"The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there."
L. P. Hartley,
"The Go-Between"
A churchyard in North London, Saturday, October 16, 2010:
Harry turns from where he stands at a distance just as the sun bursts from behind thick cloud cover, the sudden glare causing him to squint. "You're welcome to join me," he says gently, but Ruth shakes her head.
"I can't," she says. "In my heart, he's still alive." For her they are all still alive, still laughing, still suggesting a visit to the pub after work. Harry nods his understanding. "Besides," she continues, "what's the real reason we are here?"
Harry turns, removes his hands from his pockets, while slowly and deliberately strolling to where she waits at a safe distance from the grave of one of their own - another senseless death, another life snuffed out too soon. He reaches out to grasp her hand, but she opts to not return the gesture.
"Danny chose his death," he says quietly, so quietly she has to watch his lips as he speaks. Those same lips bring her pleasures beyond her imagining, and are far too beautiful to have uttered such an inane sentiment.
"Rubbish," she replies. "You feel guilty. You carry guilt for Danny's death .. for all the deaths."
Ruth watches him closely as he drops the hand he'd offered her, his jaw working hard to hold in his response. He is angry, but she knows him well enough to understand that his anger is directed at himself.
"Am I that transparent?" he asks.
"Only when we're discussing the past," Ruth replies. "When talking about those who have fallen you become maudlin, and … self-pitying."
Harry turns from her, taking a step away from her, and closer to the resting place of Danny Hunter. It had been his idea to visit Danny's grave. A quiet Saturday drive had turned into a journey into their shared past, a journey which Harry had clearly needed.
How young she had been back then; how naive, how trusting. Little had she known that her dream job would be accompanied by such trauma, such loss, such sadness; and while Ruth knows she has been strengthened by the experiences of loss, perhaps the man she has slowly grown to love has been diminished just a little, his self-loathing only surfacing when their shared past is visited. One of the many reasons he loves her so totally is that it is only in their togetherness that he once more feels whole … and worthy of being loved.
Suddenly Harry's mobile phone rings from inside the pocket of his anorak. "Damn," he says, plunging his hand into the pocket to retrieve his phone. "It's a number I don't recognise," he says, staring at the phone's display while it continues to ring.
"Then answer it," Ruth says, stepping closer to him, reaching out to place one hand on his arm. "It might be important."
He quickly glances at her before doing as she suggests. "Harry Pearce," he says gruffly into the phone, before he listens as his caller identifies themselves. "Who?" he says, turning away from Ruth. "That's what I thought you said."
And so once more Harry shuts himself off from her as he takes his call, walking away from her, past the grave of Danny Hunter to a bench seat beneath a beech tree. Ruth is familiar with this version of Harry. His call is personal, and he is reluctant to engage with the caller. She just hopes it is not bad news about his son.
To pass time while Harry takes his call, Ruth turns to stroll along the pathway by which they had come, only partly aware of the names on the gravestones she passes. She is not entirely sure that their relationship makes either of them happy, but she knows for sure that they are better – less guilty, less troubled - when together than when they're apart. The two weeks following her choir's rehearsal had been a struggle for them – hesitant, stuttering, each unsure of the other – until the night Harry had invited her for dinner at his house, and she had stayed the night. Since then they have been together .. a couple
Ruth feels Harry's presence behind her before she hears his approaching footsteps. "I hope you don't mind," he begins warily, once she has stopped, waiting for him to catch up, "but that was Jane. She lives not far from here, and she has … requested my presence."
Ruth opens her mouth to speak, but no words come. While she is deeply curious about Harry's ex-wife, meeting her in person is a whole other ball game. "What ..?" she begins, but Harry lifts a hand to bring her question to an abrupt halt.
"I told her about you, and ..." He grins a shy little grin, "she said she'd love to meet you, so I was wondering how you would feel were we to visit her … for afternoon tea."
Afternoon tea? She'd love that about as much as she'd love a bout of cholera. "Do you want to see her?"
"Not especially, but she wants to discuss the house."
"The house? I thought that was settled with your divorce."
Harry gazes around him before grasping Ruth's arm, drawing her closer to his side as he guides her towards the car park. "So did we, but it seems there was a caveat on the house's title … or something. Jane's mother was the previous owner of the house, and added a caveat at the time of Jane's and my marriage. She owned it until her death, five years after we were married. Effectively it says that Jane can only sell or gift the house to me or our issue."
"Issue?"
"That's legal-speak for our children."
"Could she do that?" To Ruth the whole thing sounds dodgy.
"Apparently she can, and she did. Unlike her daughter, Jane's mother quite approved of me. She called me `cavalier'."
