Meeting Lydia Read online

  Best wishes,

  Marianne

  To: Marianne Hayward

  From: Edward Harvey

  Date: 27th November 2001, 22.34

  Subject: Re: Holiday

  Hi Marianne,

  I don’t feel as though I’ve been any help at all, but I’m glad you feel better.

  Counselling is something I’ve thought of – as a career change!

  We are all looking forward to our trip and in a state of complete chaos here as we prepare to leave. Hard to believe we will be on the other side of the world at Christmas! When we return, perhaps we should meet.

  Best wishes,

  Edward

  Perhaps we should meet!

  The words jangled and somersaulted in her mind, caught in a dance with the partying soup of hormones that were having their last fling before their final farewell.

  19

  The Minds of Men

  “Jealousy is one of the most significant factors in the break-up of relationships,” said Marianne, addressing her class of upper sixth psychology students. Relationships was one of the topics on the specification and as such matters are a preoccupation of most teenagers, they sat in eager anticipation of what was to follow.

  “But what is jealousy? Most of us know what it feels like: ravaging your heart, obsessing your thoughts like a kind of madness. It can start as early as primary school when you feel jealous that your best friend is talking to someone else and you’re frightened of losing them.

  “These early experiences have a bearing on your later life. They are templates for adult romantic relationships. Anyone not know what I’m talking about?”

  Silence.

  Eighteen pairs of eyes looked up, pens poised. They sat behind grey tables arranged in a horseshoe shape with Marianne sitting on a wooden desk in the opening at the front. A scent of warm, wet dogs hung in the air and the windows were misting. Outside it had been drizzling all morning and puddles gathered on the flat roofs of the art department below.

  She continued: “I’m going to ask you a question about your feelings of jealousy and I want you to close your eyes – to increase validity and for privacy. Have any of you experienced jealousy over the past week? No peeking!”

  Seven girls and two boys put up their hands – roughly half the class.

  “Sorry to interrupt you Miss, but is it only in the last week, or ever at all?” This was Jason, polite, articulate and an excellent contributor to discussions.

  “Well let me ask you ‘ever at all’ as well. You can keep your eyes open for this.”

  Almost all the students raised their hands and there was a burst of laughter which rippled around the classroom.

  “One who hasn’t,” said Marianne, addressing Obi, a smiling boy on her right. “So you don’t know what we’re talking about then?”

  “I don’t really get jealous.” He tossed his head and shrugged. “If a person’s really confident in themselves, then I dunno … I don’t get jealous …”

  “Interesting,” continued Marianne. “Eysenck 1990 (and, yes, before you ask, you should know a few names and dates) – he quotes a study where over half the students asked, admitted to being currently jealous. Note I said ‘students’ – we’ll come back to that later. “When I asked you about ‘currently’ it was about half too.

  “Jasmine, please, get that can of orange off the desk – we don’t want any more stains on the carpet – and the phone out of sight, switched off … Honestly, how many times …

  “Now where was I?”

  “Half the students said they were jealous, Miss.”

  “Thank you Obi. In fact in males it was over sixty percent. Does that surprise you? Men being more jealous than women?”

  Hands shot up around the room and Marianne nodded to them, one at a time.

  Cate said, “I thought it would be the other way round because girls know how other girls can be so I think they’re more likely to be possessive.”

  “You could say that about boys as well ’cos we know how other boys can be,” said Obi, the confident one.

  Ellen said, “But girls suffer more from lower self-esteem issues. Image is everywhere. There’s a lot more to live up to, so I think they’ll be more insecure and therefore more jealous.” Ellen was one of the clever quiet students with an abundance of wavy auburn hair.

  “I think girls are more jealous ’cos we tend to display our jealousy more; like boys are jealous – but they won’t say it, where as with us, we’ll admit it,” said Chantelle who was festooned with shiny jewellery, from enormous round silver earrings to an array of jangly bangles shimmering on each wrist.

  Marianne stepped in. “Some very good thoughts there. Interestingly, when I asked you about current jealousy, it was about four to one girls to boys. Difficult to say whether this is significant. Clearly both sexes experience jealousy, but why? Firstly, why are men jealous?”

  “’Cos, like Obi said, they know what other men are like,” said Stanley who sat by the windows, and whose jet black hair was tamed by an intricate arrangement of small plaits.

  “Yes, but is that the only reason? Think beyond your age group,” said Marianne.

  “Are you meaning evolution things?” asked Sean who played rugby and took up so much space he had to sit at a desk on his own. “I think you want to pass your genes on to the next generation—”

  “You want to make sure your woman’s kids is yours,” interjected Stanley.

  “Exactly,” said Marianne. “And what about women? Why are they jealous? Obi?”

  “Insurance, yeah, because if you’ve got a big strong man protecting you, you’re gonna feel secure.”

  “Another woman might take away the family’s means of survival. Food, shelter – resources,” added Ellen.

  “Yes,” said Marianne. “Good … So there’s a vested interest in the woman keeping the man for security – hence jealousy. Evolutionary principles again.”

  “If it was only to do with that, jealousy would be decreasing as the generations went on. Because now you can test to see if the child is yours …” said Obi.

