As usual I wept when Scarlett vowed never to be hungry again, and the lights for the intermission came up and caught me wiping my eyes and my glasses. The last time I had seen the film I had been in America, surrounded by teenagers who had come to mock and remained to cry. This generation seemed more robust, queuing dry-eyed for icecream and soft drinks. Well, it was their loss. Myself, I could have done with a hard drink, but it was not that kind of cinema.
I was not even bothering to imagine the erotic antics in my spare room; yet today was the peak of my achievement so far. I wanted to see Catherine Meredith again, and not just to keep her under surveillance. She fascinated me: the drinking, the talking, the new angle on David. His lies – or were they hers? The truth about Mrs Salmon? They could not both be telling the truth, so one (or both) of them must be lying. How far could I pursue my double mirror image, I wondered, for here might be a unique opportunity to observe not only one but two couples in action. I felt slightly disloyal because although I loved David and Gemma in my own fashion, I found Catherine more interesting. She was intelligent; I was afraid of her. I thought David was probably afraid of her too. And yet I felt that if we could join forces, she and I, we would be invincible.
And if not? I borrowed Scarlett’s philosophy: I would not think of that now. I would think of it tomorrow.
* * *
When I got home I was amazed and rewarded for my fortitude: David was still there. Still in fact wearing the new silk dressing-gown, which turned out to be a rather strange colour that looked expensive rather than attractive and was probably called aubergine. He was sitting on the dishevelled bed of the spare room with a dazed expression on his face. I asked if he should not be at home by now, but he said he had told Cathy he was having drinks with a casting director.
‘Happy Christmas,’ I said. To tell the truth, though pleased to see him, I was almost embarrassed at my nearness to their love-making. Gemma’s scent was everywhere in the room. Alone, I could have enjoyed it properly; with David there I was wrong-footed.
‘The food was terrific,’ he said. ‘You did us proud.’
His last words echoed because Catherine had used them. It must be a family expression; I had noticed before how married people often talked alike. To get away from the tantalising smell of sex, I wandered into the dining-room.
He called after me, ‘It’s all right, I’ve cleared up in there,’ and so he had, as if the feast had never been. I went back to the spare room and found him getting dressed: his body was covered with dark curly hair and he was circumcised. Suddenly I felt ill with envy; but which of them I envied most I could not have told you. An extraordinary feeling, so intense as to leave me physically weak: I had to hold on to the door for a moment. But it passed, as all feelings pass.
‘Look what she gave me,’ he said, hanging the dressing-gown on the back of the door. ‘It must have cost the earth.’
‘She’s very generous,’ I said. He was like a child, enchanted by a present. Or did he think mere expense made him more worthy?
‘She stayed till four,’ he said. There was something odd about his voice: a stunned quality. As if he was telling me that she was generous with time as well as money and he was surprised.
I said, ‘D’you want a drink?’ It was after six and I needed one badly.
He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so. We had rather a lot – she brought champagne and so did I.’
He was dressed by now. He surveyed the room. ‘I just didn’t want to clear this up too soon.’
‘Shall I help you?’ I moved forward slightly. My sick feeling had passed; already I was able to enjoy seeing the lipstick marks on the pillow, the semen stains on the sheets.
‘No, don’t help me, I’d rather do it.’ He began to do it in a reluctant desultory style, not at all the way he dealt with the rest of the flat. He said, ‘You’re going there at Christmas, aren’t you? To her home?’
‘Yes, I always do.’
‘Then give her this and pretend it’s from you. I mean she’ll know it’s from me but let the others think it’s from you. Then she can wear it all the time.’ He put a small, badly-wrapped package into my hand.
‘I shall have to wrap it better than that,’ I said, ‘or no one will believe it’s from me.’
‘Do what the hell you like with it, only give it to her. She won’t be expecting it, she thinks we’ve both had our presents today, but I want her to have something extra on the day.’ He reached for his jacket, then as if changing his mind sat down suddenly on the bed. ‘I think I love her. My God, what have you done?’
