To Have and to Hold Page 12

  She heard Ken take a breath. ‘I went on this biking holiday to Belgium,’ he said.

  ‘Belgium?’

  ‘Well, it’s flat.’

  She smiled. She wanted to ruffle his hair but she should know by now he didn’t like that; he would consider it patronizing.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘she was German. I thought it would be easier if I didn’t speak the language. It was on this camp site. It was awful.’ He stubbed out his cigarette and passed her the ashtray. She balanced it on her blanketed stomach. Outside, the hooting continued. ‘Someone shone their torch in, and all the noises . . .’

  ‘Multilingual screwing?’

  He shook his head. ‘The couple in the next tent, they were English and they were arguing about her mother, and how she ought to be put into a home now she was incontinent.’

  She burst out laughing and ruffled his hair; she couldn’t help it.

  ‘Not very conducive,’ he said. ‘I’d never seen a naked woman before, my mother was very . . .’

  She nodded. ‘I know.’

  ‘Or even sort of naked. Except for Brenda.’

  ‘The one with the charm bracelet?’

  He nodded. ‘Brenda would, well, show you, for five bob. Which was a lot of money.’

  He stopped. Opposite, the solicitor’s light flickered on again; somebody must have forgotten something.

  ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘So I washed our neighbour’s car, and polished it with wax, and got the five bob. Well, I paid her, and she showed me, in the boiler room, and do you know what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Next day my neighbour pranged his car. A write-off. I felt terrible.’

  ‘Why?’

  He paused. ‘I thought it was the wrath of God.’

  She didn’t know whether she should laugh. She concentrated on the window; opposite, the lights were again switched off. The room was gloomy now the daylight was fading.

  She said: ‘What did Ann say?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When you told her?’

  He turned to look at her. ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Why not? It’s a wonderful story.’

  ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s my wife.’

  She couldn’t help herself this time; she burst out laughing. ‘You are an extraordinary person.’

  ‘Don’t say that!’

  ‘Why not?’

  He turned away. ‘I’m not in a test tube.’

  There was a silence. At the basin the tap started dripping; it had a life of its own. She said gently: ‘I’m sorry,’ and got out of the bed. With her back to him she pulled on her briefs and then, swiftly, her dress. She turned: ‘Do I look a mess?’

  He gazed at her. He said: ‘You look very young.’

  She buckled up her belt. ‘You don’t have to say that.’

  ‘Can’t I?’

  She didn’t reply. She wished he would get up. She pulled on her tights; how can one do this fetchingly? Impossible. She should have worn stockings again. She started brushing her hair.

  ‘So do you still believe in the wrath of God?’ she asked.

  He hadn’t moved. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I don’t know anything any more.’

  She ran her fingers through her hair and shook her head to make it curly. She felt she was sitting on a silent stage. ‘Well don’t worry,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She gestured around: the dripping tap, the darkening window, his clothes heaped on the chair. ‘This room must never have known such worthy sex.’

  He stared at her. She could no longer see his face clearly.

  ‘Worthy?’ he asked.

  ‘Isn’t that the word?’

  ‘Is it?’ He gazed at her, still not moving.

  Ann was cutting up liver; the strips slumped on to the wooden board. In the early years of their marriage she had got Ken to do this for her; she couldn’t bear to feel the slippery, wet bonelessness of the stuff. Besides, she had liked him protecting her and smiling at her disgust. But she had pulled herself together; squeals were less charming in one’s thirties. Or was it that he had stopped offering? He used to hover around her in the kitchen, busying himself with something, as if the air in the other rooms were thinner with her absence. But wouldn’t one be a fool to expect that to last through fourteen years of marriage, a flat and then a house, several thousand meals?

  Seven o’clock. The radio pips sounded; it was only then that she realized the radio had been speaking all this time and she hadn’t heard a word. She looked out into the garden; it was smaller than Viv’s, and paved because Ken had said you couldn’t keep a lawn this size. Tubs stood around the walls, spaced as regular as sentries; they glimmered white and attentive. In them, wallflowers had faded in the evening gloom. April had come in cool and blustery.

