Lydia
James Whitmore scrutinised the trousers and shirt, letting out a huff of frustration before tossing them onto the armchair. How on earth could he go out looking like this? The trousers were crumpled, barely holding any crease, and were shiny at the seat, not to mention he’d lost a good stone recently and now they hung off him like a sack. The shirthe felt it embarrassing to even mentionhad faded from a pleasant pale blue to a washed-out hue, with cuffs fraying and the collar limp and grimy. Lydia wouldnt have let him pop down to the village shop in such a shirt, yet here he was, thinking of wearing it to lecture at the university.
Hed never cared much for clothes, but hed always turned out not just presentably, but almost dappera far cry from his current state. In the past, he barely noticed shirts being replaced or new jackets and shoes appearing in the wardrobe. It was simply enough to stick a hand into the cupboard, or let Lydia know in passing that hed need to look decent the next dayand everything was sorted.
Oh, Lydia, Lydia, what have you done, love? Why did you have to leave like that? James never expected such betrayalnot from her. She was nearly a decade younger than him and never seriously unwell. This time didnt seem any different: a mild fever for three days and a persistent, irritating cough. She only went to the doctors because the school needed the annual health certificate before term began. Off she went with the other teachers to the local surgery.
It was hardly a big deal, just a formalityyet straight from there, Lydia was referred to the hospital, and soon everything unravelled like a nightmare, all culminating by Christmas. James understood, rationally, that the surgery had raised the alarm, as they should, but still he harboured a childish hatred for themas if theyd somehow caused her death simply because it all started there.
They had first met when he, a second-year doctoral candidate, was teaching calculus tutorials, and Lydia, a bright-eyed first-year, ended up in his class. Strange, really, that he noticed her at all. Hed always liked vibrant, vivacious women, yet Lydia was so unassumingher cheeks flushed pink from the cold, freckles across her nose even in February, and those chubby little fingers stained with ink and chewed at the tips. It was those fingers that undid him.
He found himself charmed, then smitten, before he realised it: walking her home, spending more and more time at her grandmothers, even making Cornish pasties together. After that, marriage was inevitable. Through forty years together, Lydia had doubled her dress size, chopped off her plaits, smoked her way through two packs a day, and become deputy head of a grammar school, but to James, she was always his Lydia, with those same childlike hands and bitten nails that quickened his heart.
It was never exactly a fairytale, mind. Over forty years, life threw all sorts their way. James had his own indiscretionsa handful of small ones, and two rather grave, involving leaving home. Lydia, for her part, was no angel, having a three-year affair with the manager of the firm sponsoring her school. They had two daughters, though, who anchored their battered boat through every storm.
It never seemed quite fair. First, they scraped by, living on top of one another, then the girls came along, and life turned into a mad dash between ballet, painting lessons, primary school, skating and constant childhood illnesses. And now, finally, with a spacious flat to themselves, their daughters living their own livesgrandchildren appearing only on special occasionsthey could have relaxed and enjoyed their years togetherbut Lydia had vanished, leaving no instructions whatsoever.
The loss hit James so unexpectedly that he barely grasped what had happened at first. At her wake, he behaved more as though it was a birthday party than a funeralsomething people eagerly noted and took as a sign his grief was shallow and he needed no special sympathy. They were wrong. The reality only hit months later, as spring returned, and with it, a deep melancholy. He grew withdrawn, lost more weight, and found the flat unbearable in its emptiness.
Living with his daughters was out of the questionone was off saving dolphins and tracking seabirds with ecologists, the other absorbed in her husband’s family and young child, her father’s presence unaccounted for in her busy world. So, James started making his rounds among friends.
He would show up first thing, eat greedily, nap in the armchair, sip his tea in silence, scattering biscuit crumbs down his jumper and onto their table, and wait, quietly, until it was polite to leaveonly to return a day or two later. At home, he barely ate, even though he had been the family cook for forty years. Cooking for one simply had no appeal. He looked increasingly frail, worn, and downcastso much so that his friends decided something had to be done. He really, in their eyes, ought to remarry.
So tonight was another blind outingthis time with an Annette Cunningham to the theatre. Nothing would come of it, he was certain. Even with Lydia, hed only gone on occasion, and more for her sake than his. The theatre struck him as staged and unconvincingbut Lydia would gaze at the stage in rapture, squirrel away programmes, and later retell the entire play to him, so he could never refuse. Now, friends pressed tickets into his hand, and he trudged out with unfamiliar women across slushy pavements, braving three hours in a musty seat, choking on old-lady perfume, dispensing juice at the interval and longing for the familiar comfort of his Lydia-scented pillowor so he hoped it still was. Yet, he couldnt bear to offend his friends, so he went along. He knew, deep down, he couldnt manage life alone, not really, though he was unclear what he was even living for now.
Annette turned out to be much younger than he had anticipated, and rather pleasant. A decade and a half his juniorslender, well-groomed, sharp and social. Had he been younger himself, hed certainly have noticed Annette. She seemed keen, dropping heavy hints about next weekends plans. The play itself was shorter than most, mercifully without an interval. Ordinarily, hed have to take her for coffee after, since they hadnt managed dinner, but fate was on his side.
Annette explained she lived just round the corner from the theatre, had cooked a rather special roast and pie, and would be delighted if he joined her for supper. The obvious planning behind this spontaneous invitation was clear, but James was so weak for a bit of homey kitchen comfort, he jumped at the offer.
Annettes small flat was immaculate, warmly scented with cinnamon and vanilla. She quickly changed into a stylish tracksuit, making her look younger still, then fussed affectionately in the kitchen, producing an array of homemade delicacies. She chatted effortlessly, and James found himself entertaining the notion that he could stay forever in this gingerbread house, leaving the past behind, beginning a new life.
He left for home reluctantly, long after midnight, having arranged with Annette to visit the Museum of Private Collections the next day, and then out shopping for himselfa full refresh of his aged wardrobe to do her credit, followed by home-cooked lunch at hers on Saturday. Annette would have preferred to take him out to her cottage for a country walk, but her daughter had asked if her granddaughter could spend the day, so home lunch it was, then the countryside trip postponed until Sunday.
On Saturday morning, James went to the barber, feeling five years younger at once. He donned a new checked shirt and soft corduroys, picked up flowers and some chocolates for the granddaughter, then made his way to Annettes.
The aroma of roast duck and baking greeted him in the stairwell. He hummed a little tune to himself, smiling at his reflection in the tarnished old lift. Annette welcomed him in, beaming as if hed returned from the trenches, and ushered him straight to the kitchen.
And wheres your granddaughter? he asked.
Ill fetch her in a momentshes hiding in the bedroom, bit of a grump today, replied Annette.
While James arranged the flowers in a vase, uncorked the wine and juice for the girl, sliced bread and settled at the table, Annette returned.
Meet my granddaughter, Jamesthis is Lydia.
He looked into a pair of large, clear eyes, pink cheeks, and a spatter of freckles over a button nose. Lydia stared at him distrustfully, nervously chewing a fingernail. For a moment, James thought, I hope I dont drop dead right here, and quickly excused himself from the room.