Book 4
‘Those who serve love have painful things to do / From time to time, if they would have the joy.’
Christmas Eve
As usual I stayed with Beatrice. A strange convention but one accepted by us both, that since we were related by marriage and lived alone, we ought to be together at Christmas. No amount of tacit dislike could get around that, it seemed. I drove down there on Christmas Eve and I returned home on the day after Boxing Day. Nothing less would have sufficed: it was traditional. We had both long since given up considering how much we resented it, or perhaps we had simply gone past resentment. There is, after all, something restful about knowing exactly what you will be doing for three days every year, particularly when all your eating and drinking is at the expense of others.
My chosen contribution was champagne (also traditional): six bottles in a box on the back seat of the car, produced with a flourish like the conjurer’s rabbit and greeted by Beatrice with cries of amazement and wonder, as if I had never done it before. After that, I could relax: no further effort was required. I had only to be even-tempered and appreciative.
Between six and eight Beatrice kept open house for neighbours, some of whom brought small presents and all of whom consumed large drinks. (Not our precious champagne, though; that was for family delectation only.) I was usually introduced as a visiting celebrity (‘This is my brother-in-law, Alexander Kyle; I expect you’ve heard of him.’) to new neighbours; old ones were supposed to remember me from last Christmas. It was all fairly embarrassing, as I grew more obscure every year and few of the neighbours had the slightest idea who I was, though some of them were polite enough to pretend, however unconvincingly, that they had.
Promptly at eight, like well-trained dogs responding to a high-frequency whistle, they all departed and Beatrice and I sat down to our solitary dinner together. Beatrice cooked turkey on Christmas Eve in order that Gemma might cook goose on Christmas Day. Each year I found myself wondering how a woman with so little imagination could be such a good cook. Eventually I decided that all Beatrice’s latent energy, all her creative talents that might otherwise have been channelled into eroticism or wit, had discharged themselves in haute cuisine, an art she had certainly concealed from her daughter.
Christmas Eve was also reminiscence night, and over the first bottle of champagne Beatrice dug out her memories: my dead brother, their idyllic courtship and marriage, her tragic loss, Gemma’s birth, the trials of her upbringing, the triumph of her marriage and the joys of grandchildren. (Beatrice, like most women, had lived her life vicariously.) All that was routine and usually took us up to the plum pudding; I had only to listen and grunt. But tonight she seemed to gallop through it all, cutting short her customary eulogy of the children and doubling back to Christopher before we had finished the turkey. I listened uneasily: any departure from tradition at this time of year had to be suspect.
‘Poor Christopher,’ she said, sighing a little. ‘It’s such a pity he has to work so hard.’
‘Does he have to?’ I asked. ‘I thought it was his choice.’
‘Well, he’s very dedicated, of course.’ She approved of the dedication; I could see her casting around for a way to criticise it without compromising her principles. ‘Too much for his own good, I sometimes think.’
I refilled her glass. She went on as if I had asked her to explain.
‘Well, it doe
sn’t leave him much time with Gemma and the children. I often think it’s a pity Gemma’s always had help in the house – all those silly foreign girls and that cleaning woman – it leaves her with a lot of time on her hands.’
Was I imagining a look of suspicion, interrogation, on that large bland bovine face?
‘She hasn’t always had help in the house,’ I said. ‘Only since the second child.’
‘Well, nearly always. I never had anyone to help me with Gemma, there simply wasn’t enough money. I had to struggle on alone as best I could.’
Christmas, I thought, was an unlucky time to be reminded of Beatrice’s everlasting poverty.
‘You had a cleaning woman for years,’ I said. ‘I distinctly remember her. She had varicose veins.’
‘Oh, Mrs Hodges. Yes, but you could hardly describe her as a help.’
I refilled my own glass. If Beatrice was determined to play the martyr, I might as well get quietly drunk. She went on with a nasty edge to her voice:
‘I wonder sometimes if Gemma appreciates how lucky she is.’
I said smoothly, ‘Oh, I’m sure she does.’
