Guilt at the Garage

NINE

Adrian’s apology for the state of the house seemed unnecessary, even by Carole’s exacting standards. True, there were some unopened cardboard boxes in the hall, but otherwise the interior had been furnished and decorated to a very high spec. Of course, in characteristic Fethering style, Carole had known who the old couple who lived there previously were, but she hadn’t known them. One had died and the other gone into a care home, so she expected that the place had been left in something of a state. In fact, she remembered Adrian describing it as ‘a bit of a tip’. He and Gwyneth – or, more likely, given her lack of mobility, he – had been busy since they took over ownership. A residual smell of fresh paint confirmed Carole’s supposition.

All of the rails and other invalid aids that Adrian had mentioned on their previous meeting at Starbucks were in place. The garden path was levelled asphalt and there was an incline up to the front door. No handrails on the outside but plenty inside, suggesting that, though Gwyneth Greenford could drag her way round the house, all of her outside excursions were in the wheelchair.

As they entered, Adrian called out, ‘Gwyn, I’ve brought someone to meet you,’ and ushered Carole into the front sitting room.

The woman sitting in the armchair, with a folded wheelchair beside it, was younger than Carole had expected. She’d had the image of Adrian’s crippled wife as being his age, if not older, but Gwyneth Greenford was a good twenty years younger. She was dressed in smart-casual clothes, well-cut dark blue trousers and a silvery silk jumper. Her make-up was expertly done. Whatever her disability might be, there was no visible manifestation of it.

‘Oh, hello, Carole,’ said Gwyneth.

This instant recognition was a bit of a shock, but when she thought about it, perhaps it wasn’t so odd. Adrian had said he’d told his wife about her, and Gwyneth would have had plenty of opportunities to see her walking back and forth along the High Street. The shops on the parade were only yards away from Wharfedale. Instinctively, Carole looked towards the windows. Net curtains, so to see anything outside in detail Gwyneth would have had to peer around the edges. But she wouldn’t have been the first person in Fethering to have done that.

‘Hello. A pleasure to meet you,’ said Carole, in a manner that would have made her parents proud.

‘I’d offer to make you coffee, but …’ Gwyneth spread her hands wide to sum up her helplessness.

‘I’ve just had coffee, thank you. At Starbucks. That’s where I met Adrian.’

‘Oh.’ Gwyneth looked at her husband.

Rather awkwardly, he said, ‘Happy coincidence.’ Then, swiftly, ‘But can I get you anything, my love? A drink or …?’

‘No, thank you. Ooh, there is something you could do for me, Adrian …’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s a parcel in the kitchen that I want to catch the post.’

‘Oh, I’m sure there’s no rush for that, my love.’

Carole checked her watch. Not yet noon. ‘No. You’ve missed the morning collection at the Post Office. And the afternoon one doesn’t go till five thirty.’

‘I would like it to catch the post,’ said Gwyneth definitively. ‘If you don’t do it now, Adrian, we’ll forget.’

Some invisible marital semaphore must have been exchanged, because he instantly said, ‘Very well, my love.’

When he got to the sitting-room door, his wife said, ‘Close that. Then Carole and I can get to know everything about each other.’

Carole bridled at the thought. The idea of anyone getting to know everything about her was an appalling one. And, when she came to think of it, a Northern one too. Still, over the years she had managed to frustrate many people’s attempts to get near her real self. She didn’t think the wheelchair-bound Gwyneth Greenford would prove too much of a challenge.

‘So, Carole,’ came the opening salvo, ‘Adrian tells me you’re retired. What did you do during your working life?’

This was easy stuff. A quick résumé of her career at the Home Office (omitting the fact that she was edged out of employment a little earlier than she would have wished). All facts, nothing that came near to being personal.

‘And are you married?’

Potentially trickier, but straight, unembroidered answers had worked in the past. ‘Divorced,’ she said and, to avoid being asked for details, went straight on, ‘I have one son, who’s married with two daughters.’

It seemed to have worked. No enquiries about the divorce. All Gwyneth said was, ‘Adrian and I don’t have children.’

Carole did not say anything. ‘I’m sorry’ was always a risky response. In the past, Carole had been as bored by the rationalizations of couples telling her why they had chosen not to have children as she had by the desolation of those who’d been unable to have them.

