Stop the Clock (31 page)

It was reassuring to see that whatever else had changed, Jeremy’s communication style hadn’t.

A couple of cards arrived in the post. Nothing from Justin . . . but then, everything was still at sixes and sevens, and it was early days. There was still time for him to make some small gesture to acknowledge her transformation.

She was glad to have left the life that had him in it behind her, but still, the break with the past would be cleaner, more absolute, if she could know for sure that she had finally earned his respect.

On the ninth day Tina was on her best behaviour. Dan came, and so did Cecily, on her own.

They all tried to stick to neutral topics of conversation, which was not a straightforward exercise. Tina was reminded of those medieval maps of the world, with vaguely recognizable land masses surrounded by seas embellished with ornate monsters, and warnings at the margins:
Here be dragons
.

Cecily attempted current affairs, but soon faltered, and resorted to reminiscing about Tina’s babyhood, much to Tina’s discomfort. It was bad enough to hear the familiar sigh, and ‘Of course, I would have liked to have more children . . .’ but to have Dan quizzing Cecily on what Tina had been like as a child was just infuriating. Dan duly heard that she had been the most strong-willed, demanding, vociferous little girl in Barnes, and looked smugly amused – as if this somehow proved him right.

They got on to the subject of holidays, and Cecily said, ‘You can have the Old Schoolhouse at Easter if you like, Tina. I mean, you can have it to yourself . . . and invite anyone you want to go along with you, of course.’ (At this she gazed almost flirtatiously at Dan.) ‘We won’t be there,’ she added, ‘Robert’s booked us on a trip to Venice, to celebrate our anniversary. It’s our ruby wedding. I’m planning to give a little family party sometime in the spring. Dan, dear, I do hope you’ll come.’

Tina looked pointedly at her watch to hint to Dan that he should begin to think about moving on; they had got through thirty minutes, surely there was no
need to push their luck. Still, it was all good practice for the likely awkwardness of Dan’s mother’s first visit . . . to which she had agreed in principle, although she was being a little evasive about the date.

But then William, who was strapped into the little cloth-coloured rocking cradle Lucy had bought him, opened his eyes and began to whimper. Dan said, ‘Is it OK if I take him out?’

‘Sure,’ Tina said, so emphatically that it was obvious she would much rather have done it herself.

Dan fiddled awkwardly with the catch on the cradle strap, and she reached down to undo it. He smiled at her and said, ‘Thanks to the expert,’ clumsily scooped William out and settled back on to the sofa with him.

Dan looked down into William’s face and William’s hand wrapped tightly round Dan’s finger.

Cecily said, ‘Well, he definitely knows who his daddy is.’

‘Mmm,’ Dan said non-committally. Then he glanced up at Cecily and said, ‘Do you know what, I think he might have a look of you.’

‘Do you think so?’ Cecily said, and Tina knew she was pleased. ‘I know people love to make out these resemblances, but I have to say I’m not convinced. How can a tiny baby possibly look like a sixty-three-year-old woman? I don’t look like my own self at that age, so I fail to see in what way he could be said to look like me.’

‘It’s the high forehead, and something about the set of the eyebrows,’ Dan said.

‘Well, I’ll defer to your expertise,’ Cecily said, and Tina thought: Sold.

The doorbell rang, and Cecily said, ‘I’ll go.’

They sat without speaking as Cecily’s tread retreated down the stairs. Then Dan said, ‘So, you were a pain in the backside when you were little. That makes sense.’

‘I bet you were an absolute toe-rag,’ Tina countered.

‘I was an angel, actually,’ Dan told her. ‘So do you think you’ll take him to Cornwall at Easter, then?’

‘If you’re angling for an invite, forget it.’

‘I just kind of like the idea of introducing him to the seaside.’

‘Not going to happen.’

‘I think your mum approves of me.’

‘She’s only sucking up to you because she’s hoping against hope that you’ll redeem me from being a scarlet woman.’

‘No she isn’t. She just wants you to be happy,’ Dan said, and then added, ‘Mums always like me.’

