The Art of Smoking A Good Cigar

Chapter One

When I look back upon my marriage, it is like watching swimmers underwater: much is hazy and blurred; all is coloured with the murky half-light of echoing footsteps, snatches of half-remembered conversations and muffled accusations. Mostly, I remember that I loved him once and that this was not enough.

The letter from Robert’s sister, Maria, came this morning. It was a surprise to hear from her; we have stayed in touch through birthday cards and Christmas letters but nothing more, until today. After Robert’s funeral, it was difficult to see Maria, awkward to cope with her sympathy, until, finally, the distance between us stopped her visits. I never stopped liking her.

Her letter, I suppose, has made me nostalgic. She has been thinking about the past, when she would visit us for long country weekends. Had I realised that it would have been our fortieth wedding anniversary next week, had Robert lived to see it? Then an apology, of course I would have known this. Actually, I hadn’t noticed the passing of the weeks, months and years – hadn’t measured my days in these terms. It felt strange to realise that Maria had done so for me.

When someone dies, when do they stop being here? It took me a long while to believe that Robert was gone forever. For many months after the funeral, I would expect to glimpse his car rounding the corner, feel his breath upon my neck as I sat reading, see the curls of his cigar smoke plume into the air in the public bar. But when, finally, I realised he had gone, that was that. I thought no more about him, other than to place flowers upon his little corner of the cemetery.


Chapter Two

It was a long, hot summer when I met him. I had lied to my parents about my reasons for staying up at Oxford during the holidays, which stretched before me like a vast expanse of summer meadow. They were happy to hear that I had been asked to stay on as a research assistant and happy to hear that I would not need looking after. College was somewhere safe, somewhere that I would be fed, watered and worked hard. The truth, that I was using the time to catch up with overdue essays while waitressing at The Randolph Hotel for pocket money, would not have reassured them. I think that, even then, I was concerned to protect them from reality.

I had almost finished my shift one Thursday when Lynne, the manager, asked me for a quick word. She smiled, orange lips drawn back over stained teeth, and her eyes expressed her apology.
“Will you work late tomorrow? You’re not down for the evening shift but…” her question trailed off, waiting for my response. The extra money would come in handy but I wasn’t pleased at the idea of losing my free evening.
“We’re really pushed – Jane’s just quit and we’ve got a big party for dinner tomorrow. I’ll see that it’s worth your while.” With a dramatic wink, Lynne turned and walked out but I knew what she meant and I knew that she meant there’d be an extra ten bob, cash in hand, for me at the end of the evening. I tried hard to feel pleased.

It is easy to become melodramatic, to marvel at the twists and turns of life’s long journey – short journey in Robert’s case, as it turns out – to wonder at the what-ifs and the might-have-beens. I doubt that Robert gave it a second thought but for the rest of that long, hot summer I thanked the Fates for causing me to work that extra evening shift at The Randolph, for allowing me to meet him for the first time. He was one of the big party that Lynne had mentioned, a junior partner celebrating with the big bosses.

I hadn’t noticed him at first. Big parties were a nuisance, big parties of drunken businessmen especially so. I had taken the orders, shown them to their table and left them to it. I remember that Lynne had tracked me down in the kitchen and found me puffing guiltily at my forbidden cigarette.
“Strictly no smoking in the kitchen!” she had trilled, before sending me out with the coffee. She looked flushed and excited. “He’s been asking where you are,” she added confidentially. “Worried you’ve snuck off home.”
“Who?” I asked, puzzled.
“Him – the one that’s still got his own hair.” She indicated in the general direction of the big table. Without my spectacles, the faces were a blur of pink and red. I felt nothing – no thrill of premonition.

It’s a tendency of mine to over-analyse, to wonder why things happened and how they could have been prevented. It seems clear that in every situation, there was always a moment, an opportunity, to stop the train of events, to say no, I don’t want this. That moment, peering at the flushed faces, trying hard to focus above the din of braying, male voices, that was the moment I could have walked away. But instead, I walked towards my future, towards Robert. What else could I have done?

