Keeping Secrets (43 page)

People hurried in and out of the shops, mothers and school children, buying sweets, and something for tea. Tony walked past newsagents, a supermarket, a butcher's and an estate agent's, an antique shop. He paused, here, looking up at the name, but he knew it was not what he was looking for. He went on, passing a greengrocer's, a florist, a chemist; he stopped at the zebra crossing and looked across the road, to where a row of converted Tudor red-brick houses stood set back from a broad pavement – they looked discreet, charming, the perfect place for a tasteful little shop. And it was there, with the solicitors, the bookshop and the bank: a black door with brass knob and letterbox, a mullioned window, a hand-painted sign along the top, in black and gold. He waited for the cars to stop and then he crossed over, quickly, suddenly nervous.

For a few moments he stood at the window, hung with greens and yellows. There was a small, polished oak table, standing to one side, bearing a glass jug of early daffodils; looking inside, he could see a long table with pattern books, stands of fabric samples, shelves of material in bolts and rolls. A woman with dark chestnut hair sat at a desk; she was talking on the telephone, making notes. There was no one else in the shop. He pushed open the door and went inside; a small bell rang.

The woman looked up and smiled, gesturing to him to look round. She was ordering fabric, checking delivery dates and prices in a low, rather pleasing voice which nonetheless had something of effort in it, as though she were not a natural talker. He watched her, covertly, lifting the pages of a pattern book on the table in front of him: the chestnut hair was threaded through with silver; she had a soft, freckled skin, a face which looked as if it had done a lot of crying and had always been massaged with expensive creams to try to cover that up. A woman probably older than he, certainly older than Alice, who had once been beautiful. He turned away, waiting for her to finish.

She put down the receiver and looked up, smiling again. ‘Can I help you?' She pushed back the chair and got up, coming towards him.

‘Miriam Knowles?'

‘Yes?'

‘I –' Tony looked down at her. For a moment he considered pretending: asking for samples, leaving quickly. Then he thought, looking at her again: But I want to get to know this woman, and he said, clearing his throat, ‘You don't know me, but …'

How many lives had been changed by that opening line? Her eyes showed a flicker of anxiety. He coughed, trying again.

‘It's all right, nothing's happened, I mean – no accidents or anything. My name's Tony Sinclair, I'm a solicitor from London, I've been up here giving a lecture in Norwich … Never mind. I have a sister-in-law, Hilda King, I think you know something of her …'

Miriam's eyes met his, serious, direct. There was a silence.

‘You mean … my husband knows her.'

‘Yes.'

The door of the shop was pushed open, the small bell sounded, and a woman came in, with a rush of cold air. Miriam looked quickly at her watch. ‘If you'll excuse me … I close in an hour. Perhaps you could come back?'

‘Of course.'

The bookshop had bare floorboards and a secondhand department. He spent nearly the whole hour browsing along the Norfolk and local history shelves, taking down old titles from Faber and Heinemann and little private presses, sniffing the faded pages. They smelt of dust and cellars; he read of parish councils, egg-collecting, pike-fishing, the tombs of knights in medieval churches; he dipped into an old edition of
Swallows and Amazons
and looked at pale photographs of seals, basking in a pre-war sun on the rocks at Blakeney. He almost lost himself in all this until he began to wonder why to be here felt so familiar, when he hardly ever had time these days to idle away in bookshops, once his greatest pleasure. He realised it reminded him of Hilda and Anya's house, the tottering piles of books on the landing, the overflowing shelves. Then he remembered what had brought him here. He looked at his watch: five-fifteen. He'd better buy something.

At the front of the shop the owner was tidying away bills and catalogues. Tony paid for a mildewed
Norfolk Notebook,
published in 1946: it was full of domestic detail – wartime rationing, duck ponds, orchards and fruit bottling – he thought that Alice would like it; then, as the bookseller slipped it into a paper bag, he felt unsure. Perhaps there were other things about her he had not understood.

