A Bouquet of Barbed Wire, page 13
She said easily, ‘Oh, it will be all right, you’ll see. Don’t worry. And I love the way you say Sarah.’
‘Sarah.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re a beautiful girl, Sarah.’
‘Am I? Did I please you?’
‘Yes. Very much.’
‘You pleased me too. Very much.’
Somehow this exchange frightened them both: it was too absolute, it seemed final, marking the end of something. Sarah said, ‘Well. Shall I get us a drink or some coffee? I asked you before but you didn’t answer so I thought you were asleep.’
‘No. I was thinking.’
‘Not sad thoughts. Please. I promise you it’s all quite all right.’
He said, ‘No, not sad thoughts.’ He chose his words carefully. ‘I was thinking I care for you.’
‘You don’t have to say that, you know.’
‘No. I know.’ Strange how tenderness tipped into anger.
‘But I care for you, too. That’s the trouble. I’ve broken a rule.’
‘What rule?’
‘My own rule.’ She stroked his shoulder. It was funny seeing him naked and tousled, and remembering his office suit, his hair immaculately brushed. She was glad he had plenty of hair. ‘My rule not to care.’
‘What kind of a rule is that?’
She smiled, feeling sad. “The first law of survival. Don’t you know it?’
‘It sounds like death to me.’
‘Does it?’ She sat up. She suddenly felt much older than he, and protective. ‘Then you must be very brave.’
He put a hand on her arm. ‘Don’t be cynical, Sarah, it doesn’t suit you.’
‘Doesn’t it?’
‘No.’
‘Why, because I’m so young? That’s got nothing to do with it. I know about me. If I care I get hurt and behave badly.’
‘I’m not going to hurt you.’
‘No, of course not.’
‘I mean that.’
‘I know you do.’
‘And I can’t imagine that you could ever behave badly.’
She sighed. ‘Why do you think I’m so nice? You don’t know me at all.’
He said seriously, ‘Are you wishing we hadn’t done this?’
‘Oh no. No.’
‘Then why all the sadness?’ He pulled her back, down to him and wrapped his arms round her. She buried her head in his shoulder, wanting to hide. He said, ‘Darling, listen,’ and she stiffened, ever so slightly, at the word. ‘You’re lovely and precious and you’ve made me so happy I can never repay you. Please don’t be sad, or I shall feel I’ve taken advantage and behaved like an old-fashioned cad. Last night I called myself names all the way home. If I can’t make you happy all the names will be true.’
She said, ‘Oh, you can make me happy, you have. You do,’ her voice muffled against his skin. ‘It’s just—I never imagined this happening.’
‘Neither did I. But now that it has we must make it work. We mustn’t make anyone unhappy, even ourselves. That’s my rule, if you like, though I’ve only just thought of it. Heads everyone wins and tails nobody loses. Isn’t that a good rule?’
‘That’s the best kind of rule.’
They kissed. Sarah said, ‘By the way, you still haven’t told me whose flat this is.’
He hesitated. The temptation to tell the truth was strong, perhaps to set a seal on their relationship. But the temptation to lie was stronger, representing safety and self-preservation. ‘Just friends of mine. No one you know.’
‘A couple? Married and all that?’ She sat up.
‘Yes.’
‘But they don’t mind? Us in their bed and everything?’
‘Well, we’re not exactly in it.’ They were lying on top of the bedspread and he had been careful to spread a towel.
‘No, but the principle’s the same. The married are generally on the side of the married, aren’t they?’
He wondered how she knew that. ‘They’re my friends, not Cassie’s.’ Deeper and deeper in. It felt odd to speak her name in these circumstances. Unlucky.
‘And you’re sure they won’t mind?’
He felt irritated by her questioning and his own thoughts. ‘I told you. Why go on about it?’
‘Sorry.’ She sounded very innocent. ‘But it’s odd to be in their flat, in their bed, and not know anything about them. It makes me feel strange. I feel I ought to know more. For instance are they young or old, happy or unhappy?’
‘Young and happy.’
