Meeting Lydia Read online

  ‘It is difficult to ascertain which, if either, of these endings Marianne would have preferred, and in any case, would she go for truth or fiction? That was the question that occupied biographers for much of the twenty-first century. Kendal writes that she had a puritanical streak which suggests she may have favoured the former option, but a tattered Christmas card from Waverly Grossett to Edward Harvey in 2002 warns him against any form of Internet Liaison with the Other Species – by which we assume he means women – predicting all manner of dire events should Edward ignore his advice.

  ‘Armytage – the Oxford Armytage – believes that Marianne did meet Edward at the Antiquarian Society, but that this so shattered their respective images of each other that their relationship was never the same again.’

  Marianne paused again, thinking that perhaps the train problems had been a fateful intervention to avert disappointment – not just hers, but Edward’s.

  ‘The dual endings of the fifth edition of her novel – a failure to meet on the one hand and a passionate encounter on the other – have led to much reader dissatisfaction and it is hoped that by establishing the truth of Marianne Hayward’s relationship with Edward Harvey, it may be possible to select the most likely option for Maya and Adam in the book. Who will make this decision is yet to be decided. British Heritage has expressed an interest purely on the grounds that they have recently proposed to restore Brocklebank Hall as a typical example of a mid twentieth century preparatory school, and they believe funding to be largely dependent on the continued interest in the Hayward-Harvey relationship. However, Shaynee Postlethwaite of the Ancient Literature Society said that selecting the wrong ending – that is the ending that Marianne would not have approved – would be a disaster on a par with the removal of the sex scenes from Lady Chatterley’s Lover, as carried out at the beginning of 3956 as part of the demonising of all physical relations between males and females.’

  Marianne paused. It was getting late and dark and she had to get up early for work the following morning. The clock on the wall was approaching midnight and Johnny – if still awake – would wonder where she was. She had been carried away by a single thought about life in the distant future. Yes, this was certainly a justification for cremation and a good reason to start writing her book.

  But how would she break the news of such a book to Edward?

  42

  Cybersilence

  To: Edward Harvey

  From: Marianne Hayward

  Date: 12st December 2002, 20.55

  Subject: Re: Meeting Lydia

  Hi Edward,

  I am increasingly becoming an archaeological junkie! Reading about all this stuff you have discovered on Scilly has inspired me. I also think it is about time I tried to leave something for posterity! Perhaps I should follow my dream of writing a novel based on my Brocklebank experiences. Have been making preliminary notes for a while and the plot is beginning to take shape. Our ‘Friends Reunited’ has given me an idea. (Don’t be alarmed!)

  Holly is back next week after staying a few days with the Hellebaut’s. (Dylan’s parents.) It’s nice that they want to keep in touch.

  We will be here for Christmas, but may go to Cumbria for New Year.

  Best wishes,

  Marianne

  Marianne sent this email with some consternation. She still hadn’t heard from Edward since their failed meeting and didn’t know what to think. Emails went astray. People thought they’d replied when they hadn’t. The cyber world was a world that was riddled with uncertainty. She would wait and see if and how he responded to this one before she told him any more about the book. Subtle tactics would have to be employed so he didn’t take fright: the drip, drip approach. She imagined he would be fascinated and would want to know more. If he asked her questions, it would somehow legitimise her telling him the details – as far as she knew them.

  But days went by and her inbox was curiously lacking in a reply from Edward Harvey. Marianne began to wonder if all was well. It just wasn’t like him to be so silent. Now she had two reasons to think she may have caused offence. Was it the lecture or the book? Either he thought her failure to attend was because she didn’t want to meet him, or perhaps he didn’t like the idea of her writing a novel with some inevitable autobiographical components (but surely he would say?); or he was ill; or something untoward had happened to him in the snow; or he was merely busy. But he was always busy, and that didn’t usually stop him from responding. In any case, from what she knew of Edward Harvey, he would have contacted her soon after the failed meeting as a matter or courtesy. The puzzle continued.

