea would . . . and then he caught himself, seeing that he was doing what he always did, pretending everything was fine, whereas he'd promised himself to be brave instead and conquer his own reluctance to admit things were very far from all right and that cups of tea would solve nothing. Ida wanted something else.

They both sat there a long time. Martin moved his arm from Ida's shoulders and found her hand and held it. Eventually, she started to cry, not noisily, but simply letting the tears slide down her cheeks. He let her cry, not wanting to disturb her by getting up to find something to wipe the tears away. The two of them seemed bound together in a way they hadn't been for years –
he didn't want to spoil the feeling by saying the wrong thing. ‘Well, Ida,' he said at last, ‘what a pair we are. We both wanted to get away today. I went for a bike ride, don't know why, the bike led itself. I was thinking back to how things used to be.' Ida gave a little groan. ‘No good harking back, eh? I know.' He patted her hand. She let him. ‘What can I do, Ida, to help?' She got up. ‘There's nothing you can do,' she said. ‘Nothing anyone can do, it's just me. I have to get on with it, that's all.' She walked back into the kitchen. It seemed pointless now to stop her. He heard the sausages sizzling in the pan. ‘Two, or three?' she called. ‘Three,' he called back.

DROPPING IDA AND
Martin off at their home, Mrs Hibbert had felt curiosity rage over her like a rash – she could hardly sit still for wanting to scratch the subject of what was going on between the Yateses. It was maddening not to know, but she resisted the temptation to telephone and inquire after them. She would have to wait until Martin next came to garden and then, if she could get him to sit down and have a cup of tea, the answer to this conundrum might emerge. It might, of course, be that Ida was ill again.

By the time Thursday arrived, Mrs Hibbert, stationed as usual in the entrance hall of St Mary's, was eager to see if she could spot Ida. She didn't. Ida definitely hadn't come to the clinic, not that this proved anything. (Or did it? She wasn't sure.) But she saw Sarah Nicholson and that man of hers, drooling over her. Something was going on there, because Sarah had been to the clinic not that long ago. This time, there seemed no harm in giving way to curiosity. The following week, when she took Dot shopping (she picked her up at the end of the road now, since the disgraceful incident with Adam) she asked how Sarah was. Dot sighed and said she didn't know, there had been some sort of health problem but she didn't know what it was, because Adam wouldn't let her ring up. Sarah's young man (Dot always referred to him as ‘young', though he was not) had phoned the week before, which was unheard of, to say Sarah wasn't so well and wouldn't be visiting, but that was all he'd said. ‘I'm worried,'
Dot said. ‘You're always worried,' Mrs Hibbert said, more sharply than she'd intended, so she hastily added, ‘and with cause. It's ridiculous that you can't phone your own daughter whenever you want, absolutely ridiculous. And as for all the performance you go through if Sarah does condescend to visit once in a blue moon – well, really.'

Mrs Hibbert knew all about Adam's banning of his daughter from the house and his instructions to Dot never to visit her. When Sarah did turn up, she knew not to ring the front door bell, but to go round the back of the house and tap on the scullery window at two o'clock in the afternoon on a Monday. This was when Adam apparently could be depended upon to be asleep, because it was the only day he left the house, to be taken in the community bus to have his feet done. He returned exhausted and slept after lunch. Monday after Monday Dot hung about hopefully in her scullery, and Monday after Monday she was invariably disappointed. When Sarah did come, she was let in by the back door and spent an uneasy half-hour in the cramped space, whispering with her mother. It was all so outrageous it drove Mrs Hibbert mad – she declared Shakespeare himself could not have thought up a more complicated plot. In this day and age, to have a father cutting off his daughter merely because she was living with a married man was absurd, and for Dot to allow him to do this, and be reduced to such furtiveness, was almost as bad.

Dropping Dot off that day after shopping, Mrs Hibbert decided it was permissible for her to get in touch with Sarah Nicholson. After all, she reasoned, she only had Dot's welfare in mind, and Sarah might not know how very concerned and confused her mother was. Besides, she knew the girl well enough, surely. In the days when Sarah had been trying to make a living as an artist, painting local views, Mrs Hibbert had bought one of these water-colours for £25. She hadn't particularly liked it, but she'd wanted to support Sarah (mainly to annoy Adam), and there were plenty of places in her house where it could hang unseen. Sarah had been grateful, and ever since they had had a perfectly satisfactory nodding acquaintance. Once she'd seen Sarah go to the clinic, of course, she'd
taken a keen interest in her welfare, though she'd quickly come to the unavoidable conclusion that the girl was a hypochondriac. She wouldn't have been able to explain how she knew, but she was sure she could spot them.

