I constructed an imaginary dialogue between an unnamed woman (my alter ego, I suppose) and a young girl, also unnamed. It was ostensibly about a house the woman had built and then sold to the girl’s parents, but I tried to suggest that it was really about the house as the embodiment of a dream. A dream of a certain kind of earthly paradise that the woman knew could never be realised, because this was the inevitable destination of dreams.
Oscar is insistent that we limit ourselves to a page. Any longer and I won’t read it, he says. You can’t fit much dialogue on one page. Mine ends abruptly, with two staccato questions from the girl.
‘Do you regret selling it?’
And then: ‘Do you wish we weren’t here?’
It was the question Kim asked me.
Direct and to the point, just like that. The woman does not reply. She is prevented from doing so because we have reached the bottom of the page. Or, to look at it another way, she is prevented from doing so by me, just as I chose not to answer Kim’s question. Some time has passed, there is water under the bridge. Would I make the same choice now? And if not, how should the question be answered?
Had the woman always known she would never achieve her dream? I thought I discovered a suggestion of that, buried in what I had written. Writing is a pathway to your subconscious mind, Oscar says. Might he really be saying something else? That through writing you give your subconscious the permission to dismantle your dreams?
I used to dream about sitting out on the deck with Teddy, sitting under the trees and watching the deep vermilion sun slowly slip away.
Now, instead, we sit side by side on the verandah in the same old places we have sat together over the years, and look across at the new house, and new life. Young life, for which my house was the catalyst.
I’d left the door open, since we’ve returned to morning heat and light and cicadas. Teddy bounded from the kitchen and down the steps. I found Kim standing there, dressed for school, bulging backpack, bike propped up. She was chewing that awful gum again and seemed short of breath.
Without saying a word she handed me an open envelope. Inside, washed and ironed, was the handkerchief I’d given her. One corner had been carefully folded down to display the small embroidered wattle.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I don’t know when I last had the luxury of an ironed handkerchief.’
‘That’s okay.’ Very offhand. Then, hurriedly, ‘Um, can you come for tea tonight? Sorry, I mean dinner. Sorry again, I mean, you know, would you like to come?’
Almost a return to the old awkwardness. I sensed she was nervous at seeing me again. Teddy was licking her outstretched hand.
‘That would be very nice, Kim, but the thing is, I’ve got my class tonight.’
‘Class? Are you teaching again?’ She was still jittery, not quite meeting my eyes.
‘No, I’m being taught.’
She hadn’t expected that. ‘But you know everything already, Ms Farmer.’ A welcome if inadvertent return to humour. She has a nice line in it.
‘At some things I’m a novice. It’s a creative writing course.’
Now she did look at me. ‘Creative writing? You mean, you’re learning to be a writer too?’ Her mouth had dropped open.
‘I’d like to write short things better, put it that way. Not to write proper books, as I am sure you will.’
‘Me? Do you think?’ No longer on edge, she scratched her nose. ‘What time does it go to, the class?’
‘It goes from six thirty until eight, officially. It’s a little elastic. Sometimes it stretches on, and then it becomes an eight-ish night.’
‘An eight-ish night? But that’s early. You could come after, right? No way do we eat till then anyway, almost not ever.’
I deliberated. I always like to eat first. Kim said, ‘She hardly ever cooks, Ellie, but she made a chicken pie. Last night. We could absolutely be ready to start the moment you get there.’ Her expression reminded me of Teddy waiting for his dinner. She added, ‘Bring Teddy, of course. He can have the leftovers.’
‘Free-range chicken, I hope,’ I said. ‘I simply won’t eat anything else.’
‘Nor will I, simply not. None of us will. Battery farming is like, disgusting. Totally.’
‘That settles it, then. I’ll come.’
Although she was noticeably calmer, she seemed to be lingering. Or malingering, I recognised the signs: jiggling, shifting from one leg to the other, scuffling her school shoes.
