“This is a nice…er…thing.” He had been wrong about the camel coat.
She laughed. “Ernest insists I don’t have special working clothes. I was worried at first about Valentino in Camden Town, but strangely enough they appreciated it; like a tonic.”
“I can understand.”
“He chooses all my clothes.”
She picked up her case. “He doesn’t like me being in general practice…”
He followed her to the door, not wanting her to go.
“I suppose all the men in your practice fall in love with you, Dr Burns?” Trite. If he’d written it he would have covered it with a line of little x’s.
“Not all. ‘Marie-Céleste’ will do.”
“I thought, this being a professional visit… Marie-Céleste… I like it.”
“Marie was my mother’s name. She came from Paris. She met my father when he was a first secretary at the embassy.”
“Was?”
“She died when I was eight. My father married again. I was brought up in France by my aunt.” She looked at her watch.
“I have to be going. There’s an epidemic.”
“It was nice of you to come.”
She looked at the floor. “I could have sent my assistant.”
“You knew I’d be here, then?”
“Your wife told me you worked at home.”
He felt suddenly happy.
“We don’t even visit every case of suspected measles. There are too many.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“Me too. I like your children.”
“What about their father?”
“I have to go.”
“You’ll come again?”
“Don’t you think it would be wiser if my assistant…?”
“Not unless she’s 36 – 24 – 36 with copper hair…”
“He’s a Pakistani.”
She stepped towards the door but he barred her way. He put his arms round her and kissed her. She dropped her case.
“It wouldn’t be the same,” he said, “not with a Pakistani!”
She picked up the case again.
He opened the door. “Tomorrow then?”
“I don’t think I shall be able to keep away.”
He could hardly believe the last few moments. Wanted to wind it back, play it again. Her perfume stayed in the hall. He watched her get into the red Triumph Stag. She waved from the window…
Marie-Céleste got undressed…
“Daddy!” Rosy’s voice came. “I’ve been calling and calling.”
When Karen came home she rushed upstairs immediately to Rosy and Daisy. Oscar had telephoned her during the day to report progress. He stood in the doorway as Karen made them comfortable in the way that is the sole prerogative of mothers.
“Did you like the new doctor?” she asked Rosy.
“She smelled lovely. Not like Dr Powell.”
“He stinks,” Daisy said. “Pooh.”
“You didn’t ask her to look after us?” Oscar said, crossing his fingers behind his back. “I mean you and me?”
“I didn’t think you’d want me to. I can’t see you wanting to be examined by a woman.”
“I don’t,” Oscar said. “Of course I don’t. That’s why I asked.”
Five
In the night he heard Karen get up to the children. He feigned sleep, as he had when they were babies. His conscience nagged him because Karen had to get up for work in the morning while he, ostensibly, could stay in bed as long as he liked. He salved his conscience by taking Karen in his arms when she came back to bed, cold as ice having gone upstairs in her nightie.
In the morning she was up and dressed before he was awake. He watched her through slit-open eyes.
“Can you cope? There’s some plaice fillets and jelly. I don’t suppose they’ll eat much. Do you think I should stay at home?”
“Not at all.”
“They might be a bit cantankerous.”
“Don’t worry.”
“You can always ring me.”
“Of course.”
“Did Marie-Céleste say there was anything we should do when the spots appeared?”
“I’m not sure. I could ask.”
She picked up her handbag. “Don’t forget the jelly. That should slip down easily. I’ve made them as comfortable as possible. I’ll run up and say goodbye, then I’m off.”
“Not to worry,” Oscar said.
“I do.”
“No need.”
He heard her go upstairs and Rosy’s voice: “You’ve kissed Daisy two times. Now kiss me!”
She thought of everything. None of them lacked for interesting food or clean socks; there were always fresh flowers in the house. Not like Dr Adler’s flowers. Karen’s was a massed arrangement in one huge vase in the living-room, varying with the seasons from lilac to chrysanthemums. At Dr Adler’s they were scattered in interesting Provençal pots, murky greens and browns holding a few seasonal blooms, changed frequently.
He heard Karen shut the front door and dialled Marie-Céleste’s number. The brisk secretary answered.
“Hallo, this is Mr John…” He heard Karen’s key in the door and put down the receiver. She ran upstairs.
“Car keys! What bag was I using yesterday?” She removed clothing from chairs and riffled her dressing-table. “Who phoned?”
“No one.”
“I thought I heard it tinkle.”
“No–”
“Ah!”
“Where were they?”
“In the pocket of my tweed coat.” She blew him a kiss. “Bye.”
“Bye.”
“He waited until the sound of the car had disappeared down the road. He dialled the number again.
“This is Mr John. I’m sorry, I think we were cut off. I wondered if Dr Burns would visit…measles…” He wanted to make sure she was coming.
“You had a visit yesterday,” the voice accused.
“The rash has come out. It’s terrible!”
“Dr Burns is frightfully busy. She doesn’t visit measles twice unless there are complications, Mr John.”
“There are complications.”
“Can you tell me what they are?”
He thought hard. “Earache,” he said and then again triumphantly: “Yes. Definitely earache!”
