26
Thursday, 26 April 2012
Stella had not read David Barlow’s directions. She had forgotten all about the date. She found the folded note in her anorak when, having done all she could do at Terry’s, apart from eat the shepherd’s pie, she was looking for her van keys. Even allowing for her watch’s extra minutes, she was due at the pub in ten minutes. The sloping capitals were like Jack’s handwriting. She should have stuck to her initial instinct and refused the invitation. Except her initial instinct had been to agree. She read the directions and caught her breath. The Ram, by the Bell Steps leading to the River Thames, had been Terry’s local. Maybe a drink was just what she needed.
Outside the subway tunnel Stella checked her appearance in the distorted reflection of the convex safety mirror. She fluffed up her hair. The style was meant to be messy, but not this messy; it kept falling over her eyes. She would have to do.
On time, she pushed open the door of the nineteenth-century pub on the corner of Hammersmith Terrace and Black Lion Lane as Terry must so often have done. She wondered briefly if he had ever spoken to David Barlow.
Stella saw him at once because he was in the seat near the fireplace. She had chosen that seat the only time she been here before; and, it being out of the way, she had been heading for it again now. That night she had been avoiding a man whom she had dumped. This memory made Stella feel bad.
‘What do you fancy drinking?’ He was by her side.
‘Let me,’ she countered.
He shook his head, so she gave in and requested a ginger beer.
When David Barlow returned, he sat opposite her and they clinked glasses.
‘Cheers!’ They said it together and laughed. Stella relaxed.
‘The grave looks good with the headstone. Tidying took me a while, but done and dusted now.’
Stella could not think what to say. Jackie had offered to take her to Mortlake Crematorium on the anniversary of Terry’s death to see the Memorial book open on the page with her message. ‘To Dad, love Stella.’ Stella had been on a twelve-hour shift and besides, she said, the crematorium had a website, she could see it online anytime.
‘Do you miss your father?’ He was looking searchingly at her.
‘Yes.’ Stella gulped her drink and the bubbles made her cough. She hadn’t properly considered this before. She was suffused with heat although the fire was not lit and, unlike the previous time she was here when it had been snowing, the door was propped open, letting in a cool evening breeze.
‘You were close. That’s nice. When I was a boy me and my dad were like that.’ He clasped his hands together. ‘But we grew apart. Jennifer wanted me to make something of myself. My dad didn’t fit her bill. He was a mechanic – he could have built a car from scratch – but Jennifer didn’t have time for cars that needed mending. I miss him for the wrong reason. Too many regrets. The newspaper article said your dad was proud of your success.’
‘Don’t know how they knew that.’ Stella gripped her glass. ‘Amazing you kept the newspaper.’ While pleased at the PR success, Jackie had thought this peculiar.
‘To be honest, the newspaper was lining the bottom of the wardrobe. I found it when I was disposing of Jennifer’s shoes and what not.’ He rolled up his shirt sleeves, smoothing the material at each fold. He ran a hand over his arm, up and down. Stella found herself picturing doing the same. His skin would be smooth, yet muscular. ‘I thought that if you could give your dad that send-off you’d be principled. Our parents launch us into the world; we owe it to them to see them out. I reckoned Clean Slate would be like you.’ He took a draught of his beer.
Jackie had predicted that readers of the article would think that. When Stella had been horrified that Terry’s funeral had made the front page, she had said it was great publicity. Her comment had surprised Stella since Jackie discouraged her from always taking a business perspective. ‘Sometimes it’s good to think with the heart,’ Jackie said.
Stella tried to think with the heart. ‘You must miss your wife.’
‘Would it shock you to say I miss my dad more?’
Stella had cleaned for too many households to be easily shocked, but shook her head, deciding it unwise to voice this. Clean as if you can’t be seen. What you see, never say, she had penned for the Clean Slate staff manual. Thinking of this reassured her.
‘Jennifer and I weren’t right for each other. We met too young. Since we didn’t have children, these days we might have gone our separate ways. But I hold store by loyalty and she was not a woman to give up.’
‘Like school friends who remember the person you want to forget you were.’ Stella was not in touch with anyone from school and supposed this was why.
‘That’s exactly right!’ He drained his pint glass and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘Why do we go to school reunion s? Jennifer’s death is hard because, if I’m honest, it’s a relief.’
Stella thought of her manual: Listen and nod; keep cleaning. The client is not interested in you, only that you agree. Suzie talked about Terry as if they had stayed together for the last forty years. ‘If you had divorced it might not have helped,’ she pondered.
‘I’ll never know.’ He got up. ‘Another?’
Stella’s eye caught the blackboard chalked with the evening’s menu and remembered the shepherd’s pie. She had planned to return to Terry’s after the drink to eat it, but she was hungry now.
‘Do you have time to eat? I thought perhaps…’ She hated eating with other people. ‘Although if you’ve eaten…’
‘Great! We’ll keep off death, is that a deal?’ He beamed, his blue eye bright. ‘What’ll we have?’ He turned to the board. Stella went for the ham and eggs; it was what she had eaten the previous time here. She was vaguely gratified when David chose the same.
While he ordered, Stella cast about for conversation topics. Men had limits on hearing about new cleaning methods however technical she could be.
The pub was busier than it had been on the snowy night last year. While he queued, David was chatting with three young men perched on stools, coordinated in light suits, brown hair cut short and gelled back. They laughed uproariously at something he had said. Stella recognized them from last time and this made her wonder again if Terry too might have chatted with David while waiting at the bar. Her phone was ringing.
‘Please could I speak to Stella?’
‘Obviously you are. Hello, Jack.’
‘I called your home and got no answer. Aren’t we meant to be meeting?’
Another appointment that Stella had completely forgotten.
Jack didn’t wait for her to reply. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’ll meet you at Terry’s in half an hour.’ Stella hadn’t told Jack that she spent every evening at her dad’s because he would ask why and she didn’t know. Or worse he would know and tell her.
‘I’m at Terry’s now. I can see your van.’
‘OK, I’m on my way.’
‘Guess what?’
‘What.’
‘Go on, guess!’ Jack sounded cheery.
‘I can’t.’ David was shaking hands with one of the men at the bar.
‘I know the name of the street!’
‘What street?’ David was making his way towards her, holding the drinks carefully to avoid spilling them. Her evening had slipped away.
‘Marquis Way.’ Jack seemed astonished that she could ask.
Jack often continued conversations broken off days before and expected her to keep up, but this time Stella had started the conversation. Ever since her visit to the library she had been impatient to tell Jack about identifying Britton Drive, but after she had sorted Terry’s house and remembered her drink with David, she had forgotten. ‘Yes. So have…’ she tailed off. Jackie would advise she didn’t trump others’ success with her own. David was handing a glass of ginger beer to her. She took it and mouthed a thank you.
‘I had a hunch about Marquis Way, I’m sure it’s near the front of the file. Like I said, I’ve walked there.’
‘That’s great.’ Stella spoke in a monotone. David tilted his glass against hers in a silent toast. Their fingers brushed. She pressed the phone to her ear to cut out the background chatter.
‘Where are you? Sounds like a pub. It’s past eight. I need to get to… I need an early night.’ Jack’s voice was jerky; he was walking, his breath across the microphone was like the roar of the wind. With sudden clarity Stella knew that she couldn’t tell him about David. There was nothing to tell.
‘Where are we going?’ She reached around the back of the chair for her anorak trying to think of an explanation for David.
‘Marquis Way, of course!’