She decided to move on to the offensive. ‘And you, Gwyneth? Did you use to work?’ Fortunately, she stopped herself from adding something on the lines of ‘before you got ill’. She didn’t want to prompt a litany of ailments.

‘I worked in a secretarial capacity for a car dealership in Leeds.’

‘Oh? And is that how you came to meet Adrian?’

‘Yes.’

A commendably short answer. Maybe Gwyneth was as unwilling to divulge anything personal as she was. That would be very satisfactory, thought Carole, though she still felt a minor pang of unfulfilled nosiness.

Her hostess then went off in another direction, maybe demonstrating some nosiness of her own. ‘Your neighbour,’ she said, ‘the one in the house two away from us …’

‘Woodside Cottage?’

‘Yes.’

‘Her name’s Jude.’

‘I think I’d heard that. Is it true that she works as a healer?’

‘Yes,’ said Carole, immediately envisioning Gwyneth’s demand to be put in contact, followed by Jude’s successful treatment of her new client, and a triumphant, but rather embarrassingly sentimental ‘Take up thy bed and walk’ scenario.

But Gwyneth’s next words instantly deleted such images. ‘I don’t believe in healers,’ she said, warming the very cockles of her visitor’s heart.

‘I agree,’ said Carole sleekly. ‘There are a lot of charlatans out there.’

‘Very true. There were a couple operating where we used to live. I think a lot of them do more harm than good. Raising people’s hopes about miracle cures. There ought to be a law against it.’

‘You’re right. Do you speak from experience, though? I mean, have you tried to get alternative therapy for your’ – Carole felt awkward for having strayed on to the subject – ‘condition?’

‘I certainly have not. It’s my view that, if you’ve got something that the NHS can’t deal with, then you should just accept the hand that life has dealt you and get on with it.’

This so exactly reflected Carole’s own views that she produced a ringing, ‘I do so agree.’

She then realized that she hadn’t yet gone through the mandatory local routine for new residents. ‘So, Gwyneth,’ she asked, ‘how’re you liking Fethering?’

This was met by a shrug. ‘I haven’t seen a lot of it. I don’t go out much.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …’

‘Don’t worry. I can go out. Adrian has pushed me along to the parade and the edge of the dunes. It all looks as an English village should. But I prefer to stay indoors.’

‘Oh.’

‘There’s something rather pathetic in being confined to a wheelchair at my age. I don’t want to advertise my disability. The last thing I want is people’s pity.’

‘I can see that.’ And Carole could. Though she hoped she never ended up in a comparable situation, she could imagine herself reacting in a similar way. The worst emotion to inspire in others was pity.

‘But you like it here?’ asked Gwyneth, quite sharply.

‘Yes. Well … I mean it does have the disadvantages that go with village life …’

‘Gossip?’

‘That kind of thing, yes.’

‘Tell me about it. Just the same in Ilkley. Villages, small towns … I don’t think there’s anywhere you can escape gossip. That was one of the reasons we moved.’

‘Oh?’ asked Carole, instantly alert.

Gwyneth quickly covered up the lapse (if lapse it was). ‘Not the main reason, obviously. Adrian was retiring and we both felt like a change of scene. Then we didn’t really need all the space we had in the Ilkley house, so downsizing made sense. And moving would be a kind of adventure.’

A strange word to use, Carole thought. Moving from one home you had to negotiate in a wheelchair to another where you would face exactly the same problem. Or maybe the Yorkshire house held memories of a fully functional Gwyneth, who had led a normal life until the illness or accident that had crippled her. Carole was intrigued to know the details, but she didn’t think this was the right moment to press for them. She had a feeling she would be seeing a lot more of Gwyneth; time enough to hear the full story of how she had been crippled.

Back at High Tor, Gulliver greeted her with the wild enthusiasm of a dog about to get another walk, and then slunk back to his station by the Aga when it was clear that hope wasn’t going to be realized.

Carole stood by the work surface, assembling a cottage-cheese salad for her lunch. She was glad Jude wasn’t there watching. Jude’s views on the subject of cottage cheese were unprintable.

Then, looking out of the kitchen window, Carole saw something white on the back lawn. A piece of paper. She went out to investigate. Though she left the back door open, Gulliver didn’t follow. He knew the limitations of the back garden. Going out that way was never the preface to what he considered a proper walk.

It was a piece of paper. Slid into a transparent envelope to keep the rain off.

It read: ‘DON’T THINK YOU’RE OFF THE HOOK YET.’