She studied his face. ‘You sounded bitter when you said that. Do you envy them?’
‘Yes, I suppose I do.’ He had been mad to bring her here and mad, having brought her, not to lie properly and make a thorough job of it.
She got up, wandered over to the dressing-table, smoothed her reflected hair and opened a drawer. ‘Don’t,’ he said sharply, a reflex.
She stared at him in the mirror. ‘Why not?’
‘I’d rather you didn’t, that’s all.’
She said slowly, ‘It’s your daughter’s flat, isn’t it? I think I knew all the time.’
20
PRUE LAY in the sun. She had pictured herself on a crowded beach, flaunting her stomach, which was developing a most gratifying curve. But Gavin had neglected to tell her that the cottage was not by the sea and she had not thought to consult a map. So she lay in the garden instead, on a small patch of ground they had cleared of long grass, and watched herself turning brown and glistening with oil. There seemed to her something inexpressibly voluptuous about sunbathing while pregnant. She even chose to lie on the ground, with a cushion under her back, rather than in a deckchair. She wanted contact with the earth. When she closed her eyes and the bright colours chased across her eyelids, she felt at peace on the ground, as if she and the child had come home. Earth Mother—Mother Earth, she chanted softly to herself when Gavin was out of earshot. She felt she was doing herself positive good, just as much as by absorbing vitamins, but she did not want to appear ridiculous.
Gavin was very brown, too. It had not taken long, given their honeymoon tan, for they both had tough skins and could spend most of their time in the sun. She thought she had never seen him so attractive. He even waited on her a little now that her pregnancy was actually visible. And rushed to put his hand on her stomach when the baby kicked. She loved him.
All the same, she was restless. It was a perfect existence: sun, food, wine, sleep, love. She could not have improved on it. Yet something was lacking. She felt she had opted out: that somewhere the real world continued without her. She was afraid that when she got back to it, it might have changed unrecognisably, away from her influence. She liked to remain in touch with things; she did not believe that everything would continue properly, lacking her supervision.
There were insects in the long grass near her, bigger or brighter, or both, than the ones in England. She squinted at them through half-closed eyes, feeling like Gulliver. Occasionally one would alight on her or run across her, which she rather liked, although she worried a bit that the sun-oil might have an adverse effect on its feet. Gavin admired her: to her amazement he thought she was very brave not to make a fuss. Apparently his aunt had always screamed if an insect of any description came near her. And he admitted once having placed a beetle on the pillow of a girl friend he had wanted to get rid of: it was easier than telling her to go. Prue had felt a strange thrill at this story, the simple cruelty of it, and the logic. But she thought it unfair that he should admire her courage in the garden. She did not disillusion him, but no courage was required to accept what did not worry you. She had noticed before that often you were given credit for things that took no effort at all; the really difficult things passed unnoticed and unpraised. He had been overly impressed by her forgiveness over the black eye incident, too. She thought this proved that she knew him better than he knew her, which rather pleased her. It was fun to keep a secret self, dark and mysterious, tucked away inside her; it made her feel powerful and important. Doubly pregnant, in fact.
He came towards her now, out of the house, naked and carrying a tray. They both sunbathed naked in the private little garden, though sometimes she felt the need of a bra as her breasts were growing heavy. She laughed now, at the sight of him: the image of a nude waiter was irresistible. He had two tall yellow drinks on the tray in long thin glasses clinking with ice. They were making their own citrons pressés. In fact they hardly went out: every day to the village for fruit and vegetables, cheese and eggs, bread and fresh milk, but never to a restaurant. They had no inclination, they could not afford it and there was nowhere to go. They had brought all they could in their luggage: hardly any clothes but packets of soup, coffee, tea, tins of fish, and cartons of cereal. They had more or less stopped eating meat, and their cigarette consumption had dwindled: it was too hot to smoke. But they drank gallons of wine bought locally and stored in the larder. She had never felt so healthy in her life. And in the night, when she woke, it was always to thoughts of the baby, growing firm and strong inside her. She tried to remember the diagrams she had seen and wondered which stage it was at. It would be all hers. Her child. Hers and Gavin’s.