‘When I compare her life to mine – well, I just wonder if she realises, that’s all.’
‘But you wouldn’t have wished her to suffer like you, surely?’
‘No.’ She sounded uncertain, as if, with hindsight, she felt a little suffering might have done Gemma good but, in her maternal role, dared not own up to such an idea. Or was that amount of sadistic commonsense beyond her?
‘After all, it was always your ambition she should marry well,’ I reminded her. ‘And she has.’
‘Yes.’ Again she sounded doubtful. ‘Too well, perhaps.’
‘You mean you envy her?’
‘Of course not, don’t be ridiculous. I just mean she’s had a very easy life.’
‘Well, it’s not over yet,’ I suggested. ‘Perhaps the worst is yet to be.’
‘Now, Alex, that’s not funny at all.’
‘Who’s trying to be funny? Isn’t that exactly what you were advocating – a little healthy disaster to make her count her blessings?’
We had clearly finished with the turkey. Beatrice compressed her lips and gathered up the plates. I watched her broad shape disappear into the kitchen; I should have to be very careful. Her instincts were still making her pursue the scent she could not identify. But that only made it more exciting. She was not a worthy adversary but she would add a little spice to the game. After all, without the Nazis, there would have been no need for the Maquis.
Christmas Day
Christmas morning meant church with all the family. Agnosticism was no excuse and I had long ago decided to give in gracefully. Besides, I enjoyed the ritual, enjoyed hearing the music and inhaling the incense and wondering how high Beatrice’s favourite vicar really was. Religion, like money, was a subject I preferred not to discuss with her, but it amused me to sit in the pew beside my relations (making six of us in all) and play the conformist. Now and then I would steal a glance at Gemma’s profile, so pure and serene (what a pity the children had not inherited it), and wonder if her conscience troubled her at all, particularly in this holy setting. But for most of the time I simply shut my eyes and gave myself up to the delight of erotic thoughts. My first night in the spare room had proved most satisfactory.
After church we all assembled at Gemma’s house, armed with two of my precious bottles of champagne, and started drinking to deaden the sound of Gemma’s children playing with their toys. Santa Claus had arrived at half past five, Gemma told me, miming exhaustion with a charming bend of the knees.
‘This is very good of you, Alex,’ Christopher said, opening a bottle.
‘It’s the least I can do,’ I said modestly. I was enjoying myself; I always enjoyed myself in Christopher’s presence since the affair began. It was as if I had been granted perpetual double vision: every time I looked at Gemma and Christopher, I saw Gemma with David. And it was all my doing. The sense of power made my head swim long before I tasted the champagne. I could hardly wait to get back to London to continue my machinations, yet the enforced hiatus was almost attractive, giving me time to savour my own anticipation.
Gemma’s goose was not a success, but we all pretended it was. I hoped her typing would prove more reliable, should I ever have occasion to test it. Proof of her more than adequate talent for flower arrangement was all around us throughout the year. I used to think that Beatrice had maliciously withheld her culinary arts from Gemma, until I recalled that she had parted with her most precious commodity – money – in order to entrust Gemma’s education in these matters to others. It was ironic and appropriate that of the three skills Gemma had acquired only the least useful and the most decorative. Meanwhile, I entertained myself during lunch with variations on the theme of her goose being cooked, since the conversation was generally reduced to the lowest common denominator of the children, and therefore left a great deal of time for private thought.
Grown-up presents were exchanged after lunch, again according to a tradition whose origins no one could remember but which struck me as foolish, since by that time the children had forgotten the avalanche of parcels they had received in the morning and demanded more, becoming fractious and greedy. A few small extra gifts (apart from ours) were put by to pacify them: not for the first time I marvelled that a man who was otherwise so coldly rational could as a father be so indulgent. I even wondered what character changes I might have undergone had I ever become a parent. Fortunately, there had never been the least danger of my finding out.
We all assembled in the sitting-room and the ritual began.
