An Evil Streak

by An Evil Streak (retail) (epub)

  Nothing else of interest occurred, and at six o’clock tradition decreed that we should leave, so that Gemma and Christopher could be alone with their children and Beatrice and I could be alone with each other. We were all destined to consume cold meat in solitude that evening when we might – who knows? – have preferred to go out and get drunk at the local inn (was it open?) or retire early to bed to sleep – or weep for our transgressions. But variations on the theme were not permitted. Christmas must be played according to the rules, or not at all. I hoped David and Catherine were having a fairly dismal time in Kentish Town.

  On the way back in the car Beatrice said to me coldly, ‘You’re spoiling her.’

  I considered the implications of this, spoken after a long silence; in particular the interesting ambiguity of the word spoiling. Did Beatrice have in mind indulgence or ruin; and did one, in fact, automatically lead to the other? I thought for some time about what my answer should be: a polemic or a dignified silence. In the end I settled for enigmatic neutrality, which spared me a lot of effort.

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  Boxing Day

  I still had not been alone with her.

  Boxing Day was a gamble: it could go either way. Dregs or bonus. Gemma and Christopher were obliged to lunch with us, but beyond that nobody quite knew what to do with the time. It was a left-over day: we had all eaten and drunk too much, drowned in presents, seen each other too often. We had run out of steam. I was not allowed to depart, although I am sure Beatrice hoped I would. Everyone was beginning to wish that life could be normal again, and then feeling guilty for wishing it.

  Still, if I were lucky or clever, there might be a chance. I could tell Gemma wanted to talk: she had a furtive, shifty expression on her face and she kept trying to manoeuvre the lunchtime preparations and aftermath so that we could be alone together. (‘Uncle Alex and I can get lunch for you, Mummy; it’s only cold, isn’t it?’ Or: ‘Mummy, why don’t you sit down, you’re doing too much. Uncle Alex and I can do the washing up.’)

  But Beatrice foiled her, martyr to the end. Not for nothing was it the feast of St Stephen, and Beatrice intended to make us feel every arrow.

  ‘Nonsense, Gemma, you know I enjoy it. And anyway, you look worn out.’

  It was unfortunately true. Gemma did look pale and tired – drawn, I believe the word is, only that reminds me of seasonal poultry, or felons on the Elizabethan scaffold. I wondered if Christopher had been claiming his rare conjugal rights as a Christmas treat.

  As if accused, he now looked up from the Radio Times; he was strangely addicted to old films on bank holidays, though too disciplined to succumb to them on other occasions.

  ‘Does she? I thought she was looking rather pretty today.’ He caught hold of her hand as she passed him, squeezing it briefly. I thought I saw Gemma flinch, but that may have been wishful thinking.

  ‘I’ve eaten too much,’ said Gemma inconsequentially. ‘I’m going to be fat as a pig. D’you fancy a walk, Chris?’

  She must have known he’d refuse.

  ‘Well, I rather fancied watching The African Queen.’

  ‘Oh, is that on again?’ said Beatrice and stopped short, having fallen neatly into Gemma’s trap.

  ‘I’ll come for a walk with you, Gemma,’ I said casually. ‘I could do with some fresh air.’

  That left Beatrice with a dilemma. According to her own etiquette, it would be impolite to leave Christopher alone in front of the television, however much he might desire such a fate. Obediently she switched on the set, and shot me a glance that was almost pure hatred. I was surprised; I had not thought her capable of such extreme emotion.

  ‘Take the kids with you, Gemma,’ said Christopher over his shoulder. ‘Then we’ll get a bit of peace.’

  * * *

  It was a nasty day, typical of the English winter at its worst, not the Christmas card variety, picturesque with snow, but dank, raw, clammy weather like November. There was nothing crisp and clean about it, as winter should have been, only a misty chill that seeped into your bones as you walked. The children didn’t notice, mercifully; they ran ahead shouting and throwing sticks for the dog. In the distance, a few other families were bent on the same errand; otherwise the common was deserted.

