“Try,” Steve pleaded. He took her hand and surreptitiously hid it between them under the folds of her skirt.
***
The lights were on when Ruth reached home. She dropped the shopping bags at the porch and unlocked the door. She could hear Libby’s squeals of laughter. It brought an immediate smile to her face. She picked up her bags and pushed the door open with her shoulder. “I’m back,” she called. Libby ran out like a torpedo and clasped Ruth round her waist, almost knocking the bags off her. Her brown curls were like an unruly mop thrust into her mother’s midriff. She jumped up and down unmindful of her mother’s desperate attempt to hang on to the bags of shopping.
“Mummy, mummy I got my report card. Teacher says I am a good girl. I got an A for reading.”
Ruth untangled herself. She squatted down and kissed Libby. “How wonderful! I am so proud of you. Let’s see what treats I have in store. Come help me unpack these.” She led the way into the kitchen. A dim light shone from the ceiling. Plates and cups lay unwashed by the sink. A stale smell of sausages and beans pervaded the air. The pan and saucepan were still on the stove. Thick streaks of tomatoes and grease covered them. The room had such a desolate air that she wanted to scream. She stood for a moment transfixed by the floral wallpaper greying at its seams and the linoleum floor patched in parts. Only Libby sustained her. Her thoughts went back to Malaya. Given half the chance she would go back there, a country that she was in such a hurry to leave.
“Where is daddy?” Ruth asked.
Libby lifted the carrots from the bag and put them in a basket. Then she took out the potatoes and placed them alongside. Her lips were pursed and her face a picture of concentration. She lifted her big brown eyes. “Daddy is not well. He is in the sitting room. I made him a mug of tea. He didn’t want it.”
“Stay here. I’ll go and see him.” Ruth wiped her hands on the kitchen towel and went to the sitting room. Mark was seated in an armchair in front of the television, a glass in his hand and a woollen blanket across his knee. Beside him was a half empty bottle of whisky.
“Are you not well?” she asked.
Mark didn’t answer. He huddled into the blanket, drawing it closer around him. The pinched look on his face had become familiar to Ruth; it accused her of neglect. She resented it as much as she pitied Mark. She held her tongue to stop the sharp words that threatened to spill out. She walked briskly to him and placed a hand on his forehead. He smelt of alcohol. Mark flinched. He glowered at her. Anger made his eyes light up with sudden vitality. Then, as suddenly as it came, it vanished.
“Just bored.”
She wanted to shake him. If he was bored why then did he not do something? Help with the housework at least. “Moping doesn’t help,” she said gently instead.
“I feel useless. I should be the one out working, not you. The company won’t take me back. They have discarded me like a rag doll. I just can’t seem to find another post. It would appear everything has moved on and I am left standing.”
Ruth lowered herself until her eyes were level with his. She searched for something to say, something sympathetic that would comfort him. “I don’t mind working. You have been unwell and jobs are difficult to come by. In any case you do help, you help with minding Libby.” She stopped. Even to her own ears the words sounded banal and forced.
Mark turned away. “That is not a job.” He could not recall what had happened in Malaya. It frustrated him. He was supposed to have spent the best part of his working life in that country. England with its cold dark days was alien to him. Yet the period leading up to his rescue was missing from his memory. When he asked Ruth, she was evasive and told him even less. He suspected she knew more than she divulged. There were no pictures or photographs of that time that could awaken his memory. Ruth assured him that everything was lost. She had been so happy and patient with him in the early days of their return. No longer! He knew he was at fault. He was often sickly with the recurrence of malaria. This and the frustration of being unemployed, of not remembering, of feeling unwanted made him difficult. It was a relief when she found a job. He couldn’t stand her fussing around him. Then Libby arrived. With Libby, he had at least a role at home, of being a parent, the carer. Guilt washed over him. He was not much of a carer, not since she had started school.
“I am sorry. Leave me be. I’ll be fine in a moment.” Mark smiled feebly.
