Instances of the Number 3

by Salley Vickers

  Bridget sat up in bed pulling her husband’s check shirt round her. The battered red book had fallen to the floor and her fingers, cold at first, couldn’t find the right place in the rice-paper-thin pages. Here they were, the lines Sister Mary Eustasia had liked to quote: Most necessary’tis that we forget/To pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt the Player King says, when his wife, the queen, insists she will remain faithful to him for eternity. And yet what does the ghost on the battlement want but a repayment of what he believes he is owed? A life for a life—which shows you should be careful what you ask—for in the end his creator lets him have it sixfold—eightfold, if you count those inseparables, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern!

  Bridget stared into the shadowy corners of the room where she and Frances had slept together the night she moved into Farings. No Peter—nor the ghostly shape of him. She thought that for the first time she began to see behind the play’s many-layered arrases, which played different versions of reality. What was the difference between the illusory ghost and the illusory Player King on the stage? Or between impersonation and acting? Or lying and the truth? What, if it came to that, was the difference between the quick and the dead? Did the living merely ‘act’ reality? But in life there was no clear, tangible ‘reality’, only choices, and as you chose you closed your own version of reality round you, like a garment, until it fitted and became your particular fate: vengeful father, faithless wife, betrayed daughter, justifying son…And then that also became the fate of those near you. If Hamlet had chosen the Player King as spokesman on his father’s behalf, and cancelled the ‘debt’ his father was owed, Ophelia and her father—who was a pest it was true, but a harmless enough old busybody—Laertes, Gertrude, Claudius, even the slightly absurd Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, not to mention Hamlet himself, might all have lived—prospered even. All flawed people to be sure—but then Hamlet himself remarks that if we were all treated as we deserved which of us would escape whipping?

  And the ghost, might he then have made his way through purgatory—wherever that was—to whatever it is that lies beyond? And whose ghost was he, anyway? Was he Old Hamlet’s or was he also his son’s? It seemed to her that maybe he was neither but the possibilities that lay between the two. Because, she was beginning to see, there was between people an infinitude of possibilities which might be realised. Where did one’s responsibility to the dead lie? According to Shakespeare it looked as if it was in the hands of the living—the ‘quick’—to decide…

  40

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Bridget said frankly. ‘I behaved like a cow last night.’ She had removed Peter’s shirt and put on her own Provençal dressing gown when she came down to find Frances eating breakfast in the kitchen.

  This took the wind out of Frances’s sails. Not a naturally combative person, nevertheless she had been rehearsing a speech most of the night and was reluctant to jettison its well-made points.

  ‘I just want to point out that one, you invited me up here and two, it was your idea to give a party!’

  ‘Quite right,’ Bridget said. ‘It was entirely my idea. I behaved abominably.’

  It is always disagreeable to receive an apology before one’s temper has cooled. Frances had packed the bag with the embroidered apples on it, which she had bought to take on the trip to Paris with Peter. To go upstairs and unpack it now would feel like a defeat.

  ‘And by the way,’ watching Frances, Bridget tried not to smile, ‘I don’t expect to be forgiven just because I apologise.’

  Anger has its own momentum. Frances ate her toast in silence looking out of the window where the rooks were training their offspring in the art of sky-diving. It must be easy to be a bird: you grew according to the law of your species and never had to worry about how you lived, or what was right or wrong—you just got on with it, or ended up in the belly of a hawk, or as rook pie.

  Bridget watching Frances found herself wondering when Frances and Peter had last had sex. The old, curious part of her would have liked to disconcert Frances and ask. But she must try to behave: Peter had suggested that if anything happened to him he would like her to look out for Frances…

  Peter and Frances had last met at a restaurant on Kew Green. And the fact is that they had quarrelled. This was a piece of bad luck since, on the whole, quarrelling was something they avoided.

  Peter was late, and Frances, who generally made no reference to Peter’s unpredictable timekeeping, made a slightly barbed comment.

