A Grand Old Time: The laugh-out-loud and feel-good romantic comedy with a difference you must read in 2018
question and he shrugged.
‘I don’t really know, my love. Yes, I suppose she is.’
‘All right for some, isn’t it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, Brendan, we could do with a holiday. It’s been ages since you and I got away.’ She paused for a moment, leaned forward and smiled. ‘Remember how lovely it was when we were in Corfu?’ Her face flushed pink and she was suddenly bright-eyed with recollection.
The chicken flesh was pale against his plate. Maura’s straps slipped down again. ‘Corfu? That was eight years ago.’
She gave a little giggle and put her hand to her mouth. She looked suddenly excited. He saw the sweet hopefulness of the girl she had been; excitement shone in her face and, for a moment, Brendan wanted to hold her in his arms. ‘We never left the hotel room for the whole fortnight. We both came back with skin as pale as when we left. Your father said—’
Brendan didn’t want to be reminded that his father said they were just like a honeymoon couple, so he interrupted her. ‘Corfu would be too hot this time of year.’
She shrugged and pulled up the straps. ‘I thought it would be nice for us to spend time together.’
‘Oh …’
‘Think of it – dinners together, relaxing on the beach, a romantic hotel, a big four-poster bed …’ She waved her hands to show the size of the bed; it was as wide as her hopes. Brendan nodded. Her eyes sparkled. ‘It would be a chance for us to spend some time together. Just me and you. I mean, you work so hard, Brendan. You’re always at the schoolwork, evenings, weekends, refereeing the football in the park. I get lonely by myself. Just imagine. Quality time together. A chance for you and me. We could get to know each other all over again. We could see it as a chance to rekindle—’
Brendan was taking a mouthful of chilled wine. He breathed in sharply and it filled his nose. He sniffed. The liquid bubbled and tickled and it snorted like laughter out of his nostrils.
Maura’s face clouded. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ She stood up, almost knocking over the wine bottle as her body pushed against the table. He snorted again. ‘Brendan?’ He was doubled over, coughing, a choking, snickering sound. Her face was suddenly sad, her eyes full of round tears. ‘I made an effort tonight with all of this, and now you’re laughing at me.’
Brendan rubbed his eyes, which were watering. He spluttered. ‘I’m not laughing—’ and another paroxysm caught his throat and he shook again.
‘It’s not funny, Brendan.’
He started to cough more loudly, stuffing his hand into his mouth. His face was wet.
Maura put her hand to her cheek and wiped away a stray tear. For a moment, she said nothing, her eyes frantic. Then she breathed out, air coming in a hard gush. ‘I hope you’re enjoying yourself at my expense.’
The tears were running down his face; he bent over his meal and a second paroxysm caught in his throat and he heaved and spluttered again. Maura’s voice was weak, strangled in her throat, as she caught a sob. Her face froze in horror and she stared at Brendan as if he was a stranger, someone she did not recognise. She clenched tight fists and pulled them towards her face, which had broken out in a red flush extending to her cleavage. She bumped against the table, moved away and then turned back to him.
‘I’ve done my best for you tonight. For us. And all you do is throw it back in my face. You can go to hell, Brendan.’
She rushed past him. The door slammed; feet pounded on the stairs and he could hear her crying. He pressed the space between his eyes with two fingers, put his elbows on the table and let his head fall in his hands. He would go up and apologise. In a minute.
She bought two novels at Lime Street station and, by the time the train arrived in Plymouth, Evie knew Emma Bovary quite well. She had never been one for novels, but she had to find something to pass the time between stations and a bubbly woman in her thirties with spiky hair and round glasses had recommended that she read the Flaubert if she was going to France, and a Brontë, if she’d never read it before. Evie laughed; she’d never read anything much before, except turgid stories about saints and sinners at St Aloysius and rubbishy romances at the Lodge.
Evie decided that Emma Bovary shouldn’t have bothered with any of the men in the story. Had she won some money while placing a bet on a lucky horse, she would have done much better for herself. Evie started on the Brontë. She would read the rest of Wuthering Heights after the crossing to Roscoff. The ticket she bought in Liverpool had a two-berth cabin and, by the time Evie had found her way to number 8215 and let herself in with the cardboard key, it was almost midnight and she wanted to sleep.
She thought the cabin was like the black hole of Calcutta. She had never been to the black hole of Calcutta, but once the lights were out, the cabin swum with darkness and swayed with the motion of the sea. Evie closed her eyes and felt alone. France was a long way away and she wasn’t sure what she’d do when she got there. She’d find a hotel in Roscoff, like she had in Liverpool, do some shopping, eat some French food and drink some nice wine, then come home. She had money and she would be independent – treat herself to a little break. She could do it, an adventure, by herself. She’d use her lucky number again. Yes, she’d stay for four days. Then she’d know what to do.
She shuddered. Home was a puzzle she did not want to solve yet. She needed time to think. But one thing was certain: she was not going back to Sheldon Lodge. That was a certainty. She said out loud, ‘Bollocks if I’m going back there. I’ll go to my grave first.’
Silence gave no answer from the blackness around her. The cabin was too warm. She rolled over and took the duvet with her. It was like being in a womb, surrounded by water. Or it was like a grave, the grains of darkness like stifling soil. Sleep would not come and Jim’s face appeared in her head. Jim as he was when she first saw him, when he came into the baker’s shop and asked for a macaroon. He had been shy, looking at her, and she had liked him for his gentleness. He had returned each day; it was weeks before he’d asked her name and months before he’d asked her to accompany him to the pictures.
The starchiness of her wedding gown scratched at Evie’s memory; a white lace dress that predicted what was to come: it had been uncomfortable, worn once for tradition, then put away in the cupboard, like hope, like love. The reality had come to her on her wedding night, Jim awkward, taking off his tie and shirt and watching her, his eyes waiting for her to speak. She’d stared at his bare shoulders, noticing a rash of spots against pale skin. What had followed was the beginning of marriage, a tacit compliance, a warm respect for a kind man, each detail on the wallpaper, a routine, a habit. She had lain meekly beside him, stroking his hair. She had encouraged him, soothed him. But it wasn’t love, thought Evie. She had never felt what Emma Bovary felt. Nor had Jim been a Heathcliff, a passion to be ridden and never assuaged. He was just a nice man with whom she had spent her married life; he had been the reason she kept the house comfortable and the food hot and filling.
He had given her Brendan, all those years later when they had lost all hope of having children. Those first few brittle months of pregnancy, when her waking thought was for the baby and Jim had been a breath beside her ear, placing cushions and raising her feet. He had marvelled as the baby blossomed into a hard mound of belly, a hidden miracle and finally a wide-mouthed cry in her arms. Jim had stared at them both from a distance, his face twisted in pride. Perhaps that was when they truly bonded, when the mild husband became a playful father and the quiet house was filled with sound. But that was all in the past now, she had laid Jim in the earth and he was gone. She would make her own way in life now, but she would