Meeting Lydia Read online

  Sasha had provoked Marianne into thinking about Edward in a different way. Sasha was wise; Sasha didn’t have a head full of fluff, and just like in the old days, she had touched a nerve. It was all midlife madness. Of course Edward wasn’t important compared to Johnny. In any case it was now nearly three months since she had heard from him, so it looked like their re-acquaintance was already dimming. But before she gave up on him completely, there were loose ends to be tied and she wanted to tell him what he had done for her.

  She was making vegetable soup in the kitchen and a pile of diced carrots and swede was accumulating on the chopping board. The smell of sautéed leek and onion filled the air and made her eyes water.

  Of course she couldn’t tell Edward exactly like it was because he didn’t know how it had all started when she was five, and it would be too much angst to drop in an email inbox to be found, perhaps at the end of a long day at work when all he would want to do would be to eat, to go to bed and sleep.

  But she couldn’t say nothing, because what had happened was, to her, incredible. She couldn’t avoid the angst altogether.

  Until she met Lydia again it was as if the child Marianne, the Marianne who cried alone in the woods under the canopy of rhododendron bushes and who faced a barrage of insults every day, still inhabited her being. It was the baggage just under the surface, an ancient seam of fossilised remains that the presence of Charmaine, like a landslide, had exposed once again; it was the snapping Moray eel lurking under a rock on the ocean floor.

  Meeting Lydia again had changed all that, and the child in the woods was now a distant memory. She was a fragile flower in a far-off land. She was somebody else past with somebody else’s pain. Edward had given her a gift so precious and priceless. He had given her back the good times and strength to face the bullies at the reunion. This time she wanted a real good bye and not the slipping away that had happened when he left Brocklebank without her saying a word.

  She waited for a time when she was alone in the house so she could think clearly and write candidly.

  To: Edward Harvey

  From: Marianne Hayward

  Date: 22nd February 2002, 21.12.

  Subject: Is there anybody out there?

  Let me end as I began …

  Dear Lydia,

  It seems we have come to the end of the line. Unexpectedly sudden from this perspective, and I hope this doesn’t mean something awful has happened to you. Perhaps my cyber-chatter just got too much? Or my efforts at trying to present the multifaceted ‘me’ possibly backfiring with the misinterpretation of email. But c’est la vie! Some people, they say, meet for a reason, some for a season, and some for a lifetime. Hard to know which category we fall into. It smacks of carelessness that I should lose you twice. The first time excusable, but this time?

  I shall ever be grateful that I found you again; that you took the time to meet me in cyberspace for that extended and precious exchange of memories that was to change my life. That may sound as if I am being overly dramatic, but it’s true. For thirty-three years I had carried a burden that I could never face; the burden of Brocklebank Hall. When full of self-doubt, I would look over my shoulder and it was there, this dark shadow, bouncing along behind me, the size of a planet, engulfing all my hopes of moving on. Now I sometimes expect it to be there – those feelings of hurt from yesteryear – but no, there’s something very different: an emptiness; it has gone.

  I found you by chance and expected nothing more than the polite exchange of a couple of emails that is so typical of most of the Friends Reunited contacts. Your zealous replying suggested some enthusiasm. You didn’t have to. I have been entertained by your contributions, inspired and motivated by the fact that you do so much, and I hoped one day we’d meet; that we would finally get to know whom we were talking to, whether we had things to say and whether we could be friends.

  More than any of the Brocklebank boys, I had never forgotten you. Your intellect, your lack of hostility when all around were giving me a hard time, your wonderful portrayal of Lydia, all left an impression that meant your name occasionally floated through my mind when thinking about the past.

  Farewell Edward, I am glad you have found happiness in your work and with your family. I think you are one of the good guys in this world. I always knew that email relationships were ephemeral – and one of the reasons I wanted to meet you, was to try to make it more secure. Indeed a meeting is worth a million words as far as understanding a person is concerned. If we had met, I doubt I would have felt compelled to write so much – and perhaps this misunderstanding (if such it is) would never have occurred!