  As she said afterwards, compared to the kind of remark that many women make in such circumstances—hers having arisen out of a plethora of lame excuses on similar occasions—it was insignificant. But an appeal to how others might behave is useless in an argument. Peter, like most of us, was blind to his own blind spots: he believed his timekeeping was rather superior—it was just the world, in the form of traffic jams, late trains, dilatory buses etc., which got in the way. Frances, who was rarely late—ten minutes at most, and fretted when she was—had accepted this fiction about her lover with good grace. But even Homer nods.

  Most of us have a sore point on which our character gets tested. In Frances’s case it was the perception that she was being dealt with unjustly. She had curtailed a conversation with an important art critic—one on whom the reputation of a show could hang—to get to Kew in time for the dinner appointment. And she had negotiated the same traffic, pretty much, as Peter had that evening. To be told that it was the traffic’s fault, and then that she was no better at timekeeping than Peter, smarted. As a consequence they had eaten the meal in virtual silence.

  And, if truth be told, Peter’s lateness was only tangentially to do with the traffic. He had called to see Zelda on his way to Kew, meaning to stay a bare five minutes, but, in the way of such things, the minutes had extended into the worst of the rush hour around Shepherd’s Bush.

  We are always most touchy about our virtue when most out of touch with it. Peter had a way of humming or whistling to himself when his equilibrium was disturbed. Bridget, familiar with this idiosyncrasy, would have found a means of making him laugh—a person passing by with a ridiculous haircut, or a dog which resembled its owner—but Frances, thinner-skinned, was more easily hurt. Hearing Peter, apparently nonchalantly, humming ‘Loch Lomond’ seemed like the final straw.

  ‘I think I’d better get home,’ she said when offered brandy. ‘I had to cut something short to get here in time and it means I’ll need to make an early call tomorrow.’

  This was a lie—the critic was a notoriously late riser—an early call would have put paid to any goodwill towards the gallery.

  Peter, rightly feeling the response was intended as a snub, said, ‘Sure. D’you want to make another date…?’

  ‘We’re a bit busy just at present at the gallery,’ said Frances, stabbing herself in the heart as she spoke.

  ‘I’ll give you a ring sometime then…?’

  ‘Sometime, yes. You know where to find me…’

  Peter left a larger than usual tip to the waiter to ensure that at least one person in the world should think well of him. He escorted Frances to her car and they kissed stiffly, holding their bodies so that not too much contact could occur.

  Frances waited a respectable amount of time, to be quite sure Peter had driven off, before putting her head in her hands. It was a shock, a few minutes later, to look up and see Peter’s face pressed against the glass beside her. She wound the window down.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I love you, France.’

  ‘I love you, Peter.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot then…’ and they had driven, urgently, to the cemetery where Frances had hiked up her skirt—happily a full one—to climb the railings (not too taxing, perhaps because if the dead are to wander they are not likely to be deterred by spikes or height).

  Peter had caught Frances in his arms, a prelude to repairing the breach between them before the lenient, sightless gaze of the marble angels.

  Bridget was hardly less shockable than
a marble angel. As Frances rose to clear her breakfast things in the kitchen at Farings, she stood for a moment against the window in profile. Bridget, looking at her, put the cigarette she was about to light back in the packet. ‘Go up and unpack your things,’ she said, quite gently. And Peter, from his vantage point amid the tumbling rooks, looked down at his wife with fond approval.

  41

  ‘I’m afraid there is no mistake. And I would say, small as you still are, you are well into the third trimester.’

  Ms Ellen Nathan had iron-grey hair, cut very well, and excellent taste in earrings. Frances fixed her gaze on one now—amber, with the relics of tiny, costly, ancient flies visible in its golden-syrup interior. What she thought first was: Thank God I didn’t sleep with Ed Bittle.

  Our spontaneous thoughts—not necessarily the ones we act on—often prove the most emotionally accurate. The thought which followed was not really a thought at all but an ecstatic: It must be Peter’s baby!

