Peter Robinson: The Price of Love and Other Stories

“Oh, yes. That’s the Abbey card. He’ll need some cash, won’t he, if he’s going to get the food and drink in for tomorrow?”

Banks almost choked. “You mean he knows your PIN number?”

“Well, of course he does, silly. A fat lot of use the card would be to him without it.” Shaking her head, she edged past Banks toward the living room. “And what’s this about you and Kay Summerville?” she asked, turning. “Didn’t you two used to go out together?”

“That was a long time ago. Actually, we’re going to have dinner together tonight.”

His mother’s face dropped. “But I was going to make us toad-in-the-hole. Your favorite.”

True, Banks had once expressed an enthusiasm for toad-in-the-hole when he was about fourteen. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but it’s the only chance we’ve got to catch up.”

“Well,” his mother said, that familiar, hurt, hard-done-by tone in her voice. “I suppose if that’s really what you want to do. I must say, she always seemed like a nice lass. Her mother and me weren’t close at all, just to say hello to in passing, like, but you tell her she’s welcome to drop by tomorrow, for the party. I’d like to offer her my condolences.”

“I’ll ask her,” said Banks, then he took his coffee and hurried upstairs.

With his bedroom window open, Banks could hear the polythene from the building site flapping in the breeze and hear the cars whoosh by on the main road. He could also hear a dull bass rumbling from next door, along with the occasional shout and bang. Their back garden, he noticed, was full of rubbish, like a tip: broken furniture, rocks, a dismantled bicycle. Maybe there was even a body or two buried there.

His knees cracked as he squatted to read the spines of the books in the old glass-fronted bookcase. There they were, a cross section of his early years’ reading, starting with the large, illustrated Black Beauty, which his mother read to him when he was small; old Beano, Dandy and Rupert annuals; and Noddy books — the originals, where Noddy and Big Ears slept together, hung out with Golliwog, and “gay” meant “cheerful.” He must have kept Enid Blyton in luxury almost single-handed, he thought, as he had moved on to the Famous Five and the Secret Seven.

Then came his high school reading: Billy Bunter, Jennings and William, followed by war stories such as Biggles, The Wooden Horse, The Guns of Navarone and Camp on Blood Island. Next to these were several Pan Books of Horror Stories, from a phase he went through in his teens, along with some H. P. Lovecraft and M. R. James. There wasn’t much crime fiction, but he did still have a few dog-eared old Saint paperbacks, the Father Brown stories and a complete Sherlock Holmes. The James Bond books were all there, too, of course, and a few Sexton Blakes.

There were also history books, the kind with lots of illustrations, some Oxford and Penguin anthologies of poetry and those children’s illustrated encyclopedias that came out with a letter a week, none of which he’d got beyond C or D.

In addition, on the bottom shelf, there were books about his many hobbies, including photography, coins, birds, stamps and astronomy, and several old Observer’s books of cars, aircraft, geology, trees, music and pond life. He’d seen these old editions in secondhand bookshops and some of them were worth a bit now. Maybe he should take them back up to Yorkshire with him, he mused. Would that upset his parents? Were his books and his room some sort of virtual umbilical cord that was all that tied him to them now? It was a depressing thought.

One book stood out. Sitting between Enid Blyton’s River of Adventure and Mountain of Adventure was a used orange-spined Penguin edition of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, a 1966 reprint with Richard Hoggart’s introduction. Curious, Banks picked it out. He didn’t remember buying it and was surprised when he opened it up and saw written on the flyleaf: “Kay Summerville, London, 7th June, 1969.” Banks remembered that day well. Smiling, he put it aside. He would give it back to her tonight.

The more he thought about his “date” with Kay, the more he looked forward to it. Not only was she an extremely attractive woman, she was also intelligent and she shared some of his past with him. He didn’t imagine the date would lead to anything of a sexual nature — he certainly wasn’t out to seduce her — but you never knew. He wondered how he would feel about that. Michelle Hart was on holiday in Tuscany. Besides, they had made no commitments, and Michelle always seemed to be holding back, on the verge of ending what tenuous relationship they did have. Banks didn’t know why, but he sensed deep and painful secrets she didn’t want to share. It seemed that all the women he had met since parting with Sandra — including Annie Cabbot back up in Yorkshire — shied away from intimacy.

Banks stood up and looked down at the books. Well, there they all were, for what they were worth, like those strata of different colored rock or the layers of antiquities at an archaeological dig. His mother called up: “Alan, are you coming down? Lunch is on the table. It’s potted meat sandwiches.”

Banks sighed. “Coming,” he shouted. “I just have to wash my hands. I’ll be right there.” True, he had once loved potted meat, the same way he had liked Sugar Puffs and toad-in-the-hole, when he was a teenager, but he hadn’t touched the stuff in years.

The people next door were out in force, Banks noticed on his way to see Mrs. Green after lunch. There was an unmarked delivery van outside their house, and two strapping young lads were carrying what looked like a fifty-inch television set up the path. It hardly looked as if it would fit through the door. Fred and Rosemary stood on the lawn, rubbing their hands together in glee, practically salivating at the sight, and their various children, aged between about five and fifteen, milled about beside them. Banks hadn’t seen so many shaved heads since the nit nurse had visited his school. He tried wishing them a good morning again, but everyone was far too intent on the imminent television to even notice him. He bet a pound to a penny it was stolen.

The wind had picked up even more, Banks noticed, bringing a few fast-flying clouds and a chill with it, and there was a smell of rain in the air. Banks zipped his leather jacket all the way up and walked the short distance to the close, where Mrs. Green lived. She answered Banks’s knock and expressed delight at seeing him again. She had certainly aged — thickened at the waist, drooped at the bosom — but she had lost none of her sprightliness, and she fussed around making tea and bringing out a plate of scones. Her living room was sparsely decorated-plain cream wallpaper, no prints or paintings — and a few framed family photographs stood on the mantelpiece.

“How’s Tony doing?” Banks asked. “I’ve always regretted we never managed to stay in touch.”

“These things happen,” said Mrs. Green. “People drift apart over the years. It’s only natural. It doesn’t mean they don’t share good memories, though.”

“I suppose not.”

“Anyway, Tony’s doing fine. He lives in Vancouver now, you know. He’s a tax lawyer. This is him about two years ago.” She picked up one of the photographs and handed it to Banks. It showed the smile he remembered, the mischief in the eyes, surrounded by a bald head on a pudgy body in brightly colored shorts and a red T-shirt. Tony stood with a relaxed, smiling woman Banks took to be his wife, and two bored and/or cool-looking teenage children. They were on a beach, and there were cloud-topped mountains in the background. “I’ll let him know you were asking about him,” Mrs. Green said.