Young Wives' Tales (12 page)

I glance at Connie to see if she’s recognized the old joke. She says nothing and there’s no sign of a playful smile flickering across her mouth. I move on.

‘I knocked off early and my mate, Craig Walker, works here so I thought I’d catch him and we’d go for a beer.’

‘Mr Walker is a friend of yours?’

Greenie is no longer a grey colour; she’s turned so white she’s almost transparent. I bet she’s reinvented herself as someone quite proper and the last thing she needs is her torrid past tripping her up. I enjoy the moment, let her suffer – it serves her right for not being friendlier.

‘Oh yes, Craig and I go back years. We were at primary school together. In fact the reason we are
meeting for a beer is that we are planning a stag weekend together.’

‘Yours?’Is she curious, hopeful or fearful?

I pause and then shake my head. ‘Been there, done that, read the book, got the T-shirt and the decree absolute.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’She doesn’t sound sorry. Her tone suggests that I’ve met her every expectation and every one of them was as low as a snake in the grass.

At that moment a tiny blonde kid flings herself at Greenie’s legs.

‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, guess what we did today.’

Greenie crouches down so that she’s eye level with her daughter and beams. She doesn’t let the kid tell the exciting news because she swoops in for dozens of unselfconscious smackers. Greenie and her kid smile and kiss and chatter for some minutes and I’m forgotten. They mirror one another’s expressions of delight, surprise and wonderment and they both laugh at the same time as the child delivers what must be the punchline to the story. They are beautiful.

Greenie catches my eye and appears startled to see I’m still standing in the same spot. Had she thought I was a figment of her imagination? She manoeuvres the stroller around me and hordes of others and makes to leave. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’she says formally. ‘I have to go now.’

‘’Bye then,’I mutter.

She nods.

‘See you again,’I add.

This time she hesitates as she searches for the correct response. We lock our gaze and I see regret. I wonder if she is regretting that we can’t spend longer together or whether she is regretting we ever spent any time together at all.

I watch the threesome disappear along the busy tree-lined avenue until they fade into a dot.

Annoyingly my friends and relatives have timed their big push to reacclimatize me into society rather well. It’s mid-September and I soon discover that there are thousands of classes I could enrol for, all beginning in a week or two. I also discover that most of the classes are inexpensive, as I’m entitled to a single person’s allowance or, if I chose something vocational, I’d benefit from a back-to-work freebie. I learn this much from the dozens of brochures which Connie and Daisy have had sent to my house. When I am sure that an entire forest has been lopped just to provide me with a selection of prospectuses, Simon arrives out of the blue and insists that we sit down for three hours, searching on the internet for yet more appropriate courses. I work hard at not feeling pressurized or patronized and remind myself, on an almost hourly basis, that they mean well.

I start my search for a new hobby by flicking through the fattest prospectus. Some of the courses are intimidating, irrelevant or boring. But some, I have to admit, seem interesting. There is a large gap in my general
knowledge of history and literature, for example. I find I am a little bit tempted to enrol for a course entitled
Sorcery, Starvation and Sex: a study of sixteenth-century women
, if only because it’s a respectable way to reminisce about the days when sex was part of my life, which seems as long ago as the sixteenth century, ha ha.

Bell ringing? Something to do with computers? I’m not a technophobe. I use e-mail all the time, I shop on the internet, I research white goods (and now further education courses) on the internet and I’m a wiz with Excel. But I don’t wish to learn how to build a computer from scratch, so I flick past the section on computers. Dog training? No. Our Labrador is too old to learn new tricks. I relate to him but the dog doesn’t have a bossy sister insisting otherwise. Flower arranging? Now that might be pleasant. H for horticulture. Well, I do like gardening. I read the small print and discover that I’m being overly ambitious. There are options to specialize in milking goats or dry stone walling. I have a modest London garden, not a farm.

I draw up a shortlist of half a dozen courses that don’t actively worry or offend me and I pin the list to the noticeboard in the kitchen. I hope that the list, and the entire idea, will soon be forgotten; lost behind bits of paper advertising organic vegetable delivery and birthday party invites. I see that this is not to be when Luke arrives on my doorstep one evening. He’s carrying a bottle of wine and some papers which are later revealed to be application forms. I comment that it seems to be the case that the whole world is conspiring against me.