Ruth got up. “I’ll make dinner,” she said, turning away to hide her tears. Was this what she had fought so hard for? She had hated May. She had been so happy that Mark’s memory of her was completely wiped away. It had carried with it, however, a penalty, a penalty that was becoming harder and harder to bear. For Mark was no longer the Mark she had once loved. In forgetting May, he had also forgotten her.
***
In Camden Town, Steve was washing up after dinner. He smiled broadly at Margaret beside him. “There,” he said looking down at her, “we have finished. He handed her the last plate to dry. “I can tidy up here. Go to the sitting room and I’ll bring a cup of tea in.”
Margaret placed the glistening plate on the rack. She wheeled her chair around and went out, leaving ajar the adjoining door to the sitting room. Steve busied himself stacking the plates and dishes in the cupboards. Next he stored the pots and pans neatly on the shelves below the sink. The kitchen resonated with the clinking sounds of pots and pans.
“So what have you been doing today?” he asked. He filled the kettle and placed it on the hob.
“Nothing much. I knitted. Our neighbour Mary came over for a chat and a cup of tea. She bought milk for us and got you your newspaper. She is a dear lady. I do not know what I would do without her.”
The kettle whistled; Steve jumped because his thoughts were far away. He was busy planning how to broach the subject.
“Would you mind if I took my class out on a school trip for the weekend during mid-term? Mary can come over and check up on you can’t she? I will make a stew and leave it in the fridge. It will be just for a night.”
Music floated in from the next room. Margaret had put on a record. “I hear the cotton woods whispering above. Tammy, Tammy...” Debbie Reynolds sang.
“Yes, of course. Enjoy yourself,” shouted Margaret above the song. “Is that lovely young woman, Ruth, going as well? She went the last time didn’t she? You said she was very helpful.”
Steve could feel his heart pounding. The blood rushed to his face. He was thankful that they were not in the same room. Did she know, he wondered. Was that why she had mentioned Ruth? He could not speak for a moment, wondering if Margaret was just testing him, fishing because she was suspicious. He poured hot water into the mug. It splashed onto his shirt. “Damn!” he exclaimed. “Sorry dear. I made a mess in the kitchen. I do not know if Ruth is coming. She may. It depends on what the headmaster says.”
He could hear Margaret humming to the tune. He sighed with relief. It did not look as though she was suspicious. He felt guilty for cheating on Margaret. He loved her. As for Ruth, he didn’t know if he loved her except that he needed her, at least for now. She gave him what Margaret couldn’t. If that was love, then he loved both, though in different ways. He stirred some milk into the tea and popping a custard cream on a saucer, he brought it to his wife.
Chapter 17
STEVE WAITED FOR about twenty minutes after the children had gone to bed. He eased open his bedroom door and went in search of Ruth. She was on the next floor. He hurried up the stairs. Her room was the first at the corner, just off the stair landing. A rubber band would be wound round the door handle if it were safe for him to go in. He stood for a moment looking left and then right and then back again. The coast was clear. Heaving a sigh of relief, he knocked, a hesitant rap.
The door opened. He slipped in and locked the door. Ruth stood slightly dazed. Not a word passed between them. Instead, he took her in his arms and kissed her urgently. Her body responded. She found herself drowning in the urgency of his kisses. He pushed her toward
s the bed, pulling her blouse off and then her skirt. The garments pooled round her feet. She reached down and rolled down her stockings, her movements frantic. He shrugged off his shirt and then his pants. They fell on the bed. A moan escaped her lips as he kissed her breasts. “Quickly,” she moaned. She arched her back and pressed her body against him, relishing its hard muscular maleness. It was as if a void had opened up in her, a void that needed to be filled. She felt intoxicated, like a drunk, insatiable. Each thrust of his manhood, each touch, and each kiss an overwhelming balm to her loneliness. She bit her hand to stop her moans.
Much later they lay on the bed. They shared a cigarette. Steve blew smoke rings; his eyes were half closed and their lids heavy. Thick brown eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks. The air was saturated with the smell of sex and sweat. Ruth pushed herself up. The sheet fell open exposing her breasts. She saw the teethmarks around her nipples. She looked around her; the clothes were in a tangle on the floor. The sheets were stained and crumpled. Her eyes fell on Steve. There was a satisfied knowingness in his face. He pursed his lips to draw deeply on the cigarette. The act jolted her. Disgust took over. She threw the sheets off completely and, still seated on the edge of the bed, began dressing. She ran her fingers through her hair. “You’d better leave. I can’t do this anymore. We have to stop. It is not fair on my husband nor on your wife.”
