Читать книгу Distant Voices - Barbara Erskine - Страница 10

Steve and I had known each other since we were children, brought up in the same village, growing together, and at last, realising that we were in love, we became engaged on my eighteenth birthday. Then began our struggle to save enough money for a deposit on our own home. Steven didn’t want us to marry until, as he put it, he could support me properly, or at least put a roof over my head, and in spite of my pleas that it didn’t matter, our engagement stretched out for one and then two years. Steve was a mechanic at the local garage in the village and was hoping desperately to be offered a partnership by the owner, so the future looked good, if only we could save enough for that deposit. And then something happened which was to have a profound effect on our lives together. Steve’s great aunt Irene who had looked after him when he was a little boy suddenly had a stroke and they said that she would never be able to manage on her own again; even when she was strong enough to leave the hospital she would have to go into a home for elderly people where she could be properly looked after.

As soon as she was well enough to have visitors she called Steve and me to her bedside. She could hardly speak, and her poor withered hand lay paralysed on the sheet but she made it clear, with tears in her eyes, that her cottage was ours. It was to be a wedding present.

Six weeks later we were married. The cottage was tiny, but it was our own home at last and I adored it. The low oak-beamed parlour had two rocking chairs and a table and there was room for little else. The bedroom window opened out under the thatch and wisteria and honeysuckle climbed round it. I remember I leaned out of that window on the first morning after we moved in and took a deep breath of the fresh air and I could have cried for happiness.

I worked as a waitress at the local Tudor Tea Rooms before we married and I kept on my job. For one thing I enjoyed it; for another we were still saving all we could. The cottage needed modernising badly and we wanted to start a family of course, so it seemed sensible to work all the hours we could fit in, putting every penny we earned into the bank. Although we were both tired and strained more often than not, we stayed happy. Or I thought we did. But perhaps without our realising it, earning money had by now become for us both an end in itself, more important even than our love for each other.

The trouble started in the summer two years after we were married. We were always very busy at that time of year in the café, for hundreds of tourists crowded into our tiny Cotswold village to see its beauties and its famous manor house, and often I would come home too exhausted even to give Steve his supper before I tumbled into bed, falling asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow. I was much too tired to make love.

It was about then that Steve started working overtime in the evenings. ‘I might as well, for all I see of you,’ he said rather bitterly. ‘And besides, I can’t bear to see you so tired.’ And he had weighed my heavy blonde hair – the same colour as his almost – in his hands, and kissed me rather wistfully on the cheek. ‘If I work extra perhaps soon you can give up the waitressing altogether.’

I glanced up at him gratefully and tried not to feel guilty as I noticed, for the first time, that he too was tired, and his face pallid from lying all day under cars when everyone else in the village was deeply tanned from the summer sun.

And so it happened that we had hardly seen each other for the last three months or so at all. We were saving, yes; but without my realising it, our marriage was fading away.

I was feeling especially tired and depressed when one day, as I was serving at the front tables, the ones which looked out of the mullioned windows across the green, a young man came in. He was of middle height, not terribly good-looking, rather swarthy, but he had the most incredible eyes. Light grey, so light they were like silver streaks in his tanned face. He beckoned me over.

‘What’s your name, sweetheart?’ he asked in an American accent.

I smiled at him easily, whisking crumbs off the table with my cloth. I was used to this.

‘I’m Linda,’ I smiled. ‘What can I get you, sir?’

‘Tea. An English tea with cream cakes and scones please, Linda my love, and later perhaps you can show me the town?’

‘Sorry sir, my husband will be expecting me home,’ I answered with a practised smile. I turned to get his order.

Usually I dismissed passes like this man’s without another thought, but something about his eyes, and the way his face fell when his gaze rested on the wedding ring which I waved under his nose, tugged at my heart.

When I took the tray to his table I asked casually, ‘You all on your own then?’

He nodded. ‘I’m over from the States for a few months. I’m a photographer and I’m doing a series on beautiful old England.’

There was something so wistful about his smile that I felt my heart do a quick bump.

As I moved quickly round the tables with my tray I could feel his gaze following me and every time I re-emerged from the kitchen with a new plate of scones and clotted cream, there he was watching.

When I took his bill to him he grabbed my wrist. ‘Honey, wouldn’t your husband spare you for half an hour – just to have a drink with me at the pub? I hate going alone.’

I felt my stomach lurch. I had told him Steve expected me. It wasn’t strictly true, of course. He had told me that there was a rush job on at the garage again that night, and he might not be back until even later than usual. As I said, I was depressed, and bored.

I took a deep breath. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I could manage a very quick drink, but not here.’ I thought of the prying eyes and quick tongues of the village folk. ‘Have you a car?’

