Chocolate Girls (51 page)

Edie was laughing now.

Anatoli flashed a grin at her, then his expression sobered. ‘So when I received another letter,
saying
something, sharing something true, and very eloquently too, then . . . It made me happy – truly.’

‘I’m glad then.’ Her cheeks were burning after all he had said.

‘There is not time in life for only dealing with the surface of each other.’ Anatoli turned his cup round and round in the saucer. He was very serious now. ‘Especially at my age. You know – that is what Hermann Mayer remembers. It is why I remember him. To me it seems I did so very little for him that I feel ashamed that he remembers me so acutely. But we were together for perhaps fifteen minutes, and it was fifteen truly human minutes. I can never forget. After this, etiquette and formality are a tissue of nothingness.’

Edie looked back at him, moved. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not used to . . . to this.’

‘Don’t be sorry.’ His eyes were twinkling again. ‘But we shared so much that day, you remember? It would be a pity to waste such a friendship.’

‘I just didn’t know if – if you talked like that with everyone.’

‘No. Oh no. Most people don’t allow it. So – tell me more about your David.’

She poured it all out. Another letter had arrived since. He wanted to stay, to become an Israeli citizen. He knew this would mean that he had to be an army conscript. He was in love with a girl called Gila Weissman and they were both planning to apply to the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. He sounded so very passionate and, yes, happy too.

‘I suppose the worst of it is that it’s made me feel that everything I’ve given him is what he doesn’t want now. He doesn’t want to be English, to live here near me, he wants to be Jewish, and Israeli and go into the army. I mean, he was never that sort of boy! He wasn’t tough – he never even liked games at school very much. And he wants to marry some girl I’ve never even met and probably never will . . .’ She drew out a hanky to wipe her eyes.

‘But why should you never meet her?’ Anatoli leaned towards her, surprised.

‘Well—’ Edie said angrily. ‘It’s the other side of the world. I can’t exactly just drop in and see them, can I?’

‘And why not?’ Gently he reached across and enclosed her left hand in his right. His touch felt warm and comforting. ‘Look, he’s alive, he’s well and happy. He writes you letters because he loves you. He sounds like the sort of boy who loves easily and it must have been you who taught him that. It will be all right, Edith. And you will see him. Of course you will.’

‘I’m all right,’ Frances assured her for at least the third time. ‘Really, dear – I shall have a lovely quiet day tucked here.’

‘I feel terrible leaving you,’ Edie said. How long was it since Frances had taken to resting so much? And how long had she been so wrapped up in herself and Anatoli that it had taken her until now to notice?

Frances rallied herself and sat up straight. ‘Oh, don’t be so silly, Edie. It’s only for the day! I’ve everything I need, and you’ll be back tonight. I’ll be the one feeling terrible if you
don’t
go!’

After Anatoli’s first visit to Birmingham they had parted promising to meet again the following month. Edie went to London in October, and they both said let’s not leave it so long next time. Soon there was barely a weekend when one of them was not making a journey to see the other.

Still uneasy about Frances, Edie went to catch her train. It was cold, mid-November, but she wrapped up warm in her new winter coat and tied a scarf round her hair. Who cared if it was cold! They had planned to go to a lunchtime concert in St Martin-in-the-Fields, then visit a small gallery Anatoli knew not far away. The day stretched pleasurably ahead.

With each visit they made to one another, Edie found herself more and more impatient to be in his company. A fortnight became too long to wait, then a week. Every time she was with him she felt special: she loved the way he listened to her and shared his thoughts with her, the way he looked at her, attentively, as she talked, and the fact that they enjoyed doing so many things together. She felt a great tenderness for him and, increasingly, desire. She knew she was falling more and more in love, and the feeling was so new and heady she could scarcely think of anything else.

I’m more flighty than when I was nineteen! she thought as the train chugged – so slowly! – towards London. This is ridiculous – he’s so much older than me and it’s all so
strange
. But the thought of a time when she had not known him now seemed unthinkable.

