To Have and to Hold

by Deborah Moggach

  ‘We’re not knocking anything over,’ said Rosie.

  ‘You lied,’ said Daisy. She started chanting: ‘Liar, liar, knickers on fire –’

  ‘Shut up!’ shouted Viv.

  ‘Hang them up on a telephone wire!’

  Ann carried in the warmed plates. ‘This is a treat.’

  She had laid the table in the lounge. Ken lifted out the containers from the carrier-bag.

  ‘Don’t like to see you slaving away in the kitchen,’ he said. he laid out the containers on the table. They were hot; he sucked his fingers.

  ‘And these,’ she said, touching the vase of tulips.

  ‘Just a bunch of flowers,’ he muttered.

  They sat down. She unpeeled the lid from one of the containers and breathed in the aroma. ‘I feel so spoilt.’

  He looked at her sharply. ‘Don’t!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing can spoil you!’

  She gazed at him curiously. ‘What a funny thing to say.’ She paused, and went on unpeeling container lids. ‘Haven’t had one of these for ages, have we? What’s this?’

  ‘Bhuna ghosht.’

  ‘What did you and Viv have last night?’

  ‘Can’t remember. Mutton mughlai, that sort of thing.’

  She tore off a piece of nan bread and ate it. ‘Don’t you mind doing it again?’

  ‘What?’

  She indicated the meal. ‘When you had it last night?’

  He shook his head. ‘Want some prawn thing?’ He passed her the container and she took some.

  She smiled. ‘Remember that ancient waiter with the squint?’

  He nodded.

  She said: ‘Remember when I ate that whole chilli by mistake?’

  ‘And that stuff ran down your face.’

  ‘It was Viv’s,’ she said, spooning out some dhal.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Viv’s mascara,’ she said. ‘I’d borrowed it. Didn’t usually wear mascara.’

  They ate for a moment in silence. Then she said: ‘I’m so glad, Ken.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you got on. What’s happening about the clinic?’

  She tore off a piece of nan and laid it beside his plate. ‘She’s looking into that.’

  She smiled. ‘I’m glad it’s going to be your child. You must realize that.’ She took a sip of beer. ‘It makes it so much better.’

  He spooned some yoghurt on to his curry and swirled it around: beige swirled into brown. He looked up. ‘Know something?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Those days, I remember looking round that restaurant and thinking something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That I was the luckiest man there.’

  She smiled and put her hand on his arm. ‘You don’t have to say all this, you know.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You just don’t have to.’

  She ate for a moment in silence. Ken ate a little; he was not hungry. Suddenly she laughed.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, startled.

  ‘That.’ She pointed. He looked down at the table. Small pellets of nan lay scattered beside his plate. ‘You used to do that when we were first going out,’ she said. She looked at him and smiled. ‘That’s because you were nervous.’

  Ann lay in bed reading her book. A March gale was blowing outside; rain spattered against the window.

  Ken took off his dressing gown and climbed in beside her. Ann read aloud: ‘Mark saw Candice through the party throng. Their eyes were riveted together.’ She laughed. ‘Ouch!’

  She closed the book and put it on the bedside table. Ken lay on his back, looking at the ceiling.

  He said: ‘Ann.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘About the clinic . . .’ A gust of wind blew the rain against the glass; the window frame rattled.

  ‘What about it?’

  He paused. Then he turned his head. ‘Nothing.’ He put his arms around her and stroked her. Then he started kissing her passionately.

  Gently she pushed him away.

  He moved back. ‘What is it?’

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing.’ She paused. ‘Must be all that curry, made me sleepy.’ She touched his brow, and then turned and switched off the light. ‘Blame it on the biriani.’

  ‘What?’ In the dark, his voice was sharp.

  ‘Remember “Blame It on the Bossa Nova”? Viv and I had another version.’ Softly she sang: ‘Blame it on the biriani . . . then it got rude. Funny, isn’t it?’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘We hadn’t a clue what biriani was but it sounded very wicked.’ She paused. ‘Silly, wasn’t it?’

  He spoke into the darkness. ‘Why?’

  ‘Couldn’t be anything wicked about a biriani, could there?’

