To Have and to Hold

by Deborah Moggach

  He paused at the switchboard. Ellie turned.

  ‘Who’s it to be tonight?’ he asked.

  ‘Fun-loving accountant.’ She grimaced. ‘I’m meeting him in that wine bar you took me to once.’

  He thought: I can chat to Ellie, I can banter. I can sound normal. He asked: ‘How’re you going to recognize him – carnation in his buttonhole?’

  She shook her head. ‘He says his glasses are broken, so I can tell by the sellotape.’

  Ollie laughed. He thought: see, I can laugh. Ellie can’t tell there is anything wrong.

  He turned to leave. She said: ‘You OK?’

  He replied: ‘I’m fine.’

  He closed the front door behind him and put down his briefcase. It was raining steadily now; he was wet. For a moment he listened, attentive as an animal sensing danger. Far upstairs he could hear the girls’ voices; for once they seemed to be playing in their bedroom. From the living room came the rattle of crockery.

  He went in. Viv, in a pink track-suit, stood at the sink, washing up. She turned smiling.

  He stood in the doorway and said: ‘You haven’t been to that clinic, have you?’

  His voice was toneless. He watched her expression change.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘You heard me.’

  She stood there, clutching the sponge. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just been checking the facts.’

  ‘What facts?’

  He lowered his voice. ‘You’re a lying bitch.’

  ‘Ollie!’

  ‘There’s no number three hundred and whatsit in Harley Street. I’ve checked in Kelly’s.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Should’ve tried a bit harder to get your story straight. I might have believed a do-it-yourself kit.’

  She moved forward, but stopped at the table.

  ‘Ollie,’ she said.

  ‘You did it yourself, didn’t you? Your way. Four bloody weeks you’ve been at it.’

  ‘Listen –’

  ‘You’ve been screwing him, haven’t you?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I –’

  ‘You’ve been screwing him.’

  There was a silence. Outside, the rain pattered on the concrete. He willed her, with all his heart, to say no.

  Finally she said, in a low voice: ‘Don’t put it like that.’

  He paused and looked at her. Her cheeks were pink. He wished he was still at the office and that he had never come home. He wished he could do it all again, and come home, and simply not ask her. His heart shrank, cold and beating. he said: ‘What would you prefer?’ He put on a cod Parisian accent: ‘You made love?’

  ‘No!’

  He paused. ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘No.’ She stopped. ‘I mean . . .’

  ‘What?’ he asked. ‘You mean yes.’ He spoke softly. ‘I have been stupid, haven’t I?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Really stupid.’

  ‘Ollie, please try to understand.’

  ‘Fun, was it?’ he asked.

  ‘Please!’

  ‘Exciting?’

  ‘Ollie!’

  ‘Good, was he? Good at it?’

  ‘Look –’

  ‘Bet he couldn’t believe his luck. After all these years of fancying you.’

  ‘He hasn’t!’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. You’ve noticed all right.’

  ‘He’s married to my sister!’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘He’s part of the family!’ She still stood at the table, gripping its edges. He moved away to the front window and stood staring out at the rain and the motionless swings of the playground.

  He said, without turning: ‘He knows I know?’

  ‘We haven’t talked about that.’

  ‘We?’ Oh, nice. Already a couple, are you?’

  ‘No!’

  Ollie ran his finger along the dirty woodwork of the window. ‘Christ, he must be laughing.’

  ‘He’s not!’

  ‘Little prick.’

  ‘He’s terribly worried,’ she said

  ‘Laughing at poor old Ollie, the cuckolded husband. Stuck here while he shafts his wife.’

  ‘It’s not like that!’

  ‘Even bought him a drink last Sunday,’ he said. ‘The turd.’

  ‘Ollie, you must understand –’

  ‘Where do you do it? No, don’t tell me.’

  ‘A hotel.’

  ‘How delightfully sordid.’ He rubbed his dirty finger on his trousers, and faced her. She sat, slumped, at the table.

  ‘No,’ she muttered, ‘he –’

  ‘Got a little ring, have we, from Woollies?’

  She raised her head. ‘It’s not like that –’

  ‘Who pays?’

  ‘He does.’

  ‘Creep.’

  ‘Ollie,’ she said. ‘This isn’t helpful.’

  ‘All that stuff about the clinic –’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Lies, lies.’ He couldn’t bear to look at her. He turned back to the window. ‘There I am being all supportive, saying what a noble thing you were doing, and you just let me babble on, you little bitch –’

  ‘Ollie don’t!’

  She started sobbing. His own window-pane blurred. ‘Poor Viv,’ he said, his voice thicker. ‘You can’t bear it.’

  ‘I’m only trying to have a baby.’

  ‘What? Immaculate Conception?’

  ‘No!’ she cried. ‘It’s reproduction.’

  ‘I call it adultery.’

  He wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve, turned round and grabbed the car keys from the dresser. Without looking at her, he walked out of the house.

  ‘Ollie!’ she called, opening the front door. But he was already in the car and fumbling with the key.

  Ellie sat in the wine bar, sipping her orange juice – the real thing, with bits in it. At the next table sat a man in glasses, but they were red ones and he’d put his Filofax on the table. Ollie had instructed her about those, and how they went with kir and spritzers and having little labels on your clothes and being aware. Anyway, this bloke was talking to a girl with a terrific profile and a lot of back showing; now where did you get a tan in April?

