Love of Grace and Angels Page 4

  There was a shriek, some shouting, running steps, shadowy faces, but all Moira could think of was one of the girls at work, her new superior, the one who always made the greatest effort to be hurtful, the same person who had been vindictive about the imitation lenses, and so much else; all that unkindness, and for what? Recently she had told a tale about a man from another department who had flirted with her. She claimed he’d told her that she was beautiful after asking if she was wearing new clothes, adding that he thought they should go out some time. According to the girl, she had simply replied that he ‘needed to masturbate more often’, and walked off. Was that something to be proud of, Moira wondered? Was that any way to treat another person, such a brutal remark to a lovely, if not misguided, man simply hoping for a date? Was this a strange thing to contemplate when prostrate in the road? Where were the memories of childhood and of family? Weren’t they supposed to flash through a victim’s mind? Was nothing ever going to be as it should be, not even this?

  Head wet with blood and eyes no longer seeing, sound faded with a hush, the tide ebbing. In a minute I will get up, Moira thought, for it was ridiculous to die in the middle of Pulteney Street on a busy Saturday morning.

  But only moments later, there was the body, the all too familiar self, lying alone under a blue sky for the final time. The rush was over, life’s anomalies at an end. Moira had stopped and the new arrangement wasn’t in the least bit beautiful.

  Chapter 3

  ART

  Art’s wife poked her head out of the kitchen window and frowned. He saw her from the corner of his eye, smiled to himself without visible expression, and carried on digging.

  He felt this day, Friday, was the best day of the week, a day free of work with the entire weekend stretching ahead as untouched as virgin snow. And the garden was the best place to be. Spring found it flowery; summer, grassy and sweet; autumn transformed it all to a blaze of colour. Winter left it sleepy and restful, tiny hints of life like so much hidden treasure. It was a haven, with natural paths that wandered through the beds as lazily as anyone could follow them. And digging, in Art’s opinion at least, was the best activity; how often did one get to labour so physically in a world full of cars, conferences and computers?

  ‘Art, why do you always do jobs that can wait when there are other jobs that actually need to be done?’

  Even in the face of this escalated approach, Art chose not to turn around. He didn’t need to. Twenty years experience told him now was not the moment to respond, however it might appear to anyone unfortunate enough to be watching. To answer would only cause a row. He could say: ‘Sorry, just coming,’ to which she would reply: ‘About bloody time. I think you and I need to talk.’ Or he could say: ‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ and she would bark: ‘By a minute I suppose you mean half an hour?’ But what he definitely couldn’t say was: ‘I’ll be with you in half an hour,’ because she would shout: ‘In that case I’ll do it myself,’ and slam the window, perhaps breaking it.

  The best tactic, a tried and tested method ensuring all jobs got done with equal priority, was to continue doing as he pleased until he felt genuinely guilty, at which point he would pack away his tools and go inside and offer to lend a hand. Having already completed most of what needed to be done, she would then flatly refuse his offer out of sheer stubbornness. But his remorse would be plain of course, because it was real, and this would hasten the appeasement of her exasperated state. A few childish remarks would certainly be exchanged, but then they would make up and act as if nothing had happened. It had always been that way and he rather liked it. He wasn’t sure if she did.

  ‘I mean, Art, it’s great that you actually do stuff around the house, but why are you doing an outside job when we have dinner guests in two hours and nothing has been done inside?’

  Art concentrated on driving the spade into the ground, shovelling out precious black soil, one of the secrets of his verdant garden, the other being lavishing it with more care than most deemed natural. It was a fair question. Generally, all her questions tended to be fair, hence the need for strategy.

  ‘I need some help, Art. Now.’

  The spade kept digging, but there were times when ignoring her was such hard work he thought it might be easier to give in. If only surrender got the garden dug.

  *

  The sun had lost its heat and was steadily dropping behind the trees, casting long shadows across the lawn before Art began to feel guilty. The twinkle of rebellion had gone from his blue eyes.

