7: Variation 21 - Paul

Paul and Anne Bryant had been married for thirteen years when they moved into their new home. Paul was short, plump and beginning to bald but blessed with what his mother-in-law described as “a merry little face.” Studying architecture at Portsmouth was where he met Anne whom he’d married within a year of leaving university. Anne was slim with pale blue-eyes, high cheek bones and long, golden hair tied back in a bun. Despite having a first class honours degree in music and being a brilliant cellist she’d never used her skills apart from giving private lessons to a handful of pupils.

During the first twelve years of their marriage Paul worked for various firms in the locality and encouraged by Anne continued his studies. Aged thirty four he achieved his ambition of becoming a registered architect. Seeking promotion he applied for several positions and was eventually successful in securing a senior post at Hoskins, Dyer and Blake. He and Anne had two children, Olivia aged nine and Miriam aged seven, both physically alike with bright blue eyes, pale skin and an abundance of blonde hair.

As soon as they’d settled into their new home three miles from Yeovil the girls were enrolled at the local village primary school where they quickly became accepted and popular with their peers. The young, ambitious headteacher soon learned of Anne’s musical skills and offered her a post as a part-time classroom assistant which she gladly accepted. As well as assisting the teachers she made use of her cello by accompanying the children’s singing in assemblies.

With Paul earning a respectable salary, the children enjoying their new school and Anne pleased to be using her talents all would have been well had it not been for Paul’s increasingly regular bouts of depression. Whether it was the pressure of work, the demands of family life, the onset of middle age or the surfacing of some unresolved childhood trauma nobody knew. No one at work would have noticed anything untoward. He was generally amiable and outwardly cheerful. But as soon as he arrived home he was a changed man. He was short-tempered with the girls whenever they were boisterous and was always too tired to play with them. He took no interest in Anne’s news and preferred to spend his leisure time watching the television or sleeping in front of it rather than engaging in conversation. Anne was initially concerned and sympathetic but her attempts at getting him to talk invariably met with sullen silence or a protestation that nothing was wrong. Their love life was virtually non-existent. As soon as they climbed into bed Paul would reluctantly give Anne an obligatory peck on the cheek then turn away pretending to fall asleep. What little sleep he actually had was fitful and plagued by two recurrent dreams. In the first of these he was being pursued by an unseen, malevolent presence that constantly stalked him. In the other he’d set out on a walk from home and after a short while find himself in unfamiliar surroundings unable to find his way back. This miserable state of affairs continued for several years until he was forced to admit that something was wrong and agreed to see a doctor.

A doctor’s appointment was duly arranged and on a rainy Friday night. After a frantic day’s work he found himself sitting unwillingly in a crowded surgery flicking through dog-eared back copies of Readers’ Digests and National Geographic magazines awaiting his turn and rehearsing what he’d say to the doctor when his name was called. He memorised various opening lines. After forty minutes he found himself facing a weary looking doctor who frowned at him over the desk and without any sign of genuine interest asked how he could help.

‘I’m not really sure.’ Paul had forgotten what he’d planned to say and was fumbling for words. ‘It’s just that my wife thinks I ought to see you. I get low especially when I’m at home. She thinks I might be depressed or something.’

‘And are you?’ the doctor asked without appearing to want an answer. He’d shifted his gaze from Paul to his computer screen and was already tapping away at the keyboard. Before Paul could answer the question the printer suddenly sprang to life and expelled a sheet of paper which the doctor seized. ‘Try these,’ he said, handing Paul a prescription. ‘They usually do the trick. Come back in a month if you aren’t feeling any better.’

‘Is that it?’ asked Paul.

‘Why? Was there something else?’

‘Not really,’ he said and left in time to catch the late-night chemist and exchange his prescription for the bottle of pills.

The children were already in bed when he walked through the door and found Anne waiting to hear what the doctor had said. There wasn’t much to tell but she seemed pleased enough when Paul showed her the pills. Prozac she told him was known to work wonders. One of the teachers at school had been on them and she’d felt better in less than a week.

After a month nothing had changed. He felt no better but was coping with work. It was easy to smile at people who other than being colleagues meant little to him. He was happy to join them on Friday nights for a drink and a laugh but at home the smiles disappeared.

As the weeks passed he became more morose while Anne growing tired of trying to help him was making a separate life of her own. She was happy at school and had made new friends amongst the teachers and parents of Olivia’s and Miriam’s playmates. Christine Sparks, Olivia’s teacher, had talked her into joining a Zumba class which met in the church hall on Thursday nights and Zoe, one of the mums, had offered to have the girls for sleepovers every Thursday so that Anne needn’t worry about making babysitting arrangements if Paul had to work late. She also joined an amateur orchestra which met on Tuesday nights. Paul agreed to take care of the children while she was out which entailed watching television while the two girls amused themselves before being sent to bed. On other nights when he’d finished his evening meal he went for long walks. On his way home he called at the village pub and drank until closing time. He always sat alone and spoke to no one but watched without feeling at all involved with anyone there in much the same way as a solitary goldfish gazes from its bowl on an alien world with which it can make no contact. After such sessions he’d saunter home hoping that Anne would have turned in and be fast asleep. Taking care not to disturb her he’d creep to the bathroom, undress in the dark and slip into bed.

This bleak routine might have continued indefinitely had it not been for one particular Tuesday night when matters came to a head. Anne had gone out as usual to rehearse with the orchestra. Paul had put the children to bed. Knowing Anne was never home before ten he’d decided to go for a walk. Before setting off he made sure the children were sleeping. His plan was to take a shorter walk than usual, have a quick drink and be back within the hour. Quietly closing the door behind him he stepped out into the night and having enjoyed his walk and a pint of beer returned to the house at nine. As soon as he turned the key he realised something was wrong.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Anne was beside herself with rage. Olivia was whimpering at her side.