‘Now listen to me,’ I said. ‘We’re not going to talk about the pound tonight. We won’t mention it. And you must try not to think any more about it. It doesn’t matter a fig.’
‘But Ms Farmer, it does matter a fig. It matters lots of figs, it so does. I was – I do really, really want to get an abandoned puppy –’
I interrupted firmly, fearing she was on the verge of tears again. ‘There are plenty of alternatives. We’ll find one. And let’s not be so stuffy, shall we? I did invite you to call me Thea, remember? But,’ I paused, ‘only if you think you would like to.’
She nodded. ‘I know I would. Like to. I’ll try.’ It sounded ominously tremulous. She added, ‘I’ll try very hard.’ She was hovering over her bike, twisting the front wheel from side to side.
I looked at my watch. ‘You don’t really want to miss the bus, do you?’
‘Well, yeah, I do really, but I better not.’ She heaved a heavy sigh.
‘Be careful you don’t swallow that dreadful gum when you’re riding the bike. Is it all right though, on the whole? School, I mean.’
She nodded again, biting her lip. ‘Oh yeah, sure, it’s quite all right. On the whole.’ Then she added, ‘Don’t worry, I won’t swallow the dreadful gum. I’ve got the hang of chewing and riding at the same time. And I can chew it in class. Invisibly, like a ventriloquist.’
‘Well, fancy that. But is this school any worse than the others?’
A decisive shake of the head. She began to push the bike off slowly. There were still some muddy puddles after the rain.
‘By the way,’ I said, ‘I was wondering if you might like to come along.’
She jerked her head round.
‘The writing class. I thought you might like to come with me sometime.’
‘Yeah?’ The single syllable conveyed utter astonishment. I could see she was flabbergasted.
‘You could just listen and observe, you wouldn’t have to say anything. Anyway, you can think about it.’
Her face, which I used to think vacant and now see as unusually expressive, transformed in less than a second. ‘Oh no, I don’t need to think about it, no way. I would. I would like to.’
Teddy and I watched her ride off, wobbling a bit at first on the rutted road, unbalanced by the laden backpack. These schools make them carry criminally heavy loads, in my opinion. There will be an epidemic of back problems well before they get to my age.
She braked dangerously, turned to look back at us and called out, loudly, ‘Awesome, Thea.’ She pedalled another few metres, stopped again and yelled, ‘See you later. And no worries if it’s one of the eight-ish nights.’
It was rather impulsive of me. I hadn’t meant to raise the idea without clearing it first with Oscar.
I’d been on the point of emailing him the page of dialogue between the woman and the young girl about the sale of the house. Now, prompted by some obscure internal urge, I went to the computer and began on an alternative. This time a conversation between two adult women, both (although I did not say so) in their early sixties. One is subordinate to the other.
Were we permitted to place the protagonists or give them an age? Oscar hadn’t ruled this out, so I added a scene-setting line: a small, elegant sitting room in the principal’s apartment of a girls’ boarding school; afternoon tea laid out on a trolley. The speakers are the principal and her deputy.
They start with what appears to be a routine matter, how homework time is allocated in the senior school. The deputy head raises a concern that c
urrent arrangements might perhaps be a little too relaxed. Would it be a good idea to set formal limits on the time allowed for each subject?
The principal says the staff understand and adhere to the unwritten guidelines. There are enough ruddy rules and regulations without adding any more.
Still, the deputy counters, one wouldn’t want to see a situation develop in which, say, certain teachers got in the habit of setting a disproportionate amount of work. In their own subjects, of course. Or even, she adds, got into the habit of taking up too much of the students’ free time. Would one?
Disproportionate, asks the principal? No one has suggested this is happening. Not to her.
In the intensive English classes, for instance, the other woman goes on. ‘Your own after-hours group has always been in place. No one argues with that. But now some students are being coached separately, after school. This has never happened before.’
An intensive tutorial on the Oxbridge model is the pinnacle for gifted students, the principal replies. Unquestionably. With a gifted teacher, of course.
