To Have and to Hold

by Deborah Moggach

  ‘Waiting for Ken,’ she said. ‘We had a vague lunch date. Only looking at video recorders.’

  ‘Don’t get the one I got. Keeps doing the wrong thing. There you are, all set up, supper on your lap, switch the damn thing on and it’s the second half of middleweight boxing.’ He smiled. ‘Not conducive to marital harmony.’

  Ann glanced at the clock again. ‘Perhaps he’s forgotten.’

  ‘Ken never forgets.’

  ‘No,’ she said, doubtfully.

  ‘Not our Ken.’

  Derek went out. Ann, wincing, put on her shoes in readiness.

  1.25. Ken ordered a second pint. The pub was shabby, but he deserved a depressing room. Through the frosted glass he could hear the traffic in Willesden High Street. It was the nearest pub to the allotments.

  Pinned behind the bar was a photo of a bare-breasted girl, advertising KP nuts. Her gaze followed him, challengingly, wherever he looked. He lit yet another cigarette.

  The girls had finished their picnic. They ran off again. Viv, feeling restless, wandered along the allotments, looking at other people’s neater plots. An old man in braces was double-digging a trench; she had never double-dug, though her gardening books told her she should. How blameless he looked. Was he too elderly, now, for confusions? This morning she had felt strong and supple; now she knew nothing, and the thought of digging tired her.

  Overalled figures were sitting in the factory yard. Viv went up to the wire fence and saw Mo, whose sister Tracey was in the sixth form.

  ‘Stupid bitch,’ said Mo, sitting down on an oil drum. ‘You’ll be seeing her Friday?’

  ‘Second period,’ said Viv. ‘If she turns up.’

  Mo passed her some chewing gum, through the wire, and sat down again. ‘Told you she’s living with this bloke?’

  Viv nodded.

  ‘The milkman calls her madam, when she answers the door in her dressing gown. Then five minutes later out she trots in her school uniform.’

  Viv grimaced, undoing the silver paper around the gum.

  ‘Sisters,’ said Mo. ‘Nothing but trouble. You got any?’

  ‘One.’

  ‘She got a fella?’

  ‘She’s married.’

  ‘Like him?’

  Viv shrugged, then nodded.

  Mo said: ‘Mean he’s boring?’

  Viv chewed for a moment. ‘Not exactly boring,’ she said, picturing Ken. ‘Predictable.’

  1.40. Ken drained his third pint. Behind him there was a clatter. He jumped. But it was only somebody winning on the fruit machine.

  He stubbed out his cigarette and stood up.

  How simple to be old, in braces. You double-dig your trench and then it’s time for tea. How simple to be young, and sitting behind the hut with your bulldozer. In Na-Na Land everything is possible; you can ride on a horse which sprouts wings just behind your thighs, they bump you as they flap and you can hear them creak. You bully your sister to come with you, as if you’re just going down to the shops. Or you simply squeeze your eyes tight and watch the pin-pricks jostling behind your lids, and soon it’s time for tea.

  Viv sat on the grass beside her hut and lit a cigarette, which did her more damage than tea. Just before Ken appeared, she remembered looking at her watch and thinking: five to two, I ought to go home and do some shopping. Then she looked up and there he was, walking towards her in his dark suit as if the reel of film was being replayed.

  This time she jumped up and met him.

  ‘Viv,’ he said. ‘We must talk.’

  She glanced around. Her neighbour, just a few yards away, was examining his space. He could do that for some considerable time.

  ‘Come into the hut,’ she said.

  As they moved towards the hut the girls came running up.

  ‘Uncle Ken!’ they shouted.

  He fished in his pocket and brought out two packets of peanuts. ‘Why don’t you be chipmunks?’ he suggested. ‘Run off – no, scamper off – and have a peanut picnic.’

  Ann sat in the sandwich bar eating a bowl of salad. her shoes hurt. Outside, shoppers passed. At the bus stop, people joined the queue; the next time she looked up a bus was drawing away and the people had gone. The sun shone; as everyone had observed all morning, it felt like the first day of spring.

