The House At Sea’s End

He rings Whitcliffe who, typically, isn’t answering his phone. It’s six o’clock. Whitcliffe is probably out on the town somewhere. If you can go out on the town in Norwich, that is. Whitcliffe isn’t married but Nelson has no idea if he is gay or what his mother would call a ‘womaniser’. Tony and Juan, who own Michelle’s hair salon, seem to know every gay person in Norfolk and Nelson has never seen Whitcliffe at one of their parties. Not that Nelson often goes to Tony and Juan’s parties. It’s not homophobia, he explains to Michelle, so much as plain old-fashioned misanthropy. But, gay or straight, Whitcliffe’s life outside the force is a closely guarded secret. He’s a career officer, a graduate, someone adept at saying the right thing in the right words at the right time. He has nothing in common with Nelson who joined the cadets at sixteen and thinks of himself as a grafter rather than a thinker. Whitcliffe may be a Norfolk boy but to Nelson he seems more of a Londoner – smooth and slightly shifty, the sort of person who wears red braces and drinks in City wine bars. But ambitious policeman Gerald Whitcliffe is also the grandson of a man who, in the war, took a blood oath to protect… what? Who?

Nelson is still brooding on the Whitcliffe family when Michelle comes wafting in from work. She’s the manageress of the salon now; it’s the sort of place frequented by women who spend their mornings having coffee and their afternoons shopping. On the rare occasions when Nelson has visited his wife at work he has had to fight his way through shiny Land Rovers outside and designer carrier bags inside. Still, it pays well.

Michelle kicks off her shoes. She always wears high heels for work. Nelson approves. In Blackpool women still dress up for work and to go out in the evening. It’s different down south. His own daughters seem to spend all their time slopping about in ridiculous puffy boots. As for Ruth, he can’t remember her shoes but he is sure that (unlike the Land Rovers) they bear evidence of mud and hard work.

‘Want a cup of tea?’ Michelle asks, putting her head round the door of the study (still called the playroom by Laura and Rebecca).

‘I should make you one,’ says Nelson, not moving.

‘Don’t bother,’ says Michelle, without rancour. ‘I’ll do it.’

He hears her moving about in the kitchen and is struck by a sudden tenderness for her. They have made this home together – the shaker-style kitchen, the sitting room with its leather sofas and wide-screen TV, the four bedrooms and two en-suite bathrooms. And soon, when Rebecca goes to university, they will be on their own in it. Nelson and Michelle married when he was twenty-three and she was twenty-one. Michelle was pregnant with Laura within six months of the wedding. They have hardly ever been on their own. In Blackpool, when Nelson was working all hours as a young policeman and Michelle was looking after the children, her mother was in almost permanent residence. Nelson hadn’t minded. Against all tradition, he likes his mother-in-law, an attractive sixty-year-old with a vibrant taste in sequinned jackets, and he had realised that Michelle needed company. When he was promoted and they moved down to Norfolk (which was Michelle’s idea, as he is often reminding her) there were always the kids, their friends, other mums, neighbours. The house has never been empty. But now Nelson can hear the leaky tap dripping upstairs and the clink of the cups as Michelle takes them out of the dishwasher. Soon it will be just the two of them.

Nelson follows Michelle into the kitchen, where she is sorting out the post.

‘Why don’t you ever open letters, Harry?’ she asks mildly.

‘They’re always bills.’

‘They still need opening. And paying.’

Nelson ignores this. Michelle always pays the bills from their joint account. ‘Have you heard from Rebecca?’ he asks.

‘Yes. She’s staying the night at Paige’s.’

‘She’s never here, that girl. Is she going to do her homework at Paige’s house?’

‘Coursework,’ corrects Michelle. ‘I expect so. She’s working very hard, you know.’

Nelson doesn’t know. Rebecca seems to spend most of her time at home watching reality TV or doing something inexplicable called ‘chatting on MSN’. He can’t remember the last time he saw her read a book, but then, he’s not exactly a reader himself.

Michelle has reached the last letter which is encased in a rather eye-catching purple envelope. She holds it up for Nelson’s attention.

‘This is a bit different.’

‘Probably a nutter,’ says Nelson, surveying it with a professional eye.

And, in a way, he’s right.

You are invited, reads the black text on the pale mauve card, to Kate’s naming ceremony. Place: under the stars. No presents please, just your positive energy.

‘Kate,’ says Michelle, ‘it must be from Ruth.’

‘Must be.’