‘Not sure she’d agree with you. But anyway,’ she paused and when she spoke again, her tone had lightened. ‘So, how was Miriam? Any gossip?’
‘I’m not sure that my Miriam gossip would cheer you up much actually.’
‘Oh.’
‘But I do have a trolley tale from Oliver!’
‘Brilliant,’ she said, sounding immediately brighter. ‘Hey and don’t worry, I won’t be pushing you for any of the stressy stuff tonight. I don’t think that would be great for either of us.’
Chapter 33
‘And you’re certain you’re not too busy for all this, my darling?’
‘Why on earth do you keep asking me that?’ I closed the door, buckled myself in and stared at Dad. ‘It’s a day of walking and a night away, in a lovely hotel. I’m looking forward to it very much. I’m just sorry we couldn’t have gone yesterday instead of this morning.’
He continued to look anxious. ‘It’s just that I know you’re a very busy girl. And you have a boyfriend. This is a weekend you could be spending with him, instead of a boring old pensioner.’
I placed a hand on his arm. ‘I have genuinely, genuinely been looking forward to spending this time with you; just the two of us. Everything has seemed a little up in the air lately and it’ll be great to get away and slow down.’ He offered me an uncertain smile. ‘And, as for Stephen,’ I continued, ‘I’m seeing him for dinner tomorrow night. So you are not in any way cramping my style.’
He looked, I thought, slightly reassured. ‘In that case,’ he said, starting the engine, ‘I suppose we should get going.’
‘D’ya think?’ I said and then, planting a kiss on his cheek, ‘I love you. Let’s go.’
* * *
Dad and I took at least one weekend break together every year and usually tried to keep the drive-time to under two hours, in order to allow us maximum quality time together. We had explored not only Devon but Somerset, The Gower and The Cotswolds, with walking, rather than sight-seeing, always top of the agenda. Our itinerary varied little, regardless of location. We always aimed to arrive late Friday or early Saturday and then, rain or shine, we would head out for a full day of walking, punctuated by frequent flask and photography breaks and a light pub lunch. Dad would have a nap early Saturday evening, before we headed out to dinner at around 8pm. I occasionally joked to friends about the schedules set in stone and elderly pace of our trips, but in fact, the familiarity of both company and itinerary was thoroughly enjoyable and extremely comforting.
This particular weekend, our destination was Moreton-in-Marsh and after a drive of just an hour and a half, we arrived at our hotel, The White Hart, at 10am.
My father’s conversation in the car on the way up had proved as diverse and tangential as ever, with him touching on subjects ranging from global politics to neighbourhood news – namely Odd Bob using Hammerite to paint all his window panes black, after experiencing difficulty hanging blinds. He had, Dad told me, done this under cover of darkness, providing neighbours with little opportunity to intervene. Nevertheless, they felt bad for not having kept a warier eye on him, and Dad had felt particularly guilty over the incident as he had actually supplied the Hammerite, assuming Bob wanted it for his drainpipes. The good news was that the matter had led to Social Services being back on the case, so at least there was an all’s-well-that-ends-well feeling to the tale.
On the whole, Dad seemed, I thought, well, and in good spirits. However, although for much of the drive-time he was his usual enthusiastic, optimistic self, there were also occasions when he appeared completely lost in thought, almost to the point of being unaware of my presence, until I reminded him of it with some comment or question. I asked him several times whether there was anything troubling him and, on each occasion, he insisted he was fine, re-iterating how blessed he felt to have me as his daughter and how important I was to him.
This pattern of happy interaction, interspersed with occasional distraction, continued into our walk and, as the day wore on, I told myself to accept it as a harmless consequence of aging, rather than allow my concerns to spoil the weekend.
We had decided to eat that evening at The Black Bear, which was located just opposite our hotel. A table had been reserved for 7pm, which I had thought a little early, but when Dad explained that he didn’t want to be up too late, I had given in. So at six forty-five, after I had showered and treated myself to an hour of mindless magazine reading on my bed, I made my way to the hotel lounge to find him ensconced in an armchair, a copy of The Times open, but ignored, on his lap. Instead of the paper, his attention was focused on the street scene outside the quaint, 17th century bay of the hotel.
