Keeping Time: A Novel
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Stacey McGlynn
Reading Group Guide copyright © 2011 by Stacey McGlynn
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Broadway Paperbacks, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. www.crownpublishing.com
Broadway Paperbacks and its logo, a letter B bisected on the diagonal, are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Originally published in slightly different form in the United States by Crown Publishers, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, in 2010.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
McGlynn, Stacey.
Keeping time : a novel / Stacey McGlynn.
p. cm.
(alk. paper)
1. Older women—Fiction. 2. British—United States—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3613.C4866K44 2010
813′.6—dc22
2010008925
eISBN: 978-0-307-46442-2
COVER PHOTOGRAPHS © (WOMAN) MASAAKI TOYOURA/TAXI JAPAN/GETTY IMAGES;
(HOUSE) JACQUI HURST/DORLING KINDERSLEY/GETTY IMAGES;
(GATE) KARYN R. MILLER/GETTY IMAGES
v3.1
To Rob,
because of always
<0">
The character of Daisy Phillips was inspired by the incomparable Dot Nicholson of Liverpool, Englbody aid="2RHM
<0">
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Sevenardware storehabme
Chapter Forty-Eight
Acknowledgments
About the Author
ONE
COME ON, MUM. It’s not as if you’re being put out to pasture.” Words by Dennis. Aimed at Daisy. Tipping the evening on its side.
Fifty-five-year-old Dennis, sitting on the taupe linen sofa, across from the mahogany cocktail table. His new wife, Amanda, beside him, not saying a word. Dennis, leaning forward, patiently waiting to hear all the things Daisy wasn’t saying. Then, hammering on. Forcing a smile. “I hope you’re not thinking that.”
Actually, Daisy Phillips was thinking that.
Smelling the grass of the pasture.
Feeling the tickle of the blades under her nose.
Searching her son’s face for some scrap of infanthood, a glimpse of childhood, a shred of adolescence. Nothing. Silly to think there might be, but Daisy was groping, thoroughly shaken.
Dennis, “I think, we think”—gesturing to include Amanda—“you’d really like it there. It’s crazy to go on like you’ve been.” Meaning to continue living in the house she had been born in and had inherited from her parents. The house she had spent her whole life in. Dennis, going on: “Life would be a permanent holiday.”
Daisy, not replying. Too prim, too proper, with an elegance, a grace that never had to be taught, a perfectly straight back that did. Ironed into her by a mother who had spent a lifetime focused on the wrong things. Daisy, staring down at her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Adjusting her ring.
Dennis, thrusting the colorful glossy brochure into her eye line. Daisy, turning away. Dennis, holding it there for a moment, shaking it as though it needed shaking to get her attention. Not getting a response, Dennis, sighing. Putting it on the table next to him. Saying, “You can take the brochures home with you. Look through them when you’re ready. Amanda and I think The Carillion would be perfect for you. There’s a lot more to these senior homes than you know. At least think about it, okay?”
Daisy, looking at him. Meeting his eye. “I’d like to go home now.” Standing up, smoothing her pleated beige skirt over her narrow hips.
Dennis, hoisting himself off the sofa. “I can take you right aways retirement pha home and if you’d like.”
Daisy, “I’d like that.” Nodding.
MINUTES LATER DENNIS, the top of his head glistening with rain from the trip out the front door to the car, driving his silent mother home, leaving the dark splashing streets of Merseyside for the dark splashy streets of Saint Helens, northeast of Liverpool. His wiper blades lashing noisily back and forth, rerunning the conversation in his head. He had not gotten nearly as far as he had hoped. Amanda would surely lay into him when he got home.
Pulling slowly into the driveway at 24 Rosemary Lane. Slipping the gear stick into neutral. Turning to his mother. “I hope you had a nice dinner.”
“Yes. It was very nice, thank you.” Stiffly.
“Look, Mum”—adjusting himself in the seat to face her—“I’m sorry, but it’s been hard on me having two houses to maintain—two lawns to mow, two networks of pipes and wires to worry about. I appreciate that you try not to call me, but things always do seem to come up, and I’m not so young myself anymore. And you know Amanda wants to move to Chessex, to be nearer her family. And now that Gabriel’s finishing school, there’s really nothing keeping us here. We’ve already started looking at houses. Chessex is beautiful. You could have a cozy little apartment at The Carillion, with me and Amanda close by. Think of it as an adventure, a new chapter in your life.”
Daisy, nodding her head. Slightly. Turmoil deep within.
Dennis, feeling a charge of relief. Maybe they were getting somewhere.
Her hand on the passenger side door catch. Leaning over. Kissing him. “Good night, Dennis.”
“Good night, Mum.” Dennis, watching her ease out of the car, before scurrying nimbly up the stone front walk, past the stone wall. Glimpsing her disappearing behind the cheerful yellow door, flanked by climbing red roses flush against white stucco, on her thatched-roof home half-timbered with exposed dark beams.
