In which Helen and Malcolm attend the posh barbecue
Malcolm drives the Mercedes smoothly and fast, only just within the law. The miles pass, the countryside opens up as they travel north to a village where the Regional Finance Director is entertaining the London boss. Helen leans back carefully against the headrest. She supposes she is reasonably happy. She must guard against rocking the boat at this stage, when middle age is encroaching. Others fall at this point. She will not – she is known for her common sense.
The heat has lingered into the evening – there is no sign of rain (nor has there been for weeks) – but the air-conditioning in the car is refreshing and Helen lets Malcolm drive to the accompaniment of his James Bowman CD. Helen hardly listens. In her mind there is something faintly repulsive about the idea of countertenors.
She feels herself wafting somewhere outside herself. An ethereal sense of being on the ceiling of the car and looking down at the woman in the reclined seat, the road speeding past and the still-handsome face of her companion. A sense of being free from it all – as though she had the chance of starting again.
***
Many have arrived at the Goodmans before them. They park some way down the lane and walk slowly up the tree-lined drive. The back garden stretches some five hundred metres in all directions and is already overrun with guests, lured out by the clarity and freshness of the evening to wander over the lawn and between the borders. Tonight is not muggy and clammy as recent nights have been: everyone is immaculately attired and clearly more aware of their posture than their conversation. The barbecue against the ivy-clad stone wall consists of a long unit set in brick with several smaller surface grills tended by uniformed representatives of the caterers.
Seeing Roy and Jackie Goodman near the barn doors, Malcolm steers Helen over. They make their opening gambits and are serviced with wine. The game has started. There will be tiny hors d’oeuvre of catching up with several couples, a dutiful drink of nostalgia with a few earlier acquaintances and then the settling in to a main course of conversation with someone they feel they can suffer for that long. Helen knows that Malcolm has exactly the same opinion as she of the whole ‘menu’ but never allows himself to admit it. She recognises it from the way he curtails dessert conversations to a bored minimum, claiming, with a self-effacing laugh and a spurious yawn, to need his beauty sleep at his age. He will never tie things up, though, until he has exhausted the mental list of contacts he must make. After that, he ceases to take interest in anything.
The new boss, Liz Mayers, is the important contact this evening and Malcolm picks coffee as the right time to make himself known to her. The lady in question will not often appear in his territory, being mostly based in London, but will be an unseen influence (and someone to impress) as Malcolm climbs his way through this job to the next.
‘My wife, Helen,’ he says to Liz. ‘Helen is an expert bibliophile.’
Helen, unwilling to expose Malcolm’s embellishment, says disarmingly: ‘Oh, I just like books. You get fond of both old and new when you work with them.’ No, she doesn’t work in the library now. How does London seem to Liz as a place to live? Does she find the mix of old and new fascinating?
Expertly, Helen has turned the conversation away from herself. Liz will talk at length now, and be pleased to do so.
Later Helen excuses herself briefly to wander to the farthest fence. They are all low; probably intruders are not common in the area. Gazing absent-mindedly at the view over the rolling meadows, she withdraws from her bag the mobile she always carries, contacts the night staff of Ward B and agrees a time to pick up Carla the following day. In the far corner of the garden there is raucous laughter from some over-enthusiastic drinkers, and then Malcolm is weaving his way toward her.
‘Let’s go, shall we?’ he says wearily. ‘That lot’s at the dear pig stage.’
‘Dear pig?’
‘You know – Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling your ring?’
Helen laughs. ‘Said the piggy, I am.’ She takes Malcolm’s arm in hers as they return to the car. Malcolm would never be drunk enough to sell his birthright. She is glad.
A pucker of a smile plays on her lips as she vaguely answers Malcolm’s intermittent comments on the homeward drive. She is happily drowsy. Tomorrow is already here in her mind.
Malcolm whispers, ‘Time for a quickie?’ as he turns low the bedside lamps. She hardly notices his attentions. The barbecued Joop is akin to anaesthetic.
