A Place Of Safety(114)

Afterwards she said she had to go out so Barnaby dozed, watched some sport on the box, dozed some more and made himself a cup of tea at tea time. Joyce didn’t come back till nearly six. She had been to the movies, she said, Wag the Dog, which was so brilliant they must get the video.

Barnaby did not ask why he hadn’t been invited to the movies. They were each getting through this odd, unfamiliar sort of day in their own manner, himself by doing what he usually did on his day off but sighing rather more, Joyce filling in time by going out and about.

By six o’clock both were in their bedroom getting dressed. Barnaby had on a rather stiffly starched white shirt and dark blue suit plus waistcoat. As he was pulling on his shiny black Oxfords, he watched Joyce putting on her make-up in front of a magnifying mirror, brightly illuminated by an Anglepoise. She was wearing a coffee-coloured petticoat trimmed with Viennese lace, which Cully had long ago christened Mum’s Freudian slip.

It suddenly struck her husband that his anniversary gift, so carefully thought of, beautifully designed and lavishly wrapped, was nothing but a frivol. Luxurious but of no real use whatsoever. Where in the world, apart from illustrations in old books of fairy tales and thirties movies, did women sit holding a mirror in front of their face with one hand and combing their hair with the other? They needed both hands and an excellent light. He sighed.

‘For heaven’s sake,’ said Joyce.

She had bought a new suit for the occasion. Cyclamen with black braid. Chanel-ish. The colour looked harder than it had in the shop and her lipstick didn’t match. Her earrings were already pinching but they were the only ones that looked right. Bearing in mind that make-up had to last the evening through, she had put on rather more than usual and now wondered if she should take it off and start again. Everyone said the older you were, the less you needed. She only just stopped herself sighing as well. That’s all the evening needed. Two of them at it.

Barnaby, who had been looking out of the window on and off for the past twenty minutes, said, ‘They’re here.’





The first bottle of Mumm Cordon Rouge ’90 was opened and they all had a glass. Cully and Nicolas cried, ‘Congratulations!’ and handed their presents over. Joyce received a silver locket, engraved on the back with the date of her wedding and a tiny picture of herself and Tom inside. It was quite unfamiliar and must have been cut out of a holiday snap that Cully had taken years ago. Barnaby had some plain square silver cufflinks, likewise engraved, in a blue leather box.

Joyce gave her husband a leather Filofax with a thin silver plate screwed into a specially reinforced front cover. It showed his name, inscribed in beautiful copperplate, and the dates 1973-1998. Barnaby said it was very handsome and at last he could get organised. Cully said it was about time. They drained their glasses, had them re-filled and Joyce opened her present.

She gasped with surprise and pleasure, her indrawn breath an ‘ahhh’ of happiness.

‘Tom! It’s the most . . . beautiful thing . . . I ever . . . ever . . .’

She kissed him. Barnaby smiled and gave his wife a hug. Watched her hold up the mirror at arm’s length, just as he had pictured her doing in his imagination. But the kitchen’s harsh fluorescent light was not flattering. A shadow passed over Joyce’s face. She had too much make-up on. She did not look in the mirror as she did in her mind. She looked older and rather hard. Haggard even. She turned to her daughter.

‘I don’t think this lipstick suits me.’

‘Mum, nothing suits anybody in this dreadful light. I look at least a hundred.’

‘And I,’ said Nicolas gallantly, ‘look like the creature from the black lagoon.’

‘Speaking of lights, shouldn’t we turn the ones in the garden on, Dad? Safety and all?’

‘I suppose.’ He had rigged up a series of seven lamps concealed in the greenery. They were connected to a dimmer switch which he turned slowly on to full. The effect was magically theatrical. He could have been looking at a wood outside Athens, with Oberon and Titania waiting in the wings. As he got back to the kitchen, the doorbell rang and Cully chose that moment to make a quick phone call.

They were taking a cab to Uxbridge Tube, going into town by Underground and back by taxi. The nearest station to Monmouth Street was Tottenham Court Road and at eight o’clock Saturday night both the place and the pavements outside were jam packed with rowdy people all determined to have a good time. It was only ten minutes’ walk to Mon Plaisir but seemed longer.

They were welcomed warmly, shown to their table and given a menu. Barnaby looked around him. He hadn’t expected the place to look the same - that would have been foolish after twenty-five years - but he was surprised at how small it seemed. He couldn’t remember where they had sat before though he did recall looking out of the window occasionally and being sorry for the people walking by because they could never, ever, if they lived to be a hundred be as happy as he was.