He nodded.

‘Then pick me up outside the post office.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘I’m on till we close this evening, at six. I’ll see you then.’

His name turned out to be Graham, and he told me at once he had a wife and two kids in Wisconsin. We spent a couple of hours driving round the leafy lanes and then went to the fifteenth-century pub in the next village. He brought me home and dropped me at the end of our lane before going back to his hotel.

It was a perfectly innocent and very enjoyable outing, and so was the next, three nights later when Steve was again especially late. After that Graham took to dropping in at the tea rooms every evening as we were closing and I would tell him whether or not I would be able to spare an hour or two.

Steve was more and more regularly late at the garage as they seemed unusually busy so I saw more and more of Graham. I never mentioned Graham at home. The first time, Steve had come home in a temper from work, very unusually for him, and I knew it had not been the right moment. Then after that it became increasingly difficult.

Then came the time, inevitably, when Graham kissed me.

It happened so gently, so naturally, I hardly noticed it coming and before I could help myself I had returned it, passionately allowing him to draw me against his chest till I could hardly breathe.

‘Oh no Graham. No!’ I pushed him away suddenly. ‘No, don’t. I love my husband.’

‘Sure, honey.’ Gently but firmly he drew me back again. ‘He won’t miss a kiss or two, for a lonely man.’

But I was scared. I turned my head away and pushed with my fists against his chest. ‘Don’t Graham. No. I want to go home, please.’

Reluctantly he released me. ‘Okay Linda, if you’re sure that’s what you really want.’ He looked at me closely and as those silvery eyes met mine I felt my heart give a disloyal little lurch. It wasn’t what I wanted at all.

He dropped me off at the end of the lane as usual and I made my way through the fragrant twilight to the cottage. Steve wasn’t home, so I let myself out of the back door and into the garden. I could smell a whiff of pipe smoke from next door. Ian Johnson and his wife were sitting on their porch chatting quietly.

I had kicked off my sandals to walk on the dewy lawn, so I suppose they didn’t hear me. The cottage was in darkness so they must have assumed I was still out.

‘It’s that pretty little wife of his I’m sorry for,’ came Ian’s voice, low but clearly audible. ‘She doesn’t suspect a thing.’

‘’E deserves to be shot ’e does,’ came his wife’s voice. ‘Such a lovely couple they were. And I was so pleased when old Irene said they could live in her cottage. Hoping for some little ones next door, I was, and now this ’as to ’appen.’

‘She’s bound to find out.’ Ian again, and a fresh cloud of smoke wafted over the roses as he drew on his pipe.

As I stood, listening, I was shaking with cold. My hands gripped the skirt of my dress and crushed the fabric convulsively. I felt terribly sick.

What were they talking about? I wanted to run next door, to scream, to cry, to ask questions, but in my heart I already knew the answer.

Steve’s boss had never been all that keen on overtime in the past, so why should he have started working till all hours this summer especially? Certainly not just to help us with our finances, and I had never bothered to go to the garage to check. I could feel a great sob, like a lump in my chest, and I turned and fled into the cottage before it could come out like a scream of misery.

I sat for an hour or more in the dark listening to the steady calm ticking of Aunt Irene’s grandmother clock. Then I heard the front door open and close again softly.

‘Linda, are you home?’ Steve called quietly.

I couldn’t say a word. I sat in the dark, my hands still clutching my skirt.

‘Lyn?’

He pushed open the parlour door and clicked on the light.

‘Lyn! What are you doing here?’ He gazed at me in astonishment.

I hadn’t actually been crying, but my face must have told him everything for he sat down suddenly on the edge of the rocking chair and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘You know, don’t you.’ It was a statement, not a question.

I nodded dumbly.

‘Oh Lord, Lyn. I’d have given the world for it not to have happened.’ He stared at me miserably. ‘What am I going to do?’

‘You’d better tell me the truth,’ I whispered at last. And I waited, my face in my hands, while he told me.

‘Her name’s Lauren. I met her a few months before you and I were married. She went to work in London, and then three months ago she came back. I serviced her car and we got chatting.’ He shrugged. There was a long silence, then he raised his head and looked at me. ‘She’s going to have my baby, Lyn. I don’t know what to do.’

‘Do you love her?’ I couldn’t recognise my own voice, it was so cracked with fear.

He nodded. Then he shrugged desperately. ‘Not as much as I love you. You mean everything to me, Lyn, you know you do, but …’

‘But! While I’ve been working my fingers to the bone, struggling, saving … you’ve been spending money on someone else. The whole village knows except me. You louse! You hypocrite. You foul, beastly rotten dirty beast!’ I was screaming at him now, and I saw him stand up, his face pale.

