Encounters

Well, three years and a couple of morale-boosting affairs can do a lot for resolutions like that one. Anyway, I was curious. What had happened to my Joe in the last three years? I put a couple of logs on the fire and poured myself a drink.

I stayed where I was at my writing desk when I heard the car drive up outside. I counted to ten when the bell rang and then, slowly, walked to the door.

Damn. The sight of him could still make my pulses race. I stretched out a hand. ‘It’s good to see you again, Joe.’ There were tiny unmelted snowflakes caught in the crisp curl of his hair. But his eyes were the same. Mocking; insolent; irresistible … ‘Come and have a drink.’ I put my hand on the door behind him to push it closed, but his foot was in the way.

‘Pen, I’m not alone …’

As his voice tailed away I felt my nerves begin to throb warningly. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve brought a woman, Joe.’ My voice was melodious, but I could see it made him uneasy.

‘Of course not, I told you. It’s all over. There’s no one. But …’

Never in all the time I’ve known him have I seen Joe look shifty before. His eyes skidded away from mine and fixed, concentrating, on the battered coal scuttle on the hearth. I was taut with suspicion.

‘I’m all alone, Pen,’ he had said, on the phone. The liar. ‘All alone, and it is Christmas Eve. Couldn’t I come?’

I had been trying to forget it was Christmas Eve, in spite of the cards around the room, in spite of the coloured lights around the church and the village pub. Christmas is for families, not for the orphaned unmarried like me, however sociable we might be the rest of the year. But the crackle of sentiment in his voice had got to me.

‘Come on in, Joe,’ I said now, wearily. ‘The house is getting cold. You’d better ask her in. One drink and you can go to the pub. Both.’

I turned my back on the door and stood, folding my arms defensively around me, in front of the fire. What did I care how many women he brought. No doubt he’d come for my approval before popping the question to someone who had finally been fool enough to say yes. It was the sort of crazy tactless thing Joe might do. I kicked a log and watched the shower of sparks. Whoever she was, she was a bitch.

There was a click as Joe quietly pushed the front door shut behind him with his foot. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten …

Slowly I turned.

Nobody. He was standing there with a basket in each hand, and he was looking sheepish again. What the hell was he up to?

‘OK, Joe. Have a drink.’ I sighed and went for the bottle as he set down the two baskets and came forward.

He took the glass from my hand. ‘You’re a real brick, Pen. Did I ever tell you that?’

Of course, I could have stepped back in time to avoid that kiss; as it was I stepped back just a little too late. As an experiment it was a success.

‘I like your hair long. You look fabulous; really good.’ He took a deep drink from his glass. I waited smugly for his eyes to water as he swallowed, but they didn’t. I was impressed. It was neat and he had taken a big gulp. Perhaps he had been practising.

‘Happy Christmas, fella,’ I whispered. ‘Now, stop flannelling and show me this friend.’

‘His name is Paul.’ He set down the glass.

‘Paul?’

I watched as he went to the shopping. One of the baskets was stuffed with blankets and – I felt my eyes growing enormous – a small baby.

I stood there, for the first time in my life speechless, as Joe tenderly scooped it up and brought it to the fire. It had delicate, tiny features and warm pink cheeks. It was asleep.

‘Isn’t he beautiful?’ Joe’s voice was very gentle.

‘Whose is it?’ I don’t think my voice was as harsh as it should have been. It really was, now he came to mention it, rather beautiful.

‘This is my son.’ There was no mistaking this time the pride in his voice.

And there was no mistaking the jealousy and disappointment that swept through me as he said it; silly fool that I was, still caring for a man like him.

‘Do you want to hold him?’ He spoke with the voice of one about to bestow a rare and lovely treat. I stepped back and firmly picked up my glass again.

‘I’m not used to babies,’ I said. ‘I’d drop him.’

‘I expect you want to know where he came from?’ The shifty look had gone and the old mischievous grin was back, teasing me.

I raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ve no doubt you have as many gooseberry bushes in town as we do here.’

‘His mother doesn’t like children. We had a conference when we split up and she said I could take him. So I did.’ He was grinning all over his face.

‘So you did.’ I was stunned. ‘Do you know anything about babies, Joe?’

He shook his head. ‘She gave me a manual. It’s quite straightforward, really. I’ve got all the gear. It’s in the car, actually.’

