The Queen's Margarine (13 page)

Yet, looking at her shivering wreck of a husband, with his vacant stare, his expression of bewilderment, she felt the deepest pity, overlaid with fierce remorse. There was nothing for it – Rory would have to go. Immediately. With no reprieve.

‘Delia, it's Rory. Can you talk?'

‘Er, sort of.' Guiltily she glanced around, but Morris was upstairs, asleep. For some unfathomable reason, he'd begun dozing all day and lying awake all night – expecting
her
to engage in conversation throughout the wee small hours.

‘Know what day it is the Thursday after next?'

Yes, she thought, Tom's birthday. She had already bought him a sweater and a box of champagne truffles.

‘St Valentine's! Which means we have to meet.'

‘But it's only a week since the last time.'

‘I know, but this is special. Surely you can get away?'

‘There's no “surely” about it, Rory.'

‘Won't your daughters help?'

‘Jodie can't – she's ill. And Nicolette's away. And Nell has both her children down with measles. In fact, she's going spare as it is, because her ogre of a boss has no sympathy at all for working mothers.'

‘Well, what about Amanda?'

‘I don't like to ask her again so soon. She'll think it weird that I have to keep going out. And, anyway, she'd need to take time off work. If only you could make an evening, it wouldn't be so difficult.'

‘Darling, evenings are impossible. You know that.'

Yes, she did know, but he had never told her why, in fact. Was his own wife ill, or scared of being burgled if he left her alone in the house at night? Or did he have some sort of evening job, or charity commitment? His life was a closed book. That was one of the rules, but it was beginning to annoy her. It seemed unnatural, if not insulting, that he should shut her out so completely from all aspects of his existence beyond the lecherous.

‘Look, we could make it just a quickie on the Thursday.'

Forty miles return, on a slow and bumpy bus, for the sake of ‘just a quickie'?

‘And I could come and pick you up, if that would help.'

‘
No
! Leave it with me, OK? I'll sort something out and ring you back tomorrow.'

Once she'd put the phone down, she paced up and down the sitting-room, staring out at the spindly, naked trees, and wondering what to do. The last two meetings with Rory had lacked their usual magic. She couldn't quite explain it. He was still ardent and adoring; still a generous, imaginative lover. And it wasn't simply guilt. True she'd defaulted on her promise not to see him any more, but she'd managed to persuade herself that this breach of faith was justified. In the four-and-a-half months since Morris had gone missing, her life at home had deteriorated so much, she felt she was entitled to a monthly ‘reward', in return for giving up her sleep – and sometimes, it seemed, her sanity. On top of losing
her job, she had lost her entire social life. Most people kept away now, unable to cope with Morris's aggression. Once the gentlest of men, he'd actually physically attacked two of her close friends, then on Christmas Day, of all days, he'd overturned the tea-table in a fit of silent rage, breaking her precious china in the process.

She didn't blame him, in fact. Changes in personality were simply part of his condition, and the doctor had explained that some patients' violent outbursts were due to their frustration at not having any words to express deep-seated feelings. However, it didn't make life easy, especially as his conversation was either maddeningly repetitive or frighteningly irrelevant. He even forgot her name on some occasions, and neglected to wash himself or dress himself, or even reach the toilet in time, without her constant supervision.

Which surely meant she needed Rory as antidote and compensation. Yet she was increasingly distressed by the fact that, despite their sexual bond, they were so far apart emotionally and mentally. She couldn't live her life in such separate compartments, closing the door on Morris once she opened the door of the charity shop, yet Rory seemed oblivious of the stress and strain it caused. Just because it suited
him
to keep his domestic situation a matter of strict secrecy, it didn't mean she felt the same. It would actually help enormously if he let her talk things over before they got down to the sex, then she would gradually relax and be able to respond. Instead, she was expected to switch instantly from exhausted carer to avid, red-hot lover, without any chance to unwind or get things off her chest.

Perhaps exhaustion was the key, though, and she was simply overtired and judging everything in light of that fatigue. It would be crazy to give him up – a man fifteen years younger than Morris, who worshipped her body, made her feel desirable. And even more ridiculous to spend Valentine's Day coaxing her husband to finish up his broccoli, or explaining for the umpteenth time that the right shoe went on his right foot rather than the left, when she could be being pleasured by her lover.

