Page 24 of Annabel and Her Sisters

‘Hello, Annabel,’ she said, rather breathlessly. ‘How are you?’

‘Really well, thanks, and you?’ Don’t sit down.

‘ So well, thanks.’ She sat down beside me. ‘Golly, I haven’t seen you for absolutely ages and suddenly I see you twice in one week!’

‘Yes, well, that’s London for you, isn’t it? How’s Tabitha?’ Deflect.

‘Great, thanks.’ At this point she’d normally tell me what a brilliant degree Tabitha had got from Edinburgh, how she’d landed an amazing job in the City, had an extremely nice boyfriend who was an investment banker and son of Lord and Lady Many-Acres and ask if Polly was still making her pottery models? But she didn’t.

‘I know Ralph, of course– well, not know. But he’s a vicar, isn’t he? I don’t actually go to church,’ she said, sotto voce, putting her hand on my arm– Anthea was extremely tactile– ‘but I do the flowers sometimes, at this one. But I didn’t recognize your friend, in the park the other day?’

‘No, you wouldn’t.’

‘Another writer, perhaps? I gather you’re still plugging away! I haven’t read any of them, I’m afraid.’

‘No reason why you should.’

‘But golly, I do think you’re amazing. Still at it!’

‘It’s my job.’ Let’s not romanticize it. Yes, it’s something of a compulsion, but how else am I supposed to pay the bills?

‘So… is he in publishing, that chap, or…?’

‘I haven’t seen you at the Centre recently, Anthea?’ Any subject, any one at all. I plucked at this one, desperately. Come back , Ralph, I pleaded silently. I saw him in the distance. Actually, no, don’t. Not until I’ve got rid of her.

‘No, I er– I felt the Centre wasn’t quite for me. Teaching flower arranging there wasn’t what I’d expected. Tell me, at the concert in the park–’

‘No, well, it’s not for everyone, is it? Teaching recovering addicts. And of course it’s got far more dangerous.’

Anthea blinked, wrong-footed. ‘Really? Why?’

‘Well, on my creative writing course I’ve got prostitutes with all sorts of infectious diseases.’

She clutched the silk scarf at her neck. ‘Infectious? Like what?’

‘Oh, you know, chlamydia, gonorrhoea. You name it they’ve got it.

And I’m there most days.’ I still helped at the Centre in theory, but not recently.

I volunteered between books, and the closest I got to sex workers was when Polly, who also taught there, told me her lot were all on the game.

She’d had a fascinating time hearing about some well-known Cabinet ministers in Shepherd Market, and her group had made extraordinarily good clay penises, she said.

I mostly got the heroin and ketamine boys who thought they were Dylan Thomas.

‘HIV, too.’

Anthea stood up sharply. ‘Gosh. You are amazing,’ she whispered. She began to back away. ‘I’d better get back to Archie.’

‘Goodbye, Anthea.’

‘Bye.’ Off she scuttled.

Ralph returned and resumed his position beside me. He narrowed his eyes at Anthea’s retreating back. ‘Isn’t she one of Colin’s flower arrangers?’

‘I believe so. She’s also a terrible gossip. I’m afraid our tryst at the church fete will be all round the parish.’

He looked about. ‘Well, it already is, isn’t it?’ One or two people were definitely glancing at the vicar and his new lady friend.

‘True.’ I sighed. But I’d meant to do it inwardly. He glanced across.

‘Penny for them?’

I smiled. Tugged at the grass. ‘I was just thinking… well, I was just thinking it’s all more complicated in middle age, isn’t it?’ I smiled. ‘I flatter myself. Old age, perhaps.’ I cocked my head thoughtfully. ‘Old middle age, maybe.’

He smiled. ‘Reminds me of George Orwell. I read an essay of his where he described himself– with heavy irony– as “lower-upper-middle class”.’

I laughed. ‘Skewers it rather beautifully, doesn’t it? The whole labelling thing.’

‘Indeed it does.’

We didn’t return to the complications of life and love– for he knew the latter was what I meant– instead, we chatted easily for a while, and then, after a bit, we got to our feet and collected our rubbish.

Tossing our hot dogs, napkins and cups in a bin, we began to walk home.

Dusk was gathering. Others were departing too.

As we went, we waved to Colin in the distance, who threw up his hands in mock horror, as if to say– oh great, leave me to it, eh?