Ruth grins up at him before stepping through the gate to the car park. She stops, waiting for Harry to follow. "Isn't that another word for reckless?"
Harry has taken his car keys from his pocket, unlocking the doors before opening the passenger side door for Ruth. "She liked her men a bit on the dangerous side. Jane's father made me look like a saint."
Ruth climbs into the car. He might be divine, but a saint is something Harry will never be.
The house Harry's ex-wife had inherited from her late mother is impressive. Ruth and Harry remain seated in the car, allowing Ruth time to take in the wide frontage of the house, and the steep, gabled roof.
"I'm led to believe that it's not strictly Tudor, and nor is it Elizabethan," Harry says quietly, leaning towards her, his eyes on the house that for a few years had been his … and Jane's.
"So it's a bastard," Ruth says lightly, putting off the moment when they'll leave the car. She feels Harry's eyes on her, so she turns to see him smiling at her. "What?" she asks.
"That's what Jane's mother used to call it. She'd say the house was a bastard, just like her husband."
"Why? What did he do?"
Harry turns again to gaze at the house. "What didn't he do? Women, gambling, and dodgy dealings with money."
"And he didn't get caught?"
"He was a barrister. He knew all the loopholes."
"I suppose we should go in," Ruth says without enthusiasm.
Jane Townsend is a surprise. Ruth had imagined Harry's ex-wife to be a woman with style – tall, haughty, sarcastic, elegant, posh. Jane Townsend is blond, slim, and neatly petite, quietly strong, with a direct gaze from grey eyes. Her smile is gentle, her voice firm, her words carefully chosen. She welcomes Ruth with a nod of her head, a smile which appears genuine, her hand outstretched for Ruth to shake. Harry stands back while these two women observe one another, each silently assessing the other.
"It's lovely to meet you," Jane says warmly. "Harry is someone who needs a woman in his life. It gives him much needed stability."
Whatever does that mean? "When I awoke this morning," Ruth says carefully, "I hadn't expected this. Meeting you is a lovely surprise." Ruth hopes she has successfully carried off that lie, although working in intelligence gives her a slight advantage in the lying department.
The three of them sit around a round wooden table in the conservatory, a china teapot in the middle of the table, while they sip tea from small mugs. If she'd expected the best china and a silver tea service then Ruth would be disappointed.
"Please pardon the everyday mugs," Jane had apologised as she'd poured their tea, "but when I turned fifty I made a promise to myself that I no longer have to impress anyone."
It is with those words that Ruth decides that she rather likes Harry's ex-wife. She can't abide pretense, and Jane is not pretentious.
"Robin not home?" Harry asks, eyebrows lifted.
"Didn't Catherine tell you? We separated at the end of August."
"I'm sorry," Harry replies politely.
"Don't be. It was a long time coming. The signs had been there for years, but both of us had sat comfortably within our discomfort. Then when Robin retired we could no longer live in denial."
Once more Ruth admires this woman. She finds her honesty refreshing.
Their conversation slows until Ruth excuses herself. Harry and Jane are unlikely to begin discussing the house with her in the room.
"I noticed your bookcase in the living room," Ruth begins. "Would you mind if I took a look through your collection?"
Jane's face brightens, and Ruth is sure her spine straightens just a little. "Please do. I taught secondary school English for many years, so many modern British writers can be found on my shelves. Feel free to borrow anything which takes your fancy."
Ruth has no intention of borrowing anything belonging to Harry's ex-wife, although she's tempted to steal one or two. She won't, of course; it's just the idea of stealing which appeals to her. Seated in a comfortable winged armchair in front of the window, she leafs through two anthologies of poems by contemporary British writers. While contemporary writing is not really her thing, she is prepared to keep an open mind. Part of her mind, however, is on the two people in the conservatory. She wonders have Harry and Jane discussed her in her absence.
Of course they have.
"She's lovely, Harry," Jane says, once Ruth had moved through to the living room. "She's nothing like I expected."
"You expected me to be with someone?" Harry would really like the visit to end soon … the sooner the better, but knowing Jane, she will only allow them to leave when it suits her.
"Catherine mentioned that you were dating your analyst." Jane watches him closely. He'd forgotten that about her. "I expected someone older … and plainer."
"Analysts come in all shapes and sizes these days."
"So I see. Is it serious?"
"That's none of your business."
"So it is serious." Jane drops her eyes to the mug of tea on the table in front of her.
"It's still early days," he says quietly.
"I imagine she suits you very well."
Harry feels a session of game-playing coming on. "Can we crack on? Ruth and I have plans." They don't, but that is the only excuse he is able to come up with at such short notice.