  I hope that the rest of your life brings you your dreams, and I will never forget that you helped to set me free. Best wishes, and love,

  Lucy

  She read it through a couple of times, paused for the briefest moment, took a deep breath, connected to the phoneline and clicked on Send.

  Then she lay down on the floor in a foetal position and cried, clawing at the carpet with her fingers, feeling the roughness of the pile against her cheek, wishing that it didn’t matter, knowing that it did. I just wanted to meet you so badly. To see … to hear … to find out if all this emotion and expectation was justified. And now I’ll never, never know. I can’t bear it.

  Her curiosity was overflowing. Would it never be relieved? Would it carry on expanding like the universe? And the future stretched moonscape bleak as she resigned herself to the only possible conclusion.

  Edward Harvey was lost.

  45

  Dear Mari

  “Mari … Oh Mari, love … Where to start?” said Johnny, running his hands through his hair in the familiar way that he always did.

  It was late on Friday evening, the day after she sent the farewell email to Edward, and Johnny was in his favourite armchair, poised on the edge, elbows on knees, a white envelope in one hand. Mostly he looked down, searching, struggling it seemed for the right words, every now and then flashing a glance to Marianne who sat on the sofa to the side, arms folded, waiting …

  The living room was dimly lit with the uplighter casting shadows in which to hide.

  Johnny continued: “I remembered you saying a few months back, it had been good … No, perhaps ‘good’ is the wrong word … ‘therapeutic’ was what you said … You said it was therapeutic writing emails about your bad times at Brocklebank to that Edward bloke from your class. It got me thinking maybe I should do the same. Not sending emails to anyone, but writing – just simply writing stuff down.

  “Started scribbling, crossing out, more scribbling; more crossing out. Hell, I couldn’t believe how bad I was. So out of practice. Years since I’ve done any personal writing – not even letter writing – except Christmas notes, or letters when somebody’s died. It’s just been formal stuff for work. Reports, lesson notes, planning … Nothing with a ‘feelings’ agenda! I used to be good at English … essays – even poetry. Suddenly couldn’t do it any more. Hell that was a shock – a big shock. You think you’ll always be able to write. When did I lose it? You don’t ever imagine you will lose something like that. Thought it would still be there to draw upon whenever I needed to. I forget how much time has passed since I last constructed something with a more creative edge. No, I don’t mean creative – that makes it sound false – I mean … Oh, I don’t know what I mean … I mean truth from inside …” He paused and glanced at her again, looking for help, she thought, but she said nothing.

  It had been another row that had prompted these revelations. Marianne had been offhand when he seemed to want her to listen to him about his ‘helluva’ day at school. She had turned on him big time. “How dare you make all these demands that I should listen. Where were you when I needed to talk to you? Off drinking down the pub with Charmaine, that’s where … I’ve had a bad day too. You don’t have exclusive rights to bad days.” It was another of those M word moments when she opened her mouth and the vitriol came spewing forth without any apparent brain engagement
along the way. She still hadn’t forgiven him even though he was doing all the right things now and there was some pretence of normality for most of the time. It was ‘sorry’ that was missing. It was evidence of genuine remorse. No guarantees that it wouldn’t all start again if she relented, softened, returned to her more compassionate self. So he’d had a bad day. The old Mari would have showered him with soothing words, run a bath, cooked a meal … But if she hadn’t been paying attention to him before, at least now she was listening intently.

  “Anyway, I carried on scribbling … I stuck at it. More crossing out … start again … Screwed up half a note pad and chucked it in the bin. And you know what? Even that began to feel good. Like I was chucking away all the bad bits; the bits that hurt; the bits where I had fucked up.

