An Evil Streak

by An Evil Streak (retail) (epub)

  Beatrice took out her handkerchief and trumpeted into it. ‘It’s been such a lovely day… that dear little baby… and you being there… and Gemma’s so happy with Christopher… oh’ – another great howl – ‘I do wish poor Hugh had lived to see it.’

  As I was equally glad he had not, I kept silent, blessing the lethal landmine. Typical, I thought, of Beatrice to turn maudlin at the end of such a tense and beastly day when we were alone and there was no one who would take her off my hands. I parked carefully and helped her into the house, where she insisted on cooking me dinner. As I thought this might sober her up, I let her get on with it. The meal was superb as ever but the conversation a high price to pay: Beatrice reminisced endlessly about relatives dead and alive whom I had long since forgotten. She wanted me to stay the night and make an early start if I must, but luckily the problem was solved for me when she fell asleep in front of the television set. She snored, and she had put on a lot of weight. I stood looking at her for a moment, marvelling that Gemma had ever emerged from those ungainly loins – then I crept away, into the night. On my way home I drove unnecessarily past Gemma’s house. There was a light in her bedroom, although it was only half past ten: I wondered if she and Christopher were making love. I decided not: Christopher looked to me like a man who preferred a decent covering of darkness for his erotic pleasures. More likely reading the British Medical Journal – perhaps a piece on new birth control methods – and for Gemma… a magazine on mothercraft.

  Seventeen

  Picture the scene: Christopher carving at the head of the table (yes, he really does preserve traditions like this), Beatrice on his right getting more than her fair share of meat, Gemma opposite him looking thoughtful, and me on her right, or Christopher’s left if you prefer, facing Beatrice and offering up silent thanks that the children have at last been put to bed. The subject: one of those sex scandals beloved of the British press. It may have involved a politician or a doctor or a duchess, I don’t remember; in fact we probably had conversations about all three at one time or another and I am amalgamating and compressing them into one quintessential evening. What I extracted was this.

  Christopher: ‘I’m sorry, Gemma, I can’t agree with you. It doesn’t depend on circumstances, it’s a matter of principle.’

  He actually pronounced those words; I am not inventing. I would certainly not put words in his mouth, nor indeed go anywhere near his mouth for any purpose whatsoever if it could be avoided.

  Gemma said, ‘But it’s people’s feelings we’re talking about. You can’t just condemn them without knowing all the facts and you can’t know all the facts just from reading a newspaper.’

  Beatrice tried to make peace. ‘Perhaps Christopher meant that people in such responsible positions can’t afford to have human weaknesses like the rest of us.’

  To my surprise, Christopher turned on her. ‘On the contrary, I’d say the same about anyone, whatever position they held. The effects are more serious, of course, in this particular case, but the principle’s the same, whoever’s involved. I know it’s fashionable nowadays to talk about the permissive society so maybe I’m old-fashioned.’

  I choked on my glass of wine to camouflage laughter. He looked at me suspiciously but could prove nothing.

  ‘I see the casualties of the so-called permissive society far too often to think there’s anything amusing about it,’ he said crisply.

  ‘If you’re talking about young people, then of course I agree with you,’ Gemma said. ‘But these are adults. You’ve got to make some allowances for them having strong feelings and not always being able to control them. These things happen.’

  ‘Certainly these things happen,’ said Christopher, carving with surgical precision, ‘but they needn’t, and with a little more self-control, they wouldn’t.’

  ‘Don’t you think’ – I could no longer resist joining in – ‘don’t you think perhaps discretion is what we need more of, rather than self-control?’

  He handed me my plate. ‘In what way?’

  ‘I was thinking of the eleventh commandment… Thou shalt not be found out.’

  Beatrice started to smile, then, catching Christopher’s glance, flicked the smile off abruptly like a light switch.

  ‘Is that really what you believe?’ Christopher asked me contemptuously.

  I ate some meat to give myself time to think. He had certainly given me the worst pieces, with a lot of fat and gristle. ‘Well, you must admit,’ I said, ‘that if the whole affair had remained a secret no one would have been hurt. In fact, I often wonder – if no one knows about something, can it truly be said to have happened?’

