Читать книгу The Second Life of Sally Mottram - David Nobbs - Страница 13

Marigold Boyce-Willoughby was going to be very late. She was taking such a long time to get ready. It really wasn’t that surprising. The party was her first outing into Potherthwaite society since Timothy Boyce-Willoughby had ditched her for a Venezuelan dentist and ex-beauty queen, leaving her with a house she hated, a name she loved, a few happy memories, rather more unhappy memories, and sixty-two pairs of shoes. ‘Is it the shoes?’ she had asked plaintively when she had pleaded with him not to go. ‘I won’t buy any more, if it’s the shoes.’ ‘It’s not the fucking shoes, Imelda,’ he had exploded. ‘It’s that I can’t stand the fucking sight of you.’ And he was the man Potherthwaite regarded as a gentleman. Always such a gentleman. Always except at home. Thousands like him.

The party wasn’t going to be easy. She was a social climber and she no longer had a rope. She had looked wonderful on her third wedding day, dressed from head to foot in ironic white and happily married in Potherthwaite church by a vicar desperate for money. Her long train had flowed magnificently behind her. Now her train had hit the buffers. She knew what people would be saying tonight in posh Potherthwaite, that tiny enclave. Pity Marigold has such bad taste in men. Must be something wrong with her, to be ditched by three husbands. Maybe she was cold in bed. Cold in bed? Her! Or maybe she was too voracious. Wore them out. She had prided herself on being rather a good lover.

Maybe she hadn’t been a good lover. Nobody actually knew what a good lover was. She had never seen any other woman make love. Potherthwaite wasn’t Hebden Bridge.

Everyone would be thinking these sorts of things about her tonight. So why was she going? Because she couldn’t admit defeat, not to Potherthwaite, not to herself.

But what should she wear? It boiled down to a simple choice, between humility and defiance.

She could present herself as being ashamed of having been carried away by her wealthy husband, her glamorous lifestyle (for Potherthwaite – she had once met Hockney for three whole minutes and had talked about it for three whole years). She could show that at last she had realized that deep down she was still what she had always been, a modest working-class girl.

No. Wouldn’t do. Couldn’t do it. She had been born Marigold Smith. She’d hated her name. Smith. So common. Marigold, hateful. Marigolds were among the coarsest flowers in the garden. They were also washing-up gloves. And here she was, coarse and washed up.

But the name had been saved by being attached to Boyce-Willoughby. There was every chance that she had been the first person from her road ever to become double-barrelled. She had ceased to be a Dalston girl. She had become a Boyce-Willoughby, one of the Somerset Boyce-Willoughbys, and she wasn’t going to throw that away, husband or no husband. No, humility wouldn’t work, not for her. It was defiance or destruction.

So it was a lavishly dressed ex-Mrs Stent who wandered out to her waiting taxi in the cul-de-sac not much before ten o’clock on that chill Potherthwaite evening. It was a glamorous ex-Mrs Larsen who walked round on her high heels to the far side of the taxi, just in case somebody should be looking out, fusty old Arnold Buss, perhaps, who wanted to interview her for his history of Potherthwaite, or the new people whose furniture van had arrived earlier. The man had looked all right. Bald, but they said that was a sign of virility. She shuddered. That was the last thing she wanted.

It was a defiant Marigold Boyce-Willoughby who gazed out at the dreary High Street and told herself that there was now no reason why she should stay in Potherthwaite. We laugh. I know, and you suspect, that she will still be there in ten years’ time.

The taxi took her the full length of the High Street. She could feel her defiance slipping away as it rattled past the church she only entered for the sake of appearances, past the nearly-new shops she wouldn’t be seen dead in, past the end of Quays Approach. She hadn’t approached the Quays for months.

The taxi turned right where the High Street became Valley Road, sped through the empty roads towards the hills, began to climb one of the hills, passed through grand but rusty gates, crossed a large gravel forecourt, circling a fountain topped by a statue of a wool magnate, and pulled up outside a pillared entrance. This was – you’ve guessed it – Potherthwaite Hall – and the party was being held – you may have guessed this too, for we are in the twenty-first century – in one of the eight apartments into which that great house had been split.

Suddenly Marigold Boyce-Willoughby, glamorous lady, defiant spirit, brave soul, owner of many shoes, wanted to turn round and go home.

Apartment 1 was the home of Councillor Frank Stratton, owner and managing director of Stratton’s, whose stationery shops can be found in many towns around the Pennines. Frank Stratton was big in bulk, big in appetite, big in stationery, and big in charity. He wasn’t actually quite as big as he thought he was, which was why he only owned an eighth of this great house. However, Apartment 1 was the best. His lounge had been the drawing room. It was absurd to call this huge room the lounge, but he had to persuade the voters that he was still humble.

The event was his famous annual bash for those who had supported his cancer charity. His daughter had died of breast cancer in 2005 at the age of thirty-seven. Some said he had never fully recovered, and he and his wife Marian had devoted themselves to raising money for cancer ever since. The party was for those who had given during the past year, and for those who unaccountably hadn’t but might with luck be persuaded to in the coming year.

It took courage to step into the great lounge. The bulky brown leather furniture had been pushed back to the walls; almost all the men were in suits and ties, while the women were in various stages of excess, although not quite so excessive as usual.

Frank and his wife Marian greeted Marigold warmly.

‘So sorry about …’ began Frank nervously.

Marigold waved her arms in a negative gesture.

‘Good riddance,’ she said. ‘Past history.’

‘Thank you anyway for all your support,’ said Marian.

‘I’ve no idea what’ll happen this year,’ said Marigold.

