The Art of Preserving Love

by Robbi Neal

  ‘I must find it,’ mumbled Reuben, ‘then I can create instead of destroy.’

  ‘What’s that? Oh that thing you keep mumbling about — that thing you say is in your head? Have another whisky, Reuben — that’ll fix your head.’

  Reuben put his glass down and started to get up. He glimpsed one of the maids scurrying past the door. He wondered why she was about the halls so late, perhaps she was waiting for him. She wouldn’t be the first maid to hide in a dark corner, her back pressed to the wall, waiting for him to pass. It was close on midnight. Reuben smiled. Being with a woman was the only time he felt like his old self. When he was with a woman and his skin was hot and moist, his muscles hard and unyielding, his breath ragged and urgent, he forgot everything and it was bliss. He forgot he was in a nasty hotel, or pushing her up against a cold stone wall in a dark and dreary lane, or letting her share his bed in his timbered room. He forgot her but most of all he forgot those damned voices and the explosions in his head. For the moments he was with a woman, he had silence — pure, beautiful, rare silence. He slapped Holmes on the back.

  ‘See you in the morning, Holmes — you know your way to the guest bedroom.’

  When he heard Holmes’s footsteps recede up the stairs and his door close, he made his own way up the staircase. As he went up the second flight the maid was coming down it. It was unusual to see a maid on this staircase, the servants had their own stairs, but everything had changed since the war and Reuben had drunk too much and was too exhausted by life to question it. His eyes settled on the starched apron stretched over her breasts. She blushed and lowered her head in a way Reuben found irresistible. He made sure that he brushed lightly against her body as they passed each other and smiled to himself when she gasped. He kept going but she was delicious and sweet and he needed her, so he turned and she was waiting for him.

  He took her hand and led her to his room and once inside the room he lifted her up and laid her on the bed. As soon as he started to make love to her, to taste her, to kiss her, the screaming of dying men, the explosions of bombs, the images of flying earth and flesh died away, and he had peace. But as soon as he’d had her and had rolled away to light a cigarette, those ruddy voices were back and with them came the guns and the barbed wire and the body pieces and he felt miserable again. He sat on the edge of the bed and shoved his fingers in his ears and shook his head. She sat behind him and put her head on his shoulder, and that was when he remembered that he’d better ask what her name was, because he was, after all, a gentleman.

  ‘Alice, sir,’ she said, straightening her uniform.

  ‘Alice, sir,’ he repeated, and he kissed her on the cheek and pulled her to him so that she was folded into his lap and she put her head against his heart and the quietness drifted back in and she thought that he must love her to kiss her so sweetly.

  ‘Marry me, Alice,’ he whispered, and she smothered him in kisses saying yes over and over.

  Saturday, 9 October 1920, when Reuben’s future is discussed at length.

  ‘You’re marrying to spite me,’ said his father, pacing from one end of his study to the other. Reuben’s mother, Lisbet, sat staring at the ground. Reuben thought what opposites they were: his father pacing and prowling, ready to pounce, and his mother barely moving at all.

  ‘Yes, yes, I suppose I might be, but what does it matter? I eventually have to marry someone and this someone is carrying my child, so that seems a good enough reason to me.’ It could work, he thought, people married for less. Maybe the chatter of a wife would drive away the voices in his head. Maybe the gnawing futility would disappear.

  His father fired up a cigar and passed one to him. His mother wasn’t offered a cigar — or whisky, for that matter. Doran had poured one for himself and one for Reuben, but assumed Lisbet, being a woman, wouldn’t drink during the day even if the occasion called for a stiff shot. But Reuben knew, because his mother had told him one night after she’d had several sherries, that when Doran was out of the house she snuck into his study, took a fat cigar out of its silver case, poured herself a whisky and sat in his favourite chair overlooking the garden and pretended everything was hers to do with as she wished.

  Reuben watched as Doran paced from the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf on one side of the room to the stern portrait of his father on the other and back again.

  ‘You’ve been back from the war for, what? Nearly two years, and in that time you’ve done bugger-all. You don’t even have proper interests.’ Doran growled and puffed out smoke, making a noise like a horse.

  Reuben thought bugger-all was a strong word to use in front of his mother.