Not seeing what was on the other side of that cheerful yellow door: Daisy leaning heavily against it, her shaking frame pressing against its solid frame, surrendering to a fast-moving current of tears.
THE FOLLOWING SATURDAY, Dennis, calling. Daisy had been dreading his weekly call all morning.
She had spent the whole intervening week in a closed-circuit loop over his recent proposal—locked in a cycle of ignoring it, denying it, being annoyed by it, irate over it, despairing because of it, hungering back to ignoring it again.
And now a ringing phone.
Daisy, picking it up. She had to. It was a responsibility growing stronger every day, knowing that Dennis wouldn’t be thinking that she was busy in the kitchen, living room, or bath. He would be afraid that she was dead in the kitchen, living room, or bath. Sighing. Answering it.
An exchange of greetings. Brief pleasantries. Dennis, not getting to it right away. Saying first that he couldn’t mow her lawn yet again because of the rain. Further discussion about the ceaseless rain. Then finally, the main point: asking if she had had a chance to look through the brochures.
Daisy, assuring him that she had—and a little while agoed to ul she had, as they flew through the air into the wastepaper basket.
Dennis, asking what her thoughts were. About an apartment at The Carillion. About moving to Chessex.
Daisy, saying, “Oh my, what’s that?” Saying sorry, she had to go. Someone was at the door. Pity they couldn’t talk longer.
Partly true. Someone was at the door.
Daisy was at the door. Putting herself there, in the rain, with the portable phone. Saying their talk would have to wait until next Saturday, or until the rain finally let up and Dennis could come and mow the grass.
Hanging up, thin strands of guilt flowing through her. Pushing them aside. Hurrying to get ready to go to the club. A train to catch. An early lunch with friends, followed by shopping in the afternoon, and stopping for tea.
Daisy, standing at the gilded mirror above the bathroom sink, putting on makeup. Running a wide-toothed comb through her light brown hair. Applying lipstick. Taking a good hard look at herself. Her face, especially her chin—long, always had been, not brought on by the duplicities of aging. Her features small, delicate on a perfectly shaped head. Her nose, narrow. Big light blue eyes behind oval wire-rimmed glasses. Her cheekbones, not too crinkled, her forehead, not too smooth. Wavy hair, parted on the left side, thick clumps of bangs swooping off in both directions, forming a series of Cs and Js across her forehead. Her hair long enough to reach her eyebrows, short enough to reveal her earlobes, curling under at the collar in the back. A tiny, slender woman of seventy-seven. Gifted with an ever-present smile, an easy laugh.
Taking a deep breath. Standing as tall as she got. Confident, defiant, upbeat.
Ignoring a slow, steady dripping from the shower head.
HER FRIENDS, GATHERED AROUND HER—Gladys, Marylin, Cate, Ellen, and her favorite, Dot. Umbrellas, drenched raincoats at the door.
Daisy liked these weekly luncheons. Taking the train into the city. Lunching, shopping at the rejuvenated Albert Dock. Feeling part of something with the city beating around her. Liverpool, recently voted Europe’s cultural capital. The Merseyside Waterfront regional park and the whole waterfront area drew millions of visitors every year. The Cavern Club, the Beatles Museum, and the childhood homes of the former Beatles still attracted fans from all over the world. The cafés, pubs, heart-stopping architecture, cutting-edge theaters—all of it contributing to the energy Daisy loved.
If only the skies weren’t consistently hosing the place down.
But that was Liverpool.
Daisy, feeling good. Wearing a new dress—navy with beige trim—that fell just below her knees. Sensible low-heeled navy shoes. Smiling during the conversation. Buttering her bread. Ordering the lamb. Ignoring nagging unpleasantries pecking away at her. Going over what she had lately been thinking about: hitting Dot up with a proposal.
Waiting for the appropriate lull in the conversation, then turning her attention to Dot, to get her idea out. Daisy, full of hope and slowly gathering excitement at spilling the words.
But then Dot blew her away, speaking first. Mentioning innocently that she was going on holiday for the summer. To Spain, where her daughter had a house. Shooting down Daisy’s idea before it even got out of her mouth. Not giving Daisy the chance to say a little while agoed to ulthat she’d been thinking the two of them should go on holiday together. To Ireland. Or Scotland. Even Wales.
When Paul was alive, he and Daisy had traveled several times a year. Both loved exploring; together they had covered much of the globe. But Daisy hadn’t been anywhere in the last four years—not since Paul died. She hadn’t even thought of it. Until recently. Startling herself, imagining traveling again—on a much smaller scale, of course. Places she could drive to. She just had to figure out with whom. Dot’s face had presented itself, and after thinking it over for some time, Daisy had concluded that Dot would indeed be the ideal travel companion. They liked the same things, needed their tea at precisely the same time, craved the same schedule of bed at night and waking in the morning, were equally active—which was to say they were unusually energetic for their ages—and were both devoted to the same evening ritual: Cointreau with mixers. Dot was as good a stand-in for Paul as Daisy could imagine.
