‘Yes… I suppose so. In his way. In a no-nonsense sort of way.’
‘Gentle?’
The question struck me as odd. ‘Yes… but what—’
‘Ssh.’ He smiled. ‘Don’t interrupt me, I’m working. Does he really love her… in his way?’
‘Oh yes,’ I said contemptuously. ‘I’m sure of that.’
‘Good. Is he a tolerant man?’
‘No.’ My answer came too pat; I sought to qualify it. ‘He’s quite religious.’
‘Ah. I see. Now: if you were writing a story about him, what would you call it?’
‘A Man of Principle.’ Instantaneous reaction: I was quite surprised.
‘Fine.’ He started putting away the silver. ‘Right; I think I’ve got all I need.’
‘But you haven’t asked about Gemma. Why all these questions about him?’
‘It’s the first rule. Know your enemy. She comes later. I can find her out for myself.’
‘If I introduce you,’ I said.
He paused at the door. I almost hated him, he looked so confident. ‘Oh, but you will,’ he said. ‘Won’t you, professor?’
‘I might,’ I said, ‘but first I ought to know what you’re going to do. If I introduce you.’
He smiled. Like mother with idiot child. Like benevolent dictator. Like nurse in hospital.
‘I shall do what you want me to,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that obvious?’
29 October
I spent the weekend cooking. He wanted it all to be very casual and you know how much time that takes. I excelled myself, but all the while I had the feeling that Gemma wouldn’t come, or worse, that he wouldn’t. She didn’t know: she thought it was just lunch à deux, as usual. We’d planned it that he’d be finishing work when she arrived and I’d ask him to stay on. Not that she’s ever stood me up, but knowing that it mattered… I just had visions of myself eating that delicious food for days on end, wallowing in anticlimax.
But he was punctual, ringing the bell at ten. I let him in and he dripped rain all over the hall, taking off his Humphrey Bogart mackintosh.
‘She’s coming at twelve,’ I said, to reassure myself.
‘Of course,’ he said, enviably calm.
I locked myself in the bathroom, tensed for the telephone. The rain would put Gemma off, or her car would break down. One of the children would develop instant measles and be sent home from school. When I returned to the bedroom in my bathrobe, he was there studying her photograph, desultorily wiping the frame.
‘Not long now,’ he said, and grinned at me.
I couldn’t work. Troilus and Criseyde seemed a million light years away. I dressed and sat at my desk staring at the rain, trying to decide if it was smoky or not. The telephone rang. I leapt in my chair and sat still. He answered it. I waited.
‘Wrong number,’ he called cheerfully. An omen? I went into the kitchen and put the finishing touches to everything. Then to the dining-room. He followed me there, admired the table, and mocked. ‘Sure you’re not overdoing it?’
‘You haven’t tried very hard,’ I said, looking at his clothes.
‘Casual,’ he said. ‘I told you. It’s a chance meeting.’
Did he even realise how lucky he was? I went back to my bedroom, changed my tie, and sulked. I had what they call misgivings. It sounds like a badly chosen birthday present but it’s very uncomfortable. I don’t think I’ve ever waited for anything with such a clear sense of doom. Perhaps that was the chief attraction, for nothing would have made me alter the arrangements. But it’s rare to be so conscious of what you are doing. We were set on collision course, as in a space fiction journey.
At ten past twelve, the door bell. ‘Oh God,’ Gemma said, ‘this bloody rain. Just look at my hair.’
30 October
Well, they ignored me. A night’s rest doesn’t change that. I was just there to effect the introduction and serve the food. Otherwise I might have been invisible. He talked non-stop about his precious career, telling her endless funny stories and name-dropping quite shamelessly; she encouraged him all the way (as if he needed encouragement) by asking asinine questions and gazing at him enraptured as he answered them. Between us we got through nearly three bottles of wine, and then they proceeded to consume vast quantities of brandy. I cleared away unaided; when I came back with the coffee they were deep in discussion of the foibles of their respective children. At ten to three Gemma suddenly looked at her watch, leapt up, said she must be going, she’d have to drive like a maniac and could she give him a lift anywhere. He suggested the tube station, she kissed me goodbye with alcoholic affection, and they were gone.
