The Sense of an Ending

About ten days later Brother Jack turned up in my inbox. There was a long preamble about travelling, and semi-retirement, and the humidity of Singapore, and Wi-Fi and cybercafés. And then: ‘Anyway, enough chit-chat. Regret I am not my sister’s keeper – never have been, just between ourselves. Stopped trying to change her mind years ago. And frankly, my putting in a good word for you could easily have the opposite effect. Not that I don’t wish you well on this particular sticky wicket. Ah – here comes my rickshaw – must dash. Regards, John Ford.’

Why did I feel there was something unconvincing about all this? Why did I immediately picture him sitting quietly at home – in some plush mansion backing on to a golf course in Surrey – laughing at me? His server was aol.com, which didn’t tell me anything. I looked at his email’s timing, which was plausible for both Singapore and Surrey. Why did I imagine Brother Jack had seen me coming and was having a bit of fun? Perhaps because in this country shadings of class resist time longer than differentials in age. The Fords had been posher than the Websters back then, and they were jolly well going to stay that way. Or was this mere paranoia on my part?

Nothing to be done, of course, but email back politely and ask if he could let me have Veronica’s contact details.

When people say, ‘She’s a good-looking woman,’ they usually mean, ‘She used to be a good-looking woman.’ But when I say that about Margaret, I mean it. She thinks – she knows – that she’s changed, and she has; though less to me than to anybody else. Naturally, I can’t speak for the restaurant manager. But I’d put it like this: she sees only what’s gone, I see only what’s stayed the same. Her hair is no longer halfway down her back or pulled up in a French pleat; nowadays it is cut close to her skull and the grey is allowed to show. Those peasanty frocks she used to wear have given way to cardigans and well-cut trousers. Some of the freckles I once loved are now closer to liver spots. But it’s still the eyes we look at, isn’t it? That’s where we found the other person, and find them still. The same eyes that were in the same head when we first met, slept together, married, honeymooned, joint-mortgaged, shopped, cooked and holidayed, loved one another and had a child together. And were the same when we separated.

But it’s not just the eyes. The bone structure stays the same, as do the instinctive gestures, the many ways of being herself. And her way, even after all this time and distance, of being with me.

‘So what’s all this about, Tony?’

I laughed. We had barely looked at our menus, but I didn’t find the question premature. That’s what Margaret’s like. When you say you’re not sure about a second child, do you mean you’re not sure about having one with me? Why do you think divorce is about apportioning blame? What are you going to do with the rest of your life now? If you’d really wanted to go on holiday with me, wouldn’t it have helped to book some tickets? And what’s all this about, Tony?

Some people are insecure about their partners’ previous lovers, as if they fear them still. Margaret and I were exempt from that. Not that in my case there was exactly a crocodile of ex-girlfriends all lined up. And if she allowed herself to give them nicknames, that was her right, wasn’t it?

‘Actually, of all people, it’s about Veronica Ford.’

‘The Fruitcake?’ I knew she’d say that, so I didn’t wince. ‘Is she back in business after all these years? You were well out of that, Tony.’

‘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.’