by Angela Huth
‘I’m not going to sleep,’ she smiled.
Then the telephone rang.
‘Who the hell, at this time of night?’
Crossly, Martin sprang away from the shell position with his wife, turned over and hunched the bedclothes over his shoulders.
‘It can only be your mother.’
Ursula sighed, picked up the receiver on her side of the bed. It was her mother.
Mary apologised for ringing so late, but felt she had to report the sad news about the balsam poplar. Although she expressed no particular anxiety, Ursula could tell from her voice that her mother was in one of her faintly stricken moods. These could often be cured by a soliloquy about anything that came to mind. So Ursula let her talk uninterrupted for twenty minutes, before trying to assure her that the freak storms were over and there was nothing further to worry about.
When at last the conversation came to an end, Ursula thumped Martin’s shoulder.
‘Sorry. But I had to let her go on. She was in one of her dithers about nothing. Come back here, now.’ Martin did not stir. ‘Martin, please.’
She pressed herself into his back, ruffling his hair with an impatient hand. But Martin was asleep. Imagining the hard day he had ahead, she could not bring herself to wake him.
Ursula returned to her own side of the bed, turned out the light. She wondered if the cat, downstairs somewhere, was asleep too.
* * *
The Sundays when Jeremy came home for his dutiful visits were always an ordeal for Rachel. They meant that she had to spend the entire morning cooking a very large lunch, the real reward for his presence, after which maternal guilt forced her to iron at least some of the clothes he had brought home to wash. While she was engaged in this task, Jeremy and Thomas would shut themselves in the study, curtains drawn, no matter what the weather, and watch whatever sport happened to be on television. Then, after a perfunctory cup of tea, Thomas would magnanimously offer his son a lift to the station. Jeremy would accept the bag of clean clothes with gruff thanks, and hug his mother with considerably more enthusiasm than on his arrival. Relief, she supposed, that it was time to be on his way.
When the two of them had gone, Rachel would set about clearing up the lunch. Tired, bad-tempered and inefficient by now, this was never finished by the time Thomas returned. Therefore, it was safe for him to make his weekly proposal, his weekly gesture towards the wife.
‘Like to see a film?’
‘Not really, thanks. I’ve still got all this to do.’
‘Fine. I’ll go back to the studio till supper.’
‘I’ll give you a call.’
The yearning Rachel felt, late on Sunday afternoons, to go to her room, almost overcame her. But she dared not risk it. In the two hours free to her, she might fall asleep, be late in the preparation of supper, find herself woken by a shocked husband. What? Asleep at this time of day? Are you ill? She could hear his incredulous voice. With a weekly sense of deprivation mixed with resentment, she would therefore set about sorting out the crumpled mess of the Sunday papers that her husband and son had left on the floor. She read them without interest, fortified by a strong drink. God, how she hated Sunday evenings.
This particular Sunday morning, for all its ironic brightness, was little different from many others when Jeremy came down from Cambridge. A taciturn Thomas had bashed the papers with particular ferocity at breakfast. But Rachel felt, suddenly, equally bloody-minded. She determined not to let him off the hook completely.
‘Would you have a moment to lay the table, later?’
‘Probably not. I’ve got to get something finished, then I’ll have to go and get Jeremy a can of that disgusting beer, or there’ll be trouble.’
He did not meet his wife’s despairing eye, but stomped out of the room trailing the Sunday Times behind him. Its cumbersome pages were as plumped up and creased as a bustle. Rachel picked up a pottery jar full of liquid honey. She considered throwing it at Thomas’s back. Instead, she slammed it down on the table. The jar cracked in three places. Topaz beads of honey quickly oozed forth. It was past repair. Rachel carried it, gently as a small dead animal, to the rubbish bin, threw it away. Then, washing the stickiness from her fingers under the cold tap, she felt tears on her cheeks. She realised that, if she was going to be able to cook the lunch, she would need a stint in her room, just lying on the unmade bed, eyes shut, to regain her composure.