Steve reached over and grasped her shoulder. “Heh! What’s got into you? Wasn’t it good? I thought you enjoyed it. If you didn’t then you were a pretty good actress.”
She pushed him away.
“For goodness sake,” he growled, taken back by the furious expression on her face, “you should have thought about them a long time ago.”
Ruth shook off his hand. She was angry. He was right. Self-loathing and anger made her lash out at him. She swung round and pushed him on the chest. “It was a mistake. We should have stopped a long time ago. In fact it should never have started. I am sorry. Please leave. I don’t want to see you again, not like this.”
She walked to the pile of clothes and picked them up. She threw his at him. “Get dressed.”
He got up and pulled on his clothes, first his pants and then his shirt. He grabbed the socks off the floor and stuffed them into his pockets. Throwing her a look of pure venom, he pushed his bare feet into his shoes. She waited until he finished. They did not speak. Then she walked with what dignity she could muster to the door and opened it.
***
Mark stared at his image in the mirror. His face was a maze of lines he had not noticed before. Deep ruts ran vertically from either side of his nose. How had he become this old man looking back at him? He not only looked old; he was unkempt. The beard and unruly hair turned him into a tramp. It made him far older than his forty years. What shocked him were his eyes. They were the eyes of a corpse, bereft of joy and distinguished only by the dark bags under them. He blinked several times willing them to show life. Self-pity, he realised, was the cause of it all. It had eaten into his soul. It had destroyed his self-esteem and his marriage. No wonder Ruth was disenchanted. How could he blame her? She disguised it well but he could see through her. He spied it on her face when she thought he was not looking. Ruth’s absence had given him time to reflect. He must make a fresh start. He had made such resolutions before. This time he would see it to its end.
He ran hot water into the basin and began soaping his face. He shaved, systematically and meticulously removing all the hair on his face until his skin shone. He took a pair of scissors and began snipping. Hair fell in soft piles on the floor. His bare feet were covered with them. Still he kept on until he could see his neck and ears. He grinned at the face that looked back at him. Not perfect but much better. He stepped into the bath allowing the water to sluice over him, luxuriating in the heat. He watched the bath turn from clear to chalky grey. He felt reborn. It was the utter disgust on Ruth’s face when she left for her trip that prompted him to search deep into himself. If he could not remember, he could at least start anew. That was what Ruth had wanted and what he had promised; he had failed her. He had failed Libby, their child.
He dressed with care. His eyes rested on the opened letter on the dresser. He had not told Ruth about it. He did not want to disappoint her again. He would tell her later.
***
It was grey and cold by the time evening came. What had begun as a lovely sunny spring day had changed dramatically. Mark did not notice. He headed home. His footsteps resonated on the cobbled path between the terrace houses. He had good news to tell Ruth and he couldn’t wait. She should be back from school. Ever since the school trip, she had been returning home early. He scarcely took heed of the ominous dark clouds overhead or the pelting rain that had changed the path to a black sheen of slippery stones. He was unmindful of his squelching shoes. Finally, a job, one that would take him back to Malaya. He was sure his memory would recover when he got there. He felt a sudden rush of adrenaline. The rain fell with increased intensity, hitting him on his face and running off his mackintosh. He pulled the hood tighter over his head and increased his pace. His heart pounded. His lips quivered and then broadened into a grin. People turned to stare. He felt obliged to tell them. “I did it,” he shouted through the rain. “Well done!” they replied, not knowing what he meant yet eager to share his joy. He shouted again, pummelling into the air, and quickened his footsteps even more. By the time he reached home, he was breathless. He pushed open the front door.