  They lay there, side by side. Then she leant over and kissed his cheek. ‘Night-night.’

  _____Eleven_____

  ‘HERE’S YOUR HORRIBLE Brie stuff again.’ Ellie sniffed a package and put it on Ollie’s desk.

  ‘Thanks.’ He gave her some money.

  ‘So how was Liverpool?’ she asked, as he unwrapped the paper.

  ‘Lonely.’

  Since he had been away she’d put a pink streak into her fringe. The rest of her hair was tied up with a bit of lace. She picked up the copy of Capital which lay on his desk.

  ‘Mind if I nick this for lunch?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s incest.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Reading something you work on.’

  ‘I don’t work on it,’ she said. ‘I only answer the phone.’

  He took the magazine from her and leafed through it. ‘Well, Ellie, what do you want? A lesbian co-operative? A growth workshop? One waterbed, slightly foxed?’

  ‘A fella.’

  He stared at her. ‘What?’

  She blushed. ‘Oh heck . . .’

  He opened the magazine at the Lonely Hearts page. ‘You don’t need this bit.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘I do.’

  Still blushing, she said: ‘Why not, Mr Knowall?’

  He gestured at her. ‘Well . . . just look at you.’

  She turned to go. ‘Knew you’d take the mickey.’

  ‘Wait.’ He searched down the columns and read out: ‘Wanted: warm, sensitive, non-smoking cat-lover – you love cats?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Nice legs essential . . .’ – He leant back, looked at her legs and nodded – ‘. . . for long-term relationship.’

  She held out her hand. ‘Give it to me.’

  He shook his head and read: ‘Virile estate agent seeks freehold lady.’

  ‘Ugh.’

  ‘You can have a slim, shy guy – no, he’s gay. Or a well-built graduate – no, he’s gay too. Here’s a caring electrical engineer – ah, and a professional man – as opposed, that is, to an amateur man like the rest of us.’

  She laughed. ‘You’re daft.’

  ‘You’re the daft one. You really going to reply to one of these?’

  She shrugged. ‘Got any better ideas?’

  ‘What about – oh, clubs? What about the people here?’

  She grimaced. ‘They’re all –’

  ‘– into LTRs.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  He grinned. ‘Living Together Relationships.’

  She nodded. ‘They’re all married.’

  ‘Or married.’

  She sighed and took the magazine. ‘Think they’re all weirdos?’

  Ollie raised his eyebrows and bit into his sandwich. ‘No weirder than the rest of us,’ he mumbled.

  During the night the gales had blown away the clouds. It was a clear, sharp day. The puddles winked in the gutters; lorries passed with a hiss. Viv sat in the car, her palms damp. It was 1.15; she had been waiting for twenty minutes but she realized she was still clutching the wheel. A bus passed; sunlight flashed on its windows. On the other side of the high street stood the row of shops. The Archway
Building Society had a new poster in its window; from this distance it looked like a family on a beach: happy and tanned, no doubt. Two children, it was always two.

  1.20. She had come on impulse. Soon she must get back to school. Another bus passed. The door opened, but it was only a customer coming out.

  She had had to come. She couldn’t bear it any longer. She thought: I could switch on the radio. But her hands didn’t move.

  The door opened again. This time it was Ann. She came out, buttoning up her jacket, and looked up at the sky. Viv’s heart thumped. But another girl had come out with Ann; she wore a pink coat. She said something to Ann and they both laughed. Then they turned to the left and walked down the street together.

  Viv opened the car door. She waited a moment, gripping the handle. Ann and the girl walked along briskly; after a moment they were swallowed up in the lunchtime shoppers.

  Viv closed the car door. Slowly, she put the key into the ignition and drove away, back to school.

  Tracey sat on the desk, smiling dreamily. Her face was floury with powder; there were bumps over her chin. It was the afternoon break and the room was empty, except for Viv, who sat on the next desk.

  ‘Hope it’s a little girl,’ said Tracey.

  ‘This is terrible,’ said Viv. ‘Look, I don’t want to be schoolmistressy but –’

  ‘Don’t even mind throwing up.’

  ‘What’re you going to do?’