  “So I thought ‘hey, this has got to be helping …’ so I started yet again … started telling it like I was talking to you … not that I was going to let you read it … hey, no … but it felt good telling you … Where did we lose that, Mari? We used to talk, didn’t we? All the time … Anyway, bit by bit it all fell into place … the anger, the fears, the blame. The ‘getting old’ stuff … Realising I’m not twenty-five any more. Scared of being past it … You know … men worry about that …

  “Been a shit … A fucking ace bastard … My fault! Then the drinking … All got out of hand, Mari. Drifting … purposelessness … swimming in circles. Didn’t know what was going on with you … Should’ve asked, but didn’t know what to say. Frightened of making things worse, I s’pose. Didn’t know what was going on with me, either. Far too early for a midlife crisis, I thought. God how did we get to this? Us? I mean us, Mari? You and I never messed up like this before.”

  Marianne unfolded her arms and bit her lip. Still she said nothing.

  “So I wrote and wrote and at first it was a bit pretentious. As if I was watching you listening to me and putting on a show. Watching you reading it, gauging your reactions, trying to impress, holding back – even trying to be funny… Still the cocky bastard … But after a while it began to look like truth … truth from here … from the soul …

  “When I’d finished, or at least when there was no more I had to say, it felt like a great weight had gone. You know when a bunch of balloons is let go into the air and you look up and watch the wind taking them higher and higher. They look so free … That’s what it was like.

  “And then, only then, I wondered if it would help if you did read it. I thought she needs to know this. Then she’ll understand. She needs to know so she may begin to forgive me …

  “You’ve been distant these past few months. Remote. I’m not blaming you, but it’s like you’ve stopped caring about us. I want you to care again and maybe reading this will help because it’s more articulate than I’m being. And it says things that I find hard. And you don’t have to say anything at all. I’d rather you didn’t say anything. Just read it and try to understand and know that I’m trying, really trying to sort it, that I am really sorry for all the things I said and did. I don’t expect you to do anything. You can’t do anything, can’t fix it … It’s something I have to do myself. And I will. You know I will, don’t you, Mari? You do know I want to make it right again?”

  He handed her the envelope, still holding onto it as she grasped the other end, as if that connection was a touch begging for reassurance and that some force might be conducted along the paper from one to the other. Their eyes met briefly, registering concern, then Johnny dragged himself from the armchair and turned away. One last look over his shoulder, a pleading look, she thought, and then he left the room.

  She looked at the white foolscap envelope with Mari written on the front. She fingered the edges and traced her thumb over her name, remembering the time way back at grammar school when she, aged fifteen, had been so excited at acquiring Johnny Ingleton’s geography text book; at seeing the look and style of his writing for the first time. John Ingleton in black biro, and 1972. That’s how she discovered his loopy I’s and continental sevens. Johnny made her knees go weak in those days, and when they used to pass on the stairs on a Wednesday – he coming down from English and she going up – he always smiled at her and said hello, and she would flush and smile back, so pleased to have been spoken to by a guy in lower sixth that she would scarcely be able to concentrate for the next half hour.

  But all that girlish fancying was years before they got together. How she used to wish for him to notice her for being more than just a school kid. For two years she was besotted – until he went away to university and she discovered real boyfriends, real romantic angst and finally real passion. Even then she often wondered what he was doing and where he’d gone and if he was still involved with the glamorous Cassie with the legs up to heaven. Sometimes she would see him briefly in the holidays when her crowd and his crowd were in the same pub, and her heart would still somersault if they exchanged a few words. But they were never alone for her to find out anything personal. Then, a few years later, the chance encounter in London at Sasha’s party to which she nearly hadn’t gone, and the kiss that changed their lives.

  Now it had come to this. A white envelope. She hesitated, just like she’d hesitated almost a year ago when the first of the emails from Edward – the reply via Friends Reunited – had appeared in her in-box. But with Edward, although there had turned out to be a lot at stake, she hadn’t realised it at the time. Within this white envelope from Johnny lay words that may heal – or not. There was a debt to be paid and maybe the time had come. It had sounded like a last ditch effort; a final attempt to bring her back to him. But would it be enough?