Tina hit him over the head with a cushion. He held up his arm to keep her at bay and complained that she shouldn’t hit a man with a baby. But she kept pelting him . . . if only to ward off the strange, lurching urge to lean forward and kiss him.

The game halted abruptly as Cecily came back in, carrying an armful of parcel.

‘I expect it’s another present for William,’ she said, handing it over to Tina.

‘It’s addressed to me,’ Tina pointed out.

She did not recognize the handwriting. The postmark: Barnstaple.

She put the parcel on the dining table, fetched the scissors and cut through the brown paper to reveal a layer of bubble wrap and, beneath it, dark wood.

‘Oh my God,’ she said.

She picked the parcel up and turned it round. There was a return address. It was not a place she’d ever been, but she’d seen its name written at the head of so many letters, and heard it referred to with such affection, that she felt as if she knew it.

She pulled away the rest of the paper and bubble wrap, and there it was, as if it had never been away.

‘Isn’t that Great-Aunt Win’s sewing box?’ Cecily said.

‘It is.’

‘I’d forgotten you had it. I thought it was in the loft.’

‘I rather like it,’ Tina said. ‘I think it’s admirable. Romantic.’

She ran her fingers over the lid, took in the scratches, the dark wood, the image of the ship. There was a loud rushing noise in her ears; it could have been blood, or the sea, or the hum that precedes a faint.

She opened the box and lifted out the compartment lid with the inscription:
Made by I alone
. The compartment was empty.

‘I don’t see what’s romantic about it, I must say,’ Cecily said.

‘I just rather like to think of Win living defiantly by herself, with her sewing box for company,’ Tina said. ‘She’d obviously been let down in love.’

‘Well, yes, dear, but you know she didn’t actually live alone,’ Cecily said.

‘But I thought she never married.’

‘Well, no, she didn’t, she may have had some disappointment in that regard, but she did find a companion in the end. Miss Glennie. They lived in a little cottage in Port Maus, you know – it was after Win closed the school, and let the house to Arthur Symonds, the watercolourist. Next time you’re in the Black Swan, you ask about Miss Fox and Miss Glennie. They’re still remembered – they’re part of village folklore. They were quite inseparable. They even slept together. Of course it was completely innocent, which people find hard to believe these days, but there you are. They were like sisters, and it was perfectly normal for sisters to share a bed back then.’

Tina lifted out the whole of the top layer and saw what she had not seen for many years, the box’s red velvet lining. There was nothing inside apart from the dried roses, and a single letter.

She heard her mother asking her why somebody had just posted her Great-Aunt Win’s box, but she didn’t reply. Instead she muttered something – more an apology than an excuse – snatched the letter and rushed down to her bedroom to read it.

The envelope was the familiar shape and size, and inside was the same thick, creamy, headed paper, but the handwriting was familiar only from the address on the parcel.

Northcourt Farm

Shepstowe

Nr Barnstaple

Devon

Dear Tina,

We’ve never met, and I hope we never do, as however I try to rationalize the part you’ve played in my life, the thought of you arouses strong feelings, and I am not certain of my ability to control them. Nevertheless, even though I have never seen you face to face, I know far too much about you for my own good. You also know a little about me – I prefer not to think about how much.

Until I came across this box, I knew about you in two ways. First and foremost, I knew you as the young woman with whom my husband had been conducting a lengthy, passionate, but very discreet love affair. Although I did not know your age or name, I deduced that you probably had a successful, demanding career, maybe in law or the media.

Lately, I had begun to suspect that this relationship had come to the end of its natural life. These days, my husband seems unusually grateful, as if he has repented, and decided on a fresh start. However, while you may have faded from his thoughts, you have continued to inveigle your way into mine.

As a mother myself, I wondered whether you would ever want children, and whether you understood that whatever he said, my husband had no intention of leaving me – us – to be with you. I wondered what your own mother would say to you if she knew. I wondered
what I would say to my own daughter if I found out that she was doing what you did for so many years that I had almost (but not quite) got used to your presence in our lives, which usually manifested itself in the form of my husband’s absence – not in physical terms (his work took him away constantly, I was used to that) but an absence of mind, even when he was here with me.

