Early in 1952 he came over to Oxford for a couple of days to do some work in the Bodleian. He was writing a book reinterpreting the work of St Thomas Aquinas in terms of modern theology. Thats where he and Janet saw each other, in the library. It was, Janet said, love at first sight. He looked at me and I simply knew.
Even now, I find it very hard to think objectively about David. The thing you have to remember is that in those days he was very, very good-looking. He turned heads in the street, just as Janet did. Like Henry, he had charm, but unlike Henry he wasnt aware of it and rarely used it. He had a first-class degree in theology from Cambridge. Afterwards he went to a theological college called Mirfield.
Lots of smells and bells, Janet told me, and terrifyingly brainy men who dont like women.
But Davids not like that, I said.
No, she said, and changed the subject.
After Mirfield, David was the curate of a parish near Cambridge for a couple of years. But at the time he met Janet he was lecturing at Rosington Theological College. They didnt waste time they were engaged within a month. A few weeks later, David landed the job of vice-principal at the Theological College. They were delighted, Janet wrote, and the prospects were good. The principal was old and would leave a good deal of responsibility to David. David had also been asked to be a minor canon of the Cathedral, which would help financially. The bishop, who was chairman of the Theological Colleges trustees, had taken quite a shine to him. Best of all, Janet said, was the house that came with the job. It was in the Cathedral Close, and it was called the Dark Hostelry. Parts of it were medieval. Such a romantic name, she said, like something out of Ivanhoe. It was rather large for them, but they planned to take a lodger.
The wedding was in the chapel of Jerusalem, Davids old college. Janet and David made a lovely couple, something from a fairy tale. If I was in a fairy tale, I told myself, Id be the Ugly Duckling. What made everything worse was my fathers death not so much because Id loved him but because there was now no longer any possibility of his loving me.
Then I saw Henry standing on the other side of the chapel. In those days he was thickset rather than plump. He was wearing a morning suit that was too small for him. We were singing a hymn and he glanced at me. He had wiry hair in need of a cut and straight, strongly marked eyebrows that went up at a sharp angle from the bridge of his nose. He grinned at me and I looked away.
Ive still got a photograph of Janets wedding. It was taken in the front court of Jerusalem. In the centre, with the Wren chapel behind them, are David and Janet looking as if theyve strayed from the closing scene of a romantic film. David looks like a young Laurence Olivier all chiselled features and flaring nostrils, a blend of sensitivity and arrogance. He has Janet on one arm and is smiling down at her. Old Granny Byfield hangs grimly on to his other arm.
Henry and I are away to the left, separated from the happy couple by a clump of dour relations, including Mr and Mrs Treevor. Henry is trying half-heartedly to conceal the cigarette in his hand. His belly strains against the buttons of his waistcoat. The hem of my dress is uneven and I am wearing a silly little hat with a half-veil. I remember paying a small fortune for it in the belief that it would make me look sophisticated. That was before I learned that sophistication wasnt for sale in Bradford.
John Treevor looks very odd. It must have been a trick of the light perhaps he was standing in a shaft of sunshine. Anyway, in the photograph his face is bleached white, a tall narrow mask with two black holes for eyes and a black slit for the mouth. Its as if they had taken a dummy from a shop window and draped it in a morning coat and striped trousers.
A moment later, just after the last photograph had been taken, Henry spoke to me for the first time. I like the hat.
Thanks, I said, once Id glanced over my shoulder to make sure he was talking to me and not someone else.
Im Henry Appleyard, by the way. He held out his hand. A friend of Davids from Rosington.
How do you do. Im Wendy Fleetwood. Janet and I were at school together.
I know. She asked me to keep an eye out for you. He gave me a swift but unmistakable wink. But Id have noticed you anywhere.
I didnt know what to say to this, so I said nothing.
Come on. He took my elbow and guided me towards a doorway. Theres no time to lose.
Why?
The photographer was packing up his tripod. The wedding party was beginning to disintegrate.
Because I happen to know theres only four bottles of champagne. First come first served.