‘
For
you!’insists Luke. ‘Should I open this wine?’

Luke has been chosen as the one most likely to get me to sign on the dotted line because he’s an interesting blend of qualities (infinite patience and yet an ability to be decisive). It’s a powerful combination. Besides, I have a soft spot for him and everyone knows that I find it difficult to refuse him anything, which is why I’m so often making chocolate bread and butter pudding, his favourite.

Luke and I rarely have time alone and I decide at least to enjoy the novelty of male company. We chat about the kids. Fran is settling well at Holland House, she’s going to dress up as a Hungry Caterpillar for Readers’Day. I tell Luke that the boys are quibbling over the difference between a poem and a nursery rhyme.

When we are seated, with full glasses and a bowl of peanuts, he cuts to the chase and asks the same question all the others have asked.

‘So which course piques your interest?’If he’s feeling frustrated, he manages to hide the fact. But then he lives with Connie’s whimsical nature and appears to delight in it. ‘I gather you’ve narrowed down the field a little. Let’s see what we have here,’he says, spreading out the application forms on the floor, like tarot cards. ‘Flower arranging, pastry making, first aid, calligraphy, a study of etymology. I might as well confess I have a note here from Connie to steer you away from flower arranging and pastry making.’

‘Why?’I ask. I know the answer but I’m testing Luke’s honesty.

‘Well, her notes say I ought to point out that you already have those skills and you wouldn’t be stretching yourself.’

‘But in reality she doesn’t think I’ll meet any men on those courses, at least not straight ones, and therefore thinks they’ll be a waste of time.’

‘That might have crossed her mind.’He grins. ‘How about learning an instrument?’I shrug. ‘Something must appeal?’

The truth is they all terrify me. Not the actual learning. Historically, I was a girly swot and something like that never leaves you. I have no fear of practising a skill at home or having to write essays and hand them in on time. I have every confidence that I will be able to understand and retain all that is taught. My fears are more basic.

I’m dreading finding the place of higher education. Driving or catching a tube to somewhere unfamiliar seems a ghastly idea. I’ll have to set off hours in advance because I can’t bear being late, but I’m not great with maps. Even if I find the institution I’ll then have to find the actual classroom, and these places are notorious for having warren-like corridors.
And
, assuming that by some miracle I do get there on time, then, horror of horrors, I’ll have to walk in on my own. It will be dreadful.

Everyone will look at me and they’ll size me up.
Judge my clothes, my manner, my size. They’ll categorize me (it’s simple, I look like an archetypal daft, bored housewife) and then they’ll dismiss me. The other students will be younger than me, or brighter, or fitter, or at least more confident. That much is guaranteed. I will then be required to do one of those dreadful introductions. Who I am and why I’m here? Good questions, dumb answers only required. I remember those hideous intros from training days when I worked in a corporate environment. Worse yet, if the tutor is ‘wacky’and wants to ‘shake things up’, we’ll be asked to reveal something no one else knows about us in order to break the ice. Why would I want to share something with a room full of complete strangers that I’ve kept from my nearest and dearest? I’m not even sure I have any secrets. Certainly not interesting ones. How lame is that? Would anyone care that my secret recipe for a moist Christmas cake is adding a cold cup of tea?

I might be asked to answer other questions. In the classroom, this is bearable. As I say, I’m reasonably academic; I can usually think of something not entirely stupid to contribute. But answering questions in the coffee break, which will almost certainly be required, is a terrifying prospect. Someone, a bubbly blonde no doubt, will pounce on me as I slosh milk into my cup of instant coffee, and she’ll insist on asking about my family. I see it now. Her cheery disposition will be tested as I reveal that I’m a divorcee. She’ll try to think of something to say; something kind, conciliatory or
witty depending on how nice she is. She’ll pity me but dismiss me. I’ll never make a dinner party guest; I’ll screw up the seating plan.

I tell Luke all of this.

‘I see,’he says, in a way which suggests he does. This is to his credit because of course he can’t possibly see. He has no idea what it’s like to be a single, prematurely middle-aged, under-confident woman.

‘I think you should do a course in mechanics,’he says.

‘What?’

