David Nobbs - The Second Life of Sally Mottram

The taxi had been late, and she had arrived at Potherthwaite station just in time to see the 10.22 snaking round the corner towards a better world.

Six weeks had passed since Sally Mottram had made that horrendous discovery at the top of the stairs. For six weeks there had grown in her an overwhelming desire to leave Potherthwaite, to go back down south. At times her desire had been to leave not just Potherthwaite, but this world. She didn’t see any point in her living any more. Her children were settled and didn’t need her. Her life was pointless.

She wheeled her suitcases along platform 1, past baskets of dull, neglected flowers. She passed the steps that led on to the footbridge, and pressed for the lift. The lift arrived with a sigh, as if utterly tired of its tiny routine. The doors opened. It was quite a job to get her two cases into the lift. They were too large. She had brought too much stuff. She hadn’t been capable of deciding what not to bring. She was no longer capable of making decisions.

‘Going up,’ said the voice of a surprisingly posh woman, bossily and unnecessarily since there was nowhere to go but up. The lift rose to footbridge level like an asthmatic old man on his last legs.

‘Footbridge level,’ thundered the bossy woman with just a hint of pride at the lift’s achievement.

It was now quite a job to get the two cases out of the lift. Sally wheeled them halfway across the footbridge and stopped for breath.

The railway line runs along the bottom of Baggit Moor and is therefore slightly above the level of the valley floor. As she stood there, Sally could see the town spread out before her. Grey stone buildings, grey slate roofs. She could even see back to Oxford Road, though it was impossible from this distance to single out ‘The Larches’. What a feeling it had been, that morning, to walk out of the front door and know that she wouldn’t have to pass the top of the stairs for at least two weeks, maybe longer, depending on how she got on with Judith. And of course she was far too far away, here on the footbridge, to see the ‘ For Sale ’ sign.

Everybody said it was good that she was selling. She would never quite get over the shock, if she stayed. Everybody also knew that she was having to sell. She had no money.

She’d overheard Gordon Hendrie, in the supermarket, near the rather sad fish counter – she hated fish counters, all those dead eyes – she’d heard him say, in his idea of a low voice, ‘It’ll have been because of sex or money. It always is.’ She’d known that he had been talking about Barry.

She’d hoped that it had been because of money, which was absurd, because if it was money she would live the rest of her life in poverty. But if it was because of sex she would have shared her marital bed with a monster, kissed a pervert, been made love to by a dirty dirty man, and that would have been even worse than poverty.

It had been money. Mottram & Caldwell had been struggling. There weren’t so many people in Potherthwaite who had been able to afford lawyers’ fees. Tom Caldwell had handled his money sensibly. Barry, that precise sober lawyer, had gambled, and gambled badly on both money and horses. A lad who was on the dole had been pleased enough to get a bit of pocket money to put his bets on for him. Barry Mottram himself had never been seen in William Hill.

Much of this had been revealed at the inquest. The truth had hurt her. The fact that she had known nothing about any of it had hurt her more.

Dr Mallet, who wished that he had changed his name to something more befitting a psychoanalyst – Bronovsky, perhaps – had been persuaded to give evidence too, reluctantly, because the fact that Barry had killed himself had not been a good advertisement for a psychiatrist who had been treating the man for depression. This news too had hurt Sally. The fact that she had also known nothing about this had hurt her more. Not only had she known nothing of these things, but no suicide note had ever been found. That hurt her most of all.

Despite the lack of a note, there had been no difficulty in reaching the verdict that Barry Mottram had killed himself.

She could just see the roof of the building that housed Mottram & Caldwell. Her eyes passed on, drawn instinctively towards the uniform rooftops of Cadwallader Road. She saw, vividly, Ellie Fazackerly stuck there in her great bed.

‘Having a quiet moment?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I said, “Having a quiet moment?”’

‘I was, yes.’

‘Good for you.’

Sally stole a quick look at the speaker of these words. A middle-aged man was standing close to her, too close to her. He had sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, receding hair and an ominous long raincoat.

‘Does you good, sometimes, dun’t it?’ he said. ‘Stop. Listen. Have a think. Does you good.’

‘Yes. Yes. It does. Yes. A moment of reflection.’

‘In this hectic world.’

‘Quite.’

‘I think we may have met before.’

‘I don’t think so.’

She backed away from the man ever so slightly. But he noticed and moved closer ever so slightly.

‘Not a bad view, is it?’

Yes, it is. Can’t say that. Can’t be rude.

Why not be rude? He’s invading my space.

‘Not bad, no.’

‘No, there’s nowt like a spot of quiet thinking. Young folk don’t know how to do it. That’s what’s wrong wi’ t’world. Thinking. It’s a lost art.’

For you it is.

Couldn’t say it.

‘Very true.’

Oh God, Sally.

‘I’m on me own, you see. Me wife died twenty-two years ago.’

Suicide, was it? Sally! You are not nice.

‘I still talk to her.’

Suddenly Sally felt a wave of sympathy for the man in the long raincoat.

‘I can understand that.’

‘You get lonely, you see.’

‘Yes. Yes, I do see.’

There was silence for a moment. Sally found that she couldn’t just leave, not after that information. Somehow, it had become an important moment, here on the footbridge, teased by a playful easterly breeze.

‘As I say … you don’t mind my talking, do you? Cos I know I interrupted you thinking.’

‘You can think too much.’

‘I pride meself on knowing when to talk and when not to talk. I was a taxi driver, see. Tool of the trade, is that. Gauge when the passenger wants to talk, gauge when he wants to be quiet. Tool of the trade.’

I’m rather glad I never hired your taxi.

‘I bet you’re glad you never hired my taxi.’

‘No!’

She didn’t want to move on until he did. But he showed no sign of going. It was an impasse. Maybe they would stay on the footbridge for ever.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What for?’

‘Interrupting you. When you were thinking.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘It does. I’ve let meself down. I’ll be off now.’

Don’t say anything, Sally.

‘Leave you with your thoughts. And the view.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Not a bad old place. Bit of a dump, I suppose, but what somebody could do with it! What somebody could do with it, eh?’

‘Absolutely. Very true. Well, it’s been nice talking to you.’

Even he should take that hint, but she held out her hand to make the point even more positively.

They shook hands. She’d have time to wash hers before she had anything to eat.

He moved off. She was ashamed of the depth of her relief.

He was coming back!

‘I remember where I saw you.’

‘Oh?’

‘Coming out o’ kirk t’other Wednesday. I know it was Wednesday cos it wasn’t market day and I’d thought it was, silly me. You and your daughter. Pretty girl. I could see the resemblance. Lovely couple you made, if you don’t mind my saying.’