  Christmas came and Holly returned with some of the bounce of old.

  “It isn’t that I’ve stopped being sad, Mum,” she said. “But I know Dylan wouldn’t want me to spend months and months moping around when the uni opportunity flies by so fast.”

  Marianne was proud to see her daughter being so pragmatic. It made her think about her own life. It wasn’t just uni that raced by, but everything. The time it took to complete the typical degree was the time until she was fifty. No time at all!

  Johnny was being more considerate, but there was a tension about their communications that masked the joy of old. They were trying too hard to say the right thing; frightened of making mistakes.

  Even after New Year, there was still no mail from Edward. After much weighing up of pros and cons, Marianne decided it was time she wrote again. She would appear unconcerned and adopt her usual breezy style.

  To: Edward Harvey

  From: Marianne Hayward

  Date: 7th January 2003, 20.09

  Subject: How to Make an Arrowhead that Pierces a Boar

  Hi Edward,

  Happy New Year!

  Christmas was uneventful and New Year in Cumbria was cold.

  Today I was watching an archaeology programme and expected you to appear at any moment! I now know how to kill wild boar should any appear in Beckenham! Have you ever thought of doing work for TV?

  I heard someone on the radio earlier this week saying that ninety-six per cent of the universe is missing. This is the amount needed to create enough gravity to stop everything falling apart. Apparently they’ve been looking for this ‘Dark Matter’ for about fourteen years. It sounds incredible to me … Unless the stuff that we can’t see is like another dimension that is alien to humans … I wonder if this fits in with String Theory which predicts we are surrounded by hidden dimensions and that there are worlds next to us that are invisible?

  Enough!

  Best wishes,

  Marianne

  Surely if he was there on the other end of cyberspace he couldn’t fail to respond to this.

  But he didn’t.

  And by the end of January there was still no reply and she became seriously concerned. Had she written the wrong thing? Had she been misinterpreted? Had the programme The Curse of Friends Reunited scared him? But why should it? They lived two hundred miles apart; each was content with their life. So was he okay?

  She wondered that she was so upset by his distance. He had been but idle distraction. It wasn’t a relationship of sex or romance, but with their acquaintanceship rooted in childhood, and the trust she had in his integrity, it was so much more than most of the e-contacts she had with men. And he had saved her from the Brocklebank ghosts, which in turn was helping her to find a less self-destructive strategy in dealing with the Johnny problem. Perhaps she was scared that without him, the ghosts and the lack of confidence would return.

  She re-read her recently sent emails, looking for the key that could cause offence. There was nothing tangible. Nothing to warrant a severing of contact. So what was it? Was her paranoia finally getting the better of her? Or was he in crisis. The thought lurked in the background and made her unsettled.

  She knew she was doing what the psychologists called ‘catastrophising’. Playing the ‘what if ’ game until driven to distraction from worry. Her mother would have said she was going to pot. Many things we
nt there according to her mother. Usually people – particularly adolescents and the over-fifties, alcoholics, criminals, the country and the government. When she looked it up in the dictionary, it said ruined, gone to the bad. Catastrophising was definitely a way of going to pot. Marianne knew it was a futile gesture. It was time she learned to leave it alone.

  The spring term was underway, Pandrea had gone on maternity leave and Marianne was now in charge of the Psychology Department. She told Johnny at the end of the second week.

  “By the way Johnny, did I tell you Pandrea’s having a baby and I’m covering her leave?” She chose to tell him when they were about to drive off together to get the weekend shopping.

  “When did all this happen?” said Johnny over the top of the car.

  “Sometime last term,” said Marianne, getting into the passenger side.

  “And you didn’t think I’d be interested?”

  “Too many other things going on,” she said lightly. “I’ve been in denial about it happening until now. It’s not so bad … And it’s only until the end of the year.”