  Ken slotted one flowerpot into another. He was half turned away from her. The hut was small, and if he turned to face her they would nearly be touching.

  ‘Viv, I’ll come straight to the point.’ There was a silence. He slotted the flowerpots into a tower. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Tell me what you feel. What do you feel?’ She couldn’t watch him. She looked at the floor, with its debris of old Beanos.

  ‘I feel . . . oh, it’s so difficult.’

  ‘Look, Ken. We both love Ann.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Very much,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s possible to make her happy. It’s perfectly possible to do it.’ She spoke faster. It was up to her. ‘I can have children. Only too easily.’ She wished they could sit down, but there was nothing to sit on. ‘It’s unfair, isn’t it? In fact, I’ve spent most of my adult life trying not to have them. Like at college, remember?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘University. The abortions.’ She stared at him. ‘Didn’t you know?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Ann never –?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Perhaps she thought you’d be shocked. Anyway I did. Two. I suppose I was a bit carefree. Still, it’s all in the past.’

  He was standing beside the shelf. He picked up a matted mass of string and started to untangle it. ‘I’ve never talked to you about, well, anything like that.’

  ‘Funny, isn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘There’s not the occasion, is there?’

  ‘Even when . . .’ she paused. ‘Even, you know . . .’

  ‘Yes.’ Ken’s fingers worked at the string.

  She said: ‘Even during that awful time, when we could’ve come closer.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said. ‘That’s over.’

  ‘Over, but not gone.’

  ‘Of course not.’ She stared at the muddy comics. ‘Never will be. We shan’t forget her, Ken. She was born; she was a proper person.’

  Ken looked out of the small, smeared window. Behind him, the door was ajar; it creaked to and fro in the wind but she did not dare close it. She couldn’t move. She looked at the sunlight on his moustache.

  He said: ‘I held her, you know.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘They let me hold her for as long as I wanted. She was all there, Viv. All in working order.’ Far away a train passed. The neighbour had started to whistle. ‘She was perfect.’

  She put her hand on his shouolder. ‘Oh Ken . . .’

  ‘Anyway, so this last time we thought that everything was going to be all right. I really believed it. I thought – it’s not possible to – well, it couldn’t. Who’d let it happen again? Who could be so – ?’

  ‘Ken!’ She gripped his shoulder. ‘Don’t think about it! Think about the future. We won’t deny the past, or pretend it never happened. Ken, I can have babies as easily as – plums falling from a tree. I’ve never felt ill – I’ve been disgustingly healthy. I’ve sailed through my pregnancies. When everyone else was moaning, I was loving it. I even found the births . . . wonderful. Powerful.’

  She stopped to catch her breath. She felt illuminated; she felt hot to her fingertips. She stayed gripping his shoulder, willing the girls to stay away.

  ‘I know,’ said Ken. ‘But –’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly have you do it.’ He looked at her. ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘I can! I want to.’ She moved her other hand to his shoulder and pulled him from his string. They stood there, face to face. ‘You don’t have to feel guilty, or beholden. You really don’t.’

 
‘I wouldn’t want that.’

  ‘No. Well don’t then.’

  ‘I just want the best for Ann. I want her to be happy. Like she was.’

  ‘We can make her.’

  ‘We?’

  She paused. Outside, the whistling continued. She felt herself taking a breath – could he hear it? She said: ‘You don’t want it to be Ollie’s child, do you?’

  There was a pause. Finally he said: ‘Want me to be frank?’

  ‘Not much point, otherwise.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, then.’

  ‘Thought not.’

  ‘It’s not that – you know. I don’t want to sound –’

  ‘You want your own child.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said simply. ‘I do. Very much.’

  They stood there in silence. Behind him rose his tower of plants pots. He said: ‘But how?’

  ‘Oh, there must be ways.’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I don’t know – ways and means. Methods.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, artificial whatsits.’ She shook her head. ‘Look, that’s not important. The important thing is that it’s possible.’ She paused. ‘Now we know we can do it.’

  They stood there, looking at each other. Finally she took away her hands. She had left dusty fingerprints on his shoulders.