  ‘Well, Doran, you have to remember that Reuben does have one particular interest,’ said Lisbet and smiled to herself. She was pleasantly shocked that she came out with the innuendo. She didn’t know she had it in her, and Reuben couldn’t help but smile back at her. So often he thought he had the sum of her, but when she said unexpected things like that he wasn’t so sure.

  ‘At least he’s got his body in one piece. It’s only his head that’s defective,’ Doran said.

  ‘I am here in the room, you know,’ said Reuben.

  ‘Doran, you’re talking about our son,’ his mother scolded.

  ‘He’s a grown man, Lisbet. For God’s sake he’s nearly thirty years old and he’s been melancholy for a good year and more now.’

  ‘But I’ve heard some men came back worse than Reuben, not only parts of their bodies damaged but their brains gassed to nothing but vapour. They just wander aimlessly around London. They don’t even know who they are or where their homes are. I’m told this all the time. There are boys out there whose mothers would have been better off if they hadn’t come back.’

  ‘Thank you, Mother,’ said Reuben.

  Doran put his hands in his pockets and looked out the window at his gardens. Reuben watched as he rocked on his heels.

  ‘You’re quite right, Lisbet. He’s not that bad, I grant you.’ He turned to Reuben. ‘I daresay we could get some reasonable girl to settle down with you, a solid girl from a good family, preferably a good Jewish girl who might want you to go back to your proper name instead of this Rose business.’

  Lisbet sighed. ‘I don’t know, Doran. Reputable fathers don’t want their respectable daughters anywhere near him. Reuben’s always been what you’d call a ladies’ man. If this girl has his child — our grandchild — what does it matter? She can always convert. Give him something to do, Doran.’

  ‘I suppose he could manage the tenants.’

  ‘Once again, I am right here.’ Reuben stood up to meet his father head on. ‘And I am not managing the tenants. I’m not the slightest bit interested in the land or the tenants’ cottages! I’m not doing your inspections. I’m not poking my nose into other people’s cupboards.’

  ‘Damn it!’ snapped Doran. ‘We’re not talking about other people’s cupboards, we’re talking our cupboards, our rooms, our own property. Our cottages and barns. We have to make sure it’s all being kept properly. I’m not asking you to do something dirty. In fact, I’m not asking you to do anything at all. Do what you like. Maybe I shall even cut you off.’ Doran’s cheeks and ears were sizzling and his skin was moist with anger. He snorted again, his nose flared, and then he let the emotion go. The effort had worn him out and he sat down next to Lisbet, who patted his hand ten times, as if she knew that was how many pats it took to console him. She looked at Reuben.

  ‘I suppose you should bring this girl and her family to dinner. We should meet the mother of our grandchild. Friday?’

  ‘It’s Alice,’ said Reuben.

  ‘Alice?’ said his mother, and Reuben watched her piece it together. ‘Our Alice from the kitchen?’

  ‘Our Alice,’ said Reuben.

  ‘Get me a whisky,’ said Lisbet, ‘as you should have in the first place. And a cigar.’

  Alice brushed her long auburn hair a hundred times, the way she’d heard you were supposed to do. She really should get it cut
chic and short like the new fashion, but Reuben said he loved her long hair and had buried his head in it and taken deep breaths as if they would give him life. She took her hair in her hands and wound it into a loose bun at the back of her head. Defiant wispy bits immediately fell to the sides of her face. She looked at herself in the mirror. They said she was pretty. Not beautiful but pretty, and Alice preferred pretty to beautiful. Pretty was more inviting, pretty was humble. Alice was a humble girl. She never expected anything that she hadn’t worked for, and she never tried to be centre of attention. She put her hands on her waist; it was thickening with the life growing inside her. She touched the skin on her face and put her fingers on the freckles on her nose and cheeks. She touched her lips, where Reuben had kissed her.

  She and Reuben agreed they would each tell their parents on the same day, at the same time. Her parents were excited about the opportunity that had opened up for her. All they could see was her living a life of comfort at Ashgrove House. What more could they want for their daughter? All she could remember was the song in his voice and the soft warmth of his mouth. She was sure in the moment he kissed her that he loved her deeply and she tried to hold onto that. He had whispered in her ear and his breath made something come alive in her, his voice was soft and lilting like an old folk song about love and she closed her eyes, sure the whole thing was a dream. He had lifted her up in his arms and held her there as though she was no effort for him and he would carry them both and forge a future for her. She had seen him a couple more times after that, when he had found her going about her chores and desperately pulled her into a dark corner of the house as though he had some awful disease only she could cure.