She sat up and took the tall lemon glass and sipped it gratefully. Rivulets of sweat, having collected in the crease, now ran down her arm. Her knees if she pressed them together left little damp patches. Her head swam with the sudden movement of sitting up. She was dazed with heat.
Gavin sat beside her with his glass in his hand and they both stared idly at the cottage, blindingly white in the sun. She said, ‘Fancy living here all the year round.’
‘They don’t; they rent it out.’
‘Well, you know what I mean. Fancy owning it.’
He shrugged. ‘Why own when you can borrow?’
The lemon was very cold and sharp. The sourness made her mouth contract. ‘You’ve got some useful friends.’
‘Yeah.’
She studied him. Black hair and black eyebrows; curly black hair from shoulders to navel and a sprinkling on his back; tough black hairy legs. And the whole of him so brown. He was more like a monkey than ever. An ape. Or a gorilla. A beautiful monkey. (She wished she knew more about monkeys.) She began to laugh.
‘What’s the joke?’
She said the first thing that came into her head. ‘I was thinking I’d like to telephone home.’
‘What the hell for?’
‘Oh, not parents. Our home. The flat. Just to see if it’s still there. I’d like to hear our phone ringing and know it still exists, it seems so far away.’ She wondered if he would make love to her soon. It was really too hot, though; they usually waited till evening. But she liked to do it in the garden. She almost wished there were other houses nearby—not too near, but with just the possibility, no more, just the uncertainty of being overlooked and never knowing for sure. That would have done something to her, she decided.
She finished her drink and lay down, smiling at Gavin. She said, ‘I hope Sue remembers to water the plants.’
21
CASSIE SAID, ‘I tried to phone you, but you’d already left.’
‘Yes, I left early and came straight from the office. How bad is she?’
They both spoke in low voices, instinctively. The whole atmosphere of the house was hospitalised: it even smelt different, and there was an institution air of routine and expectancy about it.
‘Well, it’s not good at her age, of course. (Poor Dad, he’s worn out, he’s been with her for hours.) But the doctor seems to think she has a fair chance. Only I never know whether to believe them when they’re being cheerful. Funny, isn’t it? If he was gloomy I’d believe him like a shot.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘It’s marvellous to have you here. I’ve felt so alone trying to cheer Dad up and keep the boys out of the way.’
‘How are they taking it?’
‘Oh, they’re a bit subdued. It’s rather awful—they keep saying to me, “Granny’s not going to die, is she?” and I have to say, “I don’t know, I don’t think so.” I can’t say I’m sure she won’t because then it would be so much worse for them if she does—oh, Peter.’
Tears. He put his arms round her and let her cry against his jacket. He was deathly tired. Driving home and sleeping badly after Sarah’s abrupt exit, going to the office full of trepidation and finding no Sarah but a message ‘Miss Francis phoned to say she won’t be in today, she has a sore throat,’ then a day full of phone calls and no one to syphon them off, irritatingly punctuated by Rupert (‘Where’s your Miss Thing, playing hookey already?’). He had left early, deeply dispirited by the past twenty-four hours and set out on the long drive to Devon. How quickly it all turned to—what was it called?—wormwood and gall. Was this what ‘they’ meant by retribution? And now to find Cassie so distraught, so much in need of his comfort, was the final ironic straw. Illness was the last thing he had expected; with so much upturned in his own life he had not left room for drama in anyone else’s.
‘Poor love,’ he said to Cassie. ‘Poor love.’ He kissed the top of her head. All the guilt and exhilaration of yesterday had faded into a kind of weary tenderness. ‘You’ve been very brave. I’m sorry you had to be alone with it all this time.’
She looked up and smiled. He was moved and alarmed to see how much his presence comforted her; he felt undeserving. ‘Well, there was Dad.’
‘Yes, so you had to be strong for two; and cope with the boys. Shall I go up and see if they’re asleep? If they’re not I could make reassuring noises.’
She looked grateful. ‘Oh yes, would you? They’d love that. I went up half an hour ago and they were still awake then.’