Sidling into Gloria's Gifts, she gave a quick glance behind her, feeling her usual guilt at being here in Berkshire again, especially
when was meant to be in Winchester, visiting an imaginary friend with cancer. Still, it was extremely unlikely that anyone would see her and, anyway, she had time to kill. Her bus had got in early, whereas Rory was caught in traffic and had rung her on the mobile just ten minutes ago. Besides, she hadn't had a chance so far to buy him anything, and he was bound to bring her flowers, or chocolates – maybe even both.

She began searching through the Valentine cards, trying to find a suitable one. All the words seemed wrong: ‘Valentine, you're truly mine'. Hardly, when he was married to someone else and their meetings were so restricted in terms of time and place. ‘You're everything I dreamed of, the answer to my prayer.' Again, a little far-fetched. ‘My heart belongs to you for ever.' She was, in fact, Morris's for ever, so perhaps she should be buying
him
a Valentine. Yet it had been difficult enough this year for him to grasp the concept of Christmas. Valentine's Day would be totally beyond him.

She found herself distracted by the Valentines for pets. Perhaps easier to choose one for a beloved cat or dog than for a husband with dementia, or a lover whose sole concern was focused on her genitals. ‘I love you more than words can say.' No – avowals of love were somehow inappropriate. Rory had never said he loved her, and the word seemed almost a mockery when he refused to take the slightest interest in her private life or circumstances. How could he love a woman he didn't even know?

Abandoning the cards, she wandered round the rest of the shop, beginning soon to overdose on hearts: heart-shaped candles, cushions, sunglasses and soaps; heart-shaped tins of sweets and biscuits; heart-shaped lockets, pendants, key-rings, even a
heart-shaped
coin-holder. Actually, it was pretty futile to buy a gift at all, since Rory wouldn't be able to take it home. And if
he
had spent a fortune on some elaborate bouquet or sexy piece of lingerie, that, too, would have to be ditched. It would look extremely suspicious if she arrived home from a cancer ward with a dozen red roses or a tarty scarlet thong. She just hoped he'd opted for chocolates, although even those posed problems. They could hardly pig a whole lavish box in less than a couple of hours, especially when he'd want to commandeer her mouth for more important things.

She checked her watch. He had explained he wouldn't ring again, but just see her in the flat at 2.15. It was now five past, so she returned to the cards and chose a large, expensive one that said ‘You light my fire'. That
had
been true – save for the last two disappointing occasions – and, with any luck, the spark would reignite this afternoon.

As she approached the charity shop, she was concerned – indeed alarmed – to see a group of people crowding round the entrance. Her first thought was for Rory. Had something happened to him: a heart attack or stroke, as he climbed the narrow stairs? Only as she edged a little closer did she realize what was going on. The front window of the shop had been shattered by a brick or stone; the glass dangerously splintered, and surrounding a large hole. One policeman stood examining the damage, while another two were remonstrating with a gang of teenage boys, while the elderly ladies who ran the shop huddled in the doorway, looking shocked and tearful.

Hastily she backed away, her natural instinct to avoid the law, as if she herself were guilty of some crime. Ducking down a
side-street
, she tried to work out what to do. If Rory was already upstairs in the flat, he might not dare to phone her, for fear of being overheard. Annoyingly, he had never got to grips with texting and, despite the fact she'd pointed out that it was hardly rocket science and that kids of six could text, he still insisted there wasn't any need. Well, now there
was
a need: to convey information silently, when police investigations were in progress. He would certainly want to avoid the spotlight, just as much as she did. Yet how could they communicate, meet up?

‘Calm down!' she told herself. The whole thing would be over if she waited a short while. The crowd would disperse, the police would march the boys away or let them off with a caution, and the street would return to its normal quiet placidity. All she had to do was make herself scarce for ten minutes or so, then creep back surreptitiously. At least the weather was good – a perfect day, in fact, with skies the colour of a duck-egg.