  Frances had got into the way of assuming that she was infertile. Her cycle had always been erratic and it had seemed only fitting that, since Peter’s death, it appeared to have wound down altogether—she’d never monitored it anyway. She had vaguely been considering consulting a gynaecologist; it was, in fact, the remarks of Susannah—about HRT—at the reunion which had prompted her to make the appointment.

  ‘You have the body of a much younger woman,’ said Ms Nathan. ‘There’s no need for there to be any problems. Of course we shall get you scanned but we should do an amniocentesis—’

  ‘No,’ said Frances firmly. ‘I prefer not. I shall want the baby whatever.’ Once she had uttered the word ‘baby’ that was that—there wasn’t to be even a breath about ‘complications’.

  ‘Very good,’ said Ms Nathan. Her amber earrings gleamed approvingly. ‘Healthy women in their forties are the physiological equivalent of prehistoric women in their twenties.’ Frances wondered how she knew this. ‘There’s no need for all this modern panic. I can book you in, if you like, at the private hospital where I have beds—or you will be just as well cared for in the NHS hospital where I am a consultant.’

  ‘Let me think about it,’ said Frances, who felt some pressure from the tone to choose the NHS hospital. That sort of caving-in might be all very well when it was just herself to think of; it was a different matter now she had Peter’s baby to consider.

  ‘Don’t think too long!’ said Ms Nathan. ‘We’ll do an ultrasound but I would guess you’ve only two months, three at the most, to go…’

  It was in fact seven months, two weeks and three days since the evening in the cemetery when Peter last held Frances in his arms, before reluctantly disengaging his body from hers. They had parted—for good, as it turned out—by her car, where he had dropped her, and although they had parted many times before, afterwards she felt it was not hindsight alone which made her recall this parting as especially significant. Wanting to keep him with her, she had not bathed that night before bed, and it was this which had ultimately led to the unexpected conception.

  The appointment with Ellen Nathan was in the morning. Fortunately, there was a whole day’s work to get through before she need start thinking about the future and making plans.

  Back at the gallery Roy had left a note: Lunching with Lady Kathleen at the Gay Hussar. Painter called—can you ring him?—R.

  Roy liked to inscribe the features of a smiling face in the upper portion of the R in his name, which, generally, Frances found tiresome. But when dramatic events take place we are reassured by continuity—this morning, Frances was almost grateful for the R’s irritating smile.

  Ed Bittle was hanging about at the back of the gallery, apparently attending to some minor mishap to one of his boulders. (The boulders, it had turned out, had come from an area near Farings, this kind of coincidence, as Bridget had explained to Frances when the latter had remarked on it, being far more common than people suppose.) Ed had found some excuse to come into the gallery most days. His work was selling well, partly thanks to the fact that Painter had decided to lend his support to the young sculptor, and had given an unprecedented interview, where he had gone on record saying that this was a major new talent. This article was why Roy wanted Frances to ring Painter.

  Frances decided it was better not to pretend that Ed wasn’t really there, so she went across and asked if he would like coffee?—she herself was having herb tea. He came and hovered in the office where she did the paper work, and where the kettle and battery of different drinks were kept. Roy only drank mate? a form of health beverage—particularly disgusting—alleged to promote longevity. Frances usually drank coffee, Colombian or Blue Mountain; then there were the teas, Lapsang for Lady Kathleen, in case she should call (she never did), Darjeeling for Roy’s boyfriend, Typhoo for Painter. Luckily there was, in addition, the range of health-promoting herbal teas left by the receptionist before last, whose boyfriend had been—very likely still was—a drug pedlar.

  Frances made herself a cup of ‘Tranquillity Tea for Inner Peace and Harmony’. Perhaps it was the effect of the tea but she felt perfectly tranquil facing Ed.

  ‘Listen,’ said Ed, his tense, white face gleaming under the pitiless electric light, ‘I have to talk to you!’

  Frances thought: It might be a boy, and one day he might fall in love unsuitably and I would want her to be kind.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’ve some things to do but why don’t we go across to Marie Rose’s for lunch?’

