Raking the Ashes Read Free

solicitor) and within weeks he was effectively out of my life. We had a phone call one or two months later. I had the strongest feeling Janet was listening. She’d called to him, waited till he’d picked up, then made such a clatter of putting down her extension that it was clear she ’d lifted it again and was sitting, scarcely breathing, checking up on the level of emotion between us.
    It must have been a very reassuring call. ‘Bill,’ I said, torturing him only a little for starters, ‘I’m in real trouble and I need your help.’
    Could a man sound more wary? ‘What’s the matter, Tilly?’
    Off I went with my problem: a real one, all about fits and starts in the pressure chain, and problems with the new QXII valve, and knock-on disasters. Bill did a pretty poor job of hiding his relief, but he was helpful, remembering exactly what Tom (who’d retired and vanished) had always said would prove the trouble with the QXII, and suggesting a good way of getting round the problem.
    Then he said, ‘Hang on, Tilly. Just a minute,’ and he was silent, breathing heavily. (I don’t know what
she
thought.) After that, he was off again. ‘No, Tilly. I’m completely wrong. Try tackling it from the gatehouse. Take down the pressure on the lower hose and …’
    Brilliant! A small reminder of why we got so close in the first place. He’d solved my problem, so I made a point of not creating one for him. As soon as he’d finished I said to him, ‘Bill, you’re a gem! If I’d only had the sense to stick with consulting you rather than marrying you, both of us would have been a whole lot happier.’
    Before he could blow it and queer the pitch between himself and the eavesdropping Janet, I hung up. ‘Sorry. Got to go!’
    That’s how it is when you’re childless. People like us can simply walk away. When it’s over, it really and truly can be over.
    Not like for poor Geoffrey. He might have tried to draw a veil over his big mistake, but, by God, the old fist kept punching through. Lost socks. Forgotten trysts at nursery school. Changes in payment schedules. Dates for holidays. It just went on and on.
    At the start, his ex-wife was quite rude to me. I’d lift the ringing phone and say hello, and there she’d be, distant, dismissive: ‘May I please talk to Geoffrey?’
    The first two times, I handed him the phone, or called to him to pick up somewhere in the house. The third time, I was tougher. ‘Listen, Frances,’ I told her, ‘this is my phone line and, as you know, my name is Tilly. So, when you ring, at least have the manners to say, “Hello, Tilly,” before you ask to speak to Geoff. It’ll make all the difference.’
    Then I called Geoffrey and left the receiver lying on the kitchen counter.
    Next time, she tried it on again. ‘I need to speak to Geoff.’
    I put the phone down and she rang back at once. ‘Did you hang up on me?’
    ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You forgot the “Hello, Tilly” bit.’ And I hung up again.
    She rang a third time. ‘Just give me Geoffrey, please. It’s quite important.’
    Here is another thing about the childless. We don’t spend every hour God sends imagining urgent messages about our precious offspring coming in, unheard, from Accident and Emergency.
    I pulled the phone plug out of the wall.
    A few days later, Frances rang again. Things went quite well. The moment she heard my voice, she let out that little annoyed noise you make when you reach a recording. Then, with the restrained impatience with which people offer their security password for the third time in a row, she rattled off, ‘Good morning, Tilly. Can I talk to Geoff, please?’
    ‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘I’ll get him at once.’
    And that was that. From time to time, she would forget. I’d let it ride unless it happened twice in a row, in which case I’d say carelessly, ‘Hello? Hello? I’m sorry, I can’t hear you,’ and hang up.
    ‘What is her problem with me?’ I asked Geoff. ‘It’s not as