  The Capital office was in Covent Garden. It was an open-plan room, designed to fearlessly display its own digestive and nervous systems. The heating pipes were painted pink and lime-green, in a soon-to-be-dated high-tech style, and they hurt Ollie’s eyes. He had a headache again today. He and Viv had been up half the night again, drinking and arguing.

  Ellie, the new girl from the switchboard, stopped at his desk and gave him a package.

  ‘Ugh.’ She sniffed it.

  ‘Brie. Thanks.’ He paid her.

  ‘You look awful,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks a lot. Haven’t had much sleep lately.’

  She raised her eyebrows. She had wiggly blonde hair tied back with a ribbon. ‘Sounds interesting.’ She sighed. ‘You have all the fun.’

  ‘Who do?’

  ‘Journalists.’

  ‘Where did you work before?’ he asked, and bit into his sandwich.

  ‘DHSS. Come dinner time they all took out their knitting.’

  ‘Sounds a gas,’ he replied.

  ‘Now you see why I came to London.’

  ‘You fixed up yet?’

  She nodded. ‘Got myself a room. Got it from one of our small ads.’

  She left him and went over to the switchboard. Diz said that with her wholesome Lancashire accent she gave the place phone credibility. Diz also said that Ollie’s housing piece was late and he’d better pull a finger out, old son, as the copy date was Monday.

  Ollie put his head into his hands.

  Viv dumped the cabbage into the sink and washed the mud off her hands. Her father had dropped by; she wished she could be alone to think about the conversation with Ken.

  ‘Any slugs?’ asked Daisy, poking at the cabbage leaves. Rosie went up to Douglas. ‘Want to see my cut?’ she asked, pulling up her trouser leg.

  ‘Er, later love,’ he said. ‘Look what Grandad’s got.’ Coins jangled as he rummaged in his pocket. He gave the girls some money. ‘Why don’t you two pop round the corner and buy yourselves some’ – he lowered his voice – ‘sweeties.’

  ‘Dad!’ Viv glared.

  The girls ran out of the front door. Viv thought: everyone’s bribing them today. Douglas sat down at the table and she put on the kettle.

  ‘Viv, lovey, I’ve been wanting to have a little chat.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I expect you think I’m just a crusty old bachelor, past all that sort of palaver . . .’

  She stared at him.

  He went on: ‘You know, since your mother and I . . .’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘What would you say if I told you, well, I was giving it another whirl?’

  ‘You’re not!’

  ‘Don’t look so horrified.’

  ‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘Christ.’

  He nodded. ‘There’s life in the old dog yet.’

  She stared at him – his worn, familiar face, his unfamiliar sideboards. Today he wore a tie, too.

  ‘Who is she?’ she asked. ‘Where did you find her?’

  ‘At the club.’

  ‘Your Thursday place?’

  He nodded, and started to push around the crumbs on the table. ‘She’s a divorcée too. Most of them are, of course, apart from the widows.’

  Viv felt dizzy. ‘What’s she called?’

  He raised his hand. ‘One thing I must tell you. She’s not English.’

  ‘What is she?’

  ‘She’s from Vienna but you could hardly tell. She’s called Vera.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘Swiss Cottage at present, but we’re thinking of buying a little place of our own.’ He stopped pushing the crumbs, and looked up. ‘Well?’

  She came over and laid her cheek against his balding head. This was uncomfortable. He stood up and she put her arms around him. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Well – your mother –’

  ‘Dad! That was years ago.’

  ‘I’m the luckiest man alive, Vivvy. She makes me very happy.’

  The children came in, their jaws working. Rosie went into the garden and Daisy went over to the sink.

  Later, when their grandfather had gone, Daisy called out to Rosie:

  ‘Sweeties! Look!’

  Rosie came into the kitchen and Daisy passed her a plastic bag. A moment after taking it Rosie screamed and dropped it on the floor. Inside were no sweeties; only slugs.

  She makes me happy. Viv thought of her father and an Austrian divorcée – how fascinating it would be to meet her. She thought of Ken’s face as he stood in the dusty little hut and she gripped his shoulders. We can make her happy. It could be done. One person actually had the power to change somebody’s life.