  ‘Are we still engaged?’ she breathlessly asked him between kisses, and he pulled back and looked at her as if he had forgotten he had asked her to marry him, then remembered, and being a man of his word, he said, ‘Yes, yes of course.’ And she felt so wonderful that he had chosen her. Because she knew his reputation, they had warned her when she began work at Ashgrove House: ‘Don’t get caught with Reuben on the stairs — you won’t be the first and you won’t be the last.’

  Thirty-Five

  The Conversation

  Wednesday, 9 April 1921, when Reuben talks back.

  Alice sat propped up by pillows in the bed and held the baby she had given birth to three hours earlier. He began to mewl and look about for a breast, his tiny mouth trying to latch on to anything. She looked about the room, there were only women in there — herself, her mother-in-law and the nurse — so she started to unbutton her nightgown the way her mother had told her to. Her mother said it was easier to do than it seemed, that the baby would do all the work. But Lisbet jumped out of her chair and pulled her nightgown closed over her chest.

  ‘No, no, dear, we’ll get him a bottle. It’s far more … hygienic. And that’s why we have Nurse — she knows the percentage method.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said the nurse, jumping up from her chair. ‘It’s a very precise mix of orange juice, honey, evaporated milk and cod liver oil. That baby will be fat and healthy in no time.’ Lisbet looked up at the nurse, who scurried out to prepare the formula.

  Lisbet leant over and whispered in Alice’s ear, ‘Only the workers breastfeed. You’re a Rosenberg now, dear.’ Alice didn’t know whether to feel scolded for doing the wrong thing or pleased to be included as a Rosenberg. Lisbet fussed over her pillows but only succeeded in making her uncomfortable. Then Lisbet took the brush from the dressing table and began to pull it through Alice’s hair. Alice was relieved when Lisbet gave up and rang the bell. The maid appeared and Lisbet said, ‘Mary, bring Alice tea and toast and a boiled egg.’

  Lisbet sat on the edge of the bed and together they gazed at the brand-new life that bonded them.

  ‘You must be so happy, dear,’ said Lisbet.

  ‘Yes,’ said Alice, and she held the baby tight against her chest until Mary came back and set up the tea, egg and toast on the bedside table. She had brought enough for Lisbet as well.

  ‘Have my parents been called?’ Alice asked, looking at the limp toast. She didn’t think she could eat, her stomach was numb and she was extremely tired. She wanted her own mum; neither the egg, the tea nor the toast.

  ‘They should both be here any moment, your mother and your father,’ said Lisbet, pouring herself tea and dropping in a slice of lemon, making the tea slosh over the side of the cup. ‘Oh bother,’ she said and left the saucer with its pond of tea behind on the table.

  ‘Where is Reuben?’ Alice asked and she saw Mary, who was standing waiting to be dismissed, back into the corner of the room, blushing and looking at the ground.

  ‘Oh,’ said Alice. Everything in the room turned grey as bitterness settled inside her and dropped a seed in her belly. The seed sprouted and grew into a thorned shoot that coiled around her heart. You’re not the first, she wanted to say to Mary, and you won’t be the last, but you can never be his wife. That will only ever be me. But she said nothing and swallowed the bile that rose in her throat.

  ‘How long have you been here?’ Alice asked Mary.

  ‘Just a few minutes, ma’am.’

  Alice heard the tone, the you’re-no-better-than-me tone. Mary kept her eyes firmly planted on the ground, her palms pushed against the wall.

  She can’t look me in the face, thought Alice. ‘No, I mean how long have you been working in this house?’

  ‘Just a few days, ma’am.’

  ‘When, exactly?’

  ‘I started two days ago on Monday, ma’am.’

  ‘That long,’ said Alice. The thorn that had been resting against her heart pierced her and she felt the blood ooze out of her heart.

  The door to the bedroom flung open and Reuben paused dramatically in the entrance, his hands gripping either side of the doorframe. He let his body hang there for a moment, a cigarette resting between his lips.

  ‘Here I am,’ he said.

