by Tim Pears
‘How can you say that?’ James wailed. ‘It’s brilliant.’
It was the same with books, James dismayed that they hadn’t matured, but rather argued now as they did over films as children after the Saturday matinées, many years before. Laura chose Yamuna Devi’s Lord Krishna’s Cuisine, but James insisted they limit their selection to novels. Not only did their tastes differ as widely in literature as in music, but as far as he could tell the only books Laura read were ones written by nineteenth-century white Englishwomen or late-twentieth-century black Americans: she alternated Jane Austen with Toni Morrison, George Eliot with Marsha Hunt.
‘Why?’ James asked. ‘Is it on some kind of principle?’
‘Only the pleasure one,’ Laura shrugged.
James’ spirits were lifted when Adamina developed a taste for the Beatles, and a live-concert tape they played in the car. They soon knew all the words, even to John Lennon’s sardonic introductions (‘Here’s one for the older ones out there: it’s a song that came out last year’). From the way the three of them sang along – in their own automobile karaoke – to ‘Yellow Submarine’, James thought they might all add it to their list of favourites.
‘You’re lucky, you can rediscover things through your child,’ James told Laura. ‘She’ll probably move on to the Stones before she’s seven.’
‘And be into Dylan by the time she’s eight,’ Laura agreed. ‘That reminds me, I forgot to include “Sarah” on my desert island.’
Adamina hated to miss out on anything. When she woke up from dozing in the back seat of the car the first thing she said was: ‘You haven’t been playing games without me, have you?’
‘No, honey, we’ve been sitting here in silence,’ Laura assured her.
‘And you’ve only been asleep three seconds,’ James lied.
‘That’s all right, then,’ she said. ‘I’m thinking of something.’
‘Animal, vegetable or mineral?’ Laura asked.
‘I’ll give you a clue: it’s something I dreamed,’ Adamina proclaimed.
‘Nice one,’ said James.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Laura groaned.
Adamina wanted to be involved with everything. On their last night in Devon they stayed in a farmhouse B&B outside Moretonhampstead that had table-tennis set up in a barn. As soon as James and Laura had a go Adamina pestered them to let her too: for five minutes she missed and mishit the ball, and then she misjudged its flight towards her and the distance of things, or maybe she tripped – it happened so fast – because Adamina lurched forward to return a soft serve and thumped the bridge of her nose against the edge of the table.
Blood flowed but nothing was broken, and Laura administered arnica and soothing words and caresses till the shock and hurt had eased. The next morning, though, Adamina had a swollen nose, two black eyes and a blue bruise that was both awful in itself and also reminded James – and Laura herself – of the way Laura had looked after her father’s beating, the day James saw her when he arrived home from the farm, the last time he’d ever been inside the house on the hill, seventeen years before.
When they came back from Devon James thought they had sailed clear of Adamina’s resistance when she moved the last of her things from Laura’s bedroom and made a nest for herself on the landing, where she proceeded to sleep soundly. James took it as a magnanimous if unconscious gesture, leaving Laura and him to enjoy unhindered evenings and relinquishing her last claim on Laura’s bed.
But James was wrong.
It was the last Saturday before Christmas, cold and damp, and the three of them drove to an open farm outside town. They bought packets of grain and fed goats and chickens, scratched friendly pigs behind their ears, blew up horses’ nostrils. They messed around for hours in the playground; Laura went into the café for tea while James carried on chasing Adamina in and out of swings and climbing frames.
They drove back into town together because that evening James’ old friend Karel had the private view of his latest exhibition, in a gallery in Northtown. James and Laura rarely went out without Adamina. But tonight was to be spent with James’ friends, sharing in their celebration, an evening of conversation, gossip, eating, drinking and maybe dancing later on that not even as precocious a child as Adamina could be expected to enjoy.
James had brought his evening clothes and while he and Laura got ready Adamina grew more and more silent. She and Laura had a bath together; then while Laura put on her make-up Adamina lay on Laura’s bed, curled up in her pyjamas, staring vaguely into the distance.
‘I’m not feeling very well, Mummy,’ she whispered.