‘But, Joe, what’ll you do when term starts? Who will look after it then?’

Joe, like me, teaches.

He shrugged. ‘I’ll find someone to keep an eye on him.’

Gently he laid the child down on the sofa and unwrapped a layer of shawl. I was torn between indignation and curiosity.

‘Hadn’t you better tell me who his mother was? Is?’

‘Was. It has all been made legal. A lovely lady, Pen. You would like her …’

Like hell, I thought.

‘… She’s tall and dark and quiet, but absolutely set on being a top dancer. And she’ll do it. She’s good. And she’s definitely not the maternal type. She nearly killed me when she got pregnant. Lovely girl.’

He positively licked his lips.

‘You are a swine, Joe.’ I thought it was time I said it out loud.

He laughed. ‘You know, none of them have ever been like you, Pen. None of them.’

It was my turn to look modest. ‘And how many of them have there been, if I might enquire?’

He shrugged. ‘Trade secret, love. Who’s counting? It’s you I’ve come back to.’

‘You and who else,’ I said.

When he went to unpack the car I had a look at the baby. It was very like him, I had to admit.

I pulled back the shawl to have a better look and the infant Nureyev opened its eyes – and then its mouth. I leaped back as though it had bitten me. The squalling was deafening.

Joe was beside me in an instant. ‘Did Penny frighten you, den?’

I put my hands over my face. ‘Joe! I don’t believe it. Not you. Not baby talk. Surely your son is an intellectual?’

‘Of course he is.’ Joe drew himself up. ‘Who is an intellectual, den? Daddy’s boy.’ He laughed. ‘You should see your face, Pen.’ He put his arm around me and gave me a squeeze. ‘Come on. Are you going to feed him? It’s time he was asleep.’

‘Me?’ I hit an unseemly falsetto. ‘I couldn’t feed him.’

‘Why not? Women do these things by instinct.’

‘Evidently his mother doesn’t. And neither do I,’ I said firmly. ‘It’s all up to you, Joe.’

I watched fascinated as he bent and, rummaging in a paper bag, produced a feeding bottle.

‘It’s only got to be warmed up.’

‘Can’t we give it brandy, or something, just this once?’ I quavered. Babies, it seemed, unnerved me completely.

He remembered where the kitchen was; and the kettle; and the mixing bowl. Damn him, he was completely at home!

I hovered ineffectually, listening with increasing unease to the baby’s screams from next door.

‘Pick him up, will you. Tell him it’s coming.’

I had been afraid he would say that. Nervously I edged an arm under the convulsed little bundle and heaved it up. It was surprisingly heavy. To my amazement it stopped crying at once, and after a moment, beamed at me. I found myself beaming back. I felt ridiculously pleased.

‘See, he likes you.’ Joe appeared with a towel wrapped around his waist, the bottle in his hand.

I watched goggle-eyed as he stuffed the teat into the baby’s mouth and tipped the stuff down and I almost asked if I could have a go myself.

‘I knew you’d turn up trumps, Pen.’ Joe took his refilled glass from me and raised it in salute. We had made the baby a bed in a drawer upstairs after he had changed its nappy – blessedly out of sight, to save my sensibilities – and it had gone off to sleep at once. Its mountain of belongings tidied away, my cottage began to look familiar again.

‘You can’t keep it, Joe. It’s got to go back to its mother.’ I looked at him earnestly.

‘Rubbish. It’s mother doesn’t want it.’ Joe grinned affably. ‘When are we eating?’

Men!

He had to make do with an omelette; hardly Christmas fare, but he produced a bottle of wine from one of his paper bags, so I made the effort to go into the garden where the snow was beginning to settle a little and I cut some frosty thyme. One fine herbe at least. He sniffed over my shoulder as the eggs sizzled in the pan.

‘None of my other women have been able to cook like you. You know, I sometimes used to lie and dream about the nosh I got in this cottage.’ He licked his lips and I had to laugh.

‘I should kick you for talking about all these other women all the time. Why on earth did you leave if I’m such a paragon?’

‘You were a bitch as well.’ He was warming the wine, like the feeding bottle, in a basin of hot water. ‘And I wasn’t mature enough to cope with you. Besides, you were becoming too set in your ways. I could see you getting bossy. My God! You’ve moved the glasses.’ He straightened from the cupboard in the corner. ‘Do you know, Pen, that is the first thing that’s been different in this cottage. Three years and not a bloody thing has changed. That’s what I mean about being set in your ways.’

