Women of a Dangerous Age (23 page)

‘Don't be. I'm immune.' Ali brightened. ‘And who knows, things could still change for me.'

Lou tried to interrupt, to ask her about Don, but Ali refused to take the bait. ‘We're not talking about me. I need to know more about Sanjeev, too. Has he broken down your defences yet?'

They had not talked properly since the oysters and their aftermath.

‘You make me sound like a crusaders' castle.' Lou swigged the last of her coffee. ‘But before you ask any more, there's not much to tell. Don't look so sceptical. I won't be seeing him until he's next in town, and that may not be for weeks. I enjoyed being with him, and … yes, if you must know, we did.'

‘Result!' Ali clapped her hands. ‘I knew that smile on your face said something.'

‘Despite everything,' Lou continued, pulling a face as she remembered herself vomiting on the doormat. ‘But I haven't changed my mind. I still don't want full-on commitment.' She hadn't foreseen how hard it would be to detach herself emotionally from Hooker. However badly he behaved and however hard she fought it, theirs was still unfinished business, particularly since Nic had taken her stand.

‘Don't knock it. You just haven't got the
right
relationship yet. Then it'll all change.'

Lou shook her head, wishing she'd worn Ali's more discreet stud bee earrings as her Indian hoops tugged at her lobes. ‘It won't. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt. Exciting, orgasm-inducing, no-strings affairs – bring ‘em on. That's where I am and that's as far as I'm going.' She was already promising herself that from now on she would devote herself one hundred per cent to drumming up more custom for the shop.

Ali pulled a face. ‘Well, I'm meeting a couple this afternoon who want an anniversary ring made. So fingers crossed my luck's on the turn.' She stood up and put on the fitted dogtooth blazer that Lou had insisted she bought because, on her shoulders, it was a great advertisement for the business, and grabbed her coat.

Left alone at last, Lou set about tackling her backlog of orders. To the continuing mellowed-out tones of Ella Fitzgerald and the whirr of the machine, she began to sew. Watching the sprigged primrose cotton as she guided it under the needle, she couldn't help but notice her hands: workmanlike and square nailed with several small but definite age spots. She stopped the machine and ran a
finger over her left one so the loose skin gathered near her knuckles, the wrinkles momentarily smoothed out. She stroked the scar on her thumb where she'd sliced it when trying to open a wine box that was on its last dregs, then returned her attention to the blouse, this time trying to focus on her work. But then the Saturday after-lunchers provided a steady stream of distractions. By the end of the afternoon, she had managed to sell a fifties polished floral cotton skirt with one of her own full-net petticoats, a mock-croc handbag and one of Ali's bee necklaces, and to take orders for a custom-made dress and a jacket. Flushed with success, she finally pulled down the shutters and got out the vacuum cleaner so the place would be ready for the morning. She was busy straightening the stock when her mobile rang. She recognised the number.

‘Lou? Hooker here.'

As if she didn't know. She walked behind the counter and sat down.

‘Who answered your phone the other day? He said you were ill.'

He obviously hadn't liked that, she thought, pleased but non-committal. ‘Just a friend.'

‘A friend? Already?' He sounded quite taken aback. ‘Are you all right?'

‘Hooker! Why have you called?' She was impatient to get this over and wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of answering.

‘How was Nic?'

A bit of her was surprised that he hadn't called her sooner to talk about their daughter's reaction to Rory's existence.

‘You know she's still not speaking to me?'

‘It'll blow over. You know Nic. Give her time.'

He sighed. ‘Couldn't you tell her I'm sorry?'

Sorry? This wasn't a word that existed in Hooker's vocabulary in her experience, but she could hear how hurt he was. But be a go-between again? No way. ‘I think you'll have to tell her yourself.'

‘How can I? She's avoiding me. Lou, please!'

She knew what it was to be at the receiving end of Nic's displeasure. Despite herself, she felt a tug of sympathy. He might have brought his daughter's anger on himself but Lou had to shoulder some of the blame. Without her interference, they'd all have continued in happy ignorance. Would that have been better? Reluctantly, she conceded. ‘I'll try. But no promises.'

