17
On warm afternoons, HER PARENTS were content to sit on the patio making the most of any late summer sunshine, her father with his Telegraph, her mother with her library book. Miriam noticed how much time they spent dozing. How their appetite had faded. How they talked less and less, as if speaking demanded too much energy. She’d watched Mopsy, their old cat, go through a similar process until finally she’d curled up in the grass in a corner of the garden and quietly, without any fuss, died.
August rolled into September. Dewy cobwebs and chilly mornings. Schoolgirl, student, schoolteacher – Miriam’s life had been measured in Septembers. Despite her disengagement from that world, the ‘back-to-school’ frisson – nervousness, anticipation, hope – was ingrained and she found herself wandering into WHSmith’s, ogling notepads and pencil cases and bumper packs of felt tips, coveting leather briefcases in Debenhams.
Out of the blue, Callum rang, asking how she was, grumbling that his current model – a young man – was incapable of standing still for more than five minutes. It was good, if a little unsettling, to hear from him.
‘Moat dropped in the other day,’ he said. ‘He was singing your praises. In fact he wanted me to ask if you’d consider modelling for him again.’
She laughed. ‘You’re joking. I live a hundred miles away. I have a job here. How’s that going to work?’
‘You could make it work if you had a mind to.’ He paused. ‘I’ve seen Moat’s painting. It’s – well – it’s the best thing he’s ever done. At least promise you’ll give it some thought.’
Her parents took it into their heads to go on a coach holiday to the Cotswolds with their bridge-playing pals. Three nights. She was dubious but Bing said she should leave the decision to them. ‘Sitting at home, monitoring every ache and pain – it’s like being on a self-imposed life-support machine. The stimulation will do them good.’
When she asked her father whether he was sure they were up to it, he stuck out his chin and countered, ‘Paul thinks it’s a terrific idea. That’s good enough for me.’
‘Well, as long as you’ve thought it through.’
‘Miriam. We’re travelling for three hours in a luxury coach with on-board facilities. We’ll be taking a comfort break at a service station. We’re staying in a four-star hotel. Someone will carry our bags, cook our meals and make our beds. No one will force us to do anything we don’t feel up to doing. If we die, we’ll die in luxury and I’m sure they’ll find someone to say Kaddish. Now let’s talk about something else, shall we?’
A few days before they set off, she received a text from Frankie Slattery saying she would be ‘passing through’ and asking whether she could drop in. Miriam had kept her friend abreast of events with Bing and Frankie had responded with a sentence or two expressing surprise and delight, as vague as ever about her own situation, promising to ‘tell all’ next time they met.
‘How long since you’ve seen her?’ Bing said.
‘A couple of years? She was supposed to come to Sam’s funeral but she didn’t show.’
‘That’s a bit off. I can’t imagine why you’ve stuck with her.’
Sam hadn’t been keen on Frankie either. On their first few encounters, she’d flung herself at him – but there had been no reason why she shouldn’t. Sam Siskin was simply a bloke who turned up at the house occasionally. Frankie’s blatant attempts to ensnare him were embarrassing but in no way a betrayal of the girls’ friendship. By the time Miriam and Sam became a couple, Frankie was out of the picture but, once in a while, when she failed to follow through on a promise, Sam would remind Miriam to be wary.
‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ she said, ‘but you two were quite close at one time.’
‘Briefly. And we weren’t that close.’
She tangled her fingers through his. ‘You will be nice to her won’t you?’
He kissed the back of her hand. ‘I’ll do my best to be civil but please don’t ask me to like the woman.’
Her father dug out his ancient AA maps of the Cotswolds as if he might be called on to take over navigation duties. They sought advice on what clothes, toiletries, medication, books to take and she had to stop herself pointing out they weren’t going on a trek through the Himalayas. Their suitcases were collectors’ items – built like tanks and without wheels. She was sure she’d taken one of them on her trip to America the year she left school. Once packed, they were impossibly heavy and she persuaded them to slim down their loads and lent them her lightweight wheel-along cases. ‘I can’t take you to the coach station but I’ll organise a taxi if you like,’ she said. Her father instructed her to get a quote from a couple of taxi companies but the coach station was less than three miles from the house and Miriam had drawn the line at that.
‘I’ve barely seen you for days,’ Bing said when she returned from another session with her mother who’d decided most of what she was taking needed dry-cleaning.
‘They’re off first thing tomorrow,’ she said, ‘so we’ll have a few days’ peace and quiet.’
‘But you’ll be at work and then Frankie’s coming, and before we know it they’ll be home again—’
‘And we’ll have to go for dental check-ups and to the supermarket and the tide will go out and come in.’ She held out her arms. ‘So let’s make the most of our evening.’
Some time ago, her father had purchased a rudimentary mobile phone ‘for emergencies’. He kept it on his desk, located in its holder-cum-charger and, when she checked, the five calls logged were those she’d made to demonstrate how to use it. As part of the pre-Cotswolds preparations, she’d gone over it all again and, in addition, shown him how to send and receive texts, writing step-by-step instructions on a piece of stout card. Throughout the morning, much to her dismay and Hazel’s amusement, texts pinged into her inbox, the intimation of calamity never far away – ‘Taxi £8’, ‘So far so good’, ‘Coach driver proficient’, ‘Arrived safely’.
At lunchtime, she spotted Bing peering through the shop window. She raised her hand but he pressed a finger to his lips and came in, joining the handful of customers.
‘Maybe you can help me,’ he said. ‘I need a gift for someone special.’
She played along, wondering where this was leading. ‘What sort of thing did you have in mind?’
‘Something modern. Poetry maybe.’ He lowered his voice a fraction but it was still loud enough for all to hear. ‘It’s for my mistress.’
Hazel was at the back of the shop, packing orders, and Miriam heard a barely-suppressed snort of laughter.
‘This is very popular,’ she said, selecting a slim volume with a blood-red cover.
‘Rapture. Carol Ann Duffy.’ He flicked through the index. ‘Would you be pleased if your lover gave you this?’
She blushed, beginning to regret playing along with his nonsense. ‘Yes. I would.’
He offered it back to her with a flourish and a dip of the head. ‘In that case, it’s yours. How much do I owe you?’
‘What was that all about?’ Hazel whispered when he’d gone and his attentive audience had returned to their browsing.
‘You tell me.’
Hazel nodded towards a man who was clutching the remaining copy of Duffy’s poems. ‘Tell him he can repeat his performance any time he likes.’