by Janet Ellis
I wished I could push time with a bulldozer, sweeping away their toast and jam and cereal and tea, their teeth-cleaning, their coats and satchels and briefcases, leaving the way clear. After they’d left, I went out into the garden. I was never quite sure which were weeds and which weren’t. Someone had once told me that what loosened easily when you tugged at it was what you should throw away. I pulled at some untidy fronds but they stayed put. Everything looked quite happy where it was. I moved a football, caught in low planting and glazed with mud.
There were some nice little blue flowers; perhaps I could put them in a vase. They weren’t difficult to pick. They might be flowering weeds, for all I knew. I went and got some scissors and snipped away at some other blooms, intending to make a spray. It would prove I’d been outside, anyway.
Adrian’s knock at the window startled me. I was washing up, turning cups and bowls under the running tap. He opened the back door himself before I could get to it. ‘I always like a woman in Marigolds,’ he said. ‘Carry on, I’ll finish this.’ He waved a lit cigarette and then sucked on it, making a circle of his mouth as he exhaled and watching thin smoke rings rise and dissipate. When it was finished, he extinguished the cigarette on the draining board and threw the stub into the garden.
‘Rubber things are hard to deal with, aren’t they?’ he said, watching me prise the gloves from my hands. ‘I love the way you blush so easily.’
‘I don’t,’ I said, holding my palms to my cheeks. ‘Yes, I do,’ I said.
He laughed. ‘It suits you.’ Adrian leaned back against the kitchen counter. ‘It’s very sweet and natural. Just like you. You’re very wholesome.’ He opened the nearest cupboard. ‘You got any food?’ He examined the contents. ‘No more biscuits?’
‘You must have been to a public school,’ I said. ‘Public schoolboys are the only people who think it’s all right to forage. Here.’ I handed him the box of crackers. ‘They’re a bit soggy. Sorry, sir.’
‘Minor public school,’ he said. ‘Kicked out at sixteen.’ He sprayed crumbs as he spoke.
‘What did you do till National Service?’
‘Didn’t do that.’ He looked affronted. ‘Couldn’t see myself getting up early every day and putting on a uniform. Luckily, old pater agreed. He’s a shirker, too.’ He smiled, ferreting bits of biscuit from between his teeth with his tongue. ‘Quick letter from the family medic and that was the end of it.’
‘Saying what?’
He sniffed. ‘Probably confidential. Can I trust you?’ He looked around theatrically. ‘Bed-wetting,’ he whispered. He sat down where he’d sat before, as if from habit. ‘Your old man sign up, then?’ And there it was, a casual reference to my real life.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He didn’t talk about it. Just something he did, he said.’
‘Oh, did he have a difficult war?’ he said, imitating an old man’s cracking and trembling voice. ‘Right, playtime,’ he said, without waiting for me to answer, as if he’d reached the end of a dull exercise. ‘Painting fun. I hope you won’t be bored.’
‘Are you trying to put me off?’
‘Certainly not. I want you there. I want you there very much.’ He opened the cupboards again. The contents shrivelled as he moved them around. ‘Have you got a Thermos?’ he said.
‘A Thermos? Yes, I think so. We had a couple of them, but I think one’s broken, so—’
‘We’ll only need one. Put some tea in it, there’s a good girl. With plenty of sugar.’
I don’t take sugar in tea, I thought. Sure enough, one flask sounded like a hail of gravel when I shook it. I undid the top of the second one and sniffed at a sour mixture of curdled milk and bleach. Rinsing it with baking soda didn’t seem to have worked. Anything you drank from the little plastic cup always tasted odd, anyway, however carefully you washed it. I made the tea in a Pyrex jug, adding several generous tablespoons of sugar before I poured it into the flask.
‘We’ll need a blanket, have you got one?’ Adrian said, looking around as if he expected to find one draped over the back of a chair or on the windowsill. ‘Or something to sit on. I don’t want you getting wet.’
‘I’m sure we have,’ I said, not very sure at all. When was the last time we’d had a picnic? There must be an old blanket in the airing cupboard I could use. I felt a momentary flicker of irritation that Adrian hadn’t come better prepared. ‘I’ll go and look,’ I said.