‘Why are you home so early? Is everything all right?’ Paul asked.

‘Never mind why I’m home and no, everything isn’t all right. Where have you been? What on earth were you thinking of, leaving the girls here by themselves? Anything could have happened.’

‘I needed some fresh air. I was only out for five minutes.’

‘Don’t lie. I’ve been here for at least half an hour. Olivia was downstairs panicking, wondering where you were.’ Olivia’s whimpering grew louder. ‘Now look what you’ve done! I can’t believe you could be so thoughtless and you stink of drink!’

It was past midnight when Anne eventually stormed into the bedroom leaving Paul to sleep on the settee. At breakfast next morning Anne tried her best to act in front of the girls as though nothing had happened and everything was absolutely normal although she couldn’t bring herself to look at Paul let alone speak to him. The stony silence continued for several days. With the girls having their usual sleepover Anne went to Zumba on Thursday night though she made a point of forgoing orchestra practice and stayed at home on the following Tuesday. Paul meanwhile stopped going out for walks and attempted to act like a caring husband and father. It wasn’t until a week had passed that Anne having put the children to bed felt able to face Paul and try to work things out. After a long heart-to-heart during which Paul promised never to leave the children alone again, he agreed to make another doctor’s appointment.

The second visit to the surgery was more successful than the first. On this occasion he was seen by a young female doctor who weighed him, took his blood pressure and then, ignoring her computer, spent several minutes encouraging him to talk. She listened sympathetically as he described his recurring dreams and seemed pleased when he told her that walking was the only activity that relieved his depression. She explained that walking was an excellent form of therapy both for his mental and physical wellbeing especially since he was a little overweight for his age . In her opinion exercise was the best form of medication. If he enjoyed walking he should do it on a regular basis. She even suggested his dreams might be pointing to something significant. The pursuing malevolent presence could be a symbol his depression wanting to be out-walked and left behind. And the dream about losing his way home might be egging him on to keep going until he reached his metaphorical home where he needed to be. At the end of the consultation Paul came away with renewed resolve more promising than any prescription.

He told Anne all about the discussion including the dreams and the doctor’s suggestion that regular walks would be better than pills. Such was his new-found enthusiasm that Anne agreed to him taking a nightly walk. And so it was that every night after dinner apart from Tuesdays, Paul set off determined to shake off the black dog that threatened his sanity and his marriage.

At first all went well. It was May and he left each evening with a spring in his step. To begin with he took the same circular route along country lanes between grassy banks, thick with long grass and cow parsley. Wherever he looked the world was alive with rampant new growth and the chatter of birdsong. Odd phrases from poems he’d learned at school sprang to mind: Hopkins’ line, when weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush and Wordsworth’s thousand blended notes. New sights appeared around each corner - a thatched cottage with tulips in the borders, a field full of bleating sheep, a homely farmhouse with washing hung out on the line, a ferret darting along in the ditch at his side, a lilac tree in full bloom. Ordinary sights looked extraordinary. Whatever he saw filled him with pleasure and so did the walking. There was nothing more satisfying than placing one foot in front of the other, step after step, mile after mile, with nothing to think about other than what met his eyes. But as soon as he reached home the pleasure faded. After each walk Anne would ask where he’d been and what he’d seen but his answers were always brief and uninformative. Everyday the distance between them increased. He wanted to feel as he’d felt before the depression began but he couldn’t do anything about it. He was trapped somewhere inside himself with no means of escape.

Throughout that spring and summer the walks continued and grew even longer. He tried out new routes but as time went on the early excitement waned and the sights he’d enjoyed grew dull and familiar. He was trudging along through a monochrome landscape and getting nowhere. Anne gave up asking about his walks or how he was feeling. She and the girls got on with their lives without him. They thought of him as a lodger who came and went as he pleased without impinging on them. Paul was a passing presence separate from everyone else in the house.

At the office no one noticed any change. In Eliot’s words Paul prepared a “face to meet the faces” He acted the part, played the game, got on with his work and appeared to be untroubled. In August he took a fortnight’s leave but no family holiday had been planned. Anne took the children to her parents’ caravan in Devon for a break while Paul stayed home sticking doggedly to his daily routine. When they returned his walks continued not just in the evenings but also at weekends. The house became somewhere to eat and sleep when he wasn’t out working or walking.

It was after a busy day at work that he came home to find Anne and the children laughing and larking about indoors with a stranger. As soon as he walked in the laughter stopped. He felt like an intruder and couldn’t think what to say. Anne came to the rescue. ‘Paul,’ she said, smiling. ‘Come and meet Martin. Martin, this is Paul, my husband.’ Martin went to shake Paul’s hand but Paul made no response. ‘Martin plays clarinet in the orchestra,’ Anne explained. ‘He was just passing and dropped in.’ The girls looked so at ease with this stranger that Paul wondered how many times he’d dropped in before.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Martin. ‘I’ve heard all about you.’ Paul remained silent. ‘Well I mustn’t outstay my welcome. I was just popping in.’ He glanced at Anne. ‘I’ll see you next Tuesday. Don’t forget to bring the Mozart. Bye Olivia, bye Miriam.’ The girls ran over and gave him a hug. Anne saw him to the door, whispered something and waved as he walked down the path.

