The week after the meeting with A.J.F. and Peter Grisham, John requested two day's leave. It was only about five weeks until Christmas, but John still had several days leave due to him for the year, and he explained to A.J.F. that he needed to start decorating the house, in preparation for the sale, and that he needed to spend some time with his family.
It still seemed uncertain whether his relocation would take place in the following summer, or several months later. Of course, John could travel to Peterborough on day trips for the initial period, A.J.F. explained. Maybe on one-week trips. Complete relocation, however, would be required by the summer of 1973 at the latest. That was a whole eighteen months away. But eighteen months could pass by very quickly. It had been nine years, this month, since they had moved to England from Calcutta, and they had really only just started to feel that this was their home here. Although deep inside, John knew that he and Aileen would never really be at home here.
He had taken Thursday and Friday off, and had bought a wallpapering table and some wallpaper and paint, and had set everything up in the hallway. And by Thursday evening, the hallway actually had been repapered and it was just a case of painting the wallpaper now. John had chosen a pale green and he planned to finish off the painting by Sunday evening. It was quite awkward with the wallpapering table still set up directly by the front door, but everyone had learned to walk around it pretty quickly. And the furniture was all back in place.
He could have finished it on Friday, but he was a bit exhausted, to tell the truth, and there were enough other chores. He decided to go to the launderette on Friday morning instead of Saturday, because he had different plans for Saturday. Aileen’s hair appointment at Maison Shaw was at 11 o’clock, and she wanted to go up to Eltham High Street to look for some dress material after that. Usually he would go with her, but he told her that he needed to go down to the ironmonger’s in New Eltham to buy some more painting brushes and plastic foil.
Instead, however, he intended to go to the park. And he calculated that he would have more than three hours’ free for that.
John hadn’t realized how difficult it would be to leave the house. At the last minute, Aileen almost changed her mind about dress material shopping and it seemed as if his park plans would amount to nothing.
He said quietly, “No Girlie, you should go up today. Hinds might have some special offers before Christmas, like they did last year.”
Lizzie had wanted to go to the ironmonger’s with him, but he convinced her to stay and look after the children. “And there’s all the ironing,” he told her. “Because I went to the launderette yesterday. And I’ll give you 5p if you do that this morning.”
Lizzie was excited because 5p was a shilling in real money. Lizzie had a pink plastic elephant money box on top of the mantelpiece in Gran’s Room which contained all her hard-earned cash. And she organized what she called The Mummy and Daddy Christmas Present Fund every year, under which she seemed to extract quantities of money from Jonathon and Lucy as well. He guessed that the 5p would go straight into the The Mummy and Daddy Christmas Present Fund so it was highly motivating for Lizzie, just so soon before Christmas.
Next to the pink plastic elephant sat the fat bronze Buddah statue, one of the few artefacts he had managed to bring over from his parents’ house in India. From what he had seen Lizzie stored all kinds of rubbish underneath and inside the statue as well.
His father would have turned in his grave if he could see the state of this house.
Finally it had been nearly 12 o’clock by the time he set out. Of course he had been feeling guilty, terribly guilty, but he had been feeling guilty for the last four weeks, even though all he had done with Angie had been to sit and talk. And smoke cigarettes. When he had returned home that evening, and seen Aileen’s eyes, and felt her fear, and seen the guilt in Lizzie’s eyes, and had nearly been knocked over at the front door when they had all fallen on him, he had realized that not only had he done a despicable thing, but also that he could never, ever leave, even if he had wanted to.
Only he didn’t want to.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about Angie.
The fish and chip shop was opposite the ironmonger’s. This time, he bought two packages of fish and chips, wondering all the while what in fact it was that he was thinking he was doing. There was not even any guarantee that Angie would be there. In fact, there was no reason why she should be there at all. He had seen her once, on a Saturday four weeks ago, they had not arranged a time to meet again. Maybe she had even left New Eltham now, gone back to Deptford, maybe her boyfriend had left her for the Tart.
He took the paper bag with the two packages of fish and chips and left the shop. His heart was pounding, thudding, now, and his feet seemed to be driving him to the park even though his mind and his common sense were telling him to go back home, or at least back home via the ironmonger’s. I don’t know what I’m doing, John thought. If someone stopped me now and asked me, where are you going and why are you going there? I would have to say, I don’t know.
It was a cold, windy November day and the park was deserted. Somebody had cleaned up the first bench, but there was nobody seated on either bench. John felt his heart almost stand still. He stood at the entrance to the park, clutching his paper bag and feeling desperately sick and lonely, confused and empty. All that, all that deceit for nothing. Nothing now. How stupid could he have been, counting the hours over the last two days until this possible meeting. And for what? Why? To smoke some cigarettes with a woman whose last name he did not even know?
