Past

by Hadley, Tessa

  — What do you feel? she warily asked, putting her hand on her friend’s.

  — Nothing, Pilar said impatiently, shaking her off, busy with something in her bag, her lipstick. — What am I supposed to feel? I’m sorry for them, as anyone would be sorry. But they don’t mean anything to me. Do you hate me for that?

  She redid her lipstick with scrupulous care – even though they were about to swim – using the mirror on the visor over the passenger seat, pressing her lips together on a tissue, opening her eyes rather wide at the sight of herself. Harriet didn’t take the trouble to say she could never hate her. — Do you think they are your parents? She does looks like you.

  — You can’t tell, Harriet. And anyway it doesn’t mean anything. A sperm and an egg. My parents – god forgive them! – are the two fine clowns who brought me up, made a rare mess of it.

  Harriet tried to focus on the moral dimensions of Pilar’s story. But it was as if some charged low storm cloud – like the darkened, blinded day beyond the steamy windows of the car – blocked her clear perception whichever way she looked. She couldn’t straighten up to see past this blockage clearly, through the next minutes and hours into any future. Now that they’d decided to sell the house, she was surprised how much this change seemed like the end of a world, and a crisis in which anything might happen. The end of their holiday was drawing near, the weeks of this summer were ringed already, in retrospect, in a lurid glare of nostalgia for something unrepeatable. Harriet might not see her brother’s wife again for months, she didn’t know if she could bear that. And because the time left in proximity to Pilar was so short, it was gathering density: as if the hours remaining were backing up against a closed, an untried door. Harriet did not let herself think of what might lie behind the door. She wanted something more from her new friend, that was all – something that sometimes Pilar seemed to be holding out to entice her, like one of the bright jewels in her rings: promising and tantalising. Yet Harriet couldn’t be oblivious to a hard limit of calculation in Pilar’s look. Hope and doubt pulsed back and forth in her, in their alternating current.

  That afternoon, Kasim and Molly quarrelled. He had been feeling particularly fond of her, making her laugh, cherishing his secret of the cottage’s transformation. Ivy and Arthur were sworn not to say anything. It seemed to him that he’d made extraordinary concessions, in all his preparations, to everything in Molly that was susceptible and sweet and female. Fran put out lunch for the children on the kitchen table and Kasim and Molly joined in, then when she smelled coffee Alice came down too, in her dressing gown. Kasim read out depressing headlines from the Guardian which Fran had brought from town. Alice pleaded with him to stop and he found worse and worse ones until she put her hand over her ears. Gaddafi loyalists held over bomb blasts. UK self-sufficiency in food falling. Violence during Eid celebrations in Syria.

  — It’s not funny, Molly said suddenly, frowning down furiously at the bread she was buttering, as if some pent-up condemnation burst out of its bounds. — You can’t just use people’s sufferings to make a joke.

  Kasim was taken aback. — It’s better than pretending they’re not happening.

  — Is it really better?

  Molly insisted with a bitterness that hadn’t been any part of Kasim’s plan; he was wounded and offended. — She doesn’t even read the newspaper, he said, appealing around the table. — She doesn’t even know where Libya is.

  — I’m such a coward, Alice said, conciliatory, smiling from one to the other. — I definitely want to pretend.

  — I know where Libya is, Ivy cautiously contributed, although she didn’t.

  — I don’t want to know where it is, Molly cried. — I don’t have to.

  She was looking intently down at her plate and the nakedness of her dropped purple eyelids was reproachful, chastening; cutting slices of cheese, she layered them on her bread, then added sliced tomatoes, coleslaw. When she looked up, her eyes flared with indignation. — Just knowing things without doing anything doesn’t help anybody. What’s the point of having an opinion about everything? I think it’s better not to know. It’s more kind, just to feel sorry for people.

  Kasim thought that was hilarious. — You mean just feel sorry for people generally, without even knowing whether they’re actually suffering from anything?

  — I know what Molly’s trying to get at, Alice put in.

  — At least I believe in people, Molly said, — which is more than he does.

  — I believe in people all right. I mean, I think they’re real, they actually exist.

  — But you’ve got such a gloomy outlook. Everything’s always going to turn out for the worst. In real life there are lots of good people: nurses and social workers and postmen and councillors and everything. There are people who change things and make them better. Don’t you have any hope?

