‘Horribly uncomfortable,’ said Hugh. ‘Metal shoes. Not at all the thing.’
And they speculated for some time about the shoes of the ancients, and whether or not bronze would melt in molten lava, and how instant the death of Empedocles would have been, and the nature of the Delphic oracle. It was all very pleasant. Hugh was in a good, an exceptionally good mood: he liked having his family around him, under his control, trapped there in the surrounding rural darkness. He was rather proud of his sister. Frances’s heart went out to him for his pride. He could so easily have resented her, by a hair’s breadth he could have resented her, as dead Alice certainly had done, and yet for some reason he didn’t, he liked her, he liked to have her around. He hadn’t liked her so much when she was with Karel, it was true, but then it hadn’t mattered, and his jealousy had been so obvious that it had been quite harmless. He was a good man, Hugh, he let everything flow from the depths in him up to the surface, and if he did it through increasing quantities of drink, who was to blame him? She knew enough about him to feel that he, like herself, suffered from periodic blacknesses, but instead of sweating them out, he drank them out. He had accepted himself as an incurable. What would Freud have said of his self-help? At least he had kept himself in touch, at least he did not stare like their father into empty space. An excess of motion was certainly preferable to that deadly calm. One felt reasonably alive, near Hugh, if only in the movement of proximity. No wonder he had to force himself, to stoke himself, to galvanize himself. He was telling them now (the Delphic oracle forgotten) of the Stock Market, oil shares, interest rates. They were all in a state of glorious flux, seething like Etna. Hugh loved it when the news was bad. He loved money with a crazy passion, he loved its fluctuations. Frances could not follow a word he was saying, but she listened with pleasure, watching his dark animated face, his jabbing pointing finger, his eyes flashing and dilating with delight at the downfall of yet another secondary bank, the unexpected collapse of yet more shares. Hugh never made any money: he was always making vast sums in theory, then losing them again. In fact, he had a steady income, the rest was all fun on the side. He dabbled, but he always knew when to get out. For years, Frances had pictures of him always on the verge of ruin, poised like Empedocles over a gulf of bankruptcy, for he did take risks, he borrowed and speculated, but for some reason things always calmed down, things remained much the same, the family continued undisrupted, Hugh kept the same position, Natasha continued to bake bread. He was telling Frances now that she ought to put all her money into something called Rosewood Investments, they were absolutely the thing, she ought to buy now.
‘If I bought now everything you told me,’ said Frances, ‘I wouldn’t have a penny to my name. You know you’re always ringing me up and warning me not to do what you’ve said, and then thanking God when I say I haven’t. And do you know why I never do what you say? It’s not because I don’t trust you, it’s because I haven’t any money.’
They both laughed comfortably at the joke.
‘I don’t believe you haven’t any money,’ said Hugh. ‘A successful woman like you. You must have a few thousands stacked away somewhere.’
‘Nonsense. What I earn, I spend. Life’s very expensive for a single woman, you know. Four children, food bills, mortgage, housekeeper, cleaners, trains, aeroplanes, all that kind of thing. No, if you want somebody to invest something for you, you should get onto my husband.’
‘I tried Anthony. I always try Anthony.’
‘Did he listen?’
‘Anthony once made ten thousand off a word of mine, you know.’
‘No, I didn’t know. Did he really?’
She was mildly interested. If Anthony really had listened to Hugh, then Hugh couldn’t be such a fool as he appeared, for Anthony, as far as money was concerned, was certainly very careful.
‘What are these Rosewood Investments?’ she said.
Hugh started to explain. She tried to listen, but failed. He drew her pictures of percentages on a piece of paper, but she couldn’t follow. All she understood of money was what she earned in salary and odd cheques for journalism or was given in grants, and what she paid out in cash, bills and income tax, and even that she had to have an accountant to explain. So she pretended to listen, and after a while she yawned and told him that his Rosewood Investments sounded immoral, and she couldn’t possibly invest in something that was even connected with property companies.
‘You don’t even know what a property company is,’ said Hugh, ready to begin all over again.
‘No, and she doesn’t want to,’ said Natasha, equably.
