Before We Met(98)

She hadn’t heard it but Mr Reilly – her father-in-law – must have closed whichever door his wife had been behind because their voices, if they were speaking, were inaudible. The only sounds were the clock and the wind as it buffeted the front of the house. A draught stirred the bottom of the net curtain in the bay window.

After some minutes, there was movement in the corridor. Hannah turned and in the doorway behind her she saw a woman of seventy or so, her hands clasped together in front of her chest as if she were praying. Her face was heavily lined but Hannah could see that at least one thing Mark had told her was true: his mother had been beautiful. Her eyes were large and gentle, still a lovely deep blue behind her glasses, and her lips were soft and full. She was wearing pale pink lipstick – did she always wear it at home or had she just put it on? Her eyes were wet and Mr Reilly put a steadying hand on her shoulder.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘We’re pleased to meet you but it’s . . . well, it’s a shock for us.’

‘No, I understand. For me, too – I didn’t know you were . . . here.’

‘This is my wife, Elizabeth. I’m Gordon.’

‘Hannah,’ she said to Mrs Reilly, who was looking at her with unabashed curiosity, taking her in, detail by detail.

‘How long have you been married?’ she asked. Her voice was quiet, with a hasty, furtive quality, as if she were worried about drawing attention to herself and only dared speak quickly.

‘Since April. Not long.’

‘We didn’t even know.’

Hannah felt ashamed, as if she were to blame, but before she could say anything, the woman shook herself, said, ‘Tea,’ and whisked away like the White Rabbit.

Mark’s father came awkwardly into the room and gestured to the higher-backed of the armchairs. ‘Please sit down. I’ll put the fire on. We normally wait until the evening, the price of electricity these days, but it’s cold this afternoon. We’re quite exposed to the wind, here on the hill.’ At the far side of the fireplace, he hitched his trousers at the knee and bent slowly. The snap of a switch and then he straightened, came round to the front and pressed the button on the outdated two-bar electric heater set into the grate. He stood back and watched, as if he’d laid a real fire and wanted to make sure it would go. ‘There,’ he said with satisfaction when the ends of the coils started to redden.

A fussy chintz pelmet hid the bottom of the armchair and it wasn’t until she’d sat down and it lurched alarmingly that Hannah realised it was some sort of rocker.

‘Sorry, I should have said. That’s Elizabeth’s chair – I forget it does that.’

‘I shouldn’t take it if it’s her’s. Here, let me . . .’

‘No, no.’ He motioned her back down. ‘It’s the best one – she won’t be happy unless you have it.’ He took a seat himself on the far end of the sofa, smoothed his trousers and looked at her. Hannah smiled at him and he smiled back, Mark at seventy. Struggling for something to say, she felt a dizzying sense of vertigo. Why had she come in? She’d found out what she’d wanted to know: they were alive. Wasn’t that enough?

The clock ticked on, measuring the silence.

‘Have you come from London?’ he said.

‘Yes, just now. The roads were terrible – the traffic, I mean.’ Traffic? She stopped before she could say anything even more inane.

From the hallway came the rattle of china and Mrs Reilly entered with a tray that she lowered gingerly on to the copy of the Herald. ‘Oh, I should have asked, shouldn’t I?’ she said, face a picture of dismay. ‘Perhaps you’d prefer coffee?’

‘Tea’s fine – perfect. Thank you.’

She smiled gratefully. ‘How do you take it?’

Mr Reilly watched his wife as she poured milk into the bottom of a cup and topped it up with a weak stream of tea from a pot in a crocheted cosy. Hannah tried to imagine Mark in this room and failed. It was a struggle to imagine his world and this one even co-existing. She remembered him in Montauk, his almost animal energy as he’d jogged up the beach from the sea, the water furrowing his chest hair as he’d lowered himself down on to the sand.

The cup tottered on the saucer as his mother handed Hannah her tea. Elizabeth poured some for her husband and herself then sat next to him on the sofa, straightening her navy polyester skirt as if preparing to be interviewed or told off by the headmistress. Hannah searched for something to say but Mrs Reilly spoke first.

‘How did you meet, you and Mark?’ she said. ‘I’m sorry – do you mind me asking?’