  There were invoices due, a fax from a gallery in New York with whom there were reciprocal arrangements for exhibitions; and Painter to ring. It was not yet quite twelve so Frances dealt with the two other matters first, and then, at 12.15, rang Painter.

  He answered at once. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Patrick,’ said Frances, ‘Roy said you wanted to speak to me.’

  ‘Why the bloody hell haven’t I heard from you?’

  ‘Is that why you rang?’

  ‘Is there a better reason?’

  ‘Patrick,’ said Frances, defensively, ‘I saw you only a week or so ago.’

  ‘When you came round with that child—how is he, by the way? Extraordinary beauty.’

  ‘He’s gone back to Bridget’s,’ Frances said, ‘and a great relief it was, I must say.’

  ‘Didn’t like him?’

  ‘There’s something creepy about him. My brother Hugh used to have what he called a “creepometer”—Zahin would have scored ten.’

  ‘Any road,’ said Painter, ‘with him there it gave me no chance to talk to you. There’s something I want to ask you—come round as quick as you like.’

  ‘How’s the Sunday Sport?’ Frances asked.

  But Painter only repeated that he expected her round soon.

  Then it was time to go to Marie Rose’s.

  Ed walked with Frances to the other side of the road, while keeping his body as far from hers as was possible crossing a small busy road in central London where the traffic cedes only the narrowest gaps to pedestrians. The redecorations at Marie Rose’s were proceeding fitfully. To get to the table which was most private required stepping over planks, which Frances did with caution, conscious of the small piece of Peter inside her which any accident might threaten. She and Ed Bittle sat down to face each other across the narrow table.

  ‘What will you have?’ asked Frances: she felt she should take charge.

  ‘I’ll have a Coke.’ Ed spoke as a condemned man might ordering his last meal.

  ‘Anything to eat?’ Frances enquired brightly.

  ‘Yeah.’ Ed scanned the menu grimly. The food at Marie Rose’s was not inspiring—there was really only sandwiches and salads; these, once somewhat exotic, were now to be found, or their equivalent, in even the least enterprising bars and cafés which pepper London. ‘A beef sandwich.’

  ‘With mustard?’

  ‘Yeah, OK.’

  ‘English or French?’ Frances persisted. She was experiencing a kind of dread at the thought of leaving
the mundane.

  ‘English, no French. I don’t care.’

  ‘Ed,’ said Frances after Marie Rose had taken the order. ‘Please stop being so tragic—you hardly know me!’

  ‘What the fuck’s that got to do with it—sorry.’

  ‘It’s everything to do with it,’ said Frances, more sure of her ground now the subject had been broached. ‘For a start I’m pregnant.’

  She had not intended telling Ed, but, like so many things not intended, it had slipped out. Now she saw that without meaning to she had given a false impression.

  Dramatically, Ed’s face brightened. ‘You should have said.’

  ‘It’s not the sort of thing one says easily.’

  Sometimes the truth seems hardly charitable. Frances saw that the false impression was going to be useful: Ed’s distress stemmed from having been rejected rather than any serious feeling for her. ‘But I wanted to tell you now so you would understand it wasn’t anything about you…’

  Ed had gone a surprising shade of magenta. His thin skin moved so rapidly between white and red it resembled the skin of the love object of some minor Elizabethan sonneteer.

  ‘Fuck! Motherhood is the most fantastic thing on earth. Can I draw you when the baby comes?’ He spoke with the ardour of an artist and for a moment Frances regretted that the small, delicately formed life inside her closed other avenues. He was a nice boy and one day would make the right girl happy.

  ‘So you see,’ Frances went on, ‘if we could be just friends…?’

  Though why I say ‘just’, she thought, crossing back over the road, this time with Ed solicitously steering her elbow—for a real friend is worth anything.

  On the matter of ‘friends’ the next problem was going to be telling Bridget. She should do this at once. Frances dialled the Fulham number and found herself answered by Patrick.

  ‘Patrick! I meant to dial someone else!’