The reception was austere and dull. For most of the time I stood by the wall and pretended I didnt mind not having anyone to talk to. Instead, I nibbled a sandwich and looked at the paintings. After Janet and David left for their honeymoon, Henry appeared at my side again, rather to my relief.
What you need, he said, is a dry martini.
Do I?
Yes. Nothing like it.
I later learned that Henry was something of an expert on dry martinis how to make them, how to drink them, how to recover as soon as possible from the aftereffects the following morning.
Are you sure no one will mind?
Why should they? Anyway, Janet asked me to look after you. Lets go down to the University Arms.
As we were leaving the college I said, Are you at the Theological College too?
He burst out laughing. God, no. I teach at the Choir School in the Close. Davids my landlord.
So youre the lodger?
He nodded. And resident jester. I stop David taking himself too seriously.
For the next two hours, he made me feel protected, as I had made Janet feel protected all those years ago. I wanted to believe I was normal and also unobtrusively intelligent, witty and beautiful. So Henry hinted that I was all these things. It was wonderful. It was also some compensation for a) Janet getting married, b) managing to do it before I did, and c) to someone as dashing as David (even though he was a clergyman).
While Henry was being nice to me, he found out a great deal. He learned about my family, my fathers death, the shop, and what I did. Meanwhile, I felt the alcohol pushing me up and up as if in a lift. I liked the idea of myself drinking dry martinis in the bar of a smart hotel. I liked catching sight of my reflection in the big mirror on the wall. I looked slimmer than usual, more mysterious, more chic. I liked the fact I wasnt feeling nervous any more. Above all I liked being with Henry.
He took his time. After two martinis he bought me dinner at the hotel. Then he insisted on taking me back in a taxi to my hotel, a small place Janet had found for me on the Huntingdon Road. On the way the closest he came to intimacy was when we stopped outside the hotel. He touched my hand and asked if he might possibly see me again.
I said yes. Then I tried to stop him paying for the taxi.
No need. He waved away the change and smiled at me. Janet gave me the money for everything.
5
In those days, in the 1950s, people still wrote letters. Janet and I had settled into a rhythm of writing to each other perhaps once a month, and this continued after her marriage. Thats how I learned she was pregnant, and that Henry had been sacked.
Janet and David went to a hotel in the Lake District for their honeymoon. He must have made her pregnant there, or soon after their return to Rosington. It was a tricky pregnancy, with a lot of bleeding in the early months. But she had a good doctor, a young man named Flaxman, who made her rest as much as possible. As soon as things had settled down, Janet wrote, I must come and visit them.
I envied her the pregnancy just as I envied her having David. I wanted a baby very badly. I told myself it was because I wanted to correct all the mistakes my parents had made with me. With hindsight I think I wanted someone to love. I needed someone to look after and most of all someone to give me a reason for living.
Henry was sacked in October. Not exactly sacked, Janet said in her letter. The official story was that he had resigned for family reasons. She was furious with him, and I knew her well enough to suspect that this was because she had become fond of him. Apparently one of Henrys responsibilities was administering the Choir School bank the money the boys were given as pocket money at the start of every term. He had to dole it out on Friday afternoon. It seemed he had borrowed five pounds from the cash box that housed the bank and put it on a horse. Unfortunately he was ill the following Friday. The headmaster had taken his place and had discovered that money was missing.
At this time I was very busy. My mother and her solicitor had decided to sell the business. I was helping to make an inventory of the stock, and also chasing up creditors. To my surprise I rather enjoyed the work and I looked forward to going to the shop because it got me away from the house.
When there was a phone call for me one morning I thought it was someone who owed us money.
Wendy its Henry.
Who?
Henry Appleyard. You remember? At Cambridge.
Yes, I said faintly. How are you?
Wonderful, thanks. Now, what about lunch?
What?
Lunch.
But where are you?
Here.
In Bradford?
Why not? Hundreds of thousands of people are in Bradford. Including you, which is why Im here. You can manage today, cant you?
I suppose so. Usually I went out for a sandwich.
I thought the Metropole, perhaps? Is that OK?
Yes, but
Yes, but isnt it rather expensive? And what shall I wear?
Good. How about twelve forty-five in the lounge?
