A Fatal Attachment Page 2

  She was a busy woman, and came straight to the point.

  “You’ve probably read in the press that the government is clamping down on people claiming unemployment benefits in the upper-age group,” she said, looking at him through large spectacles, grey-eyed, unsentimental. “This means they can no longer expect an automatic continuance of benefits, and are going to have to go on retraining courses to—”

  “It’s a con,” broke in Andy Hoddle. “A PR con to try and convince the public that people like me are shysters who don’t want to work.”

  There was a pause, then a tiny smile from across the desk.

  “Strictly off the record, and I’d deny it if quoted, I agree. For most people in your age group in this area the chances of finding a job are virtually zero. But not for all, Mr Hoddle, how long is it since you applied for a job?”

  “Oh God, years, I’m afraid.” He shook his head, unable to remember. “For about eighteen months or two years after I got the push I did, then . . . Well, it just got too depressing.”

  “Exactly. And I suppose you just applied for jobs in your own field?”

  “Well, of course, I wasn’t very likely to get one out of it, was I? I was an industrial physicist with Haynes, the electronics group. I thought in my naïveté that there were firms that would grab someone with my experience and expertise. Instead of which they went for the younger man every time—wet behind the ears, and with not an ounce of practical experience.”

  “It’s the old story.”

  Andy shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “I may not have put my best foot forward in the interviews. I’d recently lost my son.”

  “I’m sorry. And are you over that now?”

  “Yes . . . No. No, I’ll never get over it. But to some extent I’ve put it behind me.”

  “Do you drink too much?”

  Andy was under no illusions that it showed. He grinned, liking her a lot.

  “What’s too much? It depends on the person. on the circumstances—what you’re trying to drown. Yes, I drink too much. A doctor would certainly say so.”

  “Would it impair your ability to do a job?”

  “No, it wouldn’t. A lot of it comes from the fact that I don’t have enough to do. But as far as I’m concerned this job is a myth. If I couldn’t get a job seven years ago, who’s going to give me one now, when I’ve been out of the research field all that time?”

  “The schools are crying out for science teachers.”

  “I am not a teacher.”

  Andy heard a sharpness in his own voice, and wondered whether it was caused by fear. Was it fear of failure as a teacher, fear of having a job at all? Unemployment robbed a man of confidence. He determined to pull himself together.

  “The need is so desperate that the Department of Education is trying to attract people from outside teaching. There is a sort of on-the-job training and assessment programme.”

  “Flannel.”

  “Probably.”

  “Get in just anybody from the streets to massage the figures.”

  “Maybe. But you’re not just anyone from the streets, are you? You’re a well-qualified scientist with valuable experience. Do you think you could teach?”

  Andy sat pondering, assessing himself.

  “I don’t know. I’m not trained. . . . I wouldn’t want to let the children down.”

  “Or do you mean you wouldn’t want to let yourself down?”

  “I don’t know. . . . The short answer is: yes, I do think I could teach.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “I used to coach my own boys. I’ve never had any problems with children.”

  Except that I lost my own, something screamed inside him.

  “I feel strongly about this, you see,” said Mrs Wharton, though still with her admirable coolness. “My own boy has had a succession of science teachers, all inadequate, and this is a subject that really interests him. I’ve been in touch with the local education people. There’s a desperate need for someone at once at the North Radley High School.”

  Andy sat quiet for a moment.

  “I need to think it over.”

  “I’ve been in touch with the head. He’ll be in all afternoon.”

  “I’ll have to think it over, I say.”

  “Do you know where North Radley High is?”

  “I’ll find it,” said Andy.

  When he left the D.S.S. he went into the nearest pub and bought himself lunch. Steak and mushroom pie and a half of bitter—just a few pence change out of four pounds. He realized that just by buying it he was committing himself to this teaching job. His small pension and the dole did not allow him to buy the most basic meal out as a rule—not with the amounts he spent on booze. He had quite unconsciously decided to take it. He was part of the workforce again. As he ate he realized that the reason he felt shell-shocked was that suddenly he was forced to think about the future. It was years since he had done that—years that had been consumed by mulling over the past. And now, suddenly, it seemed that life might change, that there might be new activities, new people. An interest in life, in short.

  He found the North Radley High School without difficulty. It was in fact just off the bus-route home—a sixties building, the paint peeling off in the heat, but with quite a lot of bustle and laughter in its corridors and on its playing-field. The secretary said the headmaster would see him at once, and he was received with a friendliness that was tinged with gratitude and relief. The headmaster did not beg him to take the job, but Andy had the impression that if he had shown more reluctance, he would have.

  “The lass who’s been doing the job is three months pregnant, and she’s been ordered to rest until the baby’s due.”

  “There’s only three or four more weeks of term,” Andy pointed out.

  “That’s right—and a hell of a lot to cram into them. Starting now would enable you to settle in, so that both sides could see if it suited. If it went well, there’d be a job till Christmas and beyond. I may say, in confidence of course, that the lass herself is no whiz-kid. Had two stabs at her degree—that’s why she’s only had the lower forms. I’d guess that whether she decides to come back at all will depend on the mortgage rate at the end of the year. I’ve got a note from her here of what she’s done with the various forms, and copies of the syllabus.”