‘Quietly Linda, please,’ he tried to interrupt me, but I couldn’t stop.

‘You mean, unkind, disloyal bastard!’ The tears were streaming down my face now. ‘How could you! How could you? Well, if you don’t want me, thank goodness there is someone who does!’

Blindly I pushed past him and groped my way out to the front door. I opened it and ran down the path between the hollyhocks in my bare feet.

I don’t think he tried to stop me. I didn’t wait to see.

I turned out of the gate and ran down the road. I had only one thought in my head. To go to Graham. I was so hurt and angry and miserable I didn’t think at all beyond that one thing.

I ran most of the way to his hotel, not caring about the cars that flashed past me in the dark or the one or two passing pedestrians. My feet hurt terribly on the tarmac and my hair whipped in tangles against my burning face. The receptionist looked at me in horror as I pushed open the revolving door, but she rang through to Graham’s room without comment and ten seconds later I was in his arms.

He helped me to his room and rang down for drinks and some coffee. Then he sat me down firmly on the bed.

‘Calm down, Lyn honey. Tell me slowly,’ he ordered. He reached over into his bedside cabinet and produced an enormous box of tissues.

Somehow I blew my nose and stopped crying. Then, gulping, I poured out my story to him.

After a few moments there was a knock on the door and a maid brought in the tray with the coffee and drinks. She stared at me curiously, then I saw her eyes widen as she noticed my feet. They were bleeding. At the sight of them suddenly I burst into tears again, and she was bustled off on Graham’s instructions to get a bowl of warm water and antiseptic.

By the time they had finished fussing over me I had managed to stop crying and when we were alone again at last I gave him a watery smile.

‘I’m sorry, Graham. Forgive me. It was all such a shock.’

‘Of course it was, honey.’ He took my hands and held them gently. ‘The guy sounds no good to me at all. You’re well out. Do you want to go back to London with me, Thursday?’

I nodded dumbly. I never wanted to see Steve again or our beautiful cottage which I couldn’t even think of as home any more. All I wanted – was out.

Later, much later, I crawled into bed. Graham’s bed. He turned off the lamps one by one, then he climbed in beside me. I was exhausted and still very tense and when he rolled over towards me and reached out I shrank away suddenly.

‘Okay honey. No hurry.’ He turned onto his back and lay staring up at the ceiling and after a few moments I heard his breathing grow deep and regular and I knew he was asleep.

I barely slept that night. Every time I dozed off I awoke with a start, clinging to the edge of the bed. As dawn broke I crept from the blankets, my eyes heavy with lack of sleep, and drew back the curtain to gaze out into the garden.

We breakfasted in the room, then as soon as I was sure that Steve would have gone to work I let Graham drive me back to the end of the lane. He had a day of appointments he couldn’t break so he persuaded me that I may as well go home and collect some things.

Quietly I let myself in and not letting myself stop to think I ran up the stairs.

Steve was lying face down on the bed. I stopped dead when I saw him and turned to run downstairs again but he had heard me and he raised his head. His face was strangely red and swollen and it struck me suddenly that he too had been crying.

‘Where have you been?’ he whispered. ‘I’ve been out of my mind with worry.’

‘With a man of course.’ I wanted to hurt him as much as he had hurt me.

‘Oh Lyn.’ He bit his lip, painfully sitting up and swinging his legs to the floor. ‘What has happened to us?’

‘Nothing happened to me,’ I retorted. ‘I trusted you; I was working hard, for us, and look what happened.’ It didn’t cross my mind that perhaps if I had been less preoccupied with Graham over the last few weeks, things might never have gone so far.

I stamped across to the window and looked out. Ian Johnson was cutting roses next door. I could see the curl of blue smoke rising from his pipe.

I heard Steve coming across the room behind me. Then his hand was on my shoulder. ‘Linda, my love. Can you ever forgive me?’

I shrugged off his hand, and shook my head.

‘I’m leaving you, Steve. Even if I wanted to stay, it seems to me you’ve got commitments elsewhere now.’ I was so weary by now that my voice was quite unemotional and flat. I hardly cared what was going to happen.

We stood in silence for a moment, then Steve said, ‘Who is this man?’

I felt suddenly dreadfully guilty. ‘He was just a friend. Someone I met at the teashop.’ I turned and nearly spat at him, ‘He was just a friend to me, but I knew he loved me. He cares. I’m going to London with him. There’s nothing for me to stay for, is there?’

As I felt the tears welling up in my eyes again I turned back to the window. ‘Go away Steven, please.’

I held my breath. Would he go? I desperately wanted him to stay suddenly, but I heard his soft footsteps on the rug and then the sound of the door shutting behind him. Then I let the tears run down my face unchecked.

