Meeting Lydia Read online

  And it wasn’t her fault that the fall-out from the Brocklebank bullying was being revived more than thirty years on. She had become a victim again and she crawled onto the bed and howled and barely heard the front door bang as Johnny once more left her agonising alone.

  Half an hour later, calm now, she lay on top of the duvet, looking at the ceiling, thinking. It was so quiet without Holly. Dearest Holly … She missed her. Holly’s presence meant disagreements didn’t fester for too long. And Johnny would never get away with such domestic laziness if Holly was around. Holly was Libran. ‘Fair’ was her middle name. Law would suit her.

  A feeling of panic had settled in her stomach the day she met Charmaine sitting on her kitchen stool, and she was used to it now. It was a kind of sickness creating brittle moods and loss of joy. Tears were never far away, and her breathing was shallow and fast. Now she tried to steady herself, to breathe normally and deeply. It was an effort.

  One person cannot be responsible for another’s happiness, she thought, but when that person is so bound up in your life and things go wrong, the joy goes too. Every day she scanned her life for trouble, much as a searchlight scans the shadows for intruders. Now the alarm bells were constantly ringing.

  For over twenty years Johnny had shared her day-to-day troubles and soothed her. Now he was the trouble and the soothing had stopped.

  18

  Dear Lydia

  ‘Edward Harvey’, announced the sender of the new message in her inbox.

  Edward Harvey!

  She stared at the letters in their bold black type as one might gaze upon Egyptian hieroglyphs, noting their individuality, searching for meaning. Never had two words on her computer stirred so much expectant emotion. Here was an email from an Edward Harvey, inviting, beckoning, wanting to be read.

  Marianne blinked. She adjusted the height of her chair and sat back, surveying the screen. This was too soon, surely? Not two hours since she had mailed him. No one from Friends Reunited had replied this soon. But there it was … Edward Harvey … Could it be him? Could it be Lydia?

  The chicken was now hissing and spitting in the oven and Johnny was probably ensconced with a pint in the local, or maybe even with her, his departmental sidekick, his floozy, his – and she hesitated even to think the word – mistress. She had calmed herself as best she could in these difficult circumstances and completed the supper preparation, despite feeling thoroughly sick. She had returned to the computer merely to send an email to her brother Louis. Finding a reply from Edward winging its way into her inbox was the last thing she expected.

  The mythical Edward Harvey … She read his name over and over. What would he say? Edward Harvey, who had once, long ago, intrigued her with his extraordinary eloquence and gentleness and difference. What was he now? Where was he now? She hardly dared look.

  She blew her nose again and brushed the dried tears from her cheek. Her spirits began to lift, peripheral noises dimmed into the background and the world seemed a friendlier place again. For a few seconds she paused with her hand hovering an inch above the mouse. Then she opened the mail.

  To: Marianne Hayward

  From: Edward Harvey

  Date: 08 November 2001, 18.44

  Subject: Re: Contact from Friendsreunited – Marianne

  Hayward

  Hi Marianne,

  What a surprise! What a blast from the past! Yes, I prefer Edward, but regrettably Ted seems to have stuck, and as for Lydia, she is almost forgotten though the photographs are somewhere in the attic. Do you remember Waverley Grossett? We still keep in touch at Christmas. And Susannah Colquhoun: she was at Waterside with me. Do you have news of anyone else? Glad to hear you have a novel gestating!

  What was that science course? I don’t remember … Married to Felicity and living in Broadclyst, Devon, with four children, two spaniels – Clint and Gryke (Clint after Eastwood, and Gryke after Clint!) – a cat, a rabbit and three hens. Archaeology Lecturer at the University of Devon for past twenty-odd years.

  Coincidentally in reminiscent mood as we’re having a 70s revival party. Just picked up your mail when printing the quiz! Who was the first woman to read the news in 1978?

  Thank you for writing. Must dash – see if I can fit into the flares!

  Best wishes,

  Lydia

  Marianne smiled to herself. So he had a sense of humour at least. And he’d asked her questions. Never ask questions if you don’t want a reply!

