Sweets From Morocco

by Jo Verity

  ‘I know it’s not rational,’ he apologised.

  ‘It wasn’t last time, either,’ Kirsty replied without bitterness.

  They agreed that, rather than leave it empty, vulnerable to squatters and vandalism, they would find a tenant. There were always doctors or lecturers or bank managers like Kirsty’s father who needed short-term accommodation. The rent would come in useful but, more importantly, someone would be on the spot, keeping an eye on the house.

  Lewis wondered how his father would take the news. It was a bitter truth but he was going to have to face up to life as a widower. At least his job would structure his days and provide social contact. He had plenty of friends – look at the crowd of workmates who turned out for the funeral. Retirement was still four or five years away and by then he would have established a coping strategy.

  If Lewis were ever to make the break, it must be now.

  The blank sheet in Tessa’s typewriter became progressively more intimidating. Her agent and publisher were pushing and she couldn’t keep them at bay for much longer. Anxiety bred anxiety and the only time she could put it out of her mind was when she was drunk or with Rundle. When the ‘thing’ with Rundle started, it had been an adjunct to her London life; a dalliance. He was her ‘stick of Brighton rock’ – his words. Now he had become the first thing she thought of on waking; the last before she fell asleep. It was an unhealthy state of affairs and she should walk away, yet he made every atom in her body squirm with pleasure. Returning on the train, she would already be counting the hours until she could return.

  Lewis and Kirsty came to London for a weekend. Tessa’s flat wasn’t big enough to entertain guests so they booked in to a small hotel near the British Museum. She quite liked Kirsty – or didn’t dislike her – and knew she should be pleased that her brother seemed, finally, to have found the right woman. But seeing them together, so wholesome and respectable, grated.

  Lewis invited her and Dan to join them at the theatre. ‘Let’s have a night on the town. Theatre. Meal. Jazz club. The whole shoot.’

  Dan was enthusiastic. ‘C’mon, Tess. You don’t want to let Lewis down, do you?’

  The play – the new Pinter – was worthy but Tessa failed to lose herself in the desolate tale and her attention wandered.

  Did Dan ever suspect that she was seeing someone else? He never quizzed her on what she’d been doing or why she’d not been at home to answer his phone call. He did, however, ask how she’d come by the bruises. Usually a vague ‘I walked into an open door’ or ‘I stumbled on the stairs’ covered it but, noticing one particularly fierce bruise on her thigh, he’d insisted that she go to the GP. ‘Get yourself checked out, Tess, All these falls …’

  They had slipped in to the habit of seeing each other a couple of times a week, occasionally meeting up with Dan’s arty friends or the Costelloes who were now ensconced in London. Every few months Dan asked her to marry him, or at least move in with him. At first her refusals had wounded him and he’d spent hours trying to make her change her mind. But these days his proposal and her rebuff were no more noteworthy than call and response between vicar and congregation.

  ‘I was thinking,’ said Lewis as they climbed the steps from the jazz club, ‘Why don’t the four of us grab a week away? We could find some sun. Spain or the South of France. I’m off for two weeks at Easter.’ He looked at Tessa. ‘Come on. It’s been a pretty dismal six months.’

  They settled for Nice. Jay contacted a painter friend who had a flat there which he rented out at a reasonable price. At the last minute, he and Liza decided to join them. With Duffy and Cezanne present in every vista and the scent of orange blossom in the air, they spent a week in a charming apartment a few yards from the Mediterranean.

  Tessa was fascinated to see that, away from home, her brother became less hidebound. His conversation was witty and his French more than passable. Kirsty evidently took a hand in choosing his clothes and, with suntanned face and hair a little longer than he normally wore it, he looked rather dashing. They all got along well, particularly Lewis and Dan. Inevitably, after a few glasses of rough red wine, there was a little harmless flirting – Dan with Kirsty, Liza with Lewis, Jay with everyone.

  ‘You look wonderful,’ Dan said, watching Tessa as she dried herself after a bath. ‘I know the “all pals together” thing isn’t your scene, but I have to say you’re looking very … relaxed. And so beautiful.’