No one saw fit to praise the food: they merely ate it. All of it.
31 October
‘How’s the puppet-master today?’ he said when I let him in.
‘Satisfied?’ He hung up his coat, looking decidedly pleased with himself.
‘I haven’t heard her laugh so much in years,’ I said grudgingly.
‘Ah, I’m a very witty fella.’
‘Not with me,’ I said, advancing before him into the kitchen.
‘Oh dear,’ he said, starting on the washing-up. ‘A touch of the sour grapes today, have we?’
‘I didn’t know you could be so amusing, that’s all.’
‘Well.’ He glanced at me over his shoulder (a touch placatingly?). ‘I always try my best at auditions, that’s the whole idea. Isn’t it?’
I ignored that. ‘And do you think you got the part?’
He shrugged. ‘A bit early to say. I think I could – shall we put it like that? But at the moment she’s still pretending to be happily married. Any feedback?’
‘What?’
‘Has she said what she thought of me?’
‘Not a word. She hasn’t rung.’ I tried to sound casual: I was secretly disappointed.
‘Well.’ He brooded. ‘Could be a good sign. She’s self-conscious maybe. Doesn’t quite trust you.’
I said abruptly, ‘What did you talk about in the car?’
‘Nothing much.’ He grinned. ‘Don’t worry, not about you. And I didn’t make a grab at her, if that’s what you mean. Much too soon for that.’
‘I was surprised how confident she was,’ I said. (‘With ful assured lokyng and manere’: the line ran in my head. But that of course was when Criseyde still thought herself unobserved.)
‘Why not?’ He seemed unconcerned. He jangled knives in the sink for a while, ostentatiously busy.
‘Just out of practice.’
‘She shouldn’t be. She’s very pretty – very feminine.’ He said it as though it was unusual.
(‘Creature was nevere lasse mannysh in semynge.’ I hugged the words to myself like a spell.)
He turned suddenly round from the sink. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, that’s all.’
1 November
The days have a purpose again; the wheels have been set in motion. I walk with a light step, like a young man. I am amiable to tradesmen. My work goes sweetly and even when it doesn’t I am tolerant of myself. There is a stirring of something, more positive and less transient than happiness, an organic growth.
5 November
My annual visit to Gemma’s ritual fire-dance. She’s like a child about it, more of a child than her children. She doesn’t squeal, as they do, but she rushes about among her guests with a suppressed excitement that is far more potent than any sound. She is unnaturally solicitous for our welfare, our warmth and comfort. ‘Are you all right, can you see, would you like a scarf, a drink?’ The place swarms with neighbours and their children: well-bred accents float politely on the night air. Earlier in the day it has rained, of course, but now all is damply dry. People take pity on me as the bachelor uncle and make conversation; I know that I bore them. The air is thick with darkness, a special night. Expectancy makes us all talk nonsense in fits and starts: we know the true purpose of our presence. We are not gathered together to socialise, but to watch, to be amazed. We see each
other dimly; we are not sure who the others are. There is a constant murmur of anticipation mixed with boredom at the delay. Some people are late. A lot have come pretending they are only here to please their children.
The bonfire has been protected from the elements by a tarpaulin; now it is unveiled by Christopher, master of ceremonies. The fireworks are arranged on a wall, out of reach of young hands, gloved or otherwise. The children, deprived of risk but assured of intact limbs, wander about feebly waving sparklers at each other, twirling them in the air, making figures of eight out of the feathery fall-out. They offer them to me and I refuse, generously. Bangers are banned; Christopher considers them dangerous. Suddenly, we’re off. An eruption of gold and silver sparks rising upwards and falling in a shower of colour. Other strange lights, red and green, and a cloud of pungent smoke. Gemma grabs my arm; she is unfamiliar in a sheepskin jacket and jeans, her firework kit. ‘Oh,’ she breathes, ‘aren’t they lovely?’ Around us the oohs and aahs proliferate: from now on they will form a humming chorus until the end of the spectacle. I wish Christopher would light each firework singly so we could do it justice; I am confused, I cannot concentrate. I say so to Gemma. ‘I know,’ she says, ‘but he likes a display.’ It’s always the same but it still seems out of character. I am irritated by the inconsistency. (And all this time she has not telephoned me. No feedback, as David would say.) We gasp at some excessive piece of glamour; Gemma says, ‘I wish I could remember their names. I tried writing them down one time but next year they’d changed them all.’ She sounds so disappointed. I remember that Beatrice did not approve of fireworks so Gemma had a deprived childhood. I squeeze her hand. Will she confide in me? She squeezes back and says nothing.