Towards the bottom of a pile of rather stiff sheets I found a thick, beige blanket, bordered with a wide satin trim. As I tugged at it, one hand slid between the layers; a piece of cloth caught in my fingers. It was a lace mat, dobbed with rust stains. The corner was embroidered with my mother’s initials. It was the sort of thing you’d use to line a breakfast tray or place beneath a plated meal for an invalid. I had so little left of her that I could never have thrown it away, but I had no immediate use for it, either. Was it a sign? What would she say to me now? I had no real recollection of how she sounded and I had never invented her voice, either to console or inspire me. She was a collection of half-memories and anecdotes. She was this little cloth and three jewelled hat pins. An old doll with one closed eye. I was now a year older than she’d been when she died. I was already living beyond her having any possible experience of this dancing excitement, this wanting and aching. I imagined Adrian waiting, one floor below. I felt like an astronaut regarding the distant earth with tenderness, able to ignore for a moment all the roiling complications there.
‘Found it?’ Adrian was on the landing.
‘Yes,’ I said.
He took the blanket. ‘Looks too good to be put on the ground.’ He ran his fingers over the binding. ‘Nothing a bit more ragged?’
‘It’s ancient,’ I said, closing the airing cupboard door. ‘Pretty sure it’s been pressed into service before.’
‘What were you thinking about?’ Adrian was looking at me carefully. ‘You were absolutely lost. I was watching you.’ He touched my cheek. ‘Maid Marion,’ he said.
He handed me the blanket and flask. He left me to shut the door while he got his painting things from the boot. I watched him heave a large canvas bag and a drawing pad under one arm and hang the broad leather straps of an easel from the other. He crooked an elbow to the tailgate to slam it shut, then set off at quite a brisk pace down the footpath. It was too narrow for us to walk side by side. Adrian strode ahead without looking round. At the end of the path, we had to climb over a stile. I struggled with the different heights of its steps. The blanket was an awkward thing to carry and I was gripping the flask so tightly my hand hurt.
In the field, Adrian threw his bag to the ground. It reminded me of the way cowboys in films slung their horse’s reins over a wooden bar, untied, when they dismount, assuming the animal would stay put. He took off his coat. He was only wearing a shirt underneath. He kept his scarf on. ‘Blanket here, there’s a poppet,’ he said. He set about assembling the easel and arranging paints and brushes.
I looked around. There wasn’t much to see. I didn’t know why he’d chosen this particular spot. I could see the ruin of the old castle keep in the distance. Local youths hung about in it after dusk, smoking or snogging or climbing on to its broad window ledges and setting off fireworks. There was not much left of it but, even so, it was more scenic than this part of the field. I opened the blanket. It had several dubious brown marks in the centre. I took off my coat and placed it, neatly folded, in one corner.
‘Would you be an angel?’ Adrian said, imitating the high, sing-song voice of an old man. He held out two empty jam jars. ‘Could you fill them up from the stream? Ta ever so.’
Although it wasn’t steep, the bank was covered in long grass with what looked like thistles and nettles protruding from it. He saw me hesitate.
‘There’s a path there,’ he said. He gestured to where someone or something had flattened the undergrowth.
It still looked challenging. I squatted and extended one arm gingerly towards the stream. The water w
as about a foot from the top of the bank and still out of reach. I’d have to kneel down to get anything into the jars. I glanced over my shoulder: Adrian was frowning as he made marks against the paper, tilting his head back to look at the view, half closing his eyes. Not for the first time, I had the impression he was playing a part.
I knelt down. At once, wet, cold earth and what felt like a thousand tiny, sharp pebbles stuck to my skin. I stood up abruptly. I brushed the debris from my knees. My hands were covered with mud.
‘I can’t reach,’ I said.
Adrian crouched down and undid his shoelaces. He held on to my shoulder with one hand, while he shucked his shoes and socks. The pressure of his grip loosened and tightened as he swayed. He rolled both trouser legs up to underneath his knees. His long toes were splayed wide; his second toes were longer than the first. His pale, bare feet made him seem as exposed as if he were naked from the waist down.
He walked towards the bank and then straight into the water. He splashed up and down for a moment, then bent over and let clear water fill the jars. He balanced them on the bank and waved to me to join him.
