Second Chance Read Free Page A

language making it clear that he was there under protest and wouldn’t be staying.
    â€˜She never liked it when I was “the other woman”,’ I said, making another effort to be sociable. ‘“Where did it come from?” she used to ask me. “All that wickedness?” “Wickedness is easy,” I’d say. “It’s goodness I can’t get hold of. No experience of that.” Will you have a cup of tea?’
    â€˜No thank you, love, I mustn’t stay any longer. And you’ve got masses to do, I’m sure. Maggie Davies will be up here after dinner, that’s Lorna’s mother-in-law. She’ll do everything you want, but she’ll charge, mind. Five pounds an hour she charges visitors. But you tell her you’re not a visitor and four pounds is all you’re prepared to pay. Get it straight from the start. I was a friend of your mother’s, anyone would tell you that, I always did what I could for her, but Maggie was usually ready to run her down. Well, people aren’t perfect, and we wouldn’t like them if they were, but it’s just as well to know where you stand, isn’t it? Maggie likes things her own way, Lorna would tell you the same, and you have to stand up to her. No, don’t get up. I’ll let myself out. You keep an eye on Arthur... What did you say your manfriend was called? Paul. Oh yes, I remember your poor mother mentioning him. Paul Farringdon. A photographer. Nature programmes on BBC 2 if I remember right.’
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    I phoned home two or three times that evening, but there was no reply. Paul was due back from Spain sometime during the afternoon; perhaps his flight had been delayed, perhaps he’d gone out for a meal, thinking I’d forgotten him. Of course I should have left him a note. Belatedly, I decided to leave a message on the answerphone. ‘Paul, I’m at my mother’s. Please ring as soon as you can.’ I fully intended to tell him about her sudden death, but found I couldn’t. After putting the phone down, I rehearsed the words several times. ‘My mother’s dead. My mother’s dead. My mother’s dead.’ I still couldn’t quite believe it. On Sunday morning when I’d last spoken to her, she’d seemed her usual self, talking about her next visit to me, wondering whether she’d get the coach all the way, or take the train from Shrewsbury as she usually did, and wanting me to find out which would be cheaper. Even though I paid her fare, she was always intent on finding bargains.
    My mother liked Paul. She thought he was steady and reliable and advocated marriage. ‘He’s done that,’ I used to tell her, ‘and it didn’t suit him too well.’
    â€˜Perhaps he married the wrong woman. Why don’t you propose to him? There’s no shame in it nowadays.’
    She prided herself on her knowledge of modern manners, gleaned from television plays and The Mail on Sunday .
    At one time I wanted marriage and children, but the right time and the right man never coincided. And now that it seems too late to have children, there doesn’t seem much point in it. Paul has two daughters, Selena and Annabel, whom I try to like. They’re both at Cambridge, but too wild to get much out of it. When I was at university I worked like a maniac; I had to get a good degree and a grant to go to drama school afterwards. Selena and Annabel don’t have to put themselves out in any way; they’ll have wonderfully rewarding lives however little they do. Their mother, Francesca Bird, is very rich and owns an art gallery in the West End and their father is a moderately prosperous photographer who adores them.
    As for me, I’ve worked hard and played hard and my life has been fairly successful and fairly happy. I’ve had many disappointments, some of which still rankle, but I’ve always done my best not to get into any situation which