I don’t know how long I stood there. Perhaps it was hours. Slowly my tears stopped and dried in streaks on my cheeks. I felt completely drained and empty.

I nearly didn’t answer the knock on the front door. But then I slowly dragged myself down the stairs. There was a young woman on the doorstep. Instinctively I knew it must be Lauren. She was tall and slim with auburn hair. There were great dark circles beneath her eyes too.

‘Are you Linda?’ she asked bluntly.

I nodded, still clutching the door-handle.

She swallowed. ‘Will you tell Steve I’m going back to London. I don’t want to see him again.’

‘But the baby!’ I blurted out.

She blushed crimson. ‘There isn’t any baby, Linda. I made it up. I knew that was the only way I would get Steve, make him divorce you. But I couldn’t go through with it. I’m sorry.’

She paused as though she was going to say something else, and then she turned and ran down the path.

I didn’t know what to do. I just stood there for a while, looking after her, then I went slowly into the kitchen and made myself a cup of black coffee. It made me feel rather sick, but I hoped it might help me to think straight.

What was I to do? My brain raced in circles. Steve, Graham, the cottage, my beautiful little home. Steve, Graham, Steve … oh Steve.

I hardly know to this day what made me do it, drag a comb through my hair, collect my purse, and take the bus into Minster. The old people’s home was near the bus station, set in a lovely garden.

Aunt Irene was sitting on the porch, gazing out at the rose beds when I arrived. She smiled at me when she saw me and gestured at the chair near her. Her poor hand was still paralysed but she looked much better than when Steve and I had last seen her.

I felt her looking at me closely as I sat there not knowing what to say. I didn’t want to tell her anything; I just wanted the comfort of being near her, I think because she was Steve’s aunt.

‘It’s good of you to come, my dear,’ she commented at last. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about you and Steve.’

I felt myself blushing and I looked at my hands. Me and Steve. It seemed strange that she could still refer to us together like that, as if nothing had happened.

I looked up and smiled wanly, and I was quite embarrassed to find her looking at me so shrewdly. I felt it was almost as if she knew exactly why I was there. I suppose it can’t have been difficult to guess that we had had a row.

‘You know, Linda, I often think of my life in that cottage when I was young. I’m so happy to think that you two live there now, to fill it with happiness and laughter. I never told Steve this, but when I was a girl,’ she paused and there was such a long silence I thought she had forgotten what she was talking about, the way old people do, but then she went on, ‘I was engaged once, you know. To such a nice boy.’ Her faded blue eyes twinkled at the memory. ‘We nearly got married, then I found out that he’d done something very bad – he’d stolen some money. I told him I couldn’t marry him. He went away to the war of course, in 1914, and he was killed in the first month.’ There was a long silence. I could see that even now, after so many years, it still hurt her to think about it. At last she went on, ‘If I’d stood by him, in spite of what he’d done, I often think perhaps he might not have been killed. I might have had children of my own …’ Her voice tailed away again, and I felt my eyes fill with tears.

She smiled suddenly. ‘You won’t wait too long, will you Linda, you and Steve? I would so like to see your babies before I die, my dear.’ Then she became suddenly brisk. ‘Why not go and find the housekeeper and ask her if you can stay and have lunch with me. I’d like that. Don’t look so sad, dear. Take no notice of an old woman’s ramblings. After all, you do have Steve; and I know you love each other so much, that nothing could come between you the way it did between Robert and me. Nothing, however bad, should come between lovers. They must forgive.’

I got up and dropped a kiss on her head. ‘I’ll go and see about lunch,’ I said, my voice catching in my throat.

Of course it was very hard to forgive and I could never forget, but somehow we managed to get through that summer, Steve and I. When Graham came for me that afternoon I told him I couldn’t go to London after all and he shrugged philosophically. ‘I’m sorry, honey; if you change your mind you know where to find me …’ I think he was secretly rather relieved. After all, he was happily married in Wisconsin.

And I didn’t change my mind. I loved Steve and I realised that whatever he had done I was prepared to give him another chance. I knew I had been lucky too. Graham understood and he had not taken advantage of me when I had, I now realised, been playing with fire. I might so easily have found myself in the same situation as Lauren.

And now, the leaves are blowing from the trees and I’ve lit a fire in the grate and the room is filled with the scent of burning apple logs. I’ve given up my job; somehow we’ll get by on the money we’ve saved already, and by the time spring comes I shall have a baby and if it’s a girl I shall call her Irene. Steve doesn’t know the real reason I chose the name, but of course he’s pleased, and he’s thrilled about the baby. And I love him so very much.