Heavenly Date and Other Flirtations

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “I’m sure you’ll be bored,” he said dryly. “It’s only rugby, you know.”

  She felt the resentment in his comment. He feels I’m intruding, she thought. I shouldn’t have come.

  “I know,” she replied airily. “But even rugby has its moments.”

  He shrugged his shoulders, opening his door to get out.

  “Only if you know the rules.” A pause. “I take it you don’t?”

  She smiled. “Some of them. Offsides. High tackles. Things like that.”

  He moved away from the car. “You can sit over there if you like. There ’ll be an audience of sorts.”

  She looked towards the small, rickety stand that stood under the line of trees beside the field. She had imagined watching the game with him, seated by him – which was the entire reason for her coming – where was he going to be? Why did he have to go away? The coach carrying the boys had now arrived and his team had spilled out to walk towards the changing rooms. Michael went with them, the centre of a circle of admiring boys. She heard him laugh at something that one of the boys had said and she saw him pat one on the shoulder in a gesture of encouragement; exclusion.

  Throughout the game he sat crouched down on the touchlines, shouting out to his team, urging them on. He looked at her once briefly during the half-time break, and he gave a half-hearted wave, but that was the only recognition. She tried to concentrate on the game, even if only to be able to say something to him about it afterwards, but it was unintelligible to her. She concluded that his team was losing, as most of the time the ball seemed to be in the possession of the other side, but she had no idea of the score.

  At the end, she climbed down from the stand and strolled across to where he was standing with a small group of masters from his school and the other. As he saw her coming he frowned and separated himself from his companions.

  “Well?” he asked, his expression neutral. “How did you enjoy it?”

  “I’m sorry we lost. The boys did their best.”

  He snorted. “We didn’t lose. We won.”

  She grimaced. “I thought I was beginning to understand it. Are you sure we won?”

  “Of course.” He looked down at his watch and glanced over his shoulder at the other men.

  “Are we going straight back?” she asked. “I wondered if we should stay for dinner in Bulawayo. Perhaps we could do a film at the Princes. We could see what’s on.”

  He looked down at the ground. “Well … well, I was rather thinking of talking about the match with the chaps back there …” He gestured in the direction of his companions. “Just a short while at the pub. Perhaps you could … you could go and see the Marshalls or somebody like that. They’d be at home. They always are.”

  She caught her breath. Then: “Would you be long?”

  His expression brightened. “No. An hour maybe. Something like that.”

  She felt the anger well up inside her, and her throat was tight as she answered.

  “How would I know when to collect you?”

  He thought for a while. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you run yourself back home whenever you like? That would be simplest, wouldn’t it? I’ll come back with Jack or one of the others.”

  He looked at her hopefully. She hesitated for a few moments, during which she saw him prepare to be belligerent. It was not worth it, even if she could stand up to him.

  “I see. Well, if that’s what you want.”

  He was like a schoolboy given permission to take the afternoon off. He leaned forward, held her lightly by the shoulders, and kissed her. She felt the tight line of his lips against her cheek; passionless; the faint odour of shaving cream from his skin; the soft pressure of his hands through the fabric of her dress. And behind him, the line of tree tops swaying in the warm breeze and the boys in their bright colours.

  She returned to the car. She fumbled with the key in the lock as she opened the door; her hands were shaking and her breathing was irregular, but she fought back the tears that she knew would flow once she gave in to them. He had turned away now, anyway, and would not see her, but there were others around. She saw the boys tossing a rugby ball to one another, and she realised that she hated them. They were crude, aggressive, unfinished; they exuded a quality which she found physically distasteful. She could not imagine how anyone could find a teenage boy desirable, and she knew that there were women who did, but in her eyes they were raw, threatening creatures, untamed.

  By the time she arrived at the farm, it had been dark for an hour. She saw the lights of the farmhouse as she came over the hill above the vlei and she pressed her foot down on the accelerator, sending the car bumping wildly over the rain corrugations that had appeared in the road’s eroded surface. As she drew up in front of the house, her father appeared at the front door, a large flashlight in his hand. He swung the beam towards the open door of her car and then walked over to meet her.

  “There’s nothing wrong, is there?”

  She got out of the car and swept back the hair from her forehead. She felt the fine white dust from the road on her skin, a prickly feeling that made her long for a bath.

  “No.”

  He flashed the beam of the torch into the car to see if there was anybody with her. He said nothing, but the question hung in the air between them.

  “Michael’s in Bulawayo with a team,” she explained. “He was a bit tied up. I thought I’d just come out and see you. I’ll stay overnight and drive back tomorrow.”

  Her father relaxed. “I see. Well, we’re always happy for you to be here – you know that. Stay as long as you can.”

  She understood that the invitation meant more than it said; that he was telling her that if she wanted to leave her husband, then they would welcome her back. For a moment she felt resentment at the implication that her marriage had failed. Then she saw her mother appear in the doorway and, very briefly, she pictured them alone in the rambling house, with nothing to do in the evenings but think of their dead son and the daughter they saw once a month.