  The garden retained most of its summer greenness, although the horse chestnuts had started to turn and it seemed one good wind would strip them of leaves. By day, it remained relatively warm, but already Art could feel the acute coolness of damp evening air falling around him, marking the change from summer to autumn as plainly as the apples on the trees.

  After scraping and rinsing, he put the clean spade in the orderly wooden shed and headed for the kitchen feeling to be a condemned man, concerned he had overstepped the mark by at least an hour. She was a patient and forgiving woman, he knew, and however delusional, he felt comfortable in the knowledge that these qualities were rarely abused more than necessary. Even so, Art sometimes felt very wary of her temperament, worried that the actual limit of her tolerance lurked deep in unchartered waters, like a great monster previously unseen by human eyes; the terrifying untested unknown. This was one of those moments. But if he really tried, he might just get away with it. He’d hardly stepped inside when it came:

  ‘No thanks.’ It was cool yet snappy, a striking combination only years of experience could deliver, and dispensed without so much as a glance.

  ‘Sorry. I lost track of time. You know how it is.’ He allowed a regretful gaze to rest softly on her face, hoping she would look at him and see the remorse.

  But she wouldn’t look up. Her lips were pulled together in a tight unflattering pout that wrinkled her mouth and aged her neck. Not that this was something Art himself observed. To him she looked exactly as she had when they first met. Fair haired, fresh and pretty, green eyes flashing. In fact he was often astonished at how little she had changed. He, on the other hand, felt the paunch was enough to reveal that time was not his friend, paunch and thinning grey hair. He took a bottle of beer from the fridge, forgetting to offer one to his wife.

  ‘No I’m fine, but thanks for the thought! And everything’s done, just as you knew it would be.’ She flounced off into the dining room to set the table.

  He sighed, ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘I’ve already said I am fine. Let me get on.’

  ‘They’re not coming for ages, Pet. Come on, why don’t you let me do that after my shower?’ His voice was placatory.

  ‘Art. They’ll be here in thirty minutes.’

  ‘Is it really that late?’ Art was less certain than he had been that the situation was recoverable. ‘I’m sure they’ll be late. Dinner guests are always late.’ He opened the beer.

  ‘You can’t plan for people to be late. You can be such a fart at times. What on earth will they think?’

  ‘You do know the Windsor’s cancelled, don’t you? That now only our old friends are coming for dinner, old friends who couldn’t give a toss if we did nothing more than heat up a tin of beans. Obviously dear old Liz was very apologetic, and Prince Wi…’

  ‘Hardly the point. Dinner parties are about treating friends, sharing with them, showing you care by making an effort. Besides which, it’s Grace’s birthday. Not only that, whenever we go to Ted’s, he makes an enormous effort.’

  ‘Well at least let me lay the table. Come on, hand it over. It will take me two minutes to get cleaned up. I’ll do this first.’ Putting his drink to one side, Art gestured for the cutlery but she took no notice. ‘Why won’t you let me help?’

  ‘Because I can’t do anymore in the kitchen for the time being, and I’m using my time efficiently. It is called multi-tasking, Art. Maybe you’ve heard of it? The reason I have to multi-task right now is because when I actually asked for some help you ignored me.’

  ‘Sorry, Pet.’

  ‘Aren’t you always? I doubt you could multi-task, anyway,’ she grumbled, ‘I can just picture it. Preparing, cooking and cleaning, all at the same time? Breathing whilst walking and talking is barely manageable for most men. Christ only knows how you can dig too. I’m surprised you don’t faint. Or is that why you didn’t answer me when I called you? You could only breathe and dig, not speak, breathe and dig?’

  Art took everything from her hands. ‘I said I would do it. You go and have a shower. Go. Thirty minutes!’

  She didn’t move. ‘Did you take the dog out?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Did you take the dog out?’

  ‘Was I supposed to?’

  ‘You know she has to go out. She always goes out. You usually do it.’

  ‘No problem. I’ll take her out now and then I’ll do the table.’

