Neither Arthur nor Jess had relations. It’s not unknown for a person in middle age not to have family, but unusual for both of a couple to have no family at all.
Arthur Baker came from Canada. He arrived in Europe with the Canadian Army during the first war and never went back. After the war he came to Ireland with an army friend to his home in Tipperary. There he met Jess, who was English and working nearby as a governess. They married and some years later moved to our town. That’s as much as anybody knew about them.
Arthur was at least six feet four, with a shock of grey hair. Like many tall people he walked with a slight stoop. He was a soft gentle man. He had a long face and when he smiled, as he did often, his mouth withdrew and his lower jaw moved to one side. He was a great romancer. He told stories in the first person that came straight from the ‘Reader’s Digest’.
Jess was small in build, stopping just short of plump. She was no more than up to Arthur’s shoulder. She wore crepe-soled walking shoes and walked with a firm stride. She had a stern face, but when she spoke she looked you straight in the eye and occasionally her face dissolved into a warm smile.
They lived about a mile outside the town in a cottage they had renovated and extended themselves. Arthur was manager of the local newspaper printing press. He was not a businessman but was a genius with machines. Jess kept house and looked after Muff, their golden cocker. Arthur was fond of the dog too but it was Jess’ idea that she sleep between them at night.
Apart from Arthur’s work they weren’t involved in anything in the town and they had no connection with a church of any denomination.
When I was a child Arthur and Jess were friends of my parents. In the winter they came in at night once every four or five weeks to play bridge and during the summer they occasionally took us to the sea on a Thursday or Sunday afternoon. They had a pre-war Ford ‘8’. The men sat in the front; Arthur driving and my father beside him with me on his knee. The ladies sat in the back; my mother and sister, and Jess with Muff on a rug on her knee. It was a squash in the back but if any one had to suffer discomfort it mustn’t be Muff.
Arthur and Jess took little notice of us children. One day I met Arthur, by chance, in town. He stopped to talk and to my astonishment gave me a half-crown; a lot of money for a small boy.
One winter, for no apparent reason, Arthur and Jess stopped coming to our house. They didn’t return the invitation to play cards when it was their turn. Eventually Jess called to my mother one afternoon. She confided that Arthur, incredible as it seemed, was having an affair.
Arthur was having an affair with Chrissy. In her early thirties, attractive and capable, she ran the business end of the newspaper. It was going on for some time before Jess suspected. At first she dismissed it incredulously. Then more and more of the signs pointed the same way until one day she challenged him. Predictably he denied it. He gave reasonable answers to all her questions. She was easily convinced, as she didn’t think that Arthur had it in him.
Soon, however, the sinister indicators returned. This time Jess set a trap. She had done her homework and on an evening he was to have been away on business she confronted them both in the dining room of a country hotel seven or eight miles away.
As she approached, Arthur stood up.
"We had business to discuss" he started.
Jess looked at Chrissy, whose face went so pale Jess thought she would faint. She turned back to Arthur.
"Take all the time you want to talk business and if you come home when you’re finished the door will be locked."
Jess turned and left.
Arthur took Chrissy back and went home to find that Jess, as he expected, was true to her word. He went into town and with much embarrassment booked into a hotel.
Next morning he phoned home from work and got no reply. At lunch-time he drove out but found the house empty; no sign of Jess or Muff. He put some things in a bag and went to find his chequebook. All of their personal papers were gone. When he got back to work there was a letter that had been delivered by hand. Arthur went into his office, closed the door and read:
Dear Arthur,
You have consistently lied to me for many months now. I have not yet decided what to do. Do not come near the house or try to contact me until I write to you again.
Jess
He sat back in his chair and, like a drowning man, his whole life came before him in a flash. He knew that Jess would work things out carefully and that his best hope was to do as she said. He also knew that there was no future for him with Chrissy, not that there ever had been. For both of them the attraction was forbidden fruit. He tried to convince himself that he and Jess had shared so much she would have him back. He oscillated between believing that she needed him too much and knowing that Jess could survive very well on her own. The thought that he might have to survive on his own filled him with fear.