  ‘Alone at last,’ I said to Gemma.

  She giggled; not a habit I like in others but in her it was charming, full of childish mischief without the other disadvantages of childhood. She was tactfully wearing Christopher’s present over her jeans and under her sheepskin (firework) jacket. The blue matched her eyes almost exactly. It was like Christopher to select the obvious colour: I was pleased to find him so predictable. And round her neck, proudly, defiantly, hung the medallion for all to see.

  ‘I think your mother guesses,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, so do I. At least, she thinks there’s something but she doesn’t know what.’

  Silence. We walked on. Alone again with her after what seemed an eternity, I felt I was reclaiming her, like land from the sea. Too many tides had washed over her: David, Christopher, the children, Beatrice, but at some fundamental level she was still mine. I wondered why I wanted to risk losing her: all my schemes, first with Christopher, now with David, took her temporarily out of my orbit. Some kind of potency test, perhaps, or else the ultimate gamble for a jaded palate. For if I lost Gemma I would lose everything.

  Suddenly she said vehemently, ‘Well, she can rot. She can’t prove a thing.’

  The violence amazed me; what passions had David awakened? I was pleased. ‘She, she – the cat’s mother, they used to say when we were children. It was very rude.’

  ‘Yes. I hope so.’

  ‘It’s odd that she’s noticed and Christopher hasn’t.’

  A long sigh. ‘Oh, he’s too close. He can’t see what’s under his nose. Or he doesn’t want to.’

  ‘That’s more important. You need him to be blind, don’t you?’

  She didn’t answer. Just as suddenly, after another silence, as if starting a new conversation, she said, ‘God, I hate her. She’s never stopped watching me – she used to know when my period was due before I did. She just sits in a corner watching and waiting like a bloody great spider.’

  The analogy pleased me: Beatrice was terrified of spiders.

  ‘I’ve always hated her,’ I said smugly.

  ‘You used to hide it.’

  ‘I used to do lots of things I don’t do now.’

  ‘Besides, it’s all right for you. You can afford to hate her, she’s only your sister-in-law. But it’s awful to hate your mother.’

  ‘Awful it may be,’ I said, ‘but it seems to be very common. And it isn’t all right for me – I absolutely dispute that. Nothing is all right for me. Far from it.’

  But she wasn’t interested in me; she was too young. She was only interested in herself.

  ‘It’s terrible to hate your mother when you never knew your father,’ she said. ‘It’s worse than being an orphan.’

  Another silence. I felt we were leading up to something.

  ‘He’s an orphan,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Christopher’s parents had conveniently died in the classic car crash the year after he qualified, as if they had wanted to make sure of his education and then relieve his future wife of the encumbrance of in-laws.

  ‘I meant David.’

  It was then that I knew, really knew for certain, for the first time, that she was in love. The way she said his name was unmistakable: the proud casualness mixed with the tender lingering verbal caress, as if no one else in the world had ever had a name. I wondered if I had misunderstood her deliberately in order to make her say it so that I could hear it.

  ‘He’s had a terrible life,’ she went on. ‘His parents divorced when he was five and he was shunted between them. Then his father died and his mother remarried and didn’t want him – imagine that, not wanting your own child – so he went to foster parents. But they said he was too difficult to keep – because h
e was so unhappy, of course – so he went to another lot, and another, but none of them worked out, and then his mother said she’d have him back after all, only then she died so he ended up in a children’s home.’

  She said the word with such horror that she made it sound like Auschwitz. I was reminded of Othello and Desdemona: something about ‘She loved him for the dangers he had passed / And he loved her that she did pity them.’ I had never found that particularly convincing, but obviously Shakespeare as usual was right and I must revise my ideas. However, I also remembered Catherine Meredith’s warning, and I wished I had paid more attention to Oliver Twist and Winston Churchill, at least in their youth.

  ‘So of course he got married young just to have a home of his own and someone to love. But after the children were born his wife said she didn’t want him any more.’