Paul was silent over dinner and didn’t mention Martin though Martin was dominating his thoughts. Anne ignored him and talked exclusively to Olivia and Miriam. As soon as he’d eaten Paul rose from the table, slung on a coat and left for his evening walk. Aware of the chill in the air he buttoned up his coat. The sun was sinking behind a distant line of hills and a single star glowed faintly above. In a nearby field a herd of cows stood motionless with their legs dipped in a sea of white mist. Deviating from his usual route he followed lanes he’d never before explored not caring where they led. He tramped along unaware of his surroundings thinking of Martin. The twilight gradually turned to darkness. More stars appeared invoking another line of a poem he’d learned at school, a quote from Hardy that summed up his present mood. He recited the words to himself as well as to any other night creatures that might be hidden in the hedges listening. ‘White stars ghost forth,’ he murmured, ‘that care not for men’s wives, or any other lives.’ He couldn’t recall the details of the poem except that it concerned an estranged couple standing on Weymouth Bridge at night. One of the pair was having an affair. Now as he marched along in the dark he found himself asking the questions he couldn’t bring himself to ask before over dinner. Why had the laughter suddenly stopped when he walked in from work? Why were the children so obviously fond of and familiar with Martin? What exactly had Anne told Martin about him? What was Anne whispering at the door when he left? The answers were as clear as the stars overhead. Anne was having an affair. It had never occurred to him that his wife would ever betray him. The prospect of staying with her seemed as impossible as the prospect of being without her. He carried on walking not knowing where he was going and all the time imagining Martin and Anne together in his bed.

In the early hours of the morning he unexpectedly found himself at the main road and recognised where he was. Being closer to home than he realised he began walking towards the village when a police car drew up beside him with two officers sitting inside. The one nearest to him wound down the window. ‘Early to be out isn’t it sir? Can I ask where you’re going?’

‘I’m going home.’

‘Is everything all right?’

Paul was in no mood for polite conversation. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Everything isn’t all right. My wife is having an affair. That’s why I’m out walking There isn’t a law against it is there?’

‘I see. No sir there isn’t but it’s not wise to be out at this hour. I should go home if I were you.’ Giving Paul a wary look he wound up the window and drove off.

The church clock was striking three as Paul walked up the path and turned the key in the lock. He went in and briefly looked in the bedroom. Anne lay with her hair spread over the pillow. Leonard Cohen’s “sleepy golden storm” popped into his head - not the kind of storm he imagined was brewing. He stayed for a moment then crept along to the spare room, collapsed on the single bed and slept alone for the second time in their marriage. He dozed for a couple of hours and rose before the others. He was sitting in the kitchen when Anne wandered through in her dressing gown. She switched on the light and went to the sink to fill the kettle. Turning round and seeing him startled her. ‘My God!’ she cried. ‘What are you doing here? Look at your suit! It’s all crumpled. Where have you been all night?’

‘Walking. Does it matter to you?’

‘Of course it matters.’ She pulled a chair from under the table and sat staring at him. ‘Paul, this is getting beyond a joke. We can’t go on like this.’

‘Like what? I thought you’d be happy to get me out of the way while you and Martin have the place to yourselves.’

‘So that’s it. You can’t bear me having any friends can you?’

‘Friends? Is that what you call it?’

‘Yes friends. Martin is just a good friend. Someone I can talk to. Someone who takes notice of me and the girls and can have some fun with them in the absence of their father. What do expect when you’re never here?’

‘I expect you to be faithful.’

‘Faithful!’ Anne suddenly snapped. ‘Are you suggesting that Martin and I have been...’

‘Sleeping together? It’s obvious isn’t it?’

Before she could answer Miriam appeared at the door in her pyjamas. ‘Is it time for breakfast?’ she whined.

‘Soon sweetheart. Go upstairs and get ready for school.’ Miriam disappeared. ‘Right,’ said Anne, taking control of the situation. ‘I can’t bear any more of this. I’ll take the children to school and tell the head I’m not feeling well. I’ll get Zoe to have the girls for a sleepover tonight. You phone the office and tell them you won’t be in. We need time to talk and we can’t do it in front of the children.’

When she returned they sat together with the whole day before them to sort things out. Paul was fidgeting. He said he felt claustrophobic and asked if they could go somewhere else to talk.

‘Where?’ Anne asked.

‘I don’t know. Let’s drive somewhere. We could go to West Bay or Lyme Regis, anywhere. What do you say?’

‘I’d say you’re trying to wriggle out of talking.’

‘I’m not, I promise. Sea air would do us both good and get us away from here.’

‘Okay, we’ll go wherever you like. Are you up to driving after being out all night?’

‘Yes, I’ll be fine.’ All Paul wanted was to be away from a house he felt was no longer his. He couldn’t shake off the image of Martin hugging the girls or the sickening thought of Anne with him in bed. He hated the place and had to get out.

‘Where are we going?’ Anne asked as they drove away.

‘Lulworth cove. It’s as good as anywhere.’

On arrival they parked the car and joined the procession of sightseers strolling down to the sea. There were more people than they expected enjoying the late summer. Most were retired couples with walking sticks trailing grandchildren and carrying their scooters. When they reached the cove they stood on a small patch of concrete surrounded by people all gazing out to sea through the narrow gap that opened on to the channel.

‘We can’t talk here can we?’ said Anne.

Paul agreed, not that he wanted to talk. ‘We could climb to the top of the cliff and find a quiet spot,’ he suggested. ‘I shouldn’t think many of these could make it up the hill.’ He was already longing to walk.

For the first time that day Anne smiled at the thought of arthritic grandparents struggling up the hill carrying the grandchildren and their scooters. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘but remember we’re here to talk not walk!’

They climbed the chalky path to the top of the cliff and looked down at the sea far below them. ‘The wrinkled sea beneath him creeps,’ said Paul.

‘Where’s that from?’ Ann asked.

‘Tennyson. It’s about an eagle staring down on the water from a high mountain crag. As a kid I’d compress the skin on the back of my hand making wrinkles and pretend I was looking down at the waves from a great height.’

‘Very imaginative weren’t you? Where shall we sit?’