‘There’s nothing annoys me more,’ yelled Hugh, leaping to his feet and looking agitated, ‘than the average cultured person’s stupidity about money. Why don’t you make an effort to understand? You behave as though it were a mystery beyond the powers of human understanding. Why don’t you listen, for God’s sake?’
‘It is a mystery beyond the powers of human understanding, that’s why,’ said Frances. ‘Don’t you agree, Stephen?’
But Stephen wasn’t listening. He was leafing through Brewer, smiling to himself.
Anthony and Hugh, in the old days, had talked about money sometimes. But their styles had been so different that even though they talked about the same thing, they still seemed to be talking across a culture gap. For whereas Hugh was agitated and confidential in manner, Anthony had been conspiratorial and discreet. She didn’t often think about Anthony these days. Remarkable, how completely he had dropped out of her memory, as though he had been a pure accident, a meaningless aberration. And yet he’d filled some seven years of her life, and together they had produced four children.
Natasha was remarking that it was time for bed, or at least time for her to go to bed. She yawned, and stretched, and put her feet down, feeling for her shoes, hooking them up elegantly with the ends of her stockinged toes. ‘Tidy up the fire a little, love,’ she said to Hugh. ‘I’m always afraid bits will roll out onto the hearth rug in the middle of the night and set it on fire. And have a look at the Aga for me, will you?’
‘Good night, Frances, good night, Stephen,’ she said, as she rose to her feet, picking up her picture book. But as she spoke, Stephen leapt to his feet, and started off up the stairs. ‘The baby,’ he muttered in explanation, as he went. And it was true, if one listened hard one could hear the faintest cry, through three shut doors. He must have been tuned in, listening like a mother. Frances and Natasha smiled at one another, at the sight of his immediate fatherly concern, but Frances was disturbed by it, not amused. Natasha went upstairs, leaving Frances and Hugh alone together. Frances had thought she would have a tête-à-tête with Stephen. Guiltily, she was glad to have been spared it. She did not feel up to dealing with his problems. Hugh’s problems were so old, so seasoned, that they neither bored nor bothered her. She watched him tidying up the embers, as he had been instructed. Would he speak to her, would he not? He did not. But he sat down in silence when he had finished, and stared into the ash, and waited for her.
‘I went to Eel Cottage this summer,’ she said, after a while.
He was silent, then he said ‘Why ever did you do that?’
‘I don’t know. I just wanted to have a look. Have you ever been back?’
‘No. Never. What was it like?’
‘Not too different. It’s been kind of—slightly—smartened up a bit. I can’t explain.’
He laughed. ‘It was a gloomy dump in some ways, wasn’t it.’
She thought. Her grandfather, her grandmother, the potted plants, the old books, the plates with faded pansies, the ditch, the yellow dog. Yes, it had been a gloomy dump. Compared with this warm, cosy, attractive interior, it had been both cramped and draughty, cluttered yet bare, ugly and tasteless, full of cheap mementoes and meaningless souvenirs. A Day at Hunstanton, a Day at Mablethorpe. A pottery crab from Cromer, a salt cellar shaped like a thatched cottage. Peg rugs, tastelessly multicolour, not pleasantly monochrome like Natasha’s. Pl
astic lampshades had replaced paraffin lamps when electricity was brought to the village. Yes, it had been a gloomy dump. But it had been the real thing. Her grandmother had baked bread. It had been square, white, and heavy, it had stood in large yellow panchions, with a brown earthenware glaze, it had stood there to rise, and it had not risen much. Natasha’s bread was infinitely better. Her grandmother had stewed mince without flavouring, wet, in an enamel dog dish, with half an unchopped onion. On her draining board (a wooden board, slimy with age) had stood at any point two dozen items, rusting, spotty, dull. Yet her kitchen had been the real thing. There was no escape.
‘What do you think, Hugh,’ she said, ‘about escaping from the past? It’s so nice here, I like it here so much.’
‘Oh yes, it’s nice enough,’ he said, as though he knew what she meant.
‘I’ve got this terrible stone in my chest,’ she said. ‘It’s like some kind of gravity, I can’t do anything about it.’
‘Perhaps you’ll feel better in Adra.’
