To Have and to Hold

by Deborah Moggach

  She felt his hand move to her forehead. He stroked her. ‘Annie darling, just get some sleep.’

  ‘She means it.’

  Suddenly he sat up and switched on the light. She blinked. His face stared down at her.

  ‘What’s she on about?’

  ‘She means –’

  ‘She been up to her tricks?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Putting ideas into your head?’

  ‘No. She’s thought it out.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ His voice rose squeakily. ‘Funny sort of thinking. Still, I wouldn’t put anything past her.’

  ‘Ken –’

  ‘You’re far too sensible to listen to her.’

  ‘But we’ve talked! She’s offered to. She’ll have it, and breastfeed it –’

  ‘That’s enough!’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Let’s not hear the sordid details.’

  ‘Don’t get angry. I’m just . . .’ She looked at his reddened face.

  ‘You two, sometimes . . .’ He paused. ‘What’ve you girls been up to?’

  ‘Don’t call us girls.’

  ‘What the hell’s she playing at?’

  ‘I’ll explain –’

  ‘Explain tomorrow.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Not now. Please.’ He put his arms around her. His voice softened. ‘Look, I didn’t mean to shout, but I just don’t like to see you upset. It’s you I’m worried about, darling.’

  He stroked her arm, pushing up the sleeve of her nightie. She flinched, but lay still. He went on stroking; he shook his head, smiling faintly. She wished he would stop looking at her like that. But she must not move.

  ‘You’ve been through so much,’ he said. ‘Let’s forget your sister for a bit, put it all out of our minds.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘You’re the one I love, remember.’

  She willed herself to put her arms around him. For the first time in their marriage, as his hand slid down her breast, she felt like a whore.

  She leaned over him and put out the light.

  Babies are crawling over each other, piles of babies. They are whimpering softly. Chubby, bendy limbs and bright eyes. The room is as high and blue as the sky. Won’t they get chilly? Viv searches through the babies, panic-stricken. They are naked and they all look alike. On each arm – oh how soft those arms are – on each there is a tattoo, and she must learn how to read them, because one baby is hers. But when she looks closely, the tattoos are just squiggles, meaningless. She knows that somewhere she must find her own name. That baby will be hers, but time is running short and she must get it out of here. She must get it home.

  She woke abruptly. She was damp with sweat. The house was silent and she knew her girls were gone. She pushed Ollie but he stayed asleep. She shook his shoulder.

  ‘Ollie! Where are the girls?’

  He turned over. ‘At Julie’s, remember?’ He sat up and put on the light. ‘Got to get them before breakfast.’

  They looked at the clock. It was half past four. He turned off the light and lay back.

  A moment later she thought he had gone back to sleep. But she was wrong; the duvet dragged as he turned over, away from her. He spoke with his back to her, his voice surprisingly clear.

  ‘Viv.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t you see?’

  The duvet shifted as he turned his head and then moved round again to face her. His knee knocked against hers.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. It was too dark to see him clearly; as the girls were away they had turned off the landing light.

  ‘One fact, in all this, seems to have escaped your notice,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know perfectly well that . . .’ He stopped, sighed, and spoke again. ‘That once you had a baby, if you had one . . .’

  A silence. ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘You’d never bear to give it up.’

  There was another silence.

  ‘You know that,’ he said. ‘Don’t you?’

  _____Six_____

  ALL OVER LONDON people were going to work. It was a damp, mild winter morning. Girls gazed out of the windows of buses; they rubbed their hands on the misted glass. Cars revved up in traffic jams; from them came the mixed chatter of their radios. The city’s heart beat, quickening. It knew nothing of Ollie’s head, which ached from the previous night’s cheap wine and disorientating talk. He was swallowed up as he descended into the Underground. The man standing on the escalator in front of him knew nothing; how surprising that it was all the same. Ollie gazed at the uncomprehending back of the man’s neck and turned to look at the advertisements for bulging underpants and American musicals – Fourth Great Year – and then a photo of a woman’s face and the words Pregnant and Worried About It?

