Peter Robinson: Aftermath

Maggie turned left and walked down The Hill, under the railway bridge. At the bottom was a small artificial pond in the midst of the housing estates and business parks. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. At least she could sit on a bench by the water and feed the ducks, watch the people walking their dogs.

It was safe, too – an important consideration in this part of the city, where old, large houses, such as the one Maggie was staying in, rubbed shoulders with the newer, rougher council estates. Burglary was rife, and murder not unknown, but down by the pond, the double deckers ran by on the main road just a few yards away, and enough ordinary people came to walk their dogs that Maggie never felt isolated or threatened. Attacks occurred in broad daylight, she knew, but she still felt close enough to safety down there.

It was a warm, pleasant morning. The sun was out, but the brisk breeze made it necessary to wear a light jacket. Occasionally, a high cloud drifted over the sun, blocking the light for a second or two and casting shadows on the water’s surface.

There was something very soothing about feeding ducks, Maggie thought. Almost trance-like. Not for the ducks, of course, who seemed to have no concept of what sharing meant. You tossed the bread, they scooted toward it, quacked and fought. As Maggie crumbled the stale bread between her fingers and tossed it into the water, she recalled her first meeting with Lucy Payne just a couple of months ago.

She had been in town shopping for art supplies that day – a remarkably warm day for March – then she’d been to Borders on Briggate to buy some books, and afterward she found herself wandering through the Victoria Quarter down toward Kirkgate Market, when she bumped into Lucy coming the other way. They had seen each other before in the street and at the local shops, and they had always said hello. Partly through inclination and partly through her shyness – getting out and meeting people never having been one of her strong points – Maggie had no friends in her new world, apart from Claire Toth, her neighbor’s schoolgirl daughter, who seemed to have adopted her. Lucy Payne, she soon found out, was a kindred spirit.

Perhaps because they were both out of their natural habitat, like compatriots meeting in a foreign land, they stopped and spoke to each other. Lucy said it was her day off work and she was doing a bit of shopping. Maggie suggested a cup of tea or coffee at the Harvey Nichols outdoor café, and Lucy said she’d love to. So they sat and rested their feet, their parcels on the ground. Lucy noticed the names on the bags Maggie was carrying – including Harvey Nichols – and said something about not having the nerve to go inside such a posh place. Her own packages, it soon became clear, were from British Home Stores and C amp; A. Maggie had come across this reluctance in northern people before, had heard all the stories about how you’d never get the typical Leeds anorak-and-flat-cap crowd into an upmarket store like Harvey Nichols, but it still surprised her to hear Lucy admit to this.

This was because Maggie thought Lucy was such a strikingly attractive and elegant woman, with her glossy black raven’s-wing hair tumbling down to the small of her back, and the kind of figure men buy magazines to look at pictures of. Lucy was tall and full-breasted, with a waist that curved in and hips that curved out in the right proportion, and the simple yellow dress she was wearing under a light jacket that day emphasized her figure without broadcasting it out loud, and it also drew attention to her shapely legs. She didn’t wear much makeup; she didn’t need to. Her pale complexion was smooth as a reflection in a mirror, her black eyebrows arched, cheekbones high in her oval face. Her eyes were black, with flint-like chips scattered around inside them that caught the light like quartz crystals as she looked around.

The waiter came over and Maggie asked Lucy if she would like a cappuccino. Lucy said she’d never had one before and wasn’t quite sure what it was, but she would give it a try. Maggie asked for two cappuccinos. When Lucy took her first sip, she got froth on her lips, which she dabbed at with a serviette.

“You can’t take me anywhere,” she laughed.

“Don’t be silly,” said Maggie.

“No, I mean it. That’s what Terry always says.” She was very soft-spoken, the way Maggie had been for a while after she left Bill.

Maggie was just about to say that Terry was a fool, but she held her tongue. Insulting Lucy’s husband on their first meeting wouldn’t be very polite at all. “What do you think of the cappuccino?” she asked.

“It’s very nice.” Lucy took another sip. “Where are you from?” she asked. “I’m not being too nosy, am I? It’s just that your accent…”

“Not at all, no. I’m from Toronto. Canada.”

“No wonder you’re so sophisticated. I’ve never been any further than the Lake District.”

Maggie laughed. Toronto, sophisticated ?

“See,” said Lucy, pouting a little. “You’re laughing at me already.”

“No, no, I’m not,” Maggie said. “Honestly, I’m not. It’s just that… well, I suppose it’s all a matter of perspective, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“If I were to tell a New Yorker that Toronto is sophisticated, she’d laugh in my face. The best thing they can say about the place is that it’s clean and safe.”

“Well, that’s something to be proud of, isn’t it? Leeds is neither.”

“It doesn’t seem so bad to me.”

“Why did you leave? I mean, why did you come here?”

Maggie frowned and fumbled for a cigarette. She still cursed herself for a fool for starting to smoke at thirty when she had managed to avoid the evil weed her whole life. Of course, she could blame it on the stress, though in the end it had only contributed more to that stress. She remembered the first time Bill had smelled smoke on her breath, that quick-as-a-flash change from concerned husband to Monster Face , as she had called it. But smoking wasn’t that bad. Even her shrink said it wasn’t such a terrible idea to have the occasional cigarette as a crutch for the time being. She could always stop later, when she felt better able to cope again.

“So why did you come here?” Lucy persisted. “I don’t mean to be nosy, but I’m interested. Was it a new job?”

“Not exactly. What I do I can do anywhere.”

“What is it?”

“I’m a graphic artist. I illustrate books. Mostly children’s books. At the moment I’m working on a new edition of Grimm’s Fairy Tales .”

“Oh, that sounds fascinating,” said Lucy. “I was terrible at art in school. I can’t even draw a matchstick figure.” She laughed and put her hand over her mouth. “So why are you here?”

Maggie struggled with herself for a moment, stalling. Then a strange thing happened to her, a sense of inner chains and straps loosening, giving her space and a feeling of floating. Sitting there in the Victoria Quarter smoking and drinking cappuccino with Lucy, she felt an immediate and unheralded surge of affection for this young woman she hardly knew. She wanted the two of them to be friends, could see them talking about their problems just like this, giving each other sympathy and advice, just as she had with Alicia back in Toronto. Lucy, with her gaucheness, her naïve charm inspired a sort of emotional confidence in Maggie: this was someone, she felt, with whom she would be safe. More than that; though Maggie may have been the more “sophisticated” of the two, she sensed that they shared more than it appeared. The truth was difficult for her to admit to, but she felt the overwhelming need to tell someone other than her psychologist. And why not Lucy?