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 I’d glanced over my shoulder to make sure he was talking to me and not someone else.
‘I’m Henry Appleyard, by the way.’ He held out his hand. ‘A friend of David’s from Rosington.’
‘How do you do. I’m 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 I’d have noticed you anywhere.’
I didn’t know what to say to this, so I said nothing.
‘Come on.’ He took my elbow and guided me towards a doorway. ‘There’s no time to lose.’
‘Why?’
The photographer was packing up his tripod. The wedding party was beginning to disintegrate.
‘Because I happen to know there’s 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 didn’t 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. Let’s 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. David’s my landlord.’
‘So you’re 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 father’s 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 wasn’t 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.’
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. That’s 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 Henry’s 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 – it’s 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 I’m here. You can manage today, can’t you?’
‘I suppose so.’ Usually I went out for a sandwich.
‘I thought the Metropole, perhaps? Is that OK?’
‘Yes, but –’
Yes, but isn’t 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 mother’s curiosity (‘A friend of Janet’s, 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.
‘I’m so sorry I’m late.’ He wasn’t – I’d been early. ‘Let’s have a drink before we order.’
Henry wasn’t 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