As soon as I reached the table, I knew that it was him. It came as no surprise when he leapt up and tried to help me with the tray of coffee. It came as no surprise when his colleagues began nudging one another and stifling their sniggers. It also came as no surprise when one man, a white-haired, gentle-looking man with a walrus moustache, tried to place his hand on my bottom but, by then, previous experience had taught me to slide away effortlessly. I focused instead upon Robert, his dark hair, his piercing blue stare, his confident smile. He was like no man I’d ever met and I suppose that’s when I knew that I would do anything he asked of me. Anything.

Chapter Three

Looking back, I can see that it was no foundation for a marriage. It was lust and gratitude, rolled into one. It sounds so old-fashioned now, to believe in love at first sight, but I honestly believed in it then. Of course, I wasn’t a total innocent – I’d had boyfriends before - but this was something new. It felt real.

He drove a red convertible and we would spend those summer evenings, when I wasn’t earning pin-money at the hotel, driving through the Oxfordshire countryside, in search of the perfect country inn. Before too long, Robert suggested that I should give up the summer job and concentrate on my studies. I protested, said that I needed the money, but my protests were half-hearted. Five weeks of washing pots and waiting tables had taken their toll and besides, with all the emergency shifts I’d been working, I really needed to devote some time to my college work.

“A beautiful creature like you shouldn’t be waiting on tables,” Robert declared. “How much do they pay you there, anyway? I’ll match it and then I can see you whenever I want.” He squeezed my waist and kissed me on the cheek. I laughed at his deadpan expression but he didn’t laugh back.

So that was that. Robert walked me to the nearest telephone box and I rang Lynne with my news. She was none too happy but what could she do? I felt bad leaving her in the lurch in the middle of the tourist season but Robert was right, there was no point in getting sentimental. We walked, arm in arm, back to the riverside inn. The sun had almost set and the sky was streaked with purple and red. I felt very small and very delicate as Robert stopped and embraced me.

“Let’s have another round – to celebrate,” he whispered in my ear. His breath was cool and thrilling and – I swear this is true – all the tiny hairs stood up on the back of my neck. As Robert headed over to the bar, I sat back down at our corner table and watched him confer with the landlord. Even facing away from me, his broad back, strong legs and his shock of thick, dark hair hinted at his handsomeness. I smiled inwardly as I realised that this man, this perfect man, was willing to give up his hard-earned money to see more of me.

When he returned to the table, he carried a tray with two glasses and a bottle of sparkling wine.
“No champagne, darling, I’m afraid,” he murmured, expertly removing the cork with a pop. “This is the nearest thing they had.” I grinned as he passed me my glass and clinked it against his own.
“To love,” he announced.
“To freedom,” I giggled.
“I’ve booked us a room, is that alright? Much more of this stuff and I won’t be in any state to drive us home.” He held my gaze, suddenly earnest. What could I say?


Chapter Four

Since I started working at the women’s refuge, I’ve come across all sorts of stories, the kind that you think only happen to other people, in other streets, in other towns. Nothing can prepare you for the sadness and the heartache; nothing can take that away. Over time, you learn to distance yourself from other people’s pain but it’s always there, waiting to break through the surface. It’s hardest when something about a woman reminds me of myself. I don’t want reminders of how close I’ve been, how close we’ve all been.

Of course, I’m only guessing at that last bit. Even now, in today’s climate of openness and talk show revelation-style honesty, women don’t really talk about these things. That’s why the refuge is there – these women will, eventually, confide in strangers what they are unable to tell their own mothers. And then, then the floodgates are open and there’s no going back. In fact, in most cases, there’s no staying put because that’s too dangerous as well.

It’s hard to know for sure what the women at the refuge are most scared of. For some, the fear of their husband (partner, I should say, these days) is equalled only by the fear of the unknown world that awaits them – and their children – when they eventually walk out through the heavy front door for the final time. For others, it’s the fear of not being reclaimed, the fear that they might remain with us for the rest of their natural lives, that there will be nobody hammering on the front door at 3am, yelling in drunken rage. When I first started working here, I thought they were pathetic. Now I know better.

It isn’t what I had planned out for my future. To tell the truth, I never had much of a plan but I certainly never envisaged a part-time job working with battered women as my future career. The phrase seems so hackneyed, a bit of a cliché – battered women (“battered this, battered that”) – but they are, you know. Battered and bruised, inside and out, so that everything hurts unimaginably.