  She always knew Edward would do something intellectual and significant. She didn’t know much about archaeology although she often watched documentaries on the television, fascinated by the mysteries of the past as they were unravelled, and impressed by the ingenuity of the people who lived at a time when problems had to be solved without the aid of modern technology. The building of Stonehenge or the construction of the trebuchet; massive undertakings requiring vision and strength and cooperation beyond anything she could imagine.

  Edward had always been good at history so it was no surprise that this was his chosen field. She had been hopeless; her one academic weakness at Brocklebank that no one could explain. Of course now she understood that when she was propelled into the third form at such a young age, she lacked the maturity to fully appreciate the idea of dates and time, so she had lost interest and drifted.

  She was relieved he was married too; that he hadn’t metamorphosed into an intellectual weirdo with no social skills and a fear of the female sex.

  Edward Harvey. She savoured his name again, re-acquainting herself with its sound and flavour. Edward-thearchaeologist Harvey. Edward Benjamin Harvey, if she remembered correctly. Now she knew it was definitely him, she could write a little more. But not yet. She would wait until the following day; wait until she had time to digest what had already been written.

  When Johnny eventually came home later, much later, Marianne had eaten a little supper alone and gone to bed. She heard him crashing about downstairs in the kitchen; the familiar sounds of drawers and cupboards being opened and shut; the dull thud of the fridge and the rattle of the cutlery drawer. She followed his movements in her head. So much for his beloved roast parsnips. They would be dried up and leathery by now. Good!

  She feigned sleep when he came upstairs, full of thoughts of what she would write to Edward, not wanting to argue with Johnny about where he’d been, or her insecurities, and definitely not wanting sex. He made so much noise in the bedroom, he would know she couldn’t possibly be asleep. He even said, “Mari, for fuck’s sake Mari …” And still she ignored him.

  He’d gone too far with his deprecating comments, his alcohol-driven thoughtlessness. And to see him flirting on the school steps with that fluffy trollop was just too much. The camel’s back had been broken and she had begun the process of self-protection.

  The next morning, while Johnny was having a lie in, she turned on the computer, a sense of anticipation growing as she summoned Outlook Express.

  She tried to think of something interesting to put in the Subject box. Something pertinent and more creative than ‘Hello’. She and her friend Taryn sometimes played games involving who could write the most attention-grabbing email subject headers. In the end she put ‘Lydia’.

  Dear Lydia … she began. Then she wrote of The Rivals and of teachers – the good and the bad; of the bullies and the Hut and the Headmaster’s dog Alfie that shagged anything that moved. She reminded him about the science conference, added that she thought Angela Rippon was the newsreader, asked where he went after Waterside, said his home sounded like he had the beginnings of a farm, and clicked on Send.

  And Edward Harvey wrote back at lunchtime, tired from the late-finishing revivalist party, bemoaning the fact that he no longer bounced back quickly from such events. He echoed many of her thoughts and added a few things that she had forgotten about a boy called Raymond Salkeld, Sports day, games lessons and an elderly gentleman who came to the school every year to deliver a lecture about wildlife. He said that he recalled t
he proclivities of the headmaster’s dog, that he was amazed by the detail with which she remembered things, that after Waterside he read Archaeology at UCL, and that the newsreader was Anna Ford.

  Marianne wasn’t so sure about this latter fact. She might have been the first on ITV, but surely even that was earlier than 1978. She thought about challenging him, but what did it matter? It wasn’t like a spelling test or an end of year exam. They weren’t at school now!

  She threw off her cardigan and a smile hovered round her lips.

  This was fun!

  When she went to bed that night, instead of thinking about Johnny, his drinking and Charmaine, she again pondered the next email to Edward.

  “You’re lovely and warm,” said Johnny, snuggling closer, tentatively, hopefully. They had hardly said a word to each other all day, Johnny disappearing again for another walk in the countryside – or so he said – and Marianne marking essays and catching up with the dreaded ironing.

