Afterwards Read online

  It didn’t add up to much, but then she really hadn’t known him that long. Alice still felt surprised by Joseph, and how much she liked him. When she’d told him about the old farm and suggested going up there sometime, it hadn’t been the wildlife and ancient plumbing he’d picked up on, she didn’t think they’d bother him. He said he liked the sound of the house and the hills around it, but he’d never tried going to the same place over and again: I’ve never wanted to do that before. Familiar routes and views, knowing which tracks were best at what times of year: that was all part of being at the farm for Alice, but she hadn’t been disappointed by Joseph’s comments. He hadn’t been turning her down, and there was no criticism in them. He was his own person, that’s what Clare said, and Alice agreed. Self-contained, but not unfriendly with it, not until now at least. She liked that about him: self-possessed, something she’d always wanted to be herself.

  Joseph rang early on Saturday morning and said he was sorry. Just after she’d picked up the phone:

  – It’s me. It’s Joseph. I’m sorry.

  No lead up, and then quiet afterwards. Alice couldn’t even hear his breath. Thrown, she said nothing, and then he asked if he could see her, and Alice said yes. Much too quickly she thought, and cursed him for it when he came round. Standing in the kitchen, relieved to see him, despite herself. Pouring him tea and calling him an arsehole at the same time, which made them both smile.

  They spent the afternoon in bed, and then when it got dark, they wandered out together for a late drink. Stan was at the pub, with Clare and a few others, so they pushed the tables together and played cards. Stan persuaded the publican into a lock-in, but Alice and Joseph didn’t stay long. Just until Alice won, then Joseph took her home, and made her laugh again by waiting to be invited upstairs. He stayed over and it was lovely, but Alice kept expecting him to say something about what had happened the week before. She was very glad to have him back, but angry too, because he never explained. Wasn’t sure she wanted just to start up again like that, without reasons given or any discussion. Clare smiled when Alice talked to her about it.

  – Looks to me like it has anyway, whether you like it or not. Or it did last night. I’d never have guessed you’d fallen out.

  – We haven’t. Not really.

  Late Sunday morning and Alice had taken a detour on her way to her grandad’s. Stan had taken the boys swimming, so she and Clare were alone, and they sat in the kitchen, talking.

  – He’s apologised, Alice. Be happy.

  – I am. Except I don’t know what he’s sorry for, do I? He might have been sleeping with someone else for all I know.

  – Have you made any promises to each other?

  – No.

  – Do you want to stop seeing him?

  – No, I don’t.

  Alice had been through her options already. Either she talked to him about it or she left it. The former was too possessive, and the latter wouldn’t work for long: she was bound to start thinking about it again. But Alice didn’t want it to be over. She liked being with Joseph too much. He’d said sorry. Last week had thrown her: she hadn’t seen that coming. But then there was yesterday, last night, this morning. Clare walked her down as far as the corner, and smiled when Alice said she wanted to give him the benefit.

  – Good. I don’t think a relationship’s got going till you’ve had a bit of bother. Not properly. Don’t make too much of it, will you?

  Five

  Another Sunday at her grandfather’s, another month or so later, and the first rainy day in weeks. Alice arrived soaking and her grandad hung her jacket over the boiler, fetched a towel from the airing cupboard for her hair. She had a dry T-shirt with her, changed in the downstairs toilet, and her grandad pointed at her rucksack when she came out.

  – Are you going away?

  – I’ve just been. Camping with Joseph.

  – I thought you’d caught the sun.

  – Freckles, like Gran.

  Alice held out her forearms and her grandfather smiled, said they suited her well. Joseph had been talking about going for ages, ever since that weekend he was down in Brighton. He’d picked Alice up from work on Friday to surprise her: she saw him when she came down the steps, standing by the railings where she locked her bike. He called to her across the car park, said he’d read the weather forecast and it was too good to stay in London, so he was driving her home to pack. Two nights on the South Downs, and a hot day between, spent following the course of a river. It was Joseph’s idea, and a good one, a tributary of the Arun. He’d shown her on the map after they’d pitched the tent: tracing the path he’d planned for them, his fingers excited, touching the blue curve of the water as it wrapped around the foot of a slope, marking out the highest point for miles around. Joseph said he’d driven past the hill before but never climbed it, had kept it in mind for them to do together.

  They waded under the trees to escape the sun, boots off, silt between their toes. Calf-deep water and slow, cool progress. The banks got steeper: twisted walls of root that they scaled, scrambling on elbows and knees, emerging smiling, blinking from the trees at the foot of the chalky rise. Joseph said it was still possible to find empty places, pointed east as they were climbing, told her about the country beyond the ridges and woodland, where the marshes started: wilder parts. He’d spent a lot of time down there a few years back, before he went to Portugal: every chance he got. Alice walked behind him up the slope, watching his arms and shoulders moving as he spoke. Enjoying his talk, this time with him, the invitation in what he was saying. The prospect of more time to come, over where he was pointing maybe, winter days together, like the ones he was describing, out on the empty coast.