He poured her a drink. ‘First things first.’
‘You are good to me.’
* * *
‘Is Granny going to die?’
Manson sat on a chair between their beds. ‘We don’t know for sure. But the doctor thinks she’ll probably get better, so you mustn’t worry too much, all right?’
They nodded solemnly. He saw in their bright, sleepy eyes the typically childish mixture of genuine concern and a certain ghoulish enjoyment.
‘If we pray will it help?’ School religion was strong at this age, he noted.
‘It might.’ He never knew how far to communicate his own doubts to them: as wrong surely to indoctrinate doubt as certainty. He compromised. ‘But if it doesn’t it will be because she’s too ill, and we wouldn’t want her to live if she couldn’t get better, would we?’ Strange how this fraud must be perpetrated on the young, that everything happens for the best, as if they could grow up in a different world and never learn the truth.
One twin shook his head obediently. The other, already a free thinker, said, ‘I would.’
His brother turned on him. ‘Oh, you wouldn’t.’
‘Yes, I would.’
‘But that’s not fair. She wouldn’t enjoy herself any more.’
‘She doesn’t enjoy herself much anyway.’
‘She does when we’re here.’
Manson admired their self-confidence. He said, ‘Well, the odds are she’s going to get better, so you’ll just have to be quiet in the house for a day or two, and let her get plenty of rest. All right?’ He wanted to go now. His stomach was aching for a drink and the back of his neck, after such a long drive, felt ridged with cement.
The more ghoulish one of the two said, ‘If Granny dies will Grandad come to live with us?’
Manson froze: this was out of the mouths of babes with a vengeance. He had not looked ahead at all and here he was, presented with it. He wondered if it had occurred to Cassie.
The other twin said obstinately, ‘But she’s not going to die.’
‘She might.’
‘If she dies will she go to Heaven?’
‘Of course she will.’
‘No, she won’t.’
‘Well, she won’t go to Hell, will she? She’s good.’
‘She’ll go to Purgatory like everyone else. My friend Sullivan says everyone goes to Purgatory before they go to Heaven because no one’s quite good enough to go straight there. He’s a Catholic.’
The other twin, the disbeliever, roared with laughter. ‘He’s silly.’
‘No, he isn’t.’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘He’s my friend and he’s not silly.’
He longed to leave them to it but he couldn’t; he was obliged to say, ‘Do you want to wake Granny up and make her worse?’ They sobered instantly.
‘No.’
‘Oh, no.’
‘Well, then, you’ll have to keep quiet. Try and go to sleep now and tomorrow you can make all the noise you like on the beach.’
He tucked them up; he did the good night-and-a-glass-of-water routine. Walking down the passage, so tired he felt he might fall down at any moment, he found himself suddenly and unaccountably thinking of Sarah. Her face flashed on the screen of his mind, all dark eyes and pale hair and sharp bones and that look of concern, and he said to himself, ‘Oh, my love, where are you?’ There was no place for her here, and being here illustrated the insanity of what he had done more clearly than anything else. Turning the corner of the passage, he almost bumped into his father-in-law coming out of the sick-room. He had been so far away in his thoughts that this really startled him but the old man noticed nothing. His eyes were glazed and red; Manson even thought he might have been crying. The old people were what was popularly called a devoted couple.
The old man said absently, ‘Ah, there you are, my boy. Good to see you.’ He put his hand on Manson’s arm. Contact was rare between them, reserved for occasions of great emotion. Manson’s and Cassie’s wedding, the births of the children, Prue’s wedding. Similarly the words ‘my boy’. As always they moved Manson strongly, coming as they did, so seldom, from a man he hardly knew, whose daughter he had long ago taken away. He gripped the hand and felt the veins sticking up like soft string.
He said, ‘I’m so terribly sorry, is there anything I can do?’
The old man appeared to consider, as if there actually might be. Then he said, ‘No. No, I don’t think there is. Except—just hold the fort for a moment, I don’t like to leave her alone.’ He shuffled off into the lavatory.
