Something Blue Read online

  After this her memory of her prospective lover’s departure was hazy. Relations between them were somewhat strained the next day. By tacit consent the incident wasn’t referred to directly and Anna felt nothing but relief when he left soon after to take up a position at the Hayward Gallery.

  She resolved to put sex on hold till Sam left home for university. The risk of causing distress to herself and to her son had simply been too great. He relied on her to provide a stable emotional background and a secure environment. Once he’d gone away to university, however, she felt that at last she had the right to a private life, and had casually dated a couple of men she found attractive. In the event, neither developed into anything long term, but things changed when Sam was in his third term at Oxford and she met Luke, a lecturer in art history at the Slade, at Alastair’s annual Christmas party. Quiet and good looking, he had two grown-up daughters, and had been widowed five years previously when his wife died of ovarian cancer. They’d hit it off immediately. After a couple of meals out and a visit to the Royal Court to see Jumpers it was clear that they had a lot in common, not least a shared sense of humour; soon they were meeting most Sundays in London and he was phoning her nearly every night.

  The relationship moved onto a new footing when he visited Brighton to speak at a conference on Dadaism and arranged to stay the night, ostensibly to avoid driving back to Cambridge in the early hours. After a companionable biryani (he’d chosen prawn, Anna went for mushroom; they shared automatically without even discussing it) at the Star of India, they’d gone to see a late-night showing of The Blair Witch Project. By the end of the film, most of which Anna spent with her head burrowed inside Luke’s linen jacket (for the rest of her life the smell of warm fabric conditioner would remind her of that night) she was too frightened to speak. As they walked home Luke re-enacted the most frightening bits with a terse running commentary delivered Groucho Marx style, complete with appropriate crouching walk. By the time she opened the front door she was helpless with laughter.

  Ten minutes later, they were in bed.

  The affair had developed fast. By the end of June, he was spending every weekend in Brighton. All was well until Sam turned up unexpectedly late one Friday night a few days before the scheduled end of term following a mumps scare in his college. Anna and Luke had been lying in bed feeding each other strawberries dipped in champagne and listening to Brahms after a lengthy love-making session, their passage from living room to bedroom marked by a trail of discarded garments. If Sam hadn’t uncharacteristically forgotten his key and been obliged to ring the front doorbell he would almost certainly have surprised his mother and her lover in bed.

  Anna practically fainted when she peered out of the window and saw her son standing on the doorstep, looking impatient and pulling leaves off the potted bay tree. Hissing at Luke to be quiet, she turned off the music, yanked her clothes back on (when she undressed again that night she discovered she was wearing Luke’s underpants) and shot out of the room. She thought she’d collected everything as she hurried to answer the door, thrusting the whole bundle hastily into the hall cupboard as she passed, but Sam spotted a stocking dangling from the Japanese lampshade the minute he walked into the living room. His expression made it clear that her explanation that she’d run out of drying space cut no ice, and as he turned away she was pretty certain he was grinning. Luke had been very decent about hiding in her bedroom reading old copies of Hello magazine until Sam went to bed, before creeping downstairs and driving back to Cambridge. But following this, their relationship had cooled. A few months later, Alastair mentioned that Luke had become engaged to one of the secretaries at The Slade.

  Upset at her inability to combine single parenthood with anything remotely approaching a satisfactory sex life, Anna asked the advice of her neighbour Beth, a sixty-something alternative therapist. Beth polished her rimless spectacles on a fold of her ankle-length dirndl and looked thoughtful as Anna related her tale over thimbles of green tea and organic oatcakes. Maybe Anna needed to think about whom she was really protecting, instead of worrying about Samuel, who seemed from Beth’s observations to be a young man with a more than adequately developed ego and sense of – how could she put it – self. Was there perhaps some dark interlude in Anna’s own childhood that needed to be brought into the light of day and examined? Beth lit a small black cheroot and leaned forward, looking intense. Anna tried hard to come up with something, but other than the untimely death of her guinea pig from overeating when she was eight she couldn’t think of anything particularly distressing.