‘Why not here?’ They sat on a patch of grass a little way back from the edge of the cliff. Paul had resigned himself to the dreaded talk. It was Anne who fired the opening salvo.

‘You know we can’t go on like this, don’t you?’ she said. ‘Or, at least, I can’t.’

Paul shrugged. ‘Do you want me to go back to the doctors?’ he said, hoping for a speedy resolution. If he got things over quickly Anne might be persuaded to walk on to Durdle Door.

‘I’d say yes if I thought it would change things but it wouldn’t, would it? I’m serious Paul. I can’t go on like this. It’s like living with a ghost.’

‘And you’d rather be living with Martin.’ Paul spat out the name as though it tasted like venom.

Anne took a deep breath but stayed calm. ‘You don’t really believe there’s anything going on between us do you?’

‘Not if you say so,’ he answered without conviction.

‘Well there isn’t. There never was. We’re good friends, nothing more.’

‘If you say so.’

The last remark lit the fuse. ‘Christ,’ she shouted, ‘I’m beginning to wish there was something going on between us. You haven’t touched me in months. You treat me like dirt. You never play with the children or read to them. You might as well be dead as far as they’re concerned.’

‘Not like Martin, you mean.’

‘Martin’s married. He’s got three children of his own.’

‘And when did that make any difference?’

Anne had had enough. ‘Paul, do you really want me to leave you because I will. I mean it! I can’t take any more of this.’

‘Did you sleep with Martin?’ The question had to be asked but whatever she answered would make no difference. He’d already made up his mind.

‘No, I did not. How could you even ask? What do you think I am?’

‘I wish I knew.’

That for Anne was the final straw. She leapt to her feet. ‘Right, that’s it. Let’s not waste any more time. I’ll contact a solicitor as soon as we get back. I meant what I said. I can’t go on like this. If it’s a divorce you want you can have one.’ She started to walk away but stopped when Paul called out. He was wailing and trembling like a frightened animal. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ he sobbed staring up at her with tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me, please, please, don’t leave me. I’m so, so sorry. I’ll change, I promise I will.’

It was the first time Anne had ever seen him cry. She got down next to him and wrapped her arms around him. He cuddled into her like a broken child and stayed there crying and crying as if letting go of a lifetime’s tears. It was several minutes before the sobbing stopped. ‘What are we going to do?’ Anne said as she slowly released her hold.

Paul reached for her hand. ‘I don’t know, I really don’t know but I know I can’t bear the thought of being without you.’

Anne took his hand and helped him up. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘We’ll work something out.’ Paul stood and putting his arms around her kissed her forehead, her cheeks and her lips. He held her for as long as he had when they’d first fallen in love.

‘What now?’ Anne asked as they moved apart.

‘I don’t know. Shall we walk on? We might as well after climbing all the way up here.’

‘You and your walking!’ This time it was a tender rebuke. Nothing had been resolved but something had happened to break the deadlock.

They strolled along both knowing there was more to do but for now they enjoyed the feeling of being close to each other. Anne couldn’t remember how long it had been since they’d walked hand in hand. ‘It really is wrinkled isn’t it?’ she said looking down at the sea where a yacht small as a child’s toy sailed close to the coast heading for Portland.

‘Wow! Look at that!’ said Martin pointing to the humped outline of Durdle Door. ‘It looks like a dinosaur rearing to go but tethered to the shore.’

‘Sounds a bit like you. Are you ready for home?’

Paul glanced at his watch. ‘I am,’ he said with a twinkle in his eye. ‘No children to worry about. What would you say to an early night?’

‘And what would we do in bed?’

‘I can’t imagine but we’ll think of something. Whatever we do will make a change from walking.’

Driving home Paul kept one hand on the wheel and the other on Anne’s hand. He refused to let go and lifted her hand with his when he changed gear. He kept thinking back to the cliff top and wondered if he’d experienced some kind of catharsis that would permanently change things. He felt different, freed from depression. ‘Do you think this will last?’ he asked.

‘I hope so. Let’s just enjoy it while it does.’

As soon as they were home they went straight to bed and made love. For a while afterwards they stayed talking till Anne jumped out. Paul sat up. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

‘Stay where you are, I’ll be back.’ She returned with two glasses, a bottle of wine and a packet of chocolate biscuits. ‘I thought we could have a picnic in bed.’

Climbing back into bed she handed Paul one of the glasses and poured out the wine. ‘I’ve had an idea,’ she said as they sat up sipping the wine and nibbling their biscuits. ‘If this is going to work we need to give ourselves time and get to know each other again.’

‘But we already know each other. We’ve been married for years.’

‘We have but it hasn’t felt like it. While you’ve been out walking I’ve become used to doing things for myself. I’ve made new friends, people you’ve never met, the teachers at school, the other mums like Zoe and the women at Zumba.’

‘And the orchestra.’

‘If you mean Martin, yes, and his family. I’ve been getting used to living without you. I’ve had to haven’t I?’

Paul was beginning to feel threatened again but resisted withdrawing into his shell. ‘What are you saying?’ he asked.

Anne took a deep breath. ‘You say we already know each other just because we’ve been married for years. But for a long time now I’ve felt as though I never knew you. I’ve thought of you lately as a complete stranger. If you’re really serious about making a fresh start you’ll have to get to know the new me and my friends. I’m not going to stop seeing them. There’s a lot for you to catch up on and it might not be as easy as you seem to think.’

‘And your other idea?’

‘My parent’s caravan. They said we could use it whenever we wanted. They know how depressed you’ve been. I told them I was thinking of leaving you. They weren’t pleased but they understood and offered to help in any way possible. If they thought it would save our marriage they’d be more than happy to come down and look after the children for a week while we went away. There’d be no room for us to get away from each other in the caravan, no way to avoid contact and no children to divert our attention. It would be a case of make or break. Will you come?’

