power of feeling. When I saw Frances the following weekend, my heart went out to her, clinging to the side of her front door, looking so thin, drawn and shaky.
The children rushed past her into the house, late for some telly show. I hung about, pretending to have a problem with the strap of my shoe, till they were out of earshot. Then, ‘Sure that you’ll be all right?’ I asked. ‘It can’t be a picnic without Terence here to help. Can’t I send Geoff round to mow your lawn, or bring you some groceries, or something?’
‘No, really, Tilly. Thanks. I am managing.’ She switched hands on the door, ready to shuffle back in the house. Then she said, over her shoulder, ‘Oh, there is one thing. If you could just make sure he doesn’t forget to pick me up on Wednesday.’
I didn’t blink. ‘Wednesday.’
‘Three fifteen should be fine.’
‘Three fifteen. Right.’
I went back to my car, waved and drove off. Three days till Wednesday, all without the children. Twice we had leisurely meals in which the words ‘Oh, by the way , Til, did I remember to tell you what’s happening on Wednesday?’ would have fitted in as well as any other.
But nothing. Nothing. Not a peep.
The fact is, you can make all the grand decisions you want to put aside one failing part of your relationship – be lofty, even – decide what you value most, and let the rest go hang. The problem is, only the dead can do it. Nobody else can keep it up. The world is crawling with people who told themselves, ‘I know my partner’s a jerk. But this is a nice house, and children need two parents. I’ll hold tight.’ What happens? Within a day or two the pudding plates are flying because he’s said the wrong thing yet again, or she has made the exact same mistake he’d known from the start she would make. The fact is, feelings
matter
. So I make no apologies for watching Geoffrey like a hawk, smiling invitingly over our intimate suppers (Oh, go on, Geoffrey. You can talk to me. It’s perfectly safe.) and even switching round my next few days on rig so I would definitely be there on Wednesday.
From the impassive way Geoff started the day, you’d have thought nothing would happen. In the morning he shot into town, but that was just for batteries for his camera, and he was back within the hour. I made the lunch. I let the conversation dangle, making a point of showing I was in an easy mood, and leaving giant gaps in which the words ‘Oh, by the way, Tilly …’ would fall as naturally as morning rain.
They only came as he was going out of the door at two o’clock. ‘Oh, by the way, Til. I want to swing round the suppliers this afternoon to pick up a few things. If you’re around, can you let in the children?’
Bugger
the children. By three I was sitting in my car round the corner from Frances’s house. Geoff’s car had to pass me on the one-way street. I watched it sail by and pulled out to follow, knowing I didn’t really need to keep the two of them strictly in view on the short journey. After all, where else would the pair be headed in term-time, halfway through the afternoon, except to their children’s school?
I only bothered to hang around so I could see how long the meeting lasted. (Over an hour.) Geoff had to drop off Frances, so I was home first. ‘You got in the house all right, then?’ I congratulated Minna, nodding at the door key she’d left on the side.
She was triumphant. ‘Harry had forgotten. He looked under all the wrong flowerpots. I kept on telling him, “It’s that one, Harry,” but he wouldn’t listen. And I was right.’ She didn’t notice I was barely listening. ‘Look, Tilly. I’m making another glitter picture. It’s a princess.’
Across the top of her thick sheet of paper, she ran a smear of glue, then picked up her tiny tube of glitter and sprinkled on silver. Raising the edges, she tipped and blew until she had a shower of twinkling stardust across her painted navy sky. ‘Do you know
The children rushed past her into the house, late for some telly show. I hung about, pretending to have a problem with the strap of my shoe, till they were out of earshot. Then, ‘Sure that you’ll be all right?’ I asked. ‘It can’t be a picnic without Terence here to help. Can’t I send Geoff round to mow your lawn, or bring you some groceries, or something?’
‘No, really, Tilly. Thanks. I am managing.’ She switched hands on the door, ready to shuffle back in the house. Then she said, over her shoulder, ‘Oh, there is one thing. If you could just make sure he doesn’t forget to pick me up on Wednesday.’
I didn’t blink. ‘Wednesday.’
‘Three fifteen should be fine.’
‘Three fifteen. Right.’
I went back to my car, waved and drove off. Three days till Wednesday, all without the children. Twice we had leisurely meals in which the words ‘Oh, by the way , Til, did I remember to tell you what’s happening on Wednesday?’ would have fitted in as well as any other.
But nothing. Nothing. Not a peep.
The fact is, you can make all the grand decisions you want to put aside one failing part of your relationship – be lofty, even – decide what you value most, and let the rest go hang. The problem is, only the dead can do it. Nobody else can keep it up. The world is crawling with people who told themselves, ‘I know my partner’s a jerk. But this is a nice house, and children need two parents. I’ll hold tight.’ What happens? Within a day or two the pudding plates are flying because he’s said the wrong thing yet again, or she has made the exact same mistake he’d known from the start she would make. The fact is, feelings
matter
. So I make no apologies for watching Geoffrey like a hawk, smiling invitingly over our intimate suppers (Oh, go on, Geoffrey. You can talk to me. It’s perfectly safe.) and even switching round my next few days on rig so I would definitely be there on Wednesday.
From the impassive way Geoff started the day, you’d have thought nothing would happen. In the morning he shot into town, but that was just for batteries for his camera, and he was back within the hour. I made the lunch. I let the conversation dangle, making a point of showing I was in an easy mood, and leaving giant gaps in which the words ‘Oh, by the way, Tilly …’ would fall as naturally as morning rain.
They only came as he was going out of the door at two o’clock. ‘Oh, by the way, Til. I want to swing round the suppliers this afternoon to pick up a few things. If you’re around, can you let in the children?’
Bugger
the children. By three I was sitting in my car round the corner from Frances’s house. Geoff’s car had to pass me on the one-way street. I watched it sail by and pulled out to follow, knowing I didn’t really need to keep the two of them strictly in view on the short journey. After all, where else would the pair be headed in term-time, halfway through the afternoon, except to their children’s school?
I only bothered to hang around so I could see how long the meeting lasted. (Over an hour.) Geoff had to drop off Frances, so I was home first. ‘You got in the house all right, then?’ I congratulated Minna, nodding at the door key she’d left on the side.
She was triumphant. ‘Harry had forgotten. He looked under all the wrong flowerpots. I kept on telling him, “It’s that one, Harry,” but he wouldn’t listen. And I was right.’ She didn’t notice I was barely listening. ‘Look, Tilly. I’m making another glitter picture. It’s a princess.’
Across the top of her thick sheet of paper, she ran a smear of glue, then picked up her tiny tube of glitter and sprinkled on silver. Raising the edges, she tipped and blew until she had a shower of twinkling stardust across her painted navy sky. ‘Do you know
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