“Very well. I can’t tell you when it will be.”
“I shall be here all day; until 2.30,” he added. “It’s not likely to be later?”
“We can’t guarantee a time. My other line is ringing, Mr John.”
He hung up.
‘Complications’ was putting it mildly. He had dreamed of her all night; even the remembrance produced a quickened pulse rate, the ache in his brain. He read the papers, but found he did not take in one word. He got up, bathed, shaved and looked critically in the mirror at his hair. He wondered whether he shouldn’t perhaps go to one of these trendy hairdressers which were springing up all over the place, instead of to Mr Snead with his short back and sides, girly magazines and packets of superfine Durex, who had been cutting his hair for as long as he remembered. Many of his friends had succumbed, he knew, to the toupé, the knitted-in hair, the tight-fitting suit, hoping to look like Peter Pans. Personally he thought it gave them an odd appearance; Petered out Pansies was more like it. He stood naked before the full-length mirror and breathed in. Perhaps he should go to a gym, get those muscles tautened up; too lazy. Exercise at home; no self-discipline. Take up tennis, squash. He had a healthy disregard for sport. Macrobiotic foods perhaps? What about poor Dick Nolan who ate that disgusting Swiss stuff for breakfast and dropped down dead at forty-five? He knew he was using his return ticket. His insurance agent had tactfully pointed out quite recently that there was less time ahead of him than behind. He dared to acknowledge to himself the fact that he would not now make a judo blackbelt, speak French like a native, be offered the editorship of the New Statesman or a chair at Oxford. He would not seduce Diana Rigg, drive like
Jacky Stewart or sing like Engelbert Humperdinck. Neither would he retire to the Cayman Isles (to which of course he would have sent all his money), punch Michael Parkinson on the nose, make the front cover of Private Eye. Already he was older than the leader of the Liberal party as well as policemen, traffic wardens, doctors, dentists, solicitors, accountants, stockbrockers and bank managers, all of whom he had looked up to, not so very long ago, as father figures. It was not a very palatable state of affairs. He realized that he would earn in a lifetime slightly more than a pop star earned in a year. To this mirror image he pretended that he had come to terms with his own mediocrity; that he could not return for a second try. What had he achieved? Wife, family, small fame as an author. There was little chance now that he would write Gone With the Wind, fill the Albert Hall, publish his memoirs in the Sunday heavies.
He pulled himself together. He knew his limitations, which was more than some people did. He refused to cherish the intimations of genius, become the connoisseur of unfulfilled dreams, the hoarder of unacted impulses, the squanderer of uncounted hours who finds his forties an age of disillusion. He was perhaps treading water a bit desperately on the river which was rushing to the weir. But there was as yet no need to panic, to consider the final obscenity; or was there?
He tried hard to imagine himself dead; a condition of nonbeing. He could not, and pronounced himself to himself as indispensable. Making a silent vow to cut down to 1000 calories a day, he put on his underpants and decided on two eggs sitting between two rashers and a couple of slices of fried bread for breakfast.
He put his dishes in the dishwasher, pretending that it was capable of getting the frying pan clean, and went to Rosy and Daisy. They were covered with red spots.
“I’ve got more than she has,” Rosy said.
“Liar! My tummy’s smothered.”
“We’re not counting tummies.”
“Is Snow White coming?”
“Snow White?”
“Doctor Burns. She smells yummy.”
“I’ve got a ‘yummy tummy’.”
They dissolved into paroxysms of laughter.
“She’ll be along later. Don’t you think you should have a sleep?”
“Just because you want to write your old book. You can’t wait for us to get married, can you? I think your books are ever so boring. I don’t know how anyone can read them.”
“Thanks, pal.”
“I don’t mean it in a horrid way. I mean…”
“I know, I know.” He tried tucking her bedclothes in as a gesture of paternal duty.
“I don’t like it tucked in.” She pulled the blankets out again. “I like it all messy. Rosy likes to be tucked in.”
“Of course.”
“For a writer I don’t think you’ve got a very good memory.”
“He just copies great chunks out of other people’s books,” Rosy said scathingly, submitting to the tucking in which hurt Oscar’s back.
“I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”
“Paints and cutting out.”
His heart sank.
“Rest for a bit, then I’ll organize it.”
“We’ve been resting all night.”
“I don’t suppose it will actually kill you to get out of bed and get what you want yourselves.”
“Mummy said we had to stay in bed.”
“We’ll ask Snow White. Do you think she’ll be wearing the same dress or washing it in Persil?”
Oscar wondered himself.
“We’ll wait till she comes, anyway,” he said firmly. “Now just be good girls for a bit. Play twenty questions or geography endings.” He admired his wit and invention.
“We always get stuck on the ‘A’s” Rosy said.
“And she says Aston Villa is a place!”
He sat at his typewriter and wondered if he was going to attempt the seduction of Marie-Céleste and how and when. It was all very well in books, but they seemed to gloss over the practical difficulties. First, Rosy and Daisy; not that they would be at home for ever. A hotel; didn’t fancy all the false registering, took the spontaneity out of it. Of course the whole thing was to be at a purely sexual level. He was not in love with Marie-Céleste, he desired her. There was no question of running away. The Gauguin bit did not appeal to him. He couldn’t paint and disliked anything other than a short stay in foreign parts. In any case he would miss the children. Carpe diem, Horace had said. Live a little. It would hurt no one. He would be circumspect. Oh yes, he would be circumspect.
