The Fleeting Years Page 9

  ‘Let me pour you your drink first, then I’ll nip out the back and tell Kitty your order. Then we’ll have time for a bit of a chat. I’ll be wanting to hear how those two chil’un of yours are getting on. Must be into their teens I’d be guessing. Fair puts the wind up you the way the time runs away.’

  So with the order given and a gin and tonic passed to Zina and ‘something for yourself’ in a half pint glass waiting on the bar, he came back prepared for his ‘bit of a chat’. He had always been one of Zina’s special people. Rich, poor, beautiful or plain, Bert Saunders wasn’t taken in by appearance and, perhaps because of that, he drew out the best in everyone.

  ‘And how about you?’ He asked, taking a good draught of his ale and settling with his elbows on the bar. ‘Still off playing that fiddle are you? Your mother drives over sometimes on her own, you know, and she tells me all about you. Remember when you used to be a nipper and your dad used to buy you a glass of ginger beer and a packet of your favourite cheesy biscuits to have out there in the car. Nice man he always was.’

  ‘He was very special,’ Zina agreed, the way the conversation had turned resurrecting her anger for the way Jenny was behaving.

  ‘You know what I always think – mind, I wouldn’t say this to her face – but I reckon when your ma drives out here it’s looking for memories. I watch her sometimes walking off to the moor; not like it used to be with the two of them, aye, three of you when you were around. Rotten luck to be left on her own at her age.’

  ‘Even more rotten for him to die so young.’

  ‘Ah. A good marriage, I reckon that’s the best thing anyone can wish for in this life. No one’s is all beer and skittles, but given a good partner then there’s nothing that’ll beat a person. Your husband still acting is he? Don’t think I’ve ever met him, no, not had the pleasure. Not a walker maybe?’

  ‘A good stomp on the moor takes more time than he usually has. One of these days when he is home for more than a brief day or so we’ll come over and he’ll get acquainted with Mrs Saunders’ pies. It’s not just the moor folk come out here for. This place has always been a bit special for as long as I can remember.’

  ‘Bless your heart, m’dear.’

  The atmosphere of the old inn was working its magic on her, and by the time Jenny and Derek arrived she knew the meal would be the crowning success of the trip. The table talk flowed easily and she forgot to be angry with her mother.

  It was half past five when Zina watched Derek’s car disappearing down the drive. The weekend loomed ahead, long and empty. But before any such sentiment had a chance to take root she let herself into the house, thinking that between half past five and six o’clock was the time the children in the twins’ year at St Mary’s were allowed to have phone calls. But it seemed every other parent had the same idea for it took her a quarter of an hour of dialling and redialling before the ringing tone told her she’d got through between calls. A young voice answered and said she (or perhaps he with a voice not yet broken) would find either Fiona or Tom.

  ‘Hello, it’s Tom here.’

  ‘Hi, Tom.’

  ‘Oh Mum, it’s you. That’s nice, I thought you were off somewhere playing this evening. Are you all right? Is anything wrong?’

  He listened to the explanation about the fire and then about the trip to the moor.

  ‘And now you’re by yourself? Pity you didn’t have the recital, Mum. What are you going to do? I suppose Dad’s not coming if he thought you wouldn’t be there.’

  ‘I’ll be OK. I’ll probably see Celia tomorrow. Now tell me about you.’

  ‘Not long now before the exams – music ones, I mean. Mr Messer has definitely put me down to take two grades, four and five in both, he says I’m ready. It’s exciting, isn’t it, and a bit scary too. Were you excited when you were learning?’

  She laughed. ‘Yes Tom, I was, but like you say a bit scared too. I’d forgotten just how excited until you started up the ladder and that brings it all back. You’ve done remarkably well, you know. If you pass them all that’ll be wonderful, but two at a time is a huge challenge so you mustn’t be disappointed with yourself if it’s too big a step to take. To be on grade five after three and a half years is tremendous. Everything else going well? And what about Fiona?’