  ‘He buggered off, you know. My bloke.’ She was still smiling. ‘Couldn’t see him for dust but I don’t care. Not now.’

  ‘But what about your A-levels?’ Viv wanted to shake her, to shake off that smile.

  ‘Did you feel like this, with yours?’

  ‘Listen, Tracey. you’re one of my brightest girls –’

  ‘They give you a flat with a baby.’

  ‘But what about your future?’ said Viv. ‘Your career –’

  ‘What, be factory fodder like Mo?’

  ‘No! You’re clever, you could –’

  ‘Leave off.’ Tracey eased herself off the desk and started for the door. ‘Thought I’d be able to tell you. Of all the idiots here.’ She paused. ‘Thought you’d understand.’ She sighed theatrically. Her hair was greasy; she suddenly seemed matronly for her years. Viv got up but Tracey opened the door. ‘You stick to Jane Eyre,’ she said, her parting shot, and closed the door gently, as if more in sorrow than in anger.

  Ollie let himself in and put his suitcase down in the hall. Strange, he thought, how the house always seemed altered, even after a couple of days. Roller skates on the carpet, from an unknown voyage down the road; Viv’s crumpled dress, to go to the cleaners; phone messages stuck in the mirror, and a Roneoed letter from the girls’ school announcing no doubt either a teacher’s retirement, contributions welcome, or a jumble sale, jumble welcome. It was all the same as ever but shifted, as if normality was shattered shards in a kaleidoscope that were shaken up each day to settle in an altered pattern. The house was silent.

  He went into the living room. For a moment he thought it was empty. He looked around: the morning’s breakfast in the sink, the table piled with exercise books, a Sainsbury’s carrier, an empty crisp bag on the floor. The evening sunlight shone through the straggling windowsill plants. He looked at a single empty tea mug, and a fag-end in a saucer, both given poignancy by the absence of the person who had finished with them.

  Then he noticed that Viv in fact was in the room. She was lying on the floor under the sofa; her head was hidden. He gazed for a moment at the patched jeans (Nuclear Power? No Thanks on her buttock) and her purple jumper. Hadn’t she heard him come in?

  ‘That bad, is it?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’ She sounded muffled.

  ‘Reality.’

  ‘Hi,’ she said, and then: ‘Bloody Bertie.’

  Ollie looked at the dresser. The hamster’s cage was open.

  ‘Why don’t they ever shut his cage?’ He turned back to Viv’s legs. ‘Come on out and I’ll fix us a drink. I want you to tell me all about it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ken and you. Everything.’ He went to the fridge and took out the ice. He pressed the rubber compartments; the ice clattered into the tumblers. He glanced again at Viv’s motionless legs. ‘You know,’ he began slowly, ‘I was thinking, while I was away . . .’ He went to the tap and refilled the ice tray with water. ‘I might have joked about it, and got angry but it was only, well, you know . . .’

  She didn’t reply. He looked at the dirty soles of her trainers.

  ‘. . . embarrassment,’ he went on. ‘There’s something about, well, the mechanics. But it struck me in Liverpool . . .’

  ‘What did?’

  ‘The enormity of it. What you’re doing. It’s what one means by . . .’ He cut two slivers of lemon and paused, turning to look at her legs. ‘. . . by an act of love.’

  Still no reply.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Tell me about it, blow by blow.’

  ‘It was all right. Quick!’ She shifted under the sofa. ‘There he is! Head him off!’

  Ollie hurried over and crouched down at the end of the sofa. ‘Where?’

  ‘Brute!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m talking to Bertie,’ she said. ‘Quick!’ She rummaged under the sofa.

  Crouching, he asked: ‘What do you mean, “all right”?’

  ‘Got you!’ She wriggled backwards from underneath the sofa, her face was red and her hair messy. She held up the hamster and spoke to it: ‘You and your unquenchable thirst for experience.’ She took him over to the dresser and put him in his cage.

  Ollie passed her a gin and tonic. ‘Let’s sit down.’

  She sat down at the table. ‘Tracey’s pregnant,’ she said.

  ‘Is she? Tell me about it.’

  ‘She’s going to keep it.’

