In Pieces (15 page)

~

The weather had improved when Si drew back the curtains and took in the view. Manicured fields and hedges stretched verdantly into the distance. The roll of the land invited participation.

At breakfast Si tried to draw Mary's father into conversation, but he seemed distracted, looking nervously towards the door every few minutes. Mary's arrival didn't help much, although he shot her a thin smile of welcome.

Thankfully, Mary's humour had improved overnight. ‘Where's mum?'

‘In the garden, I think.'

‘Oh.' At that moment Mrs Cunningham walked in. Her husband closed up like a clam and started reading the newspaper with an extraordinary intensity.

‘John, I do think the least you could do is help. There I've been, out in the garden picking vegetables for your lunch and do you think to come and help me? Of course not.' Mrs Cunningham sighed theatrically and brushed back her immaculate, ceramic hair. She noticed her daughter and Si for the first time. ‘Ah, the lazy bones. You've missed the best of the day, you know.'

‘Mum!' protested Mary.

‘Well, it's not too late to do something. After lunch we're going for a long walk. That'll blow away all those London cobwebs.'

‘I thought we might just take it easy, stay in, go to the pub….'

‘Nonsense. You can go to the pub this evening if you insist. But this afternoon, we are going for a walk.' And that was that. Mrs Cunningham moved on briskly. ‘Morning, Simon, did you sleep well?'

This seemed more of an accusation than a question and Si answered carefully. ‘Yes, very well thanks, Mrs Cunningham.'

‘Beatrice, call me Beatrice,' she said coquettishly. Si noticed Mary look away and try to engage her mousy father in conversation.

‘Oh sorry… Beatrice. I keep forgetting.'

Mrs Cunningham giggled childishly. ‘Well, don't.' She fixed him with a look that made him squirm. ‘So, Simon, we understand you're a journalist. But, apart from that, we don't know much about you. Mary has been very secretive. She's been rather unfair keeping you all to herself until now.' Si smiled in what he hoped seemed a friendly manner. ‘So do you work for
The Daily Telegraph
?' she suggested with a hopeful look inviting affirmation. Si was not totally unprepared for this as he had noticed a copy of that newspaper sitting crisply folded on the breakfast table.

‘No,
The Courier
,' he replied gently.

‘
The Courier
?'

‘
The Courier
… It's a national daily…'

‘Yes, yes. I know
The Courier
. Not that I read it.' Mrs Cunningham's flirtation had crystallised into hard disdain. ‘What led you to work for a newspaper like that?'

‘Well, it's a very good paper. I don't really see what's wrong with working for
The Courier
.'

‘Of course there's nothing wrong. But it's a little dodgy… politically. Isn't it? As far as I can see, it's determined to destroy England and all that we hold dear.'

Si looked to Mary for help with a half-smile.

But if she saw the irony in the contrast between her own opinion of
The Courier
as a downmarket bourgeois rag, and her mother's view of it as a subversive Trotskyite publication, she didn't show it.

Si felt sick. Mrs Cunningham's stony expression seemed to say, ‘Go on, then. What have you got to say for yourself, eh?'

‘No, I think you're wrong, Beatrice.'

Mrs Cunningham flinched.

Si couldn't think of anything else to say without risking rudeness.

Mrs Cunningham glared at him.

Si tried to assume a bland, nonchalant expression.

Eventually, Mary seemed to notice the developing atmosphere and, breaking off her desultory conversation with her father, intervened. ‘Right, I'm taking Si off for a while. I want to show him the garden.'

‘Yes, what a good idea,' clipped Mrs Cunningham. ‘Lunch will be at one. See you're on time.'

They escaped into the fresh air. But even when they were alone Si couldn't think of much to say. Before he knew it, they were back at the house.

‘Don't come any further in your wellies. Put them over there.'

Si meekly obeyed Mrs Cunningham's orders and took off his dirty wellies. He followed Mary indoors and collapsed with her before the fire.

Mrs Cunningham was the kind of woman one instinctively obeyed. Haughty, well preserved and conscious of her looks, but with as much sex appeal as a Barbie doll, thought Si. As his hostess shooed him into a small room to remove his mud-stuccoed wellingtons, he wondered idly what she had been like thirty years before.