  – Smuggler territory, used to be. Best when the geese are flying and the low fields are flooded.

  It was perfectly still at the top, only her own and Joseph’s breathing, standing, shoulders touching, squinting down at the quiet, yellow country. The sun had burnt off the haze by then and they could see out across the escarpment, as far as the dark band of the Channel. In the morning they went down to the sea, although it was already clouding over. They had the far end of the beach to themselves and made the best of it. Swam out beyond the breakers, then ate biscuits and apples for breakfast on the sand, because that’s all they had left. They were late packing their things up, even later back into London, and then the traffic slowed when the weather turned, rain driving everyone into their cars. Joseph had to drop Alice at a station so she could get to her grandad’s in time. She almost invited him to come along, but then apologised.

  – I’d feel a bit bad, springing it on him, you know?

  – Don’t worry about it. I’ll just see you tomorrow, will I?

  The rain continued into the afternoon. Fell hard and steady, spattering off the patio and against the French windows, so Alice and her grandfather sat at the dining table with their cups of tea. She’d mentioned Joseph before, perhaps once or twice, and her grandad had shown polite interest. No more or less than with any of her boyfriends, but today he said he’d appreciate Joseph’s advice.

  – I want to have the house decorated. Some of the rooms. I’d like to be sure I’m paying a good price.

  – Which rooms?

  – In here. The hallway. Our bedroom upstairs.

  Alice knew those had been her grandmother’s plans: she’d wanted to have them done last summer, but then she got too unwell. Alice’s grandfather got up from the table, motioned to her to stay in her seat. He got a folder out of the drawers by the window, and held it up to show her as he came back across the room. He spread the contents out on the table, pushing the tray and the biscuits away. Alice cleared the cups and plates for him as he laid out the colour charts, and then she sat down while he arranged the wallpaper swatches, hand-drawn sketches of the rooms, her grandmother’s notes and arrows of explanation on the pencil walls. Alice picked up the picture of the hallway, eyes moving across the page, taking in her gran’s lines and words. Her grandfat
her was still standing, so she got up again and moved to the top end of the table next to him, watching while he pointed to each item and explained it in turn.

  – This was the paper she chose for the hallway, and this for in here. That’s to be painted, of course. White with a hint of something. Here: cream, I’d call it. Same for the bedroom.

  – And a new runner for the hall.

  – Yes. We thought about carpet out there, but it’s the original tiling, so we decided to keep it that way.

  – Yes. I would too.

  – Yes?

  He nodded at her briefly, approving. Most of the other houses on the street had new porches and double-glazing, but her grandfather had stubbornly resisted, preferring to maintain his woodwork and keep the stained-glass inserts at the top of the front door and bay windows. They were unique, Alice knew, because he’d often told her: no two the same on the street when the houses were built. He was still looking at the papers laid out before them, fingertips resting on the tabletop, blinking. Alice asked:

  – Have you got any quotations yet?

  – Only old ones, from last year. I’ll have to call them again.

  – Maybe I could show them to Joseph anyway? He might know the companies, or at least he can tell you if their prices are reasonable.

  Her grandfather pulled the relevant pieces of paper together for her, and started to clear the table again, but then stopped.

  – I went to the DIY place last week but they don’t stock this wallpaper any more.

  He pointed to the hallway pattern. Pale blue stripes on a cream background, and yellow in the border. Alice picked it up.

  – We’ll be able to get something similar, I’m sure. I’ll ask Joseph for you. He’ll probably know of other places we can look.

  She made her way home once the rain eased off, walked to the station under one of her gran’s umbrellas, though the weather wasn’t really bad enough to warrant it any more. Her grandad had opened it ready for her in the porch, and then she hadn’t liked to refuse. It had been an awkward goodbye altogether, prolonged by bag and brolly and jacket, her grandfather standing, silent, waiting to wave to her at the gate and then close the door.

  They’d never spent time on their own together as adults: not used to it, and they were not much good at it. He’d had the table set and the kettle filled when she arrived, as he often did on Sundays now. Her mum said he was just looking forward to her visits, but Alice suspected he was impatient to get them over with. She’d been relieved to have something to talk about this time. When her grandad first mentioned the redecorating, she’d wondered if he was just making conversation, but he’d obviously been looking for wallpaper this week, so that was probably unfair.

  She walked the rainy pavement and platform, tried to remember a time when it was better, a clue to how to change it, but all she could recall were Saturday morning trips to the library while her mum and gran went shopping together. She was still in primary school then and her grandad would take her hand while they crossed the main road. He kept her library tickets in his wallet and gave them to her at the desk after she’d made her selections. He never chose books for her or with her, would walk the shelves with his hands folded at the small of his back while she went to Junior Fiction.