Laura, distracted in her preparations, said: ‘You’ll be fine, darling,’ stooping to give her an abstracted kiss as she passed by the bed on her way to the wardrobe.
James came in at that moment putting on his cufflinks; he still loved, despite his everyday scruffiness, to have the excuse of a special occasion for dressing up. He watched Laura stepping back to her dressing-table, dressed only in panties and a pair of sheer black tights, and he almost swooned with desire, felt his penis fill with blood and rise, Laura so unaware of her sexiness at that moment. He wanted her there and then, badly, quickly, but there wasn’t time and anyway Adamina was there, curled up on the bed, pathetic, declining. James turned his attention to her. She looked so defenceless. James felt a ripple of anxiety pass through his guts; not at her weakness, but at her power.
By the time the baby-sitter arrived Adamina was sweating, her teeth were chattering, her nose running, and she was coughing a hacking, painful cough. She’d travelled from robust good health to death’s door in the space of an hour.
‘You go, Mummy,’ she whimpered. ‘I’m all right.’
Laura put a thermometer in her mouth and felt her forehead.
‘We’ll be late,’ said James.
‘She’s got a fever,’ Laura told him.
‘She’ll be fine, she just needs a good night’s sleep.’
‘You can be heartless sometimes, James. Look, she’s got a temperature over a hundred. I think maybe I should call the doctor.’
‘She’s just been running around, she’s tired, that’s all. Let’s not be late, Laura.’ He felt his agitation ferment inside him. Laura was stroking Adamina’s forehead.
‘You go ahead,’ Laura said. ‘I’ll follow you.’
‘No,’ he heard himself whisper. He wanted to go with her. He was going to go with her.
‘What?’ she asked absently. ‘Go on, James, I’ll be right along, honestly.’
Maybe it was his imagination: it was so fleeting. Maybe he expected or even wanted to see it, and it wasn’t really there. But what he thought he saw was the sides of Adamina’s mouth, just the edges of her lips, curl into a slight, slight semblance of a smile; of victory.
James’ patience snapped. ‘For God’s sake, Laura!’ he exclaimed, ‘Can’t you see she’s feigning it? She does it whenever she wants.’
‘What?’ asked Laura, dumbfounded. ‘A six-year-old child feigning a temperature of a hundred and two? Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘She can do it, that girl. She plays you like a, like a – shit, Laura, you fall for it every single time.’
Adamina lay shivering in the middle of the double bed, dark rings around her eyes in her pale face, tiny and shrinking, uncomplaining. Sally, the baby-sitter, stood in the doorway embarrassed, too young to know how, despite her discomfort, to simply slip away from this scene before her.
Laura stood up. ‘How dare you!’ she shouted at James.
Unvoiced suspicions and unmentioned defeats that he’d suppressed flew out of James’ mouth: ‘Can’t you see, Laura? She’s just doing it to keep us apart, it’s the one night we’re leaving her here. She’s a cunning, manipulative little fox.’
‘God, James, you are heartless and stupid,’ Laura spluttered. ‘And cruel and dumb! You don’t know anything about children, how could you? You don’t know anything about people!’ she yelled. ‘You don’t know anythin
g about me!’
The beautiful woman of moments before had been transformed into an angry, shrieking animal. James in his own anger wanted to grab her, except the idea of touching her was repugnant. His blood was raging around his body and he was scared as well. He didn’t know whether he wanted to strike her or fuck her or fall at her feet.
Laura went back to the bed and knelt beside Adamina, a sick sparrow, huddled ever smaller and tighter. Laura half-turned towards James, as if only so that the heat of her fierce breath were directed away from the girl.
‘Just fuck off, James. You’re no help. Just get out.’
James felt weak, drained. In a faint voice he said: ‘Are you coming?’
‘Of course I’m not coming!’ she said. ‘Look what you’ve done. Now she’s upset as well as ill.’ She was stroking Adamina’s feverish brow. ‘There, there, Mina,’ she soothed, her voice tremulous with anger still, ‘it’s all right, Mummy’s here.’