‘Perhaps. I just keep moving, to get away, but one never gets anywhere.’
‘You’ve had a hard time, Fran.’ He meant with Anthony, and Karel, and her operation.
‘Not specially. I’ve had a good time, in many ways. Sometimes I feel fine. But I’ve had this long patch now, feeling not too good. It can’t go on like this, can it? Is this middle age, do you think?’
‘Nonsense. Of course not. You’re young, still. You should get married again. Why didn’t you marry Karel?’
‘He was married to somebody else.’
She was beginning to feel painfully sorry for herself: luxurious tears were forming in the wells of her eyes, they would easily spill over. Should she let them? Perhaps not.
‘He could have left her. For you,’ said Hugh firmly. ‘I don’t approve of all this messing about.’
‘You mess about yourself,’ said Frances, deciding not to cry after all. Crying would mean giving up hope, and she wouldn’t, she refused, she couldn’t.
‘Oh well, to a certain extent we all do,’ said Hugh, complacently. ‘It’s our age, after all.’
‘I don’t,’ said Frances. ‘I haven’t slept with anyone for years. Almost literally years. Well for months, anyway.’
‘Good heavens,’ said Hugh. ‘How interesting. What does it feel like?’
‘Like a stone in my chest,’ she said, and laughed, feeling suddenly better.
‘What a terrible thing,’ said Hugh, with exaggerated concern. ‘It can’t be good for you, you must do something about it. You usen’t to be like that, did you? It can’t be for want of opportunities, can it?’ he said gallantly.
‘Not exactly,’ said Frances. ‘Though it’s a funny thing, people really don’t try very hard when they know they’re not going to get anywhere, but how they know it, I don’t know, if you know what I mean. The most stupid people are quick, you know. When Anthony left I was overwhelmed with offers. But when Karel left, they just left me alone.’ She paused. ‘Of course, it’s partly that being with Karel meant that I didn’t know anyone else. I was so happy with him.’
‘I never understood why you two split up.’
‘Perhaps I didn’t like being happy? It stopped me working, being happy!’
‘What’s work?’
‘You’re right, what’s work. Ambition is just another form of defect.’
‘As Freud doubtless said.’
‘As Freud did in fact say.’
‘Well, I’m sure Freud wouldn’t like you to sit around like this. I’m sure he’d recommend you sleep with somebody. You can’t sleep with me because I’m your brother, and I believe it’s not considered nice, but I could find you some agreeable lovers when you get back from Adra.’
‘Bankers?’
‘What about a nice financial journalist I know?’
‘Why can’t I have a banker?’
‘Perhaps you’ll find an archaeologist in Adra. Or an oil man. Or what about the Minister of Culture? Isn’t he a good friend of yours?’
‘He is, and you mustn’t make jokes about him. He’s a very exceptional man.’
‘All the better.’
‘He’s got a wife already.’
‘So has everybody of your age who’s normal.’ He tossed a pine cone into the fire. ‘It’s time for the second round. In your case, it’s more than time.’
‘What about you, then?’
‘Oh, I’m all right. Well, I have been all right. But only, as you know, because there’s something wrong with Natasha. But now even Natasha is thinking of moving. She pulled herself together one day and set off to go to a series of group analysis sessions. To see why she put up with me for so long.’
‘You’re not serious.’
‘Perfectly serious.’
‘So that’s why you’re so anti-Freud.’
‘Partly. I mean, fuck it, if she can’t work out what’s wrong with her herself she doesn’t deserve to know, does she? Group analysis. It’s just an excuse for a party without drink.’
‘So you think she’ll find out?’
‘How the hell can she find out? None of those cunts is going to have the wit to say to her, the reason why you’ve stayed with your husband, Mrs Ollerenshaw, is because in the total scale of human beings, taking a wide view of the spectrum, and forgetting his little personal failings, taking a wide view, your husband is an exceptionally nice man.’
‘No, they’re not. Do you really think you’re exceptionally nice, Hugh?’
‘Well, I’m not bad, am I?’
‘I like you. But I don’t have to live with you.’
‘Eel Cottage. I remember Eel Cottage. We slept in the same bedroom and I used to explain to you the mysteries of sex. Do you think it’s had a bad effect on us?’