~

‘This girlfriend of mine got married last week.'

‘Oh yeah. Who?'

‘You don't know her. Anyway, she told me about it. Sounded a riot. She left all the arrangements to the last minute and was up till three thirty in the morning writing out place cards and arranging flowers. She started out carefully placing them in vases and ended up chucking them in milk bottles in bundles.'

‘Oh.'

‘Anyway, the next morning she was at the hairdressers and got stitching her veil…'

‘What?'

‘Don't be thick. You know, what a veil is. To wear over your hair.'

Si realised he'd been ambushed and affected vagueness. ‘Of course. People still do that?'

‘Oh yes. At proper weddings.' The way Mary said “proper” had an ominous ring to it. He resolved not to ask too many questions for fear of showing too much interest.

‘So, she's sewing this veil on her lap and all the women in the hairdressers want to know about her wedding. And several who have already been done insist on staying to see the veil tried on on top of the new hairdo, do you see?'

‘Uh huh,' grunted Si in what he hoped was an uninterested tone.

‘Then at the hotel they've booked, all the guests get stuck into the drinks before the Registry officials come along to marry them. So half are tipsy in the service, which is in the hotel dining room. And there's the Rolls Royce which circles the hotel twice just for the hell of it, although all the guests are inside and can't see the bride arriving. Amazing, don't you think?'

‘Yeah,' agreed Si although he was having trouble making sense of Mary's rambling. Her face was aglow. He realised that when she was at her most natural, she was not very pretty. Then he felt ashamed for harbouring such a superficial thought. ‘Sounds like fun,' he lied guiltily.

‘Doesn't it?' Mary paused on a smile.

This was becoming uncomfortable. ‘What did you say your friend's name was?'

‘Oh, she wasn't really a friend.'

‘Huh? I thought…'

‘I read about it in a magazine. They had all the pictures too and the costs and contact numbers for the catering companies. Everything you'd need to plan a wedding, really.'

‘Oh.'

‘I've still got it back at my flat. I'll show you it later if you'd like?'

‘Right.' Si felt a burning desire for a pint, some male company and a good game of something sweaty and violent.

~

‘Just occasionally, Si, I could do with a bit of romance, you know.'

Si looked blank. He wasn't sure what had brought on this outburst. One minute they'd been discussing how busy their lives were in London—or rather, how high-powered Mary's job was— then Si found himself under attack.

‘Uuhh,' he gurgled. He looked around desperately for the waiter. He'd order another bottle of wine. That should distract Mary. But as he beckoned the waiter over, Mary launched her second scud.

‘I suppose you think that romance is just the bit before sex… Don't you?'

The waiter obviously caught some of this and decided to stay clear. Ignoring Si's increasingly frantic gestures, he executed an impressive imitation of a turning oil tanker, curving slowly off his original trajectory and setting course for a distant table with a solicitous smile, although there was clearly no need for his services there.

Damn you. Si sucked in between clenched teeth.

‘The least you could do is listen when I talk to you.'

Talk? Talk? You call this talking? But instead he said: ‘No, you've got me wrong, if you think that. I'm a romantic at heart…'

Mary snorted. ‘Romantic. Don't make me laugh. You see, that's the problem with you, Si; you don't have the first idea what you are. You lack self-knowledge. Know what I mean?'

Mary had calmed down and was speaking intensely with her I'm-only-telling-you-this-'cause-I-care look on her face. Si didn't know which of these two Marys irked him more. He let her go on. It clearly made her feel better, believing that she was imparting wisdom to an inferior being.

He stared miserably at his empty wine glass. The worst thing was, she was probably right. If he was honest with himself, he had very little idea who or why he was.

~

‘Gran?'

‘Hello, my darling. What a nice surprise.'

‘Are you all right? Why are you shouting?'

‘Oh, sorry. The music's a bit loud. Hold on a minute.'