  Above the wall Ken had fixed a trellis; it unsuccessfully screened Mrs Maguire’s washing – gently rocking Babygros and Mr Maguire’s enormous underpants. She thought: there is no mystery in my garden. How barren and self-respecting it looks. She felt herself flush with shame, for hadn’t she herself helped Ken to make it that way, working beside him, clearing rubble and laying slabs?

  She felt tired and old and her fingers were bloody. It had seemed a long day; strange how much more exhausting work could be when one’s mind was distracted. She heard the front door click. Ken paused in the hall, clearing his throat. He always did that, when he was looking at the letters. She only realized that now.

  Behind her, he entered the kitchen.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. He never said ‘hi’, he said ‘hello’. Or had she just not noticed? What else had recently escaped her, that she must now rewind and inspect with her sore eyes? New words; old clearings of the throat.

  She half turned. He was carrying his sports holdall.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘Had a swim.’

  She turned back to the liver. ‘You don’t have to explain, you know.’

  A silence. ‘What?’ he asked.

  Her knife was sharp; the liver parted, pink, soft as butter, as she cut it. She said: ‘Exactly where you’ve been.’

  ‘But I have been swimming! Look!’

  He came up to her, grabbed her free hand and pressed it on to his wet hair. She pulled her hand away, showing him her bloody fingers.

  ‘Ugh!’ he said.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  She had finished slicing the liver. She put on the tap, a little turn of the cold, a little turn of the hot, and washed her hands under water.

  ‘Ann . . .’

  She went on washing.

  He said: ‘It’s about this clinic business. There’s something I’ve got to tell you.’ He paused.

  ‘Don’t!’

  He stared. ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘She spoke swiftly: ‘Don’t tell me.’

  He looked at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t spell it out.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘It might relieve you . . .’ She spoke more gently, and turned to address the sink. ‘But I don’t want to know.’

  There was a pause. He cleared his throat. ‘How did you . . .?’

  ‘I guessed,’ she said. ‘Remember, I’ve known you an awful long time.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Please!’ She swung round.

  He gazed at her. ‘Don’t you care?’

  ‘Of course I care. What do you think?’

  He sat down at the table and ran his hands through his hair. It stood up in spikes. ‘Oh God.’

  ‘But this is more important than how I feel,’ she said. ‘Or how you feel. Do you understand?’

  He stayed sitting there, gazing at the cruet.

  She said: ‘And after all, it’ll soon be over, won’t it?’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Won’t it?’ she asked.

  He nodded.

&nb
sp; She turned back to the sink and rinsed the chopping board; then she washed up the knife. ‘Just promise me one thing,’ she said. She stared out at their little garden. Of course she loved it. She said: ‘If this is going to work, I don’t want you crawling in like a dog that expects to be beaten.’ She dried the knife on the tea-towel. ‘I won’t beat you.’ She moved over to the units and opened a drawer. ‘But please don’t say how grateful you are.’ She laid the knife in the drawer, with the others, and closed it.

  Ollie closed the Kelly’s Street Directory. There was an odd, echoing sensation between his ears, as if his skull had swelled.

  Ellie passed him, and paused at his desk. ‘Found what you were looking for?’ she asked, pointing to the Kelly’s.

  He nodded, slowly, and stood up. ‘You going to lunch?’

  ‘Hey!’ Ellie’s flushed face flew past him. He pushed harder. She was sitting on a child’s roundabout, her bleached hair flying. ‘Hey, stop it!’ She put out her boot; it scraped as the roundabout slowed down.

  She jumped off, breathless. ‘You must’ve been a right bully once.’

  He nodded. ‘I used to pull the wings off little girls.’

  ‘Well, keep your hands off mine,’ she said, smoothing down her skirt. ‘They’re the only pair I’ve got.’

  He didn’t smile. She looked at him curiously as they walked out of the playground and down the street towards the piazza. It was warmer today; a watery sun shone on the yellowed stone columns. Ollie led her to a cocktail bar and they sat down at an outside table.