He had to be satisfied with that.

‘You got on all right with Rory?' The pride in his voice made Lou want to say ‘No' just for the hell of it but that wouldn't be fair on Rory. Nor would it be true.

‘He's a credit to you, Hooker.' She hoped that he would detect the irony in her compliment.

But no. He was rushing on. ‘Thing is, Lou, I've unexpectedly got to go to the office on Tuesday. Something I can't get out of.'

So this was why he had called. She waited, knowing what was coming. Despite their separation, despite Emma, he still relied on her support. She fumed with resentment. He paused for a second, giving her the chance to step in with an offer of childcare. She said nothing.

‘Ah. Well, I was wondering … that is, Rory … I would have asked Nic but now … Well, I thought …'

Stand firm, she told herself, pleased to hear his struggle to justify his request. ‘The answer's no, I'm afraid. I have to be here.'

‘But you weren't there this morning,' he protested. ‘And Jamie mentioned you took the day off on Thursday.'

‘And that's precisely why I can't take another day. I'm sorry.' She ordered the pins she'd been using in a neat line on the table in front of her.

‘Couldn't you just shut shop for the day?' He sounded as though nothing could be more reasonable.

‘This is my business, Hooker. It's not a game. I only took this morning off because Nic needed me there.' That's right, remind him. ‘And because I needed to meet Rory.' She emphasised every syllable. ‘I've got too much on to do it again. I'm sorry.' She stuck a pin upright into the wood with a little jab.

His breathing deepened: the sure sign of impending rage. She gripped the phone more tightly, ready for battle, jabbed in another pin.

‘It's only a shop,' he began. ‘You're the last person I'd expect to put that before a child's well-being. If you won't, I'll have to leave him home alone.' Years of living with her had taught him just which buttons to press.

‘Can't one of the boys step in?' Immediately she knew her tone had given away that she was caving in despite herself.

And in he sprang. ‘No, they're working.'

‘Unlike me,' she snapped, her resolve stiffening again as she marshalled her thoughts. ‘Can't you take him into your office? Hasn't he got a Nintendo DS or whatever they're called? A book? He'll be fine.'

‘All day?' His temper was only just under control. ‘Even I know that won't work. I've got clients flying in for a meeting that will take most of it, plus lunch. I won't be able to see him at all and I can't expect Sally to double up on childcare. After all, you're the one who insisted he came to stay.'

‘Why not? If you can ask me, why not her? And why not Emma?' She would not offer to help him.

‘Because she's at work.' The repeated inference that she was not made her boil.

‘If you'd come clean years ago, then we wouldn't be in this position at all.' Lou could hear his breathing at the other end of the phone.

‘Why can't he come to the shop?' Hooker would counter whatever objection she made until she was worn down. She considered arguing back but thought of Rory. This wasn't his fault, poor kid. She didn't like the idea of any child being left to his own devices for a day. Surely she could find enough ways of entertaining him.

‘All right then,' she agreed but with little grace. ‘Drop him off at ten and you can collect him before I shut at seven.'

‘Thanks, Lou. I knew I could rely on you.' Honey was never sweeter. ‘I'll do my best. Time we had another drink so that I can say thank you properly.'

‘No need.' Another pin in place. Definitely time to cut this conversation short.

‘I haven't forgotten the last time. I do miss you, you know.'

‘Hooker, stop.' She remembered Emma on the stairs, her things in Lou's old bedroom.

She cut him off abruptly, angry with herself for giving in to him again, but delighted that at least Sanjeev's existence had registered on his radar.

The great joys of driving north late at night were empty roads and the knowledge that there would be little time for small talk when they arrived. Eric liked to be tucked up on the stroke of eleven. Not even the arrival of his daughter and the first, indeed only, boyfriend he'd been allowed to meet would get in the way of his habit.

