‘I…’ he begins. ‘You…’ but he cannot frame it – this – into words. Conrad, Dr Marriott, who is renowned as much for his articulacy as for his expertise and erudition, Conrad of whom it was said when he was still a schoolboy that he must have swallowed a dictionary – Conrad is speechless.
‘I know,’ she says, looking into his eyes, unembarrassed. ‘Whoever would have thunk it?’
They walk straight out of the exhibition then; they walk and talk all afternoon, stopping to buy a sandwich, which they eat sitting on a park bench. He is desperate to kiss her, thinks he may well go mad if he doesn’t kiss her soon, but feels like the inept and gangly teenager he once was. Should he ask, perhaps? What do people do at this age? He’s over forty years old, for Christ’s sake. Should he just take her in his arms?
They wander north, up through the back streets, into Regent’s Park. Fewer people now. He has no idea what time it is.
She stops then and looks up at him.
‘Aren’t you ever going to kiss me? You know you’ll have to bend a bit or I’ll have to hop up on a bench to reach you.’
He takes her hand and draws her behind a tree, gathers her to him, feeling her glorious curves fitting against him, the soft swell of her breasts, the delicious scoop of her waist. Her lips open and their mouths entwine. She is hungry for him – he can feel it in the way she pushes against him, hear it in her quickening breath, the pressure of her hands on his back pulling him close. He is worried she will notice his growing excitement. Embarrassed, he starts to pull away, but she smiles and pushes herself against him, utterly without shame. His hands slide further down her back, to the point where it curves outwards to her bottom. He traces a fingertip just beneath the waistband of her skirt, touching her skin.
‘Come tomorrow,’ she says. ‘You have my address. After work?’
He nods.
‘Six?’ He clears his throat. ‘Ish?’
‘Sixish,’ she confirms. She smiles once more, looking up at him, then suddenly frowns. ‘Oh.’ She is staring intently into his eyes as if she can see right into the very core of him, as if there is nothing she does not know. ‘You look as if you really need to be held. For a long, long time.’
She reaches up and lays the palm of her hand against his cheek.
He feels winded, as if all the breath has been sucked out of him. He cannot even muster the word ‘yes’, cannot even nod his head in agreement. He shuts his eyes for a moment, places his own hand over hers.
By the time he gets home, it is late. Fortunately, Marcia is so used to his losing all track of time when he is absorbed in his work or at the library that it arouses only a minor show of irritation as she removes his dried-out, crusty supper from the oven. He eats without protest, without noticing, in a dream of soft lips and emerald eyes and flaming hair. As he eats, he lets the words cycle through his mind, though his eyes prick with unshed tears, relishing them like a mantra, berating himself for not having noticed this extraordinarily obvious fact: he needs to be held. He cannot even remember the last time he was held – properly held – by someone who wanted to hold him.
He sleeps not one jot, images of her dancing in his head, her voice, unexpectedly low, in his ears, her soft palm against his cheek… her captivating eyes… her hair… her mouth, open to his – warm, welcoming, wanting, wanting him.
26
Engraving
Friday. Eleanor did her main weekly shop, came back and unpacked everything, then put some cubed beef to marinate overnight in red wine, with bay leaves and juniper berries, to make a casserole the next day for Roger’s return. She was looking forward to having a Chinese takeaway this evening while watching an old movie, the classic Now, Voyager with Bette Davis. Roger wasn’t a fan of either Chinese takeaway – ‘it stinks the house out’ – or black-and-white films – ‘I can’t bloody concentrate because I keep thinking the TV’s on the blink if there’s no colour!’
Delving into her handbag to find a replacement button she’d bought for one of Roger’s jackets, she came across her sketchbook. Eleanor turned to the drawing she’d done in the park the other day. It really wasn’t at all bad – better than she’d remembered; it seemed to capture not just the woman’s physical pose, but something more – her attitude perhaps. So often, women sat in a very closed way, their legs crossed or pressed together, taking up as little space as possible, apologising for their existence. But this woman was unashamedly a presence in the world, her legs extending onto the path, her head tipped back to drink in the sun and the sky.
If she were to make it into an engraving, it would need more detail, texture, differentiation of light and shadow in the areas around the woman – in the tree and the bench. Well, it was only late morning; she could go back to the park now. Of course, the woman wouldn’t be there, but she could put in more work on the surroundings.
When Eleanor came back she went straight up to her studio with the sketchbook open in her hands, thinking. Already, as happened when she was excited about the prospect of turning a drawing into an engraving, she could picture the process. For her, there was great pleasure in the sequence and absorption of the work itself, not just in the final result: the finalising of the drawing, the transferring of it to the prepared surface of the woodblock, the satisfying feel of the tool easing into the block.
She liked the orderliness of wood engraving, its very particular combination of allowing you to be expressive yet incredibly precise. It was not something to tackle in a hurry: you needed to be calm and focused, and work with great care; you couldn’t just grab your tools and start gouging out grooves in the wood. She liked the tools themselves, the feel of each one in her hand, and their names that sounded like characters in a story by Roald Dahl – the scorpers, the spitstickers, the gravers.