The pent-up anticipation of the last two days, finally amounting to nothing, combined with the smell of fish wafting up from the bag was making him feel a little faint. Maybe he would just sit on the bench a little while, listening to the trees and the Nature. And afterwards, he would return to the fish and chip shop, and buy two more portions and take them home for himself and the children, and warm them up in the oven. To his knowledge, the children had never eaten fish and chips, but it didn’t matter, because Aileen wasn’t there to scold. He still had some time.
John sat, and the trees at the other side of the park swayed in the wind, completely leafless now, and the sounds of the cars from Southwood Road seemed to abate, seemed to become less, or softer, perhaps all the families were at home eating Saturday lunch. It was cold, and it was much colder when one sat perfectly still on the bench. He tucked his scarf tighter around his neck, it was starting to drizzle now. Maybe it would start to rain, and he did not have an umbrella. And when it became so cold that John could not bear it any more, he sighed and stood up and turned to leave the park and that was when he saw her.
Angie was standing, just a few yards from the benches, just inside the entrance to the park, in her pale blue coat. She was holding an umbrella over her head, and something else under one arm, it looked like a rug. His eyes met hers, and he saw something in them, and maybe she saw something in his too, because although her mouth had simply fallen open at first, her whole face then suddenly broke out into a wonderful, beautiful smile and she started to walk towards him, until she was standing right in front of him at the bench.
“Hullo John,” she said softly. “I didn’t think you was comin.”
He cleared his throat, coughed his nervous cough. “I didn’t think you were coming, Angie.”
“No but,” she stopped. “I meant, I didn’t think you was comin any more.” She did not say, I’ve been waiting every Saturday for you. For the last three weeks. I sat here on this bench every Saturday for two hours.
John held up his paper bag. “I brought fish and chips,” he explained. “For both of us, this time.” He laughed, nervously.
Angie laughed too. “I got a brolly,” she said. It was a large, black one, big enough for both of them. “An I brought a rug, case it got cold.”
“It is cold,” John said. “I’ve been listening to the Nature.”
She laughed again. “Well, don’t just stand around! Ere, let’s get a bit cosy with the rug ere. Rain looks like it might be easin off a bit. I ain’t eaten nothin yet, I’m starvin. Good job you brought them dinners, my turn next time.”
She stopped abruptly unfolding the rug and packing up the umbrella, then looked up quickly at him, biting her lip. “Sorry John. Just figure of speech, is all.”
“That’s all right,” John said. He put the bag down on the bench and helped her unfold the rug. “But it’s still my turn next time. I don’t allow a lady to buy me lunch. And I’m afraid this time lunch might be a bit cold.”
Angie laughed again. “You’re such a gentleman, John.” They arranged the rug over their legs and John handed her a package of fish and chips. “My bloke don’t never call me a lady! Fact, I can’t think of nobody never ever called me a lady!”
“Are you still having problems?” John asked. He didn’t know to phrase it differently.
Angie munched on a chip. “E’s still down the pub most every night. And I reckon e’s still seeing that Tart if that’s what you mean. E don’t come ome most nights. An I eard she might be up the duff, but I dunno, that might just be rumours. Could be from anyone, you know what I mean.”
He helped himself to another portion of fish. It was still a little warm, warmed up his fingers a little. “I… don’t really know what you mean, Angie.”
“Oh sorry, John. You know, she might ave a bun in the oven.”
“Ah.” He knew that one.
“Ow bout you then? Ow’s your daughter? An your wife?”
He cleared his throat again. He’d nearly finished his fish now, just the chips left. He’d been very hungry, he realised.
“Lizzie’s OK. My wife was a bit… she was upset when I came home last time. She’s gone shopping today, after her hair appointment. She’s…” he didn’t know how to continue. He didn’t want to give Angie the impression that he didn’t want to see her any more. Quite the opposite. But he could hardly give her the impression that there was something here for her that he couldn’t offer. He wasn’t like her boyfriend, after all – living with one woman and carrying on with another.
“I love her very much, Angie,” he said.
There was a little silence. Then Angie put down her half-finished package on the bench, and after a moment, she took his hand. “I know that, John,” she said. She held his hand, not tightly, not aggressively, just a little more gently than if she had been just an acquaintance, and a little more softly than if she had been just a friend.
“I know you ain’t going to leave er,” she said.
She picked up her package again. John continued to eat his chips, he wanted to finish them now, he wanted to talk to her. He wrapped up the paper, placed it back carefully in the paper bag. He drew the rug up around them, then placed his hand on her arm. Just as gently, just as softly.
“Thank you, Angie,” he said.
“Sounds like they’re getting you to spy on them Accounts blokes,” she replied, and he felt relieved, so relieved, all the pressure of the last two weeks ventilating, as if he had opened a valve.
“Sounds like they might be tryin to use you to get on the fiddle, John. Know what I mean?”
She was direct, and she was understanding.
“Bloke I know down in Deptford, e’s always on the fiddle. Got a pub, you’d think you couldn’t be on the fiddle what with them breweries. But e got this fancy-arsed accountant comin in, well e needed a bob or two on the sly imself cos is missus is up the duff now with their fourth. So e pays im cash in and, like, an e does is books for im. It’s easy when you know ow.” She took a long drag on her cigarette.