  — Hope! That’s a fucking message on a birthday card.

  — Do you mind? Fran protested. — There are babies here.

  Ivy and Arthur said indignantly that they weren’t babies, Molly ran up to her room leaving her sandwich, and Kasim sat on in high dudgeon at the table, eating through his own sandwich and then hers too, to show his indifference. Fran remarked that he seemed to have eaten his way through a fair amount of food over the holiday, though she hadn’t noticed he’d contributed anything – but he hardly seemed to hear her. Then the children had to run between Kas and Molly with important faces all afternoon, peacemaking, carrying messages back and forwards between where Molly sat in tears amid the rich chaos of her room, and Kasim, with an intransigent bleak face, in the empty tidiness of his. Estranged from her, he felt exposed, as though some shelter had been ripped away where he’d been leaning into it.

  Postmen? he wondered, with a savage irony only for his own benefit. Did she seriously include postmen in her kindly fucking team of do-gooders? Straight out of her first reader in infants – or Postman Pat, more likely. Morally and intellectually, she’s still an infant.

  Harriet and Pilar had the pool all to themselves again: its strange space seemed to have awaited them, sealed underground, without windows, soundless and motionless, intact through all the days since they last left it, unchanging whatever changed in the weather outside. The effect of the yellow lights, upward cast, was to make them feel as if they slid into some other element than water, something molten or oily, turning choppy as they broke it up. Because any sound in the pool was amplified and distorted, and then swallowed, they felt a prohibition against speaking, as distinctly as if someone had turned to them with a finger across sealed lips. Swimming up and down, again and again, in a smooth continuous motion, they turned almost without a splash, and didn’t race: instead of trying to beat Pilar, Harriet adjusted her pace to stay with her exactly, as if she swam in the other woman’s wake. She let herself be absorbed in their communion, she told herself it was sufficient happiness, in the time that was left to them, that they moved like this in concert without touching, cleaving through the chlorinated water, up and down the thwarting short length of the pool.

  Pilar was the first to have had enough. Streaming water as she climbed the steps, giving out a little grunt of exhaustion or gratification, she pulled off her rubber cap, letting down the dark mass of her hair.

  That’s it, then, Harriet thought resignedly. It’s over.

  Then standing at the poolside with her back to Harriet, Pilar casually pulled off her wet swimming costume too, tugging it by the shoulder straps down past her waist, stepping out of it, stooping swiftly to pick up the diminished sodden scrap – though any stranger, a guest at the hotel, might have come through the door at any moment. This peeling away of the last minimal layer of Pilar’s covering, and the revelation of her nakedness, the sight of her swinging breasts when she half-turned, was overwhelming for Harriet in the confined space. Pilar’s waist was strikingly narrow, the curve into her buttocks was as exaggerated as if she was corseted; the sight of her naked full bottom was frankly intimate, friendly,
teasing. Wringing out her costume as she went, she disappeared, flat-footed, round the corner to the showers and changing cubicles. Left behind and treading water, Harriet was sure that this gesture could not mean nothing. It was too flaunting, not to have some message in it for her – one of those messages she had no doubt failed to heed, in the waste of her youth. Now this time, before it was too late, she mustn’t fail. Mustn’t even think; not thinking was the key.

  Pilar was facing her, when she followed, under the shower without having pulled the curtain across, working the shampoo into a lather in her hair, her head bent forward under the onslaught of water and steam. Probably she couldn’t see Harriet. Her nakedness was more terrifying from the front: even half-veiled by the water which was slanting off her breasts, streaming in the pubic hair shaved to a black line. She was like a goddess under a waterfall, thought Harriet – the sight made her more afraid. But she mustn’t miss life, just because she was afraid. So she stepped into the shower and put her arms round Pilar, whose flesh was yielding, slippery, hot from the hot water. There was a little scuffle, a scream, Pilar exclaimed loudly in Spanish. The whole scene was over in a matter of a few seconds.

  Then Harriet was outside the shower again, stumbling, dripping with wet. She might have seen the impression of white finger marks on her upper arms where Pilar had seized her and shoved her, or might have imagined them. The pink plastic curtain had been snapped across and behind it the hot shower still streamed, soapy water swirling around Pilar’s long feet – visible below the curtain, toenails painted cherry-red – and into the drain. She was rinsing the shampoo out of her hair.