  Tom chuckled. ‘She’s on cloud nine, getting ready for the end of term play. I sneaked in and watched the rehearsal the other day and, Mum, she really is good. Not just that she knows her words but she’s so good that she makes it all seem real. You wait till Dad sees her this time; he’ll be chuffed as anything.’

  ‘If he allows himself to spare the time.’ Her words were spoken before she could hold them back. Then, as if to wipe them out, she laughed and added, ‘Only joking. He’s so busy lately that he hardly even gets home. But I’m sure he’ll manage the play.’

  ‘It isn’t that he hasn’t much chance to get home that made you sound cross, Mum. It’s because he doesn’t get excited like we do about my music exams. But, Mum, he isn’t meaning to be nasty, he just doesn’t understand. But acting, well that’s different. I expect you and me don’t really feel as thrilled as Dad and Fiona do about how well she’s doing. It isn’t anybody’s fault, don’t you see? It’s just that they don’t sort of get the feel of it like we do. I’m quite glad really; it’s something special just for us. Does that sound mushy? I don’t mean it to.’

  ‘Oh Tommy, I wish you were here and I could hug you. Yes, it makes it special for us and I expect prancing around in front of an audience is just as special for them.’

  ‘Better not let them hear you call it prancing about,’ he said with a giggle. ‘I’d better go, Mum. Telephone time ends in ten minutes and there are people waiting for calls from home. Just as long as you’re OK.’

  ‘Good night, love. God bless.’

  ‘And you.’

  She rang off, realizing how talking to Tom always lifted her spirits. She made some coffee and raided the biscuit tin, so much easier than thinking about cooking food. Then she moved her car into the garage, from where she had left it in front of the house when she’d changed to Derek’s for the trip to the moor, before going back into the empty house and turning on the television with more hope than expectation. When the late evening news finished she decided it wasn’t too early to go to bed, putting an end to the day.

  It was during the night that something woke her. She didn’t know what it was she’d heard, she was just aware that there had been something, but by the time she was really awake and listening everything was silent. Yet she knew she hadn’t been dreaming. Could it have been an animal, a fox perhaps walking on the gravel? She listened, aware of the thumping of her heart. She always told herself she wasn’t nervous living alone. So why, now, was she gripped by cold fear? There it was again … someone was trying to tread quietly. She had set the burglar alarm, and now she reached to the bedside table as if she needed to reassure herself that the telephone was to hand, then getting out of bed, she put on her dressing gown and tied it tightly around her slim waist. As soon as she heard the shrill alarm bell she would ring the police – and anyway at the sound of it surely any would-be thief would make an escape. Hark! Another scuff of the gravel. She remembered how when they had bought the house Peter had had the existing tarmac driveway covered with thick gravel as a deterrent to burglars. There was no reason for her to creep, but instinct prompted her to move silently to the window. She could see no one, and there was no sign of a vehicle, but there was the sound again! Whoever it was must be keeping very close to the building, out of view from the bedroom. Moving without a sound, and in the dark, she groped to find a chair and carried it to the door where she propped it so that it would crash to the ground if anyone tried to get in. Reason ought to have told her that a burglar was unlikely to make for her bedroom when there were richer pickings downstairs. But perhaps she was letting her imagination run away with her, perhaps it was no more than a fox – or the puma that people claimed to have had sightings of rece
ntly. No, hark, there was a different sound! A downstairs door being closed carefully, quietly! Someone had got in and the burglar alarm hadn’t worked. All these nights when she’d set it so confidently had it not been working? She felt sick with fear as she tried to imagine where, in the dark room, she could put her hand on something with which she could attack the intruder. The best she could think of was the silver-backed hand mirror on her dressing table, so she groped across the room to have it ready. She didn’t want to damage it. It used to belong to her father’s mother, a grandmother she had been close to, and her great-grandmother before that; even though it was out of keeping with the modern decor of the room, it was something she treasured. But, she told herself as she clutched the silver handle in her clammy and shaking hand, Gran wouldn’t have stood any nonsense from the sod, she’d be right with me. If she brought it down on his head it might not do him any serious harm, but hopefully it would be enough to stop him in his tracks. Beyond that she was frightened to let herself imagine.

