Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase (16 page)

But Philip has not forgotten. He is keeping his distance and avoiding any mention of The Scene. I don’t blame him, of course, but I do wish he would forget about it – like everybody else seems to have done – and I wish he would forgive me. I apologised, of course, the same day. Fuelled by my hastily downed brandy, I sailed back down the stairs to the shop, and found Philip continuing with the rearrangements in the back room, pencil in mouth, frowning, his hair perhaps a little more dishevelled than it had been, his cheeks a little pinker. He looked at me, as I stood in the doorway.

‘I’m sorry, Philip. I never thought … I didn’t think she would ever … but she has. I don’t know what else I can say. Really. I am so very sorry.’

He looked at me with what I can only describe as dissatisfaction. He didn’t seem to hear my apology. He sighed, he looked away, he scribbled a price inside a book cover with his characteristic flourish. I have never seen anybody look more disappointed.

‘Perhaps you could take over here while I grab some lunch?’ he said wearily. ‘These need pricing, those over there need dusting, and these need putting on the lower shelf, as we discussed this morning. Oh, and could you remember to clean the windows too, please? Or get Sophie to do them. Thank you.’

He hasn’t spoken to me since.

Getting home from the Old and New, to my flat, to my cat bought for me by Charles Dearhead – the cat I call Portia – is a relief. I tell Portia all that happens each day, and she listens and asks for her supper, and I cook mine, or more often I butter some bread, splash milk over cornflakes, nibble on chocolate digestives and sip coffee. I’m not sleeping, I’m tired, I look washed-out and lank-haired, and I’m so sorry all this has happened.

I’m lonely.

That’s the bottom line. Lonely and, I believe in my heart, a little messed up. Charles Dearhead meant nothing to me. In fact, I didn’t even like him. Boring. Self-centred. Urbane? Did I ever truly believe that? I put his poor wife through a terrible time, their marriage perhaps irreparably damaged. And that was a matter of choice, my choice. I shall not do that again, I promise myself.

And now my friend – the only person, I have realised, whose opinion is essential – appears to despise me. I have been thinking, and thinking, I can’t stop thinking, and I have to leave the Old and New. Philip does not want me there, he has made that clear. I shall write a letter of resignation tonight. I think he will be shocked, though probably relieved, and will thank me for my integrity. Except I have none. This I have proved to myself, to Philip, to Sophie and Jenna, to various intrigued and scandalised customers. Thank God my father hasn’t got wind of it.

Did I ‘invite dishonour’, like my grandmother before me? Yes. Of course. And I have brought dishonour to the shores of Philip’s life too. Oh, I should live a little! Not hide away in a bookshop all my life, dipping my toes into the murky waters of sex with a man so much older and so much more married than me. Sophie was right.

I am not scared to hand in my notice tomorrow. I’ll find another job. I have savings, I am frugal with clothes and food, I run an economical car. The Old and New is more of a home to me than anywhere else on earth, but I am resolved now to leave that place of warmth and humour because that is what must be done.

But it will kill me.

In the morning, I ask to speak to Philip. He is accommodating, as usual, and we go to his small office at the back of the shop. I take my time in closing the door. When I turn, I see that he has retreated behind his desk, the expansive but cluttered desk that he was sitting on, relaxed and interested, on the day he ‘interviewed’ me for the job.

‘Philip,’ I begin, not looking at him, ‘I want to give you this.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s my notice.’

He takes it from me. He eyes me, opens the envelope, reads the note, rips it in two, and throws it into the bin. ‘Let’s start again, shall we?’ he says.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you love him?’

‘I’m not sure what love is.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Do you love him?’

‘Charles Dearhead?’

‘Are there others?’

‘No! And no. I don’t love him. Why would I?’

‘That’s precisely what I’ve been pondering. So what on earth are you playing at?’

‘I’m not playing at anything. It’s finished. I … I stepped outside myself. That’s all.’

‘Yes. I think you did, rather. You see, I keep asking myself … I keep asking why a woman like you … why are you wasting your life on a man like him? I mean, come on. He’s a complete twat. Sorry.’

‘You think so?’

‘Yes, I do. Frankly.’