  ‘Not her,’ he said. ‘You. What happened? Have you found a clinic? Will you have to pretend to be married?’

  She nodded, pushing the ice around with her finger. ‘There’s this place in Harley Street.’

  ‘Harley Street. What did they say? Will you have to go into little cubicles?’

  She paused. ‘Look Ollie. I promised Ken I wouldn’t . . .’

  ‘Wouldn’t what?’ He stared at her.

  She lit a cigarette. ‘It’s all so . . . undignified. He wants us to, well, respect his privacy.’

  ‘He is a pompous twit.’

  ‘He’s not!’ To his horror, her eyes filled with tears.

  He jumped up and sat down beside her. ‘Darling . . .’ He put his arm around her but she pushed him away.

  ‘I didn’t mean to upset you . . .’ he said.

  She rubbed her nose, sniffing. It was not like her, this. She wouldn’t look up. ‘It’s all so . . . difficult.’

  ‘Vivvy darling . . .’

  ‘We’ll talk about it later,’ she said.

  He nodded helplessly.

  Viv moved away from Ken; their skin made small, sticking sounds. She fiddled with the radio knob beside the bed. It produced crackles of static, then faint music.

  ‘Blimey,’ she said. ‘It works.’

  She turned up the volume. It was ‘Land of Hope and Glory’.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she laughed. ‘How proper.’

  She turned the knob and the music changed to the faintest reggae, as if transmitted all the way from the West Indies. She felt Ken shift as he reached to the side for his cigarettes. It was the next day; the lost, at least losable, time between five and seven. She had left the girls with Julie down the road and said she was going shopping. She must remember to buy something on the way home. This was her most fertile time of the month and, as she had whispered to Ken over the phone, they might as well take advantage of it. Though it felt disconnected, to say these words to him, what made her feel more unlikely was phoning him at work, never at home. It was ridiculously hard to ask for Mr Fletcher. She thought of her children, sitting at the table, their eyes rou
nd. Liar, liar, knickers on fire. She didn’t think of her children.

  She said: ‘I’m getting quite fond of this awful room. Wonder why they always give us the same one.’

  Ken didn’t reply. He offered her the cigarette packet. She took two, lit them and passed him one.

  ‘That’s nice of you,’ he said.

  ‘You ought to do this. Like in the movies. It’s very smooth.’

  ‘I’m not very smooth,’ he said. He paused and looked at his watch.

  ‘I’d better lie still a moment,’ she said.

  He looked at her. it was the first time for half an hour that he had met her eye. He was a surprisingly resourceful lover, and tender, but he kept his face buried. Was he comparing her with her sister?

  Then his expression changed as he realized. ‘Ah,’ he said.

  ‘Strange, isn’t it?’ She smiled. ‘Years ago I’d be jumping up and down, trying not to get pregnant. Now I’m lying here, willing it to work.’

  He frowned. ‘Viv . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t, well, be so clinical.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘We’re supposed to be clinical, aren’t we?’ He was silent. She added: ‘Not that it isn’t . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Rather nice.’

  He paused. ‘Is it?’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ she smiled. ‘In fact, it could become a habit.’

  Suddenly he put his head in his hands. ‘Oh God.’

  She touched his shoulder. ‘You promised,’ she said gently. ‘No “oh Gods”.’

  Ken didn’t move. She looked at his bowed back, at the hand covering her face. His muscularity made him look all the more helpless, but she did not dare hold him. She said: ‘Just think of your body as separate. Men are good at that.’

  He spoke through his fingers. ‘Are they?’

  ‘Fuck ’em and forget ’em.’

  His head jerked up. ‘Viv!’

  ‘Come on. Haven’t you ever done that? Before Ann?’

  There was a pause. Ken drew on his cigarette. At last he said: ‘I’d only, you know, the once . . .’

  ‘No!’

  He nodded. Down below, in the street, there was a traffic jam; she could hear cars hooting, the slamming of a door and angry shouts. Early evening noises. Through the net curtains there was grey daylight; the upstairs solicitor’s office opposite, an unpromising place lit with strip light, went dark, as the light was switched off. It was nearly time to go.