  I cast about vainly for something to say that Gemma would consider adequate. It was, after all, the first time in her life that she had had any one to feel sorry for. A luxury.

  ‘Extraordinary,’ I said.

  ‘So now they stay together because of the children. He can’t bear his children to go through what he went through, you see, and he’s afraid they might, if there was a divorce. So he stays. He’d rather he was unhappy than risk upsetting his children.’

  She sounded as if she were nominating him for the Nobel Prize for sanctity.

  ‘It sounds grim,’ I said.

  ‘It’s terrible.’

  She seemed really upset when she ought to be grateful: if he were happily married he might not be having an affair at all. (I say ‘might’ advisedly, as I am far from expert on the matter.)

  ‘You knew at once about the present,’ I said to change the subject.

  ‘We talked about it once. He said if he ever—’ She stopped and seemed to change her mind. ‘He said it was something he might give me one day. He knew I wanted one. He believes in it all. He’s Gemini. We’re not supposed to be compatible.’

  Perhaps answers were not really necessary. Perhaps she was talking to herself. In a moment she might tell me his collar size and his inside leg measurement, the colour of his socks and the design of his underpants, what kind of shampoo and toothpaste he used and whether he believed in deodorant or sweat. Any amount of random trivia might pour out of her because, if it pertained to him, the vital him, it was of supreme importance. I dimly, enviously recalled the feeling. Every scrap was valuable. (I had once stored someone’s nail clippings in an envelope.) When the beloved crossed the room you stared in wonderment at the miraculous way he or she moved. Look, they can walk, aren’t they wonderful, you thought quite seriously.

  Sensing her recklessness, I said, ‘You took a chance yesterday, saying what you said to Christopher.’

  ‘I know. I couldn’t stop myself. I was suddenly so angry with him.’

  ‘Why?’ This was progress.

  ‘Oh – for having everything. And for being so pleased with himself. And for being so bloody sensible.’

  And for not noticing, I thought.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind if he had faults, like Mummy,’ she went on. ‘She’s a bitch. But he’s a good person – really good. He’s kind and generous and he never thinks of himself.’

  ‘And he never thinks of you either.’

  ‘Well, he’s always thinking of other people. Their welfare and all that. It makes me want to scream sometimes but how can you scream at someone like Chris? I mean, he’d be so surprised and hurt. And then he’d make allowances for me. He really hasn’t any faults – oh, I know you don’t like him much, but really, he hasn’t. He makes me feel terribly inferior. I used to think I was all right – not good, not bad, just all right – but living with Chris…’ She fell silent, as though living with Chris left her speechless; she tried again. ‘Well, he’s so adult. Whereas David and I are like children playing together. I feel we’re equal. We don’t want to hurt anyone but we do want to be happy. Now I don’t suppose Chris has ever thought about whether he’s happy or not – that’s simply not the way he thinks.’

  She stopped. I thought it all sounded most promising and was about to press for more when a piercing shriek distracted me. In the distance the younger child had fallen over. The elder one yanked it to its feet, then stood and watched it bawling. Gemma stared in the direction of the accident but did not move. The moment was frozen, one of those trivial incidents that would be timeless, forever fixed in memory for no apparent reason.

  ‘Mummy,’ Jonathan yelled without emotion, sounding rather bored. ‘Stephanie’s hurt herself.’

  ‘Coming,’ Gemma called back, but she still didn’t move; she fiddled with the fastenings of her coat and said to me in a low voice as if we might be overheard, ‘D’you think it’s possible to love two people?’

  I felt it was a rhetorical question and did not answer: in a moment she ran ahead to join her children.

  * * *

  Next day I escaped and went home with a letter in my pocket. She kissed me goodbye with tears in her eyes.