  When the drinks came she looked in her glass and said: ‘Like fruit salad in here.’ She took out a cherry and ate it.

  ‘Like it?’

  She took a sip and grimaced. ‘Tastes like the stuff me mum gave me for my tonsillitis.’

  There was a pause. Then he said. ‘You come from a happy family, don’t you?’

  She shrugged, and nodded.

  ‘It shows,’ he said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘You know how to trust people.’

  She raised her eyebrows, but he didn’t say any more. Instead, he indicated her drink. ‘I’ll get you something else.’

  She put her hand over her glass. ‘I want to be wicked and sophisticated.’

  ‘Don’t!’

  ‘What?’ She stared.

  ‘Stay as you are.’

  She looked at him in surprise. They sat in silence. Ollie finished his drink; she sucked a mint leaf. Down the piazza, a group of people started shouting. Ollie jerked his head in their direction. ‘Is that street theatre or are they just pissed?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just a Covent Garden joke,’ he said.

  She grinned. ‘You seem to be cheering up.’

  He paused. ‘Only because of you.’

  In the staffroom, teachers were taking out their lunch. Harold opened a can of Tizer. It hissed. He stared at it and said: ‘Now why did I buy this?’

  Madeleine looked out of the window at the watery sunshine and said: ‘It almost feels like spring.’

  The room hummed with the desultory monologues of those who have worked hard all morning. Harold settled behind his Guardian.

  ‘Never guess who’s taking up the cello.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Shane.’

  ‘Shane?’

  Mr Masterman, who did not resemble his name, dozed in his corner. Miss Hasnain, who was new, wrote some notes. Adam, who taught games, lit a roll-up. Just then there was a knock on the door.

  Harold called out: ‘Go away!’

  There was a pause, then another tap.

  ‘No!’ said Harold.

  Finally he sighed, got up and opened the door.

  ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Sorry. Thought you were a kid.’

  A woman stood there: pleasant, forgettable face, now anxious. Pale pink lipstick; neat brown hair; buttoned two-piece. Spotless kitchen; inhibited in bed; Catherine Cookson reader. Nice legs, bet nobody told her; dull shoes. He tried to guess, in a flash, whose mother she must be. He always did this but he was usually wrong. ‘Come in,’ he said.

  She looked around. ‘Er, is Vivien Meadows here?’

  He shook his head. ‘She had to go home. Gas man cometh, she said.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘You’ve got a child in her class?’

  ‘No,’ said the woman. ‘I’m her sister.’

  He looked at her. ‘Gosh.’

  She stood there, undecided. He pointed to the phone.

  ‘Give her a ring; she should be there by now.’

  The woman thought for a moment, then rummaged in her handbag for some change. Yes, thought Harold: could be. Shorter, of course; not so pretty; not the style. But nice mouth like Viv’s, no wonder he’d noticed the lipstick. The sort of woman, rounded and complete, who could sit in a staffroom for years and not be noticed, but when one did one found her a pleasant surprise. Two kids: Bruce and Sally. Not a tooth filling between them, and they wrote thankyou letters on Boxing Day.

  Harold watched her at the phone and, thinking of his own children, sighed.

  Ken stood at the window. Viv lay on the floor, face down, doing press-ups. Today it was the next room to what now seemed their usual.

  She lowered herself up and down. ‘Only a hotel,’ she gasped ‘would ever think of having a mustard and maroon carpet.’

  Ken, who was putting on his tie, looked down at the shops.

  Keys Cut, Ears Pierced. He thought of Viv at sixteen, having her ears pierced; he flinched at the damage. Keeping his voice light, he turned and said: ‘I once saw a sign saying, “Ears Pierced While You Wait”.’

  She collapsed on the floor laughing.

  He said: ‘Wouldn’t have much choice, would you?’ He looked at her as she lay on the floor, pale and slender. She wore red lace briefs; today, for the first time, no bra. He said loudly: ‘Go on!’

  She went on with the press-ups. ‘How many do you do?’

  ‘Thirty.’

  ‘Jesus.’ She went on, gasping. He turned away. She stopped and said: ‘My body’s starting to feel different, I’m sure it is. It feels fitter.’

