The Second Life of Sally Mottram. David Nobbs
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you good, sometimes, dun’t it?’ he said. ‘Stop. Listen. Have a think. Does you good.’
‘Yes. Yes. It does. Yes. A moment of reflection.’
‘In this hectic world.’
‘Quite.’
‘I think we may have met before.’
‘I don’t think so.’
She backed away from the man ever so slightly. But he noticed and moved closer ever so slightly.
‘Not a bad view, is it?’
Yes, it is. Can’t say that. Can’t be rude.
Why not be rude? He’s invading my space.
‘Not bad, no.’
‘No, there’s nowt like a spot of quiet thinking. Young folk don’t know how to do it. That’s what’s wrong wi’ t’world. Thinking. It’s a lost art.’
For you it is.
Couldn’t say it.
‘Very true.’
Oh God, Sally.
‘I’m on me own, you see. Me wife died twenty-two years ago.’
Suicide, was it? Sally! You are not nice.
‘I still talk to her.’
Suddenly Sally felt a wave of sympathy for the man in the long raincoat.
‘I can understand that.’
‘You get lonely, you see.’
‘Yes. Yes, I do see.’
There was silence for a moment. Sally found that she couldn’t just leave, not after that information. Somehow, it had become an important moment, here on the footbridge, teased by a playful easterly breeze.
‘As I say … you don’t mind my talking, do you? Cos I know I interrupted you thinking.’
‘You can think too much.’
‘I pride meself on knowing when to talk and when not to talk. I was a taxi driver, see. Tool of the trade, is that. Gauge when the passenger wants to talk, gauge when he wants to be quiet. Tool of the trade.’
I’m rather glad I never hired your taxi.
‘I bet you’re glad you never hired my taxi.’
‘No!’
She didn’t want to move on until he did. But he showed no sign of going. It was an impasse. Maybe they would stay on the footbridge for ever.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘What for?’
‘Interrupting you. When you were thinking.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It does. I’ve let meself down. I’ll be off now.’
Don’t say anything, Sally.
‘Leave you with your thoughts. And the view.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Not a bad old place. Bit of a dump, I suppose, but what somebody could do with it! What somebody could do with it, eh?’
‘Absolutely. Very true. Well, it’s been nice talking to you.’
Even he should take that hint, but she held out her hand to make the point even more positively.
They shook hands. She’d have time to wash hers before she had anything to eat.
He moved off. She was ashamed of the depth of her relief.
He was coming back!
‘I remember where I saw you.’
‘Oh?’
‘Coming out o’ kirk t’other Wednesday. I know it was Wednesday cos it wasn’t market day and I’d thought it was, silly me. You and your daughter. Pretty girl. I could see the resemblance. Lovely couple you made, if you don’t mind my saying.’
‘No. Not at all. Not at all. It was my husband’s funeral.’
‘Oh no. I’ve done it again. I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s all right, but …’
‘You want to cry. I understand. And I agree. Don’t hold it in. That’s trouble wi’ Potherthwaite. We hold too much in. Let it all out, I say.’
Long Raincoat moved away, and this time he didn’t turn back. Sally looked out over the grey town, and thought about his words. ‘Bit of a dump, I suppose, but what somebody could do with it!’ She shook her head at the impossibility, the absurdity of the sudden thought.
She looked over at the church. She thought of herself and Alice as Long Raincoat must have seen them. A lovely couple. Yes, they must have looked a lovely couple.
She hadn’t felt lovely, that day. She’d hardly slept. She’d felt that she looked haggard. The service had been a total embarrassment. So much was said. So much wasn’t said. The Revd Dominic Otley had spoken without conviction. The funerals of people who have killed themselves are hell.
And Alice. She had been lovely. She had grown into a really lovely woman, a proud mother of two lovely little boys. It was lovely that she had such lovely photos of them, and if perhaps she showed them slightly too often, well, it was good at a funeral to dwell on things that cheered, it would be wrong to criticize her for that. No, the only thing that had disappointed her about Alice was the thing she hadn’t said. She hadn’t suggested that Sally move to New Zealand. She understood why, it made sense. She had her own life. She had the boys. She didn’t know whether, if Alice had asked her, she would have gone. Some people said New Zealand was a paradise. Others said it was boring. Perhaps it was in the ineluctable nature of things that paradises were boring. No, she didn’t know if she would have gone, but it would have been nice to have been asked.
Sam hadn’t sung the praises of Barnet, either.
She took one more look at the roofs of her home town, at a faint sheen from the emerging sun on the one tiny glimpse she could get of the Potherthwaite Arm of the Rackstraw and Sladfield Canal.
Beyond and above the canal and the Quays, on the moor at the other side of the valley, Potherthwaite Hall stood arrogant guard over the town. It had only occurred to her well after Barry’s death that this year they hadn’t been invited to Councillor Stratton’s party.
She set off at last, slowly wheeling her two suitcases to the northern end of the footbridge. She pressed for the lift. It arrived slowly. ‘Footbridge level,’ exclaimed the bossy lady. Sally manoeuvred her cases into the lift. ‘Going down.’ She went down.
She wheeled her cases towards the ramshackle buffet, then hesitated. She didn’t want to go into the buffet, in case Long Raincoat would be there.
But there was another reason too. She didn’t need a vat of tea or a cauldron of coffee. She didn’t need a Danish pastry or a slice of fruit cake.
She didn’t need anything. She was going south, to the Land of Plenty.
Beth’s lasagne wasn’t exactly bad. She was an inexperienced cook – they lived mainly on ready meals and takeaways – but it was clear to Sally that Sam had told her that his mother would expect real cooking. She wished he hadn’t done that. She had quite lost her appetite since Barry’s death, and she knew that she had to eat up all her lasagne. It was a neat reversal of her relationship with