One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [134]
‘Practice,’ she’d grinned back at me. Adding, ‘Like so many difficult things in life.’
I knew at the time she’d meant Luca: practising liking him. Carla too, who, in those days, made her life a misery. I knew she meant you could get used to anything if you jolly well put your mind to it. Bucked up. Behaved. Persuaded yourself otherwise. I gazed at the bristling treetops knowing this was true. That you could persuade yourself to believe something you wanted, until it became the truth. That a tiny spot of self-deluding dissonance could spread like an ink stain to colour your entire life. And sometimes it was a good stain. But sometimes it was ugly.
I clenched my jaw, trying to lift myself out of my mood, which wasn’t good, I knew. I concentrated on Hal’s back, on the controlled swing of his body following his gun, whilst his feet remained constant. I wanted to chat, to raise my spirits, but that wasn’t done. The odd remark, yes, but not a constant stream of chatter whilst your man performed. Your man. My man. I felt better. Mum would be so pleased, I thought, hearing her chortle at the peg to my left. She was behind the rather good-looking, silver-haired Angus Harrison. I smiled, despite myself, as she clapped her suede-gloved hands prettily in appreciation. Mum was a terrific flirt, but that was all. She should have been French, really. She took that great Gallic delight in entrancing men, but only adored my father, who never turned a hair – indeed, rather enjoyed the attention his still very attractive wife engendered. Trust. Yes, that was it. Mutual trust, and love. And, most importantly, kindness. They had all that, my parents. I watched as Mr Harrison popped another. Mum cooed. He turned to smile, delighted, flicking back his silver hair. He could flick all he liked: in a few hours’ time Mum would be sailing away with Dad in their ropey old Datsun back to their house in London, without ever giving Mr Harrison another thought. She was like Laura, a one-man woman, but although Laura had got Mum’s looks in spades, she hadn’t the confidence to flirt. Was always right by Hugh’s side at a party. Not that she was shy, she just hadn’t mastered the art of harmlessly enjoying other men’s company – which was an art, I decided, watching Mum throw back her head and laugh at something Angus said. She saw me and waved.
‘All right, darling?’
I smiled. ‘Yes, thanks.’
A one-man woman. That’s what I’d be, I thought, staring at Hal’s broad shoulders. Had always wanted to be. Those wretched tears were stinging my eyes again. I’d just fallen in love with the wrong man. Fallen in love with his brother, the married one, and hadn’t stopped loving him, even when he’d died. Not for years. Years and years. I thought about my box, under my bed, full of cuttings: how I’d get them all out, on every anniversary of his death, pore over them, and on his birthday too, and any other spurious excuse you cared to mention. Had done so right up until quite recently. Up until… well, yes, I suppose it did coincide with me feeling much better about myself, meeting new people. I formed this thought carefully, voicing it carefully, even to myself: protecting myself. Self-preservation: that’s what it was all about, and if I was to protect myself now, to stop myself getting hurt, then I needed Hal beside me. I exhaled very slowly, with relief. Oh, how achingly happy I’d be, and how safe. In fact, so safe, and so secure, I wondered if I’d ever, ever talk to Seffy, properly. The thought rocked me: the possibility that I’d ever be brave enough. But with Hal beside me, with his quiet wisdom, maybe, just maybe, I’d find it within myself. Whatever else I’d thought, on that bright, sunny day, as I’d sat on my log behind Hal, hands clenched tightly in my lap, whatever else I’d pondered, or determined to do, was lost to posterity, as a shriek rang out in the valley. A man’s shriek. Ghastly, primeval, penetrating. The shriek