‘Nonsense,’ Angus insisted, ‘you can bring the baby and his mother won’t know if you don’t tell her.’
That was how Emmy found herself crouched over a beer-stained wooden bench in a wind made colder because it was supposed to be summer with Edward grizzling beside her in his pushchair. The pub overlooked Wandsworth Common, which was pleasant, but was on a main road and traffic thundered past. Emmy’s nose was running and the beer was not marvellous either. A full ashtray lay between her and Angus.
‘Aren’t you glad you listened to me?’ Angus ignored the grizzles.
Emmy had made a discovery. Love - or lust, she was not sure which - did not keep you warm. June had chucked in one of those days designed to keep you on your toes, which conveyed in no uncertain terms that if you had hoped for summer, forget it. Emmy felt guilty about Edward whose little hands had gone almost blue. For the fifth time, she leant over to pull on his mittens.
Edward pulled them off.
‘Bugger you,’ said Emmy.
Angus was telling her about his latest job, a conversion in Wandsworth.
‘Pity the Becketts have just done the bathroom,’ he said. ‘We’ve just ripped one out. Practically brand-new. Avocado.’
Pale green, stroked with cream . . . Emmy’s fantasies took off. Shimmering, slippery, iridescent temples to cleanliness. Water sliding off skin, flushed pink and white, oozing into folds, between toes, along flat planes. Heat meshed with steam and tuberose scent from the bottles on the shelves.
‘Pity,’ she agreed, amazed at how quickly imagination could slip the leash.
Angus shoved the ashtray aside. ‘What are you doing at the weekend?’ he asked.
Emmy shrugged. ‘Not much.’
‘Fancy coming out with me?’
Emmy wanted to say no. She wanted to get up, seize Edward and run - away from the golden youth who was issuing tantalizing invitations which, she knew, she knew, would end in disaster.
Why did she know? Because, it did not make sense that he, beautiful, beautiful Angus, wanted to invite her, plain Emmy from Dainton, out on the best night of the week. Independence, an unscalded heart, caution, were better things by far than the release of saying yes and an aftermath of regret.
‘Come on, then,’ Angus urged. ‘I won’t rape you.’
Emmy flushed with distress. ‘Of course not.’
‘I won’t, you know.’
A trio struggled down the street: an old lady in a motorized wheelchair, accompanied by two equally ancient companions in headscarves tied so that they resembled nuns’ wimples. The three limped and bumped along, a dance of hovering death.
‘Yeah. I’ll come,’ said Emmy.
Violet dumped her briefcase on the kitchen table. It was an aggressive gesture. Alerted, Emmy looked round from the sink. In his chair, Edward grizzled at the sight of his mother.
‘I want a word with you, Emmy.’
Emmy dried her hands. Violet stood with hers on her hips.
‘Did you or did you not go to a pub at lunchtime?’
Emmy swallowed. ‘Yes, I did.’
‘With Edward.’ It was a statement not a question.
‘Yes.’
‘How dare you?’
Taken by surprise by the explosion of rage, Emmy backed up against the draining-board.
‘How dare you, Emmy? I could not believe it when Mary Marcus rang to tell me she had seen you with a man outside a pub, drinking. What do you think you were doing?’
‘Having a drink, Mrs Beckett.’
‘I do not pay you to conduct a social life, Emmy. You are paid to look after my son. It was a thoroughly irresponsible thing to do. Edward might have caught cold. Anyway, I don’t allow him near pubs.’
It was only half an hour.
Emmy thought of the countless evenings she had worked late, and the weekends she had babysat (‘as a favour to us, Emmy’). Unfamiliar rage - partly at Violet’s unreasonableness and partly because she had never truly appreciated until this moment how unfair people could be when their own interests were at stake -which she only just succeeded in controlling pricked underneath her skin.
‘I can’t trust you.’ Violet was speaking in a low, dramatic voice which concealed both a real panic that Emmy was not reliable and the fear that she, the supermanager, had made a crucial misjudgement. ‘Looking after a baby is a very serious thing. I must be able to trust you.’
