Tessa Hadley - The Past

The card had gone from the window of the wool shop when Jill was next in town, and when she went inside, the manageress — bustling and bland with thick lipstick, her spectacles inset with little chips of cut glass — hastened up to explain herself. It was obvious that Jill’s interest in the job had caused some consternation, and that a pale new girl, with nervous rabbit eyes, had been manoeuvred into place behind the till, to forestall the embarrassment of having to turn Jill down.

— We’ll keep you on our books, the manageress reassured her insincerely. — In case anything else comes up.

The idea of spending more than a few minutes in the airless, hot little shop, packed tight with wool-balls, was suddenly a nightmare — how could Jill have imagined it would work? These shops weren’t like the shops in London, with a perpetual flow of customers coming and going. She would have died, if she’d been stuck in here with someone like this rabbit-girl for days on end, forced to make conversation, helping old women choose patterns for twinsets and car-coats. Yet she couldn’t help feeling a twinge of humiliation, because they hadn’t wanted her. — Don’t worry, she said with breezy charm, knowing she wouldn’t be forgiven for it. — I noticed it because I was looking around for something for a few hours a week. But it’s not really the kind of thing I’m used to.

The estate agents would be more suitable, she thought; with her intelligence she would surely be able to pick up the work quickly. She wondered if they needed anyone. As she pushed the door open, a woman looked up from where she was bent over the Gestetner copier, churning out details of properties. Mikey Waller came out of the back office when he heard Jill’s voice. — It’s all right, Rose, he said. — I’ll deal with Mrs Crane.

Jill had the impression that Mikey was pleased she’d called in. He offered her coffee: in one corner of his office he kept an electric kettle, with a jar of Nescafé and mugs on a tray. She imagined suggesting that they went across the road to The Bungalow — but perhaps she should tread carefully, not knowing whether he was married. He set about spooning the Nescafé into two mugs, stirring it to a paste with the dried milk. It still seemed wrong to Jill, finding him confined to this office whose partitions were so flimsily provisional. She could remember when the place was an enchanting chemist’s shop: they must have ripped out all the old mirror glass, and the drawers and shelves of polished mahogany. Mikey was too substantial to fit in here, he ought to have gone into some career better suited to his bulky physique and clever, careful hands. The way he concentrated, stirring two spoons of sugar into his cup, reminded her that at school he was always the one the teacher counted on to be sensible, to collect up the litter at the end of sports day or clean the blackboards during playtime. She and he had both been prefects, in the last year of juniors. It must be awful for him having to sell things, show people round depressing houses and talk them into buying. Perhaps he would call in and see her, once she’d found a place to rent. When she enquired about the Goods’ cottage, he was incredulous.

— You mean that old place in Cutcombe woods? You couldn’t live there. It isn’t suitable.

— Why not? The Goods lived there for years. Isn’t there still water in the well?

— In the well? He laughed at her. — Nobody gets their water from a well any longer. Not to mention that there’s no bathroom or toilet, no electricity — and no access by road.

She hadn’t properly thought about the toilet, and had no idea how you dealt with an earth closet, or whatever arrangement the cottage had. Probably Mikey would know how. — People manage without those things.

— Well, maybe you could manage it, he said. — You always were a bit different.

He was taking her seriously, observing her very closely. Mikey wasn’t good looking. His sandy hair was limp and his eyelids were freckled, with short fair lashes; he moved his shoulders stiffly, turning his whole torso at once. But Jill thought now that she had always liked his unselfconscious calm, as if he were holding something back. — They probably had an old copper for hot water, he said. — No shortage of firewood. It would certainly be peaceful. I haven’t been past it for a while. I suppose I can see you living like that, if you really didn’t mind those inconveniences.

For some reason Jill felt ashamed then, as though she’d been showing off. It was the kind of thing her London friends went on about: starting new lives in the countryside, getting closer to nature, doing without modern technologies. Usually she was the one who debunked their fantasies, saying they had no idea what hard labour it was, getting a living out of the earth — and that the countryside wasn’t an empty place you could just drop into, like a garden of Eden. Real people lived in it, who mostly took a dim view of outsiders. Now here she was pretending to be a gypsy like any romantic. Mikey promised he would find out who owned the cottage — he thought it was probably tied to one of the big estates, and didn’t suppose the Goods had been paying a king’s ransom. The place would most likely be left to fall down, if no one wanted it. Jill told him then about trying to get a job in the wool shop. — I wasn’t good enough, they wouldn’t have me.

— In the wool shop? He was incredulous. — Aren’t you a bit overqualified for that?

— There isn’t much call for classicists down here. Actually, there isn’t much call for them anywhere. And I need the money.

— I forgot you did classics, he said. — You were the clever one.

— You solved all the arithmetic problems at junior school.

He liked remembering that. — Filling up a tank, so many gallons, such a cubic capacity, how long would it take, that sort of thing. Yes, I enjoyed those.

She saw that Mikey was curious, wondering why she needed money if she had a husband who wrote for the newspapers. Because of her enquiries about the cottage, he must have half an idea that she was up to something, digging her way out of some disaster. Perhaps she could explain herself to him sometime. She would like someone else in the world to know what she was planning and what she felt, and what Tom was — what he really was, once and for all, which nobody saw apart from her. Though that was nonsense of course. People weren’t ‘really’ anything, there wasn’t ever any final, definitive version. For a moment she hoped Mikey would say that if she was looking for a job, they needed help with their filing right here in the office. Instead he asked how many children she had. He might have been worrying about the cottage and the earth closet, reminding her of realities and of her responsibilities. Was he reproaching her? You never knew with men, what ideas they got into their heads about how mothers ought to behave.

— Two girls and a boy. The oldest is seven, the baby’s eighteen months.

— That sounds like quite a handful.

— Mum’s looking after them this afternoon. I can’t tell you what a treat this is, just sitting here talking, drinking coffee, not having to worry about anyone behaving badly, or falling over, or needing their nappy changing. What about you? Do you have children?

— Haven’t been nabbed yet, he said heartily, rubbing his finger round the rim of his coffee mug as if he was trying to make it ring. — Don’t know one end of a baby from the other. I was engaged once, but it didn’t work out. Still footloose and fancy-free.

The words sounded as if Mikey had overheard someone else using them: they didn’t suit him. It was ridiculous to think of him as footloose, he was too shambling and heavy. They were both embarrassed, and Jill began explaining the kind of properties she was interested in — not the modern houses that were like anonymous little boxes. And not anything in town: she’d rather live out in the country. She might learn to drive, and anyway didn’t mind using the buses. — I’d have thought you were the marrying kind, she said while he looked for more property details in a filing cabinet. — The kind women are drawn to.