‘You look great,’ I said as I approached and bent down to kiss his cheek. ‘Is this new?’ I tugged admiringly at the sleeve of the casual red and white striped shirt, which he had paired with chinos. ‘Ooh, and those.’ I patted his knee.
He looked up at me, appearing pleased. ‘Do you like them?’ he asked. ‘I wasn’t so sure but Hil…’ he coughed, ‘…but I got them anyway.’
‘Well, I thoroughly approve.’
He smiled. ‘So long as you do,’ he said. ‘That’s all that matters to me.’
‘Come on,’ I said, holding out my hand, ‘let’s go and show you off.’
* * *
‘I’m not massively hungry yet,’ I said, as we sat down and I began to peruse the menu. ‘Are you? Or shall we have a drink before we order?’
He glanced around the bustling bar. ‘It’s quite busy, isn’t it?’ he said.
I looked up from my menu. ‘That’s not a problem, is it?’ I asked, noticing his concerned expression.
‘No, no.’ he smiled. ‘Not a problem.’
‘Good.’ I returned my attention to the menu. ‘I hardly need look,’ I said. ‘I already know that I want fish and chips and mushy peas,’ I laughed. ‘And I’ll bet any money you’re having the same.’ He didn’t reply and I looked up to find him twisting in his seat, scanning the room. ‘What are you looking for?’ I asked.
He turned to me bemused. ‘Sorry, darling. What?’
I sighed and stood up. ‘I’ll go and get some drinks. Would you like a pint?’
‘Donnington Gold, please. I’ll just… er…,’ he leaned back into his chair, ‘sit here and wait.’
‘Brilliant plan,’ I said. ‘And do you mind if we delay ordering food for a little while?’ I asked. ‘Or are you starving?’
‘I’m happy to delay.’ He patted his stomach. ‘The wait will give me a little more room for all those lovely fish and chips.’
I smiled and then made my way round to the smaller bar on the other side of the pub, hoping that it might prove slightly less busy than the one closer to our table. I was right and within five minutes I was wobbling my way back to my father. I had a poor reputation when it came to carrying drinks and I kept a careful eye on his brimming pint.
‘Well, will you look at that,’ I said, when within a few feet of the table. ‘I haven’t spilled a drop. A first, I think.’ It was only when I made to place the drinks on the table that I looked up and realised that Dad was no longer alone but was instead sitting with a small, slender woman, who was seated on a third chair which had been pulled up to our table. The woman was, I guessed, in her mid- to late sixties. She had greying, light brown hair, cut into a neat bob and she was dressed for walking, in a pink, short-sleeved polo shirt, grey trousers and brown hiking boots. What struck me most about her, however, was the sense of nervous anxiety she exuded and whic
h the smile she now offered me did nothing to disguise.
I looked at Dad and he too gave me a similarly distressed grin. I returned my attention to the woman. ‘Hello,’ I said.
‘Hello, Alice,’ her voice was soft to the point of being almost inaudible. She held out her hand. ‘I’m Hilary Radcliffe,’ she said, ‘a friend of your father’s from the club.’
I shook her hand. ‘The club?’ I sat down and looked at Dad questioningly.
His eyes widened slightly and he maintained his grin as he spoke, giving him the appearance of a ventriloquist’s dummy. ‘My widow and widowers’ club, darling,’ he said. ‘Hilary is in the same club.’
‘Ah, I see,’ I smiled in comprehension. ‘Of course, yes, Hilary. I remember. You give Dad culinary tips,’ I said. ‘I only wish you’d give him a few more.’
‘Indeed!’ said Dad, laughing far more than the joke deserved. Hilary joined in the laughter, causing me to reflect that a disproportionate sense of fun was just one of the many delights of aging that I had to look forward to.
Once they had calmed down, there was a pause which I assumed one of them would fill with an explanation as to how Hilary came to be in The Black Bear on this Saturday evening, rather than at home in Chippenham. When no such explanation was forthcoming, I decided to request one.