James pushed awkwardly past Sally still standing in the doorway, and went to the gallery alone. He tried to cut off, to be a friend to his old friends but he drank too much too quickly, stumbled in the bright white rooms, became flustered and verbose in the tinkling, claustrophobic chatter closing in around him. He knocked into people, and stood stupefied and alone for long periods of the evening. At the end, James had to be pulled back from his own dumb aggression when the gallery owner asked the last of the crowd to leave so that he could lock up; and then he threw up outside on the pavement.
James’ big mistake was in going back. He felt so bad and he thought he might redeem the situation if he acted before it had gone too far. He didn’t have enough experience of lovers’ quarrels; Anna Maria, all those years ago, had only been playing.
It was one thirty in the morning. He crept upstairs and into Laura’s bedroom: he expected Adamina to be there, asleep beside her, but to his immense relief Laura was alone. He slipped off his shoes and tiptoed along the corridor to Adamina’s room. She was sleeping, her breathing troubled by scraping inhalations and whistling exhalations.
James went back into Laura’s room. He made a little noise, half on purpose, getting undressed, and then he slipped naked beneath the duvet. Laura lay with her back to him. He couldn’t tell from her breathing whether she was asleep or awake. He whispered her name, ‘Laura,’ but she didn’t respond. She was so still and silent he became convinced that she must be awake. He whispered her name again – ‘Laura.’ Again there was no response.
If she was asleep, then she was really sleeping soundly, and if James raised his voice and woke her from deep sleep she would be justly angry. And what would he say anyway? He’d disturb her and she’d come groping from the depths into unwelcome consciousness. She’d say: ‘What?’ in a voice half-dozy, half-irritated, and he’d say: ‘Nothing.’ And then she’d really be in a foul mood, she’d either say: ‘Leave me alone,’ or else she’d stir, turn over and say: ‘What the fuck is it now? What the hell time do you call this?’ He’d be in a hopeless position …
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing? You woke me for nothing.’
‘I just wanted …’
‘What? You just wanted what, James? Jesus Christ!’
It was too awful to contemplate.
Or else she was awake. And that was even worse. It meant she was lying there, this very moment, ignoring him on purpose, making him feel as bad as he deserved to feel, but still, it was horrible. He lay facing her, facing the back of her head, his body inches from her body. Her body he loved, her body that fit his body, her body that moved easily with his.
Now she lay with her back to him, hostile, unwelcoming flesh. James felt wretched and he felt powerless. His mind was isolated. His head throbbed, his stomach was empty and acidic, his penis was small and rubbery, his feet were cold.
James tried to think but he didn’t seem able to. He tried to turn his thoughts elsewhere, to visualize the photographs he’d taken that week, to distract his own attention. But no images would form in his mind’s eye. There was nothing there but a faceless, characterless fog. He felt wretched and he realized that what it was was a terrible loneliness, but unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. There had been times he had felt cut off from the world with no comrades who understood him, no special friends who cared for him, and no lover in his life. At those times he had thought to himself: There is nothing worse than this. I will survive, it’s only emotional, it’s only emotion, it’s my destiny. But there’s nothing worse than this.
Now he knew that there was something worse, that the worst loneliness is to have found your lover and then to be estranged from her as she lies with her back to you. What he didn’t realize was that he was making any noise, until Laura’s terse, hoarse voice cut through everything:
‘For God’s sake don’t snivel,’ she said.
Slapped with shame and hurt, James rolled backwards and out of bed and pulled on his clothes. Laura didn’t stir. James slipped from the room and down the stairs and cycled home, where he slept till the following midday.
The doctor came and diagnosed measles. Adamina spent a week in bed with a runny nose and eyes, sore throat and cough, trying desperately not to scratch the itchy red rash that covered her body and limbs, in a gloomy room with the curtains drawn because the light hurt her eyes.
James brought her supplicatory pre-Christmas presents – games, comics, tapes, dolls – that Adamina, weak and subdued, accepted graciously. He brought flowers for Laura, and apologized for his behaviour, and she too accepted his apologies but distractedly, because she was more concerned that Adamina didn’t develop the secondary symptoms of pneumonia on the one hand or an ear inflammation on the other.