‘A lot has changed.’ I could feel myself getting defensive. He had caught me on a sensitive spot. I knew I was in a rut without him spelling it out. ‘The walls have changed colour for a start. There are new curtains in the sitting room. I’ve got new chairs and …’

‘Stop!’ he raised his hands in surrender. ‘Stop. I didn’t mean it. Forgive the old campaigner the gaps in his memory.’ He grinned again. ‘So, where are the glasses these days?’

‘On a tray next door.’ I flipped the omelettes onto two warmed plates and piled some French bread and salad round them. At least he wouldn’t starve.

We were half-way through supper when the carol singers came. It was the moment I had been dreading most before Joe arrived. The year before, I had put out all the lights as I heard them down the street, put my head under my pillow and wallowed in self pity as they missed my darkened porch, as I had intended they should.

This time we listened. Happy. The joyous sounds were slightly off key, but who cared.

I hadn’t any change.

‘My God, woman, you’re still after my money!’ Joe groped in his pocket and produced a pound coin.

‘Joe, that’s too much!’ I murmured, but it was too late. And it was worth it.

Oh, it would be so easy to have Joe back. So very easy.

We whispered so as not to wake the baby as we made up a bed for Joe in the spare room. ‘You’re right about things not being the same round here,’ he muttered ruefully as I pulled the blankets over.

‘Dead right, they’re not,’ I hissed back. ‘You promiscuous so-and-so. You keep your child company.’

I didn’t lock my door, though, and I was quite disappointed when the dulcet tones of Joe’s snores began gently to vibrate across the landing.

‘Happy Christmas, darling.’

I was struggling up through layers of exhausted sleep, clutching at daylight. It was dark.

I could feel Joe’s arms around me. ‘What time is it?’ I managed to ask before his mouth closed onto mine. After a moment – a lovely moment – he replied, ‘About three, I should think. I’ve just fed Paul.’

I sat up abruptly, pushing him away. It wasn’t going to be that easy for him. ‘Three in the morning? You’re mad. Go away!’

‘But Penny …’ his voice in the dark was hurt and pathetic.

‘Get out, Joe. I told you.’

I was indignant. Three in the morning is not on, by anybody’s standards. Not after three years. Not after all those other women who didn’t know how to cook.

He went.

At breakfast he was looking innocent again. Dangerously so.

‘Happy Christmas, darling.’

‘You’ve said that once today already, if I remember.’

‘Have I?’ He smiled. ‘I’ve got a present for you.’

In spite of myself I was excited. ‘Really?’ I should have been suspicious.

‘Really.’ He looked suddenly serious. He felt in his pocket and produced an envelope which he pushed across at me. Hesitating I took it. It had something small and hard in it. Without looking I knew what it was. The ring I had thrown at his head so long before. I pushed the envelope back.

‘No, Joe, it wouldn’t work.’

‘It would. I’m more mature now.’ He smiled wickedly and left the envelope on the table.

‘It wouldn’t.’ I got up to make the toast. ‘So, when are you leaving?’ I bent down to light the grill pan. It meant my face was hidden and he couldn’t read my expression.

Ten years, or so?’ He sounded hopeful.

I laughed. And in spite of myself my heart leaped. ‘We’ll try it until lunch,’ I said.

Cabbage à la Carte

Kate pulled the mini thankfully into the parking space and switched off. For a moment she rested her forehead against the cool rim of the steering wheel, breathing deeply. Her hands were shaking. The first, The lesser, part of the ordeal was over – driving the borrowed car through the overcrowded streets on market day and finding a meter. She leaned over to glance in the mirror and check her hair. Her face was pink and shiny again, her lipstick had turned too red.

She grabbed for her tapestry bag and applied a new layer. It looked artificial and hard. She wasn’t used to bothering with make-up. She never usually dressed up. She had never owned her own car. But today she was endeavouring to be someone quite different. Kate Millrow, painter, recently – very recently – of St Agnes’s School of Art, would never dare to try and sell her paintings to a smart town gallery.