‘So, Hilary, you’re visiting the Cotswolds too. Is it for the weekend, or as part of a longer holiday?’
Hilary cleared her throat and took a deep breath. ‘Well, Alice, I have a brother here. His name is Terry. I visit him often,’ she began, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, giving her the air of someone ticking off points in her head. ‘I didn’t know your father was coming, so this is quite a coincidence. I love walking. This is my third visit this year.’ She redirected her gaze from the ceiling to Dad.
He smiled and nodded and then looked at me. ‘This is Hilary’s third visit,’ he said.
‘So I gathered,’ I returned, rolling my eyes. ‘Hilary is speaking English, you know.’
More elderly hysteria ensued. ‘Oh you are funny, Alice,’ said Hilary. ‘Jim said you were.’
I looked at Dad. ‘I take it he didn’t mention my brains or beauty, then,’ I said, before adding quickly, in an attempt to pre-empt any fresh outbursts of geriatric giggling, ‘Are you here with Terry tonight?’ I looked around the bar.
Hilary smiled. ‘No,’ she said, ‘not tonight.’
I nodded and there followed yet another elderly conversational pause, which I eventually accepted would not be filled without prompting.
‘You’re meeting friends?’ I ventured.
‘No, no,’ she said brightly. ‘It’s just me. I just thought I’d come out for a quiet drink.’
‘That’s right.’ Dad nodded once again.
‘Gosh, you’re brave,’ I said. ‘I get anxious after just a few minutes of waiting on my own in a pub.’
‘Ooh, yes,’ said Hilary suddenly animated, smiling and touching my arm conspiratorially, ‘I know just what you mean, Alice. I absolutely hate being on my own like that too. I feel so conspicuous and friendless. I always take a book if I think there’s the slightest possibility of being on my own for even a minute.’
I blinked, feeling a little confused. ‘Oh, well… well done for being so brave tonight.’
She beamed. ‘Yes.’ She looked at Dad. ‘I just thought I’d pop out for a quick drink and a little time alone. That’s what I thought.’
I decided to move on. ‘Is this your brother’s local?’
‘Ooh, no.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s a good twenty minutes by car for him.’
I frowned involuntarily. ‘But this pub is a favourite of yours?’
She looked around. ‘Do you know, I was just saying to Jim that I don’t think I’ve ever actually been here before,’ she said. ‘Appalling really, because it’s so lovely, isn’t it?’
I picked up my spritzer, looked at Dad and weighed up the possibilities of the situation. I had so far formed three hypotheses, namely that:
i) this was all an enormous coincidence and that Hilary was an eccentric, wildly contradictory character, who deliberately travelled significant distances to test her own ability to endure loneliness in a crowd, or
ii) Hilary was an aging, pink-polo-shirted stalker, who had tracked my father from Chippenham with unknown intent. Or the third and final possibility, towards which I was leaning heavily,
iii) that I was sitting with two elderly people who, for whatever reason, were ineptly trying to convince me that finding themselves in the same pub, in the same town, on the same evening was not at all by design but entirely by coincidence.
My dilemma, of course, was how to determine what was going on, without causing any offence to Hilary, given that dragging my father into a quiet back room, shining a bright light in his eyes and interrogating him at length was not currently an option.
I looked at him now, sitting in a way which I knew indicated he was not at all relaxed. However, whether this was because he wanted Hilary to leave, or was desperate for me to invite her to stay, I just didn’t know.
In the end, I took a punt. ‘Would you like to join us for a drink, Hilary?’
She took a sidelong glance at Dad. ‘Ooh, I wouldn’t want to interrupt your time together. I was going to pop off back to Terry’s in a minute or two.’
‘Oh, so you’ve been here a while then?’ I asked. ‘Have you got a drink sitting somewhere which you could bring over?’
‘No,’ she smiled. ‘I’ve only just arrived.’
I found myself unable to stifle a laugh. ‘Well, look,’ I placed a hand on her arm, ‘if you don’t have to rush off, I think it would be really nice for you to stay and have a drink with us.’ I looked at Dad. ‘Don’t you agree?’
His shoulders relaxed, he smiled at me – and I knew. ‘Yes, I do, sweetheart,’ he said.