  Roxy was more helpful; she roared with laughter when Anna described Luke creeping downstairs in the dark in the small hours, and reckoned it had probably done Sam a power of good to know his mother was on the pull, especially since the little bugger was probably permanently shagging himself senseless up college.

  This, Anna decided, was probably true. By the time Sam was in his third year he was spending all his vacations abroad, teaching English in locations so far-flung that his neatly written and informative postcards (‘Group 2 having the usual difficulties with the subjunctive, although their use of vocabulary is improving. Planning to make the climb to an abandoned lamasery on the northern outskirts of Lhasa tomorrow, should the guide deem the weather to be suitably clement.’) arrived several months after he’d returned to England. The morning she bumped into Jack in HMV, Sam had phoned just before she left the house to say he’d arrived safely in Caracas, where he was to spend Christmas teaching Business English to trainee IT sales managers. And since circumstances dictated that she and Jack never met at weekends, which was the only time Sam descended unannounced, their assignations continued to take place undisturbed. Things had continued in this relaxed vein. After Sam left Oxford and moved to London, she rarely saw him; once Lucy moved in notice of a visit had always been politely given (at Lucy’s prompting, Anna suspected).

  Until today …

  She splashed milk into a jug and dumped more demerara in the sugar bowl. Hell, maybe she should tell Sam about Jack. After all, he wasn’t exactly a child any more; it really was ridiculous to keep creeping about like this, as if she was some sort of criminal and he was the secret police. Sam wasn’t exactly liberal in his outlook: he thought anyone who voted Labour should be undergo psychiatric treatment and he was probably the only male in the Western world under the age of eighty who’d never owned a pair of jeans, but hey, this was the twenty-first century, wasn’t it? Anyway, now he was so happily settled with Lucy, his mother didn’t have the same significance in his life – he probably wouldn’t care if she shacked up with a serial killer. Provided he voted Conservative, of course … Right. As soon as he came back, she’d tell him. She heard the sound of the loo flushing, followed by the sound of running water. A moment later, Sam appeared in the doorway, looking disapproving. He held the copy of Private Eye she’d been reading in the loo this morning between finger and thumb.

  ‘Honestly, Mum, you really shouldn’t leave this sort of thing lying around. Anyone might see it. God, Lucy might have gone in there.’

  Anna took the offending publication, slipped it behind the cushion on the rocking chair and pretended to check that no errant corners were protruding. Sam didn’t laugh. Oh well, things might have been worse – it could have been a copy of the Socialist Worker, or Toyboy Today.

  ‘Cake, darling?’

  ‘Please.’ He sat down at the table, cut himself a slice of date loaf and took a huge bite.

  Anna poured the coffee and slipped onto the chair beside him. Right, go for it.

  ‘Sam, darling, there’s something I –’

  ‘Mmm. Delicious.’ He stirred sugar vigorously into his brimming mug. ‘Look Mum, about meeting the O’Shaughnessys. As I said before, Lucy’s family are very conventional, very traditional.’ He took another bite of date loaf. ‘Thing is, Tina’s always done up to the nines, prides herself on looking her best. Must spend a fortune on clothes, actually; she’d rather die than be seen weari
ng the same outfit twice.’ He shook his head admiringly. ‘Keeps the Irish charity shops going singlehandedly with her donations, according to Eamonn.’

  Anna busied herself with the percolator. All her favourite garments – velvet jackets, Edwardian lace blouses, floral tea gowns – came from Brighton’s second-hand clothes shops.

  ‘So I just wanted to say, don’t wear anything too weird, OK?’

  Pity he was too old for a good cuff round the head.

  ‘But absolutely not. In fact, in view of the occasion, I was planning on going for the formal look.’ She looked serious. ‘I thought my Russian hussar’s jacket – I know it’s old, but all that gold braid really is to die for – teamed with a terrific little ruffled ra-ra skirt I saw in Topshop last week. It’s bright green, in fact I’d almost call it shamrock green, come to think of it, with white polka dots – I thought it would hit the spot. Haven’t decided about shoes yet, but I’m pretty sure I could get Roxy to lend me her cowboy boots, the ones with all the punching and the little spurs.’