Miss Rowmill (she was especially pleased with the name), artists’ agent and talent spotter would be able to do it every day. Think yourself into the part, Kate, think yourself into the part,’ she muttered desperately as she climbed out of the car and groped for the money. The coin, so carefully hoarded for this occasion, slipped from her fingers and rolled away towards a gutter. Frantically she leapt after it and caught it up before it disappeared down the grille. Even putting the money in the parking meter once she had recaptured it was something of an ordeal. She studied the thing intently, reading the instructions. The slot seemed to be the wrong way round. She couldn’t get the money in. Then at last the needle buzzed across and she found herself with two whole hours in which to carry out her mission. She pulled out the portfolio, locked the car and made her way slowly towards the gallery. She knew it didn’t open until ten so she made her way slowly towards a coffee shop, clutching the cardboard folder awkwardly. Its sharp edges at the top cut into her armpit, at the bottom they sliced into her fingers.

Sitting down thankfully with an espresso she set down her burden. By rights she ought to be at college now, settling into her final year. What had possessed her to think she could make it on her own? The offer of the cottage in the country? Somewhere where she could really paint? There’s nothing much else to do there, Kate. It’ll keep you at it. Then we’ll see what you’re really made of,’ John had said as he handed her the key before setting off on his trek to Katmandu. For a year at least she had the place, rent free, to herself. It was a dream come true. Only John hadn’t mentioned the fact that the rain came through the roof, there was no electricity and the nearest neighbour was half a mile away.

She had been shocked, afraid and then angry in that order when she first saw the cottage. Was it for this that she had thrown up college and antagonized her family? Then eventually she had begun to see the funny side. Perhaps fate had presented her with a challenge. Anyway it was too late to go back. There was nothing to do but weed cabbages (‘You won’t starve, love, help yourself from the kitchen garden’), eat cabbages and set up her easel.

And surprisingly she had painted. She had painted non-stop day after day, as long as there was light. But the moment had come when she realized that she could not live on cabbages for ever, and even if she could she had to pay for the calor gas to cook them, and oil for the lamps.

Nervously she had painted a board, ‘Millrow Studios’, and hammered it to the gate, thinking someone might come and buy at the cottage. She had waited heart-thumping for half an hour for a car to come down the lane and then she had run out and torn down the notice before anyone could see it.

Her only visitors had been her nearest neighbours from the form up the lane. They had been kind and helpful and once brought her a chicken and often eggs, and now today she had borrowed their mini. They had looked at her pictures, made noises of polite incomprehension and suggested the gallery in town. They knew it opened at ten (‘Lazy devils; don’t know the meaning of the word work’) and directed her to the coffee house. (‘The pubs aren’t open then, but if you need a stiffener, that’ll be the next best thing.’)

It was ten past ten. Her knees wobbling, she paid her bill and crossed the road.

The girl in the gallery had round moon glasses and an expression of disdain. Kate forgot she was Miss Rowmill, agent and became shy and diffident Kate Millrow, beneath the girl’s supercilious gaze.

‘Are you the owner of the gallery?’ she asked in a strained falsetto, totally unlike her own voice.

To her surprise the girl gave her a friendly smile. ‘No, but he’ll be back any minute. Take a seat.’

Kate sat numbly, the portfolio balanced against her knees. The paintings on the walls of the gallery were to her eyes mannered and uncomfortable. But they were good and very professional. And, dear God, they were framed! Perhaps she should have tried to frame hers before she brought them in? She started to shake again, wishing she hadn’t come.

Then the door opened and the owner appeared. He was a young man, tall and arrogant-looking. His lips, she decided instantly, were mean beneath the thin moustache.

Her only concern now was to get out as soon as possible, with the least embarrassment for everybody, especially herself.

The other girl had her coat on as soon as the man appeared. ‘Here’s Mr Chambers now,’ she announced and she was gone without a word to him.

‘Ask her to watch the place for five minutes and she acts as if I’d told her to swim the channel, the silly bitch,’ he muttered angrily at her retreating back. ‘Now, what do you want, young lady?’ He sounded irritated.

He didn’t seem to realize that she was Miss Rowmill, artists’ agent. Nettled, she told him.

He was not impressed. ‘We’re fully booked well into next year,’ he said coolly. ‘But let’s see what you’ve got.’

He leafed through the paintings and sketches casually, taking hardly any time to study them. Occasionally he muttered ‘humph, not bad,’ or ‘weak, weak,’ or ‘very derivative’. Kate was mortified.