  “I think we should celebrate,” said Johnny, reversing out of the drive. “Shall we buy something special to eat or would you prefer to go out for a meal?”

  Marianne considered the options. If they went out, they would have to make small talk for the duration of the meal. If they stayed at home, the cooking would provide distraction if there were any awkward moments. “Let’s buy a duck and some langoustines,” she said.

  “And some champagne,” added Johnny. “I think you deserve that.”

  It was gratifying that he was making an effort, but later as they sat watching TV, when he moved beside her on the sofa and made a hopeful gesture of affection, Marianne began doubting his motives over the celebration and her response was less than enthusiastic.

  Days went by and still no news from Edward. If it had been anyone else, she wouldn’t have been concerned, but he was always so reliable …

  He must be away. Must have just missed her last letter and be off on one of his lengthier jaunts in a far-off place doing exciting things …

  Round and round went the negative thoughts until she thought she was going mad. There was nothing rational about this. Should she write to him yet again?

  To: Edward Harvey

  From: Marianne Hayward

  Date: 18th January 2003, 21.37

  Subject: Cybersilence

  Dear Edward,

  You have been so uncharacteristically silent lately I fear something is amiss. I know you might be horrendously busy, but then you always have been. I cannot help but wonder if all is well with you.

  Or have I said something wrong? Didn’t think so, but email seems to be prone to misinterpretation. If I have, please say and I will try to put things right.

  I cannot imagine you would disappear from our renewed acquaintance without some explanation. Which brings me back to something being wrong. And after so much communication over the past year, of course I am a little concerned.

  Hope to hear from you soon.

  Marianne

  But she didn’t send it. She dreaded making things worse. To be seen as paranoid or just too involved. So what was going on? Surely she could make a mistake – if such she had – and not be judged?

  God … I am going mad. I just want you to be there Edward, on the other end of cyberspace for sharing things when no one else will listen … Be there again Edward … Write to me! Don’t let me down. Please!

  She heard an echo from the past: ‘A woman should never plead.’ Words from a man with a camel embroidered on the back pocket of his jeans in a pub in Worcester; a man ranting about his ex-wife and subsequent stormy divorce. He was a creep and had pestered her one evening when she was on holiday with a friend. She had never forgotten his words.

  How she wished she could unwrite her last few emails to Edward. He must’ve read something in a different tone to what was meant. Perhaps it was the book. He must’ve thought she wasn’t to be trusted any more; that she was far too fey for his feet-on-the-ground persona to cope. Or had he told Felicity about the book, and did her alarm bells ring? She tried to put herself in Felicity’s shoes. She knew she wasn’t Charmaine. But Felicity didn’t know that.

  Or maybe he was dead.

  Edward,

  Ours is an example of a ‘new’ type of relationship. That’s the problem. Not yet friends, yet more than just mere acquaintances. You could disappear and I would never know what had happened to you.

  Edward?

  Have you disappeared?

  Johnny came in and Marianne stopped her reverie.

  “Charmaine has done a runner,” he announced, looking cross. “Buggered off with that bloke from the Greenwich pier.”

  43

  Voices of Reason

  After all the failed communications, Marianne tried very hard to dismiss Edward from her thoughts. It’s never going to happen, she thought, we’re never going to meet. I must stop hoping, wishing, wanting to be friends. Time to forget him; time to pull away from this crazy phase of life. But she arranged to have lunch with Taryn all the same, to talk about it, to analyse and look for clues as to where she should go from here. Taryn would talk some sense into her.

  “The problem is, I haven’t heard from him since we didn’t meet.”

  They were eating Italian, and while Taryn was an expert in dealing with spaghetti, Marianne kept losing it off the end of her fork.

  “I’d be more concerned if you hadn’t heard from him and you had met.”

  “I did apologise … there was nothing I could’ve done, short of turning up late… but then they probably wouldn’t have let me in … and I’d have been so embarrassed.”