“Ruth,” he called. He shrugged off his soaking coat and hung it on a hook. With an impatient flourish he dropped his wet shoes into the basket by the door. He went into the sitting room. She was not there. He went into the kitchen, his socks still squelching with damp. Ruth was seated with her head clasped in her hands, her elbows on the table, her shoulders hunched. Overhead, the dim light flickered sending shadows to play on the yellow Formica tabletop.
It alarmed him to see Ruth like that. He went up to her and stroked her head. “What is the matter?”
Ruth’s eyes were dull when she looked up. The lids were red and swollen. “I have given notice to the school.”
Mark sat down. He was bewildered. “Why? I thought you enjoyed teaching?”
“Not any more. I need a break. I will look for another post, perhaps nearer this neighbourhood. I have some savings. We could draw on them.”
Mark took her in his arms. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, his lips brushing her temple. “I know I have been a rotten husband to you. I will make it up to you.” He held both her shoulders and pushed her at arms’ length. He looked deep into her eyes. “I have found a job with Guthries. We can go back to Malaya.”
Ruth was speechless. Malaya! She clutched her tummy. She could feel bile rise in her throat. She ran out of the room and up the stairs.
“Ruth! Ruth!” he called after her. “What’s the matter?” He stood rooted to the ground uncertain if he should run after her. Would he make thing worse if he did? Should he give her time to collect herself ?
***
Ruth locked herself in the bathroom. She was still reeling with shock. A job in Malaya with Guthries? How had that happened? She crouched down and hugged her knees. The cold tiles were hard against her buttocks. Overhead the bare light bulb gave out a yellowy dingy light. She shivered. It was damp and cold. She thought of Fu Yi and the luxury of having domestic help. The bungalows in Tanjong Malim and Port Dickson had been lavish compared to this. Only a week ago she had said that she would like to go back to Malaya. So why had she panicked? Her eyes travelled round the shabby bathroom. Damp patches stained the wall. Mark’s job meant that she could leave all this drudgery for the comfort of a warm country. There was nothing left for her here. The break-up with Steve had been ugly. Last week he had confronted her in the school corridor. Oblivious of the curious stares of others in the busy passageway, he had pushed his face close to hers until her back was against the wall. She blushed to think of what the students must have thought. She recalled their giggl
ing and whispering. A teacher passing by frowned and glared. Ruth could the feel the blood flooding into her face with shame. Steve stalked her relentlessly. At every opportunity he would sidle up and pretend that nothing had happened. Going to Malaya would give her the chance to be truly free from Steve.
She unclenched her fists. Her thoughts went to Mark. He was like a new man, more like the husband she knew of old. She owed it to him. She placed her head on her knee. Her head throbbed. “Mummy, mummy, I am home,” she heard Libby’s cry. “I’ll be out in a minute,” she managed to call back. Her limbs were heavy. She could not get up. She didn’t want to leave the sanctuary of the bathroom. Soon they would knock and insist that she came out.
“Mummy, where are you?”
Slowly, with difficulty, she placed both hands on the floor and levered herself up. She splashed water on to her face and rubbed her cheeks to bring colour into them. Dead eyes looked back at her in the mirror. What about May? she asked her image. What if Mark remembered her? What if they were to meet? Would he forgive her for the cruel trick she had played on him?
Libby tapped on the door. Her little fists made staccato sounds. “Mummy, Mummy, Daddy says we are going to Malaya. Where is Malaya? Will I like it?”
Ruth leaned on the door pressing one cheek against it. She fumbled with the latch. The door swung open. She swept Libby up into her arms. “Yes,” you will like it,” she said nestling against the brown curls. Libby’s body was warm and pliable. She clung to Libby; a cold fist of fear clamped her heart.
***
Ruth rolled over on to her side and drew her knees up into a foetal position. She closed her eyes, feigning sleep. A sliver of light peeped through the drawn curtains. She could hear Mark moving in the bedroom. His slippers made soft shuffling sounds. He got into the bed. It squeaked and sagged under his weight. She could feel his warmth. An arm reached over to draw her closer. He fitted his body to hers. She went rigid. She couldn’t respond. All she could think of was May and the possibility that Mark would discover her deception.
Where the Sunrise is Red Page 11