When she arrived at Euston there was no sign of him, though he had promised to be there. Deflated, she walked off the platform. How dismal the place seemed without him beaming at her, very often over a bouquet of flowers, and pacing impatiently up and down! Surely she had not mistaken the day?

Her heart lurched. There he was, running, waving, an eccentric-looking figure, a fur hat perched on his head today. A joyful smile broke across her face.

‘Have you been here long? I’m sorry – I misjudged how long it would take.’ He kissed her cheek.

‘It’s all right – we’ve only been in a few minutes. But I thought you weren’t coming!’

‘Not coming! How could I not be coming, you foolish girl? Umm?’

She laughed and linked her arm through his. She was struck once more by the comfort of their friendship, as if they had known each other for years. And at the same time, when she looked round at him as they stood waiting for the Tube, his rather severe profile, the hat, she felt a sense of mystery and strangeness. How well did she know him really? She wanted to know how it would be to kiss him – really kiss him – not just the affectionate pecks they gave each other on the cheek.

He caught her examining him and gave her a quizzical look.

‘You’re wondering about me – umm?’

She laughed at having her thoughts read so accurately.

‘Sort of.’

‘You’re asking yourself if I am really Jack the Ripper?’

‘No, of course not!’ Her reply was half drowned by the train clattering in to the platform.

They sat in the echoing space of St Martin’s as the pianist rolled the magnificent notes of Beethoven sonatas round the walls, listening attentively, though it was cold and Edie could feel her feet growing more and more icy. After the music had gone on for some time, Anatoli reached for her hand, holding it between both his own, and looked searchingly into her eyes. Moved, Edie looked solemnly back.

They did not speak as they walked out of the church, glad to move about and get warm, but kept hold of each other’s hands. After lunch, they walked to the little gallery off the Strand. The artist was a young Italian called Alessandro Peti and Edie enjoyed the bright, sunshine colours of the work. Some of the paintings were abstract, but one of the last in the exhibition, to which Edie felt particularly drawn, was a picture almost completely of sea, in rich mix of azure and mauve. Providing perpective, the artist had painted the thinnest, curving spit of land, at the end of which stood a tiny lighthouse.

‘I’d like to be there,’ she said.

Anatoli turned towards her, bringing his lips close to her ear. ‘What I should like is to be alone with you.’

They left the gallery. Edie knew that a step had been taken, that he had let her see how much he felt for her, but what should they do now? It was so cold and there was nowhere obvious to go.

Anatoli looked at his watch. ‘We can sit and drink cups of tea all the afternoon, or, if we want to be warmer, we could go to my house – at least for a couple of hours.’

Edie hesitated for a second. The house was a place of memories – it was where Margot had lived with him. Margot whom she could never replace, who seemed to overshadow her. But she was still drawn to it, to its cosy, violin-filled clutter. Otherwise they’d have to walk the winter streets.

On the train out to Wimbledon they held hands. There was a new shyness between them and it struck her that Anatoli was even more ill at ease than she was. He looked ahead of him, now and then turning to give her a nervous smile or make a remark about the journey.

‘Is there anything wrong?’ she asked.

‘No – I’m just a bit cold,’ he said.

The house felt quite warm inside. Anatoli switched on the lights in the sitting-room and a heater which blew out hot air, and made tea. Edie looked around her contentedly.

‘I love your house,’ she said, standing by the piano as he came in with the tray. The warm glossy wood of the two violins gleamed on top of the piles of music.

Anatoli put the tray down and came over to her.

‘Edith—’ he said hesitantly. ‘I’m sorry if my mood has been a bit strange . . .’ He looked beyond her, for a moment, towards the yellowed keys of the piano, and his expression was melancholy.

‘What’s the matter?’ she said, worried. ‘Is it something I’ve done?’