Within half-an-hour she had recovered her equilibrium, found herself slightly enjoying, even, the routine process of peeling potatoes and carrots, chopping courgettes, spreading the leg of lamb with honey from a new pot, and whizzing homemade strawberry jam into brown breadcrumbs for Jeremy’s favourite Guards’ Pudding. At twelve o’clock, she heard Thomas bang out of the house: his mission to buy a single can of beer. Rachel had long since given up suggesting he bought a decent supply, thus sparing himself the irritation of a short walk to the off-licence on the Sundays Jeremy came home. But Thomas’s one area of irrational meanness concerned drinks for his children: he never offered them more than a single glass of wine, and was annoyed when they helped themselves to more. He refused to stock any of the innocuous drinks they liked – lager, ginger beer, coke – on the grounds that there was no room for such commonplace drinks, and stocking them would only further encourage the children’s pedestrian tastes. Rachel laid the table.
Jeremy arrived punctually at one. He trailed into the kitchen reminding her of a latter-day Dick Whittington, in ragged jeans and ghastly tartan shirt. He carried a large pouch-shaped bag which would have looked appropriate at the end of a stick. He also held a small bunch of flowers. Their cheap brown wrapping paper indicated they came from a stall in the station.
Jeremy kissed his mother on the cheek, gave her the flowers.
‘So, how’s things?’
Rachel looked inside the paper cone, dreading peonies.
They were peonies, thunderous colours.
‘Fine. And you?’
‘Bout the same.’
To please him, Rachel took the flowers from the paper. Their sooty stems smudged her fingers, an intense black. She hated peonies. She wondered why Jeremy didn’t know by now how much she hated peonies.
‘Thank you, darling. They’re lovely.’
Jeremy hitched his bag off his shoulder. A dirty shirt sprouted, cauliflower-like, from its opening.
‘Shall I put these in?’ He made it sound like a generous offer.
‘Why not? And don’t forget the powder this time.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Mum.’
Jeremy shambled off to the downstairs cloakroom to the washing machine. While he was gone, Rachel took the opportunity to rinse the flower dust from her fingers. She dumped the loathsome peonies in a jar, and put them on the window sill. A sensitive and observant son, she reflected, would notice his offering had not been put in the sort of place it could be admired. Jeremy loped back.
‘Darling, I don’t mean to sound perverse,’ said Rachel, who had every intention of sounding just that, as her earlier exasperation returned, ‘but are there no launderettes in Cambridge?’
The question brought Jeremy to a complete halt in the middle of the kitchen floor. He stood, unmoving, bemused for a moment, a shambolic, familiar stance. Then half a charming smile rearranged his mouth (a smile that had been so winning as a child) as comprehension came to him.
‘No need for the sarcasm, Ma. Of course there are launderettes in Cambridge. Millions of them. Let me tell you I spend hours and bloody hours in launderettes.’
‘Then why do you always find yourself with so much unwashed stuff to bring home? Not that I mind, really. . . .’
From his great height Jeremy looked down on his mother as if she was pathetic, or insane, or both.
‘You know how it is. I’m not into ironing. It’s not my thing. How many more times do I have to explain?’
Rachel sighed. It was useless ever to reproach her son, and the matter of the laundry, a universal one among
mothers of children who do not live at home, was of no great importance. She could not think why she had bothered to say anything, really. She had been spurred by a nameless irritation which would not subside.
‘And you’re so thin, Jay. Don’t you eat in Cambridge?’
‘Course I eat. I eat tons. The College like feeds us. You know?’ He was gentle, this time, as if dealing with the mentally disabled. ‘Is there a beer, by any slim chance?’
Jeremy slopped over to the fridge and pulled open the door with a bonelesss hand. He stood before the brightly lit shelves, arms folded, enjoying his act of acute concern and puzzlement. His expression – for her benefit, Rachel knew – made her, at last, want to laugh. Jeremy’s ways of love were private and uncommon, but Rachel had always recognised them.
‘Wow, Mum! Zap! Found it!’ He swivelled round, smiling completely now, holding up a very small can of beer. ‘Dad’s really gone to town this week, I’ll say.’
Rachel laughed, blushed. Shame fused with loyalty. Jeremy’s lack of malice, concerning his father’s peculiarities, always increased her love. She resorted to harmless conspiracy, something she and Jeremy had enjoyed ever since he was very young.
