33

Fungus Issues

If Elspeth had put aside her discomfort over her unfortunate non-disclosure (or lie by omission), the same could not be said of Matthew, who, as he crossed Dundas Street for his morning latte at Big Lou’s, was revisiting in painful detail the moment when Shelley’s innocent remark had so badly disturbed his equanimity. Was there a point in any marriage, he wondered, where one party realised that the unquestioning trust, or indeed love behind that trust, was possibly misplaced? Could you wake up one morning and realise that you no longer loved the person whose head was on the pillow beside you? Undoubtedly that happened, but Matthew had never imagined he would experience it himself. And he had not, of course, since he still loved Elspeth; now, though, there was a niggling doubt, a potential dawning of detachment. That would be terrible – almost inconceivable, in fact – and yet he thought that he was on the verge of feeling just that.

Matthew had been brooding on his situation, but had been unable to decide on any course of action. He suspected that he would end up doing nothing, and allow the whole issue to be forgotten. Most arguments and disagreements had a natural shelf life, and there was a lot to be said for allowing the normal course of events to overtake the problems of the past. And yet even if that happened, he feared that he would feel unhappy. He had been betrayed, and that left a wound that would be slow to heal.

And then something else occurred to him – something that was infinitely more disturbing. What if Elspeth had another reason not to tell him why she had been driving along Colinton Road – a road that she would normally have no reason to be on. What if she were having an affair? The lunch with Shelley might not be the main thing she wanted to conceal; she might have been driving along Colinton Road for a reason that she wanted to keep from her husband – and the most obvious reason for that would be she was meeting somebody else – another man.

For a few moments he stopped in his tracks, as the awful possibility dawned on him. The traffic passed up and down Dundas Street, indifferent to his anguish. He remembered a line in a John Betjeman poem he had read at school a long time ago. People laughed at John Betjeman, called him sentimental, but he could hit the nail on the head when it came to describing people’s feelings; and he had written there about a man coming out of a doctor’s surgery, his X-ray photos tucked under his arm, the bad news having just been conveyed to him within. And he surveys the passing crowd, whom he describes as indifferent, as merciless, hurrying Londoners. We are so often alone in our grief and our fear.

What if Elspeth were to leave him? He had never considered that possibility – not once – but now he did, and he wondered whether he would be left with the boys in that echoing, empty house. He saw himself sitting down to his bachelor’s meal of ready-made macaroni cheese, exhausted by the effort of putting the triplets to bed, facing evening after evening of loneliness. One reassuring thing about marriage was that you no longer had to worry about inviting anybody out, but if he were to be left by himself he would have to get back to that – and all the anxiety it involves. Imagine having to do internet dating, and to subject yourself to critical appraisal before you even met. And even if a date were arranged, what would you talk to a perfect stranger about? Yourself? All he could say was that he worked in a gallery and knew something about pictures and had three very young sons. And her eyes would glaze over, because she would be bound to be looking for something much more exciting than me, he told himself, with my bit of hair that always sticks up no matter how hard I try to slick it down, and my tendency to get athlete’s foot unless I’m very careful about changing socks and using that special antifungal powder.

Would anyone show the slightest interest in a person who used antifungal powder? Of course, one might not mention it, but then it might be discovered in the bathroom and she would say “So, what’s this, then? Antifungal powder?” and he would have to claim that it belonged to a cousin who came to stay and who left it behind – a cousin who had fungus issues, but was trying to do something about it – as one should, if one has a fungal infection. And she would look at him with the look of one who can only too easily see through people who lie about antifungal powder. And he would be at a loss for words, because he was an unconvincing liar.

He reached the café still distracted by the thought of disaster. It was quiet inside, and Big Lou was sitting behind her counter doing The Scotsman cryptic crossword. She had almost finished it, but was struggling over 10 across, Put paid to endless mixed-up saga, tasty and greasy epic without c! 6, 3. She looked up, and put her newspaper to one side.

Matthew could tell that something was wrong. “You all right, Lou?” he asked. He nodded towards the newspaper. “You don’t want to let these crosswords wreck your day, you know.”

The solution came to her as he spoke. Scotch pie. Scotch was a verb, as much as it was an adjective. And ‘pie’ was an anagram of epic without the letter ‘c’. Of course; of course. But it gave her no satisfaction.

“Lou?” he enquired. There was something very wrong – he was sure of it.

“Aye,” she said. “You’ll want your coffee.”

“No,” he replied. “I want to know what’s wrong. There is something, isn’t there?”

Big Lou hesitated. She glanced around the café, as if looking for an excuse to say nothing. But it was empty.

“There’s nobody,” said Matthew. “Come on, Lou. Tell me.”

Big Lou took a deep breath. “Oh, Matthew,” she said. “I don’t know – I just don’t know.”

“Don’t know what, Lou?”

She looked away, avoiding his gaze. “I know fine you shouldn’t pay any attention to these things. I know that fine.”

“To what, Lou?”

“To anonymous letters.”

He sat down, reaching across the counter to take her hand. She allowed him to hold it, and he gripped it awkwardly for a moment or two before releasing it.

“Oh, Lou,” he said.

“I dinnae have any idea what folk who write these things think they’re doing,” she said. “Maybe they think they’re helping. Maybe they just want to cause trouble.”

Her voice was rising, and he tried to calm her down. “If you’ve received an anonymous letter, Lou, I’d put it straight in the bin. That’s where these things belong. And then think no more about it. Forget it.”

“Even if it says your husband’s seeing somebody else?” said Lou. “And even gives you her name? Betty? Even then?”