  Stanley interrupted with some sarcasm. “Oh yeah – ‘I want to be sure this baby’s mine’ – you can’t tell your wife that!”

  “Some people do – if they’re worried,” said Marianne, placating. “So how does what Stanley and Ellen have said, equate with Buss’s finding that males are more upset by sexual infidelity and females by emotional infidelity?”

  Silence.

  Marianne continued: “Stanley said men are jealous about paternity – you don’t want to think someone else may be sowing seeds – as it were – in your territory, leaving you to bring up someone else’s kids. Consequently men would be more likely to be upset by sexual infidelity. Yes Ayesha?”

  Ayesha fiddled with her long, golden-brown hair extensions. “So women, yeah, think they might lose their man if he’s in love with someone else – emotional in– what you said.”

  “Infidelity.”

  “Yeah. Emotional infidelity. So they would be left alone to bring up the kids, innit.”

  “That’s right, making jealousy understandable, normal, natural. Yet we see it as a character flaw; something to be ashamed of. We feel obliged to fight it. We read self-help books; even go to counselling. We know it causes problems …”

  Chantelle shook her head. “You know, I think … I think in some relationships yeah, if you’re not jealous it can also cause a bit of a problem ’cos if the boy was flirting with another girl and you’re like, ‘whatever – doesn’t really matter’, the boy will think ‘why are you not jealous? What’s going on?’”

  “Interesting point Chantelle. So you’re saying it functions in keeping people together? It’s possible. It’s true we all need to be valued. But getting the balance right is the difficult bit. The problems usually arise when one partner feels insecure. Insecurity leads to the type of jealousy that can get out of hand. This jealousy invariably leads to further rejection because i
t’s not seen as an attractive trait, and this leads to even greater insecurity and loss of self-esteem. So the fear of loss of love often ends up destroying that love. Therefore jealousy is a major destructive factor in the dissolution of relationships, and interestingly, an imagined rival can be just as threatening as a real one.”

  “Oh you are joking!” interjected Sean. “What do you mean ‘imagined’?”

  “I mean that there’s no reason to be jealous … no hard evidence. And this is where the internet has become significant. However, that’s for next time.”

  She should practise what she preached, thought Marianne at the end of the session as she closed her file and rubbed a duster across the whiteboard. The class were chatting animatedly as they left the room, so young and full of hope and optimism for the future. Marianne was impressed by their wide-ranging and astute views.

  How could you get to forty-something, with a wealth of theoretical knowledge of psychology, and still make basic mistakes about relationships? Mistakes that inflamed situations rather than making things better. ‘Those that can’t do, teach,’ she thought, gathering up a pile of essays, and easing them into a plastic wallet.

  It was time for a different approach. Being cranky and jealous about Charmaine was just driving Johnny to spending more and more time with her. Why would he want to stay at home with a nagging and suspicious wife? She should be thankful that he was quite open about visiting the pub after work with another woman. There was no sneaking about and no proof that there was anything more to the relationship than a couple of colleagues having a chat.

  But he was a man, after all, and her experience of men was that you needed to keep them occupied or they got up to mischief. She was certainly failing in this department. In the last few months, she often put obstacles in the way of intimacy. She didn’t want him to notice that he was in bed with a furnace, so she avoided getting close. This, together with her angst, would be the very thing to drive him into something clandestine.

  Yet almost overnight – at least in the space of little more than two weeks – her mind set had changed. Since mailing Edward, the ghosts of the past were on the run and with them, the insecurities of a lifetime. She felt light-headed and happy and even the threat of the M word didn’t hold quite the same horrors.

  She walked and talked with a new confidence. She went shopping and bought some bright new clothes and a pair of black high-heeled shoes. She even bought a set of tasteful but sexy underwear that Johnny would like. She would not turn into one of those women of a certain age who cut off their hair and became sensible. If she had to have cardigans to cope with temperature changes, then they would be modern, fitted, snappy cardigans and not the shapeless, sagging type that were good for nothing except hiding in.

  All it had taken to precipitate this transformation was two weeks of fairly intensive emailing with an old classmate. She had been in therapy and it hadn’t cost her a penny.

  20

  Letters Not Written

  “Is she going with you to Ardnamurchan?” Marianne was helping Johnny to pack in preparation for the annual geology field trip. She was an expert in getting the maximum amount into the smallest space and was flattening and folding and neatly layering into a rucksack. If Johnny had done it himself, he would have stuffed things in as they came to hand.

  “By ‘she’, you mean Charmaine?”

  “Indeed.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Someone has to look after the department.”

  “What about Mick?”

  “Mick is sick.” Johnny grinned.

  “So who’s going with you? You have to have a woman, don’t you?”

  “Yvonne from PE.”

  “Ah.”

  “Does that meet with your approval?”

  “No opinion, either way.”

  Johnny raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  “Really.”

  “I thought you’d be pleased Charmaine wasn’t coming.” Marianne shrugged, thinking about the high heels and the varnished nails. “I don’t suppose she’s exactly an all purpose, all-terrain type of woman.”

  “And you are!”