  She got up and lit the candle on the mantelpiece, knowing she must read this offering with openness and generosity of spirit. She breathed deeply, relaxing her shoulders, trying to let go of any residual anger, dimly aware of the faintly ticking clock, the lateness of the hour and an all consuming tiredness that must wait for its relief. Then she settled down on the floor to read.

  Dear Darling Mari,

  This is one of the hardest but most important things that I have ever written – have ever done.

  So many weeks ago now I listened to you telling me about the M word, as you call it, and I was so relieved. Here was an explanation for you being mad with me, and I forgot to look beyond. Forgot to look at me.

  Perhaps I should have told you then what I was going through, but it didn’t seem fair – as if I was trying to upstage your problem with mine. In any case, I couldn’t find the words – needed to think things through and prepare. Your revelations came as a surprise. I was taken unawares and didn’t know what to say.

  You told me that you’d got help with your old school demons by writing to that bloke Edward. That hurt at the time. Knowing you were telling a virtual stranger what you could never tell me. I couldn’t believe you’d kept it secret all those years. I’d never known you had all that angst inside and I felt cheated. You tried to make me feel okay about it – said it was because he was there at the school, you didn’t have to put into words the half of it, you assumed he would understand, but it didn’t matter if he didn’t, it was the process of writing that helped you. So that’s what I’m trying now. At least partly.

  I know now when it started to go wrong. It wasn’t with you being all hot, was it? It was months before that. It was when things were going wrong in my head and I brought Charmaine home. Why did I do that? It wasn’t as if you’d been neglecting me. Never.

  I wanted to break free from predictability – from knowing where I was going to be every hour of every week. Such indulgence! I felt constricted by the daily routines. Suffocated. Fed up with being ‘Reliable Johnny …’ Not your fault. It was like I could see the rest of my life falling into a never-changing pattern. I thought I might as well be dead. It’s an old cliché, but I had this yearning for space, a desperate need to go off on a journey, walking the Cornish coast, perhaps – a quest to find myself again. My equivalent of riding off into the sunset on the old motorbike with the
leathers on. And then I’d come back whole and be ready to face the rest of our life together.

  Charmaine reminded me of youth and dreams. I know she’s not that young, but when you get to forty-eight, thirty is ‘a mere sapling’, to quote Taryn! She paid me attention and I was flattered. I wondered if I still knew how to flirt! Childish I know. Pathetic. I invited her home because I wanted you to see that I could still attract women. It wasn’t meant to make you mad – or insecure. It was me that was insecure. I wanted you to throw yourself at my feet and tell me I was wonderful like you used to do …

  When you were mad, it was an excuse to blame you – to accuse you of being unreasonable when really it was me that was the unreasonable one. And the more you were annoyed by Charmaine, the worse I got. I enjoyed your jealousy. I hate to admit it, but it made me feel as if I mattered, and when I’d had a few beers, I played with it … used it. Stupid. Couldn’t understand why this didn’t make you want to have sex with me all the time. Didn’t know then that you were going through all the same kind of thoughts that I was.

  I never wanted to have an affair with her. Nice girl, but not my type. Too ‘high maintenance’ – hairdressers, beauty salons, dining out and all that stuff. Insecure too. And dangerous. She could have messed things up, but she wouldn’t have wanted me long term. We were too different. All I would have been was a casual fling. But at first I wanted you to think I wanted to have an affair, because I thought that would somehow spice things up for us.

  Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining about our sex life. On the contrary. It sounds as though I am, I know, but for a while I thought I wanted something that I don’t. Some late night TV programme and everybody at it with ropes and ice cream! At the time I regretted not having been more adventurous. Yet we have been. We are. Adventurous enough!

  We always used to talk about everything. I wanted to provoke you into asking me if there was anything I wanted – before we got too old. Wanted to know if you had any unfulfilled fantasies too. No good trying to swing from the light fittings when we’re seventy! Didn’t know how to bring up the subject.