The unlucky Beatrice is in charge of the chestnuts, sweating as she rakes them out of the fire. The grotesque guy has collapsed into the flames; I think it vaguely resembles her and enjoy watching its disintegration. Christopher darts to and fro, knocking corpses off his wall and lighting fresh victims. An acrid smell fills the air, characteristic of only this one night in the year, or else of war. The glow of other people’s bonfires illumines the night sky, pierced intermittently by distant rockets, their stars falling like a dying bouquet. Our rockets are yet to come. Christopher’s penultimate display of Catherine wheels (Catherine?) spit and spin before our dazzled eyes, a far remove from torture in the name of religion.
And then: their sticks planted firmly in earth, their blue touch-paper lit, oh so safely, in a meek line Christopher’s rockets swoop into the sky and explode and flower and die, so swiftly, before our gasps of admiration fade away. Suddenly the night is very black, our eyes blinded with the imprint of colour; the fire is falling apart, pale orange and crumbling inwards, and we regroup, a little foolish, drifting towards the house and sausages, potatoes, drinks.
Gemma says in a whisper, ‘Can I come to lunch again soon?’
6 November
‘No, really,’ she said. ‘I meant just the two of us.’
‘Fine,’ I said casually. ‘That suits me. I was only trying to be unselfish for once. You seemed to get on so well I thought you might enjoy meeting again.’
‘Yes.’
There was no way to interpret that, try as I might. Her voice was quite expressionless.
‘And I don’t think he gets enough to eat.’ Was I overdoing it?
Suddenly, she laughed. ‘Oh, you,’ she said. And hung up.
7 November
‘She wants to discuss you with me,’ I said. ‘I think.’
‘About time.’ He was sulky today, up a ladder, cleaning the paintwork, his tone morose. I resented having to look up at him.
‘She’s worth waiting for,’ I said. I wondered if he even realised the rich prize I was offering him. ‘It’s only been a week.’
‘Ten days.’
I was gratified and surprised that he was counting. I had not thought him so sensitive. Then he added, ‘I should have heard something by now,’ and I realised he was still treating the whole matter as work.
‘Maybe you’ll have to audition again,’ I said to annoy him.
He dropped the cleaning cloth and turned round dangerously on the ladder. ‘I’m sick of your jokes,’ he said.
‘I wasn’t aware I made so many.’
He looked at me with contempt and came down, jumping the last few steps. ‘I don’t think you’ve got any idea what it’s like to be out of work for months on end,’ he said bitterly. ‘No money and the kids have got colds and Cathy keeps moaning. The water heater’s gone wrong and the bloody gas board won’t come – Christ, you don’t know you’re born, sitting here wrapped in central heating having cosy little chats on the phone with Madam in her detached mansion, four beds, two cars, planning to “discuss” me over one of your ritzy lunches to pass the time while I’m out there cleaning someone else’s stinking house.’
We looked at each other. His anger appealed to me: he is so moody and self-pitying, even worthless perhaps. The attraction is irresistible. He is petulant and sour and destructive: he will lead us all astray, with luck.
‘Can I have a drink?’ he asked suddenly, smiling at me. ‘It might improve my temper.’
‘I was just about to offer you one.’ I made martinis for both of us while he sat and watched me. The smile had made him look much younger and somehow unprotected, like a charming child when its tantrum is over.