‘No matter,’ said Frank. ‘You’re always welcome here.’

‘Nonsense, but nice to hear,’ said Marigold. ‘And I’m so sorry I’m so late.’

‘You’ve missed my speech,’ said Frank.

‘She heard it last year,’ said Marian. ‘Only two words were different, Marigold.’

Marigold laughed dutifully.

‘Go and get yourself a drink,’ said Frank. It was an abrupt but attractive dismissal. She longed for a drink.

She accepted a glass of champagne and a mini Yorkshire pudding from smiling waitresses. One or two people were already leaving. She really was much too late. And it wasn’t as crowded as usual. The town was on a slide. She wouldn’t stay long – here at the party, or in Potherthwaite.

She looked around the room, searching for women she knew and liked. Searching particularly for Sally. There were women in the town whom she liked but didn’t much trust, and there were women whom she trusted but didn’t much like, but Sally was the only woman whom she liked and trusted, of those she knew well enough to approach.

She was lost, lost on her own, lost without her other half, lost in the world, and seeking comfort from other women, not from men. This was a huge shock.

She found herself walking past Terence and Felicity Porchester, who lived on the stranded narrowboat.

‘Hello, Marigold,’ said Terence Porchester in his posh, fruity tones. ‘You grow more gorgeous with every passing month.’

‘I’m green with envy,’ said Felicity in her matching voice. In plain-speaking Potherthwaite their voices had been much mocked, but slowly people had begun to realize that there wasn’t an evil bone in either of their bodies.

‘Where is that naughty man of yours hiding tonight?’ asked Felicity.

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Marigold. ‘At the bottom of the canal, I hope.’

She strode on, realized that she had been rudely abrupt, began to turn to apologize, found herself facing Matt Winkle, the supermarket manager, sallow, callow, anxious, fractious.

‘Bloody woman,’ he said. ‘Here. Now. Tonight. What a time. At a party.’

‘What a time for what?’ asked the bemused Marigold.

‘Complaining our apples aren’t ripe. Bloody woman. Linda Oughtibridge. Sorry.’

Marigold turned away, found herself approaching two more men she didn’t want to speak to. Gunter Mulhausen was German and formal and not very exciting, and he pretended to be in love with her, in a rather heavy Teutonic way, and she wasn’t sure she was up to the jovial little fantasy today. Bill Etching was a randy little tosser who was regrettably successful in business and generous in charity. He was a worm who wormed himself in with his money. Timothy had joked that his surname was unfortunate. No woman would want to go back to look at his etchings.

She couldn’t cope. Where was Sally? She would have said, ‘Excuse me, chaps, lovely to see you, but I have something to discuss with Sally.’ She couldn’t see any woman whose name she remembered, apart from Marian and Felicity, so there was no woman she could use as an excuse. She had always liked men. She had been a man’s woman. Now all these men frightened her. Now she couldn’t cope with men. She couldn’t even remember their names. All names were fleeing from her. She began to perspire. She had never perspired. She hadn’t even glistened.

She saw a man she recognized approaching Frank What’s-his-name. Frank led him straight out of the room. He was a policeman. Inspector … Inspector … Punnet. Not Punnet but like Punnet. What had Inspector Not Punnet But Like Punnet wanted? She heard Tommy What’s-it, landlord of the Dog and Duck, say to her, ‘I hope you’ll still come to the pub, Marigold. We’ll look after you.’

‘I’m sure you will,’ she said. ‘Yes, I’ll come.’ His name had gone too.

‘Now maybe one day that dinner invitation may be meeting with success very possibly,’ said Gunter Mulhausen.

The thought of dinner with the smiling Teuton appalled her.

Pellet. Inspector Pellet.

What did he want?

‘I would love dinner some time,’ she told Gunter Mulhausen.

Pork Scratching’s filthy little hand touched her bum. She felt it distinctly. Not Pork Scratching. Not come and see my scratchings. Come and see my etchings. Bill Etching, that was it.

She had to move. She couldn’t. She was stuck to the carpet. She couldn’t be. Walk, woman.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Tommy Allsop, his name suddenly recalled.

‘Hold my arm. Hold my arm,’ said Gunter Mulhausen.

Bill Etching clutched her waist.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she shouted.

Everyone looked round. Everyone was staring at her. Such a shout had never been heard at one of Councillor Stratton’s parties.

The men let go rapidly. All three looked embarrassed, even Bill Etching.

Again she tried to walk. She couldn’t balance on her high heels, she was falling, it was all going black, her head was whirring, she felt a hand on her, trying to break her fall, and then she felt nothing more.

All sorts of people rushed over. Gunter Mulhausen rang 999. Tommy Allsop hurried over to Marian Stratton and asked where Frank was. She pointed towards their kitchen.

Frank Stratton was sitting at the breakfast table. He was white with shock. He had just heard of Barry’s suicide. Tommy approached but was surprised and shocked by Frank’s appearance, and hesitated.

‘Oh God,’ Frank was saying. ‘I didn’t invite him. He didn’t give or come to anything this year. Didn’t even hear from him, which I have to say annoyed me, which is why I didn’t invite him. A nice chap once, but he’s gone off. He has. He’s gone off. And now this. Oh God. Poor Sally. I’ve a lot of time for Sally. Tommy, what is it? If it’s about Barry Mottram, we’ve heard.’

‘It isn’t. Barry Mottram? No, it’s Marigold. She’s fainted.’

‘Oh God,’ said Councillor Frank Stratton. ‘What an evening. That puts the tin lid on it. You know, I think this town is in danger of being officially declared a disaster area.’