  She must keep calm, she must think rationally. Yes, of course, it was no use waiting until he was trying to get into the room. Now was the time to phone the police. Perhaps there might be a motor vehicle cruising on its round not too far away. For a second she let herself believe they might get here in time to catch him red-handed. But as she took the first step towards the phone, fear stopped her in her tracks. Footsteps as stealthy as her own were coming up the stairs. Her mouth was as dry as sawdust; she felt every nerve alive with terror and knew she was a trembling wreck. It was hard to keep a firm grip on her meagre implement of defence as, with no time for telephoning, she got into position with her arm raised ready to attack if the falling chair didn’t frighten the intruder away. She remembered she had heard on the news of an elderly woman being raped by a night-time intruder. She told herself that she was strong, she would fight … but how could she fight when it was as much as she could do to breathe?

  In the dark she stood trembling with one hand on the doorknob so that she would be ready the minute the chair was knocked aside. Yes, she felt the knob move, oh God, help me, help me! I mustn’t miss. Whoever he is, if I don’t hit him hard enough he’ll have the advantage. But he’s on strange ground; I’m not. It took no more than a second for the thoughts to fill her mind as the doorknob turned. Then everything happened at once. The chair was thrown from where she had propped it, expecting to hit the intruder’s head she misjudged and brought the hand mirror down on his shoulder in the same second as the room was flooded with light and she found herself face to face with Peter.

  ‘In God’s name, what the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  Anger, shock and relief vied for place, but all she was capable of was dropping to sit on the side of the bed, her whole body shaking. Relief destroyed every bit of her self-control.

  ‘I thought … I didn’t know …’ Her voice rose hysterically. ‘You with your stupid bloody surprises … why didn’t you tell me you were going to turn up in the middle of the night? I thought …’

  ‘Why didn’t I tell you? Because I didn’t expect you to drive home after an evening recital in – wherever it was. Who do you imagine but me would have turned the alarm off before it had time to go into action? A burglar would hardly have known the code to clock in even if he’d found it in the dark.’

  A minute ago she had been sweating with fear; now she couldn’t stop shivering. Her nightdress felt clammy and when she took off her dressing gown she pulled it from her shoulders, let it slip to the floor and kicked it out of the way. He was looking at her in that way which so often annoyed her, one eyebrow raised. Without a word she took another nightdress from her draw and slipped it on.

  ‘There was no recital. The hall was burnt down last night.’

  This time when he looked at her she recognized laughter in his eyes. ‘Did someone feel that strongly?’ he said with a teasing chuckle, yet without the malice she so often detected.

  She was recovering. She replaced the chair to its usual place and the hand mirror to the dressing table before she climbed into bed.

  ‘What made you decide to come as late as this? I wish you’d come earlier so that we could have had the evening. Evenings are the hardest part here by myself.’ Back in bed again, her fright behind her, she watched him pulling off his clothes and throwing them unceremoniously onto the chair which a minute or two ago had been barricading the door. ‘I’ve just thought – when I heard footsteps outside I looked out but there wasn’t a car. How did you get here?’

  ‘I drove straight to the garage. When I saw yours parked there I knew you were home.’ Then with that mischievous smile, he added, ‘That’s why I crept – never thinking you’d be preparing a knockout blow.’ He’d been living the last few hours on a reserve of energy which seemed suddenly to have given out. ‘At last, bed. Did you know it’s nearly four o’clock. Tonight, Mrs Marchand, I’m coming to bed unshaven.’

  What a weak fool she was, she told herself. All he had to do was speak to her in that tone of voice and all her misgivings were laid to rest. She turned towards him, nuzzling her face against his neck.