‘Come here,’ he said. ‘Come in. The water’s lovely.’
‘I can’t,’ I said.
‘Will you dissolve?’ he said. My tights were stuck to my knees with dried mud. His trousers darkened where the water lapped. He held his arms wide apart. ‘It’s only a few inches of water,’ he said.
‘All right,’ I said, ‘turn round.’ I took off my shoes and placed them in a pair. Adrian put his hands over his eyes and looked at me through his parted fingers. I hitched up my skirt as little as I could and wriggled free of my tights.
The pebbles underfoot had been washed into a soft smoothness by the running stream. Cold water raced round my ankles and tugged between my toes. It pricked and tingled on the raw skin of my heel. I clung to his hand. He laced his fingers through mine. Each step felt strange and new. The current hurtled past me and rooted me to the spot.
He bent down in front of me and splashed my legs. ‘You’ve got dirt on your knees,’ he said. ‘You can’t go home like that.’
I couldn’t see beyond the edge of the field. It was possible to imagine that nothing existed beyond the stile. Adrian climbed out on to the bank. He held out his hands and steadied me as I got out but, at the last moment, he pulled hard, so that I staggered and fell into him. He put his arms round my back as if he just wanted to keep me upright. He felt very warm. He released his grip, but I stayed where I was for longer than I needed to. ‘All right?’ he said.
I busied myself with pouring tea, because I knew if I looked at him at all I wouldn’t stop. He had left a kind of physical stain on me, I could still feel his hard chest and encircling arms.
‘Nectar,’ he said, draining the little cup. ‘Oh, wait, come here, I’ve missed a bit.’ He slid his hands on my legs. ‘Very nice,’ he said, his fingers spread wide on my thighs.
‘Am I still muddy?’ I said, knowing I wasn’t.
‘Oh, very,’ he said, stroking me, not even pretending to do anything necessary. ‘I could,’ he said, looking up at me, his hands still on my thighs, ‘be very naughty with you.’
‘You sound like Leslie Phillips,’ I said.
He frowned. It was like the sobering moment when you emerge from the cinema after watching a matinee, back in an instant to daylight and real life. I resolved to leave. The fact that he kissed me straight away and then went on kissing me for quite a long time completely changed my mind.
He retrieved a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from his bag. He bent his head and cupped his hands, concentrating on the connection between his cigarette and the flame. It seemed to be a gesture of delicious and deliberate tenderness. I looked up, to where the clouds made shapes above me. If you were high enough, you’d reach a point where you could see Sarah and me at the same time, even though we were miles apart. He tipped his head from one side to the other, sizing me up.
‘Who was your favourite, Katy Carr or Mary Lennox?’ he said. ‘I won’t judge you on your answer. Well, I will, actually, but tell me anyway.’
‘Very specific choices. Why were you studying books like that?’ I said. ‘Shouldn’t you have been reading Treasure Island or Tom Sawyer?’
‘The men were away at war when I was at the prep,’ he said. ‘All my teachers were women. They only ever read us books about girls. I don’t think I even realised that boys could actually be the heroes in a story until I was in my teens.’
‘Which one am I, then?’ I said. ‘The one who needs to be taught a lesson by falling off a swing or the one who has to have a child of nature wake her up? Is that you?’
‘Oh, no, I’m not Dickon,’ Adrian said. ‘When I read those books, I was Katy and Mary. Actually, I think you’re more Heidi than anyone else.’
‘I don’t think we’ve got anything in common,’ I said. ‘I don’t drink milk all the time, for a start. Didn’t she just want everyone else to be happy?’
He took a long drag of his cigarette and blew smoke out of the corner of his mouth. ‘I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘Anne of Green Gables. That’s who you are. No arguing.’
I watched a ladybird totter over the mountainous fibres of the blanket. ‘What’s your earliest memory?’ I said. ‘Mine was during the war. My father was away, and my mother didn’t seem to mind being on her own with me. I think she forgot that I was so little. She used to forget to put me to bed most nights, anyway. I’d wake up on the sofa to find the room full of her friends. I’d pretend to be asleep, so I could listen to them.’