  ‘Too late, I took her out already. Thankfully she did what needed to be done quickly.’

  ‘Then why ask me?’

  His wife widened her eyes, ‘To see if you’d remembered.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

  ‘What? So you did remember?’ She poked him with the cutlery.

  Art chose to laugh, ‘Just give it to me.’

  She paused for a moment, thinking. ‘Well, I suppose I could uncork the wine and light a few candles.’

  ‘And I suppose you could go and have your shower. Just leave everything else to me.’

  She shook her head knowingly, as a faint smile curled the corners of her mouth. Then came the long sigh of submission that Art always relied on, ‘Alright, you win. But call me if you need anything.’

  ‘I will.’

>   ‘And this doesn’t mean you’re not a selfish pig.’

  Art’s own sigh was wistful as he set out the knives and forks, spoons, glasses, place mats and everything else required to get food from plate to mouth when guests were present. But he wasn’t thinking of his wife or the dinner party, or even of his own filthy state, only wondering if it was too early to sow broad beans.

  *

  ‘That bloody woman. Does she ever bother to fill this thing up?’

  Art banged the steering wheel in frustration, causing his thumping brain to throb inside his fragile head. But beneath the anger – quite literally beneath it, down in the foot-well – such a light touch rested on the accelerator that the car rolled almost silently from the drive to the road. It was as if Art had divided himself in two, and above the waist irritation raged freely, whilst below a measured calm maintained control. The truth was that if there was anything left in the tank, and Art felt it was a big if, it certainly wasn’t enough to squander on heavy acceleration just because he was pissed off.

  That morning he had woken with a start and a sickening hangover, the way he always greeted the world after the anaesthetic coma of alcohol-induced sleep. With plodding regret, he realised he’d overindulged and stayed up far too late. He also realised that he had overslept.

  ‘What time does Mum’s coach arrive?’ he’d asked, rolling onto his back, elbow accidentally thumping his wife.

  His wife had given a vague moan and drifted back to sleep.

  He’d shaken her. ‘You’re going to have to wake up, Pet. What time?’

  When finally she stirred and turned to face him, she looked every bit as pale and bleary eyed as he felt. ‘What?’

  ‘The coach, what time?’

  Yawning, she had picked up the clock, squinting her eyes in order to focus. ‘Half an hour.’

  ‘That bloody dog, where is it?’ Art had growled, ‘The one time I actually wanted the bloody thing to wake me up is the one time in it’s entire bloody life it decides to bloody well lie in.’

  Like most animals, the dog was always demoted to ‘it’ when in trouble.

  ‘Dog’s don’t lie in, Art. She’s probably sniffing around the mess in the kitchen.’ A long groan emptied his wife, ‘Oh shit. I meant to get up early.’

  ‘Never mind the bloody mess,’ Art had grumbled, stumbling into his clothes, ‘Mum’ll be worried sick if there’s no one to meet her.’

  ‘Call her.’

  ‘On what, the phone she never switches on?’

  ‘You okay to drive?’

  ‘Fine.’ But he wasn’t sure.

  ‘S’pose I’d better get up.’

  ‘S’pose you had. Right, see you later.’ He had kissed her, quickly. ‘I’ll take your car. You know how she hates mine.’

  That decision had been the first mistake of the day, not counting all the drinks he had consumed post midnight.

  *

  For the reading on the petrol gauge to be quite so low, the car must have gone for miles in the red, he decided. The hand on the dial rested wearily a fraction beyond the final marker, unable to measure less. He knew his wife would have driven home with an empty tank despite the vivid glow of the warning light, passing several garages along the way, and wondered what she thought the light was for; whether she believed the car would run forever on vapour alone. Perhaps that was it, he decided, maybe she thought it actually was a vapour light, indicating the car was now running on nothing so no need to fill up, my love, just keep on going, the car is fucking magic.

  It occurred to Art that he should stop filling it up for her; that unintentionally he had contributed towards the creation of this lazy and neglectful habit. He had been indulgent in all things vehicular for so long that she obviously had come to believe in petrol fairies; clearly the time had come to throw them a spark.