It had been a battle of wills, and James accepted that Adamina’s was stronger than his; that although Laura did love him, her loyalty, of course, was to her daughter if her daughter should – as she had done – make her choose.
In some strange way James felt as much elated as dismayed; he felt like he had brushed up against some great truth of life. That he had lost to this small girl was absurd, that he and Laura should lose each other because of her childish whims was just ridiculous. So there must be some greater scheme of things: perhaps they were souls of vastly different ages, he was really a child and Laura was a woman but Adamina was old and powerful, and they each needed each other not how they thought they did, but for some mysterious profound effect; maybe James had to suffer in this precise way, he had to dwell in a desert of loneliness, maybe Laura had to accept a lesser choice, maybe Adamina was forced by her fate to cause others unhappiness and thus learn to curb her power.
This was all nonsense but the notion intrigued James and consoled him over those following days. He decided that just as Adamina had accepted her victory with good grace, so he should accept his defeat. The night before Christmas Eve he came late to Laura and they made love more gently than ever, more patiently. He lost count of the number of times he came close to coming and backed off, slowed down. They lay a while and changed position and started again.
They hardly said a word, and both knew that the other thought of many things. They screwed slowly till they were so tired they almost fell asleep with him inside her, but they withdrew from each other at the same moment, without having to say anything, neither of them satisfied and both exhausted. And they both sank into sleep beneath the sad weight of separation.
* * *
When he woke in the morning it took James a few moments to realize that it wasn’t Laura whose limbs enfolded his: she lay a foot away from him. It was Adamina, squeezed between them. Both she and her mother were still sleeping. James didn’t want to disturb either of them, and neither did he want to lose this sudden, unconscious intimacy. Adamina was naked as he was. She lay facing him, the top of her bent head resting against his chest, her arm on his side, one leg over his, the pale peach cheeks of her child’s sex inches from his limp prick, in a pastiche, a mockery, of copulation. He bent his own neck down and inhaled t
he clean smell of her hair, and dozed off.
Laura woke them with a pot of tea and a plate of toast. The three of them sat curled up in bed together, crunching toast, licking jam from fingers.
‘I’m better, Mummy,’ Adamina told Laura. ‘Look, the spots are nearly gone.’
Laura tickled her, and she tickled James, and they both tickled Laura in vain. They grew itchy in the hot sheets, prickly with crumbs.
Adamina jumped out of bed, ran over to the window and drew the curtains wide. ‘It’s sunny outside!’ she exclaimed. She climbed shivering back into bed, snuggled up to James, and said: ‘What are we going to do today, Daddy?’
Over lunch Laura told James that as well as looking after Adamina this last week she’d also been busy in the kitchen, practising old recipes and trying out new ones, because a few days before she’d been asked to do a special job: the day after Boxing Day Laura was to depart for a week-long visit to America. Two of her regular clients had a country house in the Cotswolds, where they spent eight months of the year, and an apartment in Manhattan. Their cook there had had to tend a sick relative and they had the inspiration of throwing dinner parties of English food for their New York acquaintances over the new year. Laura had to provide a different menu for each of six evenings. It would be a working holiday, and a once-in-a-lifetime trip.
James’ relief at being reconciled with Laura was instantly tempered by the awful prospect of her being lured to New York on a permanent basis. For the second night in a row they made love with James at least certain they were doomed to part, but this time it was with an energetic fury that left him feeling sated and detached from himself.
He woke on Christmas morning to the rustle of stockings at the end of Laura’s bed, and the three of them unwrapped tangerines and apples and a great many more knick-knacks than physics would have allowed to fit into single large walking-socks. As James opened gifts of a camera that instead of taking photos spouted the subject with water, a hairbrush, a pair of cufflinks, a Zippo lighter, an Opinel penknife, bicycle clips, a wallet, and a bootleg tape of the Clash in concert from 1978, that Laura must have been collecting for weeks, it gradually dawned on him that the idea of separation had never entered her head.