‘One day, I’ll get a whole case of beer and hide it for you under my side of the bed. . . .’
‘Brilliant, Mum.’ He opened the can. Precious froth pierced out. ‘The madness of possibility. Quick, a glass!’
Rachel rushed to a cupboard, thrust a glass under the spilling liquid. She felt full of energy, lightness: she had the absurd impression her movements were swift and graceful, as if part of a ballet.
‘Of course, I couldn’t really do that.’
‘Of course you couldn’t.’ Jeremy took his first swig. Just half the glass remained. ‘Tell you what, though. I’ll eke out this wonderful drink, shall I? Agonising sip by agonising sip all through lunch. Bet you Dad won’t notice, nose stuck into his claret.’
‘Bet you anything you like.’
Suddenly, they were both laughing.
But later, at lunch, unease returned. Thomas could scarcely conceal his distraction. Jeremy sat hunch-shouldered eking out the beer in attention-seeking sips, as promised. Rachel threw rhythmic glances between husband and son, ready to lob some defusing practicality, should the slow burn of tension threaten to flare.
‘Work eased up, second year, has it?’ Thomas asked Jeremy, eventually.
‘Yeah. Sort of. You could say.’
‘In my day, we were warned of the dangers of slacking off in the second year.’
‘Were you.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘Suppose you’re involved in a lot of other activities, as usual?’
Thomas was always trying to discover the precise habits of Jeremy’s life at Cambridge, and to compare them with his own.
‘That’s right.’
‘Footlights, still?’
‘Yeah. They’re good.’ He glanced at his father who was cutting into several roast potatoes with the tip of his knife, as if for surgery. ‘And the Labour Club. That takes quite a bit of time.’ Jeremy was firm of purpose.
There was a long silence. Even the sloshing of Thomas’s severed potatoes in a pool of gravy made no noise.
‘I’m sure it does,’ said Thomas at last. He paused to finish a mouthful, then looked squarely at his son. ‘Now, don’t take this question wrong, but can you tell me what, exactly, a band of undergraduate Socialists thinks it can do, effectively, for the benefit of the nation? Or, indeed, for the Labour Party itself? I take it you’re a kind of unofficial think-tank?’
Jeremy sighed, patient.
‘Thomas, please,’ said Rachel.
Thomas shrugged. ‘Very well. I was only attempting some kind of conversation. It seems to me pretty odd that Jeremy comes home for the day and we sit round the table in near silence.’
Jeremy finished his beer, held up the empty glass.
‘But your idea of conversation, Dad, is to ask me a lot of questions. Some of which I’ve no intention of answering. I never ask you and Ma questions -’
‘- ask what you like.’
Rachel flinched. Neither of the men noticed.
‘I’m not much interested in asking you questions, as a matter of fact. I mean, no offence. The answers wouldn’t be exactly riveting. You lead quite dull lives.’
‘Dull?’ Rachel’s loyalty swung towards Thomas. She rose and began gathering the empty plates.
‘Seems to me.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ said Thomas, suddenly huffy. He wiped his mouth and most of his face with a huge damask napkin.’We lead quite an active life,’ he said, conscious that he spoke for himself. ‘We’re pretty busy. We don’t sit at home in front of the television every night, you’ll be amazed to hear. Next week, for instance, we’ve been asked to dine in an Oxford College, no less. I forgot to tell you that, Rachel. St Crispin’s. Wednesday. Patrick Pruddle. Suddenly rang up and said would we like to, after all these years.’
‘That’s great,’ said Jeremy.
Rachel spooned out two large helpings of Guards’ Pudding, and pushed a jug of Jersey cream towards her son.
‘Oxford, midweek?’ she said. The thought of being sixty miles from her bedroom filled her with dread.
‘You sound raring to go, Ma,’ Jeremy smiled. ‘Jesus, what a pudding.’