"Very well. I brought you here to offer you first option on the sale of the house, especially now that you have someone to share it with."
Harry wants the house about as much as he wants a bullet to the chest.
Between saying goodbye to Jane and driving away in the car Harry says nothing. Ruth only has to glance at the set of his jaw, and the firm line of his mouth to know that he is not happy.
"Talk to me," she says at last, knowing that Harry is capable of remaining in a state of silent fury for the remainder of the trip back to his house.
At the next set of lights he turns to her, tipping his head to one side, his mouth having relaxed a little. "I'm sorry, Ruth. I hadn't meant to shut you out. It's just that ..." and he drives off once the light turns green.
"And?" Ruth is not about to allow him to stew silently.
Ruth notices Harry's shoulders visibly relax, as does his grip on the steering wheel.
"I suspect Jane just wanted to get a look at you, and the house nonsense was little more than an excuse."
Ruth turns away from him, smiling as she looks through the passenger side window. "But she wanted to discuss the house, didn't she?"
"I suggested to her that we could have done that through our lawyers. She had the nerve to suggest that we're past the stage when lawyers are necessary."'
"I liked her," Ruth says at last.
"I thought you would."
"Maybe your history makes it impossible for you to remain civil, Harry."
"I'd say that's a given. Why would I want that monstrosity? I suggested she gift it to Catherine and Graham, and she agreed that was her preferred option. It's just that she had to first offer it to me, as a private sale."
While he appears to have relaxed a little, his voice, when speaking of Jane, is clipped, his words rattling from him like so many well-aimed bullets.
They remain in silence for much of the car ride home, until Ruth once more brings up the subject of Harry's ex-wife.
"What did she think of your job in intelligence?" she asks quietly. "You've never said."
"She wasn't impressed. I was away from home too much, and when the children came along she was left literally holding the baby."
Ruth hesitates before continuing with her train of thought. "But .. the reason I asked is that she used all the usual spying skills to get us to her house today - guile, charm, subterfuge." She watches Harry as he negotiates an intersection. She is sure his mouth softens. "She would have made a fine spy."
Harry turns to her briefly, his mouth twisted in a half-smile, but he says nothing. As Ruth sees it the ex-wife non-spy is infinitely more skilled at deception than she is.
Once inside Harry's house they head straight to the living room, where Harry turns on the gas fire before making a beeline for the drinks cabinet.
"I need a drink," he says, lifting the whisky decanter in an unspoken question to Ruth.
She shakes her head. "But I could do with a coffee."
After placing his whisky glass on a small table beside the sofa he heads to the kitchen to make Ruth's coffee. Ruth appreciates how easily Harry slips into the role of Domestic God.
Once her coffee is made they sit side by side on the sofa, he with his whisky, and she with her coffee.
"Hungry?" he asks.
"Not yet. It's not even five."
"It feels later," he responds flatly. Ruth knows what he means.
"I've been thinking," she begins, while Harry stares glumly at the gas fire, "it was only a few weeks ago you told me that you and Jane avoid seeing one another. You told me that on the day you returned from Reading after visiting your parents' graves."
"And your point is?" It appears to her that Harry is teetering on the edge of sarcasm.
"That didn't appear to be the case today. You and Jane seemed quite comfortable together."
"That was an act, Ruth. I was civil to her for your sake."
"Thanks for that." This time it is Ruth who engages in sarcasm.
Harry sighs heavily, carefully placing his whisky on the table beside his elbow before he turns towards her. This time his mouth is softer, his expression gentle. "It's a coping mechanism. I tell myself Jane and I don't get on, and that we fight like two cats in a bag. Believing that makes living in the present easier."
"Is your present life that bad?"
"Not this life, no. The life I have with you is a delight."
Ruth is sure he exaggerates. `Delight' is a word he rarely uses. "It sounds like you have regrets," she says quietly, holding his eyes.
"Yes. I have regrets. I sometimes wish I'd grown up sooner, but then … had I, I wouldn't have met you, and that would be a tragedy too far."
Ruth nods before lifting her hand to cup Harry's cheek. She then reaches up to place a soft kiss on his other cheek, before kissing her way to his lips. He quickly responds, but it is just a kiss, and it soon ends. "Thank you," she whispers.
"For what?"
"For being honest. For being you."
Ruth believes that everything happens for a reason, even a messy divorce. Jane kicked out the younger, immature Harry to give him the opportunity to grow up, so that one day when they were both ready, he would be noticed by a nervous, busy, and clever analyst.
It's all perfect, really, and there are no mistakes – only opportunities.