by Hilary Boyd
Jeanie went over to the bed and hugged him fiercely. ‘That’s not the point.’
17
She lay in the bath and watched the warm water lap to and fro across her breasts. Over and over in her head ran the same image – she’d seen a photograph of him in his school uniform at around that age: a gangly, shy boy swamped by a blazer that ‘would last’. And George had lived with this every day, alone. She wanted to cry for him, his childhood stolen, and also for herself, because the tentacles of Stephen Acland’s vile crime had ended up corroding their marriage. George had finally explained what had happened that day, over ten years ago, when he’d rejected her for the isolation of the spare room.
‘I was having lunch with Simon in Primrose Hill,’ George had told her. Even telling the story, Jeanie could see, was wearing for him, but she could also see that he was desperate to get it off his chest. ‘And suddenly I heard a voice at one of the other tables. I instantly knew it was him; he had a very distinctive way of talking, very fast, very fluent, always loud as if he knew he had something interesting to say, and the remnants of his South African childhood in some of the vowels – it was unmistakable. I must have gone pale, because Simon asked if I was feeling all right. I pretended I was a little queasy and went to the loo. Acland followed me. He must have been in his seventies by then, but to me he looked no different. I really thought I was going to be sick. He caught me outside the Gents and acted as if nothing had ever happened. He asked me how I was, said how lovely it was to see me after all this time. Told me Caroline had died the year before and how much he missed her. I didn’t say a thing, I couldn’t. Then Simon, worried about me, pitched up too, and Acland, brazen as ever, started telling him what a wonderful time we’d had together when I was a boy, and how much my visits to his house meant to him. He said, he actually said, “You and I were such special friends, weren’t we, George?” He used those words, Jeanie, “special friends” . . . can you believe the man’s nerve, his sheer affrontery? But he looked at me . . . cowering there, white as a sheet . . . and of course he knew I hadn’t told and I never would.’
Jeanie had put her arms round him, still in his navy pyjamas after what seemed like the longest night of her life, and knew there was nothing on God’s earth she could do to erase these memories.
‘Did you think of him . . . what he did to you . . . when we were making love? Was that the problem?’ she’d had to ask.
George’s look was tormented.
‘Yes and no. I wish I could say not at all, but I can’t. I know it’s so horrible to even think that would be the case. I did manage over the years to put it away in another part of my brain, I learnt to contain the thing . . . sort of. Sometimes it would ambush me and I’d be back there as if I was still ten, eleven, but mostly I lived with it. But seeing him that day finished me off. I suppose avoiding it couldn’t work forever, and that night, when you and I were in bed . . . he was right there between us, smiling that smug smile. I panicked and ran. I should have told you then and there, Jeanie, it would have been so much better for us both, but I just couldn’t do it.’
‘You should talk to a lawyer, take the bastard to court . . . at least see a therapist.’
George had shaken his head. ‘No, please don’t say that. I can’t tell anyone else, ever. Please don’t tell Chanty, Jeanie, I couldn’t bear it,’ he had pleaded. ‘It’s all so vile, what would she think of me?’
Jeanie had winced at the thought. She knew Chanty would feel only horrified sympathy for him, but surely no daughter should have to deal with such a revelation about their own father.
‘Of course it’s up to you who you tell. But please, you have to go to a therapist. Telling me won’t change a thing, you need to sort this out with someone who knows about these things, or it, he, will haunt you for the rest of your life. Please, George . . . no more secrets.’
‘Are you sure he’s not invented all this to stop you leaving him?’ Rita packed her tennis racket into its cover and zipped it up. Jeanie had played like a demon today, driving the ball to the line-edge with killer force, each shot discharging another bout of rage at what Acland had done to her husband.
Jeanie stared at her. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Well . . .’ Her friend shrugged, ‘it wouldn’t be the first time someone suddenly remembers something expediently.’
‘He didn’t “suddenly remember”, he never forgot, Rita; he told me he’s thought about it every day of his life.’
