by Ray Connolly
‘Oh yes. You’ll like this. It’s a place in the country. And having conned all you trendy twits into coming here today for an exorbitant tenner each, I fully expect to come up with a profit of well over a thousand pounds, counting those who paid but didn’t come, which I shall donate to the Bickersmere Trust for the Preservation of Donald and Daisy Duck. That’s the name. Honestly. I thought of it. Because of man’s insistence upon having duck on his menu the duck has become a factory bird—I mean a battery bird. Which, in a way, is hardly a bird at all. And since most of our lakes, reservoirs and inland waterways are dreadfully polluted these days the original wild duck is now dying out. I’m trying to preserve them.’
Truly I began to wonder if she’d gone quite mad. But then they always said the whole family was a bit touched. ‘I never noticed any shortage of wild ducks about. The Serpentine is full of them.’
Stella sucked in her cheeks and made an impatient clicking noise, throwing the conversation back to me.
‘Then why are we eating duck for lunch?’ I asked.
‘Because I thought it might stick in some of your snobbish little gullets, my dear. That was why you were invited.’ Her voice was like a laser and I felt as though I’d fallen headfirst into a trap. Clare was practically smirking in her newly formed conspiracy with Stella. ‘Ah, Germaine. How nice of you to come…’ And away went our lady host, smiling and selling me the dummy as she dodged away and into the mêlée.
‘Well, you asked for that.’ Clare looked vaguely contemptuous.
‘No, you did. You asked to come. Shall we go?’ I said.
‘No. I want to meet some more people.’
And all of a sudden, the shy girl was confident, and away she went too, leaving me leaning on the settee like a beached whale, wishing I’d gone to Timothy’s after all.
And wondering which of the several men I saw her talking to was the executioner.
Chapter Fifteen
That was more or less the pattern that the whole of Christmas week took, with me playing at escort to Clare, fetching and carrying for her as we went the dull round of dinners and programme of parties, to which we’d been invited, and to which Clare insisted we went. With her at my side I suddenly found myself propelled into circles I’d managed to dodge for the first twenty-nine years of my life.
It wasn’t a happy week. While Clare was giddy with the glamour of it all I was anaesthetised with boredom, and sometimes very lonely, when Clare allowed her flirting to become too obvious. An observer of my own misery, I watched from the sidelines as she played games I’d never understood. She was drifting away, slowly but certainly, and all I could do was stand aside, unprotesting, and sadly measure the growing gap between us; hardly daring to argue with her, question her or most of all allow the pain I was feeling to become apparent, in case it should accelerate the end.
Some of the time Clare was thoughtful and tried hard to make me enjoy myself, sometimes even manoeuvering me into positions with Tibby, currently manless and always sympathetic. And on other occasions, as though she was determined to turn over a new leaf, she would stick so close to me that I would finally feel stifled and ask her why didn’t she go off and mix a little bit more, which she would always do, with a smile that was supposed to say, ‘Okay, if you don’t want me…’ It was humiliating, but in a way I was hardly aware of it, just standing in the background, watching and pretending not to watch, and waiting until Clare decided that we ought to be going home. Now and again I would dance or talk with whoever happened to be spare, but I really felt little like either dancing or talking. And sometimes I would watch while Clare gossiped busily and conspiratorially with Tibby, and then immediately feel embarrassed as the talking stopped whenever I moved into earshot. I felt emasculated. I knew I ought to face up to things, to stop allowing myself to be trodden on, but I knew also that that would mean the end. I could analyse the situation coldly and unemotionally enough. It wasn’t a matter of Clare having fallen out of love with me. She never loved me. I’d always known that. It was true she’d fancied me, and probably still did, a bit. But no more. Like a kind considerate friend I would console myself. ‘She’s a young girl … and she wants to run around a bit. Its understandable. She doesn’t want to get tied down with some golden oldie like me just yet. And I can see that I really must get in her way sometimes. Other girls used to get in my way sometimes when I wanted more freedom than they would allow me. Abstractly I told myself all of this. And in my moments of clear and logical thinking I could almost accept the situation without pain. But then I’d catch a glimpse of that smile and those come-on techniques that I now knew so well, and see their effects. And moisture would seep into the centre of my palms. Little puddles of agony, and a dizziness would drive me outside for air while nausea churned in my stomach. A couple of times I thought that perhaps I should tackle her about it. Come out into the open. Question her about her feelings. Ask her what she thought she was up to. But I knew it was useless. There was just no way I could make her want me any more than she already did. And the truth was that she just didn’t need me. She was completely self-sufficient. At least for the time being. And anyway, how do you say it? What are the words? What could she possibly answer? And what could I say? ‘Look, Clare, I think it’s about time we had a serious talk about the way our relationship is going…’ How can you have a dialogue when you don’t want to know what the other person has to say? Better to suffer in silence. And enjoy the flashes of warmth still allowed.