  He handed them to Andy, who took his time going through them carefully, feeling an odd sense of power.

  “Child’s play,” he said finally.

  “Not to the children,” the head said warningly. “Especially if they’ve not been too well taught. You’ll not be able to take anything for granted.”

  “No, of course I realize that.”

  “We have reasonably good facilities, but one thing politicians and administrators never realize is that facilities are no use whatever if the teaching is poor. I think you could make a good teacher. What about you? Do you have that confidence in yourself?”

  Andy Hoddle took a deep breath.

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I think I could do the job.”

  The headmaster took him round the school, showed him the labs, where classes were in session, showed him the classrooms and the staff common rooms. When asked if he could start on Monday Andy nodded as if it were the most matter-of-course thing in the world. The head said he’d go back to his office and put through the paperwork, and he shook Andy by the hand at the main door. Andy walked out into the playground with the unfamiliar feeling of being wanted. It almost made him light-headed. As he went towards the gate his step was buoyant: he had a job. He had something to do between nine and five. He had money coming in.

  As he walked a bell rang and children started coming out of school. He saw two boys, one fair and one dark, come out and make their way to the bicycle sheds. They looked straight at him as if they knew who he was, and he thought they must be boys from the village. As he waited at the bus stop for the next bus home they cycled past him on the long, winding
road to Bly.

  • • •

  On the day that Lydia first saw the boys wheeling their bikes—the Tuesday—she did no more than smile and say “Isn’t it lovely weather?” as they passed her. Lydia’s cottage was on the brow of the hill, and they smiled back as they got on their cycles and rode on.

  The next afternoon was slightly overcast, with a light breeze, but Lydia found some weeding to do in a part of the garden that jutted out towards the road and gave her a good view down the hill. When she saw two cyclists at the bottom of it she put down her trowel and went out on to the road to pick up some litter—two hamburger cartons, a cigarette-packet and several sweet-wrappings—that she had noticed there earlier.

  “Aren’t people awful?” she said to the boys as they passed. “You’d think they’d know better than just to throw things down in a beautiful spot like this.”

  The boys stopped.

  “We did a project at our old school,” said the younger of the two. “On recycling waste, and that sort of thing.”

  “That’s important, of course,” said Lydia, straightening up and smiling. “But what we really need is to teach people not to scatter litter in their wake. They don’t do it in other countries. . . . Where do you come from?”

  “Tipton. We moved a couple of months ago. We had a better school there than North Radley High.”

  Lydia was uncertain where Tipton was, and by the time she had thought of something else to say the elder boy had swung his leg over the bar of his bike and was riding off. The younger followed, smiling a farewell.

  The next evening was more overcast still, and though Lydia stood in her bedroom for some time watching the hill road, the cyclists never appeared. At seven she gave up her watch and went and prepared her dinner.

  Friday, the day of Andy Hoddle’s appointment in Halifax, the hot steamy weather returned. Soon after the time when the schools were out Lydia finished work—which was going well, wonderfully well at the moment—and went out into the garden. She meditated wandering down to the village at around the time when the boys usually came up, but there was little in Bly except a pub she had not been in for years and five or six shops which she never nowadays used, so instead she decided to garden once more in the overhang where she could both see and be seen from the road. To her joy the fine weather brought the boys out again. As they approached her wheeling their bikes up the hill, wearing silky running shorts and bright sleeveless tops that Lydia felt rather regrettable, her heart nevertheless jumped in anticipation. She straightened up and waved casually.

  “Where are you off to today?” she called.

  The boys stopped on the road just below her, and the younger one smiled engagingly.

  “The woods beyond the gravel pit. There’s a clearing in the middle that makes a good racing track. We’re aiming to win the Tour de France round about 1997.”

  “Shouldn’t you be cycling up the hill, then? To strengthen your calf muscles or something?”

  “We’re keen but not that keen,” said the elder boy. Lydia laughed.

  “That’s right. One should have priorities,” she said.

  “Do you have a nice garden?” asked the younger one.

  “Quite nice. Not like the gardens in the South, but quite pretty. Why don’t you come in and have a look?”

  The boys nodded and, pulses racing, Lydia walked over the lawn to open the gate for them. They wheeled their bikes through, and Lydia pointed to an old stone seat let into the wall.

  “That’s where my nephews used to leave their cycles.”

  The boys took them over there, and then turned round to get a proper look at the garden. Lydia was pleased it was looking so fresh and green, like these two young lives.

  “Gosh, it’s lovely!” said the younger toy. “Do you have help with it?”

  “Some,” said Lydia. “The sort of help that’s not much help, if you know what I mean.”

  “Our garden’s all overgrown,” said the elder. “Dad goes out there and makes a tot of noise, but he doesn’t make much impression. The house was empty for six months before we moved in, Mum says she just hasn’t the time or energy.”

  “Gardens need a lot of both,” Lydia agreed.

  “Are your nephews grown up now?” asked the younger.

  “One is,” said Lydia, turning momentarily away. “One was killed in the Falklands War, fighting for his country. The other is . . . in television, actually.”