‘OK, just checking, sweetheart. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying what happened, if it happened, isn’t dire – no torture is bad enough for a paedophile. But George isn’t stupid, you know. Even though he pretended otherwise, he must know you were contemplating leaving when you told him about Ray.’
‘I can’t leave him now.’
‘So it worked, then.’
‘Rita . . . please, stop being so cynical. You weren’t there. He was in a terrible state. I absolutely know he didn’t make it up.’
‘You can’t stay with him out of pity, Jeanie.’
She didn’t know how to answer. Suddenly her friend grabbed her by both arms and looked her full in her face.
‘Jean Lawson, this . . . is . . . your . . . life.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning you know exactly.’ She let go her grip, shaking her head as if baffled. ‘Are you saying it’s Goodnight Charlie for Park Man, then?’
‘Maybe what I feel for Ray is just foolishness. Chanty said I’d be left alone and unloved . . . and old, if I broke up my marriage.’
Rita snorted, gathered up her things and began to drive Jeanie away from the court.
‘Well, obviously she’s going to say that. She’s your daughter. She doesn’t want either of you hurt. But that doesn’t mean she’s right, darling.’
‘I know, but you didn’t see George. He was so pathetic, so vulnerable. If I said I was leaving now I don’t know if he’d survive.’ She remembered his curled, shaking figure.
‘He would,’ Rita said firmly. ‘People do . . . George does.’
Jeanie looked at her friend. ‘Why are you so keen for me to leave him?’
‘I’m not so keen for you to do anything specific. I just saw how you were when you met Ray. You came alive. I hate waste, and I feel you’re wasted on George. He’s not a bad man, but he lives beneath the surface. You’re always dragging him through life, Jeanie. It must be tiring.’
She did feel tired, overwhelmingly so. And letting her guard down, she suddenly knew that she did want to leave George. The thought no longer spelt loss, but rather opened such a vista of freedom, such a scent of life, like breathing the fresh early morning air from an open window. Something had changed. Perhaps the burden of his secret had chained her to him, and now, ironically, when he needed her most, she was finally free. Yet the thought was transient. Responsibility tethered her obstinately to the present.
‘I know what you’re saying, Rita, I do.’
‘But you’re not going to take a chance?’
‘How can I? I can’t leave him immediately after he’s revealed such a horrifying secret. It would confirm his worst fear, that I’m disgusted by him. I can’t even think about Ray right now.’
Rita dropped her badgering tone; now she just looked sad. ‘When will you tell Ray?’
Jeanie shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to him since before I told George. He’ll know something’s up.’
‘Poor man, he’s been trumped.’
Jeanie looked sharply at her friend. ‘You still think George is playing me, don’t you?’
‘He’s no slouch at it, Jeanie. Don’t forget he was quite happy to modify your marriage ten years ago without ‘fessing up – he must have seen how unhappy that made you. He could have told you then, but he waited till he thought you were about to leg it. That smacks of self-interest, no?’
‘I don’t think these things are controllable. He told me when he could.’
Rita raised
her eyebrows. ‘Whatever. Listen, darling, you have to do what you have to do, and in the end I’m fully behind you . . . all the way, whatever it is. But please, please think twice before you pack your life back into last year’s suitcase.’
‘I’ll be late tonight,’ she told him. ‘I’m meeting Rita.’
George looked at her sharply. ‘You only saw her yesterday.’
‘She’s got tickets for the new Tom Stoppard play.’
This was true, but she wasn’t taking Jeanie.
‘Rather you than me,’ he muttered, turning back to his crossword, a piece of toast dangling limply from the other hand.
‘I’ll go straight from the shop. I might be late; she likes to eat afterwards.’
She knew she should have just told him she was seeing Ray. But since the other night she had begun to view him differently, as if he were a hothouse plant that needed constant nurturing. She thought him too frail to deal with the truth.
‘Enjoy,’ he said, not looking at her. Then as she reached the door she heard her name. ‘By the way, we have two people coming to view the house today. The agent says there’s been a lot of interest.’