While he and Thomas returned to their silent eating, Rachel observed how alike were their downcast eyes – same starfish lashes making small pointed shadows on flat cheeks. But Jeremy’s nose was blade-thin, like her own, and in his rare charming smile, she recognised a strong look of herself thirty years ago. His wild long hair (strangely, Thomas had made no comment about it this week) bore no resemblance to Thomas’s dry stuff – again it was hers – at least, her hair as it had been in lustrous youth. But oh, the worry about the etiolated state of his limbs, his cadaverous chest and concave stomach. Did he never eat in Cambridge? She’d asked him that, hadn’t she, today? Mustn’t ask him again. Questions pestered, though. What did he do? What was his life? Where was he this time yesterday? Where would he be this time tomorrow? Was there a girl? Rachel sighed as she peeled a small, early, expensive peach: she knew so little about the daily hum of his days, and Jeremy was not one generous with clues. But unlike Thomas she had learned to control her curiosity. Jeremy’s reaction to questions was to clamp up altogether. Why could Thomas never understand that?
Meanly, Rachel longed for lunch to finish, for Jeremy to go, for the day to be over, for the security of normal weekdays, luxurious in their solitude.
When, three long hours later, Thomas and Jeremy did eventually leave for the station, she took the unusual risk of going to her room, drawing the curtains and lying down. Relief, calm, came swiftly. She did not think, was only aware of the heaviness of her limbs and the sweet drowning sensation as sleep overcame her.
She woke at six with a start. Thomas must have returned some time ago. Had he looked for her? Crept in and found her asleep in the dark? The idea made her shudder. She quickly got up, snapped back the heavy curtains. The evening sun made a buttery gleam on the hollyhock chintz. He would have wondered why the lunch had not been cleared away, what had happened to delay the usual pristine state of a Sunday evening. In her panic, Rachel paused for a moment to plan some explanation for her absence. It was then she heard, overhead in the studio, troubled footsteps pacing to and fro. Thomas was a great pacer, while thinking: she had heard him travelling many miles in his studio. But there was something about the unevenness, the resonance of these steps, that alarmed her. What was the matter? Where was Thomas, as always so far from her?
Rachel ran downstairs, flung open the kitchen door. There, to her amazement, she found everything cleared away, washing-up machine humming, cling-film over a dish of remaining vegetables. Implications of this sight were so extraordinary, Rachel heard herself gasp out loud. In their entire married life, she could not recall a single occasion on which Thomas had made any such gesture, unasked. On the rare occ
asion she begged him for help, he would reluctantly and inefficiently make some futile contribution. But never, never had he taken on so large a job and accomplished it so faultlessly. There could only be one explanation. Something must be dreadfully wrong. . . . Rachel sat down at the kitchen table, laid her head in folded arms, and let the dizzying possibilities swirl confusingly about her.
While his wife sat in her stunned condition downstairs, Thomas continued to pace and agonise in his studio three floors above her. As one who for the last decade had always felt the necessity of extramarital stimulation in the romantic area of the heart, he knew quite well what the nature of the problem was: the girl with the amber hair. The wretched girl had loomed ever larger in his mind since their brief meeting last week, a sort of amorphous beauty – to be honest, he could not quite remember the exact details of her face – with very long sleeves. By Saturday, his desire for her was almost overwhelming, and this had been the longest Sunday of his life.
He had, he was quite aware, been a less than perfect husband and father today, as on many occasions. But Rachel and Jeremy were accustomed to his artistic temperament by now. They believed his distracted states were caused by the creative process within him. Over the years, he had dropped many a hint that therein lay the explanation for lapses in his attention. They had no notion that in truth his mind was far from sublime thoughts of painting a good picture. Had they known that it flurried, instead, in basest areas of the flesh, they would have been incredulous, shocked. For if he paused and contemplated the barnacles of sin encrusting his soul – a practice he avoided as much as possible – Thomas was confronted by a shameful truth. It was, simply, that he was almost constantly agitated by a state of lust. So upright in his pinstripes to the outside world, Thomas was a man positively besieged with lust within. Age did nothing to dispel this weakness. In fact he was more mercilessly taunted than ever. And his reaction was to give up the fight, believing that his inconvenient appetites, eventually surfeited, would die. So far there had been little sign of any such progress. Over and over again, the sight of some distant, strange girl caused him such anguished yearnings that he found himself forced to make a clumsy approach. Often, this led to disaster.