  Ken entered his office, a Portakabin in the works yard. Archie was already there, sifting through the mail.

  ‘What a day,’ said Archie. ‘What a bummer that was. I go home and I wouldn’t have been surprised if my old lady told me she’s expecting quads.’

  ‘Quads?’ asked Ken, hanging up his coat.

  ‘If she is, she’s keeping it dark.’

  Ahead of Ken lay a day of banter, and four site visits, and orders from the depot. How could it sound so normal?

  Viv sat beside Yvonne, whose essay she was reading. Yvonne smelt of eau-de-Cologne and cigarettes; it made Viv queasy.

  Mr Rochester is macho, she read, like a volcano which is about to explode. She pointed to the page. ‘Shouldn’t that be “erupt”?’

  Yvonne shrugged. By turning her wrist unobtrusively, Viv could see her watch. Ten minutes before the end of the lesson. Then she could phone Ann and find out how Ken had reacted. Did he erupt or explode? Dare she phone at all?

  Ann tried to phone Viv, but the first time there was no reply in the staffroom and the second time someone told her that Viv was still teaching. Ann tried to concentrate on her work.

  The next time she looked up, there was her father. He was standing at one of the customer windows. She jumped up and hurried over.

  ‘Dad!’ She smiled through the glass. ‘This is a nice surprise.’

  ‘Just thought, well, I’d pop round.’

  She stared at him. For one moment she thought that he must know and that he had come here to talk about it. But that was surely impossible. She hurried round to the interconnecting door and unlocked it.

  ‘Trying to keep me out?’ joked Douglas.

  ‘Awful, isn’t it?’ she said, indicating the electronic lock.

  He came into the office and looked around. Lovely décor.

  ‘We had it done up – oh three years ago. Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘Putting you out?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She smiled at him. She saw little of her father, and even then it was mostly at Viv’s house.

  He pointed to the customer windows. ‘I should be out there.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  He paused. She poured the coffee. ‘What I mean is . . .’ He took the cup. ‘Well, there’s something I’d like to ask you.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘A little . . . business matter.’

  She stared at him. ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’ll come straight to the point. What’s the chance of me getting a mortgage?’

  ‘Goodness.’

  She stared at his creased face and grey hair. Her mum was right about the sideboards.

  ‘You going to buy your flat?’ she asked.

  He stirred his coffee, gazing into the cup. ‘Not exactly. I was, well . . . thinking of moving.’

  ‘How exciting.’

  ‘Just thinking.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Nothing’s finalized yet.’ he put aside the spoon and looked up. She thought: it’s years since he’s looked at me and actually asked me a question. ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘It depends on the size of the loan and the repayment period,’ she said.

&nbs
p; ‘It wouldn’t be out of the question, for an old dog like me?’

  ‘If you give me more facts I’ll make some calculations.’

  ‘Think you can put in a word for me with what’s-his-name, Derek?’

  ‘I can look into it.’

  ‘You can?’

  She smiled at him. ‘It is my job.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ He smiled at her hurriedly. She knew that at that exact moment, now he had the facts, he would get up to leave.

  He rose to his feet and put down his unfinished coffee.

  ‘Do us a favour, love . . .’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Keep this to ourselves, just you and me.’

  They went out into the road. He kissed her lightly on the cheek.

  ‘You’re a good girl,’ he said.

  She stood there watching him as he walked away, heading for the shopping precinct. Once he turned and, seeing her still there, waved; then he walked on. She watched him until he was out of sight, and then she watched the passers-by who replaced him. What was he up to?

  Perhaps she would wake up and realize he had never visited her, and that Viv, a day ago, had never sat in that grubby car across the road and spoken those words. Her morning felt dislodged.

  Back in the office Janine came up. ‘Been looking for you,’ she said. ‘Your sister just phoned.’

  ‘Blast!’