The deputy head agrees that this can be most effective. Then she seems to segue down a different alley. There’s been the odd rumble in the staff room, she says. To the effect that there’s some – monopolising, going on. Some snitching of the best and brightest. Special privileges, and so on – the same old Aunt Sally. You know what they’re like.
I know how the petty and peevish like to guard their patch, says the principal. I take my pleasures where they can be found, and thwarting the small-minded is a fertile area.
‘Isn’t it funny, though, how the brightest students can sometimes be the most excitable?’ the other woman essays.
‘Amongst the able, every temperament is represented, in my experience.’
Still, it must be easy for intensive tutorials to go overtime, every now and again, the other woman persists. You know, without anyone noticing. There’s a suggestion some students, the most ambitious and talented ones, might be getting – overstretched.
The principal demurs. Overstretched? She hasn’t heard anything to suggest this.
‘But perhaps you wouldn’t, you see. All the same, a word of caution might not go astray,’ the other says, tentatively. ‘Might it? An informal word. During one of your regular,’ she looks round the room, ‘one-on-one briefings.’
The principal tells her she is opposed to curbing the freedoms of individual teachers any more than they are curbed already. Unless it is absolutely unavoidable. Her best teachers, especially.
‘But –’ her deputy begins.
‘I have another appointment,’ the principal says, looking at her watch.
They didn’t come easy, these words, although I knew them well. They felt painfully familiar. Excavating one’s memory is like dredging through years of sludge. It’s all down there, buried deep, but you have to work like a navvy to haul it out. The sludge would keep it buried, if it had its way.
I wonder what became of my nice, ineffectual deputy. Wasn’t she the subtext queen? She tried more than once, I acknowledge that, but such delicate ambiguity was no match for a practised defence of stubbornness and pride. The poor woman should never have relied on it. She might have had more success with the sledgehammer approach.
Re-reading, I wonder if subtext may not simply be another word for evasion. And pride another word for arrogance?
Should I show it to Oscar? I think not – it is too close to the bone. I like to think I am a bit of a favourite of his. But I suspect Oscar wouldn’t make any more of the possible consequences of favouritism than I did at the time.
Which is neither here nor there. Oscar has no need to decipher this subtext. I, on the other hand, had every need.
I don’t like sleeping in the day, and I rarely do it. But after completing that writing exercise I slept this afternoon for two full hours. Sitting in the armchair on the verandah with Teddy stretched out in the sun, I went out like a light.
And it was an eight-ish night, always the way. Everybody hung around, banging on about subtexts in songs and stories, and I knew I couldn’t leave without having a private word with Oscar. By the time I got home and picked up Teddy I was quite faint with hunger.
Oscar had been fulsome about my little dialogue on the sale of the house. Called it both stimulating and satisfyingly cryptic. ‘I’m not entirely sure I got your full underlying gist though, Thea. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing. The important thing is to have a gist. That’s what’s so rewarding about well thought-out dialogue.’
He had started off by reading a scene from a Pinter play. Our own efforts fell somewhat flat in comparison. Not all the others had much of an underlying gist, it seemed to me, but perhaps I am not yet as adept at identifying subtexts as I might be. Or at deciphering them, but I’m certainly not alone there.
When they discussed my piece I was amazed at the interpretations. Someone thought the house was a symbol of permanence, which had been removed at a stroke from the woman’s life. Another, that it represented the tawdriness of materialism. Mousy Mary, who usually hardly says a word – her theory was the most mind-boggling of all – saw the loss of the house as a metaphor for loss of mental faculties. This sounds mildly amusing when I write it down now, but she has never been known to exhibit a sense of humour. I mean mildly amusing in an offensive kind of way.
She did not ask me if I was the woman. Thanks, imaginary goddess up there, for small mercies. If she had done, it might have been cause for real alarm. Could it have been a veiled reference to her own state of mind? She has been looking increasingly dishevelled lately. She wears layers of unprepossessing garments like a bag lady.