Beatrice gave Gemma a book, Christopher a record, and me some driving gloves. I was a most difficult person to buy presents for, she reminded me, and we all laughed, for no apparent reason. Everyone then marvelled at what had been unwrapped. Gemma and Christopher kissed Beatrice. I smiled at her.
Christopher gave Gemma a blue cashmere jersey, Beatrice some scent and me some cigars. He apologised for his lack of originality. Gemma kissed him. Beatrice kissed him. He and I shook hands.
Gemma gave Christopher a shirt, Beatrice a nightdress, and me an onyx cigarette box. We all kissed her and sat down again, exclaiming that she had given us just what we wanted. There was a lull. I had been waiting for it with fearful delight.
I gave Christopher a bottle of brandy, Beatrice some slippers, and handed Gemma the newly wrapped gift from her lover. She looked puzzled; she had been expecting her usual bottle of scent (now reposing on the mantelpiece of the spare room.) She could tell from the shape of the parcel it was not scent.
Beatrice and Christopher unwrapped their presents and told me what an excellent choice I had made. They did not feel compelled to touch me to prove the point. Gemma was slow with her parcel and suddenly just as she opened it I realised she was going to blush. I quickly diverted Beatrice’s and Christopher’s attention to some nonsense with the children and their toys so that I could watch, enraptured and in perfect safety, the deep flush of colour in Gemma’s face. She looked up and caught my gaze; she knew. I nodded.
She took out a silver pendant on a silver chain and slowly hung it round her neck. On the medallion was her Zodiacal sign of Virgo. Until that moment I had been quite angry with David for not researching the matter: the present was totally out of keeping with my character. But the look of enchantment on Gemma’s face made me forgive everything.
‘Whatever’s that?’ said Christopher, turning round from ruffling his son’s hair.
Gemma said carefully, ‘It’s a pendant with my birth sign on it. Isn’t it lovely?’
Christopher actually laughed. ‘So you finally got one.’ He turned to me. ‘I didn’t think you believed in all that nonsense.’
‘I don’t,’ I said, ‘but Gemma does.’
‘Oh, Gemma certainly does. She’s been nagging me for years to get her something like that.’ Alcohol had made him almost jovial.
Beatrice said sh
arply, ‘I thought you always gave Gemma scent for Christmas.’
‘Time for a change.’ I beamed at her in my best jolly-uncle style. ‘I suppose I really should have thought of it in time for your birthday,’ I said to Gemma.
‘Oh, this is much nicer. More of a surprise.’ She was holding the medallion loosely in her hand, moving it to and fro on its chain.
‘I even wondered if I should have got them to put Libra on the other side as you’re nearly on the cusp, but the man in the shop advised against it.’ Was I overdoing it?
‘My word,’ said Beatrice, ‘you have been reading it up.’
‘Maybe Gemma’s been dropping hints,’ I said, passing the ball.
She fielded it neatly, as I expected. ‘Fancy that, you actually remembered me saying I used to read both horoscopes to get the best of both worlds. Well, I don’t do that any more.’
‘Then I made the right decision,’ I said, trying to sound bored with the subject.
‘And Gemma got her own way again,’ said Beatrice.
‘Well, why not?’ said Christopher genially, pouring us all brandy. ‘It is Christmas, after all. If a silly present like that makes her happy – no offence, Alex, you know what I mean – well, why shouldn’t she have it?’
And then to my amazement I heard Gemma say, ‘Well, I couldn’t get it from you so I had to get it from someone else.’ Luckily at that moment one of the children stepped on a toy, overbalanced, fell and hit its head on the corner of a chair. All hell broke loose, distracting us perfectly. Beatrice and Christopher sprang to the rescue at once but Gemma was swifter and had the child in her arms before they could reach it. At intervals it paused to draw breath and there was a brief but welcome silence before the next bellow. The other child watched with what appeared to be mild interest and total unconcern, confirming my belief that the basic callousness of human nature is determined at an early age, and Christopher’s views on family planning were absolutely justified.
An Evil Streak Page 12