  ‘Nearly four o’clock,’ she mused, ‘it must have been way after midnight when you set out. What made you decide?’ Even as she asked it, she imagined him ending his evening and wanting to be with her, close to her like this. Why else would he have come so far in the middle of the night? For her, sleep was far away – but then, unlike him, she’d already had more than five hours in bed. A contented smile teased the corners of her mouth as she wriggled closer.

  ‘I hadn’t meant to come. But, Zina, there’s a lot we have to talk about. This is an unnatural way of living, for both of us. The future is going to be different. It has to be. We’ll talk about it tomorrow, that’s why I came home. God, but I’m shattered. Do you realize I’ve been up nearly twenty-four hours.’

  How could he settle for sleep after what he’d said?

  ‘Peter,’ she whispered, sitting up and bending over him. But she knew from his breathing that he was beyond talking any more. ‘Peter, wake up. How will it all be different? What have we got to discuss?’ She tried to shake him, but it was no use. Twenty-three hours of wakefulness ending with a long drive had defeated him.

  Peter usually slept quietly, but in his exhausted state the only reply she had was a cross between a snort and a snore. She lay on her back gazing at the dark ceiling. Such a little while ago she had been a trembling mass of fear. So she was still, but this was fear of another sort. Gazing up into the darkness she was too full of despair to marshal coherent thought at all. Up until now, she had believed that he derived pleasure in hurting her because he was jealous of the hold her love of music had on her, but over these last years had the truth been that he’d been drifting away from her, caught up in a life in which she had no part? Had he fallen in love with someone else? Who could blame him, mixing as he did with women of both beauty and talent? She felt herself to be plain and dull. Things to discuss … an unnatural way of living … it couldn’t go on … a future that was different. No matter how exhausted he was, how could he say those things and then fall straight into sleep? Into her mind came the image of Celia and Jacques, the union between them strong and unchanging.

  Trying to sleep was impossible for Zina. She turned her pillow, she couldn’t relax no matter how much she tried to hold her thoughts away from what he had said – or, even worse, half said. Having come to bed early her best sleep was over before she had been woken and finally she gave up the battle. Carrying her dressing gown and slippers she crept downstairs. But upstairs or down made no difference, there was no escaping from his veiled hints. She needed no light, every step was familiar to her. In the dining room she sat at the table, feeling the smooth shining wood under her fingers. She thought of how their lives used to be and what they had become. When the children were small, at the baby school and here with her every day, she would never have believed it possible that between herself and Peter anything could ever change. W
hen had they gone wrong? They were a family, each one dependent on the others. Even now, although he was too pig-headed to acknowledge it, she was at home far more than she was away. Perhaps he was bored with her.

  When she joined the quintet and he made such a martyr of himself was that just because he was frightened to face the fact he was bored with her, bored with the odd weekends at home with the children, missing his jolly lot of actors and the like, all living in their world of glitz and make-believe? She knew she was making herself think that way, building her defences against whatever she had to face when he put flesh on the skeleton he had given her in the night.

  If there’s someone else, surely I would have known. Love-making is when we always come close, not just with our bodies but with our spirits too, that’s what I’ve always felt. But for him had it just been physical sex?

  She realized how long she must have been sitting, her elbows on the table and her head in her hands. Already it was almost light. Making an effort she went into the kitchen and switched the kettle on. Tea or instant coffee? She disliked the thought of either but with determination reached for the packet of tea bags.

  So a new day started and, while Peter still slept, she showered, dressed, put on her make-up and told herself she was steeled and ready for anything he threw at her. It was not much after nine o’clock when the telephone rang. She answered it on the extension in the dining room.

  ‘Not too early for you, Zina?’ came Jenny’s greeting, a note of repressed excitement in her tone, something Zina chose to ignore.

  ‘Early? I’ve been up ages. Everything all right? It was a nice trip yesterday, wasn’t it? Bert Saunders never changes – and neither does the cooking.’ There was nothing in the way she said it to hint how she had felt watching Jenny’s behaviour.