  Janine raised her eyebrows. ‘Keep your hair on. She says she only had a minute and she’ll phone later.’

  It was not Dad’s fault, of course. Still, Ann felt a wave of what she told herself was simply irritation.

  Ann was not yet home. Ken looked at his watch and poured himself a lager. He wandered around the lounge, then switched on the TV.

  ‘Mom, Dad’s outside and he says he has some important news.’ A cute American child tugged at his mother’s apron. ‘Honey,’ she said, ‘why can’t he tell me himself?’ The child answered: ‘He has this problem getting out of the car.’

  Canned laughter. Ken flipped the channels.

  ‘We spoke to Dr Gupta who is himself blind and who has made a study of –’

  Ken switched off the TV and stood beside the window. The plant she had bought on Sunday was already beginning to droop. He felt the soil: wet. Ann was always over-watering; that was what her sister said. Viv’s plants somehow managed to thrive on neglect.

  He felt the usual prickling sensation. What a relief it had been to come back here, to home sweet home, on Sunday night. He drained his lager and put the glass down on the table. It rattled; he realized with surprise that his hand was shaking.

  The gate clicked. He looked out of the window. Ann smiled at him, startlingly near, as she unlocked the front door.

  ‘Hello.’ She came into the lounge. ‘You’re home early.’

  ‘You spoken to Viv?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I told you, Ken. She’s serious.’

  ‘He’s in on it?’

  ‘No. It was Viv’s idea.’ She sat down on the settee. He remained standing beside the window.

  ‘I can just imagine them,’ he said, ‘like we’re some deserving case.’

  ‘Of course not –’

  ‘Telling all their friends. Probably put it in that magazine of his.’

  ‘Ken –’

  ‘Remember when we all went to Salcombe and he tried to pay the hotel bill?’

  ‘It’s not like that!’

  He felt his voice rising, but he couldn’t stop it. ‘Think they can give it to us like a Christmas present?’

  ‘No!’

  He lit a cigarette, keeping his back to her so she would not see his hands. ‘What exactly is she planning to do? It’s against the law, you know. I suppose she hasn’t thought of that. Like those women in the papers.’

  ‘No – it’ll be unofficial –’

  ‘Will? It will, will it? All fixed, eh?’

  ‘No! We need to talk.’

  ‘We do not need to talk!’ he shouted. ‘We’re going to forget all about it!’

  He drew deeply on his cigarette, staring at her plant. Two buds had fallen off.

  He said: ‘Tell you something. I’d rather adopt a baby than have theirs.’

  ‘But we can’t! I told you, it’s too late!’ She started sobbing – a noisy, rasping sound he hadn’t heard for years. ‘It’s all right for you, you can have a baby with anybody – that woman in accounts –’

  He swung round. ‘Ann!’

  Her face was wet and red. ‘With what’s-her-name at the Youth Club. If we got divorced –’

  What?’

  ‘– you could start all over again!’

  He hurried over and sat down beside her, but she got up.

  ‘What’s this about divorce?’ he said.

  She stared down at him. ‘You say you’re worried about me – I mustn’t distress myself, I mustn’t let Viv upset me – but all you’re really thinking about is yourself, and your stupid, stupid pride!’

  He tried to grab her, but she pulled away.

  _____Seven_____

  THE NEXT DAY was blustery and sunny. It sent the blood singing in Viv’s veins; she felt muscular and happy, as if anything were possible. It was the first of March. The wind blew away her doubts as she dug the earth, bending to pull out the strings of couch grass. She flung them aside – petty, pale strings, they could not beat her. Nothing could. She smelt tomato soup, and when she lifted her head she could see the dizzying sky.

  Words: she flung them aside. All the talking, these past two evenings – the words scattered on the wind. She remembered standing in the garden centre just a few days ago – it seemed like another year now – and saying anything’s possible. How much had she realized it then? You can make things happen, if you believe it. Ann’s face, turning to her, blanched in the strip lighting, her cardigan buttoned up as if it were possible to keep herself for ever safe and sad. Viv, you’ve always been able to make things happen.