How much did trust cost? Violet’s expression wavered under Emmy’s enraged stare and, then, it dawned on Emmy that the boot was probably on the other foot: Mrs Glossy Beckett did not trust herself either.
‘Who was this man? Was he a complete stranger?’
‘He’s . . .’ well, what was Angus? Emmy explained that Angus was, at least, known to the family. Thankfully, Violet seized on the let-out (for which she had been searching): at least she would not need to resort to anything drastic and inconvenient like giving Emmy the sack.
‘Listen, Emmy. I shall give you one more chance.’ You bet, Emmy thought. Procuring nannies takes time. ‘But’, Violet judged it best to moderate her tone, ‘if I ever discover again that you have been doing this sort of thing you will have to leave.’
Perhaps I want to anyway? What do you think about that? Emmy prudently remained silent.
But a curious little pulse beat close to her heart. Hold on, it said. Emmy listened to its thuds. Of what else did it speak? Of stubbornness, a wish to give Violet as good as she gave. Of dawning feelings that would not be controlled.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought it would be all right to have a drink. I took good care of Edward.’ She gave a little shrug which, more than anything, convinced Violet. ‘Of course I did, Mrs Beckett.’
Violet opened the briefcase, extracted the latest edition of Vanity Fair and tossed it on the table. Her expression had turned remote -the sort of expression that suggested it was unfair she should be so bothered by these domestic matters. From experience, Emmy knew she had lost interest.
‘Let’s forget it, Emmy. In between drinks did you manage to do the shopping?’
Emmy sighed. Denied attention for so long, Edward opened his mouth and yelled.
On Saturday evening, Angus took Emmy bowling in Streatham with his mates. Violet eyed him when he turned up at the front door in black jeans and boots, said nothing by way of greeting, left him standing on the doorstep and returned to the drawing room. Jamie, however, was more forthcoming and invited Angus into the hall and made conversation until Emmy appeared from the top of the house.
‘Have a good time,’ said Jamie.
Emmy cast him a look from under her lids and nodded. He was smiling good-naturedly and without the least side.
‘Stuck-up bitch,’ said Angus, not quite out of earshot of the front garden. ‘I wouldn’t give her house room.’
Because she was nervous and wanted it to be all right with Angus, Emmy found herself agreeing, although she now realized there were some things about Violet that she quite liked and — almost- admired.
Feminine solidarity can take many forms. Emmy was not at all sure about Jamie and his lunches with Mrs Valour. It was possible that her own newly sensitized feelings were leading her astray, but still she wondered. It was only an instinct, the prod of a half-formed thought, but she sensed a feeling between them, the more surprising for being so unlikely. Unfurling her wings in the world as she was, Emmy had yet to trust her judgement.
She looked back to Number 6. It looked so solid and painted, a cradle for clean shelves, beeswaxed furniture and ironed sheets. The empty home in Dainton hovered in her mind, a boiled, sterilized repository of her childhood, until Angus dropped a gloved hand on to her knee and Emmy forgot everything. Rankled by Violet’s attitude, Angus did a lot of accelerator revving, the van rattled noisily and he drew out of the parking space with as much noise as he could muster.
Angus’s mates, Ted, Bill and a six-footer introduced as Nails, were distinguished by their earrings, ranks of them, mounting in glitt
ering concordances to the outer reaches of their earlobes. Emmy was fascinated. Serious male plumage had not reached Andover. One earring, perhaps . . .
Cherry and Sal, the girls, did not wear jewellery at all, apart from plaited-wool friendship bracelets. Their uniform, however, matched the boys’. Black jeans or leggings, T-shirts, a thicker shirt worn on top, very often tartan, and cropped hair. One of them, Sal, was luscious.
Emmy trembled inside her Doc Martens and cursed the day she had ever heard the word ‘perm’. These girls were so sharp, so icily streetwise. So London - and she was so wasn’t.
They eyed her up and down, decided she was a negligible threat and proceeded, in the main, to ignore her. Not surprised, Emmy was gratified, nevertheless, to discover that her bowling skills more than matched theirs.