  Sam’s mouth had dropped open as she spoke; his eyes were wide with alarm. Several crumbs of date loaf had fallen on his perfectly cut lapel; she reached out and brushed them off. She allowed herself the luxury of a few seconds more silence before putting him out of his misery.

  ‘Only kidding, darling.’

  By the time he’d stopped coughing and downed a glass of water, she felt better.

  ‘OK, very amusing. Look, Mum, just keep it low key and you’ll be fine. Now, I’ve been giving some thought as to how you should describe your job. I mean you can’t exactly tell them you run a coffee bar, can you?’

  She couldn’t?

  ‘So I think the best thing would be to say you’re in the Art World in a culinary-advisory capacity.’ He glanced at his watch, and sprang to his feet. ‘Must dash, Lucy’ll be waiting.’

  Not sure whether to laugh or cry, Anna followed him out into the hall.

  ‘Oh yes. One last point.. About … stuff. Differences of … you know … Though if you ask me, it’s really rather moving to hear Tina talking about the trip to Lourdes she encouraged her daily help to take when she wanted to give in her notice on account of her arthritis. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is please, Mum, no swearing and none of your religious jokes, OK?’ He hugged her briefly and flung open the front door. ‘Great. See you on the twenty-seventh at Chez Gaston. Look forward it.’

  Anna stood waving until the tail lights of the Audi disappeared from view. Then she shut the door very quietly, and screamed all the most offensive swear words she knew as loudly as she could. She was drawing breath to repeat the exercise, reflecting that someone really should tell the Indian healer about this – it sure as hell was a lot more satisfying than all that deep breathing – when she became aware of a muffled thumping coming from upstairs.

  She froze.

  Great god in heaven – Jack! Her married, blindfolded, bound-to-the-bedposts lover!

  Thank Christ she hadn’t mentioned him to Sam – he’d probably get Father Thing to come round and give her a good talking to about her moral infirmity, or exorcise her, or something.

  The thumping intensified, accompanied now by muffled shouts.

  As Anna took the stairs two at a time, she was laughing.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘Well, I certainly feel much better for your words of advice, Declan. I’ll ask her on Friday, so I will. Now, will you be having another, then?’

  Declan hesitated. He’d already had several whiskies, and he’d have to be up early next morning if he was to be in Galway by half past ten; McGinty had rung him earlier in the week with orders to photograph the opening of a new supermarket by a rising young soap star who’d just bought a holiday home on the bay. But hell, his camera bag was packed, his good work shirt was ironed, and the thought of the cold, damp cottage waiting for his return was not an inviting one. With an effort, he smiled at Finn as he sprawled across settle on the opposite side of the stone hearth. The flickering of the peat fire cast shadows on his friend’s craggy features, picking out the gold rim of his glasses and the edge of his signet ring. Noting subconsciously the dramatic contrasts in tonal values he downed the last of his Jameson’s. ‘You know I think I might, at that.’

  Finn grinned, collected their empty glasses and set off for refills.

  Declan sank lower in the rickety carver chair. He’d come across Finn during one of his solitary weekend hikes some months after he moved into the cottage. Finn had set up his easel in the middle of a field and, oblivious to the weather, and the attentions of an aggressive sheep, was wildly slashing oil paint at a Turner-esque depiction of the nearby mountains. The two men had taken to each other at once, and frequently passed their evenings at the tiny pub in the nearby village where Finn lived. What the pub lacked in amenities – the flagstoned floor was rarely swept, on stormy nights the air was thick with smoke from the fire, and often the only other customer was an old man who sat at the bar quaffing Guinness and playing mournful dirges on his fiddle – it more than made up for in the low price of the drinks, and the fact that the landlord, an ancient of jovial disposition who tended to break into songs from pre-war musicals in a vain attempt to persuade the fiddler to play something more cheerful, had apparently never heard of closing time.

