He has wondered about the other two Birmingham embalmers who went to Aberfan. Do they suffer like him? He knows Gloria would approve were he to get in touch with them. It’s not the embalmers’ way, he always concludes. At times it’s a tough job, but William has always felt it’s expected to bear those times quietly, with dignity.
William can’t shake off the feeling, since Gloria made the move to psychiatric nursing, that she wants to cure him. He was pleased that unlike many of her friends, she never considered giving up work just because she was getting married. But when she talks about using his energy in the wrong way, and not facing things, he feels viewed through the lens of that Dr Kavannagh. Gloria says that other psychiatrists dismiss his talking therapy as hippy mumbo jumbo – so why she thinks everything he says comes from the mouth of God, he doesn’t know.
Every time she suggests they go to Cambridge, so he can face things, he worries that what she really wants is for him to sort himself out enough to change his mind about children. Determined as he has been, he knows that this elephant in the room of their relationship will never go away. Even when she’s too old to bear children, their absence will sadden her and judge him. It will never be settled. Ever.
He turns off the TV and quietly leaves the house to walk the ten minutes to the station, catching the earthy smell of imminent spring.
‘Gloria?’ he shouts up the stairs on his return.
‘Yeah?’ she calls from their room, and he recognises, with a beat of affection, how there’s always hope in her voice, always the anticipation he’s going to say something to please her.
He starts up the stairs, but she’s coming down and they meet halfway. ‘I’ve done something good.’ He grins.
‘What’s that then?’ She puts her hands on her hips, nonchalant, teasing, looking down from the higher stair.
He holds up the little oblongs. ‘Train tickets to Cambridge. Today.’
Her slow, broad smile could warm the whole house. Her arms wrap round his neck and she pulls his head into her chest.
‘And,’ he says into the softness of her, ‘I’ve booked us into a bed and breakfast, close to the station.’
Her arms tighten and she lets out a noise, untamed, that makes him laugh.
‘I’ve wanted to do this for so long.’ She lifts his head to look him in the eye. ‘Thank you, William.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he says, picking her up into a fireman’s lift and starting up the stairs. ‘We’ve got two hours.’ Her slipper slides off and bumps down to the hallway.
47
‘Thank God I brought the brolly.’ Gloria looks through the mercury rain streaming diagonally across the window as the train slows into Cambridge.
‘It never seemed to stop raining in winter.’ William rests his hand on her knee. ‘Our cloaks got so heavy, it made my shoulders ache.’
Gloria tilts her head and smiles. ‘Poor little William.’
He squeezes her knee, making her yelp. They step onto the platform laughing, holding hands, and William lets himself hope they’ll have a good time.
They drop their bags at the B&B first. It was a long shot, but he asked directory enquiries for the number of the guesthouse on Tenison Road that Mr and Mrs Mussey stayed in, always preferring to make a weekend of it even though they could only see Martin for two hours on the Sunday. As Gloria sits and bounces on the bed, running her fingers over the lilac candlewick cover, William wonders if the Musseys ever slept in this room, on this mattress. He tries not to think of Martin.
It’s cold for March. The little heater in the corner of the room clatters into life and they eat their sandwiches sitting on the bed. Afterwards, he puts his arm round her and rests his chin on her head, breathes in the smell of her hair. ‘Plenty of time before evensong,’ he says, pulling her down to lie next to him.
‘Not enough for what you want.’ She laughs, and they lie holding each other for a few minutes. When she sits up, pulls a comb from her bag and tugs it through her mane of hair, William watches, hands behind his head, smiling. She quickly puts her soap bag next to the sink, and the box of sandwiches she made for tonight on the mantelpiece.
‘Come on then. Let’s visit your old haunts.’ She glances at the travel clock she’s set up on the spindly bedside table. ‘How long till evensong?’
‘Ages.’
It has stopped raining. The sun silvers the tarmac, pavement and trees as they walk. Avoiding puddles, they turn right onto Station Road, passing huge houses with generous driveways and oak trees. Instead of turning right onto Hills Road towards town, William scoops up Gloria’s hand.
‘We’ve got time for a wander round the Botanic Gardens.’
‘Did you go there a lot?’ Gloria follows him across the road.
‘Quite a lot,’ he says.
He wishes he hadn’t lied, because as they walk the gravel pathways round the gardens, pausing at the fountain, the giant redwoods, the lake, Gloria won’t stop imagining a ten-year-old William. The truth is, he never once came here, but a lot of the boys did with their parents. He’s brought her here now simply because he has no memories of it. Even so, the sound of their feet scrunching on the gravel and the fiery orange of the path threatens to pull him back where he doesn’t want to go.
By the time they leave through the Bateman Street gates and start walking along Trumpington Street, he feels light-headed and slightly sick. The open gutter, a mini canal on either side of the road, intrigues Gloria, and she jumps back and forth over it a few times, then settles next to him and takes his hand.
There must be some new buildings in town – different shops and cafes – but his Cambridge was small; Trumpington Street, the sitting lions of Fitzwilliam Museum, King’s Parade, Trinity Street, the Backs.
‘That’s the cake shop famous for Chelsea buns.’ He has to make this the trip that Gloria is hoping for. ‘Want one?’
She grins up at Fitzbillies. The sun is weak and watery, but still, the italic script glows golden on the wooden storefront. ‘Go on then, we can save them for later.’