But no sooner were the words “Dot, I’ve been thinking” out of Daisy’s mouth than Dot dropped her bombshell. Daisy, nodding, smiling, wishing her well, her disappointed eyes sweeping around the table of faces to see if anyone else might be a candidate.
Dismissing each in turn. That creeping feeling again. Of walls closing in, of dreams swirling down drains, of possibilities not yet lived like dandelion seeds on wings of birds, launched, full of potential but never hitting the ground. Unable to shake the feeling that her best days were behind her. Paining her to find travel on that list, too—that great, sweeping list.
Sighing. When Paul went, everything went. Except her house, 24 Rosemary Lane. Still hers. It was not going to be stored away like short skirts, high heels, her passport—not if she could help it. Dennis and Amanda could go. Let them go to Chessex, but not with her.
She woion/xhtml+xml;
TWO
WEDNESDAY, STILL RAINING. All of England under a deluge. People wondering if it would ever stop. Newspapers and television carrying stories of overflowing rivers, flooding streets, jammed motorways. Water, seemingly everywhere.
And where there wasn’t water, there was dampness—lodged in houses, clothes, teeth, bones. People shaking their heads, trying to make the best of it. Citing how green the grass was, how happy the June flowers.
Daisy, at work. Seated behind the front desk at the local library, her part-time employment since Paul died. The shop had quickly become too much for her to manage by herself. She offered it, but neither son wanted it. Dennis was happy enough writing for the magazine Artifacts, Archaeological Treasures, and Antiquities. Talking about starting another book to follow up his last. And Lenny? Out-of-shape, overweight, never serious Lenny worked too hard at not working. A real job to get the mower out Ahatt with real responsibilities would interfere with his minimalist freelance photography divorcé lifestyle. So Daisy rented the shop out, including the apartment above, and set about living on the income. The library job was just to be out and about in the world. To keep her head in the game.
To get the bestsellers before they hit the shelves.
Daisy, three pages into a home improvement manual. The plumbing chapter. An interruption, cutting into her concentration. She had been staring at the illustrations of shower heads and the pipes leading to them for more than thirty minutes, making every effort to prevent the black ink from diffusing into inscrutability. The interruption—a welcome hand on her shoulder—therefore, not at all perturbing. Turning to see Grace Parker looking down at her.
Daisy, preparing an answer as to why she was nose-deep in the mysteries of plumbing repair when Grace hit her with something else: “I’m leaving. I wanted to tell you personally.”
“Leaving?” Daisy, wondering if she meant the room. The day? Forever? Hoping it wasn’t the last.
It was. “I’m retiring.”
Retiring! Sirens, bells, alarms, whistles. Daisy, not k
nowing what to say. Certain her mouth was hanging open, unable to close it. How old was Grace, anyway? She had to be younger, but by how much? Half a decade? A whole decade?
“Two weeks from today.”
Daisy, focusing on Grace’s ears. She had noticed them fleetingly in the past, but now she couldn’t stop considering them. On this tall, attractive, statuesque, silver-haired, clear-skinned, minimally wrinkled woman hung the pointiest ears Daisy had ever seen. They stuck to the sides of her head as if a pavement artist or political cartoonist had created them for the comedic effect of exaggeration. Daisy could see that Grace tried to cover them with her hair, but at her age that was a tall order. She had probably been able to hide them easily enough in her younger years, but old age insisted on revealing things. Yanking away crutches when we needed them most.
Daisy, apparently, on the ears too long. Grace’s hands speeding to their defense, patting her hair down over them.
Caught. Daisy, disgraced. Recovering quickly. Saying, “Oh, Grace, my Mondays and Wednesdays won’t be the same without you. Of course I’m happy for you, very happy.”
“Thank you. It’s hard to leave after so many years, but Hal and I feel that it’s time. We’re selling the house, buying a flat, and traveling. We have four children scattered around the world. We might as well start enjoying life now while we’re still healthy enough.”
Daisy, nodding kindly. Voicing appropriate words and sentiments.
Very much wanting to go home.
DAISY COULDN’T REMEMBER the last time she had been in a hardware store.
Standing out on the pavement under her umbrella, gazing into the shop window, trying to remember. Concluding at last that it was probably with a grape lollipop in her hand and Mary Janes on her feet, on a Saturday afternoon generations ago with her father. Not wanting to delay the second foray any longer, in she went.
From what she could tell, sauntering through the aisles, not much had changed. Same musty, dusty attitude. Same lighting. Same sense of reassuranceEEP IN THE NIGHT. Daisye close that they could fix life’s problems. Armed with a digital camera loaded with pictures of her shower head, Daisy hurried to the back of the store to get assistance from the old man—older than she was, she was sure—behind the counter. He carefully studied the photographs of her shower head. Clutching her small silver camera in his wide red hand, he was able to diagnose the problem.