It was dark when he went outside. He put the book in his pocket and paced about a bit in the cold; should he go back to Miriam's shop on the dot of half-past five or give her time to collect herself? He began to feel apprehensive again – he had not known what his motives were when he made this detour, and now he had met her he knew even less. But it was, now, something other than simple curiosity. He walked back to the shop, and saw that she had turned down most of the lights inside, leaving only the window brightly lit. Were they going to talk there? Shouldn't he take her somewhere?

He went up to the door: she had turned the sign to ‘Closed'. He tapped on the glass and, after a moment or two, the latch was lifted.

‘Come in.' In the subdued lighting he followed her into the shop again; they stood there awkwardly; she seemed on edge, and he didn't know where to start.

‘I was wondering – perhaps I could take you for a drink. There's a nice-looking pub across the road.'

She shook her head. ‘I don't drink. At least …' She waved her hands. ‘I'm not very good in pubs.'

‘Okay. Well …' It was much too early to suggest a meal, and anyway that didn't feel right. ‘Is there a coffee place or something?'

‘Not really. There's a tea rooms, but they're closed now.'

‘Oh.' He looked down at her, and smiled, as ifit were funny, which it almost was. ‘What do you suggest?'

‘I'm not sure.' She ran a hand over her hair in an uncertain gesture that reminded him suddenly of Alice. Alice would be expecting him home in an hour or two; so would the girls.

‘Perhaps we could talk here?'

‘I'm not sure if I want to talk.' She turned away, and went to her desk; she stood there holding the back of the chair, looking down at order books, and snippets of fabric. ‘Why have you come?'

‘I – I don't know,' he said. ‘I'm sorry, it must feel like a monstrous intrusion.'

‘Is there something you wanted to tell me? Something you think I should know?' She was still not looking at him. ‘When people feel you should know something it's usually rather unpleasant. I think I've had enough unpleasantness for a while.'

‘Yes.' He hesitated. ‘I can imagine. But it's nothing like that.'

‘Then why … I don't understand.'

‘No. Neither do I.' He was standing next to the long table; he fiddled with the cover of a pattern book. ‘This is a very pretty shop.'

She did not answer.

‘I was up here anyway,' he said. ‘It seemed a strange coincidence, and because … because I feel rather unsettled, I suppose, I thought I'd follow it up. That's all. But I know it wasn't a good idea. You've had enough, haven't you? You don't want …' He tried to lighten it, to let them both off the hook. ‘You don't want stray brothers-in-law appearing out of the blue.'

‘Not really.' She pulled out her chair and sat down suddenly at the desk, shaking her head. ‘Dear God.'

‘I'm going.' Tony snapped shut the book. ‘You must forgive me – I'm really very sorry.'

‘It's all right. It doesn't matter.' He had crossed the room, and his hand was on the latch when she said: ‘Why are you unsettled?'

He stopped. ‘It's just – something that happened. Nothing I can talk about.'

‘Then we're in rather the same boat.' She turned round in her chair. ‘Aren't we?'

‘Not exactly. At least …'

‘At least you hope not.' She gave a wry smile. They looked at each other, and his hand dropped from the latch. ‘Would you like to come and have supper with me?' she asked. ‘I feel suddenly reckless.'

He smiled. ‘That would be very nice.'

‘Good.' She stood up, picking up her keys.

‘Where would you like to go?'

‘Home.' She reached up to a peg for her jacket and bag.

‘But –'

‘It's empty,' she said, pulling her jacket on. ‘It's been empty for years.' She came over and switched off the last spotlight; now there was only the window, shining out into the street. ‘Where are you parked?'

It was raining again when they drove out of the town, Miriam in front, leading the way, checking her mirror after the traffic lights. He followed her with the other end-of-the-day traffic, gathering speed on the long straight road, leaving the green and the rows of terraced cottages behind. A quarter-mile or less and there were no more street lamps, just the lights of distant houses, blurred by the rain. They drove on through the wet darkness, keeping close. Other cars turned off, to other places; they went on for perhaps four or five miles; she indicated right and he saw a sign to Saxham, 1 1/2 miles. This road was tree-lined, narrower, little more than a lane; it needed resurfacing and the car sent up sprays of water – he slowed down, as she had, seeing a cluster of houses ahead, and a pub sign, swinging in the wind, much stronger now, reminding him of the January storms. They drove through the village and she indicated right again, slowing right down. And now they turned into an unmade lane, and the car began to bump. A few minutes later she drew up, outside an unlit house, low, set well back behind a garden hedge; he saw her open her door and run through the rain to unlatch double gates to a garage path.