  They didn’t talk to each other then either, but what should they have talked about, an eight-year-old girl, and a man already past his middle age? It wasn’t as though there was no love between them. He was never like the fathers she knew, the various dads of her friends at school. Older for one thing, more reserved, more formal, always wore suit trousers, leather shoes, never carried her on his shoulders or called her pet names, but then he wasn’t her father, so none of that mattered. Part of her always enjoyed it too: that he was unusual. Embarrassed and proud of him at the same time. She liked his arm swinging as he walked, the clipped, white hair at his neck, his smooth-soft ties hung on small wooden pegs in the wardrobe: so many patterns and they smelled of him too, the soap he used for shaving. On their library trips, he always dropped her hand again as soon as they got to the far kerb, it was true, but she liked the quick squeeze he gave her fingers before he let go. Blink and you’ll miss them: that’s what her mum said about Grandad’s fleeting displays of affection.

  Her grandfather worked until she was in her teens: her last years at school, his last years tying his tie in the hallway mirror weekday mornings. He saved enough to retire a few years early, but until then, he commuted halfway across the city. Always caught an early train, and rarely came home before evening. While they lived at her grandparents’,Alice and her mum would eat most of their meals with Gran, just the three of them. Breakfasts after Grandad left for work and often their suppers too, before he came home. They would talk about school and friends, and they’d have the radio on in the background while they ate in the kitchen. Alice loved her grandfather, but she always liked this better than the meals when he was home and their places were laid at the dining room table.

  Her train was late but the rain had stopped and Alice folded the umbrella, zipped it into a pocket of her rucksack. It was harsh, realising how little they knew of each other, how many years her gran had been compensating, providing ease and conversation. Alan said once that her grandfather just didn’t care enough about him to bother with talking. It had stung Alice, because she’d thought it might be true, and it did again now, thinking it might apply to her too. After they’d finished their tea, her grandad had washed while she dried and put away, everything familiar and in its own place. Alice wondered then if he found their silences companionable, or if he was just as uncomfortable. Looking at him, absorbed in his washing and rinsing, it had been impossible to tell. She was almost glad when the rain had let up, because it had given her a cue to go. Alice watched her train arriving, reminded herself he’d lost his wife and felt ashamed.

  Alan didn’t get on with Grandad. They never argued, but they never really spoke either. Alice’s mum didn’t agree, but Alan insisted David didn’t like him:

  – He acts like I’m not there. He does it with everyone who makes him uncomfortable.

  – Don’t exaggerate.

  – Even you sometimes.

  Grandad was the only thing her mum and Alan ever rowed about, as far as Alice could tell. It was usually good-humoured, while she was around in any case, but serious enough, despite the smiles. Listening to them, Alice would often feel defensive like her mother, but usually thought Alan was right. He’d come to London for a conference once, a few years ago, and stayed at her grandparents’ on his last night, instead of the hotel. Alice cycled over early the next morning to see him, and found her grandfather and Alan at the breakfast table, absorbed in separate sections of the paper.

  – He was already reading when I came down and I felt stupid just sitting there after your Gran went out to the shops.

  Alice had walked with Alan to the station when it was time for him to leave, and she’d tried not to apologise for her grandfather, or find excuses: she’d been in on enough of Alan’s discussions with her mother to know that would only annoy him. Better just to let him laugh about it:

  – It’s probably the best arrangement. We both keep schtum, we can’t piss each other off too much, can we?

  That was how Alan dealt with it mostly, and Alice thought he didn’t have much option. Her mum agreed that Grandad could be standoffish, but she refused to see it as deliberate, or directed at Alan.

  – It’s just his manner, love. I wouldn’t take it personally.

  She was impassive, and while Alice found that reassuring in her mother, she knew it was just frustrating for Alan. He teased his wife about her parents’ colonial past, because he knew that was the one way to get a rise out of her. Alice’s gran was from Fife, her grandad from London, but they were both in Nairobi when they met. She was a nurse, and had been recruited to Kenya after the war. He was an RAF pilot: had joined up in 1950 for his national service, and stayed on. He got posted to Africa twice in two years: first Rh
odesia, as it was then, for training, and a few months later Kenya.

  – Keeenya.

  Alan would elongate the vowel and smile when his wife didn’t respond: David’s colonial intonation didn’t bother Alan, but he knew very well the effect it had on her. He said once he couldn’t understand her: so impervious to her father’s lack of grace, and yet so painfully aware of his occasional slip in pronunciation.

  – That’s just the way your Dad learnt it. It doesn’t mean anything.

  – I’m not dense, I know the way he comes across. Anyway, I’m not sure many Kenyans would agree with you about that.

  – I’m sure most Kenyans have got more important things to worry about, no?

  Alan usually knew when to stop: Alice’s mother would throw something at him, a sofa cushion, a newspaper, anything soft but big or noisy enough to make them both laugh. But Alice had been present a few times when teasing wasn’t enough. She’d spent a weekend up at the farm with them not long after Alan’s conference, and the silent breakfast with his father-in-law obviously still irked. Alice remembered her mum and Alan debating Grandad while they were packing up the car to drive back to York:

  – I never know what he’s thinking. Not just about me, about anything. I can’t be around someone like that for too long. It makes me nervous.