Eleanor selected a woodblock from her plan chest, then proceeded to go through the stages of transferring the drawing to the prepared, black-painted block – tracing it onto thin layout paper, putting sanguine paper on the block, then fixing the tracing above this red carbon and marking the drawing once more using a very hard, sharp pencil to leave a clear guide on the block itself once she removed the carbon paper. She decided to start the actual engraving the following morning when she’d be fresh and rested. She tidied up, then went downstairs to order her takeaway and set up the film.
Saturday morning. With Roger not expected back until the evening, Eleanor had no need to make coffee for him or prepare a proper breakfast. She checked the time as she took off her watch; she never wore it while engraving as it tended to catch on the edge of the sandbag. It was only a little after 9 a.m. – hours and hours before Roger would appear. The beef for the casserole was marinating; all she needed to do was put it in the oven at around 4 p.m. so it would be perfectly tender and ready for his return in the evening. She grabbed a quick slice of toast, ate it while standing up, then took her tea up to her studio.
Tentatively, Eleanor approached her work bench, where she had left out the prepared woodblock. There was a difference between a drawing that might be quite good in its own right and one that could work as an engraving. She looked at the drawing again, trying to assess it with a cold, clear eye. She was tempted to take a photo of it and send it to Sarah to ask her opinion but thought Sarah might think it ridiculous. Don’t be so bloody feeble, make a decision yourself, for God’s sake. Be a grown-up!
The boxwood she liked to use because of its lovely fine grain was expensive and it was extremely fiddly and laborious to correct any mistakes.
Still, if it turned out badly, at worst it was a waste of the woodblock and her time – hardly a disaster.
She put on some music – Bach – so that she could relax enough to work well. She set the woodblock on the small round leather sandbag she used to keep the block steady and easy to rotate while she worked.
There was always a hesitation before Eleanor began. It wasn’t just a lack of confidence, the anxiety that she might make a mistake, although no doubt that was part of
it. It had taken her a long time to realise that the hesitation also held excitement, the anticipation of something that was a curiously thrilling mixture of the known and the unknown, twisted together tightly into a single cord: the known – the feeling of each tool in her hand, the complete absorption in the work, the satisfying give of the grain as the metal incised into the wood; the unknown – how the drawing would translate into the engraving, what the final print would look like, whether you yourself would feel that it was good. No matter how clearly you thought you could visualise it, something would be different. For her, in whom the habit of keen self-criticism was so long ingrained she no longer noticed it, there would usually be at least one aspect that fell short of her imagining. Occasionally, however, when she made her first test print, she would peel back the paper from the woodblock and there would be a brief – almost guilty – flush of pleasure that she had produced something she could recognise as good. It reminded her of the feeling she had in the choir sometimes, the nervousness and excitement she felt when she had a solo part to sing as the moment drew nearer and nearer. And then, afterwards, that lovely quiet glow when she knew she had sung well.
Eleanor picked up her first tool, took a breath, and began…
At some point, she stopped and stood up, stretched and realised she was hungry and thirsty and in need of fresh air. She dashed downstairs, slugged back a glass of water and grabbed a hasty hunk of cheese with a couple of crackers, then went out to the back garden and ran up and down the lawn a few times as fast as she could. God knows what the neighbours would think if they happened to be looking out of the window that minute.
The block looked all right, but you could never know until you made a test print exactly what the result would be. She set up the press, inked the block. Made the print.
A pause. Again, that feeling of nervousness coupled with excitement. Eleanor peeled away the paper. Felt a smile fill her face, her body. Forced herself to frown at the print, to pick it over in minute detail, hunting for faults. Yes, there – the texture of one part of the tree in the background could be improved. She cleaned the block thoroughly and returned to the workbench, worked on the rogue area a little more, then took another print.
That was it. There came a moment when you had to fight the urge to fiddle with it. Like making pastry, you needed to know when to stop handling it or it would be static and dull, overworked. With an engraving, you could work the life out of it altogether if you did not find the right moment to step away and allow that it was done. Eleanor looked at it for as much as an entire minute, allowing herself this brief solitary indulgence. It was possibly the best she had ever done.
She was stiff and aching, though, having been hunched over her workbench for hours. She ran downstairs, put on the kettle and peeled a banana, which she ate standing up; contemplated whether to get her things and go for a swim to ease her stiff shoulders and back or perhaps just a quick walk round the block, though now she realised it had got dark some time ago. She checked the time on her mobile, still plugged into its charger on the kitchen worktop. It was nearly half-past seven.
She opened the fridge, as if hoping that the beef might magically have found its own way out and into a casserole dish and a hot oven. It took a minimum of three hours to be truly tender. She stood there for a moment, with no idea what to do. Then the phone rang. It was Roger calling from his taxi en route from City airport, saying good news, his flight was all on time and he’d be back shortly.
‘Lovely!’ In a panic, she called their local Italian restaurant, their standby they often used. They were full but as she was a regular, of course, Signora, they would squeeze her in – at 9 p.m.
She zipped round the sitting room, plumping up the cushions and adjusting the lighting. Opened a bottle of red wine and set a large glass beside her husband’s chair; placed a dish of her homemade cheese nibbles alongside to keep him going as they would be eating late.