No one, not even Oscar, interpreted the underlying theme as the loss of a dream that could never have been realised. Oscar came closest, perhaps. He did use the word dream, but he talked in otiose terms of selling one’s dreams to the highest bidder. Not the same thing at all, not remotely. In fact, when I consider it, a desecration of the idea. It disturbs me, that someone who is normally acute could get it so wrong.
I’d have tackled him on this but I was raring to go. I asked him whether he would mind, as we were nearly at the end of the semester, if I brought a young girl along to class. Just as an observer. She was an aspiring writer, I said – a bright, bookish child who lived near me. I’d pay a pro rata contribution for her attendance, of course.
‘By all means,’ he said. He looked intrigued. ‘We need more brains on the table, don’t we?’ He gave me a speaking glance. Sad but true, I said. That was a relief, anyway. I hadn’t expected him to object, but you can’t count on anything where teachers’ whims are concerned. They can be a thin-skinned, territorial lot. What did I say? Petty and peevish, and they like to guard their patch. Good to see Oscar is not of that ilk.
She was a sensitive girl, I told him, rather diffident and shy, so it would be important not to make a song and dance about her being there. Okay, he said, so he wouldn’t ask her to do the hokey-pokey. Don’t pick on her in any way, I warned, don’t single her out or ask any questions. What! he expostulated. Not even how to spell gonadotrophin? I am tempted to give you the finger, I said. Oh, please do, he begged.
Thought I’d better play safe and mention it to the others, with similar cautions. No one made any objection. Not that they could since Oscar had okayed it, but the last thing I wanted was any covert unpleasantness. Or jealousy; I suspect some of them already resent our special rapport. Gilda, of course, made a show of wilful misunderstanding. ‘Young blood to show us up,’ she cried. Not at all, she’s only going to listen, I said repressively.
I cannot allow myself to turn into a fusspot, in the manner of dreadful, overanxious parents. I must be careful not to over-egg the pudding. I may have over-egged it already, with Frank.
I did, however, want to satisfy myself that he had indeed obtained a box with a lock. Does that mean I do not trust him? I wanted to set eyes on it. An opportunity should present itself, I thought.
We ate at
the vast mahogany table that had belonged to Ellice’s parents. It’s a genuine antique, I was wrong about it being repro. A ridiculous size; the four of us were marooned down at one end. I asked why they hadn’t removed some of the leaves. Guffaws ensued. They said they’d inflated it to its full size when they moved in, just to see the fit, and then they’d gone and lost the winder. Until this crucial gizmo turned up they were stuck with the elephant in the room.
It was the first time I had seen the three of them together for more than a few minutes since drinking champagne on the deck when they first arrived. Strange to think that was only weeks ago. It seems longer, really. Much longer.
I found the dynamics somewhat troubling. It’s not unusual for a girl of Kim’s age to be reticent among adults, but Frank and Ellice do so much of the talking I can see it’s hard for her to get a word in. It’s quite remarkable how affectionate he is towards Ellice, and how solicitous. There is frequent physical contact between them. Touching, brushing against each other, even hugging. Ellice must feel cherished. She should know she is a fortunate young woman.
I haven’t observed this to a great extent among couples. Certainly not to such a marked degree. My experience might be considered limited by some, but in the course of my career I must have encountered many hundreds of families. I am probably more aware of how couples behave with each other than most people. And, generally speaking, it is not in the overtly affectionate way those two behave.
Well, you can’t spend much time in Frank’s company without being aware that he is an unusually tactile, demonstrative young man. He is casually affectionate with me, whom he doesn’t know that well. But perhaps he thinks he does, rather as I feel about him? Of the three, inevitably, it is Kim who is the odd one out. Not that either of them ignores her, they involve her in the conversation, but I can’t help but think she must feel excluded.
The Precipice Page 15
