The Northern Clemency. Philip Hensher
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secretary said. ‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Are you suggesting—’ Katherine said.
‘It’s just that he phoned five minutes ago,’ the secretary said. ‘I was sorry to hear about his mother.’
‘His mother?’ Katherine said. ‘Oh – his mother—’
‘Yes, being taken ill like that – what I don’t understand—’ she went on, but Katherine interrupted her with apologies before putting the receiver down. She sat by the telephone, breaking out into a light sweat of sheer panic, her heart thumping, and in two minutes she dialled the same number and apologized – the confusion with Malcolm’s mother, she’d meant to be phoning the children’s, Daniel’s school, it was Daniel, their son, who was ill. ‘I must be going round the bend,’ she said amusedly, ‘ringing the number next to the school’s in the address book and saying Malcolm when I meant Daniel.’
‘That’s all right,’ the secretary said, obviously thinking there were better things for her to be doing. She phoned the florist’s, and this time, to Nick, but with even more of a telephone voice, it was her that was ill. ‘Eaten something,’ she said. ‘Awful bore.’
Nick told her not to worry, he’d hold the fort; there was something almost enthusiastic about the way he said it, and then he apologized again for not making it to her party the other night. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking,’ he said. She had forgotten all about that; almost all about that; but he had reminded her, and that absence, so painful and crucial, returned at once, shamefully battling in her mind against this now more urgent, more dutifully felt absence. To the police, she would have told the exact truth, but now she could only tell them that Malcolm had turned up safe and sound, and in a sense, so he had.
Thank God, with five of them, the washing was constant; thank God that supplied her with something to do. As far as she could see, going through the piles, then, her heart beating, their joint wardrobe, Malcolm had taken no clothes. What that meant, good or bad, she couldn’t articulate even in her mind. She took it all downstairs, at least three loads, and deposited it on the utility-room floor. That was where the washing-machine, the boiler, the freezer, all sat together. It was a good thing with the washing machine; an efficient new one, its cycle went into passages of immense fury you couldn’t make yourself be heard over when it had been in the kitchen. Even in the utility room, it made the walls of the house shake at its juddering climaxes. She put a load of washing in. That would be something to fill the time, that and the ironing. She could have welcomed the children going off to school, or at least engaging in some kind of holiday activity that would have removed them for a while.
As for her, back in the dining room, she looked out of the window at the activity outside. Then, quite abruptly, she decided to go and offer the new neighbours a cup of coffee. Get to know them. It wouldn’t do to give the removal men coffee, and then be remote and stand-offish with the people you were going to live opposite. She stared, hard, at the unit, identical to her own, facing her house for anyone to see. Drawn out by that, she slipped on a pair of shoes and walked out of the house, leaving the front door open. ‘Won’t be a moment,’ she called.
‘There’s Katherine Glover,’ Anthea Arbuthnot observed to Mrs Warner, both comfortably settled at the window with the best view. ‘I thought she wouldn’t be long.’
‘Why’s that, then?’ Mrs Warner said, enjoying this.
‘I wouldn’t suppose she’d put up with all that cheap tat lying about in the road,’ Anthea said. ‘She’s very hot on that sort of thing. Only the other night, she was saying to me that something or other, I forget what, was bringing down the tone of the neighbourhood. One of nature’s complainers, I’d say.’
‘She works, she was telling me,’ Mrs Warner said, not believing a word of Anthea’s version, quite rightly.
‘That’s right,’ Anthea said. ‘But it’s a very superior job, I believe.’
‘Those children, they’re not very superior,’ Mrs Warner said.
‘Not at all,’ Anthea said. ‘Do you know, I think she’s just going over there to take a better look. Some people really are appallingly nosy,’ she went on, but that was a joke, and both she and Karen tittered at themselves and their shameless vigil. ‘I don’t think much of that suite,’ she went on. ‘I wouldn’t have it in the house myself.’
‘Hello?’ Katherine called, hovering in the front door, calling into the empty house. She didn’t like to ring the doorbell when the door stood open.
‘Hello,’ the youngest of the removal men said satirically, coming through with a single chair. ‘Mind your back.’
‘Hello?’ she called again, and a woman her age, hair untidy, an expression of nervousness, came out into the hallway. At the same time, a pair of children, a boy, a child’s face, but too tall, and a girl with an unusual forward stance, dark and unformed, came halfway down the stairs, stood and looked.
‘Not there,’ an impatient man’s London voice said from somewhere else, and then ‘Who’s that?’ as he, too, came through, his shirt sleeves rolled. The four stood there and looked at Katherine, almost as if puzzled. She gathered herself.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Alice said, once Katherine had explained, had welcomed them to the neighbourhood, had suggested refreshments. Introductions had been made; Bernie had smiled quickly and returned to the sitting room. The children stayed where they were. ‘We’d like that –’ but the children shook their heads, and Bernie had things to do. ‘Well, I would, anyway.’ Katherine would have liked to have a look round the house – she’d never really known the Watsons, and the layout of all the houses was slightly different – but in a moment she and Alice were going back together over the road, and Alice was asking what the previous owners were like.
‘It’s extraordinary,’ Alice said, ‘I hope they weren’t great friends of yours, but…’ and she explained about the lightbulbs.
Katherine laughed a little and, no, she hadn’t known them well. ‘Come in,’ she said, with a big gesture. Alice had stopped halfway down the front garden path and was looking up at the front of their house. ‘It’s wistaria,’ Katherine said, laughing. ‘You’re shocked to see it doing so well up here, I can see, but it’s had a good year, ours,’ and, seizing Alice’s arm in a frank way, brought her into the house. ‘They surely didn’t take all the lightbulbs,’ she said, and then she was explaining about the Yorkshire character. ‘You’re from London,’ she said, not asking a question, and then was off on a great paragraph of generalisation. She could hear herself, how faintly mad she sounded, setting out what the people of Sheffield were like, and the people of the whole county too, all three ridings, ‘though we aren’t to say ridings any more, that’s all gone’, their tightness with money, the way they wouldn’t waste a word, their honesty and openness.
‘I see,’ Alice said, evidently wondering a little as they came into Katherine’s house. But Katherine went on, unable to help herself, and Alice helped her out with a banality she’d heard or read or seen, that there was a friendliness and openness in the north, which just wasn’t there in the south.
‘You won’t find people keeping themselves to themselves in the same way here,’ Katherine went on, forgetting that she had said exactly that of the departed miserly Watsons, who were nothing if not Yorkshire, had, indeed, according to Katherine, embodied the manners of the whole county.
‘I can see that already, the friendliness,’ Alice said, smiling awkwardly at this generous neighbour.
‘That’s kind of you,’ Katherine said. ‘But you’ll find that we’re all like that around here.’ She thought of saying that there were few people in the area who didn’t keep their door on the snib, but fell silent: this new neighbour would quickly discover that it wasn’t true, for one thing, and in any case it would have made the road sound a little common. She put the kettle on; she heard herself and her brave party voice, not able to be kind without making a comment on that kindness.