‘Christ, that’s good,’ he said, tasting his drink. ‘You make the best martinis in the world.’
‘Well, I have to be good at something,’ I said.
8 November
When she had talked about everything else she finally said, ‘You’re quite right, I would like to see him again,’ and stared at me defiantly, as if daring me to condemn her.
‘Why not?’ I said.
She coloured. ‘And I know he’d like to see me.’
‘Well, then.’
She fiddled with her glass, the cigarette substitute. I thought:
Good aventure, o beele nece, have ye
Ful lightly founden, and ye konne it take;
And, for the love of God, and ek of me,
Cache it anon, lest aventure slake.
‘Why waste a good opportunity?’ I said. ‘You enjoy each other’s company, why shouldn’t you meet again?’
‘You know perfectly well why,’ she said gravely. ‘Because we’re both married.’
I affected amazement. ‘Gemma, you astonish me. You’ve only met him once. I’m talking about a simple, harmless friendship.’
‘You’re not,’ she said. ‘Even if there is such a thing. And I didn’t tell Chris about him. When I got home I didn’t say I’d met him. Why didn’t I?’
‘Why should you?’
She shook her head. ‘You’re not being honest with me.’ She leaned back in her chair. ‘D’you remember when I was a child… how you used to make me stay up late, eat too much, read me horror stories, give me nightmares…?’
‘And you loved it,’ I said.
‘And I loved it,’ she said, looking at me steadily.
‘Well?’
‘You’re still doing it,’ she said. ‘You put temptation in front of me like a big cream bun.’
I began to laugh. ‘David would love that.’
Then I noticed she was suddenly crying.
‘You don’t know,’ she kept saying. ‘You don’t know.’ She buried her face in her hands.
‘Tell me,’ I said. (My consulting-room voice.) And passed her a box of Kleenex. I could not allow myself to get carried away with emotion; I had the feeling I might be about to hear something to my advantage. ‘What don’t I know?’
She blew her nose loudly on a tissue and threw it neatly into the waste-paper basket. Her aim was good, even in tears. She had always been a co-ordinated person, a child who could run and jump well, if not brilliantly, whose limbs obeyed her, who had a tidy, compact body. Now that she was an adult it was reflected in her driving, her housekeeping, her handling of her children. On
ly her emotions were undisciplined – I hoped.
‘Oh,’ she said, pushing her hair back and wiping her eyes, ‘I’ve tried so hard not to tell you.’
‘Well, you succeeded.’
‘Yes.’ The faintest hint of a smile, gone quickly. ‘Look, I do love Chris, I really do.’
‘Of course.’ I relaxed. I would still listen, out of curiosity, but it would no longer be strictly necessary. Once they start protesting like that, the battle’s won.
‘He’s very good to me. And the children. He’s marvellous with the children.’
And love based on merit: whoever valued that?
‘Yes.’ I waited for the but.
‘But sometimes I feel a hundred years old.’ She paused, her eyes staring vacantly into the distance as she thought what she wanted to say. ‘We’re like middle-aged people sitting there night after night. He comes in late, we eat, he works again, I watch TV and he joins me later and reads something while I watch. We don’t talk much; we know each other so well. If we do talk, he talks about work. I talk about the children. And all the time I’m thinking, Will we make love tonight?’ She was so lost in her reconstruction that she didn’t even blush at this as she normally would. ‘Usually we don’t. We go to bed about half past eleven and he falls asleep, he’s so tired. I lie awake for a bit, then I take a pill and I go to sleep too.’
Pause for a silence so intense I listened to the ticking of my own clock.
‘And I keep thinking, what’s it all for?’ she said. ‘Oh, I know marriage can’t be romantic forever, but it’s only ten years and I’ve got help in the house, we’re not poor, the kids are at school, I’m not tired at half past eleven, I want to talk, I want to make love, oh, I shouldn’t be saying all this, it’s disloyal, that’s why I didn’t say it before, you always get me drunk. But we didn’t get married just to have a nice home and children and sit in front of the television reading books and going up to bed like old people.’
An Evil Streak Page 7