‘I can remember sharing a room with my little brother.’ Adrian lay back on the blanket. ‘He cried all the time,’ he said. ‘Then they took him off to hospital and it turned out he had meningitis. No wonder he cried.’
‘How old was he?’ I said. ‘What happened?’
‘Two? Three? That sort of age. But I didn’t feel sad he’d died, just rather relieved I didn’t have to share a room with him any more.’
‘He died?’ I stared at him. ‘Oh my God, that’s awful. Your poor parents.’
‘Yeah, I suppose so.’ Adrian frowned as if this were a completely new thought. ‘Never really thought about it. Didn’t miss him, or anything. Plenty of other brothers. Have you got any brothers or sisters?’
‘No.’ I was still struggling with the crying child, his sudden illness, a tiny coffin.
‘Look,’ Adrian said, ‘I think there’s something you should realise.’
‘What?’ I said.
‘You don’t have to approve of me,’ he said. ‘That’s not what this is about. You fancy me. You can’t help it, you do. And I fancy you, so let’s have fun. For a while.’
I suddenly remembered Michael carrying the wounded dog into the house. I’d started going through the Yellow Pages, looking for a vet, but he’d said it was too late for that. He knew it wouldn’t survive, he said, but he couldn’t leave it dying on the road. He’d soothed the poor thing as it faded. It lay quite still, as if it didn’t want to take up any more space than the rectangle of paper spread beneath it. We’d watch it die its small, soundless death together. It was the first time I’d seen Michael weep since his mother died.
‘We’ll have to be careful,’ I said to Adrian. ‘So nobody finds out. I don’t want to hurt anyone.’
‘Yeah, right. Course. Don’t look so worried. Look,’ he said, ‘supposing . . . ?’ He opened his hands, palms upright, in a gesture of ignorance. ‘Christ, sorry, I don’t know your husband’s name.’
‘It’s Michael.’ I didn’t like telling him. It sounded like someone small.
‘Okay. Michael. Would you care if Michael kissed someone else?’
‘Who?’ I said. I couldn’t imagine how that would happen. It didn’t seem relevant to bring the possibility up. ‘No, I wouldn’t,’ I said, but really I didn’t like the idea at all. It would be unreasonable of him. ‘Would your wife mind?’ I asked.
‘No, no, she wouldn’t care,’ he said. ‘Sh
e thinks restricting people in any way is very bourgeois. Aggie’s very clear on what’s bourgeois and what’s not.’
‘Am I bourgeois?’ I asked.
He looked at me. ‘If you want to be,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think you do.’
‘I don’t think I do, either,’ I said.
‘So that’s okay then, isn’t it?’ He closed his eyes.
There were dark hollows underneath his cheekbones and his mouth looked even larger in repose. His lips turned up slightly at the corners. No wonder he found everything amusing, he was designed to. The physical fact of him, the way he lay in front of me without minding whether I was watching him or not, made me hesitate to speak. I held my breath for a moment. ‘Do you really want to paint us together?’ I said, with a lightness I didn’t feel.
He half opened his eyes, shielding them against the bright sky.
‘You said you wanted to paint her and me. Sarah.’ The very sibilance of her name was a gasp.
He muttered something indistinct.
‘I’d feel too self-conscious, posing with her for you, I think,’ I said. ‘So would she. Why don’t you just paint her?’
He sat up, alert now.
‘That might be better,’ I said. ‘Don’t you think? Would you do that? Would you just paint Sarah, by herself?’ The risk of it! What if he said yes, that’s a good idea? As if it were my suggestion.
He lied at once. No, he said. That wouldn’t be his thing. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said, and I watched ribbons of untruths flutter from his mouth. I loved the way they caught the light. ‘Why would I want to do that?’ he said.
I answered his question by kissing him. He put his arms round me then twisted his hands in my hair so that I couldn’t move away. I didn’t want to. I knelt over him, my mouth on his, as if I were reviving him.
‘Jesus,’ he said after a while, moving awkwardly as if he had cramp. ‘Give me your hand,’ he said, and when I did, he pressed it to his groin. The fierce hardness of his erection was startling. He closed his hand over mine and the muscle beneath my fingers twitched. ‘Can you help with that?’ he said, sounding drugged.