‘No!’ He smiled at this notion. ‘Well, not exactly. The thing is, Edith – I have tried very hard not to push you into anything. Not to expect you to feel as I do. You know, we men who’ve been married, we miss it. We ache to be with a woman again. I know I am a good deal older than you – you are so very young and beautiful. But you have made every difference to how I feel about life. And each time we meet, when I see you . . . I just find it harder and harder to bear it when you go away again.’

In a tremulous voice Edie said, ‘Anatoli – I can’t be like Margot for you . . . I can’t even play the piano.’

He shook his head, horrified. ‘My dear – you mustn’t ever think like that.’ He moved a little closer. ‘Edith – Margot was my wife for many years. She was a lovely person, she was part of me and I loved her. But by the end of her life she was suffering terribly. You know, at times she was very cruel in those last weeks. Almost a different person. She didn’t mean it, I know. It was the illness, the pain she was in. She is dead and I have made my peace with that. But you . . . In coming to me you have literally given me new life. You have made existence not just possible for me – but also joyful . . . I don’t really expect you to feel the same, except sometimes in your eyes I think I see – something. I don’t know if I am being foolish and seeing what I want to see.’

‘You’re not being foolish.’ She spoke softly.

They looked into each other’s eyes as he took in what she’d said. She heard his breathing become faster and all she could think of was how much she wanted to touch him, hold him.

‘Oh God – I must not make a fool of myself.’ She didn’t know if he had intended to speak the words or just think them. He held out his arms. ‘May I?’

They stepped into each other’s embrace, he with a cry of relief and happiness. She smelt his familiar smell, a mix of hair oil, soap and his own individual, manly scent. ‘Oh my lovely one,’ he said into her hair. ‘My dear sweet girl.’

Edie raised her face to look at him. ‘You are so good to me, Anatoli. I want to make you happy again.’

She raised her lips towards his and she saw a muscle twitch in his cheek. For a few seconds he nuzzled her face with his lips, as if tasting her, delaying the pleasure, then their lips found each other’s, arms gathering each other in closer, until they were locked passionately together.

When he released her for a moment she said in wonder, ‘I haven’t felt like this – I’ve never felt like this before.’ Whatever she had felt for Jack all those years ago was a shadow of the longing she felt now.

Her words seemed to excite Anatoli further, and, eyes closed, kissing her hard, he pressed against her. Then, abruptly, he drew back.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘You are so beautiful – you are all my thoughts, Edith. I want to enjoy every intimacy with you . . . But I am pushing you, hurrying you. Doing things at the wrong speed because I want you so much. It would not be right.’

Much as she wanted him, she knew he was speaking the truth.

More calmly she wrapped her arms round him. ‘Yes, my love. I love you very, very much – but you are right.’

He laughed suddenly, out of happiness. ‘This is a dream – I shall wake up! Come – sit with me, as close as you can. I want to hold you for every second until you leave!’

Edie stayed with Anatoli until the last possible moment and, parting, they kissed passionately on Euston Station like adolescent lovers. She spent the journey thinking about him, longing to be beside him again. Neither of them had talked in any definite terms about the future, about marriage, or anything permanent. At the moment that didn’t seem to matter either. The present was too full of promise and love to worry about the future.

The next day Frances seemed a little more lively and Edie was relieved. She was well enough to go to the Meeting House, and Edie devoted the day to her, cooking lunch and sitting with her.

‘We’ll have a quiet afternoon in,’ Edie said, even though she felt restless with love’s energy and would like to have gone for a walk round the park in the crisp, cold day. ‘Would you like a game of draughts?’

Frances agreed that she felt up to playing and they were setting out the pieces on the table when someone knocked at the front door. They looked at each other and frowned, puzzled.

At first Edie didn’t recognize the person on the doorstep. A middle-aged woman, very plump, with pasty features and dyed blonde hair scraped back into a pony-tail. Her grey coat, much too tight on her, was belted tightly at the waist and on her feet she wore scuffed navy court shoes. Her expression was dull and unsmiling.