So, that same evening, Mrs Hibbert rang Sarah. She took care to make her voice light and friendly, with no hint of reproach in it, when she described how worried Dot was. In fact, she felt afterwards that perhaps she'd rather underplayed Dot's anxiety – ‘You know what she's like, Sarah, fretting about nothing most of the time.' Not quite fair, that. ‘Maybe you could just pop round on Monday, to reassure your mother,' Mrs Hibbert suggested. There had been rather a long silence before Sarah had grudgingly said that she would try, but Monday afternoon was no longer her afternoon off and she'd had so much leave of absence through being ill that she didn't dare take more, so it might be difficult to manage. ‘I see,' Mrs Hibbert said, who didn't like what she saw at all. ‘I'm sorry you've been ill. Are you better now?' Sarah said no, she wasn't, really. She said the doctor was concerned about her, and that she was obliged to go backward and forward to the clinic at St Mary's for frequent check-ups. Mrs Hibbert wanted to tell Sarah to pull herself together and stop being melodramatic, but she didn't. ‘Do try to visit your mother,' she said instead. When she put the phone down, she felt quite pleased with herself: that call couldn't possibly be classified as interfering.

But in Sarah's opinion, it most certainly was. Nevertheless, she went to visit her mother the following Monday. Slowly, she walked past the six steep stone steps at the front of her parents' house and round the side to the back. She didn't have a key for either of the house doors now. Her mother had wanted her to have them, but she'd refused, saying she would only lose them. She didn't want anything to do with this house, that was the point. She'd finished with it. Big breath, before she rounded the corner of the wall. Her mother wasn't at the scullery window, thank God – it was always too much to bear, the sight of her face, dim through the dirt-smeared window. Gently, she tapped on the window and then without waiting opened the door, taking care not to let it squeak. She looked at her watch: a minute past
two. It occurred to her that if she waited five minutes and her mother still had not appeared then she could justifiably leave a note saying she'd been and had been afraid to venture further into the house in case her father heard her and made trouble. But even as she was thinking this, knowing it was not justifiable but that nevertheless she would do it, she heard the closing of a door overhead and the pitter-patter of her mother's feet as she scurried lightly down the corridor. Sarah leaned back against the stone sink and braced herself.

When her mother came in, her expression one of alarm rather than delight, Sarah smiled, but not too much – a tentative smile, a smile meant to indicate that she was frail and must be handled carefully. She watched without moving as her mother put her hand to her mouth and gave a squeak of astonishment and then she bent down as her mother tripped towards her, arms outstretched, and embraced her in the usual awkward fashion. She gave her a light kiss on her cheek, barely touching it, her lips fluttering uneasily over the lined skin. ‘Well!' her mother said. ‘What a surprise!' She was whispering. ‘We don't need to whisper, Mum, do we?' said Sarah, irritated already. ‘Not down here?' ‘No,' her mother said, but her voice still barely above a whisper, ‘and he's got his hearing aid out, he's asleep too, sound asleep, that's why I wasn't here at exactly two o'clock, he wanted his hearing aid out and another cushion for his head, and then he fell asleep straight away.' ‘So we needn't stay here?' Sarah said. ‘We can go upstairs, somewhere more comfortable?' It was a test, and her mother hardly passed it. A look of agonised indecision came over her face before she managed to nod and say, ‘But don't make a sound on the way up.'

Her mother led her along the corridor and then up the short flight of uncarpeted stairs to the next floor, past the kitchen, past the living-room, and into the parlour. It was still called the parlour, always, a room Sarah hated as much as its name, an awful room, hardly used at all and furnished with the heavy mahogany pieces inherited from Adam's mother. The gigantic sideboard was full of her china, and the lace mats along its surface had been crocheted by her. The air was horribly stuffy, with no window having been opened literally for years, but
there was no dust anywhere. Every week, Dot polished the sideboard and the china cabinet – a delicate operation, what with trying to keep the polish off the glass – and the huge tallboy in the corner. They gleamed, and stank of the beeswax she used. There were only two chairs in here, both ugly, late Victorian club chairs whose seats had embroidered tapestry stretched across and pinned down with brass pins. Her mother perched on one, but Sarah went to the window, drawing slightly aside the thick, dark maroon velvet curtains to let in a little more light. There was another layer of curtaining behind the velvet, of lace, rather beautiful heavy lace with a pattern of peacocks in the threads.