  — I’m so sorry, Harriet said, raising her voice above the water’s noise. — I’m so sorry. Forgive me. I misunderstood.

  But Pilar was not English, so there was no exchange of apologies, mumbled embarrassment, grudging concession. Her outrage was the goddess’s, implacable. In one scouring lightning flash, Harriet saw everything: all her hopes were a mistake and a sad delusion, her transgression was grotesque. Pilar had flirted with her no doubt, tantalising her, bestowing her favour in kind looks and touches. But between their types – the blessed, beautiful type and the other one – there ought to exist an impassable threshold. It had not occurred to Pilar that Harriet could succumb to the gross error of trying to cross over it.

  Harriet fled in her shame to the poor privacy of her changing cubicle, pulling her own pink curtain across behind her. She thought for a long moment that she would freeze there where she stood, shuddering in the cold wet costume clinging to her – it would be a relief if she turned into something wooden and need not move ever again. But then she remembered that she had to drive Pilar home. She must dry herself, pull on her clothes over stiff limbs, start up the car, and sit beside Pilar – who had been, an hour ago, her friend and confidante but now would not speak to her, not ever again, and would never even in the least degree acknowledge that she had herself played some small role in Harriet’s error. It seemed impossible that Harriet could do these things, and yet she knew she must, and that she would. The twenty-minute drive would be her punishment.

  And while she was dressing Pilar came from the shower and put on her own clothes. Harriet flinched from the uninhibited indignation on the other side of the thin partition – as unmistakeable as if Pilar had banged on the walls and stamped on the floor. Would Pilar tell Roland what had happened? It seemed likely she would: she might tell everyone. Harriet couldn’t live, she thought, with her brother and sisters knowing what a mistake she’d made, how she was humiliated. Pilar’s closeness in the next cubicle squeezed her until she couldn’t breathe and couldn’t move. Crouching with her face buried in the darkness on her knees, she could only finish dressing when Pilar had gone – without any forgiving word – presumably to wait for her in the hotel reception.

  Everyone knew that something had happened. When the two women arrived back it was as if some tail end of a storm came licking into the house with them, through the scullery door which they left open behind them – until it banged shut in the wind. Their not speaking thrust loudly into everyone’s awareness, as their everyday voices wouldn’t have. Pilar went upstairs at once, the scrape of her heels significant on every uncarpeted step and resounding against the bare walls, around the empty rooms: the abrupt intolerant clatter condemned them all, the place and its shabbiness, their pointless way of life inside it. Roland had been talking to Alice in the study, they were falling back into their old friendly way of rambling around whatever subject Alice started up – but he was stopped mid-sentence by some message for him in his wife’s noisy ascent; then he hated the way Alice significantly didn’t look at him, too alert to the sound of trouble. While he followed Pilar upstairs, Alice went to find Harriet, who was standing quite still, holding the kettle under the scullery tap, which she hadn’t turned on.

  — We’ve had coffee, Alice said. — Why didn’t you have some at the hotel?

  Harriet put down the empty kettle, as if she’d forgotten why she’d picked it up. Her hair was so wet it was plastered to her head, her face was luminous with misery, pale eyes staring so that they seemed almost lidless, like some sea-animal’s.

  — What the matter? Alice said. — You ought to dry your hair.

  Her sister hauled her voice with weary effort out of the depths of herself. — Nothing at all’s the matter.

  — I don’t believe you. Have you two fallen out or something?

  — You can believe what you like. Anyway I’m going out.

  — Out where? It’s pouring with rain. You’ve only just come in.

  — I feel like getting out. It was a mistake, the whole holiday has been a mistake, three weeks is much too long, Alice. I should have trusted my own judgement in the first place.