When Jeanie made no comment, he went on, ‘It’s exciting, Jeanie; it’ll be a new start for us. I know we can make it, you and I. We’ve come this far and it hasn’t been all bad.’ He grinned winningly at her and she smiled back.
‘I never said it was,’ she replied. It was as if George’s breakdown two nights ago had never existed, the pain she had witnessed on his face just a bad dream. He hadn’t mentioned it since, but she couldn’t believe anyone, not even George, had the perverse strength to bury a confession as momentous as that a second time.
‘You’re shaking,’ Ray said softly.
She wasn’t sure how she had arrived at his flat. The walk down the hill had passed in a pall of anguish. However much she told herself that this was the right thing to do, it felt entirely wrong. When they had talked on the phone, and Jeanie had told him about the abuse, Ray had been largely silent. Perhaps he’d known what it would mean to Jeanie.
‘Ray . . .’ She had hoped to be businesslike, to tell him the truth and hold her feelings at bay. Instead, as he gathered her into his arms, the pain of the last weeks instantly receded and she found herself delighting in the smell of him, the feel of his cheek against hers, the pure pleasure of his embrace.
‘Don’t,’ he said, as she pulled away and began to explain. ‘I know what you need to say, but please, don’t say the words. I don’t want to remember the words.’
Jeanie had no more desire to say it than Ray had to hear it.
‘Let’s just have tonight,’ he whispered.
Two glasses and a bottle of wine sat waiting on the coffee table and Chet Baker’s melancholy notes filled the room. But Ray took Jeanie’s hand in his and drew her deliberately towards the bedroom.
The room was bathed in soft evening light. As she sat down on the bed, Ray knelt in front of her. He kissed her softly on the lips, his hands slipping the straps from her shoulders and moving them down across her naked breasts, her body. His touch was light, barely brushing her skin, but so sensuous and emotionally charged that she could hardly breathe.
‘You’re sure you want this, Jeanie?’ he asked, looking intently into her face, his eyes alight with desire.
She nodded, trembling. And then his mouth was on hers, urgent and full of a long-repressed passion which was only equalled by her own. They sank back on to the bed, reaching for each other, giving and receiving the caresses of which she had hardly dared dream. And their lovemaking was beyond anything she could have imagined.
Chet Baker was a long time silent before either of them spoke again.
‘What’s the time?’ she asked.
Ray glanced towards the bedside clock.
‘Late.’
‘I should go.’ The words seemed to come from someone else. She heard Ray sigh beside her, but she was drugged with a pleasure so powerful and so unexpected that she could barely focus.
‘We make a good team,’ he chuckled, dropping a light kiss on the top of her head. ‘And now you’ve had your wicked way, you’re going to dump me.’
He got up, and Jeanie watched as he moved through to the other room and selected Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue from the shelf. His naked body was strong and compact, yet he was light on his feet and as graceful as a dancer.
‘I know who Miles Davis is,’ she insisted when he got back into bed, kissing her as he teased her about her musical ignorance. The jazz was more lyrical, lighter than Baker, and she sensed Ray’s joy in their lovemaking informing his choice.
‘Tip of the iceberg . . . this is jazz lite. Wait till you hear some of my hardcore collection.’
Tears sprang to her eyes as she remembered why she had come. She sat up in bed, drawing the duvet round her breasts.
‘I can’t . . . I can’t leave him, Ray, please understand. It’s not to do with you or how I feel about you . . . tonight was unforgettable, for me unique.’ She gazed at him, wiping the tears with one hand, the other clutching his own as if she were drowning. ‘If he hadn’t told me about the abuse . . . if . . .’
‘Shh, Jeanie, shh, please, don’t talk about it.’
‘But I have to go, it’s past eleven.’
Despite the hour, neither felt remotely inclined to move. For another half-hour they remained entwined, warm and sleepy, in each other’s arms, until she forced herself upright.
Sighing, she dragged herself out of bed and began to gather her strewn clothes.
‘I’ll walk you home.’