  Creeping prudently in the direction of the nearest petrol station, Art resolved to put in fuel enough to pick up his mother and get his wife to a garage, and not a drop more. But what if she still couldn’t be bothered to fill up? Or what if she did not register the red light? He pictured the scenario so clearly it was as if it were happening: at the most inconvenient moment he would get a call to say she had ‘broken down’. Wherever she was, he would then be obliged to deliver a jerry can of petrol before following her to a garage in order to top up properly, which, when all was said and done, would be far more time consuming than simply giving in and doing it now.

  He smiled as an extension to the idea presented itself. When he put in the fuel he would also fill up a spare can, that way when she called he could tell her to do it herself. The risk was obvious: she would discover the standby fuel, use it, and eventually grind to a halt anyway when the remnants of emergency petroleum had combusted in the engine or evaporated from the can. Was it still legal to carry such a flammable substance, he wondered?

  At the garage, Art filled up his wife’s car with the grave air of a martyr, and bought a can of soft drink and a pasty, plus a packet of aspirin by way of an emergency hangover cure. It had been a big night, fun but probably not the right thing to do the day before his mother was due. He couldn’t remember whom it was that had insisted on the date, himself or his wife. She would know of course, but he wouldn’t raise it with her, it really wasn’t that important.

  Back on the road, Art soon became frustrated. Everywhere he turned the traffic was terrible, far worse than usual for a Saturday morning, and any short cut was impossibly congested. Who were these people, anyway, he wondered? Where did they come from? Why weren’t they asleep? After all, even the dog had chosen to lie in.

  He thought anxiously of his mother. She was probably already wondering where he was, for no doubt the coach would be efficiently early rather than obligingly late, despite the traffic. These days she was an experienced patron of public transport, but even so, remained entirely dependent when it came to navigating her way around Bath. A bus or taxi wouldn’t do, collection by her son was the only proper course.

  It was an incidental story she’d told that started her inevitable tumble towards public transport and a reliance on Art for the finer details of travel. For reasons he could no longer remember, his mother had shared with him a saga in which she’d stopped at the end of a motorway slip road, unable to find a way to join the speeding traffic. She’d remarked bitterly that modern drivers were rude, arguing mulishly with Art about the merits of filtering, insisting on incorrect assumptions regarding right of way. It was unsettling and dangerous stuff, but it was her unshakeable belief that indicating vehicles always took priority that sealed it. It was all he could do to stop himself confiscating the keys there and then. It made him cringe to think what might happen, and fearing the inevitability of it, gave her a set of driving lessons as an early birthday present. The gift was begrudgingly accepted and Art made the arrangements. But the young instructor, perhaps deliberately, frightened her with a single lesson taken in the rain at dusk, thus making her more hesitant than she was already. Soon after, she stopped driving altogether and gave her car to a much younger friend, and that day the roads of the West Country became marginally safer. Now she went only where buses and coaches and Art would take her; trains sometimes, planes never.

  As Art approached a busy Pulteney Street, he sighed drearily. This was the parking nearest to the coach drop-off point, and if he couldn’t park here the choice was either to get caught up in Bath’s one-way system or turn around and head right up the hill to park amongst the houses. Either way, it would be a long trek back. A number of cars were already cruising for spaces when he arrived, and more soon joined the hunt. Hope stirred when he noticed a car that could be leaving, but someone else was quicker, charging in and guarding the space like a bright red terrier with a bone. The driver filled the tiny vehicle and had such a look of menace, Art would not have dared to try and steal the space, however desperate he was.

  He scanned the area, just in case he could see his mother, still believing she must have been early with no evidence to suggest that she was; anxious irritability more a symptom of their brittle relationship as much as alcohol withdrawal. If Art had known the truth, that she was safely stuck in a traffic jam on the eastern outskirts of the city, he might have made different choices. As it was, he continued to fret.