  She said nothing more about the reason for her presence. She doubted if her parents accepted her explanation, but that did not matter; whatever their doubts, they would have to remain unexpressed. This suited the relationship she had with them, a relationship which had never progressed to one of adult equality. She had hidden things from them as a child, and continued to do so now. Both sides knew this, and both yearned to be able to speak to the other, but accepted the seeming impossibility of intimacy.

  They had already had dinner, but sat with her as she ate her meal in the dining room. They talked about her house, about the improvements she had made, about family friends – of whom there was no fresh news, since nothing really ever happened – and about developments on the farm. It was a conversation they had had before, and which they would have again over breakfast. She knew that her father would have liked to talk politics, to discuss the latest speech by Welensky or to wonder what Whitehead would do, but she took only a slight interest in these matters and could not say much that would interest him.

  After dinner, there was nothing to do but to have a bath and go to bed. She lay for almost half an hour in the warmth of the discoloured water from the rainwater tanks, wondering about what he would think when he returned home to find the house empty. It had occurred to her that he might think that she had been involved in an accident and that she should perhaps telephone somebody to put a note on the door, but she decided against this. It was a matter of pride now; let him wonder, let him be punished.

  She returned the following afternoon, anxious about what he would say to her, but prepared to defend herself. She disliked confrontation, preferring to compromise or back down, but on this occasion she was prepared to fight. She had mentally rehearsed what she would say to him; if he made accusations, well, she could respond.

  She parked the car by the side of the house and went in by the back door. There was no sign of him in the sitting room, nor in the bedroom. The bed had been sle
pt in and his wardrobe was open, but otherwise there was no clue as to his whereabouts. As it was a Sunday there would be nothing for him to do in the school. She made herself some tea and drank it on the verandah. She now began to feel concerned; had he left her?

  She finished the tea, deciding to go and ask the couple in the neighbouring house if they had seen him. Her welcome was abnormal. There was something unusual in her neighbour’s attitude, an element of surprise, perhaps, or even caginess.

  “He’s gone for a walk,” she was told. “Or I think he went for a walk.”

  She felt relieved. “I see.”

  She felt that she had to offer some explanation. “I was away last night. I stayed in Bulawayo, or rather, I went to my parents’ farm.”

  Her neighbour hesitated. “You weren’t with Michael?”

  “No. As I told you, I was at the farm.” She now knew that something had happened. She regretted her anger and was now only concerned for him. An accident?

  “Something happened?”

  The neighbour looked embarrassed. “Yes,” she said. “I gather that he went off with Jim and Paul and …”

  “They got drunk?” There was nothing untoward in that. Everybody drank, often too much.

  The neighbour continued: “He did more than that. He brought a crate of beer back and went and gave it to the boys.”

  Anne laughed. “Is that all?” Her neighbour looked at her in surprise.

  “All?”

  “Yes. It’s not as if … as if he assaulted somebody or something like that.”

  The other woman shrugged. “You might think it nothing. The Head’s furious. The boys drank the beer. The Head heard them shouting their heads off. They let off two fire extinguishers before they were stopped.”

  She heard him going into his study. He must know that I’m home, she thought; he will have seen the car. For a few minutes she stayed where she was in the sitting room and then, on impulse, she got up and went to his room. He was sitting at his desk, toying with a pencil. He did not look at her as she walked across the room to reach his side and put her arm around him.

  “So. Here we are.”

  He did not reply. He had a pencil in his hands which he continued to study.

  “I’m sorry, Michael. I really am.”

  He fiddled with the pencil, then, quietly: “Where were you?”

  “At the farm. I went there because you seemed not to want me around.” She paused. “I’m sorry that I went. I didn’t mean to let you down.”

  He did not sound annoyed.

  “I’m in trouble here,” he said, after a while. “There’s going to be one hell of a row.”

  “I heard from Joan. She told me.” She paused. “It seems a storm in a teacup, if you ask me.”

  “He’ll probably ask me to leave. You know what he’s like.”

  She had wondered whether that would happen, but had concluded that even a man as pompous as he was would be bound to give somebody a chance. What did it matter if a few boys drank a few bottles of beer? They did so all the time when they were at home – the sneaked bottle from the pantry, the half glass with their father. The whole country relied on cold beer in the hot months.

  She said nothing more and they stood there for a few awkward minutes, her arm still resting on his shoulder. Then, almost imperceptibly at first, she felt him move away from under her.

  That evening he called at the Headmaster’s house, aware of the eyes watching him and gloating – he suspected – at the sight of his discomfort. I’m like a schoolboy going to be disciplined, he thought.

  The atmosphere, though, was cordial.

  “I’m very sorry about what happened last night.”

  The Headmaster took off his glasses and gave them an unnecessary polish. “So am I. It’s, well, I’m afraid it can only be called disgraceful.”

  “I know. I had too much to drink in Bulawayo.”

  “So I understand. It’s not so much that, of course. It’s the question of how the boys can possibly respect you after what’s happened.”