I swallowed and felt my eyes prickle. ‘Lovely,’ I said, standing up. ‘Hilary, what can I get you?’
Chapter 34
Hilary stayed for a drink and then, at my suggestion, and to Dad’s obvious delight, she joined us for dinner. I discovered that she was sixty-eight years old, had been a widow for three years and had joined ‘The Club’ just over a year ago. Additionally, she had two sons: Luke, who lived in Oxford, and Simon, who was currently living in Canada, but who would be returning to the UK next year.
At no time during the conversation was the precise nature of Hilary’s relationship with Dad defined or discussed. However, it was readily apparent from the number of shared stories that they had spent, recently at least, a significant amount of time in one another’s company and that whatever time they had spent together, they had thoroughly enjoyed.
I liked her. She was warm, energetic, interested and interesting and, most importantly of all, she clearly made my father very happy.
Over dinner, she told us all about a daytrip to Winchcombe with Terry and then asked about our walk. I said a little bit about our route but then sat back and enjoyed watching and listening to Dad describe, with characteristic enthusiasm, unusual cloud formations and unexpectedly beautiful views – his own and Hilary’s mutual absorption in the detail of the day, providing me with an opportunity to observe unobserved.
They were, without doubt, happy and relaxed in each other’s company. But they were also, I realised, equally happy and at ease with the past. There was no sense that Hilary was either competing with my mother’s memory or ignoring it. Far from it. She welcomed my mother to the table, laughing along and asking questions as Dad contrasted today’s weather with the ‘apocalyptic rainfall’ which, he told us, had marked the occasion when he and my mother had celebrated their fifth wedding anniversary in Stowe-on-the-Wold, which lay less than five miles from Moreton-in-Marsh.
And Dad appeared similarly at peace regarding Frank, Hilary’s late husband, whom she talked about fondly, frequently and without self-consciousness. Here, I thought, were two people rejoicing in a new relationship, whilst simultaneously cel
ebrating past ones. They had the air of a couple who just couldn’t believe their luck and, for reasons I couldn’t fathom, that caused me to spend the evening perpetually on the brink of either laughter or tears, and occasionally both.
The evening flew and when I checked my watch, as Dad mooted teas and coffees, I was surprised to discover that it was well after nine.
‘I’ll have a coffee if you two do,’ I said.
‘I’d love a peppermint tea,’ said Hilary.
‘And I’d like an actual cup of tea,’ said Dad, nudging Hilary and being rewarded with a tut and a smile, ‘but I must just make a trip to the bathroom first, if you’ll excuse me for one moment, ladies.’ He stood up, briefly squeezed Hilary’s shoulder and headed for the toilet.
I smiled and looked at Hilary. ‘So you’re teaching Dad to cook,’ I said.
She smiled. ‘He’s actually very into his baking at the moment,’ she said. ‘And he’s being ever so ambitious. Chelsea buns and millefeuille are top of his list to perfect. Chelsea buns because they were your mother’s favourite and millefeuille because you so love custard slices.’
I smiled. ‘That’s nice but,’ I leaned towards her and lowered my voice, ‘I was thinking he might be better with a packet mix.’
There was a momentary pause and then she laughed. ‘A packet mix, yes.’
‘Seriously, though, Hilary,’ I said, ‘couldn’t you try to talk him into having a bash at something simpler? Scones maybe?’
‘Oh no, dear,’ she said. ‘The reason for his choice is so very lovely, that’s the most important thing. Whatever he bakes will be baked with love, you see.’
She looked at me and smiled, clearly oblivious to the effect of her words. I was, I realised, going to have to bring a box of Kleenex to every future encounter with Hilary. I cleared my throat.
‘Well, maybe practice will make perfect,’ I said.
‘I’m not overly hopeful,’ she said, adding “realist” to a growing list of admirable character traits. ‘His millefeuille are, I’m afraid, particularly dreadful and showing no sign of improvement. But, you know your father, he’s still enjoying himself.’ She smiled to herself, looked down, removed her napkin from her lap and folded it neatly, before placing it on the table.