He knew one afternoon wasn’t long enough to know if he’d changed for good. They’d been out in the open with nothing to hem them in. But how would he feel in a cramped caravan under Dartmoor miles from anywhere? What if it rained all week? ‘Are you sure about the caravan?’ he asked. ‘We could go abroad if you like.’

‘It isn’t about where we go. It’s about being together and, besides, I like the caravan.’

‘When would you be thinking of going?’

‘The sooner the better. Why wait?’

‘Now’s not the best time of year, is it? We could go in the spring or summer.’

‘No, I want to go now or as soon as I can arrange it.’

There was no point in putting it off. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘we’ll go when you like.’

Next morning Paul was feeling better than he’d felt for years. The euphoria lasted for at least a fortnight. Paul played with the children as soon as he came in from work. He read them their bedtime stories and made a point of asking Anne about her day and telling her his news. The compulsion to go out walking was as strong as ever but he fought against the urge. They were twice invited to dinner on successive weekends, firstly to Zoe’s house and secondly, at Anne’s insistence, to Martin’s home. Martin’s wife Andrea was also a musician who played the organ at the local church. Their children were model offspring. Beth and Amy were the same age as Olivia. David was the same age as Miriam. After the meal the children played together in the lounge while the adults drank wine in the kitchen and talked. Andrea listened dutifully to Paul’s views on architecture while Anne and Martin chatted and laughed about various characters in the orchestra.

‘Did you enjoy the evening?’ Anne asked when they drove home.

‘Yes, very enjoyable. You seemed to be getting on well with Martin.’

‘You aren’t suggesting what I think you are I hope.’

‘Of course not,’ said Paul, keeping his doubts to himself.

‘The meal was delicious.’

‘It was but I ate too much.’ Paul took one hand from the steering wheel and patted his stomach. He sensed an opportunity. ‘Look at my paunch!’ he said. ‘Maybe I should start walking again, not like before, just short ones once or twice round the block each day. What do you think?’

***

‘I think Paul’s problems might be starting again,’ I said to Howard. We had walked a considerable distance and I was beginning to feel tired.’ We had reached the bottom of the hill and travelled some way along the flat. Spotting a low stone wall I suggested we should sit.

‘Of course, I hadn’t noticed how far we’d come.’ We found one of the flatter stones capping the wall and sat. The mist had almost disappeared and the sun offered a hint of warmth. ‘What do you make of the story, so far?’ Howard asked.

‘Rather like my interpretation of the variation,’ I said, ‘plodding along with no clear destination in sight. Lots of walking with no idea where it will lead.’

‘Well I know where ours is leading.’ Howard pointed to the only landmark for miles. ‘Just before those woods there’s a turning on the left which will take us back up the hill to home.’

‘A circular walk like Paul’s,’ I said.

‘Yes, though not like the circular route he would be taking later.’

I wasn’t sure what he meant but after our rest Howard went on with the story.

***

Anne was worried when Paul began walking again but he kept his promise by being out for no more than twenty minutes and returning in time to read to the children and tuck them in. In bed he made a point of cuddling and kissing Anne before they slept but made love only if Anne initiated the process. He still believed she’d slept with Martin and making love for him had become a duty. He pretended to give himself wholly but always kept something back.

With Anne’s reluctant consent he was given permission to take longer walks and was often out for an hour or more especially on weekends. It was on such a walk one Saturday in mid November under a cold, wintry sky that he contemplated the week ahead in the caravan. After their trip to Lulworth Cove Anne hadn’t mentioned the break. He hoped she’d forgotten it but she’d made the arrangements without his knowing and told him when they’d be going. He dreaded the thought of being confined for a week surrounded by fields and moorland with nothing to do and nowhere to go. He resented being told they needed to talk when she was the one with the pressing need.

Walking along through the dreary landscape he felt his depression descending again. They hadn’t been happy at work to hear he’d be taking time off during one of their busiest times. Given the choice he’d rather be working than going away with Anne. Lost in such thoughts he passed a line of poplar trees which prompted the memory of a haunting verse from a poem by Conrad Aiken.

While the blue moon above us arches

And the poplar sheds disconsolate leaves,

Tell me again why love bewitches

And what love gives.

He repeated the words like a mantra slowing his pace to match the rhythm. He’d forgotten the following verses but remembered the last one:

Rock meeting rock can know love better

Than eyes that stare or lips that touch.

All that we know of love is bitter,

And it is not much.

What a perfect word bitter was he thought. So far as he knew Anne hadn’t noticed his returning depression. He was adept at hiding his feelings, at acting the part of the newly-changed man. Would it really matter if she left him? He tried to recapture the panic he’d felt when she threatened to go. At the time it had been so real and unthinkable but not anymore. Time had deadened the memory and the feelings. Would he care if she left? He couldn’t sink any lower than he was or that’s how it seemed as he walked along on that dull day savouring the poem and marvelling that anyone could express something so closely in tune with his own experience of love.

This bleak frame of mind stayed with him until he arrived home.

‘Did you have a good walk?’ Anne asked.

‘Wonderful, very enjoyable.’

‘See anything interesting?’

‘Lots of things. It’s a beautiful time of year.’

‘Good. I’ve started packing. I wasn’t sure what you’d want to take so you’d better check. Mum and dad will be here for dinner. If we get things sorted before they arrive we can leave first thing in the morning and make the most of the week.’

‘No problem. I’ll check now.’