  ‘Forgive me, Alex, but in my view that’s metaphysical rubbish. Adultery is always a serious matter, whether it’s secret or not, and if you abuse a position of trust as well, that only makes matters worse. It means you have no integrity.’

  Gemma said quite sharply, ‘Isn’t integrity a matter of being true to yourself?’

  ‘I don’t think so, not entirely.’ He was still perfectly calm. Calm but inflexible. ‘We all have social responsibilities, we don’t live in a vacuum.’

  Well, I supposed I should be grateful that he had not actually said, ‘No man is an island.’ In fact I was somewhat surprised: he had looked all set to let loose another stupendous cliche upon us. And to think that I had once – however briefly – found him charming. A moment of puppyhood, no doubt, right at the beginning, when he was still trying to please, before he was sure he could capture Gemma and mould her to his taste.

  Gemma said, ‘Yes, all right, I agree with that, but nobody’s perfect and I just think we should all be more charitable when people make mistakes. You know – like hating the sin but loving the sinner.’ She must have thought she was being cunning, invoking religion.

  Christopher permitted himself a smile. ‘Well, now at least you’ve used the right word.’

  Beatrice said uncertainly, ‘The meat’s delicious, Gemma. Done to a turn.’

  In fact it was overdone. Cooking had never been Gemma’s strong point.

  ‘Is it? Good,’ said Gemma absently. ‘I’m sorry, Chris, but I can’t help thinking how much those people must have suffered, whether it came out in public or not. I mean, all those letters and phone calls and trying to commit suicide – imagine what somebody goes through to get in a state like that. You can’t just condemn them, however wrong they are. You’ve got to sympathise.’

  ‘That’s where we differ,’ said Christopher, helping himself to more gravy. ‘I don’t have to sympathise at all.’

  Just straws in the wind, no doubt, but I treasured them nevertheless.

  Eighteen

  And the beginning? A soufflé one day in September, I suppose. My diary says simply: ‘Gemma here, lunch, 12.30’, and below that, writ small, indeed by a hand cramped with irritation and too many hours with a dustpan and brush: ‘Ring agency’.

  Gemma was early. I was so accustomed to her being late that I was still on the telephone when she rang my doorbell and I had to interrupt my conversation to let her in. I left the agency lady assuring me that she would do her best for me, no one could do more, and returned, having welcomed Gemma, to hear that if all else failed she would send me an out-of-work actor by the end of the week. That hardly seemed satisfactory, but I could tell from the sound of her voice that she had reached the end of her patience, and besides, I badly wanted a gin and tonic, so I thanked her and hung up.

  ‘You look cross,’ said Gemma teasingly. ‘Aren’t you pleased to see me? Shall I go away?’

  I smiled and started the drinks ritual. ‘I’m delighted to see you, my dear Gemma, but less than delighted at the prospect of cleaning my flat by hand for another three days. Ice?’

  ‘Two, please.’ Gemma treated ice like sugar, alternately stirring it and crunching it up. I watched her with my usual pleasure as she licked the finger that had played with the ice. ‘Have they found you someone else then? Definitely?’

  ‘Hardly that. Th
ey’re threatening me with a paid-up member of Equity, no less.’

  ‘Oh well,’ said Gemma, deep into gin and tonic. ‘She may be pretty.’

  ‘She happens to be a he.’

  ‘Well. Why not?’ She actually blushed: I found it one of her many charms that she still could.

  ‘It’s all a vicious rumour,’ I said. ‘Concentrate on facts. It’s a fact that not only has Mrs Thing left me but the vacuum cleaner has had a seizure as well. I crawl around on my hands and knees, sucking up dust in a highly personalised manner.’

  Gemma laughed. I enjoyed her laughter. No one else seemed to find me particularly amusing in those days, nor indeed now, but we are not here to talk of the present. What else do I remember? I made the soufflé, surpassing myself, and Gemma and I ate it, she emitting flattering cries of delight. I could tell from her manner, a mixture of external animation and internal gloom, that she was disturbed about something and I waited for her to be ready to tell me.

  ‘Christopher well?’ I asked, passing time.

  ‘Yes, fine.’ She stirred her salad with a fork.

  ‘And the children?’ This was more important.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She ate some salad, put down her fork, took a long draught of Riesling. ‘God, it’s so funny with them both at school.’

