Encounters

‘It’s only got to be warmed up.’

‘Can’t we give it brandy, or something, just this once?’ I quavered. Babies, it seemed, unnerved me completely.

He remembered where the kitchen was; and the kettle; and the mixing bowl. Damn him, he was completely at home!

I hovered ineffectually, listening with increasing unease to the baby’s screams from next door.

‘Pick him up, will you. Tell him it’s coming.’

I had been afraid he would say that. Nervously I edged an arm under the convulsed little bundle and heaved it up. It was surprisingly heavy. To my amazement it stopped crying at once, and after a moment, beamed at me. I found myself beaming back. I felt ridiculously pleased.

‘See, he likes you.’ Joe appeared with a towel wrapped around his waist, the bottle in his hand.

I watched goggle-eyed as he stuffed the teat into the baby’s mouth and tipped the stuff down and I almost asked if I could have a go myself.

‘I knew you’d turn up trumps, Pen.’ Joe took his refilled glass from me and raised it in salute. We had made the baby a bed in a drawer upstairs after he had changed its nappy – blessedly out of sight, to save my sensibilities – and it had gone off to sleep at once. Its mountain of belongings tidied away, my cottage began to look familiar again.

‘You can’t keep it, Joe. It’s got to go back to its mother.’ I looked at him earnestly.

‘Rubbish. It’s mother doesn’t want it.’ Joe grinned affably. ‘When are we eating?’

Men!

He had to make do with an omelette; hardly Christmas fare, but he produced a bottle of wine from one of his paper bags, so I made the effort to go into the garden where the snow was beginning to settle a little and I cut some frosty thyme. One fine herbe at least. He sniffed over my shoulder as the eggs sizzled in the pan.

‘None of my other women have been able to cook like you. You know, I sometimes used to lie and dream about the nosh I got in this cottage.’ He licked his lips and I had to laugh.

‘I should kick you for talking about all these other women all the time. Why on earth did you leave if I’m such a paragon?’

‘You were a bitch as well.’ He was warming the wine, like the feeding bottle, in a basin of hot water. ‘And I wasn’t mature enough to cope with you. Besides, you were becoming too set in your ways. I could see you getting bossy. My God! You’ve moved the glasses.’ He straightened from the cupboard in the corner. ‘Do you know, Pen, that is the first thing that’s been different in this cottage. Three years and not a bloody thing has changed. That’s what I mean about being set in your ways.’

‘A lot has changed.’ I could feel myself getting defensive. He had caught me on a sensitive spot. I knew I was in a rut without him spelling it out. ‘The walls have changed colour for a start. There are new curtains in the sitting room. I’ve got new chairs and …’

‘Stop!’ he raised his hands in surrender. ‘Stop. I didn’t mean it. Forgive the old campaigner the gaps in his memory.’ He grinned again. ‘So, where are the glasses these days?’

‘On a tray next door.’ I flipped the omelettes onto two warmed plates and piled some French bread and salad round them. At least he wouldn’t starve.

We were half-way through supper when the carol singers came. It was the moment I had been dreading most before Joe arrived. The year before, I had put out all the lights as I heard them down the street, put my head under my pillow and wallowed in self pity as they missed my darkened porch, as I had intended they should.

This time we listened. Happy. The joyous sounds were slightly off key, but who cared.

I hadn’t any change.

‘My God, woman, you’re still after my money!’ Joe groped in his pocket and produced a pound coin.

‘Joe, that’s too much!’ I murmured, but it was too late. And it was worth it.

Oh, it would be so easy to have Joe back. So very easy.

We whispered so as not to wake the baby as we made up a bed for Joe in the spare room. ‘You’re right about things not being the same round here,’ he muttered ruefully as I pulled the blankets over.

‘Dead right, they’re not,’ I hissed back. ‘You promiscuous so-and-so. You keep your child company.’

I didn’t lock my door, though, and I was quite disappointed when the dulcet tones of Joe’s snores began gently to vibrate across the landing.

‘Happy Christmas, darling.’

I was struggling up through layers of exhausted sleep, clutching at daylight. It was dark.

I could feel Joe’s arms around me. ‘What time is it?’ I managed to ask before his mouth closed onto mine. After a moment – a lovely moment – he replied, ‘About three, I should think. I’ve just fed Paul.’

I sat up abruptly, pushing him away. It wasn’t going to be that easy for him. ‘Three in the morning? You’re mad. Go away!’

‘But Penny …’ his voice in the dark was hurt and pathetic.

‘Get out, Joe. I told you.’

I was indignant. Three in the morning is not on, by anybody’s standards. Not after three years. Not after all those other women who didn’t know how to cook.

He went.

At breakfast he was looking innocent again. Dangerously so.

‘Happy Christmas, darling.’

‘You’ve said that once today already, if I remember.’

‘Have I?’ He smiled. ‘I’ve got a present for you.’

In spite of myself I was excited. ‘Really?’ I should have been suspicious.

‘Really.’ He looked suddenly serious. He felt in his pocket and produced an envelope which he pushed across at me. Hesitating I took it. It had something small and hard in it. Without looking I knew what it was. The ring I had thrown at his head so long before. I pushed the envelope back.

‘No, Joe, it wouldn’t work.’

‘It would. I’m more mature now.’ He smiled wickedly and left the envelope on the table.

‘It wouldn’t.’ I got up to make the toast. ‘So, when are you leaving?’ I bent down to light the grill pan. It meant my face was hidden and he couldn’t read my expression.

Ten years, or so?’ He sounded hopeful.

I laughed. And in spite of myself my heart leaped. ‘We’ll try it until lunch,’ I said.

Cabbage à la Carte (#uf3fe027c-6611-5753-baa3-d7c832dcc5de)

Kate pulled the mini thankfully into the parking space and switched off. For a moment she rested her forehead against the cool rim of the steering wheel, breathing deeply. Her hands were shaking. The first, The lesser, part of the ordeal was over – driving the borrowed car through the overcrowded streets on market day and finding a meter. She leaned over to glance in the mirror and check her hair. Her face was pink and shiny again, her lipstick had turned too red.

She grabbed for her tapestry bag and applied a new layer. It looked artificial and hard. She wasn’t used to bothering with make-up. She never usually dressed up. She had never owned her own car. But today she was endeavouring to be someone quite different. Kate Millrow, painter, recently – very recently – of St Agnes’s School of Art, would never dare to try and sell her paintings to a smart town gallery.