He got out quickly.

‘I'll do that.'

‘Don't be silly, I do it all the time. We have to keep them shut because of the dog.' She lifted the hook and started to push them back. ‘No point in both of us getting wet.'

But he took the right-hand gate and swung it into the hedge; they ran to their cars and he followed her in, parking on the path as she drove into the garage and switched her lights off. He switched off his own and everything went pitch black; rain drummed on the roof. What a place to come back to by yourself. An outside light on the roof came on; he got out and she came quickly from the garage. It was pouring down.

‘Leave the gates, Tess is indoors anyway. Come on.' She was running across to the house, her feet splashing on the path. There was a tiled porch; they stood beneath it as the rain swept across the garden, and she fumbled with her key ring. ‘Sorry – there. Come in, please.' She pushed open the studded door, switched on the hall lights and turned to Tony. ‘Let me take your coat.'

‘Thanks.' He took it off and watched her hang it, with her jacket, among all the other things on the rack by the door. There were several pairs of shoes underneath, and football boots, and a mildewed mirror, where he could see her face, which seemed, now they had got here, to be studiedly turned away; her hair was very wet, and she combed it, quickly, as if embarrassed. There was a sound from across the hall, and he looked round to see a large yellow dog come padding out from a passageway; she thumped a heavy tail against the side of the stand, lifting her head to be patted.

‘This is Tess, she's hungry,' said Miriam, bending down to kiss her. ‘Poor girl, come on, let's give you something to eat. And you'd better go out.'

He noticed a telephone on a chest at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Miriam? Do you mind – I have to make a phone call.'

‘Of course. I'll be in the kitchen.' She gestured towards the passage beyond the stairs, leading to the back of the house, and went without looking at him. He picked up the telephone and dialled; he told Alice the truth about the weather and a lie about where he was. Then he went slowly through the hall and down the stone-flagged passage to the warmth of the kitchen, where Miriam was busying herself with saucepans and preparations.

‘Would you like a drink?'

‘No, thanks.'

‘Sure?' She was rummaging in the fridge, taking out eggs, and a china bowl; she put them down on the table. ‘There's beer in the fridge. Or would you like a glass of wine?'

‘I really won't, thanks. Not if you don't drink.'

‘Well …' He saw that her hands were trembling as she undid the egg box. ‘I used to. I gave up last month, my new year's resolution.' She said it as if it were nothing, but he realised that it wasn't. ‘I've felt much better for it, but I must say that just at the moment … God, I could do with one.'

She gave a little laugh; it reminded him of Hilda, who had laughed when she wondered if Stephen and his wife were going to get back together again. Hilda, and Alice and the children, and everyone he knew, seemed to belong in another country just at the moment. He pulled out a chair and sat down.

‘Do you smoke? Would that help?'

‘No, no, I don't. The only person who smokes here is my son's girlfriend. She smokes like a chimney.' She turned away, pouring soup from the china bowl into a saucepan; she set it on the Rayburn.

‘Can I do anything?'

‘No, thanks. I'm just doing this and omelettes, is that all right?'

‘Fine. Lovely.'

There was a silence; she went to the garden doors and let the wet dog in, and gave her a bowl of meat and biscuits.

‘Your son – he's, er – he's where, at the moment?' He felt at sea, wanting to anchor himself.

‘With the girlfriend. He shouldn't be, it's the middle of the week, he should be here, studying.' She was cracking eggs, beating them, putting rolls in the oven. ‘But we – I – let him stay the night there if he wants, just for the moment. Things have been … It's not exactly Happy Families here these days. Well … it hasn't been for a long time. As you know, presumably.' She put rush mats, china and cutlery on the bare table. ‘What about you?' For the first time since they arrived, she looked at him, and then away. ‘Are you happy?'