Ali had left work at seven, having begun some designs for the anniversary ring. After two years of marriage, the husband was giving his wife a mixed diamond ring. The challenge of creating a setting that would allow the brilliance of the different shades of champagne, olive, mink and gold to be shown off was what Ali loved. The success of the meeting had given her an energy that propelled her home in time for the journey that she still worried might not be the best idea.

Don had insisted on driving so, in theory, all Ali had to do was sit back and relax. However, she couldn't help the intake of breath whenever she thought they were in danger of hitting something or when Don was driving too fast or too slow or too close to the kerb.

‘Ali! Will you calm down,' he eventually demanded. ‘I've been driving for years and have a completely clean licence. You're quite safe.'

‘Sorry, it's just that I—'

‘I know. You're used to being the one in the driving seat. Well, not tonight.' He laid a hand on her thigh. ‘You've got me now.'

She felt heady with excitement, with anticipation for their future together although she still baulked at the idea of giving up her habitual control, even to him. On the other hand, she loved being loved. Being in charge was one thing but, more recently, even when Hooker was on the scene, she had felt lonely too and that wasn't what she wanted for the rest of her life. Now she had found him again, Don was someone who she didn't want to lose.

She turned and studied his profile sporadically illuminated by the lights of the oncoming traffic: short thick grey hair, long nose, face still lean. He felt her watching him, turned his head briefly and smiled. ‘Let's have some music.'

They listened as they covered miles of the M1. They didn't need to fill every silence between them with talk.

As they neared their destination, Ali felt a growing undertow of anxiety. The purpose of the trip loomed large as she worried about what Don was going to say. For all his memories, he didn't know Eric at all. Suppose he shattered the fragile peace that existed between her father and her. She interrupted his slightly off-key humming.

‘I'm not sure you should talk to Dad about my mum,
you know. He's looking forward to seeing you, so I don't want you to spoil things. Perhaps leave it till next time.'

The humming stopped, though his hand kept up the beat on the steering wheel. ‘I know what I'm doing, Al. You've got to trust me and then you'll be able to put this to rest once and for all.'

‘I'm not sure.' The final chords swept around them.

‘Be sure. Please.' He reached out and upped the volume, signalling an end to the conversation. ‘I won't say anything about her without you being there.'

Ali stared out of the window into the dark, aware only of the motorway signs that flashed in and out of the periphery of her vision. If this relationship was to work, then she had to trust him, but giving herself up completely was a whole lot harder than she'd envisaged. Remember, she told herself for the umpteenth time, Don is only doing this for you and you do want to know where your mother went.

They arrived just after eleven. Her father greeted them, tapping Sergeant with his stick to stop the terrier's throaty growl, exclaiming over how well Don looked, asking about his work, offering them a nightcap. Ali coughed as the cheap blended whisky burned the back of her throat.

‘Never good with whisky.' Eric raised an eyebrow at Don, signalling Ali's exclusion from their shared world of masculine pleasures. Ali bit back a retort. Within minutes, he was obviously itching to excuse himself and get to bed.

‘Let's talk in the morning, Eric,' said Don. ‘It's late now, and we'll have plenty of time then.'

Clearly relieved to be given the all-clear, Eric said his goodnights and disappeared upstairs, having allowed Sergeant a brief tour of the jungle that passed for the back garden before he accompanied his master to bed. By the time Ali and Don went up, Eric's door was shut, a sliver of light coming from under the door. At the top of the stairs, Ali automatically turned towards her bedroom, then stopped. Her tiny single bed wouldn't hold two. ‘There's plenty of room between you and the ceiling,' went the old college joke, but that wasn't the solution when her father was only a paper-thin wall away. Neither she nor Eric had mentioned the sleeping arrangements. Feeling like a rebellious teenager, deliberately flouting parental rules, she took Don's hand and led him to the spare room at the back of the house. The musty smell reminded her of the sitting room downstairs while the central light cast an unwelcoming glare over proceedings. She pulled back the balding pink candlewick bedspread. At least the bed was made up. She saw Don eyeing the faded print of West's
Death of General Wolfe
on the wall opposite the bed.