  He is beautiful, thought Alice, but she saw Mary’s face lighten and saw the glance that passed between Reuben and the maid. She said, ‘Speak of the devil.’ Reuben chose to ignore the jibe; he would be the noble one and it hurt her even more.

  Reuben strode into the room. ‘Let me see my new son.’

  Alice held the baby up and Reuben tossed his cigarette into the soupy saucer his mother had discarded. He took his son and held him at arm’s length.

  ‘He’s not a bottle of wine, you can hold him close to you, Reuben,’ said Lisbet.

  ‘My glory,’ said Reuben, still holding the infant out in the air.

  ‘You don’t like him?’ Alice felt the tears building in her eyes. After all she’d been through, all the months of carrying him, all the months Reuben wouldn’t sleep with her for fear it would hurt the baby, the nights he was away and she knew he wasn’t alone because when he came home in the morning and she leant in to kiss him he would smell of strangers. Not to mention all the hours of pain delivering him, and now Reuben didn’t like him and suddenly she didn’t like the baby either — he was the cause of this nasty growth inside her, he was the reason Reuben hadn’t wanted her all these months and she rubbed her belly, which felt bloated with something that didn’t belong. She watched Reuben carefully and saw tears appear at the edges of his eyes.

  He looked at her and said quietly, ‘I can see his soul, Alice.’ Reuben’s beautiful voice quavered. In barely more than a whisper he said, ‘I can see straight through to his soul.’

  Alice didn’t know what he was babbling about but she saw Reuben’s eyes changing, their colour deepening, and brimming with tears. He looked down at her kindly, as though he could really see her. She felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe the baby would change everything. She rubbed her belly again, which began to feel less full, then held out her arms to reclaim her baby. But Reuben continued to hold him at arm’s length, where he rested precariously in the perch of Reuben’s hands.

  ‘I can see your soul too, Alice, and yours, mother,’ Reuben said. He looked at the
maid. ‘I can see your soul too, Mary. I can see all your souls glimmering with flickering wings, ready to take flight. Only held back by your own fear.’ He looked back at the son he held awkwardly in his hands. ‘But his soul, his soul is fresh and true.’ He looked down at his chest. ‘But I can’t see my soul. Mine is gone.’

  Alice couldn’t take his nonsense any more and she cried. Her husband ignoring her, her husband being unfaithful, these were things she could find a way to deal with, but her husband babbling about souls like a madman was incomprehensible and she was afraid. The birth of their son had made his brain ill and she cried out when Reuben fell to his knees on the floor beside her. He flopped down there with a jolt, the baby still in his arms, and she thought for a moment he was going to ask her forgiveness for his infidelities. His eyes were pleading, but he didn’t speak to her. Instead he said, ‘I am yours. You have spoken in a way I can hear.’

  To Alice’s immense relief he stood up and handed their son back to her. He began to walk towards the door but stopped.

  ‘Don’t name him,’ Reuben ordered. Alice held the baby tight, worried Reuben might take him again. She wasn’t going to let Reuben have him. Not in this state. But Reuben dashed out of the room.

  ‘Well,’ said Lisbet, ‘what the hell’s got into him now?’

  Thirty-Six

  The Prince

  Sunday, 8 May 1921, when everyone in Australia has been charmed.

  He was twenty-six and a prince when he visited, and there really wasn’t a better age for a prince to be. Prince Edward had set foot on Australian soil on the second of April 1920 and spent fifty days in a shower of confetti, eating barbequed sausages wrapped in bread and dripping with tomato sauce that ran down between his fingers. He ate every barbequed sausage as though it was the first he had ever tasted, and he ate them in every corner of the country, sometimes a dozen in one day, and still he smiled like a prince. He drove around waving at millions of people for hours in glorious motor vehicles. The women were delighted with his good looks and English accent and they pushed and scrabbled just to touch him. The men were impressed when he went bush for a spot of kangaroo and emu hunting. In the crowds men reached over the women and whacked him on the head with rolled-up newspapers and even though the whacks were sometimes too hard and hurt his head, still the prince smiled. Sometimes he wore his uniform and sometimes he wore civilian clothes, a long coat and a boxer, but whichever outfit he wore, the women held their hearts and looked to the sky, thanking God for him.