Chapter 13

As January days progressed Claire became more and more morose, and more taciturn. John knew he could do nothing for her: it was her problem alone. He simply looked after her, and she often smiled her thanks.

On the afternoon of Friday the 14th of January, the Friday before Thursday the 20th when she could apply for the Decree Absolute, the phone rang, and Claire being nearest answered it. John was in the kitchen, and heard what transpired. He heard her gasp of surprise and was ready to join her to give her support. He couldn’t help listening in case she needed him.

“Peter?“

“ ... It’s too late, Peter. Why–”

“ ... I don’t know. I can’t see it’ll do any good.”

“ ... You have? How long?”

“ ... I’ll ask John. Ring me in an hour.”

John came from the kitchen to where Claire sat in the living room.

“I heard,” he said, wiping his hands on a towel. “What do you need to ask me?”

“It’s Peter,” she said, realising immediately that John knew that. She smiled and so did he: they were so attuned to each other. “He wants to come over and talk. Apparently his therapist thinks it will help him.”

“He’s actually gone to a therapist?”

“It seems so, since before Christmas.”

“And you think... ?”

“I can’t see what good it can do. I think he wants to stop the divorce at all costs, to come and beg me to go back. I can’t and won’t go back to that life. You know that this is the first time in our married life that I have really relaxed? Felt fully alive? I feel free. I never realised how constantly on edge I was in case Peter suspected me of something. Always worried he would be angry and accusatory. No, John, I can’t go back to that.”

“But what if he’s really changed?” John asked. “He’s taken the step of seeing someone. That, and if he’s truly depressed at you leaving him, it shows he loves you, Claire. And he is fulfilling one of your conditions, you know.”

“I think he’ll protest he’s changed but once I go back he’ll be back to his old ways.”

“If he did that, you could always come back here, you know that, don’t you? He can’t imprison you.”

“He could make sure I can’t get at the money any more.”

“If that happened, I’d send you the ticket via one of the children. Elizabeth or Philip.”

“Do you want to get rid of me John? Have I outstayed my welcome?” she asked worriedly, searching his face.

“You know that’s ridiculous. You know I love having you here; you are so easy to live with, but you are still married to him while you’re waiting for the Decree Absolute. The least you can do is listen to him.”

“John, I don’t think I can sleep with him if he comes to stay.”

“There’s the spare room. That’ll be up to you. I’ll make the bed up, in case.”

Precisely an hour later, the phone once again rang. She picked up.

“ ... John thinks I should talk to you.”

“ ... Whenever.”

“ ... OK.”

She went to John.

“He’s coming tomorrow; it’s the weekend. He’s at work today.”

John felt a little apprehensive, and a growing suspicion that Claire would go back, despite her reluctance, especially now Peter had done what she asked and seen a therapist.

John had become accustomed to her being around the house and felt foreboding at losing her. It would bring back with renewed intensity his lonely state after the loss of Elizabeth.

When the doorbell rang at eight thirty on Saturday morning, John smiled, wondering if Peter hoped to find them undressed. He went to answer it while Claire cleared away the breakfast things.

He opened the door, standing clear of it, and found his own reaction amusing. The amusement died when he saw the man. He remembered Peter from the magistrates’ court. Now his face was grey and his eyes were tired and lifeless, and he was much thinner than John remembered.

“Peter! Come in,” he said putting on his best welcoming smile. “I think the best place for you to talk with Claire would be the front room. The door is pretty soundproof.”

“That’s thoughtful of you, John, but I don’t think you’d eavesdrop even if the door were open.”

It surprised John, this more gentle response. Peter seemed to have lost his tension, but he did not look well. John showed him into the front room and offered coffee or tea, Peter opting for coffee.

“He’s in the front room, and he doesn’t look at all well,” John told Claire as she finished the washing up. “I’ll make coffee, so don’t get down to serious talk until I’ve served it and got out of the way.”

“You don’t need to disappear, John. This is your house.”

“Peter will want privacy. He’ll talk more freely if you’re alone with him.”

“How can you be so kind? He hurt you, then you rescued him from going to prison and he insulted you.”

“Sermon on the Mount, Claire. Sermon on the Mount. For me it’s the only way to be. I’m happy trying to follow it. Go and talk to him, or rather let him talk to you, whichever. I’ll bring you the coffee.”

When he brought the coffee and biscuits in, they were silent, and he thought they were probably waiting for him to leave them alone. He had expected that. He left them, shutting the door, and went to collect his own coffee, taking to his chair in the living room to look over his emails and write some responses.

“Well, Peter, what do you want?” Claire snapped, feeling annoyed that he’d come at all. The divorce had nearly run its six weeks, and now he had come at the eleventh hour to confuse things. She saw him flinch at her cold abruptness and after a brief sense of satisfaction she felt guilty.

“Not very kind or welcoming, Claire.” His voice still had a touch of that superior reproving tone as if talking to a child.

“I don’t feel ‘welcoming’. I wrote letters to you and got no reply. I invited you for Christmas and you made no answer. So I simply want to know what you suddenly want now. Then you can go.”

“So you’ve moved on. You’re with John now are you? Living in sin?”

His tone this time surprised her: it wasn’t censorious, judgemental or resentful, but resigned and weary. For the first time she saw how gaunt he was, and she felt doubly guilty at that.

“I’m sorry, Peter, but you provoke me,” she said. “And no, I haven’t ‘moved on’ as you put it. I am living here but I’m not, as you imply, ‘with’ him. I see you’re still sitting in judgement over me. It won’t wash with me any more: what you think of me doesn’t bother me at all any more. I’m free of you and I’m just waiting for time to pass so I can get the documentation. I’m no longer your property Peter.”

“No, it’s me that’s sorry,” he said dully. “I admit that I spent most of our married life trying to hold on to you, frantically afraid some other man would take you from me. Now someone has–”

“Wrong!” she cut in. “Get it into your head that it is possible for people to live in the same house as friends.”

“But I think you were lovers before,” Peter replied, though without any triumphalism.

“It was over thirty years ago!“ shouted Claire in exasperation. “I was ‘with him’ under two years. We were young students. I’ve been with you for thirty!”

“I don’t think you ever got over him.”

“There you go again! I don’t really see the point of trying to argue with you, you won’t believe anything that doesn’t agree with your preconceived ideas,” she paused with a sigh.

“But nevertheless I’ll try. When John and I parted I put him behind me, and soon he never came to mind. For thirty years, Peter, I forgot him. I never made any contact with him. Then Father Gerard said, ‘You remember John Pollard?’

“It came as a surprise, his name cropping up after so long. Peter, it aroused nothing in me but curiosity. ‘Yes, what about him?’ I asked Gerry.

“‘He lost his wife a few months ago,’ he told me, going on to say, ‘I never met a couple so deeply in love as they were. Her death was so sudden, the shock was devastating. He’s finding life very hard without her.’