David Nobbs - The Second Life of Sally Mottram

It took courage to step into the great lounge. The bulky brown leather furniture had been pushed back to the walls; almost all the men were in suits and ties, while the women were in various stages of excess, although not quite so excessive as usual.

Frank and his wife Marian greeted Marigold warmly.

‘So sorry about …’ began Frank nervously.

Marigold waved her arms in a negative gesture.

‘Good riddance,’ she said. ‘Past history.’

‘Thank you anyway for all your support,’ said Marian.

‘I’ve no idea what’ll happen this year,’ said Marigold.

‘No matter,’ said Frank. ‘You’re always welcome here.’

‘Nonsense, but nice to hear,’ said Marigold. ‘And I’m so sorry I’m so late.’

‘You’ve missed my speech,’ said Frank.

‘She heard it last year,’ said Marian. ‘Only two words were different, Marigold.’

Marigold laughed dutifully.

‘Go and get yourself a drink,’ said Frank. It was an abrupt but attractive dismissal. She longed for a drink.

She accepted a glass of champagne and a mini Yorkshire pudding from smiling waitresses. One or two people were already leaving. She really was much too late. And it wasn’t as crowded as usual. The town was on a slide. She wouldn’t stay long – here at the party, or in Potherthwaite.

She looked around the room, searching for women she knew and liked. Searching particularly for Sally. There were women in the town whom she liked but didn’t much trust, and there were women whom she trusted but didn’t much like, but Sally was the only woman whom she liked and trusted, of those she knew well enough to approach.

She was lost, lost on her own, lost without her other half, lost in the world, and seeking comfort from other women, not from men. This was a huge shock.

She found herself walking past Terence and Felicity Porchester, who lived on the stranded narrowboat.

‘Hello, Marigold,’ said Terence Porchester in his posh, fruity tones. ‘You grow more gorgeous with every passing month.’

‘I’m green with envy,’ said Felicity in her matching voice. In plain-speaking Potherthwaite their voices had been much mocked, but slowly people had begun to realize that there wasn’t an evil bone in either of their bodies.

‘Where is that naughty man of yours hiding tonight?’ asked Felicity.

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Marigold. ‘At the bottom of the canal, I hope.’

She strode on, realized that she had been rudely abrupt, began to turn to apologize, found herself facing Matt Winkle, the supermarket manager, sallow, callow, anxious, fractious.

‘Bloody woman,’ he said. ‘Here. Now. Tonight. What a time. At a party.’

‘What a time for what?’ asked the bemused Marigold.

‘Complaining our apples aren’t ripe. Bloody woman. Linda Oughtibridge. Sorry.’

Marigold turned away, found herself approaching two more men she didn’t want to speak to. Gunter Mulhausen was German and formal and not very exciting, and he pretended to be in love with her, in a rather heavy Teutonic way, and she wasn’t sure she was up to the jovial little fantasy today. Bill Etching was a randy little tosser who was regrettably successful in business and generous in charity. He was a worm who wormed himself in with his money. Timothy had joked that his surname was unfortunate. No woman would want to go back to look at his etchings.

She couldn’t cope. Where was Sally? She would have said, ‘Excuse me, chaps, lovely to see you, but I have something to discuss with Sally.’ She couldn’t see any woman whose name she remembered, apart from Marian and Felicity, so there was no woman she could use as an excuse. She had always liked men. She had been a man’s woman. Now all these men frightened her. Now she couldn’t cope with men. She couldn’t even remember their names. All names were fleeing from her. She began to perspire. She had never perspired. She hadn’t even glistened.

She saw a man she recognized approaching Frank What’s-his-name. Frank led him straight out of the room. He was a policeman. Inspector … Inspector … Punnet. Not Punnet but like Punnet. What had Inspector Not Punnet But Like Punnet wanted? She heard Tommy What’s-it, landlord of the Dog and Duck, say to her, ‘I hope you’ll still come to the pub, Marigold. We’ll look after you.’

‘I’m sure you will,’ she said. ‘Yes, I’ll come.’ His name had gone too.

‘Now maybe one day that dinner invitation may be meeting with success very possibly,’ said Gunter Mulhausen.

The thought of dinner with the smiling Teuton appalled her.

Pellet. Inspector Pellet.

What did he want?

‘I would love dinner some time,’ she told Gunter Mulhausen.

Pork Scratching’s filthy little hand touched her bum. She felt it distinctly. Not Pork Scratching. Not come and see my scratchings. Come and see my etchings. Bill Etching, that was it.

She had to move. She couldn’t. She was stuck to the carpet. She couldn’t be. Walk, woman.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Tommy Allsop, his name suddenly recalled.

‘Hold my arm. Hold my arm,’ said Gunter Mulhausen.

Bill Etching clutched her waist.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she shouted.

Everyone looked round. Everyone was staring at her. Such a shout had never been heard at one of Councillor Stratton’s parties.

The men let go rapidly. All three looked embarrassed, even Bill Etching.

Again she tried to walk. She couldn’t balance on her high heels, she was falling, it was all going black, her head was whirring, she felt a hand on her, trying to break her fall, and then she felt nothing more.

All sorts of people rushed over. Gunter Mulhausen rang 999. Tommy Allsop hurried over to Marian Stratton and asked where Frank was. She pointed towards their kitchen.

Frank Stratton was sitting at the breakfast table. He was white with shock. He had just heard of Barry’s suicide. Tommy approached but was surprised and shocked by Frank’s appearance, and hesitated.

‘Oh God,’ Frank was saying. ‘I didn’t invite him. He didn’t give or come to anything this year. Didn’t even hear from him, which I have to say annoyed me, which is why I didn’t invite him. A nice chap once, but he’s gone off. He has. He’s gone off. And now this. Oh God. Poor Sally. I’ve a lot of time for Sally. Tommy, what is it? If it’s about Barry Mottram, we’ve heard.’

‘It isn’t. Barry Mottram? No, it’s Marigold. She’s fainted.’

‘Oh God,’ said Councillor Frank Stratton. ‘What an evening. That puts the tin lid on it. You know, I think this town is in danger of being officially declared a disaster area.’

Night was folding Potherthwaite in its grip. The girl with the golden hair and Dr Mallet’s vase must hurry. Soon Inspector Pellet would be back from his function. To get on to the roof of the garage was child’s play – and she had forgotten that she was still a child. It was easy too to shin up the drainpipe, even with that great big delicate vase in her hand. It was hard to imagine that she had the strength, this slip of a girl, to open still further the upstairs window that hadn’t quite been closed (and him a policeman and involved in Neighbourhood Watch!). She didn’t need to open the window very far. She was so slim. The rest was easy: slip in, place the vase in full, challenging view on the dressing table in the scene of the Pellet lovemaking, ugh, the thought, slip out, leave the window open, slide down, disappear into the night, he’d never trace her, the stupid clod, he’d look ridiculous, ha ha, job done.

It was not yet half past eleven when the driver employed part-time by the council took a very subdued Marigold Boyce-Willoughby home to the cul-de-sac. The lights were on in number 9, where unpacking was still taking place, and the cocoa had not yet even been put on. The lights were still on in number 11 too. Jill was taking off her make-up, and Arnold was just putting the finishing touches to chapter 77, ‘The High Street Suffers in the Era of Rationing’.