  “Excuse me; I’ll have you know I climbed over 1400 feet in Lahore in 1978!”

  Johnny fastened up his rucksack and hoisted it off the bed and onto the floor. “Well, I never knew that! I shall look at you in a totally different light.”

  Marianne wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic but decided to let it pass. “By the way,” she continued, shaking the quilt and avoiding eye contact, “I found someone from Brocklebank Hall on Friends Reunited. We’ve exchanged a few emails …” Now that Edward was safely on the other side of the world, and it was possible their cyber re-acquaintance was over, it seemed like a good time to tell Johnny. Mailing without his knowledge had seemed a shade illicit.

  “Anyone I’ve heard of?”

  “Doubt it.”

  “What’s her name?”

  Marianne hesitated. She thought about saying ‘Lydia’, but decided that would complicate matters. “Edward.”

  The atmosphere became suddenly charged with unspoken thoughts zipping back and forth and crackling. Johnny hovered in the doorway, his arm raised as he ran his hand through his hair. “Edward?”

  Marianne continued, smoothing the pillows. “Edward … Yeah, Edward. Edward Harvey. He was at school with Sam after Brocklebank.”

  “I forgot Sam was at Brocklebank with you. Wonder what he’s doing these days? It’s years since we’ve spoken. I must look him up next time we’re in Cumbria … So, what’s with this Edward, then?”

  “We’ve been sharing a few memories about the old place.”

  “You never said.”

  “You weren’t in – I kept forgetting to say. It’s no big deal. We didn’t know each other very well. But he was in the same class as me for about three years and in the play. In The Rivals. He was Lydia Languish; I was his maid Lucy. I must’ve shown you the photos sometime.”

  Johnny was back inside the room now, standing by the window, his arms folded. “I don’t think you’ve mentioned him before.”

  “No? I usually mention him along with the memories of Latin. We used to do all the difficult bits!”

  “No. No recollection. So what’s he up to now?”

  “Archaeology lecturer at Devon uni.”

  “Ah… clever, then?”

  “Yes, very …”

  “Does he remember you?”

  “Not very well – but it’s been useful reminiscing.”

  “How so?”

  “You haven’t time for this now.” Marianne wondered why Johnny was suddenly so interested.

  “You brought up the subject.”

  She sat on the bed and played with the ends of her hair, scanning the room and noting the sinister triangular shape of a large dark brown moth beside the top of the curtain. “You know I hated being there – at Brocklebank. I’m sure I must’ve told you that. The bullies gave me a hard time. I’ve never been able to forget it. But now I’ve been mailing Edward – and been reminded of the good times – I feel better. It’s weird.”

  “You said it was no big deal. Sounds pretty big to me. And, no, you didn’t tell me.”

  “Finding Edward in particular is no big deal,” she lied, “but the Brocklebank angst is or was.”

  “Why couldn’t you tell me?” said Johnny, looking hurt. “You’re so difficult to reach these days. You never used to be.”

  The words stung. Difficult to reach. So that’s what he thought of her. “It’s hard saying some of the things. They’ve been bottled up for years.” She flashed him a sideways glance. “I still can’t tell you here, in the cold light of day. Too embarrassing. It’s different writing emails when there’s no one to see your expression. Different writing to someone when it doesn’t really matter what they think. Anyway, I didn’t need to tell Edward. He already knew. He was there. That was enough. Knowing he knew.”

  “Unless, of cours
e, he’d forgotten,” said Johnny, unkindly. “It was a long time ago. I can’t remember much from that far back. Especially about other people.”

  “Doesn’t matter if he had forgotten. Even telling a cat can be therapeutic. But there are some things Edward would still remember. That’s enough.”

  Johnny gave a slight nod of understanding, but she knew she had wounded him. Good! It wouldn’t do to get too soft and sentimental now she was resolved in her new way of being.

  While Edward was on the other side of the world, Marianne conversed with him in her head. In between the serious business of teaching her voracious and demanding students, and her domestic rituals at home, her mind wandered to the man that was inadvertently changing her life. Unknowingly and unintentionally, Edward had become her confidante – even her therapist – and she found she could tell him anything during the brain chatter of consciousness, for he would never judge. She wanted to tell him everything in reality, but of course that would have been unwise.

  Sometimes she would converse in the supermarket car park as she pushed the trolley from the store, wondering too why she always picked one with dodgy wheels that needed to be coaxed crab-like, tiring her arms in an effort not to run into the rows of cars. And sometimes the off-loading occurred while she waited at traffic lights, or when walking through the endless corridors at college.

  Once, all her thoughts would have been first reserved for Johnny, but he was still in Ardnamurchan and in any case, she didn’t feel he deserved to hear them any more; at least not for now. In her journal she wrote down her feelings so she could monitor the change and be reminded of progress when the doubts resurfaced as they surely would. She also wondered tentatively whether this cyber re-acquaintance might be the vehicle she could use one day to write the book about the Brocklebank experience: the book she had always known was there, but couldn’t find a way to express. Keeping the feelings in the journal would serve as a catalogue of ideas should the time come when she was distanced enough from the drama to feel she could tell the story.

  Dear Lydia,