  ‘It must be. The great day finally came.’

  ‘Yes, it did. I wish it hadn’t.’ She had a strange, lost look about her. ‘Chris says I’m being silly.’

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘Oh well, he’s being very understanding really.’ She frowned at her near disloyalty.

  ‘Of course.’ It was his stock-in-trade, when not pontificating about other people’s morals. Kind, well-balanced Christopher, reducing emotions to hormones and exercising his professional judgment. Always understanding where Gemma was concerned (so she said) but not above a little brisk snap-out-of-it if the case should warrant it.

  ‘I expect I’m getting on his nerves,’ Gemma said with self-pitying guilt. I picked up my cue. Occasionally she allowed me to slander him.

  ‘What nerves?’ I said.

  Gemma giggled and drank some more wine. ‘He’s so busy,’ she said, making allowances. ‘It must be awful for him having me complaining about too much spare time when he hasn’t got any.’

  ‘He’s a dedicated man,’ I said spitefully. ‘He doesn’t want spare time, he enjoys his work.’

  ‘Yes. I wish I did. I mean I wish I had some work to enjoy.’

  ‘You don’t really. You’ve been reading too many Sunday supplements. Can’t you enjoy just lolling about doing nothing? Can’t you sit in the garden telling yourself you’re a wife and mother, backbone of the nation, and you’ve nothing to do till half past three, thank God?’

  ‘No,’ said Gemma. ‘I can’t. I wish I could. Oh, I suppose I’ll get used to it. Chris keeps telling me what a lot I can do with my time.’

  ‘Such as coffee mornings and good works?’

  ‘Something like that. Or even studying something – God knows what.’

  ‘How about a job?’ I suggested. ‘A part-time job. School hours only and fulfilling, of course. Isn’t that what all the smart young mums do these days?’

  ‘Maybe.’ She looked doubtful. ‘But in my case it’s hardly worth it, it’d all go in tax. Besides, what could I do? I hate typing and I do enough cooking at home. I’m not trained for anything – at least not for anything I like. Mummy always said I wasn’t talented and she’s right, I’m not.’

  ‘Something with children?’ I said feebly. Gemma’s malaise was affecting me: I could see all too clearly how ill-equipped she was to face the yawning void between nine and four. The world was out there somewhere but she was not part of it, and how could she be?

  ‘I don’t like other people’s children,’ she said.

  ‘I know the feeling.’

  We looked at one another and smiled. I refilled our glasses.

  ‘Let’s face it,’ Gemma said, ‘I’m a parasite. No, really. I’m just sponging on Chris and the kids, making them my excuse for living. I’m like one of those dreadful women you read about. I want to do something only there’s nothing I want to do.’

  We progressed to apple pie (home-made of course) and cream. Gemma ate like a healthy schoolgirl. ‘The really awful thing is,’ she said, with her mouth full, ‘I feel my life is over and yet it’s only just begun. I mean, here I am, nearly thirty, and I’ve got a nice husband and two lovely kids at school’ – I noted the choice of adjectives carefully – ‘and what the hell do I do with the rest of my life?’

  She was a little drunk by now, of course. I must allow for that.

  ‘It’s a dreadful feeling,’ she went on. ‘Like going mad or losing your memory. There’s something I’ve missed or forgotten, but I don’t know what it is. Like a bit of the children’s jigsaw getting lost.’

  ‘That’s a good image.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so professional,’ she snapped. And then: ‘Sorry.’

  I smiled at her to indicate forgiveness. ‘I’ll make some coffee.’

  She followed me into the kitchen. ‘Can I have a large brandy with it? Or a large something?’

  ‘My dear Gemma,’ I said, ‘you can have a large anything you like, insofar as it’s within my power to give it to you.’ Suddenly she grinned at me. ‘You are good for me,’ she said. ‘You let me talk about myself but you don’t take me too seriously.’

  I filled the kettle and plugged it in. ‘I take you very seriously indeed but I don’t let it show in case you get conceited. I take all beautiful people seriously.’

  ‘There, you see?’ she said delightedly. She studied herself in the mirror I keep in the kitchen in case anyone calls unexpectedly. ‘I suppose I could always grow my hair again,’ she said. ‘D’you think that would give me a sense of purpose?’