  Declan and Finn spent most of their time arguing about painting and photography; very occasionally, they would stray on to something more personal. Tonight Finn, who was divorced, had been telling Declan about a student at the art class he taught in Cork twice a week, and who he had a mind to invite to the cinema. Declan offered encouragement, with the result that Finn, who considered himself out of practice in these matters, had resolved to go for it the following Friday.

  As Finn chatted to the barman, nodding cheerily at the fiddler, who responded by breaking into a tragic rendition of ‘Molly Malone’, Declan tried to take pleasure in his friend’s prospective happiness. He tried not to feel blank misery as he caught sight of the night pressing against the grimy window set deep in the thick whitewashed wall.

  Tried to forget the fact that today would have been Maura’s thirty-fifth birthday.

  Three years since …

  Since …

  First thing that morning he’d laid a bunch of wild hyacinths at the shrine. He found them growing at the edge of the loch beyond the fields at the back of the cottage, tiny flowers with variegated blue petals that reminded him of the colour of Maura’s eyes. He made things looks as tidy as he could, but it wasn’t easy; a bank of cloud had swept in suddenly from the mountains, and gusts of wind kept blowing his offering off-centre. It started to rain as he left, increasing his sense of desolation. If only there was a grave he could visit – somewhere he could feel he was near her. Where he could talk to her – tell her how sorry, how indescribably, unutterably sorry he was, and ask her forgiveness …

  Still and all, he was grateful for the shrine. Maura’s parents had insisted on taking their daughter’s ashes back to their bungalow in County Antrim, where he imagined they were kept in an elaborate Wedgwood urn among garish china figures and bubbled-glass specimen vases on the mantelpiece above the log-effect gas fire. At the funeral, her parents had refused to look at him, let alone speak to him. Immediately after it, he’d packed up and left the flat on the outskirts of Dublin with no idea where he was going. He’d driven for three days, instinctively heading west towards the Connemara mountains where they’d spent their honeymoon. He slept in the van, stopping twice to buy more whiskey. On the third morning, after being forced to drive at a snail’s pace behind a lorry loaded with farm manure for almost thirty miles, he’d taken an unmarked left turn on the spur of the moment. After a while, the road narrowed, then dwindled to a track. He was about to turn back, when he caught sight of the shrine, half hidden by the overgrown hedgerow.

  He stopped the van, and got out. Until then he hadn’t been able to cry, but the sight of a little bunch of daisies carefully arranged in a cracked green plastic e
gg cup at the Virgin Mary’s feet undid him entirely; it was as if it was a sign. Maura had made a daisy chain and hung it round her slender neck the first time he’d taken her to visit his parents. He’d taken a photograph of her, sitting on their lawn, head thrown back, laughing at some foolish joke his father had made …

  At first he thought some trapped wild animal must be making the dreadful sounds; he’d been stumbling to his feet, about to set out to look for it, to rescue it, or put it out of its misery – anything to stop the noise – when he realised they were coming from him.

  He stayed at the shrine until it began to grow dark. At last he got himself back into the van, his whole body numb and his eyes so swollen he could hardly see. He’d barely driven a mile or so when he saw the sign, ‘Cottage To Let’, with a scrawled telephone number beneath. The numbers added up to the date of Maura’s birthday, if you left off the 62 at the end and didn’t count the code in; it had to be another sign.

  He moved in the following day.

  ‘There you go, wrap yourself round this.’ Finn was standing beside him, handing him a glass and Declan took it gratefully. Finn sat himself down in the corner of the settle again, and they drank in companionable silence for a while. Suddenly a turf at the back of the fire settled deeper in the grate, sending up a shower of sparks. Finn stirred, shot a sideways glance at Declan, took a gulp of whiskey and cleared his throat.

  ‘Declan, don’t mind me saying this, now, but …’ He took another gulp of whiskey. ‘Is it not time you were maybe thinking of moving on yourself?’