He limited himself to ‘Mmm. Nice,' before unpacking his sponge bag and tiptoeing to the bathroom, leaving Ali to gaze at the dying general.

In the chilly, unwelcoming atmosphere of the little-used room, the night was not one that they would remember for its romance.

Eric stomped downstairs in the morning, muttering
something about having been kept awake by their ‘comings and goings' but no more was said. After breakfast, he invited Don to join him and Sergeant on their morning ‘trot along the towpath'.

They departed together, leaving Ali to worry about what might be said in her absence. When they returned, they were chatting easily about the Premier Division and the merits of a new player just signed to Liverpool. Once he had a cup of coffee and a couple of plain digestives in his hand, Eric excused himself almost immediately. Something about a battle plan he had to effect. ‘I'll be back down for opening time. You'll remember the Swan, Don?'

‘Actually, Dad, I brought some food with me. A roast. Remember?' She tried to sound encouraging. ‘I thought it would be nicer to eat here.'

Put out by this change of plan, Eric hesitated, looking towards Don for support.

‘Why don't we go for a pint first?' Don suggested. ‘Get out of Ali's hair. Then come back for lunch?'

‘Strategic thinking,' barked Eric, approving. ‘I like that.'

Compromise, thought Ali, relieved that disagreement had been averted. I like that.

By the time the two men left, Sergeant at Eric's heel, Don and Ali had almost finished off clearing the attic. Don moved the heavier items to be thrown away under Eric's supervision. Ali had also retrieved a pile of clothes that she remembered Lou hovering over on her last visit. Nothing special – at least she thought not – but all in reasonably good nick. With Eric's approval, she would
take them to the shop. As far as she was concerned now, they were merely shadows of her mother and grandmother and, if left languishing in a trunk, were no use to anyone. Better to find them new homes where they might be given a new lease of life. With the joint in the oven, Ali enjoyed the next hour or so on her own, listening to the radio, pottering in the kitchen as she prepared the rest of the lunch, making sure she washed up as she went along so everything was in perfect order when they got back. Just as Eric liked it.

Eventually, they sat down together at one thirty sharp, Eric glancing at his watch before dispatching Sergeant to his ‘barracks!', pointing at a cushioned wicker basket in a corner of the dining room. On the wall, the dragoons of Stubbs's Tenth Regiment stared unblinking over their heads.

‘Wine!' he remarked, picking up the bottle of Beaujolais Don had chosen to warm up the old boy for the kill. ‘Thought you were driving.'

‘But you're not,' pointed out Don. ‘And I know Ali would like a glass.' He did the honours.

Damn right, she would. Anything to dissipate the knot in her stomach. Eric sharpened the carving knife on the steel, the sound returning Ali to the many childhood lunches they'd had at this table, before she and her father were left to fend for themselves. Then they had usually sat in silence, plates of ready-made supermarket meals on knees in front of the TV. She dutifully dished out the vegetables as he passed one plate of roast beef to her after another, doing exactly as her mother had done before her. Don kept the
conversation going through the meal, drawing Eric out, asking about his army background, his teaching work at the local school, about his military research and soldiering upstairs. Ali sat back, enjoying watching her father warm to Don all over again, trying to be more interested in his replies.

By the time they had finished the treacle tart and custard, her father's favourite, Eric was the most relaxed Ali had seen him for years, primed and ready. For a moment, she saw him in a new light, no longer the authoritarian figure of her memory but an increasingly vulnerable old man who was quite unprepared for what was coming. She felt unexpectedly sympathetic. Shouldn't they leave his version of past events untouched if that's what got him by? Did it matter if she didn't know the whole truth? Wasn't ignorance supposed to be bliss? Plagued with sudden doubt, she kicked at Don under the table, trying to signal her change of heart. He smiled at her, mistaking her message for something more affectionate.

