Peter Robinson - Not Safe After Dark

‘Too much noise and not enough talent. The Clash were all right, though.’

‘Roxy Music? Bowie? REM? The Pretenders?’

‘There are exceptions to every rule.’

Kay laughed. ‘And what else, these days?’

‘I’m a hip-hop fan, myself. What about you?’

Kay nudged him in the ribs. ‘Seriously.’

‘Mostly jazz and classical. But I still listen to a fair bit of rock and folk: Sheryl Crow, Lucinda Williams, Beth Orton.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t listen to much at all these days,’ said Kay. ‘Don’t have the time. I have the radio on sometimes while I’m in the bath, but I hardly notice what’s being played. I suppose if I had to pick something I’d choose a string quartet or some sort of chamber music. Schubert, perhaps.’

‘Nothing wrong with old Franz. What about this place?’

By the time the band had got to ‘Can’t Find My Way Home’, one of Banks’s favourites, he had wandered off the main road, and they were passing through a small village of grey stone, thatched cottages clustered around a broad green. Lights shone behind curtains, and here and there a television set flickered. The pub was not called the Mary Queen of Scots but a far more lowly Fox and Hounds. Banks parked the car out front and turned off the music.

Banks and Kay ducked as they walked under the low beam of the door. Already the place was busy, emanating that rosy glow of a village pub popular with the city crowd. They went up to the bar, where Banks ordered a pint of bitter and Kay a vodka and tonic, then a young girl, who looked no more than about sixteen, seated them in the dining area and pointed out that the evening’s menu was written on the blackboard by the window. Just one glance told Banks they’d come to the right sort of place: a wide selection of real ale and good food beyond basic pub fare, but nothing too ambitious. The noise level was perfect, only the buzz of conversation from other tables, the thud of darts in the board at the opposite end, sometimes accompanied by a mild oath or a cheer, and the sounds of the cash register.

‘Cheers,’ said Banks when they’d sat down and had a good look at the blackboard. ‘To – to-’

‘To times gone by,’ said Kay.

‘To times gone by.’

They clinked glasses and each took a sip. Banks felt the need for a cigarette, partly from nerves and partly from habit – he was in a pub, after all – but he rode out the craving and soon forgot about it.

‘Do you remember that concert?’ he asked.

Kay’s eyes sparkled. ‘Of course I do. Well, not so much the music… I mean, if you asked me I couldn’t tell you what they played or who else was on… but the occasion… yes, how could I forget? My mother wouldn’t let me out of the door for a week afterwards, except to go to school.’

Banks laughed. ‘Mine, too.’

On 7 June 1969, earlier on the day Kay had bought Lady Chatterley’s Lover at a second-hand book shop on Charing Cross Road, Banks and Kay had taken the train to London for the free Blind Faith concert in Hyde Park. Through a combination of circumstances – partly to do with going off to smoke dope in a flat in Chelsea with some people they met – they had missed their train back and ended up getting home very early the following morning. Needless to say, parental recriminations had been severe.

‘So,’ said Kay, ‘tell me about the last thirty years. I suppose you’re married? Children?’

‘Two children: one girl at university, and one boy in a rock band. And don’t say it serves me right.’

Kay laughed. ‘Heaven forbid. Maybe he’ll make enough money to keep you in your old age.’

‘That’s what I’m banking on.’

‘What about your wife?’

The waitress came over, notepad in hand. ‘Have you decided yet?’

Banks glanced at Kay, who nodded and ordered the sole and salad. Banks went for venison medallions in port and mushroom sauce.

‘More drinks?’

Banks looked at his half-full glass and shook his head. Kay asked for a glass of white wine with her meal.

‘You were saying?’ Kay went on when the waitress had gone away. ‘About your wife.’

Banks paused. ‘I’m divorced.’

‘How long?’

‘Two years. She’s already remarried.’

Kay whistled. ‘That’s pretty fast. Usually you’d expect some sort of… well… I don’t know…’

‘Period of mourning?’

‘That’s not the term I was looking for, but I suppose it’ll do.’

‘It took me by surprise too. I can’t say I’m in any hurry to get married again.’

‘Is there someone?’

Banks thought of Michelle and Annie, and experienced another pang of guilt as he said, ‘No one serious. It’s too soon for that.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘You?’

‘Me? What?’

‘Are you still married?’

‘Not for the past five years.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You needn’t be. He ran away with his secretary.’

‘That must have been tough.’

‘At the time, yes, I’d say it was a bit of a blow to the old self-esteem. She was much younger than me, of course. But I’m over it now.’

‘Someone new?’

‘No one special.’ Kay smiled and gave a slight blush as she picked up her glass and sipped. It was the same smile and blush Banks remembered from all those years ago when he had first asked her out. What had happened to them? he asked himself. Why had they split up? But he knew the answer: it had been his fault.

Their meals arrived and Kay’s glass of wine soon followed. Banks stuck with his one pint, as he had to drive. ‘How are you coping about your mother?’ he asked, after they had both eaten a couple of mouthfuls.

‘Not bad. I think. I’ve got most of it done except the cleaning.’ She smiled. ‘Never was my strong suit, not even in my own home. I’ll probably do it tomorrow. Anyway, a local dealer’s coming to take away the furniture on Monday morning. Didn’t offer much for it, but what the hell… The rest is already packed and ready to go to my house.’ She shook her head. ‘It was difficult going through someone’s life like that. Your own mother’s memories. Do you know, I found letters to her from a young man – this was before she and Dad met, of course – but they were love letters. Quite spicy, too, one or two of them.’

‘It is hard to imagine your parents having lives of their own, isn’t it?’

Kay nodded. ‘There was lots of other stuff, too. Old photos. Me when I was a kid at the seaside. Letters from me, too, when I was at university. Full of energy and ambition.’ Tears glistened in her eyes.

‘And now?’

Kay wiped away the tears. ‘Oh, I suppose I’m still ambitious enough. I work practically all the hours God sends. I know I neglected Mum, especially after Dad died.’ Banks remembered hearing that Kay’s father had been killed ten years ago in a car accident, an accident her mother survived. It had been the talk of the estate for weeks, so his mother had told him. Kay laughed and made a dismissive gesture. ‘I don’t know, maybe there’s something Freudian about it – I always was Daddy’s little girl – but my career really started to take off around then, too. Life was exciting at last: lots of travel, parties, financial success. I hardly ever made time to come home and help Mum, even when she was ill. For crying out loud, I was in Zurich when she died. I barely managed to get back in time for the funeral. Some daughter. Some mother, too. Even my kids say they never see me.’

‘Kids?’

‘Three girls. All married. I’m a grandmother, Alan. Can you believe it? A bloody grandmother.’

‘It’s hard to believe, looking at you.’

She blushed and smiled again. ‘Why, thank you. I’ll tell you, though, it takes a lot of hard work and a lot of investment in potions and salves these days. Remember when we were kids? We thought we were immortal, that we’d be young for ever.’