she wanted, with an ache, to confide in someone. And if not to him to someone, some human being with sympathetic ears and a response. This is what you lose when you lose a partner. Someone to share secrets with. Someone standing at your side on the touchline, both of you cheering your own son. She felt a sick wave of isolation.
Obviously impervious, Finton Clay grinned across. “Then tell me about yourself,” he invited.
“Well, I work in Bayston Hill.”
“A doctor,” he pronounced.
It was true – in a way. “How did you know?” Not quite denial.
“Something about you. Something professional.” He watched her critically. “Something guarded. Warm, caring, but in a very controlled sort of a way. Clinical.”
She felt her eyebrows lift. “Oh?”
But she was reluctant to tell him more about herself and instead curled her fingers tighter around the coffee mug before turning the conversation neatly around to him. “So. Tell me about you.”
It was a not unusual story. A father who had died (she picked up on something there), a mother who had “gone to pieces”, a struggle through art school, a sister long-term depressive, dependant on alcohol and drugs for whom Finton – to his credit – felt partly responsible.
She stayed and drank two cups of coffee and found herself telling him about Sam’s big chance. He gave the subject plenty of thought. “How old did you say he was?”
“Twelve.”
“Why not give him the choice?”
“Because any boy of twelve would choose football,Finton, without even considering his long-term future.” She felt bound to add, “And you know footballers are more or less finished at thirty. And that’s if they escape serious injury when they’re younger.”
“They’re not finished at thirty. They just don’t play competitive Premier League football. But they can survive much longer than thirty.”
When she didn’t respond he said, “What does your husband say?”
“He’s not around to ask.” She let him think she was divorced, that Sam’s father was absent through choice. She didn’t want to “do the widow thing”. But it was twice in one day that she had had to explain.
“I see.”
He was quiet for a minute or two, staring into the distance. Then he picked his head up. “Martha Gunn,” he said, smiling, his hand on the move. For one awful moment she was sure he was going to cradle her own hand but it went no further than his lap. “There is no correct answer. Just two roads. Sam either takes the one or the other. Whichever road he chooses he will not know how his life might have turned out had he taken the other one.”
They stared at one another. Maybe the dope had got to her too. The simple statement seemed like a deep, timeless philosophy.
When she left the shop she still felt nervous, her perceptions heightened. The gloom had spread; the air was damp and cold. But years ago, when Martin had first been diagnosed, she had learned there is only one way to deal with insubstantial funks. Turn around and face them. Say
Boo
. And because the town was silent, holding its breath, fearing the Severn might isolate it yet again, she started walking up the hill, making the excuse to herself of a visit to the Barclays cashpoint on Castle Street although reallyshe relished the climb in the cold air. She would withdraw money and check on her balance. Striding out it would take her little more than fifteen minutes there and back and she needed to clear her head.
It was a mistake. Threading along Dogpole and St Mary’s Street she found herself standing in front of the High Cross and, not for the first time, wishing she knew less about the town’s violent history. When they had first arrived, she and Martin had taken one of the walking guides.
“On this very spot in 1283 Dafydd ap Griffith, brother of the last native-born Prince of Wales, was brought as a prisoner of Edward I and hanged, drawn and quartered.”
And he had not been the only one. In 1403 Harry
Obviously impervious, Finton Clay grinned across. “Then tell me about yourself,” he invited.
“Well, I work in Bayston Hill.”
“A doctor,” he pronounced.
It was true – in a way. “How did you know?” Not quite denial.
“Something about you. Something professional.” He watched her critically. “Something guarded. Warm, caring, but in a very controlled sort of a way. Clinical.”
She felt her eyebrows lift. “Oh?”
But she was reluctant to tell him more about herself and instead curled her fingers tighter around the coffee mug before turning the conversation neatly around to him. “So. Tell me about you.”
It was a not unusual story. A father who had died (she picked up on something there), a mother who had “gone to pieces”, a struggle through art school, a sister long-term depressive, dependant on alcohol and drugs for whom Finton – to his credit – felt partly responsible.
She stayed and drank two cups of coffee and found herself telling him about Sam’s big chance. He gave the subject plenty of thought. “How old did you say he was?”
“Twelve.”
“Why not give him the choice?”
“Because any boy of twelve would choose football,Finton, without even considering his long-term future.” She felt bound to add, “And you know footballers are more or less finished at thirty. And that’s if they escape serious injury when they’re younger.”
“They’re not finished at thirty. They just don’t play competitive Premier League football. But they can survive much longer than thirty.”
When she didn’t respond he said, “What does your husband say?”
“He’s not around to ask.” She let him think she was divorced, that Sam’s father was absent through choice. She didn’t want to “do the widow thing”. But it was twice in one day that she had had to explain.
“I see.”
He was quiet for a minute or two, staring into the distance. Then he picked his head up. “Martha Gunn,” he said, smiling, his hand on the move. For one awful moment she was sure he was going to cradle her own hand but it went no further than his lap. “There is no correct answer. Just two roads. Sam either takes the one or the other. Whichever road he chooses he will not know how his life might have turned out had he taken the other one.”
They stared at one another. Maybe the dope had got to her too. The simple statement seemed like a deep, timeless philosophy.
When she left the shop she still felt nervous, her perceptions heightened. The gloom had spread; the air was damp and cold. But years ago, when Martin had first been diagnosed, she had learned there is only one way to deal with insubstantial funks. Turn around and face them. Say
Boo
. And because the town was silent, holding its breath, fearing the Severn might isolate it yet again, she started walking up the hill, making the excuse to herself of a visit to the Barclays cashpoint on Castle Street although reallyshe relished the climb in the cold air. She would withdraw money and check on her balance. Striding out it would take her little more than fifteen minutes there and back and she needed to clear her head.
It was a mistake. Threading along Dogpole and St Mary’s Street she found herself standing in front of the High Cross and, not for the first time, wishing she knew less about the town’s violent history. When they had first arrived, she and Martin had taken one of the walking guides.
“On this very spot in 1283 Dafydd ap Griffith, brother of the last native-born Prince of Wales, was brought as a prisoner of Edward I and hanged, drawn and quartered.”
And he had not been the only one. In 1403 Harry
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