‘Whatever you think, it’s none of your business.’

‘Oh, but it is.’

‘It isn’t.’

We stand, facing each other across the huge walnut desk, this gigantic obstacle it seems we shall never be able to surmount, in a pantomime of our own making. But neither of us is laughing. Philip removes his glasses, cleans them awkwardly on his shirt front, puts them back on and clears his throat. It is a familiar routine. His face twitches with a strange kind of pleading innocence, willing me to do what he wants me to do. Philip’s eyes are fixed on me, and my heart—

Oh, but surely. Surely? No. I’m crazy to even think it.

What is it that holds me back? Am I shy? I’m not
shy
. Am I not good enough for him? Whatever, none of it matters any more. It’s over. And it didn’t even begin.

‘Look,’ he says. ‘You can’t leave.’

‘I can.’

‘Yes, yes, of course, you can, what I mean is … I don’t want you to.’

‘Why on earth not? I’ve embarrassed you horribly.’

‘You’ve embarrassed yourself, that’s all. But nobody cares. This sort of thing always blows over. I forbid you to leave, actually. You do remember that I defended you? Utterly?’

Of course I remember. ‘Philip—’ And to my surprise I start sobbing, loudly. I didn’t want to cry. I hate to cry.

‘Oh no,’ he says. ‘For God’s sake, here, take my hanky.’

Only a man like Philip would have a clean hanky in his pocket. I blow my nose. Pull yourself together, Roberta, I tell myself. Sort this out. ‘I thought you would be used to crying women. With Jenna around, I mean.’

Not for the first time, I regret my thoughtless words. Philip stares at me, he feels the need to remove his glasses again, he runs his hand through his hair. He puts his glasses on the desk. I hope he doesn’t sit on them in that absent-minded way of his. It wouldn’t be the first time.

‘Jenna and I are none of your business.’

I know this is true. I hate myself. And I am wrong, of course, quite wrong. Philip regards me as an employee, and only an employee. He is in love with Jenna, not me, and I cannot believe I even framed such thoughts, admitted such hopes to myself.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, blotting out my dreams. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude.’

‘Forget it, Roberta. I understand. And you shall stay. I absolutely depend upon you. This place would fall apart but for you.’

‘What about Sophie?’

‘She’s capable, a sweet girl, she knows well enough what to do. But you … you lend this place some gravitas. You
are
the Old and New. Don’t you get it?’

‘Gravitas? Me? Causing scenes like last week’s? Come off it, Philip. You are the Old and New. It’s your shop.’

‘Then,
we
are the Old and New. One of us can’t operate without the other. And you didn’t cause a scene, that ghastly woman did. So I ask respectfully and in all sincerity, please will you reconsider, and please will you stay? Please, Roberta.’

The fact that we are even having this conversation is enough to convince me. I have to leave. I have to leave now. Sod the notice period. If I don’t leave now …

‘I am leaving, Philip. I’m so sorry. I’ll go now.’

‘Right now?’

‘Yes.’

If I think Philip is about to clamber over the desk, grab me, kiss me on the lips, shake me by the shoulders and beg me even further to stay, I am mistaken. He holds out his hand and I shake it. It is warm, his grip is firm, yet his touch feels somehow fragile. His eyes are vague, as though he is peering into a murky and troubled future, and I fear he is close to tears. And I fear my rising desire to comfort him, so I release my hand and leave the office.

I’m aware of him, standing alone, receding from me as I leave, watching me go in silence.

7
^th
December
1940

Dear Jan,

I am sorry not to have written to you recently. But as you know, I don’t like writing letters. And I have been so busy with one thing and another. The war and its ruination of this world may as well be happening on another planet. We see and hear so little of it now that the squadron has gone. Of course, there is still activity on the aerodrome, just not as much as before. But no more bombs. No more Hurricanes landing just a whisker from my house! Thank goodness for that. You know, I still think of that young pilot and I feel sorry that he died in that way.

Well, December has arrived. I do hope you can make it up here to see us, I’m sure Aggie and Nina would be pleased to see you again. Aggie goes on all right, missing her chap and dreadfully sad, but she soldiers on. Nina and I both do our bit to cheer her up. I hope Christmas will restore her spirits and despite all that is going on in this world, I shall do my best to make the day a happy one for her.