  (6)

  ‘Darling David,

  I don’t know what to say to you about my lovely lovely present. It’s perfect, exactly what I meant, and as soon as I saw it I heard your voice saying, If I ever give you something like that you’ll know I’m in love with you. Darling, did you mean it? I can’t bear it if you don’t. I think I fell in love with you ages ago only I wouldn’t admit it, I was too scared. After all you said about us having a sexual friendship I was afraid my being in love would put you off, and I was afraid for myself too – afraid I couldn’t look Chris in the face if I actually loved you. So I pretended I didn’t – it was safer. I fooled myself so I could fool him. Now I can’t any more. I ought to feel guilty but I’m too happy. It’s as if you’ve said it’s all right for me to love you – I couldn’t quite let myself till you gave me permission. Now I feep terribly free. I can be myself. When I’m with you I feel completely different from when I’m at home – I’m another person and I think that person is really me, or at least a side of me I can’t express at home. It’s so awful feeling only certain bits of you are acceptable and you’ve got to sit on the rest and squash it down because it’s nasty or silly.

  Darling, I’m wearing your present day and night. It was so clever of you to think of giving it to me that way so no one could object, and Uncle A. played his part beautifully. (I think he enjoyed the intrigue.) Chris made fun of it, of course, and I wanted to hit him. He can’t stand anything like astrology and he always makes fun of things that upset him.

  It’s awful being Virgo, can you imagine the jokes at school I had to put up with? I do wonder though what it would have been like if I’d been a virgin for you, if we’d met in our teens and I hadn’t married Chris and you hadn’t married Cathy. It’s tempting to imagine us living happily ever after but that may be just a silly fantasy – perhaps we only get on so well now because of all we’ve been through already. The thing that worries me now in spite of being so happy is about whether there’s enough love to go round. It works all right with children – I mean you don’t love the first one less after you have the second – but that’s different. Can it work in a case like this? (You ought to know – come on, tell me what happened before in all those affairs you pretend you didn’t have!) Already I don’t want Chris to make love to me, I only want you. And I used to be so angry with him when he didn’t feel sexy – now I’m angry with him when he does. And then of course I feel guilty because I ought to be pleased and he’s probably only trying to please me because I used to complain – or maybe I’m more attractive now I’ve got you? – but anyway it’s no good, all that stuff about rights and duties doesn’t mean a thing when you’re in love, in fact it’s pretty revolting. Chris has rejected me so often, why should I accept him now when I don’t want to? I wish we could live like brother and sister, then we might get on perfectly well – if I could see you as often as I like, a bit much to ask, even of a brother!

  I find I keep thinking about you and
Cathy and wondering, if you really love me, whether you still want her. I know you said she doesn’t ever want you but I find that so hard to believe. Not that I think you’re lying, just that I can’t imagine anyone not wanting you. In one way I feel very jealous when I imagine you both together, quite sick with jealousy, but in another way I almost hope you do make love because if I can’t be with you I’d rather you had someone, even her. I know how much sex means to you and I can’t bear to think of you feeling deprived. And because she’s your wife it doesn’t seem quite so bad – as if it doesn’t really count. If it was another woman I’d die of jealousy but you wouldn’t do that to me, would you?

  I’m sure there must be something wrong with marriage if we all end up like this.

  Christmas was simply awful – packed with relatives and friends all eating and drinking too much and talking about nothing and watching rubbish on TV. Thank God it’s over. If I was God I wouldn’t have a birthday. Do you think that’s blasphemy? I know you said you don’t believe but I bet you do really even if it’s only on the ‘old man with a beard in the sky watching us all’ level.

  If it hadn’t been for your present I think I’d have gone mad over Christmas. In fact if we hadn’t met I really don’t know what I’d be doing now, I can’t believe we’re meant to spend our lives like this. It’s incredible that we only met in October and we’ve only been lovers for a month. Oh, darling, I do love you so much.

  What I want most now is to be with you on New Year’s Eve somehow. Obviously we can’t manage the evening but maybe we could manage lunch. I do loathe all these stupid family festivals that keep getting in our way. If only we could have a night together sometime – d’you think we ever could? If we told enough complicated lies perhaps – I could be staying with Uncle A. if he was ill or it was foggy and you could be on tour in Aberdeen or somewhere. Oh, could we? I can’t bear to think it will never happen.