The Sense of an Ending

‘I know,’ I replied. It’s possible that when I finally got around to telling Margaret about Veronica, I’d laid it on a bit, made myself sound more of a dupe, and Veronica more unstable than she’d been. But since it was my account that had given rise to the nickname, I couldn’t very well object to it. All I could do was not use it myself.

I told her the story, what I’d done, how I’d approached things. As I say, something of Margaret had rubbed off on me over the years, which is perhaps why she nodded in agreement or encouragement at various points.

‘Why do you think the Fruitcake’s mother left you five hundred pounds?’

‘I haven’t the slightest idea.’

‘And you think the brother was stringing you along?’

‘Yes. Or at least, not being natural with me.’

‘But you don’t know him at all, do you?’

‘I only met him once, it’s true. I guess I’m just suspicious of the whole family.’

‘And why do you think the mother ended up with the diary?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Perhaps Adrian left it to her because he didn’t trust the Fruitcake.’

‘That doesn’t make sense.’

There was a silence. We ate. Then Margaret tapped her knife against my plate.

‘And if the presumably still-unmarried Miss Veronica Ford happened to walk into this café and sit down at our table, how would the long-divorced Mr Anthony Webster react?’

She always puts her finger on it, doesn’t she?

‘I don’t think I’d be especially pleased to see her.’

Something in the formality of my tone caused Margaret to smile. ‘Intrigued? Start rolling up your sleeve and taking off your watch?’

I blushed. You haven’t seen a bald man in his sixties blush? Oh, it happens, just as it does to a hairy, spotty fifteen-year-old. And because it’s rarer, it sends the blusher tumbling back to that time when life felt like nothing more than one long sequence of embarrassments.

‘I wish I hadn’t told you that.’

She took a forkful of rocket and tomato salad.

‘Sure there isn’t some … undoused fire in your breast, Mr Webster?’

‘I’m pretty positive.’

‘Well then, unless she gets in touch with you, I’d leave it. Cash the cheque, take me on a budget holiday, and forget it. Two fifty each might get us all the way to the Channel Islands.’

‘I like it when you tease me,’ I said. ‘Even after all these years.’

She leant across and patted my hand. ‘It’s nice that we’re still fond of one another. And it’s nice that I know you’ll never get around to booking that holiday.’

‘Only because I know you don’t mean it.’

She smiled. And for a moment, she almost looked enigmatic. But Margaret can’t do enigma, that first step to Woman of Mystery. If she’d wanted me to spend the money on a holiday for two, she’d have said so. Yes, I realise that’s exactly what she did say, but …

But anyway. ‘She’s stolen my stuff,’ I said, perhaps a little whinily.

‘How do you know you want it?’

‘It’s Adrian’s diary. He’s my friend. He was my friend. It’s mine.’

‘If your friend had wanted you to have his diary, he could have left it to you forty years ago, and cut out the middleman. Or woman.’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you think’s in it?’

‘I’ve no idea. It’s just mine.’ I recognised at that moment another reason for my determination. The diary was evidence; it was – it might be – corroboration. It might disrupt the banal reiterations of memory. It might jump-start something – though I had no idea what.

‘Well, you can always find out where the Fruitcake lives. Friends Reunited, telephone directory, private detective. Go round, ring the doorbell, ask for your stuff.’

‘No.’

‘Which leaves burglary,’ she suggested cheerily.

‘You’re joking.’

‘Then let it go. Unless you have, as they say, issues from your past that you need to confront in order to be able to move on. But that’s hardly you, is it, Tony?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ I answered, rather carefully. Because part of me was wondering if, psychobabble apart, there might not be some truth in it. There was a silence. Our plates were cleared. Margaret didn’t have any problem reading me.

‘It’s quite touching that you’re so stubborn. I suppose it’s one way of not losing the plot when we get to our age.’

‘I don’t think I’d have reacted differently twenty years ago.’