I wondered, were you jealous, guilty, thwarted, bitter, hopeful? I certainly was.

Over recent months, I have also come to know you as many other readers do? as a writer of occasionally droll prose in a popular national newspaper. Today, by chance, I had the opportunity to put together the two versions of you with which I was already familiar, and find out exactly who you are.

I read your letters; I read every single word. It was a painful process, as you may be able to imagine, but an illuminating one. I discovered that you are someone who makes a public show of honesty, but has lived, for years, with a lonely lie.

The letters. Ah, the letters. Dear Vixen, do you imagine that he treasured them? They were in the garage, underneath the toolbox, next to the snow shovel that we never, in the normal way of things, have cause to use.

I think he intended to burn them. I don’t know why he had put off doing it, and I haven’t asked him. Sometimes, when you love someone, it is necessary to take on burdensome tasks that they cannot manage alone. And now all those words are ash.

The letters were stored in an unusual wooden box
that I presume is a family heirloom of some kind, and am now returning to you. Sooner or later, he will realize it is missing. Will he then have the courage to bring the subject into the open? I must admit, I am curious, and for that I must thank you: after so many years of marriage it is exciting to find that one’s spouse is not entirely predictable.

Inconstant he may be, but he is far from inconsistent. As you may have realized, he finds pregnancy and its aftermath unattractive; he started his first extramarital relationship when our son was two months old. Even if he had not taken steps to ensure you could not conceive his child, the demands of childbearing would almost certainly have ended your affair.

As for the box, I trust you will be able to find a fresh use for it. I am returning it to you because it is not in my nature to destroy something that belongs to someone else.

Yours sincerely
,

Virginia Dandridge

William was crying . . . again. She felt the hot needling in her breasts that meant she had milk to give him. It was an almost instant reaction, like the prickle of perspiration in response to stress. She would have to collect herself, go upstairs, sort him out . . . but then there was a gentle knock on the door.

She folded the letter and stuffed it back into the envelope.

‘Mum, no . . . Please, just give me a minute.’

But it was Dan who came in. He was holding William very carefully, as if jolting him might cause an explosion. He moved slowly across the carpet towards Tina, passed William into her arms and sat down on the bed next to her.

She yanked up her T-shirt and jammed William on to the breast. Dan didn’t speak, didn’t ask what was wrong, didn’t even look at her. She took his discretion for granted. It wasn’t until later that she realized his presence hadn’t bothered her at all.

On the tenth day Lucy came, and brought Clemmie and Lottie with her. Lucy held William for a long time, and was reluctant to hand him back. The girls were soon bored of him, tired of the entertainment they’d brought with them – a DVD, some toys – and started roaming round the flat, looking for ways to pass the time while their mother and her friend talked about birth.

Tina let Clemmie try on her hats and shoes and parade round in them, but Lottie hung back, too self-conscious to take part in dressing up.

Clemmie took a particular shine to the Ascot fascinator – a silly concoction of feathers and net – and Tina said, ‘You can keep that if you like. I don’t think I’m going to wear it again.’

Lucy protested, but Tina overruled her. She tried to persuade Lottie to accept a straw boater, which did look rather sweet perched on her dark hair, but Lottie politely declined.

Clemmie continued to preen herself, and Lottie wandered around the flat, inspecting Tina’s CD
collection, the photos, the books, finally coming to rest in front of the old wooden box, which was still sitting on the dining table.

‘What’s this?’ she said, running her hand over the surface of the wood.

She opened it, lifted out the lid of the largest inner compartment, and studied the scrap of paper glued on the inside:
Made by I alone.

‘It’s a sewing box,’ Tina said, ‘but I’m not very good at sewing, so it’s empty.’

‘It must be very old,’ Lottie said.

‘It is,’ Tina said, ‘see, there’s a date on it, 1875, so that makes it a proper antique. You can have it if you like. You can keep anything you want in it. I was thinking of taking it to the charity shop anyway, when I got round to it.’

Lucy didn’t look at all sure about this, but Lottie looked so pleased that she eventually acquiesced. And so Lottie got her wish, and carried off a receptacle ideally suited for the storing of secrets from her mother.