Venturing round the corner, she walked down another narrow lane and suddenly came out by the canal. Despite her several visits here, she had never so much as glimpsed it before, having
always gone directly home, in order not to be seen. Yet the stretch of tranquil water looked idyllic: overhung by willows, with even a few daffodils in bloom along the bank. Almost without thinking, she began to pick her way along the muddy towpath, grateful for the silence and the peace. It was so long since she'd been out on her own; away from problems and dilemmas; away from a husband who clung to her like a confused and frightened child. A pair of coots were building their nest; the male bird bringing twigs in its beak, which the female inspected carefully, even rejecting a few as duds. She laughed at the bird's sheer bossiness and fussiness; the sound surprising her. Laughter was a luxury these days.

Elated, she walked on, noticing the yellow glaze on the willows, and the green thrust of nettles sprouting in the hedge. Even one brave butterfly had dared to emerge and was trying out its wings. Recently, she'd become blind and deaf to the seasons (except as they affected Morris), but here spring seemed almost tangible. She could smell it, taste it, touch it, feel it warm and refreshing on her face. And her ears, long attuned to Morris's cries of distress, now registered the birds, chirruping and twittering around her. She could make out a blackbird's song, and the beep-beep-beep of a great tit, followed by the sharp squawking of a moorhen, then the blackbird started up again, with its melodious refrain. All at once, she, too, began to sing. Why not, when there was nobody to hear? She ran through her small repertoire of love songs, noting how much anguish they contained: lovers racked by jealousy or loss; maddened by rejection, nursing broken hearts. Safer to be a daffodil, visited by the occasional bee, than a human being entangled in some difficult relationship.

Ahead of her she could see a barge tethered to the bank. She ran up to examine it, admiring its green-and-scarlet livery and the garland of pink cabbage-roses painted on the prow. It brought back forgotten memories of the one canal-boat holiday she'd been on as a child: the excitement of sleeping in a tiny cabin and waking up to wood-smoke as her mother stoked the stove; the gentle rocking motion as she lay on her bunk at night, and the whole wonderful palaver of the locks. Her father would leap out of the boat, heave both lock-gates shut, then run to the other end of the lock and open the sluice-gates, with the aid of an ancient crank-handle. A rush of
water would churn into the lock with a thrilling sort of roar, and her tummy would churn, too, as if it were full of floaty bubbles. Then, after a tense wait, she'd feel the boat rise magically, like something in a fairy-tale, and the trees and fields that had disappeared while they were coffined in the lock would suddenly be there again, as they glided out and on.

The irony of childhood was that you didn't realize at the time how fortunate you were to be free of responsibilities, of worries, duties, ties; free of all the complications of sex and marriage and motherhood; free of the obligation to be a responsive, passionate lover. It struck her with a jolt that she'd been happier these last few minutes than at any time throughout the last grim year, including her times with Rory.

God, she thought, I'm meant to be with Rory
now
! She had totally forgotten him, yet he would be waiting for her, worrying, maybe searching for her in the street, and increasingly concerned. She turned on her heel and began racing back the way she'd come, then stopped, unsure, wondering why he hadn't phoned. Perhaps he'd got caught up in the whole drama of the broken window; even been detained as a witness. For all she knew, the police might still be there, taking a statement not just from him but from the two twittery old ladies who ran the charity shop. Or maybe they had rung the owner and were refusing to let anyone leave the scene of the crime until the old boy turned up. Perhaps she and Rory
couldn't
meet today; would simply miss each other altogether, on account of this random incident.

Somehow she didn't want to speculate about it, or spend any more time fretting over Rory –
or
about St Valentine's, with all its commercial hype and tawdry promises. Her overriding urge was to stay beside this serene and sparkling water, where everything in sight was renewed and reinvigorated, part of a spring explosion; a bounteous release from the drag and dirge of winter. Impulsively, she switched off her phone and continued on along the towpath, away from Rory and the town. This particular canal, she knew, went all the way to Bristol – a good eighty miles, she'd guess. The way she felt at present, she could walk that eighty miles. Extraordinary though it sounded, her former tiredness had entirely disappeared, together with her sense of long stagnation.