He did not think he would write that morning. Each time he tried to concentrate his mind slipped back to Marie-Céleste. He tried a few words as if testing the typewriter; his fingers went faster as the words started to flow. He had written 1000 words when the doorbell rang. His stomach turned to water; his legs felt weak. He had forgotten to spruce himself up. The newsprint from the morning papers had left his fingers black. He ran down the stairs smoothing his hair. It was the chops for dinner. He looked at the package thrust into his hand uncomprehendingly.
“Butcher!” the delivery boy with long hair and beard said to him in the tone of voice one uses to the elderly and deaf.
He put the chops in the fridge next to two drying egg yolks in a margarine tub and the jelly Karen had made for the children’s lunch.
“Daddy, was that Snow White?” came a voice from upstairs.
“No.”
“Who was it then? We’re ever so bored.”
“Butcher.”
“I’m thirsty, so’s Daisy.”
“I’ll bring you up something. What would you like?”
“A milk shake like Mummy makes. Chocolate.”
He knew that it had to do with assembling the blender and cubes of ice.
“I’ll bring you some barley water.”
There was a pause and a muffled conference.
“All right. If we can have bendy straws.”
He poured out the barley water and looked for the bendy straws. He searched every drawer, disturbing tea towels, cookery books, cutlery, kitchen utensils, hammer and nails, tinfoil and freezer bags, candles with pink plastic holders for birthday cakes.
He took the two glasses upstairs.
“There aren’t any bendy straws. You’ll have to manage.”
“Mummy left them up here,” Rosy said. “She knew you’d never find them.”
He wondered why he didn’t go out to work from 9-till-5 like other men.
The bell rang.
“There’s someone at the front door,” Daisy said. The second person that morning to imply that he was losing his faculties.
“I hope it’s Snow White.”
He ran down the two flights of stairs and saw her silhouetted against the amber glass lights. She wore a tweed coat with a tie belt. He held the door open. He would have to ask her what perfume it was that sent him crazy.
She followed him into the living-room where he made a half hearted attempt to tidy yesterday’s papers and remove the core of the apple he had eaten before going to bed. He had forgotten that Mrs Hubble wasn’t coming until two.
“Complications?” she said. “What kind?”
“The worst.” He helped her off with her coat. Her skirt was of the same material as the coat; the sweater toned.
She waited for him to explain.
“I’ve been awake all night.”
“I hope you’re not getting measles.”
“Measles? That would be easy. Something far worse than any measles you ever saw. I can’t get you out of my mind.”
“I couldn’t sleep either.”
He liked her straightforwardness. Her honest approach to the whole thing.
He moved towards her and investigated her mouth with his tongue. Their bodies were close all the way down, his hard against her. He tilted his head back to say: “If the children weren’t here I’d take all your clothes off. Can’t they go back to school?”
She shook her head. “Do you have to stay in all day?”
“Mrs Hubble comes from 2 till 5. She cleans up.”
“There’s no one in my flat in the afternoons.”
There was a complication; Dr Adler. He wondered if he should tell her and decided against it.
A voice called: “Was it Snow White?”
“Who’s Snow White?”
“You. Your white dress.”
“Tomorrow,” he said. He would get round the Dr Adler problem somehow.
“Tomorrow.” She picked up her case.
“I’ll go up to the children.”
“I’d rather you stayed with me.”
“Earache, my secretary said.”
“It’s not my ears that ache.”
“I meant the children.”
“Yes, of course. Earache.”
“Did it keep them awake?”
“Not them.”
He held her again, covering her face with kisses and felt a physical and psychical involvement he had not experienced in years.
“You go. I’ll be up in a minute.” He wanted to collect the fragmented parts of himself.
“I don’t know if I can make it on my own.” Her voice was strained.
“We’ll go together.”
“Why haven’t you got your white dress on?” Rosy said.
“It just didn’t feel like a white dress day.”
“She still smells nice,” Daisy said. “Are you going to do me first today?”
“If you like.” She sat on Daisy’s bed and looked at the empty glass at the bottom of which was a chewed and crumpled straw.
“Are you drinking plenty?”
“We wanted a milk shake but Daddy couldn’t make it,” Daisy said accusingly.
“What about appetite?”
“We’re starving.” Daisy turned her head to one side while Marie-Céleste examined her ear.
“We’ve decided what we want for lunch,” she said looking at Oscar with the one eye available in the circumstances. “We’ll have chicken pies and baked beans and chips, and ice cream with chocolate sauce for afters.”
“Mummy left you fillets of plaice and jelly.”
“She said we could have anything we liked, didn’t she?” she asked Rosy.
“Anything. I might even fancy a hamburger in a bun with raspberry jam.”
He knew they were playing him off against Marie-Céleste. It was an old game. They usually did it with Karen.
The Life Situation Page 8