But not every day was bad. Nor every night. Clare’s flirting, and modest drinking, seemed to increase her sex urge. An unhappy irony. And sometimes as we worked together, minds foggy from Christmas spirits, but bodies busily trying to please and be pleased, I would wonder who she was imagining I might be. And though saddened and desperate by the thought I somehow became more excited by my jealousies. And enjoyed her more.
On Boxing Day, as promised, we drove down to be with Timothy and Caroligne and the children. Clare’s panda was a great success, and everyone was happy and laughing, with the possible exception of little Suzy Wong, who was quite put out when she saw Clare, and shied away from me whenever I approached her.
‘Clare’s only filling in until you’re old enough for me,’ I told her at last, having found her alone on the stairs.
The little girl didn’t answer, her eyes hidden beneath the thick straight fringe, head turned away and little fingers clutching a dolly by its plastic leg. She was sulking and wanted me to coax her.
‘Clare’s just a friend. I don’t expect to be seeing much more of her, you know. But you … well, what if I were to come for you when the weather gets a bit warmer. Would you come out with me for a day? I mean to the zoo. D’you like the zoo?’
She nodded solemnly while I put my arm around her and, on the third step up from the hall, with a draught blowing miserably through the house, I faced a kind of truth. ‘It gets pretty lonely sometimes, so it’s good to know that I’ll have someone to take out… we’ll go to the zoo, and then if it’s not too late the pictures. I’ll telephone you one week when there’s something good on, if that’s all right…’
‘Can we see The Sound of Music again? That’s my favourite.’ Suddenly she was talking, my little Suzy Wong. I could almost take you home with me. Trade Clare in for you, I could, and be a happier and more contented man.
‘Yes, yes. If it’s still showing anywhere. Now let’s go back into the other room before you catch cold,’ I said, and picking her up in a fireman’s lift I carried her back to the party, taking care to spend the rest of the day as close to her as possible.
New Year’s Eve was a cold, windy night, a night that threatened sudden showers from low clouds that raced across the sky, a night when, with a headache from too much talking on the telephone and not enough sleep, I decided I would rather stay in than go off to any New Year’s Eve party which I was sure we must have been invited to. I’d been trying to write all day, and everyone I knew had seemingly been trying to telephone
me, and by six o’clock, when I heard Clare gently opening the front door, I just knew that tonight I was going to be staying in. From the top of the stairs I watched her, muffled up in her furs and long dress, face hidden behind the wide black brim of her hat. She’d changed so much in such a short time. Silently I waited as she took off her coat, and, dropping it onto an armchair, turned to go down into the basement. Only then did she notice me.
‘Hello. What are you doing up there looking so enigmatic? Spying on me again, eh?’ Clare cheekily bright.
‘Do I have to?’
‘I’m going to make a cup of tea. Want some? It’s so cold out tonight it makes me think it’s not worth going out to Rose’s party.’
Clare disappeared down the stairs into the kitchen, her voice trailing behind her like a streamer up the stairs.
‘We could stay in.’ I was watching her filling the kettle and plugging it in, my voice unintentionally and infuriatingly timid.
‘Oh, no. It’s not that cold. Besides, it’ll be a good party. And we can’t upset Rose.’