  Once, when they were children, she had called Ann out to the garden. ‘Look Annie, I’ve got some blackberries!’

  Ann had come out into the garden. She was wearing her blue spotted dress, Viv could remember every detail now: the bald patch on the lawn, where she stood holding out the plastic bag; the(??? check m/s p.75) mashing on the line.

  ‘Got some blackberries for you!’

  ‘For me?’ Ann came nearer.

  ‘They’re a present.’

  Ann hesitated. ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’ Viv held out the bag. ‘Come on.’

  Ann took the bag and screamed. Inside, it was moving with black slugs.

  It had taken her all morning to collect those slugs. Unlike Ann, she didn’t mind touching them. When Ann had fled into the house, crying, their father had found the whole thing hilarious.

  Viv washed the cabbage at the sink and thought: I will make her happy now.

  Ann poured the blackcurrants from their freezer bag into the flan case. As she did so, she heard the front door and Ken’s step in the hall.

  He came into the kitchen. ‘Hello.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Mmm. Looks good.’

  She didn’t reply. He went to the sink and poured himself a glass of water.

  ‘Thirsty?’ she asked.

  ‘Had a drink at lunchtime,’ he said. ‘Knew I shouldn’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Couldn’t do a stroke all afternoon.’

  Ann started whisking some cream. She could see him refilling his glass. After a moment she stopped the motor and said: ‘Who did you have a drink with?’

  ‘Nobody.’ He put down the glass. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She started the motor and went on whisking. The cream started to wrinkle. He rinsed the glass and put it on the draining board. She stopped the motor. ‘I just thought . . .’

  ‘What?’

 
‘Just thought you were having lunch with me.’

  He stared. ‘I am an idiot.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It does!’ He came towards her. She picked up the flan and put it into the fridge.

  ‘Had to meet somebody,’ he said.

  She closed the fridge door. ‘Thought you were alone.’

  ‘Afterwards. Had to meet somebody afterwards.’

  ‘I’m sure it was important.’

  ‘It was,’ he said.

  ‘That’s all right then.’

  He paused. ‘It was your sister.’

  She stopped. ‘What?’

  ‘I went to see Viv.’

  ‘Finish your supper!’ said Viv to the children. ‘Else I’ll have to eat it.’

  Idly she spooned up some baked beans and put them into her mouth.

  ‘What’s for pudding?’ said Daisy, going to the fridge.

  Viv ate some cabbage. The girls never ate cabbage; she put it on their plates just to make herself feel better. Perhaps by simply seeing it they’d mysteriously absorb the roughage.

  ‘One more mouthful,’ she said, but they weren’t listening. She finished off their baked beans. ‘I’ll get fat.’

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘Late,’ Viv mumbled, her mouth full. She carried the plates to the sink.

  Just then the front door opened and Ollie came in.

  ‘Hi folks!’ He grabbed Rosie and lifted her into his arms.

  ‘She’ll get indigestion,’ said Viv, thinking what wonderful fathers men can be when they haven’t had to look after their children all day.

  ‘Higher!’ cried Rosie, and Ollie turned her upside down. Peanuts scattered on the floor.

  ‘Whoops,’ said Ollie.

  ‘Uncle Ken gave them us,’ said Daisy. ‘I ate mine.’

  ‘She scoffed hers,’ said Rosie, as she got lowered to the floor.

  ‘Rosie always keeps everything,’ whined Daisy.

  ‘Uncle Ken?’ asked Ollie.

  ‘I’ll clear it up,’ said Viv, getting a dustpan and brush.

  ‘Ken?’ said Ollie.

  ‘What a mess,’ said Viv, sweeping up.

  ‘When?’ asked Ollie.

  ‘He told us to be chipmunks,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Come on, kids. Bed.’ Viv threw the peanuts into the bin.

  ‘Today?’ asked Ollie.

  Daisy said: ‘He told us to have a peanut picnic.’

  Viv went to the stairs. ‘Come on. Fed! You little pests.’