John shook his head and laughed. He’d taken the Chartered Accountants exams three times now, and failed every time. To be fair, he hadn’t ever had the time to learn up for them, what with all the chores at home. But Angie, she wasn’t an accountant, and yet even she knew about the tricks of the trade.
“Angie,” he said.
“Yes?”
He turned to her again. He felt so comfortable with her now, so warm, he could barely imagine his life being without her. When he tried to imagine that, briefly, there was almost a sharp pain, somewhere in the region of his stomach, somewhere near his chest. Whereas when he imagined his life without Aileen, he could literally see scenes in his mind like the Bayeux Tapestry, in which Aileen fought him tooth and nail, mentally and physically, the children were wrenched from him, his mother and his sister stormed down onto Larchwood Road, while he sat empty-handed apart from his few Indian artefacts, the bronze Buddah and the mahogany coffee table, outside his house on the pavement, bemoaning his fate and asking himself where his life had gone. His children, his hobbies, his carpentry, his coins, his young, pretty, charming wife, who had become less charming, more demanding, more hysterical, more distant. With whom he could still speak some Hindustani, although she had never spoken it very well and now seemed to be forgetting more and more words, yet he did not like to correct her, with whom he could talk about the old times in India, but who could not cook, who could not keep his house for him. Who practised the Catholic faith as if it were the answer to any evil, any problem – and insisted on indoctrinating the children with it. While he remained agnostic.
With whom he could not speak. Not about the things that mattered to him, anyway.
And when he tried to speak with Lizzie, he was not permitted.
“I haven’t told Aileen… you know, everything I’ve told you about this,” he said.
Angie took out her cigarette packet again and proferred it to him. He took the matchbook from her hands, inwardly vowing to buy her a lighter, struck a match.
“It’s all right, John,” she said, inhaling sharply first and then exhaling. “It’s all right, I understand. “You can’t always talk to everyone about everythin. An you can trust me.”
He was holding his cigarette with his left hand, and she with her right, and they both had their other hands under the rug, trying to keep as much as possible of themselves warm, and he felt her take his right hand in her left, and hold it again, gently and softly, and he felt very calm, and very peaceful now, like he had not felt for a long time.
And in the three-quarters of an hour that remained for him before he should be leaving for home, he told her a little bit about his life in India, about his parents and their house in the hills, and their horses and dogs, and about his sister. And about how he had been sent to boarding school at the age of seven, to Victoria, and a few of the amusing stories from boarding school, but none of the harsh ones. And all about the Anglo-Indian community in India, which was difficult for Angie to understand, but she understood that his family had been against his marriage, and all the problems that his family had had with Aileen. About his father’s death, and how they had come to England, and his job in the city, and the three children, and that the third child had been a bit of an accident, and how now Aileen was taking the pill and doing her penance for that by no longer receiving Communion at the Catholic church. And how now all that life would need to change again, and that his family would need to start again, after they had only just reached a point where they had thought they were settled.
And when he had finished talking, quite exhausted, Angie put his head on her shoulder and stroked it gently, and slowly, and after a while she said, “Will you come again, John? Will I see you again?”
Not like this, he thought, not like this. It was too difficult. It was too complicated, and it had been beginning to cause him stress. He did not want to leave her now, but at the same time, he could not wait another month to see her again. And he would not be able to know again when he would be able to take a few hours off, it was so spontaneous, so uncertain.
“Would you go up to town?” he asked. The idea had only just occurred to him.
“What?”
“I work in Mayfair. I often go to Hyde Park in the lunch hour.”
He heard her gasp a little. “What, up to town? Mayfair?”
“Angie, I’m sorry. I know it sounds far away. It only takes about 40 minutes from here on the train and… oh, and I know it’s a bit expensive. Don’t worry, I’d pay for your tickets. Maybe we can’t do it very often, but… don’t worry, I’d give you the money.”
He was already trying to work out how much it would cost. She could go on the bus, once she got up to Cannon Street, or Charing Cross, that was cheaper than the tube. And it took the same time. Maybe once a week, it wouldn’t be so expensive…
He could see she was thinking.
“Know what, John,” she said finally. “Bloke what I know from down the King’s Arms drives up town every Thursday mornin. Goes up Covent Garden, you know, e’s got business dealins up there. As to deliver the cash once a week,” she turned and grinned at him. “Thursdays, I finish cleanin up at Dr. MacNair’s round bout 11. Reckon this bloke drives up round bout 11, e could wait ten minutes for me to get there. Wouldn’t cost me nothin more than a smile and a bit of flirtin. I could get on a bus from there, be there round bout one o’clock maybe. At ‘yde Park! What do you reckon eh?”
John reckoned that was a very good idea. It was such a good idea that he squeezed her hand and now, he took her face in his hand and kissed her on the cheek. Just a quick peck, and she looked at him, and he looked at her, and he said, “Angie, I need to go home now.”
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