  She crossed the room to where he was sitting sketching and leaned forward, her bare breasts skimming his lips. ‘To be honest, I didn’t want to come. But I’m glad I did. It’s fun.’

  ‘What have I been telling you?’ He sucked one nipple then the other. ‘A little peace and contentment isn’t such a bad thing. Life doesn’t have to be one long struggle.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ she admitted.

  One afternoon, while the others strolled along the Boulevard des Anglais, Tessa and Jay – she pretending she needed to sleep, he that he wanted to sketch the harbour – made love, for old time’s sake.

  All in all, it was delightful and, briefly, Rundle’s hold slackened.

  Lewis’s final reservations about moving to Bristol were swept away by his father’s reaction. ‘Good idea. You need to broaden your experience. It’ll stand you in good stead when you apply for a headship.’

  Lewis admired his father’s stoicism. Dick Swinburne never said much about how he was feeling but, then again, Lewis never had the courage to ask. A question like that might trigger a response which neither of them could deal with. It did occur to him that his father might consider this period of his life to be a penance for that one unforgivable mistake; a delayed sentence imposed by an overseeing authority; a means of redemption.

  He visited his father often but was anxious to avoid the pitfalls of rigid routine, remembering how the weekly visits to his grandmother eventually became a depressing chore. And Frank wasn’t far away, if he was desperate for company.

  Lewis had seen his uncle several times since Tessa’s disclosure. How had he not picked up on it? Perhaps we never see the people closest to us for what they are. He wished he were able to discuss it with his father, to ask when he’d first twigged that his brother was a homosexual and how it had affected their relationship; to ask whether his mother had known, or was even aware that such a phenomenon existed. Lewis had gleaned the rudiments of sex from biology books and dogs in the park, the spicier details fleshed out in the changing rooms after games lessons. As for homosexuality – the first he’d heard about it was when he was propositioned by a man in the public lavatories next to the bus station. He hadn’t had a clue what was going on but something told him to shift like a bat out of hell. And the same instinct stopped him from telling his parents what had happened. Even now, he and his father skirted around anything ‘intimate’ as though it were quicksand. One false step and you were a goner.

  Chapter 28

  Each time Tessa moved her hand, a needle of fire shot up to her elbow. Even after several drinks the pain was no better.

  ‘Get it checked out at the hospital,’ Rundle muttered. ‘I’m sure you can concoct a plausible story for how you did it.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  She struggled back to London concerned that were she to visit a doctor in Brighton it would create a papertrail that might cause her embarrassment. By the following morning, it was evident that her hand was more than bruised.

  The doctor at the Whittington diagnosed a torn ligament at the base of her thumb. ‘I’ll strap it up for you. Less cumbersome than plaster. Keep it elevated. Reduce the swelling. It’ll be uncomfortable for a week or two.’ He prescribed painkillers and warned her to avoid alcohol.

  The simplest actions – fastening the hooks on her bra, signing a cheque, holding a cup – became a challenge. She used her left hand wherever she could but it made her brain ache. She screamed with frustration at her own clumsiness and wept with rage that she had allowed the Rundle thing to get out of hand. On top of everything else
, why was Dan in Toronto now, the only time she’d ever needed him?

  Dropping two painkillers on her tongue, she washed them down with a glass of whisky.

  *

  She told Lewis about her hand. He was sympathetic, but it was plainly only after clearing it with Kirsty that he phoned back, inviting her to come to Bristol. Andrea had never been more than a tolerated gatecrasher and she’d seemed prepared to accept the role provided that they kept up the ‘happy family’ charade. But Kirsty was a different animal and Tessa realised that she was going to have to share her brother because it wouldn’t be a good idea to make him choose between them.

  This would be a lot easier if she and Kirsty were friends but Tessa wasn’t good at friendship. At primary school she couldn’t be bothered with the girls who simpered around the playground playing ‘house’ or ‘shop’, as though they didn’t get enough of those things in real life. She’d tried to persuade the boys to let her join in with them, offering to be a Red Indian or a Jerry in order to get a foot in the door. But their male prejudices were already firmly in place and their slogan – girls are stupid – set in stone.