As for your needing peace, Jan, I am possibly the last person who can offer you such a thing.

Yet, I am your

Dorothea

T
wo weeks and five days after Albert raped her, the familiar cramps began. For a day she managed to ignore them. But the following morning, the blood began to flow, and she had no choice but to acknowledge once again the bitter disappointment that blighted her life.

She knew he would never return, and that was one small consolation. She hoped he would be killed, really, to make everything easier. And because he deserved to die after what he had done to her.

He had abandoned her, knowing how much she wanted another child, knowing full well that if he went away there could be no further children. But hadn’t she abandoned him too, setting herself up in the tiny bedroom at the back of the house, shutting the door on him night after night? There could be no child if she didn’t—

It was hard to believe that she once fancied herself in love with the man. He could offer her nothing. But she had not thought him a bully. Had he done this to other women? She thought not. No, it was just her, his wife. His anger was directed at her, nobody else. She could imagine him, in a different home, with a different woman; she would be younger, simpler, they would be happy together, and he would even be loving, in his own way.

But still the thought nagged at her, should she report him? What exactly would she report? A soldier returning home on leave and having relations with his wife? Who would believe there had been any wrongdoing? And now it was surely too late. Perhaps he didn’t even understand that he’d done anything wrong, although he had gone a day earlier than he’d said he would. Out of guilt? Perhaps he had learned his lesson.

And what if she
had
fallen pregnant? How on earth could she have begun to explain to Jan? Because she knew – yes, she was absolutely certain about this – Jan would come back, she would see him again. She could have told him the truth, but would he have believed her? Perhaps he would think it only natural. After all, Albert was her husband.

But no matter. There was no baby. There was just her – empty, hurt and bloodied. Nothing to tell, no confessions to make.

Try as she might, Dorothy could not get her words to rhyme. So she ceased trying and she let her words take shape on the page as they would, as they seemed to want to do, with a life of their own. And at last this small collection of words seemed to her a poem. She felt that she had written her first, perhaps her only, poetry. And she would be the sole judge, she knew that she would never share her writing with another.

But her words, as she shaped them, read them, over and over, in snatched moments, late at night, early in the morning, startled her, gave her a strange unearthly sensation of power, like running along a wide, empty beach on soft-firm sand with youthful and boundless energy. It was a small liberation, but from what, she could not comprehend.

S
uch lurid dreams!

The woman was on her hands and knees before him, her eyes closed – this, the most ladylike of the women he had loved, the most demure. He cried out – he must have cried out often – and one of the nurses would be by his bedside, as suddenly and silently as an apparition. Oftentimes it was the nurse named Sylvia, nineteen years old, he guessed, pure-skinned, angel-white, soothing him with a quiet word, a soft murmur, a cool hand on his brow. She would check his pulse, holding his left wrist, checking his dogged heartbeats against the little watch strapped like an amulet to her breast pocket.

Was he in pain?

Yes, but not the kind she talked of, not the kind she even knew of, he thought.

The pain in his arm was nothing to the pain in his heart, and that in turn was nothing compared with his physical desire. Love, at this stage, was secondary. He acknowledged to himself that he was once again in the grip of pure lust, the most vulgar emotion. Sylvia and the other nurses must have noticed. They bathed him and dressed him, they were familiar with his body. But it mattered not. Where was the shame, in truth? He was born a man.

He longed to clamber back into his Hurricane, to be back among his men. He wanted to kill more Germans. And that was a lust too, and sometimes it was difficult to define where each lust began and ended. He even wondered, in tortured lucid moments, if his aroused state was entirely due to thoughts of the Englishwoman.

Dorothy. Dorothea. Hardly could he bring himself to think her name.

Mrs Dorothy Sinclair.

The hospital bed was comfortable enough – white and firm. His sore, aching arm was broken. Smashed in several places, the doctor said. It would give him ‘gyp’ for the rest of his life, and by that Jan inferred it would give him pain, irritation. But he was alive, he was well. And he would return to flying, he proclaimed to the doctor, within the next week.