‘They’re all by the same girl?” he asked, not raising his eyes.

‘Yes.’

‘Where did you find her, art school?’

She was furious. ‘No. She’s a local girl. I think she has great talent, a great …’ She hesitated, trying to think of a word.

‘Potential?’ He glanced up at her, smiling suddenly.

‘Exactly.’ She felt she wasn’t playing her part sufficiently convincingly. ‘I like to watch out for up and coming new names, and so,’ she added pointedly, ‘do most of my clients.’

‘Indeed.’ She did not like the way he raised one eyebrow.

He reached the end of the pictures and began to shuffle through them again. ‘Did she have any oils, this Kate Millrow?’ he asked casually.

‘Oh yes.’ Did she sound too eager? ‘I didn’t bring any today, but I could arrange to collect some.’

‘No, no,’ He held up his hand. ‘I’ve seen enough. I’m afraid, Miss …’ he hesitated over the name. ‘Rowmill was it? I’m afraid these are not really suitable for this gallery. However,’ he glared at her as he saw her about to speak, ‘however, I do believe like yourself in giving an encouraging help to the young occasionally, so,’ he pulled out a watercolour and looked at it closely, ‘I will take a couple of these if you agree. I’ll have them framed and hang them in my next show. I’ll take framing expenses plus ten per cent, agreed?’

Kate was speechless with joy. It wasn’t the praise, the one man exhibition she had dreamed of, but it was something. Excitedly she gave him the address of the cottage.

‘And now your address, Miss Rowmill. I generally prefer to deal through an agent direct if there is one.’ He looked at her closely and waited, his pen poised. It nearly stumped her. She thought fest and then gave him her sister’s address in London. It seemed to impress him.

It was not until she was nearly home that she realized that in real terms she had achieved very little. The condescending acceptance of two pictures by a stuck up opinionated gallery owner, out of charity rather than anything else, and a lot of quite unjustified rude remarks. ‘Horrible prig!’ she muttered to herself as she turned up the lane. And what was worse she realized, she still hadn’t actually earned any cash, and her desire for some rather more exotic food than eggs and cabbage was increasingly daily, if not hourly.

Reluctantly, nervously, she rehung the notice on the gate before she changed and took the car back to the farm. If Miss Rowmill could hang the notice up, she hoped desperately that she could persuade Miss Millrow to leave it there.

Once more dressed in jeans and barefoot, she selected the paintings Mr Chambers had made the least derogatory noises over and put them prominently round the room.

Then she sat back to wait. No one came. She left the notice on the gate, refused to be discouraged, went to dig some potatoes and then at last settled down to paint again.

‘Derivative indeed,’ she snorted. ‘The man was an ignorant fool.’

It was on the Saturday afternoon that a car drove by, slowed and backed to the gate. Two people got out and wandered up the path, exclaiming at the honeysuckle and roses, pointing up at the fields behind the cottage.

Kate felt sick.

They knocked and she let them in, wishing she wasn’t quite so shabbily dressed and that her toes weren’t quite so grubby from the garden.

But they obviously liked to see her like that. She saw suddenly through their eyes a glimmer of the so-called glamour of the artist in the garret, and glad that for once she had got rid of the smell of cabbage from the house, she was content to let them wander around the room she used for a studio.

She crossed her fingers, praying they would buy something, but they completed a round of the paintings without seeming to see anything in particular.

Then the man turned to her hesitantly. ‘Is anything for sale, Miss Millrow?’ he asked.

Anything! He must be joking.

She smiled politely. ‘Well, some of my best work is away on exhibition,’ – was that Miss Rowmill talking? – ‘but most things here are for sale, yes.’

She desperately tried to think of prices. Too high and they would be scared off; too low and they would think her valueless.

‘I’ll give you ten pounds for this, I love it.’

She could not believe her ears. Ten pounds for a tiny painting of a posy of spring flowers. It wasn’t even modern in style.

‘That seems very fair.’ She smiled as graciously as she could.

She sat for a long time after they had gone, gazing at the two fivers on the table. Could it be true that at last she was earning her living by painting?

Two hours later she was chopping vegetables in the kitchen when there was a knock at the door. She opened it to find Mr Chambers standing on the doorstep. Her heart sank with embarrassment but he held out his hand blandly with absolutely no sign of recognition on his face.