‘Rose wouldn’t notice whether we were there or not. She wouldn’t be upset. I’d like to stay in. It would be nice for once just to sit by the fire. And keep warm. With you. I’ve got dark hair. I could let the New Year in here.’
Clare getting down cups and saucers, warming the teapot. Fiddling in her shopping bag for a packet of tea. Frowning slightly, apprehensively, into the crockery.
‘No. I think we should go. Really. I know it would be nice to stay in, but New Year’s Eve … well, it is a bit special, isn’t it? We’ll be able to stay in next week. There’s hardly anything to do then.’
‘I have a headache, Clare. I really don’t want to go out tonight. I’m tired out. You know, I just … I just don’t want to go out again. I’m dead beat.’
Steam rising from the teapot in great clouds of heat, as Clare made the tea, her mouth turned down in a neat expression of determination. I carried the tray upstairs and sat down by the fire, broke up a codeine tablet and swallowed it carefully with the boiling tea. Quietly Clare ate a piece of Christmas cake, icing first, then the cake.
‘Do you want me to make your apologies for you, Benedict?’
Her words came softly, but with a deadly accuracy. Little darts aimed straight at me. There would be no compromise. I’d made my case for not going to the party. And that was that. Clare, as always, would do what she wanted to do. I’d set up and then fallen into my own trap. She didn’t want me to go. And I’d burned my bridges. To change my mind now would be to admit to her my fears.
Clare sipped her tea quite passively: ‘I don’t mind going alone. Really. Tibby will be there. We can dance together. Ha ha.’ The joke was too thin to stand up, and her smile faded, as she caught my eye for a second. Nervously she played with the buckle on her belt, a great copper thing of intertwining shining snakes. The branches of the cherry tree brushed against the french windows in the gale force winds. And we were both silent. Sadly I rubbed my forehead, and waited for the codeine to take effect.
‘I had rather hoped you might like to stay in with me,’ I said at length, half afraid that I might be opening the flood-gates of some stifled emotion that she’d been hiding from me. But her reaction was placid. She just shook her head, and smiled, a quiet, tender smile that said, ‘don’t you know me yet? Don’t you understand?’ Then getting up, she moved close, next to me, so that I could feel the shape of her bosom in my ribs.
‘No. I must go, Benedict. If you don’t feel very well you go to bed. I won’t be late. I promise. But I did promise Rose for both of us … and besides, I really want to go. I like New Year’s Eve parties. You do understand, don’t you?’
I nodded. Shrugging, shoulders stiff and half-smiling through the weariness of it all.
‘Look. I don’t want to go until about eleven, so why don’t I make dinner for us both first? We can have most of the evening together.’
‘Yes. That would be nice.’
It wasn’t. Not really. We were both too nervous to be at ease. There seemed to be so many things that I ought to be saying to her, but which wouldn’t come out, and she was too gay, too bright to be true. At ten o’clock she went upstairs to get ready, and at eleven the taxi was at the door. As she moved past me towards the door I smelt her perfume, and, involuntarily reaching out for her hand, immediately felt silly. She looked so pretty and so composed, while inside my brain the blood was pumping against my temples and my stomach cramped itself into knots.
‘Have a nice time.’
She smiled and kissed me, delicately but fleetingly, on the lips. ‘You go to bed and look after yourself. I won’t be late.’
And then she was gone.
For a long time I sat disconsolately on the settee and stared at the parallel oak zigzags of the parquet flooring, idly tracing paths across the room and back again in my mind. The very idea of being alone on New Year’s Eve bothered me, and towards midnight I turned on the television to idly observe the Hogmanay antics of the Scottish. I tried not to think about Clare, but she was there before me every second. Hattering and flirting, now dancing with someone whose face I couldn’t see, moving in close, in little circles of intimacy. And then the chimes of Big Ben were upon us, and it was another year. ‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind…’
Almost unconsciously I wandered downstairs to where I knew there was a bottle of champagne. ‘Happy new year, Benedict,’ I told myself, and aimed the cork at one of the children’s paintings. With a crack it flew from the bottle, missed the picture and bounced off the wall and down the room. I filled a tumbler and watched it bubble against the crystals of the cut glass. My head was clear now, and sitting in my white wicker chair by the bay window I stared out on the new year, washed clean by a recent shower as cars zipped up the road, as busy as the rush hour tonight.