There was a clunk as Elspeth put the phone down, and Mary could just make out waves of dark orchestral sound crashing around the big rooms in her grandmother's house. She got a sudden urge to jump on a train and take a holiday in the country. If only. These days her time was not her own. It had been different when she was a student. Whenever things got tough at college, she'd take refuge at her grandmother's. In those days her sweet old grandfather had also been there. The recollection filled her with longing.

‘That's better. Sorry about that. My hearing's not what it was and I sometimes get a bit carried away. It's such a crime to play Wagner at a low volume on the gramophone, don't you think?'

Mary laughed. Her grandmother sounded so earnest. ‘Of course it is, Gran.'

‘Oh, I'm so glad you agree. And you know those wonderful speakers your mother gave me really create a very loud noise.'

‘Gran, you don't need to make excuses.'

‘Oh, I wouldn't want to do that. No, I just don't want you thinking I've gone cuckoo or anything.'

Mary already felt cheered up. Elspeth had to be the best grandmother in the world; probably everyone thought that about their own, she realised. But hers was extra special. ‘Gran?'

‘Yes, dear? There I am prattling away and you clearly want to talk to me about something.'

‘Well, kind of.'

‘Go on, dear.'

‘You know when you met Grandpa?' Mary could almost hear the pained intake of breath at the other end of the line. She pushed straight on. ‘Well, did you know straight away?'

‘Know? Oh, I see what you mean.' The lustre in the old lady's voice had dimmed. ‘Yes, I suppose I did. He was so dashing… Why do you ask? Have you met someone?' Elspeth perked up at the prospect.

‘No. Well, I don't know. Maybe.'

‘Oh, I see.' Elspeth waited diplomatically for her granddaughter to elaborate.

‘There is someone but I just don't know where it's leading. Does that make sense?'

‘Of course it does. Modern society must be so confusing.'

‘I'm not sure it's society, Gran. I think it might be me.'

‘Nonsense, child. It's not like you to be confused about such things. You're normally so clear-headed and confident.'

‘I know. But I don't feel very confident at the moment.'

‘Hmm. It's difficult to advise you, Mary, without having met the young man. What's his name?'

‘Simon.'

‘Oh, so it's the same one as before, then?' She sounded surprised.

‘Of course it is. What do you think, Gran? I don't change my boyfriends weekly.'

‘Oh well, one never knows. What with the permissive society and so forth. Sounds like quite a lot of fun, if you ask me. If I was your age, goodness knows what I'd get up to.'

‘Gran,' Mary exclaimed, outraged.

‘Tsk, tsk. Don't be such a prude. I was a young girl once. I know what goes through your mind when a handsome fellow's about…'

‘Gran, you're terrible. There's me phoning to ask for some wise guidance and all I get is encouragement to sleep around.'

‘Well, sometimes sex is the best cure for unrequited love.'

‘I never said it was unrequited,' Mary bridled.

‘Oh, in that case… What's the problem, dear? Just carry on working your charms and he'll be sure to fall into your net sooner or later. Men are rather stupid at times. You have to be patient, and don't let him see you're particularly bothered about whether or not he responds.'

‘I suppose you're right.' Had nothing changed? sighed Mary.

‘Of course I am. Don't forget, I've been at this for far longer than you have.' She giggled mischievously, and Mary joined in despite herself.

‘Now, much as I love talking to my favourite granddaughter, I must go and turn off the oven. I've got a cake baking. It's to send to your mother,' Elspeth continued, apparently thinking out loud. ‘Sometimes I wonder where I went wrong with Beatrice; she can't cook to save her life, and spends all her time at the hairdressers or reading trashy novels. Ah well, no peace for the wicked…' Then she recalled she was on the phone to her granddaughter. ‘So, goodbye my dear. I hope you'll ring me again soon.'

‘I will. Bye, Gran.'

‘And don't go worrying about Simon. I'm sure it'll all work out just fine. Goodbye.' The line went dead.

~

Mary gave Si a video camera for his birthday.

‘This is way OTT,' protested Si when he'd finished unwrapping the shiny designer paper: complex asymmetrical patterns just discovered on the tomb walls of an ancient civilisation.

‘Don't be silly. It's not every day you're twenty-eight. Now aren't you going to say thank you? I reckon I deserve at least a passionate peck.'