He was glad it was over. Arthur felt a great relief and kept rehearsing in his mind how he would tell Jess that he had wanted to end it; but the contents of letter kept coming back to him – Jess had said nothing about the affair, her accusation was that he had consistently lied. He knew that for Jess the lies were the greater sin and there was no way he could mitigate that.
Two days passed. Arthur thought of writing a note just to say sorry but since Jess had said in the letter not to, he decided against it. He knew that he had no option but to wait. He felt the anxiety of a schoolboy who had been found out and was waiting to hear his punishment.
The next day was Friday. The thought of spending the week-end living out of a bag, on his own and without work appalled him, but when he got back to his office after lunch there was letter from Jess telling him he could come home.
Arthur was right, it was the lies were the problem. The irony is that if he had told her the truth she would have found it hard to believe. Slowly things healed and life got back to normal. The bridge evenings started again.
About a year later my father was transferred and we moved to Dublin. For a few years we exchanged Christmas cards with the Bakers and then lost touch. I was back a number of times in my late teens and early twenties but the Bakers never entered my head. My parents, who spoke fondly of them when their name came up didn’t enquire.
Shortly after I was married I was back, showing my wife around the town of my birth and the haunts of my youth. I remembered the Bakers and assumed they were dead. They were eight or ten years older than my parents and if alive would be in their late eighties or early nineties.
We drove around by their cottage and parked up the road a little way. It was badly in need of a coat of paint. The garden had been let go and the gravel path was grown over with weeds.
As we looked the stooped figure of a man raised his head from under the bonnet of a car at the side of the house, and straightened his back. He was wearing a cap. "It couldn’t be," I said. "If Arthur is still alive he’s not still tinkering with cars."
I approached, and it wasn’t until I was within a few feet that I thought it might be.
"I’m looking for a Mr Baker."
"Yep, that’s me."
I recognised the slight Canadian intonation. I said my name, and he knew immediately.
"Well, it’s a long time since I’ve seen you."
He was thinner and bent a little further over. He smiled his characteristic smile and said: "Come in, Jess will be glad to see you." It was hard to believe that she too was alive. She was even older than Arthur.
I introduced my wife and he led the way into the kitchen, which was smaller than I remembered it. There was Jess, a small frail figure stooped over a stick, trying to manoeuvre between the cooker and a chair.
"Do you know who this is?" Arthur asked.
"I don’t play guessing games," she said, as she broke her journey and sat on the chair. She looked up and before I could tell her she said my name. They were both pleased to see us but we didn’t stay long as it was lunchtime.
About two years later I was in town again on business. I called and found that the house was closed up. A neighbour told me they had both had a bad ‘flu the previous winter and were moved to the geriatric hospital and wouldn’t be back. I enquired at the desk. The girl gave me ward numbers on two different floors. I came to the female floor first and asked for Jess. It was a large ward with twelve or fourteen beds. There was a smell of urine masked by disinfectant. Jess was in bed with the cot sides up. She was even smaller than last time. Before I had time to speak she opened her eyes wide and said: "Did you hear about Arthur?"
"No," I said.
"He’s going away with a nurse."
"Oh!" I said, and tried to tell her who I was. She lay back and didn’t respond.
"I don’t think she’ll know you" a nurse said passing.
I went to the next landing and found Arthur in a ward not quite as big. He was sitting out beside his bed in his dressing gown, dishevelled, and with his pyjama bottoms around his knees. He was in a state of agitation. He looked at me when I spoke and looked away. He couldn’t keep still. I spoke again and made no impression. I waited a minute or two, tried once more without success and left.
About two months later I saw Jess’ death in the paper. She was buried back in Tipperary where they had lived before they came to our town. I went to the funeral and arrived late. There were five mourners: two neighbours who travelled with the hearse, the son of Arthur’s army friend and his wife and myself. I helped to lower the coffin into the grave, which had a faded headstone on which I deciphered the inscription "Arthur William, ‘Billy’, son of Arthur and Jessica Baker, aged 9 years."