  Gossip regarding the Gordon affair had followed her to grammar school where a whispering campaign branded her as an unsuitable friend and the whole Swinburne family as ‘iffy’. When she left home, a string of faithless lovers and a host of false friends took advantage of her body, her transitory fame and her short-lived prosperity. She’d erected a barrier around herself to protect what remained of the spirited girl with the bright ideas from false friendships. Lewis had always been on hand, willing to be the sister she never had, the friend she always craved and the only brother she ever wanted. But now she really would have to share him.

  ‘Tell me again. How did you do it?’ Lewis asked when they collected Tessa from the railway station.

  ‘The bus pulled away suddenly. I grabbed the rail. I must have bent my thumb back.’ She avoided Kirsty’s shrewd gaze. ‘It was stupid. But that’s the definition of an accident, I suppose.’

  *

  ‘Shall I help you wash your hair?’ Kirsty asked.

  Tessa wasn’t sure she wanted those no-nonsense hands detecting the shape of her skull beneath her scalp; this stranger smelling her wet hair and seeing the pale skin on the nape of her neck. ‘It’s okay—’

  ‘I’d like to.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I dreamed of being a hairdresser when I was a child. My brothers used to let me wash their hair and set it in rollers. Backcomb it, even. Gavin was the spitting image of George Harrison.’

  Tessa snorted with laughter. ‘You’re making it up.’

  Kirsty kept a straight face for a few seconds before raising her hands in capitulation. ‘You’re right. I am making it up.’

  From their first encounter, Tessa had seen Kirsty Ross as a beautiful Nordic princess – cool, wise and flawless – which made her untruth all the more startling.

  ‘So why did you offer?’ Tessa asked.

  ‘I thought it might help break the ice. Women divulge all kinds of things to their hairdresser. Hairdressers and taxi drivers – they’re the ones who hear the nation’s secrets.’

  ‘You think I have secrets?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘If I did, it would take more than a shampoo and blow-dry to dislodge them.’

  Kirsty combed her wet hair, easing the tangles. ‘You have beautiful hair.’ She tugged at her own, held back from her face by two tortoiseshell combs. ‘Mine’s so fine. Like baby hair.’

  ‘Aaahhh, but it’s blonde. And that gives you a huge advantage.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Oh ... men open doors for you and pull out your chair in a restaurant … and aren’t villainesses always dark-haired? Mrs Danvers. The mad woman in Jane Eyre … what’s her name?’

  ‘Bertha Mason. I would have thought you’d punch anyone who touched your chair. And hang on,’ Kirsty stopped combing, ‘what about Snow White? And Scarlett O’Hara? They both had the blackest of black hair.’

  ‘Yes, and one was a dwarf-lover, the other a scheming opportunist.’

  Kirsty put the comb down and sat next to Tessa on the bed. ‘My guess is that you enjoy playing the villain.’

  Tessa frowned. ‘That’s a funny thing to say.’

  ‘I think you find it easier to shock than to please; to destroy than create. And you’re right, it is. It’s also an effective way of gaining attention. I encounter a lot of people in my work who think the same way.’ Kirsty spoke dispassionately, as though she were in a case conference, reporting on an absent third party.

  ‘You must be right, then,’ Tessa snapped.

  Outside the window, Bristol sprawled, dipping away towards the city centre. Tight rows of terraced houses, long-shadowed in the winter sun, clambered up the contours, defying the terrain. Here and there, tiny parks and the gardens of grand houses loosened the mix, like currants in a bun.

  When she and Lewis were children, Bristol Zoo had been a favourite destination for Sunday school trips and family outings. More than anything in the world, Tessa had wanted to ride on the back of Rosie, the zoo’s famous elephant. She’d desired it so fiercely it made her dizzy and she wished the lion would escape from its flimsy enclosure and devour her father when, as he always did, he refused to fork out the sixpence for a ticket. Then she’d sulk for the rest of the visit, willing Rosie’s smug passengers to fall and break their necks, so that she could take their place in the silk-bedecked howdah – the keeper had told her the correct name for the seat – as the docile beast swayed along the terrace. By the time they reached home, she’d convinced herself that it had really happened, giving anyone prepared to listen a vivid account of the accident and her subsequent ride, accusing Lewis of jealousy when he contradicted her.