  He gazed at the dusty window-pane. ‘Mine feels different too,’ he said.

  ‘How?’

  There was a silence. Then he said: ‘It feels alive.’

  In Viv’s empty living room the phone was ringing. Finally it stopped.

  Viv, still breathless, pulled on her jeans and jumper. She sat down again, leaning against the bed. Ken hadn’t moved from the window.

  ‘It’s so peaceful here,’ she sighed, closing her eyes. ‘No phones, no noise. Like we’re in a calm bubble. Uncomplicated. At home, everything’s such chaos, everybody yelling, the girls wearing odd socks because I can never sort them out.’

  Ken turned from he window. ‘They do look a bit of a mess.’

  ‘What?’ She opened her eyes.

  ‘The girls.’

  She stared at him. ‘You can’t say that! We’re not married.’

  There was a silence. Somewhere in the building a door slammed. ‘Of course we’re not,’ said Ken at last. ‘It was stupid.’

  She struggled to her feet and hurried over to him. ‘Ken –’ She put her hand on his arm; he jerked away.

  ‘I’ve no rights,’ he muttered. ‘No rights at all.’

  ‘Come here.’ She touched him again; he pushed her off.

  ‘You really know how to hurt someone, don’t you,’ he said. ‘Calm, is it? Nice calm bubble? So delightfully uncomplicated?’ His voice rose; he flinched at his own shouting. ‘Well listen to me, Vivien Know-it-all Meadows, you college miss, think you’re so clever, let me tell you something. It’s bloody complicated!’ He roared out the words at her. ‘It’s utter bloody chaos!’

  They stared at each other, appalled. Then he grabbed her and kissed her, hard. She turned her face away but he wrenched it back. With one hand he pulled up her jumper and pushed her towards the bed. She stumbled, gripping him, and fell back
on to the blankets.

  Ann sat on the bench opposite Viv’s house. The sky had clouded over as if the sun, after shining fitfully all day, had finally become dispirited by the world it had illuminated.

  In fact it had started to drizzle. Ann shivered. Viv’s car appeared and stopped outside the house. Viv climbed out, just like any mother, with the girls. Ann heard raised voices as the children protested about carrying the shopping in. Viv wore a new pink track-suit. She went into the house with the girls. How could Ann speak, with them there?

  But then Viv reappeared, without the girls, to fetch the last bags. Blameless teacher, housewife, mother. How blamelessly harassed she looked. As she unloaded the bags she noticed Ann. She slammed shut the car door and hurried over, crossing the road and jumping the low wall into the playground.

  ‘Ann!’ she gasped. ‘How nice to see you. Come in, it’s raining.’

  Ann didn’t move. ‘I tried to phone.’ She indicated the tracksuit. ‘Never seen you in one of those.’

  ‘Trying to get fit.’ Viv smiled, still out of breath. ‘Come on.’

  Ann shook her head. She paused, then said: ‘I just wanted to say I know what’s happening.’ After repeating the words to herself all day they came out pinched and bright, like stage dialogue.

  Viv stared at her, then she moved forward and sat down, heavily, beside her.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ said Ann. ‘All I wanted to ask, in case I put my foot in it – does Ollie know?’ She turned. Viv’s hair was sparkling with rain; she shook her head slowly. Ann looked down at Viv’s pink-clad thighs, speckly now. She stood up. ‘Must go.’

  Viv jumped up. ‘But –’

  Ann smiled at her and indicated the track-suit: ‘It’s not your colour,’ she said kindly.

  Ollie looked at his watch. 6.30. Across his desk lay scattered the transcripts for his drug abuse piece. All afternoon he had told himself he must start editing them. But the typing seemed so wearingly dense, like a code he no longer had the urge to decipher. When alarmed about this he told himself it was just the effect of three cocktails at lunchtime. That was simple, wasn’t it?

  He stacked the transcripts to one side. He must go home. It unnerved him that he feared to open his own front door. What would she be doing? Making the children’s supper, wearing her familiar jeans? How could he bear to speak?