  He realised that this revealed the decision – dismissal. “It’s difficult to continue in post after one’s been compromised,” the Headmaster went on. “The boys sense vulnerability …”

  Like you, he thought. And then, in sudden alarm, he realised what dismissal would mean. There would be no job for him in Bulawayo, probably not even in Salisbury; the country was too small to allow people to start again. He would have to plead in mitigation; he would need this man’s pity.

  “I’m very sorry. Things, you see, have just been very hard for me.”

  The Headmaster raised an eyebrow. “Hard for you? Frankly, that rather surprises me. You’ve had everything going for you – good job, prospects, charming wife.” There was a look of disdain on his face; self-pity had been sensed and it repelled.

  “My marriage. Things have been a bit rocky.”

  The Headmaster hesitated. “Your marriage hasn’t been going well?”

  “No, it hasn’t,” he said.

  “We all have our ups and downs,” the Headmaster said. “You should expect that. You have to take them in your stride.” He gestured vaguely out of the window. “I could tell you about matrimonial difficulties of one sort or another in virtually all of those houses. Fact of life.”

  It was not working. He thought for a moment, and then: “It’s worse than that. I … You see, I can’t make love to my wife. It’s unconsummated.”

  For a moment there was no change in the older man’s expression, but after a few seconds he lost his composure. He seemed deflated, as if his entire position had suddenly been cut from beneath his feet.

  “My dear chap … Look, I’m terribly sorry to hear that. You see … You …” He tailed off.

  It’s outside his experience, Michael thought. The initiative was entirely his.

  “It’s not physical, if you know what I mean. It’s just that there’s something inside me, something mental. It’s a psychological problem I suppose.”

  “I see.” He became silent, looking away from Michael. Moving to the window, he traced a pattern in the dust on the ledge, and then turned again. “I suppose that puts a different complexion on matters. You must be … you must be under very considerable strain. Something like that …”

  “Yes. I am.”

  He drew in his breath and looked directly at Michael, still struggling with embarrassment but now remembering the whole point of the interview.

  “I’m prepared to overlook last night,” he said. “Provided you make some attempt to sort out your difficulties. What about a doctor? Have you spoken to anyone?”

  “No.” Adding mentally: not even to my wife.

  “Well, it so happens that I know somebody in Bulawayo.” He was in control again, managing, coping, as a headmaster faced with a crisis must be seen to do. “An expert in these … nervous problems. I’ll give him a ring. He’ll see you, I’m sure. Dr Leberman. Charming chap. Jewish. Very astute.”

  He said nothing to Anne about the interview other than to tell her that his apology had been accepted and that the incident was over. He did not mention the doctor; his failure as a husband had never been alluded to or even acknowledged – she had started to talk to him when they returned from the Falls – merely to say that if there was anything she was doing which was wrong, or unhelpful … but he had left the room. Since then, she had taken her cue from him and it had been like a cancer denied: nothing said, but the malignancy ever-present, growing.

  He regretted almost immediately his confession to the Headmaster. As he went over in his mind the painful minutes in his employer’s study, he was struck by the absurdity of the outcome. If he had been serious in the suggestion that he see the doctor in Bulawayo, then what it amounted to was a conditional sentence. He felt as if he had been convicted of an offence but allowed to go free in return for submitting to treatment. He had read of this being done in the courts to people such as voyeurs or exhibitionists – the sad, pathetic offence
condoned in exchange for the aversive electric shocks or the libido-suppressing drugs. And he had agreed.

  He had made up his mind not to go, but a note had arrived with a telephone number and an address and, almost out of curiosity alone, he had phoned for an appointment. The receptionist, who spoke with the clipped, singsong accent of Johannesburg, told him that he could be seen the following week.

  He became increasingly nervous as the day of the appointment approached. On that morning, he was awake by five, and he rushed through to the bathroom, where he was sick. He bent over the pan, his knees on the cold stone slabs of the floor, the odour of strong disinfectant in his nostrils. I don’t have to do it; I don’t have to tell anyone. I can lie. I can carry on lying.

  But he made the journey nonetheless, and parked his car in Borrow Street, where the doctors had their consulting rooms. He hesitated at the door of the surgery. It would be easy to stop at this point, to walk out of the building and into the bar of the Selbourne Hotel, but he decided to ring the bell – there was nothing to be lost in at least seeing this Dr Leberman.

  Inside, he was shown into a small waiting room where he sat for ten minutes until a door opened and Dr Leberman called him into his room. The doctor was a slightly fleshy man, grey-haired, wearing a pair of old-fashioned unrimmed glasses. He ushered Michael in and gestured to a chair at the side of his table. There’s no couch, Michael thought.

  The doctor smiled at him as he sat down and began the consultation with questions about the school and Michael’s work. His questions were put casually and were disarming in their effect. Michael answered them conversationally, barely noticing the direction they were taking, which was towards his own experiences there and his own feelings. By the time they had reached the end of their hourlong session, he felt comfortable in the doctor’s company and was talking quite frankly. Nothing was said about the reason for the consultation, though; in his mind it had been little more than a social conversation, and a particularly pleasant one at that.