‘The thing is, Eric …' he began.

Ali kicked harder but he had moved his leg out of reach. ‘Can we have a word?' she asked, pushing back her chair and half standing. But he apparently didn't hear – or didn't want to. She stood frozen, part of her wanting to shut him up but the other part desperate for him to continue. She wanted and didn't want to hear what Eric had to say.

‘There's a reason behind our visit. We want to ask you something.'

‘Marriage?' barked Eric, beaming. ‘Of course, old boy. Decent of you to ask.' He held out his hand for Don to shake.

‘No, not marriage, Dad,' said Ali quickly, her stomach somersaulting wildly as she sat down again.

‘No?' He pulled back his hand and reached for his glass. ‘What then?'

‘Ali's happiness,' said Don, recovering quickly.

Eric looked puzzled as he swallowed loudly. He drummed the fingers of his free hand on the faded checked oilcloth that had been brought out for best for as long as Ali could remember.

‘There's no easy way of putting this, Eric, but I won't keep you in suspense.'

Eric's fingers beat a second drum roll as he held Don's gaze, challenging him to continue. Ali's stomach somersaulted again as she concentrated on making patterns with her spoon in the remaining crumbs and custard on her plate, wishing and not wishing that this conversation wasn't about to happen.

Don continued, undeterred, his voice calm and reasonable. ‘Something's been troubling Ali all her adult life and I want to help her resolve it.'

Eric pretended puzzlement. ‘What
are
you talking about?' He stared at his glass, swirling the wine round and round.

‘I think you know.'

Eric looked at Ali, who looked at the tablecloth, then shook his head.

‘Come on, Eric.' Don sounded as if he was talking to
a recalcitrant child in a primary school classroom, urging him into something he didn't want to do. He leaned towards him, encouraging his confidence. ‘She needs to know the full story of what happened to her mother, to Moira.'

Eric coughed as his wine went down the wrong way. His face flushed as his grip tightened on his glass. His other hand was perfectly still. Ali galvanised herself enough to pour her father and herself a little more to drink. At least the words had been said. There was no going back.

‘I realise you may think that, after so long, I've no right to come here and talk to you like this—'

‘Damn right, I do,' growled Eric.

‘—but I'm doing it for Ali. I know how much she loves you and that's why she won't press you herself but, having talked to her, I'm sure it's something that should be cleared up for her sake, for her future.' A diplomatic note had entered his voice.

To Ali's dismay, Eric reached for his stick and then, with its support, rose from his chair. ‘You've got a bloody cheek.' He banged the stick on the ground for emphasis. ‘Talking to me like that. What's wrong with you, Al? Didn't you tell him about the last time we talked about this?'

‘Dad, calm down.' Ali reached for his hand, but he snatched it away from her. ‘He's only doing it for me.' She didn't look at Don, not wanting to give Eric the impression that they were ganging up any more than they were. This was a matter for her father and her now. Don had done his bit. ‘I know it's difficult, especially since we've never
really talked about Mum. But since our last chat, I've thought about her a lot. I need to know where she is. I think I'd like to contact her.'

Eric collapsed back into his seat, visibly exhausted. ‘I've said all there is to say. Enough!'

This was the moment in which she could back off, as usual frightened of going too far. But this time, Don's silent presence gave her the strength she needed and she spoke quietly. ‘But why did she leave so much behind? Did she leave very suddenly? Did she really never try to be in touch? Was it me that drove her away? She was my mother as well as your wife. Don's right. I do need to know.'

Eric's face was rigid. The only movement came from a small involuntary tic working by his left eye. He didn't notice that Sergeant, sensing attack, had left the ‘barracks' and placed himself by his master's feet, looking up, awaiting instruction.

‘You owe it to her to tell her the truth, Eric.' Don spoke quietly. ‘This is as good a time as any.'

‘Dad, please,' Ali pleaded, as Eric opened, then snapped shut his mouth. ‘Don't be angry. Don's only trying to help me.'