She stood poised in the hallway, ready to open the front door the moment she heard his taxi pulling up outside.
‘Good journey?’ She stretched up to kiss him.
‘Fine, thanks, darling. Very full-on trip, though. I’m shattered. Grateful for a quiet night in, I must say.’
‘Um, actually, I’ve booked Trattoria Mondello for a little later. I thought your flight might get delayed.’
‘Really? Oh, well, I suppose it’s all right. Is there time for a little glass of wine before we go?’
‘Absolutely.’ She gestured to the sitting room, his chair, the wine, the nibbles.
‘Ah, perfect.’ Roger settled back in his chair and closed his eyes. ‘Thank you, darling.’ He put his feet up on the footstool. ‘There are a couple of rather fancy gifts for you in my bag. Help yourself when you unpack, won’t you?’
‘Lovely. Thank you.’ She went into the hall to take his case upstairs, but Roger called out to her.
‘No, I’ll take it up later. No need to unpack this minute. It’s awfully heavy, darling – let me do it.’
See, he could be kind and considerate. Now she felt guilty that she’d enjoyed having the house to herself so much. He was only really crabby when he was stressed and tired.
She perched on the edge of the sofa.
‘And what have you been up to, darling?’ Roger asked, eyes still closed. ‘Singing, swimming, hanging out with your conservation buddies – all that sort of thing?’
‘Yes to all of those. Actually, I also worked on a new engraving.’ She paused, allowing herself a small flush of pleasure once more. ‘I think it’s really not bad.’
Roger opened his eyes and twisted his head a little towards her.
‘You sweet thing.’ He reached forward to pat her knee. ‘It’s great you have a little hobby to keep you out of mischief.’ He picked up the folded newspaper from where she’d placed it at his side. ‘Have you got a print you can bring down to show me – or do I have to slog all the way upstairs to your ivory tower?’
Suddenly, Eleanor was quite sure that she didn’t want to show the print to him. Another time, perhaps, but not now, not while it was still so fresh and new.
‘Oh, it’s not finished yet, darling – I’m still working on it. I’ll show you another time.’
At supper in the Italian restaurant, Roger expounded at some length on the wonders of Jersey.
The waiter handed him the wine list, as usual. As Roger opened it out like a book, it triggered a sudden flash of memory in Eleanor. Last night, when she’d been reading in bed, her book had slipped from her hands. And this morning, as Roger wasn’t due back till the evening, she’d just left the novel where it was, knowing that she would come back and tidy up and plump the pillows and so on during the day well before his return. But then she’d got caught up in her engraving and the day had zipped by without her thinking about anything else. The thought of that horrible quiet click as he slid open the blade of his penknife made her shudder.
‘All right, darling?’ Roger happened to glance across at her at that moment over the top of the wine list. ‘Happy with a Sauvignon?’
‘Mmm.’ She didn’t really like Sauvignon but sometimes it was just simpler to say yes rather than have a pretend discussion of the merits of different kinds of wine when Roger would always end up ordering what he wanted anyway.
It was fine, she told herself, clutching her menu. There was nothing to worry about. All she had to do was dash upstairs to rescue the book the moment they got in after supper. Roger was hardly likely to race her up the stairs. It would be fine as long as she didn’t allow herself to get distracted. Beneath the table, she pinched the skin on the back of her hand, reciting ‘book, book, book’ mentally to herself, trying to will the reminder into her body as well as her mind.
They ordered and, for the rest of supper, she did her best to focus on listening attentively to her husband and to ask interested-sounding questions and offer appropriate responses as required. She tried not to keep thinking about how desperate she was to get back to her engr
aving. She really couldn’t wait to make a few prints. She’d give one to Sarah, one to her dad, perhaps even have one framed to put up at home, if Roger didn’t mind. She took another sip of her wine, trying not to wince at its green, steely taste, and to keep at bay the image of her book lying out on the bed, vulnerable, exposed.
27
The First Date
Andrew did not go on dates. The greatest plus point about being in a relationship was that it meant you no longer need to tie yourself in knots wondering what you should wear, what to say, what not to say, how to sit, how to stand without looking like a weirdo. True, with Vicki, he’d had to remember that there were certain subjects that were rather… unsatisfactory as topics of conversation: politics, books, the BM, art and antiquities in general, religion, ideas or anything philosophical, or technical conservation problems, which were of no interest to her. Vicki wasn’t a massive fan of delving deeply into a subject and talking about it at length, though come to think of it, when she had her girlfriends over for a Cocktails ’n’ Pampering evening and he had come back too early, he could hear them talking in unbelievable detail about handbags – size, style, shops, prices, ‘new handbag smell’, whatever that was, ‘handbag charms’, which were possibly those dangly things that now seemed to be attached to women’s bags but for which he could discern no possible purpose. But… but… at least he could relax. She was used to him and he was used to her. If they were going somewhere smart, she’d simply instruct him what to wear – ‘blue striped shirt, navy chinos, your loafers – no, not that jacket, your other one’.
Growing Up for Beginners Page 19