  “I don’t think you should read anything into it. You say he’s always so busy.”

  Marianne nodded.

  “There you go then. He’ll be off wooing the archaeological masses with his brilliance!” There was a touch of irony in her tone. “Then there’s Christmas, his family and all this writing you say he does. I hate to say it, but you’re probably way down the list of priorities. Stop fretting. Tell me again if you haven’t heard from him in a couple of months.”

  “I know you’re right. I’d just hate to lose him.”

  “Are you sure your obsession isn’t getting in the way of sorting things out with Johnny?”

  Marianne took a deep breath. This is what she had wondered herself; many times. But always she came to the same conclusion. “No way. Absolutely the reverse. I know things aren’t exactly great. But we’ve stopped rowing. He hasn’t properly acknowledged that I was right to be upset. He thinks I over-reacted to the whole Charmaine business and so he hasn’t apologised. But he can’t make me feel bad about myself any more – not in the way that he did – and that is indirectly down to Edward. Thanks to mailing Edward, I’ve left behind the past. Edward’s also distracted me. He gives me something else to think about – even worry about. And he’s my hero from when I was eleven!”

  “Does he know all this? Does he know you’re a batty middle-aged woman with a suspected errant husband who’s got the hots for him?”

  Marianne shook her head vigorously. “Not the hots! No! It’s not like that at all. Just admiration … Liking … Wanting to be friends.”

  “Honestly?”

  “Hand on heart honestly.”

  Taryn raised her eyebrows skywards and shook her head and her microfilament hair shimmered.

  “You don’t believe me,” said Marianne. “I hardly believe it myself. I am constantly analysing my motives – searching for anything dubious – but they’re nothing but innocent.”

  “Imagine that!”

  “Indeed!”

  “And what is the latest on the Cow-Charmaine?”

  “Would you believe she’s done a runner with her fancy-man! Didn’t turn up for school one morning and when Johnny phoned her flat, he was given some tale from some squeaky-voiced woman called Leanne, that the man had turned up on C
harmaine’s doorstep with a suitcase. Wife had been shredding his clothes and he was worried about his precious Jag apparently! Took passports and haven’t been seen since. Johnny’s furious.”

  “You must be pleased!”

  “Of course I pretended to be sympathetic. Adopted a suitably concerned face. But it was the best news. And frankly I don’t care if it causes Johnny a few administrative problems. Serves him right!”

  “By the way,” added Taryn, just as they were parting. “Marc and I are moving in together next week.”

  “Marc-the-bastard?” said Marianne, incredulously. “Marc who you said you were glad to see the back of not that long ago?”

  “But there’s the Scrabble factor,” Taryn added, “and winter nights are long!”

  The following weekend, Marianne was watching Johnny clearing up the garden in preparation for spring. The autumn was getting later every year and with adverse weather conditions in December, a busy Christmas, a New Year up in Cumbria and a frenetic beginning of term, the usual end of season jobs had been left over and clumps of soggy brown leaves had welded themselves to the fence, the hedge and the shrubbery.

  Johnny worked quickly and energetically, piling the offending vegetation into a black bin liner. He looked very fit for his almost fifty years. She cast her mind back to Holly’s birthday meal when he had said that between Cassie and meeting her again, he was a lost soul and had drunk too much. She hadn’t known this; he never told her.

  Does that mean he feels like a lost soul now?

  She couldn’t imagine life without him, yet knew that one day it was inevitable that one would leave the other behind; the awful truth that awaits all couples. She felt it as a pain that she could scarcely bear to acknowledge.

  In February Sam Rycroft, came to stay at Beechview Close for a few days over the half term holiday. He arrived by train on the Monday afternoon with the intention of staying only until Wednesday. However, the way things panned out, it was Saturday before he left. Poor Sam. He was full of woe about his divorce, his failed relationships and the fact that his two girls were used by his wife for scoring points. He was in a rut; in a downward spiral. It was good for him to get away.