  “I like to be warm,” said Marianne, mimicking the tortoise from the Creature Comforts electricity advertisements, her hostility dissipating, welcoming Johnny into her space. She thought she might ask Edward if he remembered the time when someone fell off the corrugated shed and smashed their arm. She couldn’t remember his name …

  “Are we speaking again?” asked Johnny.

  “I guess so.” She couldn’t be bothered to accuse and blame. Hadn’t the energy for mind-games when there were now too many other interesting things to contemplate.

  They lay close for a while, cuddling with the habit and familiarity that comes from a couple of decades together, but when Johnny began to move closer still, she pulled away.

  “Not speaking as much as I thought,” said Johnny. “Sorry I misunderstood.” And he turned away from her, restoring the wedge.

  Marianne continued the email in her head and wondered whether to ask Edward some more about his family.

  To: Edward Harvey

  From: Marianne Hayward

  Date: 12th November 2001, 21.15

  Subject: Echoes

  Hi Edward,

  I had forgotten about Raymond Salkeld reacting like a madman when people blew through the pages of books! When we were in the fifth form, he used to chase us girls, egged on by Barnaby Sproat et al. He was probably harmless, but I always made sure there was a desk between us. He had a wild glint in his eye!

  I can’t remember the name of that guy who gave us the lectures, but I do remember him bringing in skulls of badgers and foxes … and loads of antlers! At some point in the talk he used to make a loud animal noise that gave us a fright. A very gifted speaker, pitching it just right for our age group …

  Do you remember when someone fell off the roof of that corrugated shed by the rhododendron bushes at the end of the Hut? There was much gnashing of teeth and ‘thou shalt not’ the day after. Can you remember who it was?

  Do tell me more of your family. What are your children called? Have they hit the awkward teens yet?

  It has been fun reminiscing these past two days and I hope we can exchange a few more memories before disappearing for another thirty-three years. Goodnight and best wishes,

  Marianne

  To: Marianne Hayward

  From: Edward Harvey

  Date: 14th November 2001, 22.47

  Subject: Re: Echoes

  Hi Marianne,

  Yes I do vaguely remember the shed incident, but not who it was. Possibly Richard Zammit, but I can’t be sure. Kids are James – sixteen, not awkward yet and deeply immersed in sport. Then Rachel who’s sensible, Harriet who isn’t and Christopher – eight and already skilled in getting his own way.

  Very busy day tomorrow lecturing in Manchester.

  Time to get the children to bed …

  Sorry this is so brief.

  Edward

  Now decisions. To write straight back might seem too much, yet leave it too long and the moment might be lost.

  Wait two days. She wrote again, elaborating some of her horror stories of her time in the third form; reminding him that she was the only girl in the class for a year and once again reminiscing about their wonderful experience together in The Rivals. She asked him about his wife and what his job involved.

  To: Marianne Hayward

  From: Edward Harvey

  Date: 19th November 2001, 21.32

  Subject: Re: More Pieces of the Jigsaw

  Hi Marianne,

  I was oblivious to what was going on in the third form and can’t remember you being the only girl. ‘The Rivals’ left me with leanings towards a theatrical career, but it’s an unpredictable life.

  In addition to teaching students and the usual admin and research, the job involves a lot of travelling to conferences around the world – presenting papers and so on. Am also often invited to give lectures.

  Felicity is an administrator at the University. She is my rock and gladly allows me freedom to do all the things that my work involves. She is fanatical about organic produce (we are almost self-sufficient in vegetables!) and would like to own a restaurant eventually, but while the children are so demanding and I am so busy, this is impossible.

  Best wishes,

  Edward

  Marianne was impressed. Perhaps some of what he wrote was on the internet. She typed ‘Edward Harvey Archaeology’ into Google and hundreds of links appeared. Oh my, she thought. Most of them referred to him; her Edward Harvey. Typical of him to be so modest, just like the Edward she knew all those years ago. One day she might take a closer look, but just now she felt guilty; felt like a voyeur – as if she had found something she shouldn’t.