Anne’s parents arrived well before dinner. There were lots of instructions about the caravan and various arrangements. The site owner, Mr. Parsons, was expecting them around noon. They could get their milk and bread from the site shop. They’d be the only ones there but Mr. Parsons would open the bar for them in the evenings. Paul adopted his merry little face and thanked them. They were all in bed earlier than usual and Anne made no romantic overtures.

As planned they left soon after breakfast and arrived at the caravan an hour earlier than expected. The weather was calm, cold and depressingly grey just as it had been for more than a week. They were unpacking when they heard a rap at the door. It was Mr. Parsons, a short, thick-set man scruffily dressed in an open-necked shirt rammed into his corduroy trousers. His fierce, heavily jowled face resembled that of a bulldog.

‘Everything all right?’ he barked, gruffly. ‘Yer early in’t you?’

‘Yes. There wasn’t much traffic on the road,’ Anne said.

‘Give a knock on the house door if you want anything from the shop.’

‘Thanks but I’ve brought enough for today.’ Mr. Parsons didn’t stop to listen. He was already marching back to the house.

‘What a lovely man,’ said Paul, sarcastically.

‘Well mum and dad like him.’

‘Should be fun talking to him over the bar at night.’

‘We aren’t here to talk to him, are we? We’re here to talk to each other.’

‘I know,’ sighed Paul, ‘but we can’t talk all the time can we? What are we going to do for the rest of the day apart from talking?’

‘I’ve no idea. Let’s have something to eat and then decide.’

After they’d eaten Anne suggested a short stroll up the lane to the moor. Although there’d been no rain for days the lane was stubbornly wet and covered with soggy leaves. The moorland was nothing more than a rising expanse covered with dead bracken and a few stunted trees. Paul wanted to reach the ridge in the hope of seeing further but Anne was wearing the wrong shoes so they went back to the van. Paul expected the in-depth talk but Anne was happy to sit and read all afternoon. For dinner they had a cold chicken salad which saved the bother of struggling with the primitive gas grill and tiny oven. ‘This’ll do for tonight,’ Anne said, ‘We’ll find somewhere to eat out during the week.’

‘Shall I put the tele on?’ Paul asked when they’d finished eating. ‘It’s time for Countryfile, very appropriate in the circumstances don’t you think?’ The portable television was perched on a high shelf. Paul reached up to switch it on but the tiny screen showed nothing but ghost-like shadows moving through a snow-storm. He fiddled with the knobs but could do nothing to improve the reception. Giving up he turned it off and prepared for a long dull evening.

‘I wonder how mum and dad are getting on with the children.’ Anne said.

Paul hadn’t given them a moment’s thought but pretended to be interested. ‘They’ll be fine. Your dad’s got a way with the girls hasn’t he?’ It was the right thing to say and saved him from having to talk any more. All he had to do was keep quiet and smile in agreement every now and then while Anne reminisced about the happy times they’d had together over the years. By the time she’d finished they were ready to convert the bench seats into beds and settle down for the night. One day over, thought Paul as he dozed off. Only six to go!

The beginning of the week passed without incident. On Monday they drove to the Market in Tavistock but as it was closed they went to Plymouth. The blanket of cloud showed no signs of lifting but they made the best of things. They walked up to the Hoe then down to the Barbican where they had lunch in a pub on the waterfront. On Tuesday the market was open. Anne spent most of day inspecting the antiques and collectibles. In the evening they went to Mr. Parsons’ bar which was just inside the house. After a few drinks he revealed his more amiable side. Paul asked if there were any interesting walks in the area and was fascinated to hear about the Burrator Reservoir. ‘Sounds interesting,’ he said.

‘Certainly is. ’Tis a very popular walk. Startin’ from the dam ’tis three or four mile all the way round the reservoir.’

Paul asked how to get there and would have asked more but Anne changed the subject. ‘Mum tells me you have a new electric organ.’

Mr. Parsons perked up. ‘I do. Wouldee like to see ’n?’ The new organ was his pride and joy, more of an acquisition than an instrument to play although he could manage a few tunes with one finger by ear. He knew from her parents that Anne was a talented musician. ‘Come on in the lounge. You can ’ave a go on ’n if you like.’ It was an honour for anyone to be invited into the lounge where the organ took pride of place in the bay window. They were treated to a demonstration of its various functions and vast variety of sound effects. ‘Go on, ’ave a go,’ he insisted believing if Anne could play the cello she’d know all about electric organs.

Anne explained that she’d only had a few piano lessons as a child but seeing how keen he was for her to play she obliged him with a few of the tunes she remembered from childhood. Mr. Parsons was highly impressed. He opened a bottle of whisky and for the next hour the organ took centre stage.

They were late getting back to the caravan. Anne had stayed on fruit juice all night whereas Paul had made the most of Mr. Parsons’ bottle of whisky and fell asleep the moment he hit the pillow.

The cloud had thinned sufficiently on Wednesday to allow brief glimpses of the sun so they drove across the moor and stopped at Princetown to look at the prison and visit the gift shops. Anne bought a few trinkets to take back for the girls and her parents including a mug with Property of HM Prison printed on it which she knew would amuse her father. They had coffee at The Old Police Station café then drove to Postbridge where Paul showed Anne the ancient clapper bridge and lectured her on its architectural importance as a forerunner of the modern beam bridge.

On Thursday it rained all day and they stayed in the caravan. Paul suspected the time for getting to know each other had finally arrived. He was right.

‘Your feelings have changed since we came back from Lulworth, haven’t they?’ Anne said.

‘How do you mean?’ he asked, playing for time.

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I’m not a mind reader am I?’

‘You promised you’d change.’

‘And I have.’ He was on the defensive. ‘I’ve spent more time with the children and with you. I didn’t argue about coming down here even though we’re snowed under at work and I met your friends.’

‘My friends!’ Anne raised her voice in sheer frustration. ‘Perhaps they’d be your friends too if you acted more like a normal husband and we did things together.’