‘Not bad,’ said Sal critically at the end of the third round. Underneath her grey T-shirt, her pointed breasts swayed like palms in a tropical breeze and her lips, like plump sofas, glistened.
Emmy permitted herself a mental tick, and then intercepted a look between Angus and Sal, a sultry exchange into which was mixed anticipation. Her satisfaction vanished and a cocktail of terror, jealousy and sick apprehension slipped into her bloodstream. What on earth was she doing here? Here they were, the Sals, Cherrys and Emmys, displayed like buds on the apple tree for the hovering bullfinch, and she reminded herself what happens when the bullfinch has been and gone: no apples.
At the end of the game, Angus came over and slipped his arm round Emmy’s shoulders. ‘Fancy Indian or Chinese?’ His eyes slid from one girl to the other, charm and sex and, yet, a kind of easy tenderness, mixed into his face. He could so easily have been repellent, but he wasn’t — he wasn’t at all.
Emmy did not like curry, which she tried to hide over the baskets of naan bread and Chicken Vindaloo. The restaurant into which they had piled was cheap, crowded, hot and smoky. The air was like damp cling-film and moisture glistened on the green flock wallpaper. Emmy swallowed a mouthful of chicken and regretted it.
Sal eyed her. ‘Not up to your standards?’
Emmy endeavoured to answer, a tricky procedure if the roof of your mouth has been blasted off. Meanwhile, Angus focused on Sal’s bosom.
‘You eat enough to sink a tanker,’ he said.
Sal preened. ‘I can take it.’
Yes, well. Emmy shot a covert look at Sal’s Titian hair which owed more to artifice than to nature.
‘If you like it,’ said Angus, and leant over towards Emmy. ‘Had enough?’
Sal lit up a cigarette and blew smoke in Angus’s direction. ‘Where to next?’
Next? Emmy had been cherishing fond thoughts of her hot-water bottle and her silent, unshared bed.
‘I think it’s time I got back,’ she said, and reached for her fringed bag. She forced herself to look into Angus’s face. ‘That was great. See you all around.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said. ‘You don’t know your way back. Stick with us. I’ll see you right.’
They piled into the van and hit the South Circular with a screech of brakes and made for Brixton. The disco there had a couple of fridges mounted above the entrance and the queue to get in was mainly black, funky and noisy. Getting down from the van Emmy shivered.
Her mental horizons were shifting bewilderingly.
Inside the disco, the noise drilled holes in eardrums. Sal hijacked the opportunity to collar Angus and a dazzling show of body language went into operation. Angus was all male and no male could possibly resist the delights being flaunted - practically unveiled - in front of him.
Keeping a tight clutch on her bag, Emmy watched them dancing amid the shrieks and screams, the coloured lights and smoke-wreathed figures. A dream coalesced, tantalized and splintered, and she was left jolted by shocks of jealousy accompanied by an equally coruscating current of desire.
When Angus disengaged himself from Sal to claim Emmy, he was met by a blank, wooden face.
‘I want to go,’ Emmy reiterated, her face paled by the light into a ghost’s. ‘Point me in the right direction. I’ll walk.’
‘Running away, Emmy?’
There was no point in not being honest. ‘Yes.’
The funny thing was, Emmy was sure Angus understood.
‘I’ll drive you,’ said Angus, and flicked her under her chin. ‘You are stupid, you know.’
‘What about the others?’
Angus glanced briefly over his shoulder at the heaving mass and Sal sent him a smouldering look. ‘I’ll come back.’
For some while, Emmy had been convinced that a fox was living in the garden of Number 6. A flash of red, a bark in the night, the scatter of refuse round the dustbins, a hint of feralness in the air: these were clues she had quickly picked up. She spent several nights after the bowling outing watching out of the window in the small hours.
If she was not sure about the fox, there was no doubt about the pair of grey squirrels which had colonized the scrubby bit at the end of the garden. Manky they were, and cheeky chappies, who danced and spun along the garden fences like a chorus line.
During the day, Emmy watched them, and envied their busyness, and the manner in which they cheeked cats who juddered with aggression but who had grown too large and indolent from tinned catfood to do anything about it.