  This discovery almost stopped her from writing to him. He was important – certainly in the world of archaeology. He was no longer merely Edward Harvey, but Dr Edward Harvey. Then she remembered that she had beaten him twice for the prize in the third form; that she might not be his intellectual equal, but she was not far behind; that it was what you were that mattered, not what you did.

  To: Edward Harvey

  From: Marianne Hayward

  Date: 23rd November 2001, 16.34 Subject: Still More Pieces of the Jig-Saw

  Hi Edward,

  I imagine lecturing gives you many opportunities to fulfil your acting ambitions! ‘The Rivals’ was enormously confidence-boosting – but I didn’t appreciate it at the time.

  When you were at Brocklebank, what did you do in the evenings? Was it prep and early nights or did you escape to do things that gangs of boys are reputed to do?

  I can’t imagine how Felicity copes with four children and a job (and you!!). I found it difficult enough with one (child) despite Johnny helping a lot when Holly was young.

  Best wishes,

  Marianne

  Something strange began to happen as Marianne mentally revisited the world of Brocklebank Hall and tapped out her memories to Edward. For all of her adult life so far she had entered the rooms as a child and they looked so huge and unwelcoming from her lowly perspective. But now, she had grown and the rooms had shrunk. The child with all the fears and dreads in the world – the child who cried in the woods or sat in the mud on the hockey field – was a person no longer inhabiting her psyche to weigh her down whenever she was undermined. The hall with its parquet floor; Mrs Swift’s classroom with piano, model village, nature table and bay window; the dining room with its long pine tables – even the Hut – all had become proportionate in size to the adult she was now.

  This is the cure, she thought. This is what I’ve been chasing for so long, but never been able to find. She hardly dared hope.

  To: Marianne Hayward

  From: Edward Harvey

  Date: 23rd November 2001, 20.05

  Subject: Holiday

  Hi Marianne,

  Four children entertain each other; with one you probably felt you had to fill this role yourselves.

  Not sure exactly what you mean by what gangs of boys are reputed to do! But we did have a den in the woods!

  (Peeing up
trees, thought Marianne. And worse! If this was the case, then she was glad he hadn’t mentioned it.) We all go off to Australia, Pitcairn Island and New Zealand at the beginning of December. Am missing the end of term, but first part of trip for me is working as am giving series of lectures at Sydney University in an exchange arrangement with Prof. Brad Herringbone – an expert on patterns of biological variation in south eastern Aus. Will be away for a month. It’s the trip of a lifetime while the children are still all at home! Friends and neighbours looking after animals!

  Dashing!

  Best wishes,

  Edward

  Dear, sweet Edward … What was he really like? What kind of man had the boy become? Did he sit at his computer with his dark hair now greying, the distinguished archaeologist? Perhaps he had a shaggy beard and a ponytail, but she doubted it. He seemed enthusiastic about his work and loved his family, of that she was sure. There was something indefinably contented about the way he wrote about his life. He was safe. Not one of those men to cyberchat their way into your knickers.

  For a moment she envied him. Yet that was what she had had until a year ago; until she had arrived. That woman; that tarty cow. But Edward must never guess that she was troubled about her marriage.

  To: Edward Harvey

  From: Marianne Hayward

  Date: 26th November 2001, 21.11

  Subject: Re: Holiday

  Edward, I have really appreciated sharing memories with you this past couple of weeks and have found it very cathartic. The psychologist is healing herself as they say, with a little help from you as ‘listener’. I have been burying the Brocklebank ghosts for thirty-three years. That’s a long time for them to fester and grow and create havoc. Now I realise there were many good times too. I had forgotten them, caught up in the darkness of bullying and isolation.

  Mailing you was initially a case of ‘carpe diem’. I’m glad I did. But I entered your life uninvited and would not wish to outstay my welcome. That said, it is interesting unravelling the new you as we reflect upon the old and it would be good to hear from you again when you return from holiday.

  I hope you all have a fabulous time and that it lives up to your expectations.