Tea 2

I email Marnie; “Come to tea here this time. I could pick you up, Just say when. “

She emails me back a few days later; I think perhaps she only checks her computer once a week; “Love to. I’ll drive to the end of the park. How about four on Friday?”

So I’m on my way to fetch her and just like last time, the sky’s alternately bright blue, then suddenly heavy and dark with rain - the weather’s been rubbish for weeks. Where he lives it’s still high summer and the temperature never goes below 90 at this time of year, not even at night. In my rear view mirror, I can see the line on my face – to the left, by the side of my mouth - the new one that wasn’t there until last week.

I’ve already told her some of what happened. I didn’t think he’d mind – it’s Marnie after all, and I only promised him not to mention the drugs, which I haven’t. It was because she said that with all this rain I must be looking forward to going somewhere hot, and so I told her how I wasn’t sure I’d be going at all, ever again. And then I couldn’t really leave it at that, so I told her how he went on and on – about how he didn’t know, how he wanted to make sure of things first – a whole long list, and how I didn’t think it was ever going to be the perfect time – it never is is it? Sometimes you just have to take a leap or you’d never do anything at all. But he doesn’t see it like that.

I force my eyes back to the road. Last blind bend and I’m into the village. There’s the discreet little National Trust sign with the leaf in the corner. I put my indicator on, turn in through the gates and Marnie’s there, waiting for me. She’s driven as far as she legally can in her dreadful Saab. I remember all the warning lights flashing, and the smell of petrol – how can it not have exploded in the past two weeks? What will she do when it finally dies?

She smiles as she gets into my car and I brush a few parking tickets off the passenger seat, apologising for the mess. I still can’t get used to her being eighty, and in some ways she doesn’t look it at all, certainly not in the way she dresses - she could easily have just sauntered out of Liberty. She puts her Mulberry bag on the back seat, then stumbles slightly as she places her stick next to it. I pretend not to notice; I think that’s what she’d prefer.

“So….” She starts about him almost as soon as she gets in..

“You mustn’t give up you know. You really mustn’t. I’m sure he doesn’t mean it”

Then she spends the next three miles telling me how horrible his wife was, and how happy we’d be together, and I am half laughing by the time we pull into my driveway, because I think she’s enjoying having something new to worry about.

She’s just begun listing things we have in common “… and you both write don’t you,“ when my sons come in and we take a break while she chats to them. I told them before I left that they must be polite for ten minutes, then they can bugger off. They haven’t met her since they were very young, but they know who she is.

They’re off to university in a month and I’ll be on my own for the first time since they were born. I’m around the same age as Marnie was when Joe died, and he was the same age as my sons are now, so it feels like a big circle, all of us in the room together like this. The sun’s come out again and as I watch them leaning against the wall, my two smiling boys …I wonder if it crosses her mind that they could easily have been her grandsons …… and if she knows how much I still miss Joe.

Once they’ve gone she tries another tack, telling me the story of when she met Joel’s father, how it took him three years before he finally left his first wife for her, “you see – he couldn’t make up his mind either – men are like that. Life’s too short, you must keep on trying.” I know the next part of the story, I remember Joe telling me – how he died suddenly, before Joe was even born.

Then she tells me about David, her second husband, and how when he died there was no money left – nothing, and how difficult it is for her, living in the country where she doesn’t really know anyone, but she can’t afford to go back to London. It’s so sad and I want to help, but I don’t know what I can do because she’s so fiercely independent. Joe should be here to do things for her.

She doesn’t give up all afternoon, and on the way home, as we slow down to turn into the park she says,

“Please don’t give up on him. He’s the only one who kept in touch - over the years… I am so fond of him, he is…..” Her voice breaks and I can see she’s trying really hard not to cry.

As she gets out of the car, we kiss, once, twice, and I promise not to cancel my ticket. Then I drive home wondering if there’s something we can do for her.