  Book 2

  ‘But now the calends of his hope begin’

  14 September

  A red letter day. Agency finally sent me out-of-work actor as promised. Wonder of wonders, he not only cleans like an angel but has mended the vacuum as well. Apparently its illness was something trivial, though too complicated for me, far beyond my great academic brain. How the intelligentsia are penalised in this mechanical world. I said as much to him as he worked but he ridiculed the idea. ‘I’ve just got a way with machines,’ he said, grinning up at me (he was on the floor reassembling it at the time). Somehow I got the impression this might mean he had a way with people too.

  In fact he’s a very personable young man: short and dark, with slim hips and surprisingly chunky shoulders. He looks strong, although he’s very light on his feet. I shan’t be afraid of overworking him as I was with Mrs Thing, who always contrived to imply imminent heart failure whenever I mentioned spring cleaning. And he’s certainly more decorative to have around: the sort who deliberately wears shabby clothes to suit the job – jeans and a T-shirt – but makes sure they’re incongruously clean and adds a touch of elegance with a scarf at the neck and a heavily buckled leather belt low on the hips. As if he’s not really a domestic but playing the part of one – which is, of course, the case. David Meredith. He seemed upset I had not seen him on television in some police saga, or at the Royal Court doing something avant garde. I wished afterwards I had pretended to know his name at least. But they all look alike, these young actors with their thin, hopeful faces. Unless you have a reason to remember them, that is.

  18 September

  Actually, he’s got quite a good face. I was studying him today during our coffee break. In repose he can look a bit sulky – when he’s listening, when the spotlight isn’t on him – but as soon as he gets a few lines, starts telling a joke or a story, then he’s all animation. His features are not too regular, that’s the secret: his nose is very slightly crooked as if it were once broken and badly set, making him look tough. (He said yes, he’d played a lot of villains in his time and he’d got a bit pissed off with that.) But his mouth is very sensual, distracting you
from his eyes, which are rather calculating. They ought to be brown as he’s got such dark hair but they’re not, they’re a light grey-blue and very wary, as if he had good reason to distrust you. So his face isn’t all of a piece, which makes it more interesting. The eyes of a schemer, the nose of a boxer, the mouth of a lover – yes, I’ll certainly remember him in future.

  He didn’t mind being stared at, or discussing his face. Used to it, I suppose. Perhaps he even enjoyed it: they’re all very conceited, aren’t they? (And why not, I’d be conceited too if I looked like him.) But he can talk about his face with great detachment, as a tool of his trade, which of course it is: he showed me his good and bad sides and I saw what he meant. At some angles he’s absurdly good looking, at others positively ordinary, even dull.

  He asked me what I was working on, perhaps to reward me for taking an interest in his profession, and I told him about my translation. To my surprise, he’d actually heard of Troilus and Criseyde. ‘That’s Chaucer, isn’t it? We did The Canterbury Tales at school.’ He declaimed a bit, not making too great a hash of it. ‘What’s this one about?’

  I considered how to make it easy for him. ‘It’s a love story. It’s about a man who arranges an affair between his niece and his friend.’

  ‘Why does he do that?’

  ‘Let’s say he has a heart of gold.’

  He laughed. ‘You mean he gets a kick out of it.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘And what happens in the end?’

  ‘Oh, they get separated and she betrays him. It all ends in disaster.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said.

  Afterwards I wondered why I had made it sound like the story of Pandarus. Is that really how I see it?

  21 September

  Gemma’s birthday. I took her out to lunch and gave her my present, a ridiculously expensive silk scarf. She was delighted; she tried it on at once in the restaurant and people stared. I was embarrassed and thrilled. She’s so spontaneous. Childlike, even. It was the only flash of high spirits, though. She ate as heartily as ever and drank a lot of wine, but her depression hasn’t lifted; she still feels her life has no purpose. Reading between the lines, I diagnose a touch of frustration. Christopher, it seems, is now very active in family planning, doing extra work and giving lectures. All very admirable, of course, but it eats into their time together. ‘I hardly ever see him,’ she said wistfully. ‘If he’s not seeing patients he’s out at a meeting or locked in his study. He’s got mountains of paperwork – no wonder he gets so tired. I spend all my time watching television.’