  Viv dug a shallow trench and took out her packet of broad beans. She pressed one, and then another, into the earth, planting them in a zig-zag. This was the part that satisfied her the most. Then she clomped back to the beginning again, her rainbow gumboots weighed with mud. In the distance she could hear the shouts of her children; for once they were not bored here, they seemed to be possessed by the same energy as herself.

  The beans were buried. She straightened up and saw the flash of blue anorak as the girls chased behind the huts. Then she turned towards the car park and saw Ken.

  He was walking towards her. She stood still. He was not yet within earshot so she could say nothing, which made her blush. Out of the corner of her eye she could see him, stepping over the puddles. He looked incongruous in his business suit. He made his way around the runner-bean poles, with last year’s rags still fluttering from them.

  At last he was near enough.

  ‘Hi!’ she called.

  ‘Hello.’ He came up to her and looked around. ‘I was just passing. Thought I’d drop in.’

  Just passing? She gazed at the distant factories. She smiled at him encouragingly.

  ‘Working on a house near here,’ he said. ‘Saw your car over there. Seeing there’s no school today. Read about it in the papers.’

  She nodded.

  He said: ‘Surprised you’re not joining in.’

  ‘The demo?’

  ‘Being so political.’

  ‘Didn’t feel political today.’ She smiled again, and bent down to her carrier-bag. ‘Want an orange?’

  ‘Er, no thanks. Sure I’m not interrupting?’

  She shook her head. ‘Been longing for an excuse to stop.’

  There was a pause. He turned his head. ‘Coming along.’

  ‘You haven’t been here for ages, have you?’

  ‘Not since the thistles. You’ve put a lot of work into this place.’

  ‘When I start something I can be very determined.’

  There was a silence. They st
ood there, watching the browning under-leaves of the sprouts rustle in the wind. His shoes were frilled with mud.

  ‘Smell soup?’ she asked.

  ‘Now you mention it.’

  She pointed to the factory.

  ‘So much for the natural life,’ he said.

  ‘Lots of my girls work in there. Whenever I smell soup I feel a failure. All these years I’ve taught them and they end up tinning minestrone.’

  ‘You’re not to blame.’

  She sighed. ‘Words. All those words and it didn’t do them a blind bit of good.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘I got out, you see. If I hadn’t got brains I’d be working in there.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  ‘Till they get married, of course, and have babies.’

  The words still hung there, refusing to blow away. She looked at her gumboots: silly swirls of green and orange. The mud on them looked more honest. Ken cleared his throat. She opened her mouth to speak. Instead she said: ‘Want a conducted tour?’

  He bowed. ‘I’d be delighted.’

  She walked ahead along the path, and paused at the expanse of earth.

  ‘Broad beans in there,’ she said. ‘Need a lot of manure, broad beans.’

  Out of the corner of her eye she could see him nod politely. She pointed to the further stretch of earth. ‘That’s for lettuce and carrots.’ She paused. ‘Not much to see yet.’

  ‘It’s very interesting.’

  ‘In fact, not anything.’

  They came to a stop. She took a breath, then she turned to him. ‘Ken –’

  In the distance a hooter sounded. ‘Is that the time?’ He looked at his watch. ‘Duty calls.’

  ‘Ken –’

  ‘Must be toddling.’

  Before she could speak he had turned and was hurrying away down the path. She didn’t watch him; it felt like an intrusion, for them both.

  She hadn’t begun to peel her orange. She dug her fingernail into its skin, angrily.

  Ann’s shoes pinched, so she had taken them off. They were beige high-heels, with ankle-straps; she had bought them on impulse the day before. They were far too expensive. Their solace had been temporary. She sat at her desk and glanced at the clock: 1.15. Derek came out of his office, putting on his jacket. He paused at her desk.

  ‘Aren’t you going out?’