‘We have been. We’ve been making love more often haven’t we?’

‘Is that what you call it?’ Anne shook her head in disbelief. ‘You never touch me unless I make the first move and even then I feel as though I’m making love to someone who isn’t there.’

‘Of course I’m there though I often wonder if you’re wishing it was someone other than me.’

Anne flew at him. ‘Oh no, not Martin again. Nothing happened between us.’

‘So you say.’

‘And you still don’t believe me?’

‘I’m saying it didn’t look that way when I caught you both at home, him larking around with the kids and you whispering sweet nothings in the doorway. And it didn’t look that way when we went to dinner, me saddled with his wife while you and he giggled together as if we weren’t there.’

They were getting nowhere but the arguments went on. Accusations were made and countered and long-forgotten incidents raked up from the past. Incriminations on both sides were hurled at each other with ever increasing acrimony.

The rain by now was hammering down on the caravan roof. ‘I’m going out for a walk,’ Paul snapped.

‘Fine. Do what you always do. Walk away!’

Paul put on his bright red anorak. ‘I’ll be taking the car,’ he said as he stormed out into the rain.

Anne let him go not knowing or caring when he’d be back. She closed her eyes in relief as the sound of the car engine faded into the distance. Exhausted from all that had happened she fell asleep. It wasn’t until it was dark that she started to worry and wonder where Paul might be. She was used to him taking long walks but never this long. She considered phoning her parents but knew it would only worry them. She picked up a book and tried to read but none of the words made sense. All she could do was listen out for the car and wait for Paul to return.

By eight o’clock she could wait no longer. She made her way across the grass between the deserted caravans to Mr. Parsons’ house. The rain had stopped and a brilliant moon was casting an eerie luminescence over the site. She reached the house, knocked on the door and spoke so quickly when Mr. Parsons appeared that he ushered her inside and calmed her down with a glass of whisky which she drank straight down as easily as water. Her second attempt at speaking was more controlled and coherent. Taking a deep breath she poured it all out: how Paul had been depressed for months, how they’d argued that morning and how Paul had disappeared in a rage and hadn’t returned. Mr. Parsons listened as she rambled on and afterwards did his best to reassure her. Rather than call the police he suggested they should wait until morning. From what she’d told him he thought Paul had probably gone for a walk and still feeling angry had decided to sleep in the car. Men often sulked when they knew they were in the wrong he explained. Paul probably wanted to scare her by staying away. He’d come to his senses and be back in the morning just like a dog with its tail between its legs begging forgiveness. His words or the whisky eased her anxiety. Anne felt better and stayed for long time drinking more than was good for her. It was nearly midnight when Mr. Parsons escorted her back to the van. Getting undressed took longer than usual and when she finally fell into bed and the room stopped spinning she was out for the count.

It was almost noon when she woke next day with a throbbing head. Remembering what had happened and realising Paul wasn’t back she heaved herself up to the window to see if the car was parked in its usual place. Seeing it wasn’t her panic returned. Something awful had happened and she had no idea what to do.

***

We were some way along the lane which would lead to the left turning for the last leg of our journey. ‘So what had happened?’ I asked.

‘We shall probably never know,’ said Howard. ‘Anne’s parents came down with the girls as soon as they heard Paul was missing. The police were called out and within a few hours his car was located parked at the Burrator reservoir near the dam. In the end they presumed he’d drowned himself or jumped from the landward side of the dam into the wooded valley below. They searched water’s edge and combed the undergrowth in the valley but to no avail. After several days the search was abandoned.’

‘So the body was never found?’

‘No, though on several occasions ramblers claimed to have seen a man walking ahead in a red anorak. Some tried to catch up with him but when they followed him around a bend he’d disappeared.’

‘What about Anne? Was Paul right in believing she’d been unfaithful?’

‘No, she and Martin were only ever good friends and they still are.’

‘Is that the end of the story?’ I asked.

Howard searched in his jacket pocket for something he wanted to show me. ‘Not quite,’ he said unfolding a wad of paper. ‘This is a copy of a letter Anne gave me. It was found hidden behind a stone in a wall wrapped up in a red, waterproof hood. It’s as well that he always carried a notebook and pencil for sketching buildings that caught his eye or he might not have written this. The letter is headed with his home address. Make of it what you will.’ Howard read it aloud.

To whom it may concern. If you find this letter, please see that it reaches my wife, Mrs Anne Bryant (address above).

My name is Paul Bryant, or perhaps I should say, was Paul Bryant. I’m not sure if I’m living or dead - or as Keats once wrote, “...do I wake or sleep?” There are times when I think I must have walked into the afterlife which for me means having to walk for ever never reaching the end of the road. Unbelievable as it seems I swear that what follows is a true account of the position in which I find myself.

I don’t remember when I arrived at this godforsaken place and parked by the dam which no longer appears to exist. The rain had stopped when I left the car and stared down into the depths below. I was angry believing my wife had betrayed me. I considered ending it all by jumping into the water but I lacked the courage. All I could do to ease my pain was what I’ve always done - go for a walk.

I set off intending to circle the reservoir in a clockwise direction which, if my calculations were right, would bring me back to the dam in little more than an hour or two. I soon settled into my stride and distracted myself by looking around at whatever there was to see. As it happened there wasn’t much apart from trees to my left and right with fleeting glimpses of water. The road was narrow and quite deserted. The first building I saw was a small, stone-blasted, flat-roofed hut on the water’s edge. It had a plain, wooden door which looked as though it had never been opened. There were two, whitewashed windows, one at each end. I stopped for a moment then carried on through the trees. Other than trees, the next thing I passed was a small layby with nothing on it but a flat horizontal stone slab balanced on two upright stones like a crude seat. It reminded me of the clapper bridge I’d seen the previous day.