One of the pair had hidden a treasure under the lavender bush, a nut perhaps, and, tail at full mast, he returned again and again to root under the spiky grey branches. Emmy watched him. He knew better than to find what he was seeking.
Angus had bent over her that Saturday night - no, Sunday morning by then - when he delivered her back, and Emmy, suborned by her longings, had raised her face blindly to his. Then she turned abruptly away. She might not have been wise enough to keep her feelings under control, but she knew enough to hide them.
Perhaps it was as well that she was not going to find out what lay behind Angus’s golden head and tawny skin for that might spoil the magic, too.
Chapter Thirteen
‘When, Prue?’Jamie asked.
When?
Jane’s long summer exeat usually coincided with Max’s fishing week in Scotland. It was a pity, but there it was. In Max’s calendar, the date shared equal rank with his shooting days in autumn, both as immutable as Christmas. Prue had long since accepted these slots in the year and, after the first few occasions when she was inclined to feel abandoned, looked forward to them as a break in the routine and a chance to rearrange her mental furniture.
The departure was generally accompanied by last-minute panics and late-night searches for fishing equipment and the fittings for the special picnic basket Max had inherited from his father. Each year, Prue meant to earmark a place in the attic for them where they could be easily located, and each year failed to do so.
She was up early making egg sandwiches and decanting coffee and tea into the old-fashioned Thermoses from the picnic set. With their echo from another age, she had grown fond of them. They were solid and did not let you down. Prue chopped mint on to the egg, admired the colours, added mayonnaise and spread the mixture on the bread.
Dressed in his favourite corduroys and the jersey that suited him so much better than the city suit, Max seemed pale and preoccupied. Prue put it down to the restless night both of them had spent, which neither had acknowledged to the other. Admitting to insomnia in a marriage was an intimacy only possible when it was going well.
What was unusual was Prue’s lack of enthusiasm to sort it out.
Max kissed Jane goodbye and instead of saying, ‘Look after your mother,’ as he always did, held his daughter tight and said nothing.
‘Bring me back some Edinburgh rock,’ she muttered into his shoulder. Jane liked its colours better than its taste, and it was a request that she knew would not give her father any bother to carry out.
Max released Jane who, sensing that he was a little troubled, assumed an expression that suggested goodbyes were an awful bore. Max looked as though he had already depart
ed mentally, and he said in a manner that warned Prue not to fuss, ‘I’ll phone when I reach Edinburgh.’
‘Have a good time.’ Prue handed Max the fishing bag and the picnic.
Much later, mulling over events, trying to piece together truths from what had happened - truth being as elusive as the scent in a winter garden, a cloud in a wind, or a reputation in politics - Prue remembered that Max had not kissed her goodbye.
‘So what shall we do with ourselves before we go up to London, Janey?’ she asked, as they sat down to lunch.
Jane had spent the morning huddled into the sofa listening to the radio but she perked up at the question and expounded at length on several ideas. These involved an outing to the Romsey Rapids, a definitive update of her wardrobe and an excursion to buy a new pair of roller blades.
‘What about taking a picnic tea on the bikes?’ suggested Prue, warming to a mental vision of mother and daughter idling down flower-studded country lanes. ‘We could do a day trip somewhere.’
Jane looked at Prue as if her mother had only recently alighted on Planet Earth. ‘No way, Mum. It isn’t warm enough.’
Prue propped her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands. ‘No way,’ she conceded.
Jane was quiet for thirty seconds or so. ‘I’ve got some prep to do,’ she said, and chewed a tiny mouthful of pork chop. Prue had finished hers and sat waiting. Then she asked. ‘Mum, what’s adultery?’
Prue fought to control her expression for, quick as any reflex, guilt mastered her stiffened jaw and widened eyes. Guilt for what she had not yet done. Unfamiliar with it, untutored in dealing with it, unsure of its properties (did it always stretch, lie, distort?) Prue’s panic made her forget that connections did not necessarily exist between things even if they appear to do so. Nevertheless, she was familiar with the teaching which held that the distinction between the intention to commit a sin and actually doing so was negligible.
Perfect Love Page 15