I’ll have to get some kind of double-glazing on these windows, I thought idly. All this bloody noise. Cars at peak revs all the time. And here I am, Benedict Kelly, at twenty-nine sitting counting cars in my chair by the window on the first day of a new year. Clare said she wouldn’t be late, but it’s late now. Someone coming up the road? A couple. Arms around each other. Alongside now. Waving. Yes, Happy New Year to you, too. So close they look, so secure. And now arms linked into place, her hand in his pocket, and they’re off trudging home, heads down into the wind. Further down a party is breaking up and cars are filling with elegant ladies and inelegant girls, while the music comes blowing up the road on the crest of the winds. Glenn Miller. Music for smooching to. Nearly two o’clock. Clare is going to be late. I wonder who’s smooching her now? A limp joke, and suddenly I’m catching the slight and sad reflection of myself on the window pane, features quite ghoulish from the single pale white reading lamp shining on my desk.
Tonight was to be my early night. My chance to make a bright start to the new year. Maybe it will be a fresh start. For Clare, too. I wonder, does the executioner know Rose? Would he have been there tonight? Without his mask? And with his chopper? Finish off the champagne, Benedict, before you run out of puns, before the novocaine in the bubbles dries up, and you begin to feel again. Still the traffic bustles past, right on through the night. My thirtieth year. Oh God, don’t let it be tonight. Please send her home. Don’t let her leave me tonight. Why doesn’t she come? Half past three. The party must have finished. The taxis are getting fewer. And Fve lost count of them, sitting here in my wicker chair, no doubt with an imprint of the design printed onto my bottom by this time. Clare said she was going to make me a cushion for it, but she never did. Maybe she went to Tibby’s for a cup of Horlicks or something. She wouldn’t be unfaithful to me. She couldn’t be. But now I see her in someone else’s flat and her body looks so white, and she isn’t thinking about me any more. She looked so pretty when she was going out. Dark grey suits her. Any man would be a fool not to try to get off with her. Get her in his car. Get her home. Get her to bed. Pulling her clothes away slowly, and n
ot looking as they slip off the bed onto the floor. To lie carelessly, underneath his. But he won’t know what he has there. He won’t know you, Clare. Though he’ll enjoy you. Maybe right now. As it begins to rain again. It snowed on our first night. And though I loved you very much I think I was happier before we made love. Which I recognise as an absurd distortion of my upbringing. Respect your girlfriends as you would want your sisters to be respected, they told us, and though nobody respected their sisters, virginity remained a holy state to be cherished. At least, by me. What a crazy way they taught us to live our lives, where sex equalled sin, and love was pure, and keep your hands to yourself, and, if you must kiss her, just one little kiss after you’ve walked her home, not a dirty great necking session in some shop doorway, lads. Because the devil finds work for idle hands, you know. And sins against holy purity are mortal sins, boys. But if you have to do something that you shouldn’t, if you do touch a girl, better that it isn’t a Convent girl. Because that would only be leading another Catholic into mortal sin. Pray to God that you’re never tempted, but if you are, and you can’t control yourself … well, I suggest you find a non-Catholic girl. So I found you, Clare, you were a non-Catholic girl. Who said she wouldn’t be late. But who must have forgotten to come home.
At half past four I went to bed. To lie and listen, and to wait. If Clare had found me sitting waiting for her it would have been an embarrassment for both of us. Somehow the house seemed darker and gloomier tonight than I could remember it, and I carefully left the hall and landing light on that she might not stumble in the dark. When she came home.
All night the cars and taxis waltzed past, fragmenting the moments of silence, with their aggression, but it was the electrical buzzing of the milkman’s cart and the musical chinks of glass bottles, a thousand decibels quieter, that finally announced the morning. I lay quite still as the cart hummed away up the road to the next house.