Not far past the layby a fivebar gate on the right blocked the access to a path leading down to the reservoir. Beyond that on the opposite side of the road was a large, imposing, L-shaped house with stone steps leading up to its porch and gothic church-style windows on the upper floor. The house was surrounded by sloping lawns and exotic shrubs.

Later I passed a couple of derelict sheds with corrugated roofs and, after that, a clearing where trees had been sawn down and left to be collected or else to rot. I came across a meadow with clear views across the lake. I walked past an empty bus stop and eventually paused on a little stone bridge to look at the stream dancing over the rocks amongst the ferns. Soon after the bridge the road turned to the right and, although I could see no water, I guessed I’d reached the far end of the reservoir and was about to begin the long walk back to the dam.

The second stage of the walk on the opposite side of the reservoir seemed as though it would never end. Clear views of the water soon disappeared behind the trees. The road twisted and turned. There were low walls covered with lichen. Here and there the woodland thinned. Meadows appeared and disappeared as I walked on and on beginning to think I would never reach the dam. But at last a sharp right bend promised to lead in the right direction towards my journey’s end. A few more steps and I thought I’d be back where I started. I rounded another corner and looked ahead expecting to see the dam but all I could see was another stretch of road.

There were trees to my right and left with fleeting glimpses of water. The next thing I saw was a small, stone-blasted, flat-roofed hut on the water’s edge with a plain, wooden door and two, whitewashed windows, one at each end, identical to the hut I’d seen before. I carried on to the crude stone seat, the fivebar gate, the L-shaped house, the clearings, the bus stop and bridge - all that I’d passed before and would again and again. I walked through dusk and the first night and, after that, on through an endless succession of days and nights, always passing the same, familiar landmarks but never reaching the dam. And right to this day I am still walking. I feel no need for rest or food and drink and I have no choice but to carry on in endless circles, getting nowhere, stepping into a nightmare from which I cannot wake. My only hope is that someone will find this note and, somehow, save me.

‘Is that it?’ I asked as Howard stopped reading and tucked the letter back in his pocket.

‘That’s all I can tell you. The letter reached Anne some months after Paul’s disappearance. She made two copies, one for herself and one for me. The original letter she gave to the police for their files. The case remains open though no further action was taken. As far as the police are concerned the letter was probably written by Paul as a hoax on the day of his disappearance. In their view he’s still alive and has covered his tracks not wanting to be discovered for whatever reasons.’

‘Is that what you think?’

‘I think we should make a move. We still have a way to walk and I want to be home before dark.’

That night after dinner we sat by the fire and talked of how strange it was that Howards’s colleagues had all been victims of weird events. ‘Who in their right minds would work for a firm like Hoskins, Dyer and Blake?’ I said.

‘I did,’ answered Howard.

‘True, but you’re still here.’

‘Here for the time being. Who knows what lies ahead?’

I took it as a rhetorical question. ‘You mentioned one other story,’ I said, ‘When shall I hear that?’

‘Ah yes, the woman, the strange woman, my main reason for asking you here. But that can wait till tomorrow. You must be tired after all that walking. I think we should take to our beds and after a good night’s rest I’ll tell you all about her.’

I was ready for bed and as soon as I closed my eyes I found myself walking along the road that Paul had walked or was still walking. I saw the hut, the stone seat, the L-shaped house and the fivebar gate. But before I reached the bridge and the brook I was sound asleep.

I woke at ten in the morning convinced that I’d needed the extra sleep. It was New Year’s Eve, my last day here. One more night with Howard and, tomorrow, I’d be sleeping in my own bed. Although I’d enjoyed my time with him I was looking forward to getting back to my old routine and having a rest from these worrying tales. We were drinking coffee after breakfast when I noticed Howard seemed nervous and tense. He was drumming his fingers and gazing abstractly into space. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked.

‘Just a little restless, nothing to worry about.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘No, having you here is help enough.’ I asked again when I would hear the woman’s story.

‘Later,’ he promised. ‘I thought I would take you out for lunch and afterwards to the place where it happened.’

I was fascinated. To hear the story on location would certainly bring it to life. ‘Where is this place?’ I asked.

‘That you shall see but not until after we’ve eaten at the Mermaid. It’s only a short distance from there. I’m afraid it’s outside but after a warming meal we shouldn’t be too cold.’

‘The Mermaid Hotel! Isn’t that where Trevor and Liz had their lunch?’

‘It is.’

‘And this woman’s tale occurred nearby, out in the open?’

‘It did.’

‘Then you’d better play me the Variation that fits the story before we leave.’

‘You shall hear it at once, Variation 7,’ he said.

The piece was beautiful but all too short. I was definitely beginning to appreciate this music.

‘Well?’ said Howard, lifting his hands from the keyboard.

‘Beautiful,’ I said, ‘gentle and lilting, just like a lullaby. I could almost imagine a cradle being rocked backwards and forwards.’ Howard’s reaction was strangely sombre. ‘Have I said the wrong thing?’ I asked.

‘No, you were disturbingly accurate. I’ll say no more but you’ll see what I mean when I tell you the story.’

The Mermaid was quieter than we expected. I looked around at the others and wondered where Trevor and Liz had been sitting. Perhaps they’d been sitting at our table. After our meal we departed. Remembering Trevor I half expected a raging storm and was almost surprised by the winter sun.

We walked to the church and sat on a seat outside. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is the very bench where a man was sitting alone when a woman he’d never met came and sat beside him. The man’s real name I’ve sworn to keep secret for reasons I cannot reveal. We’ll call him John - John Smith, it’s a suitably nondescript name for a man considered by most to be equally dull.’