We laughed and he waved goodbye with a grin. Another nice man.

Ralph and I said our goodbyes even sooner than André and I had, on the corner of the street, but he’d already explained.

He had to pop to church, he told me, and update the In Memoriam book.

He’d meant to do it after a burial yesterday but it had totally slipped his mind, and the family were bringing an aunt, who hadn’t made it to the funeral, to pay her respects.

He kissed me gently on the cheek, which was odd, because I’ve never been kissed by a man in a dog collar before, and then we made separate tracks.

Crikey, burying people. Ashes to ashes and all that. Well, obviously. It was in the job description. But quite… sobering. Marrying them, too, I thought, more buoyantly. And christenings. Lovely. Stop it, Annabel. Stop wondering which one has the better job. You’re worse than Anthea.

Back home, I rang Mum. Or tried to. One of the things we’d all failed to appreciate– or at least I had– was that my mother didn’t have a mobile.

In London, that hadn’t been a problem. Now, though, if I wanted to get hold of her, I rang the landline at Ginnie’s, which was fine– the house was always full of people and someone ran and found her, and anyway, she usually rang me, every day at six thirty, after the news.

But Clarissa didn’t have a landline. Apparently, in order to get super fast broadband, she’d had to relinquish it, which wasn’t a problem, she said, because no one rang it anyway, expect cold callers and she was glad to get rid of them.

So how was Mum supposed to ring me and Ginnie, I’d asked her?

The last time I’d called Clarissa’s mobile she’d told me Mum was out walking the dogs.

‘Oh, I’ll get her one,’ she promised.

But she hadn’t. Or– perhaps my mother had found it too complicated, didn’t like it.

We’d tried before. She had a laptop and used that for emails, and watching TV in bed, so I emailed her every day now, but it wasn’t the same.

And I knew her hands were a bit arthritic, so my long, newsy missives were often met with: Lovely darling!

SO good to hear all your news! But nothing of hers.

And I missed hearing her voice. Also, Clarissa’s mobile was often turned off, because she was so busy digging a ditch, or draining a septic tank or something, and once I’d got: ‘ What? ’ in a crisp tone, as I tried for the third time.

This time I got: ‘This mobile has been turned off. Please try again later.’ I swear she saw my number pop up. In frustration, I rang Derek. It was quite late in the evening by now.

‘Oh, she’s back at the house, I think, Annabel. Probably watching Midsomer Murders . She likes that. I’ll tell her you rang, though.’

‘Thanks. And ask her to ring me back, could you? Maybe on Clarissa’s mobile? Show her how to do it?’

‘Yes, of course. Nothing worrying, though, is there?’

‘No, I just wanted to chat.’

‘Ah, right. Only we don’t want to worry her, do we? Gets a bit panicky.’

I frowned. Mum? Never. ‘About what?’

‘Well, you know, you constantly leaving messages to call. You know what old people are like, thinks there’s something wrong. With Polly, or Luke.’ I bridled at this description of my mother. She was not an ‘old person’ or a worrier and never would be. I swallowed hard.

‘She’s enjoying herself though, is she, Derek? With you?’

‘Oh yes, I’m sure. Dogs are a bloody nuisance, though, aren’t they! Anyway, cheery bye, must dash. The lamping chaps are here for the foxes. I’ll tell her you rang.’

And with that, he cut me off. Pretty much.

I was left staring at my phone. After a bit I tucked it in my pocket and went to David on the dresser.

I stroked his face tenderly with my fingertip.

Kissed my finger and put it to his lips.

Then I made myself a pot of mint tea and went upstairs.

In the bedside cupboard I found an old packet of sleeping pills.

I took one with the tea, and had an early night.

I awoke the following morning to a text from Ted.

For once not a dating horror story! In fact positively promising! What about you?

I sat up with alacrity and texted back:

Yes– I agree! Things are looking up! Are you about?

Ted was often in London during the week and we’d catch up.

Yes– at the shop all next week. Lunch? Friday?

Def. Usual place? 1.00 pm?

Perfect.

I smiled and clicked my phone off. Then I got up and had a shower, pleased to have a confidant.

I mean, obviously Polly and Luke had to know a bit, but the finer nuances needed someone of my own age, and Hebe would be a bit biased in André’s favour.

Ted would be better, somehow. A man. No side to him.

Not that there was a side to Hebe. No allegiance, I meant.