‘Could have. I remember finding it much more interesting than the mysteries of finance. But it must have been that, that set you in your role of pedagogue.’
‘Did I used to demonstrate? I hope not.’
‘Not much.’ She gazed at him. The conversation was drawing them apart through its intimacy, finally, into their separate darknesses. She felt its pull.
‘Perhaps my children are awake up there now, discussing the same subject. Do you think?’
‘Imagine what it’s like, when one of yours knows so much about it that you wake up and find yourself a grandfather. Or in your case, a grandmother.’
‘I’ve surely got a year or two to go.’
‘How old is Daisy? Fourteen? Not long, I’d say.’
Hugh was thinking of Frances’s nine-year-old body, its long round lines, its hard and skinny power. She had been tall and blond, long legged, round bottomed, freckled, her skin white. She had been histrionic, an exhibitionist—she would dance naked round the room with a towel round her, she would pose in front of the spotted peeling tilted mirror, making faces at herself, sticking her bum from side to side, stretching her neck, making her eyes roll seductively. Her pubic hair grew blond and early. Hugh’s grew black and late. This had interested them both greatly. They had had their estrangements, but on the whole he had looked after her carefully. And now she sat there, hardened, thickened, with a stone in her chest, her skin not white but a curious colonial yellow, her hair thick and straight, lone and untidy, her legs stretched out (still long) with cracked shoes on her narrow feet, her hands dangling limp and even, evenly spaced on the arms of the easy chair, and a large lump of diamond shining from one knuckle. She was off to Africa, to give a paper at a conference. Presumably that was what she wanted to do, or she wouldn’t be doing it. Even as a child, she had seemed to have a reserve strength, a strength greater than his own: she had liked solitude, spending hours alone watching bugs and beetles (as their father before them), whereas he had liked solitude only out of defence, because nothing else was offered. Now, he could not spend an hour alone, and had organized his life so that he never was obliged to.
She was a career woman. He had always thought that she put her career first, in sel
fish ruthlessness, and that for it she had lost Anthony and Karel. But perhaps it wasn’t so. She stared into space, with a look like their father’s on her face. He did not like it. But he couldn’t think of anything to say to her. There was no need for her to be alone, she was a good-looking woman, much sought after. She sat inside a thorny palisade of her own making, cross and contemplative, not a captive but a queen. A queen of a small muddy village.
‘Fran,’ he said, ‘do you remember what you’ve grown up to look like? It’s amazing. Do you remember that picture book at the Eel, Historical Figures through the Ages? D’you remember the one of Boadicea? She looked exactly like you.’
It came back to him so vividly, and he could see that she too remembered—Boadicea, Queen of the Iceni, sitting in her hut contemplating the overthrow of the Romans. She was staring into the peat fire, much as Frances was staring now, a goblet of wine at her elbow, a skin map spread on the floor at her feet. She was unhistorically clad in long flowing pre-Raphaelite robes of purple and red, with a low belt with studs round her hips, and her hair hung loose and matted round her hawk-like features. On the next page, one saw her in action in her chariot, wheels flashing, knives flashing, hair flying, a spear in her hand.
Frances smiled. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I always liked that picture. I’ve been modelling myself on Boadicea for years. Victorious in defeat. Wasn’t that the caption?’
‘Something like that.’ He stood up, stretched. ‘I must go to bed. It’s late. I’ll just go and see to the Aga.’
She gathered up the coffee things, and followed him into the kitchen with them. He was riddling the ash from the bottom of the stove. She stacked the cups in the sink.
‘If you open the back door,’ he said, ‘you might see the hedgehog. He comes at this time, sometimes, for his milk.’
‘Isn’t he hibernating?’ she said, but she opened the door and smelt the amazing damp sweetness of the English air, heavy with the smell of leaves and moss and graveyard. An owl hooted. The hedgehog’s saucer stood empty, but as she picked it up she saw him approach, bundling blindly across the yard towards the light of the open door. He scuttled and bundled on small feet, hesitating when he found the saucer had gone. She filled it quickly, and put it down for him, and he approached again and drank. She and Hugh stood and watched him.
The Realms of Gold Page 23