  She was depressed to see their eyes light up with interest.

  “Does he appear on screen?” asked the elder.

  “Nothing so . . . glamorous. He’s deputy head of drama with Midlands Television, and he does a lot of scripts for one of their ‘soaps’—Waterloo Terrace.”

  She had put very definite inverted commas around the word “soap,” but she realized the act of distancing would be lost on the boys. They, she could see, were enormously impressed by the mention of Waterloo Terrace.

  “My mum can remember when she first saw television, can you imagine?” said the younger. “It was the queen’s coronation, She says television was in its infancy then.”

  “It still is.”

  “Can you remember when you first saw it?”

  “Yes, indeed. It was just after the war. We were down in London visiting relatives. They were showing off quite frightfully, because very few people had it then. I remember it was one of the Oscar Wilde plays. They had to have long intervals between the acts, to get the cameras from one studio set to another. I didn’t think much of it then, and I don’t think much of it now. But we haven’t introduced ourselves yet. I’m Lydia Perceval.”

  “I’m Ted,” said the elder boy.

  “And I’m Colin.”

  “Ah. Ted and Colin—what?”

  “Bellingham.”

  Lydia put her hand to her throat.

  “Bellingham! My fate!”

  “What do you mean?”

  Lydia turned away, with a brief shake of the head.

  “Nothing. I’m being silly. I’ll tell you one day. You must come and have tea, and we can have a good talk.”

  The boys looked puzzled.

  “Tea? You mean like a meal?”

  “I mean afternoon tea, at four o’clock. With sandwiches and home-made cakes and scones. Don’t look so puzzled. Everyone used to have it.”

  “We have homemade cakes and scones, now and then,” said Ted. “But we sort of eat them on the wing.”

  “That’s the trouble with today’s world: no one takes the time and trouble to do things properly. Why don’t we say tomorrow? I never do any writing at weekends.”

  “That would be great,” said Colin. “Cakes and scones and jam?”

  “Definitely cakes and scones and jam.”

  “Writing?” said Ted. “What did you mean, writing?”

  “It’s what I do for a living. I write people’s lives.”

  “Gosh, fancy finding a writer stuck on top of a hill near Bly!” said Colin. He gave her his engaging grin, and then the two raised their hands in greeting and went to retrieve their bikes. As they rode off towards the gravel pit and the woods they raised their hands once more in farewell.

  As she turned and went out of the sunlight into the cottage Lydia felt suffused by feelings of happiness such as she had not known in years, had almost forgotten, whose return she fervently welcomed.

  CHAPTER 3

  “WE’RE going out to tea today, Mum.”

  “To what?”

  “To tea. With Mrs Perceval.”

  All sorts of questions drifted into Dora Bellingham’s mind: why Mrs Perceval should ask her sons to tea; why they had accepted; whether they would want anything later on. But she let them drift out again, and sank back into her chair.

  “All right,” she said.

  The boys had discussed what they should wear for this unprecedented occasion in their lives, and they had eventually decided on grey flannel trousers, white shirts and school ties. When their father, hacking away randoml
y in their wilderness of a garden, saw them cycling off he came back into the house and stood in the French windows.

  “Where were the boys off to?”

  “They’ve gone out to tea.”

  “To what?”

  “To tea with that woman they’ve been talking about. Lives at the top of the hill. Some kind of writer.”

  “What are they going out to tea with her for?”

  “She asked them, I suppose.”

  “Why did she ask them? What is a writer doing, asking our sons out to tea? Didn’t they say?”

  “No. I didn’t bother to ask.”

  He looked at her again, anger stronger than concern.

  “You can’t be bothered to do anything these days, can you, Dora? Come out for a meal with me. Come to the firm’s parties. Have anyone for dinner, have anyone visit.”

  She could hardly raise the energy to protest.

  “That’s not fair, Nick. We had a visit from my mother just before we moved.”

  “Your mother coming isn’t a visit, it’s an Act of God.”

  Nick Bellingham stumped off angrily, back into the garden. He was not, in fact, particularly worried about his sons, but he was very aware that he was getting no support at a time when he was most in need of it. He was in a new job in a part of the country where he was made to feel a foreigner. He was manager of the Halifax branch of Forrester’s, a TV and video chain store. It was the sort of business that had been badly hit by the current recession, and Bellingham was ever-conscious of the drastic dip in takings since he had taken over. He was also half-conscious that he had been appointed above his capacities, and this made him bluster. He knew that he needed back-up from his wife. Dammit, that was one of the things she was there for, wasn’t it?

  In the house Dora Bellingham sank back into her chair again. It was true, what Nick had said: everything these days seemed too big an effort. Nothing seemed worth doing any longer. Was it a reaction, after the move? Certainly that had taken it out of her. But she thought it had begun before that. She had been conscious that, though she loved her sons—of course she did—to do anything for them beyond feeding them and keeping them reasonably well turned-out was beyond her. She couldn’t interest herself in their interests, let alone try to guide those interests. But that was all right, wasn’t it? They were at an age when children naturally develop in their own way, grow away from their parents’ influence. It was natural. It wasn’t anything to worry about.