There was just time for me to go home, deal with my mothers curiosity (A friend of Janets, Mother, no one you know), change into clothes more suitable for the Metropole and reach the hotel five minutes early. It was a large, shabby place, built to impress at the end of the century. I had never been inside it before. Only the prospect of Henry gave me the courage to do so now. I sat, marooned by my own embarrassment, among the potted palms and the leather armchairs, trying to avoid meeting the eyes of hotel staff. Time moved painfully onwards. After five minutes I was convinced that everyone was looking at me, and convinced that he would not come. Then suddenly Henry was leaning over me, his lips brushing my cheek and making me blush.
Im so sorry Im late. He wasnt Id been early. Lets have a drink before we order.
Henry wasnt good-looking in a conventional way or in any way at all. At that time he was in his late twenties but he looked older. He was wearing a grey double-breasted suit. I didnt know much about mens tailoring but I persuaded myself that it was what my mother used to call a good suit. His collar was faintly grubby, but in this city collars grew dirty very quickly.
Once the dry martinis had been ordered he didnt beat about the bush. I expect youve heard my news from Janet?
That youve youve left the Choir School?
They gave me the push, Wendy. Without a reference. You heard why?
I nodded and stared at my hands, not wanting to see the shame in his eyes.
The irony was, the damn horse won. He threw back his head and laughed. I knew it would. I could have repaid them five times over. Still, I shouldnt have done it. You live and learn, eh?
But what will you do now?
Well, teachings out. No references, you see, the headmaster made that very clear. Its a shame, actually I like teaching. The Choir School was a bit stuffy, of course. But I used to teach at a place in Hampshire that was great fun a prep school called Veedon Hall. Its owned by a couple called Cuthbertson who actually like little boys. For an instant the laughter vanished and wistfulness passed like a shadow over his face. Then he grinned across the table. Still, one must look at this as an opportunity. I think I might go into business.
What sort?
Investments, perhaps. Stockbroking. Theres a lot of openings. But dont lets talk about that now. Its too boring. I want to talk about you.
So thats what we did, on and off, for the next four months. Not just about me. Henry wooed my mother as well and persuaded her to talk to him. We both received the flowers and the boxes of chocolates. I dont know whether my mother had loved my father, but certainly she missed him when he was no longer there. She also missed what he had done around the house and garden. Here was an opportunity for Henry.
He had the knack of giving the impression he was helping without in fact doing very much. Let me, hed say, but in fact youd end up doing the job yourself or else it wouldnt get done at all. Not that you minded, because you somehow felt that Henry had taken the burden from your shoulders. I think he genuinely felt he was helping.
Even now it makes me feel slightly queasy to remember the details of our courtship. I wanted romance and Henry gave it to me. Meanwhile he must have discovered while helping my mother with her papers that my fathers estate, including the house and the shop, was worth almost fifty thousand pounds. It was left in trust to my mother for her lifetime and would afterwards come to me.
All this makes me sound naive and stupid, and Henry calculating and mercenary. Both are true. But they are not the whole truth or anything like it. I dont think you can pin down a person with a handful of adjectives.
Why bother with the details? My fathers executor distrusted Henry but he couldnt stop us marrying. All he could do was prevent Henry from getting his hands on the capital my father left until after my mothers death when it became mine absolutely.
We were married in a registry office on Wednesday the 4th of May, 1953. Janet and David sent us a coffee set of white bone china but were unable to come in person because Janet was heavily pregnant with Rosie.
At first we lived in Bradford, which was not a success. After my mother died we sold the house and went briefly to London and then to South Africa in pursuit of the good life. We found it for a while. Henry formed a sort of partnership with a persuasive businessman named Grady. But Grady went bankrupt and we returned to England poorer and perhaps wiser. Nevertheless, it would be easy to forget that Henry and I had good times. When he was enjoying life then so did you.
All things considered, the money lasted surprisingly well. Henry worked as a sort of stockbroker, sometimes by himself, sometimes with partners. If it hadnt been for Grady he might still be doing it. He once told me it was like going to the races with other peoples money. He was in fact rather good at persuading people to give him their money to invest. Occasionally he even made them a decent profit.