‘It’s useful. You struggle to find anything on your car beyond the ignition and the headlights. Connie and Daisy will get off your back because they’ll think by going to a course on mechanics you’ll meet men. But in reality the only people you’ll meet on a mechanics course are teenage boys, who are often astoundingly shy, perhaps even more so than yourself, and at least unthreatening. No offence, Rose, but they’ll think of you as a mother figure.’

‘None taken. At least I have practice at being a mother. If someone hit on me, I’d be at sea.’

Luke smiles, kindly. ‘Teenage boys will be great. And then there will be other women in the same position as you.’

‘Women in the same position as me.’I echo the sentence because the sentiment has never crossed my mind before.

‘Yes. Independent women. Let’s face it, as sexist as it is to admit, the truth is there aren’t many women in
this world who are prepared to change a tyre or check water and oil in their car if they think someone else will do it for them. If there are women on this course the chances are that they will be in a similar position to you. They won’t pity you, Rose. They’ll admire you. They’ll understand you.’

I’ve never considered the possibility that there are other single mums out there. I’ve never attended those support groups, full of angry dungaree-wearing women sipping black coffee. It seemed somehow indulgent. Besides, I had enough anger of my own to deal with; the last thing I needed was to shoulder other people’s. At Holland House everyone is respectably married; even a second, third or fourth marriage seems respectable in comparison to being on one’s own. Maybe Luke is on to something. Maybe I’ve been looking in the wrong places.

‘OK,’I say quietly.

‘OK, you’ll do it?’asks Luke, unable to hide his surprise and excitement. He was obviously expecting a longer battle.

‘Yes, I think it’s a good idea. What day is the course on?’

‘Wednesdays from 7.30 p.m. till 9. Starts this week.’

‘Tell Connie she’s booked for babysitting and that I’ll do her VAT returns if she brings over her files of receipts and invoices.’

‘You mean the shoebox she keeps under the bed?’asks Luke. ‘You know how disorganized she can be.’

We smile and I pour us both another glass of wine.

‘I think I need this,’I observe.

‘I think you deserve it,’says Luke with a fat grin. And he clinks my glass.

There’s a woman at work that I would do if I didn’t have to work with her for the next three months. In truth, there are dozens of women at work that I would do if I didn’t have to see them again, but the one I’m on about is especially hot. Mandy’s her name. I like that. Like the fact that she hasn’t upgraded her name to Amanda but stuck with the childish derivative that her mam and dad probably use. She’s smart and beautiful and in her late twenties. She likes me too, it’s obvious. She’s always hanging around my desk. There’s no doubt about it, I would do her if we didn’t work together. But no way. The stakes are too high and there’s always totty. I’ve only ever broken that rule once with, as you’d expect, disastrous results.

Greenie. Connie. What was it about her that made me break my own rules? And of course the old adage
is
true, you should never, ever crap on your own doorstep. If she taught me anything, it was that. Funny, I haven’t given Greenie a thought in years but since I
bumped into her on Friday she keeps popping into my head pretty much constantly.

Last time I gave her any mind-share must have been about two years ago when I came across her work at a tiny photographic exhibition. Artsy-fartsy galleries aren’t normally my thing. But my then Mrs was quite into that sort of stuff and we’d been rowing (situation normal) and I thought I’d try and do something nice with her. For her. So I got a copy of the
Guide
from the
Guardian
. Working from a position of ignorance I had no reason to select one exhibit over another and there were dozens to choose from. I saw this advert for a photographic exhibition of new up-and-coming talent, and it was near to a tube station on our line, so I plumped for that one.

There were six photographers exhibiting. All pretty good, I suppose, but it was only the third set of photos that I found genuinely arresting.

The pictures were showing under a headline ‘The Bedroom’, which was an attention-grabbing title to a man like me. The pics were of women in various states of dress and undress, lying in bed. The women were always alone but you got the sense from the photos that they had all either just been entertaining or were waiting to be enjoyed. The girls were dozing, or snuggling pillows, or wide awake and expectantly preening, and in one photo the woman was having a fag; it was unquestionably post-coital. The ladies were not models. One was breathtakingly beautiful but the others were
just normal women like you see in the high street every day, and yet the photographer captured them in a way that made them all look sexy and stunning, or at least peaceful and content. I scanned the leaflet I’d picked up at the door, interested enough to want to remember the photographer’s name. I had money on the photographer being a man, but it wasn’t. Constance Baker. She’d chosen to use her married name.