They walked in silence, holding tightly to each other’s hand. The night was cool and cloudy. At the top of the hill Ray bent to kiss her softly on the lips.
‘Dear Heart,’ he whispered, ‘the thought of you
Is the pain at my side . . .
The shadow that chills my view.
I am afraid to lose you,
I am afraid of my fear.
You know where I am if you change your mind,’ he murmured, and despite the deliberately casual tone, she saw in his eyes the bleakness of loss, reflected so clearly in her own.
The house was silent except for the loud, insistent ticking of the many clocks. The long-case in the hall wheezed the quarter as Jeanie passed up the stairs to her room. She no longer felt like crying; she just wanted to sleep forever and never wake. She didn’t turn the light on, just shed her clothes as she walked towards her bed, lowering herself on to the smooth, cool linen and pulling the duvet close around her for comfort. But as she turned on her side she let out a cry. There, next to her, was George, fast asleep on the other side of the bed.
‘Hello, Jeanie,’ he muttered sleepily, woken by her cry.
‘What are you doing here?’ Jeanie was wide awake now, and furious.
George sat up in the half-light from the window, where the curtains were left undrawn.
‘Sorry if I startled you. I thought it was time to start afresh, stop this silliness of separate bedrooms.’
Jeanie was nonplussed. ‘Without asking me?’
‘You’re my wife, Jeanie; I shouldn’t have to ask your permission to sleep in your bed,’ he replied huffily.
‘No, well, you shouldn’t have left it in the first place,’ she snapped. ‘I’m tired. Please, George, go back to your room and we can discuss it tomorrow.’
Would he guess what she had been doing? Couldn’t he sense it?
‘OK, OK, if you insist. I thought it might be a nice surprise for you.’
‘It was certainly a surprise,’ she muttered.
‘You’re very late,’ he said, as he stood by the bed, hitching up his pyjama trousers. She saw him staring at her.
‘I said I would be. Rita hates eating before the theatre.’
‘But it’s nearly one.’ His eyes continued to bore into her.
‘Go to bed, George.’ Jeanie turned her back on him. She was so close to telling him where she had really been.
On
ce the door had shut behind her husband, Jeanie hunched under the duvet, angry that his presence had dragged her so brutally from Ray, feeling as if her sanctuary had been violated. Fairness to George did not come into it.
Chanty called unexpectedly at the shop the next morning.
‘Hi, darling, this is a nice surprise. Where’s Ellie?’
‘She’s fine, she’s at nursery. It’s Wednesday.’
‘Is it?’
‘Are you OK? You look really tired.’
‘I am. Late night with Rita.’
‘Dirty stop-out, eh?’ Chanty laughed. ‘Hope it was fun.’ She checked around to see if Jola was listening, then, despite the fact that Jeanie was alone in the shop, lowered her voice. ‘How’s it going with Dad?’
‘It’s fine,’ Jeanie lied, the weight of George’s secret sitting heavy on her mind. But it wasn’t her secret to tell, and Jeanie realized with a shock that now she lived in a world of secrets. Chanty seemed happy to take her reply at face value, however.
‘Good, that’s good. Listen, Mum, Alex and I were wondering if you and Dad wanted to come over for supper this evening. We haven’t seen you together for ages.’
‘That would be lovely, darling. Why aren’t you at work?’ She thought her daughter looked unusually happy.
‘I’m going in now. Had a few things to do this morning.’ She seemed to hesitate, then reached across the counter to kiss her mother on the cheek. ‘Tonight, then? Come around seven, then you can see Ellie before she goes to bed. If it stays nice we’ll do a barbecue.’
After Chanty had gone, Jeanie slumped on the stool behind the till. She had had little time to dwell on the previous night, but the pleasure of their lovemaking, so surprising, so magical, still hovered around her tired body even as she worked, like a soft veil between her and the world. Ray had brought her alive, and every inch of her body reminded her of this. She refused to contemplate the probability that she would never experience it again. George had been his usual self that morning, hardly contrite about his trespass, and grilling her about every detail of the evening. By the time she left for work she was exhausted by her lies.
