Encounters. Barbara Erskine
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walked across the bare garden, hands in pockets and looked out across the fields. There were no sheep there now; they were desolate, like her.
Then he was there beside her, his face glowing, his eyes laughing, his warmth and humour reaching out to her. ‘What about breakfast? I’m starving.’
‘How’s the ewe?’ The steady cheerfulness of her voice amazed her.
‘She’ll be OK. Crisis is over. Was that ma’s car I saw?’
Annette nodded. ‘She couldn’t wait. Just looked in to say hello.’
And goodbye. Because, of course, Annette could never come to the farm again. She didn’t say anything in the end. What was the point of screaming and ranting at him? He had made no promises, held out no hope of the future. He had assumed they were still working from the first blueprint. ‘No involvement, Annette my love. Just a good time while we’re both at a loose end, OK?’
In the house, as she made the coffee with absolute concentration, Duncan said, ‘Paula and Tony have asked us to dinner next weekend to see how their extension is progressing.’ He did not look up. His face was buried in the newspaper.
‘Oh what a shame. I’d love to have gone.’ She was pouring the coffee, not looking at him, but she heard the rustle of the paper as he put it down.
‘Why can’t you?’ Amazed. Even slightly hurt.
‘I can’t come down next weekend, Duncan, I’m sorry. In fact not for several weeks. I’m tied up.’ She put the cup on the table without raising her eyes to his. ‘It’s nearly Christmas after all. I’ve so much to do. I’m ashamed I’ve allowed myself to come down here so much!’ That was it. Bright and brittle. Don’t ever show how much you are hurting inside.
She could feel him looking at her; imagine the thoughtful puzzlement with which he was watching. And she knew she would not be fooling him for an instant. She looked up at last and met his gaze, smiling. ‘You’ll have to do without me, Duncan. I think it’s best.’ She could not fight a sick enemy, one she had never seen. Another flesh and blood woman, yes, with nails bared and teeth set, but not this pale consumptive image, with her overtones of tragedy.
Duncan stood up and came round the table. ‘Annette …’
‘No, please. Don’t say anything. Make my apologies to Paula. Perhaps I’ll come back after …’
After what? Christmas? His marriage? His birthday? After it stopped hurting?
In the afternoon she packed slowly not waiting to read the Sunday papers with him by the fire, taking from the kitchen a couple of carrier bags to put all the extras in. The things which she had grown used to leaving behind week after week. Her records, her boots, a couple of books, the heavy Aran sweater she never wore in town. She piled them by the front door and took the old duffle coat off the hook. That, too, must go back. When she looked round he was standing in the doorway watching her.
‘My mother did this.’
‘No, Duncan. I always knew it wouldn’t last. I just didn’t know how long I’d got.’
He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her to him. ‘Supposing I told you I’d change. I’ve grown so fond of you, Annette. I don’t know that I can live without you. Not now.’
She felt her throat constrict. ‘You must,’ she whispered.
He took her to the train at last and found her a corner seat with her bags, then he jumped off as the train was already moving – no time for any goodbyes. But there was no one sitting opposite her to shame her into holding back her tears and she felt them run scalding down her cheeks as she turned her face to the window and saw the countryside gathering speed until it blurred and faded behind the dirty glass.
On Friday, in case he came, she rang the office and told them she had a migraine. The following week she went in as usual, thinking she felt more able to cope, but she did not have to. He did not appear.
She did not know whether he came up to see Kevin Spiggs again. She suspected he had never really needed to anyway, after that first time. He had come only to see her.
It was three months before she heard from him again. He phoned her at the office. ‘How are you, Annette?’
Her heart, cured, distracted, no longer his, turned upside down at the sound of his voice.
‘I’m fine. How are you?’
She thought she managed to sound casual. She fixed her mind determinedly on Robert, the new man in her life, who would be taking her out later that evening; Robert who had three times asked her to marry him.
‘Can I take you out to lunch tomorrow?’ Duncan sounded uncomfortable and quite suddenly she forgot her own unhappiness in a wave of sympathy for him.
‘That would be nice. But it will have to be fairly brief I’m afraid. We’re very busy at the office at the moment.’
‘Fine. I’ll pick you up around 12.30.’
She got up an hour early the next day to dress with special care and put on some make up, and one look at his face told her that there had been no point. His love for her, if that was what it had been, had gone. Rising from her desk she picked up her bag and followed him out into the street.
‘I wanted to tell you myself that I’m getting married.’ He said it at once, before they had even ordered.
‘I’m glad for you.’
She realized as she said it that she meant it. For herself she was desolate, but the shining happiness she had seen on his face was so special she could not grudge him. Not that. That was what love did to a man, or a woman. ‘To Celia, I take it?’
He nodded and grinned. ‘So you did know. Afterwards I was so angry with myself. I thought perhaps I’d misled you. I couldn’t have borne it if I’d hurt you, Annette.’ His hand was on hers on the table. ‘You’re very special to me, you know. You always will be.’
‘And you to me, Duncan.’ She drew her hand away gently. Had he really never guessed how much she loved him? Had he really believed they were both just passing the time? She looked up at his face and then sadly she looked away.
They saw each other twice more after that. Once by accident in the foyer of the office building and once for coffee in the lunch hour two weeks before his wedding. He had a brown paper parcel under his arm.
‘This is for you. From Celia and me. A wedding present for you.’
It was an exquisite sweater in soft chocolate-coloured wool.
She did not tell him she had given Robert back his ring. If you did not love someone with the all-consuming joy with which Duncan loved his Celia, there could be no future. She was sure of that.
She had not heard from Duncan again for two years. Then had come the letter asking her to be godmother to his first child.
At first she was angry; then she cried. Then she laughed, and after writing two indignant letters of refusal tore them up and rang the farm. Duncan answered.
‘Are you serious?’ she asked.
‘Perfectly. I want my daughter to grow up with humour and understanding. Who better to teach it to her than you?’
Was that really the way she had reacted?
‘What happened to Robert?’ he asked after a pause.
‘No sense of humour and no understanding!’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So am I.’
Behind the half drawn curtains the christening party was in full swing. But in the garden it was very quiet. Rick was watching her.
‘You’re telling the story against yourself,’ he said gently. ‘I think Duncan was a bastard.’
She shook her