Page 18 of A Good Mother
When Arty rested back against his chair, his spoon clanging against the plate, his response was laced with exasperation. ‘Robin, why on earth would I not like you? That notion is so far from the truth, and why I’m here today, to show you that’s not the case and…’
The waiter had returned to remove our plates and once he’d scooted off, silence descended so I filled it with words, ones that would alleviate the tension.
‘So, now we’ve sorted all that out, why don’t you tell me about Japan, and your job and the children. I’ve never met anyone who’s been there, and it sounds like such a fascinating place.’
Arty leant forward and rested his clasped hands on the table, regarded me for a second or two and then indulged me in my request, and for the next hour I learned all about his life on the other side of the world, and about a man who I’d misjudged quite badly, and one I wanted to know so much more.
The riverbank was mostly deserted as we strolled along in the afternoon sun, walking off our lunch, pointing out birdlife nestled in the bank opposite or peering into the nets of the occasional fisherman we passed by. It was a glorious day in late June, the sky clear, the occasional cloud too small to obscure the sun even for a second. Thankfully, children were still in school otherwise the shallows would have been full of paddlers, their parents keeping a watchful eye from the grassed borders.
Arty had taken off his suit jacket and slung it over his shoulder and I noticed his tanned forearms glistened with fine, golden hairs. Every now and then he came too close, and I skilfully avoided a clash of limbs, not wanting to feel his skin on mine, acutely aware that it would have been too close and personal.
I was enjoying the peace, though, and being by the side of someone who didn’t feel the need to fill the silence. It was comfortable and companionable, and I realised that I hadn’t experienced anything like that with Edmund and it bothered me. I didn’t even like that it had occurred to me, not days before my wedding when I should have been sure about it all. The future, me, and Edmund.
When we were together, he talked all the time. About work, his sermons, discussions he’d had with his peers, parishioners that were thin on the ground at his church. And when he was in the company of my parents the talk was much the same and up until that moment on the riverbank I’d accepted it as part of who he was. What our life would be like together.
Yes, we’d chatted about other things when I pushed the conversation in a certain direction. About Edmund’s private education, his wealthy parents who were pillars of the church, now deceased. His two missions to Asia and Africa, his willingness to go wherever the bishop sent him although he rather hankered after a country parish. Edmund didn’t feel suited to the inner city and thought his talents would be served better elsewhere.
Nowadays, I know he’s lazy, and that the suburbs were too much of a challenge, the parishioners not his kind. For Edmund, the archetypal all-encompassing snob, God’s work didn’t involve getting his hands dirty.
In the hour or so I’d spent with Arty, I’d heard all about his life so far and dreams for the future – to travel the world teaching, learning about each country and their cultures, broadening his horizons and those of his pupils. He wanted to holiday in South America, drive a Mustang along Route 66, whale watch in Alaska, rent a cottage on the Isle of Mull and live like a hermit, just for a week or two. One day he would settle in Blighty, find a house by the sea, teach at a local school, write a book, learn to play the guitar.
Edmund wanted to be a vicar, to serve God, rise through the ranks and have a wife and two children. The End.
Had I asked Edmund where he would like to go on holiday each year? Probably not. Did I complain about his choice of honeymoon destination – a walking holiday in the Brecon Beacons, a perfect place for meditation and bird watching? No. That was my fault. It all was. Edmund was my pick, my doing. A crowd pleaser, just like me. What had I done?
Up until that moment, the future had seemed so sure and perfect. So why was there this niggle of doubt? Unhelpfully accompanied by a frisson of something alien every time I looked at Arty or imagined his body beneath his white shirt and what lay behind the zip of his trousers. I was losing my mind right there on the riverbank as temptation beckoned. And I desperately wanted to follow.
I’d been locked in thought while Arty smoked a cigarette, nodding politely to passers-by as we walked in a loop and found ourselves back in the grounds of his hotel. I watched as he flicked the stub into the bin, paused a moment then looked me in the eye, the meaning of his next question not lost on me. In that very second, I grew up. That’s when I actually became a woman, making a choice that was just for me.
‘So, what would you like to do now? Time’s running out and I’ll have to return you to Edmund soon.’
I faltered, unsure how to verbalise my deepest desire so I held his gaze and threw the ball back to Arty. ‘What do you suggest?’
He looked upwards and for a second, imagined he was asking for divine guidance but no, he was merely looking for the perfect excuse. ‘Well, it’s a bit of a scorcher so why don’t we head to my room. I’ll order us a bottle of something cool and fizzy and we can sit on the balcony and chat, or whatever you want. How does that sound?’
Without a beat of hesitation, knowing exactly what I wanted, knowing that I really had lost my mind and not caring one bit, I replied. ‘It sounds lovely.’
Then we headed inside, leaving Sandra Dee at the door.
* * *
Apart from the weekend when I was tied to home and my mother’s constant fussing, we met every day, during my lunch hour, where I almost ran to his hotel room and there, Arty would be waiting.
A five-minute dash through the streets, forty-five minutes of joy, ten minutes to tidy myself up and race back to work. It was bliss. It was torture too, because we both knew it couldn’t last or go anywhere and come hell or high water, I would be marrying Edmund. How could I not? How could I break my parents’ hearts, shame them, rock their world?
And the strangest thing is neither I nor Arty spoke of it, the looming wedding and what it signified. Nor did we discuss the fact we were betraying Edmund. It was as though we were facing the end of the world and had to grasp every last moment until the planet went boom.
It was the Thursday before the wedding, our last meeting because I had the Friday off to prepare. I was dressing hurriedly, forcing myself not to cry, into my tights, shrugging on my dress, slipping into my shoes. I was ready to go back to work and face the rest of my life without Arty when he broke his silence.
I can see him now, pulling on his trousers and rushing to my side, his hand taking mine, his voice a whisper.
‘I’ll only ask you once, because I have to, otherwise it will send me insane not knowing.’ He paused and I was touched by his nervousness, but not swayed because I already knew the question and answer after imagining it for nine days and nights.
‘Will you run away with me? We could go today. Start a new life in Japan. I can make you happy, Robin, if you give me a chance, if you’re brave enough to set yourself free.’
I knew he’d ask me. Arty had toed the line in order to show me his good side but that naughty boy, the rebellious teenager, the determined independent adult was always in there waiting to show himself, because that’s who he was, and I’d come to love him for it. Which is why I forced out the lines I’d rehearsed, knowing that if I wasn’t prepared I would capitulate and do something that I’d never be able to live with.
In that hotel room, standing on the blue Axminister, between four beige walls, beside a bed of crumpled sheets, a battle commenced – faith versus Arty.