  Harriet said she was going to get her waterproof; Alice heard her hurrying up into her own room, closing the door. There was bustle upstairs, more doors opening and closing, brisk footsteps in the back bedroom, pragmatic voices – Roland’s and Pilar’s, Molly’s. At the end of ten minutes, Roland came down to tell Alice and Fran that he and Pilar and Molly had decided to leave, as the weather was so disappointing. They were going to set off soon, in time to stop for a meal somewhere on the way home. Pilar wasn’t feeling all that well, she was overtired and also something had cropped up at work, she needed to get back. And Molly had said she wanted to go with them. Alice exclaimed that they couldn’t just leave like that. If there was something wrong, couldn’t they sort it out? They ought to all have one last meal together, at least. Fran said she’d shopped for nine, how would they eat it all? Alice wanted to ask Roland what had happened, but when she put her arms around him felt how he held himself fractionally apart from her, as if he could only be in sympathetic communion with one woman at a time.

  Then he went upstairs again to pack and meanwhile Harriet slipped out through the kitchen, in her waterproof with the hood drawn up over her head. — Don’t be silly, Alice called after her. — You’ll catch cold if you go out in the rain with that wet hair. Don’t you want to say goodbye to Roland? Did you know they’re leaving?

  They heard the scullery door open, and then close again.

  — Do you think they quarrelled over politics? Fran wondered.

  — Something worse, Alice said.

  — Harriet’s driving? She crawls along, it’s just as dangerous as going too fast.

  — Or perhaps she spilled something on the white trousers.

  The sisters dawdled in the kitchen, drying cups and knives, not knowing how to fill in the uneasy time while they waited for the others to have left. Roland toiled purposefully up and down the stairs, piling up bags and cases in the hall – all that impressive luggage! – and the house seemed tensely suspended between two eras. The children were playing clock patience on the hall floor, right in the way, just where Roland needed to come past; Ivy, dealing out, was grimly sceptical of them ever triumphing. Then when Roland started taking things out to the car, wiping his feet on the mat, proppi
ng the scullery door open, an uneasy wind blew everywhere downstairs. There seemed to be nowhere comfortable to sit, and no one wanted tea. — It’s awful being left behind, Alice said. — It’s always more glamorous to be the ones going.

  Upstairs, Molly opened the door to Kasim’s room, sidled in and closed it soundlessly behind her. Then she waited with her back to the wall, her hand on the doorknob as if for an easy getaway. Kasim was sitting on the side of his bed with his elbows on his knees, scowling down at his phone, playing a game of Angry Birds. She told him that her dad was leaving, and that she’d said she’d go with him.

  — No problem, he said, not looking up. — Have a good trip. Been nice knowing you.

  — It’s something to do with Pilar’s work, she has to get back.

  — Fair enough.

  — I mean, I needn’t go, I could stay here with my aunts for a few more days, they could give me a lift to the station when they leave.

  — Up to you.

  — But what do you think?

  — Makes no difference to me.

  They waited. She tightened her hand on the doorknob and began slowly to turn it, making Kasim look up at her at last: she was wearing shorts and a white tee shirt, her long legs and feet were bare, and she was standing balanced on one leg, with the other one tucked up, foot flat to the wall, behind her. She was like a white bird beside a lake, he thought. Her face was faintly swollen from crying.

  — Though it’s a shame you never got to see the cottage, he said. — I mean, the way I’ve sorted it all out. I did it specially for you. You’d have liked it.

  — That is a shame, she agreed, heartfelt, hesitating. — Well, I could stay.

  — I could show you tonight.

  — All right then.

  — If you stayed.

  — I will. I’ll go and tell them now.

  At last they were gone. Up until the moment of their departure, their leaving had seemed dreadful – they were tearing an irreparable gap, which must be the beginning of the end. The old house must be finished with now, the others felt, and they might as well leave too. Farewells were shallow and perfunctory, as if they suddenly couldn’t wait not to see one another any longer. Pilar smiled and squeezed Alice’s hand, but her eyes were truthful and her insincerity was even somehow righteous. With a hand on the roof of the Jaguar she hesitated, about to fold herself sinuously into the passenger seat, and Alice wondered whether it had occurred to her to leave some message for absent Harriet – if it did, then the next moment she thought better of it. Roland held out his cheek for his sisters to kiss as if he were elsewhere already. He sent his love to Harriet – so Pilar hadn’t told him about their quarrel yet, whatever it was, or at least hadn’t insisted that he take sides. He was pained because Molly had chosen to stay – her aunts had promised to keep an eye on her, but he didn’t trust them. Embracing his daughter, he was punctiliously affectionate, but Alice saw how he withheld his approval, and in Molly’s face saw the shadow of her fear of disappointing him.