  Kirsty looked solemn. ‘Look, Tessa, we both care for Lewis—’

  ‘Care for? I don’t care for my brother. I love him.’

  ‘We both love Lewis. And I know how close you two are. Unless we find a way of becoming friends, he’s going to be permanent piggy in the middle.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘And it’s got to be a bit more than rubbing along. It’s all to do with trust so it’s not going to work unless we’re completely candid with each other.’ Evidently sensing Tessa’s reservations, she continued, ‘Everything that passes between us would be in the strictest confidence.’

  ‘Like the confessional.’ Tessa put her hands together and closed her eyes. ‘Bless me sister, for I have sinned.’

  Kirsty grimaced, ‘If you like, although I’ve never thought that religion sets much of an example.’

  ‘But what if we go through all this getting to know each other malarkey then come to the conclusion we can’t stand each other? ’

  ‘God, I don’t know.’

  ‘We’ll fight a duel. Winner takes Lewis.’ Tessa caught her hair in the towel, twisting it into a turban. ‘We might as well get on with it straight away. Go ahead. Ask me something. Anything.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it quite so literally.’

  ‘C’mon. Ask me a question.’

  Kirsty wrinkled her nose. ‘Okay. Did you really sprain your hand on the bus?’

  Rundle’s bedroom; the smell of alcohol and sweat; the sickening pain as he wrenched her hand back. Why couldn’t she have asked something straightforward like Who d’you love most in the world? Lewis, of course. Or, Have you ever kissed another woman? Yes. Diane Stoddy. With tongues. She cried and I felt sick.

  ‘No. To be honest, I’m a bit embarrassed.’ She cleared her throat and looked directly into Kirsty’s eyes. ‘I had too much to drink the other night. I slipped when I was getting out of the bath. I didn’t want to tell Lewis. He worries about my drinking.’

  ‘And should he?’

  ‘No subsidiary questions. My turn.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Will you and Lewis have children?’ Besides wanting to know the answer, Tessa was interested to see how frank
her new friend would be.

  ‘You don’t mess about, do you?’ Kirsty took a hairdryer from the drawer in the bedside table and untangled the flex. ‘Naturally Lewis and I have discussed it. I’m thirty-three so we can’t put it off indefinitely but I wouldn’t want to have a child until we’re married.’

  ‘So you are planning to have children?’

  Kirsty hesitated, ‘Lewis is keen but I have reservations.’

  ‘What reservations? Age? Career?’

  ‘A subsidiary question, if I’m not mistaken. But I’ll answer it. It’s partly to do with those things but they’re not my main concern. Lewis already has two children and…’ she dipped her head.

  ‘He doesn’t like them much?’ Tessa suggested.

  ‘It’s more that he doesn’t seem to feel anything for them. I’ve tried to get to the bottom of it but—’

  ‘Surely it’s not difficult to work it out. The whole Andrea thing was a mistake from start to finish. He knew that – we all knew that – before he even walked up the aisle. But you know Lewis. He’d promised so he had to go through with it. He must have had some idiotic idea that kids would bring them together – or perhaps she thought it would prevent them drifting apart. Not that I think she ever cared much for him. She was on the lookout for a harmless provider – and they don’t come any more harmless than Lewis. Lewis Swinburne, pillar of the community. Reliable income. Foreign holidays. Detached house. All that middle class shit. Thank God she pulled out because he would have soldiered on.’

  She reached out and touched Kirsty’s shoulder. ‘It’d be different if you had kids.’

  Kirsty smiled indulgently, as though she were listening to a child’s simplistic version of a complex event. ‘We can’t be sure, though, can we?’

  There were footsteps on the stair and Lewis popped his head around the door. ‘Girl talk? I’ll put the coffee on.’ He beamed, clearly delighted that they were getting on so well.

  Lewis suggested they visit their father. ‘I haven’t been for a couple of weeks and I know he’d love to see you. He’s got some things he wants you to look at. Bits of Mum’s jewellery, I think.’