  Ellie took another sip. She wished she smoked. Anything to look busy, and she’d read the drinks list about twenty times.

  Somebody pushed past the chairs and stood at her table. She looked up. It was Ollie. He was breathing heavily and his face was damp. So was his hair.

  ‘Come on,’ he said.

  ‘But you haven’t got glasses.’

  He didn’t smile. He looked awful. He took her hand. ‘Come on!’

  She stood up, bewildered. He led her out; the chairs rocked as they passed.

  Ann was in her garden. It was dark, but when she looked up the sky was lurid pink, so pink it hurt her eyes. The trellis had grown taller, and rattled. Down below, in the garden, someone was hiding behind the tubs, which were now as big as urns, on stalks. In the gloom she could see Viv’s skirt behind one of them. Viv darted to another.

  ‘Come on, Annie! Look what I’ve got!’

  She was a little girl again, and she held out a plastic bag.

  ‘Come on, Annie.’ Her voice wheedled.

  Ann refused to look. She felt angry, but it took her a moment to realize why. Then she knew that Viv had hidden Bo-Bo-Angela; she’d buried her under one of the urns.

  ‘Look what I’ve got for you!’ Viv’s voice rose to a taunt. ‘Cowardy-custard!’

  Ann refused to look. Her garden had grown so black and cramped; around it the trellis was so tall and noisy.

  Viv darted behind another urn and held out the bag. It glimmered in the gloom. But it wasn’t right; there couldn’t be a doll in there, it was far too small. Besides, wasn’t Bo-Bo-Angela buried?

  Viv darted out and pulled at Ann’s sleeve.

  ‘Shut up!’ Ann heard herself shouting, from a long way off. Her throat hurt. ‘Shut up! I ha
te you!’

  Viv pummelled at her. Ann pushed her away; how big Viv had grown now, and strong.

  ‘I hate you!’ Ann shouted, gripping an arm that was far too hairy. And then she opened her eyes and of course it was Ken, leaning over her.

  ‘Darling,’ he said. ‘You all right?’

  She stopped, perspiring and breathless. She was in bed; it was dark. In a small voice she said: ‘Sorry.’

  _____Twelve_____

  IT WAS THE next evening. Ollie came downstairs, opened the fridge and took out a can of lager. Viv was lying on the sofa, her eyes closed. She had put a Beethoven sonata on the record player – one of his own serious records dating from before their university days. He had never heard her play it before. She looked pale. On the dresser, Bertie went round and round on his wheel. How many miles had he travelled since this time yesterday? Nothing had changed in his little sawdust world.

  Ollie held up the lager. ‘Want one?’

  She shook her head. ‘Asleep?’

  He nodded. ‘I read them the right-on story you bought. About the single parent with the one white child and the one black one.’ He sighed and sat in the armchair. ‘Sometimes I feel lonely for Ladybird Books. Peter and Jane and their nice parents who look as if they’ve never had sex.’

  ‘Or problems,’ she murmured.

  ‘Or problems.’ He drank from the can. ‘Her in the apron and him with his pipe. I’ve got this funny feeling she’s never fucked her brother-in-law.’

  Viv smiled faintly. ‘Want to bet?’

  ‘I don’t want to know.’

  ‘You know what they say about the Famous Five.’

  ‘No!’

  There was a silence. The piano played. He thought: we must look so peaceful.

  She said: ‘Am I undermining your security?’

  ‘Just a little, lately.’

  She opened her eyes, and sat up. ‘Oh Ollie . . .’

  He took another sip. ‘Still, I can always write about it in that novel I never get around to.’ he paused. ‘Does Ann know?’

  She closed her eyes again and lay down. He watched her. She nodded.

  ‘You’re all in on this together?’

  She shook her head. ‘You needn’t get paranoid.’ She opened her eyes again and sat up. ‘Don’t you see, none of this is important. When it’s over we’ll forget it’s ever happened.’

  He drained his can and put it on the floor. Then he sighed. ‘You can be very stupid.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come on, Viv. Is this going to go on?’ What are your plans?’

  ‘We haven’t made any yet.’

  He laughed flatly. ‘Too busy humping?’

  ‘No!’ Her cheeks were pinker now. She ran her hand through her hair. ‘But, well, there’s no point in coming to a decision till next month, when I’m fertile again.’

  ‘And then you’ll go on with this affair.’

  ‘It’s not an affair!’

  ‘Sneaking off to some seedy hotel.’

  Her voice rose. ‘Want us to do it here?’

  ‘Don’t be disgusting!’

  They stared at each other. The music finished; the stereo clicked. Round and round the hamster wheel scraped. She said, more softly: ‘Ollie, this must be the most selfless sex in the British Isles.’

  He sighed and lay back in his armchair. ‘Oh dear Viv, you radical women are all the same. Desperately simple-minded. The stronger your beliefs, the narrower your imagination.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She stared at him.

  He said: ‘Your sister has been jealous of you all her life.’

  ‘That’s not true!’

  ‘You’re prettier, cleverer –’

  ‘No –’

  ‘And you can have children.’ He paused, his eyes averted. ‘And her husband has always wanted you.’

  For a moment she didn’t speak. The room was quiet; even the hamster had stopped. Then she said: ‘That’s not true.’

  He nodded. ‘And you’ve played on it, haven’t you, Vivvy. Eh?’ His voice grew oily. ‘Sort of forgetting to put on your bathing costume when you swam in rivers, oh dear, scatterbrain.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. It’s nicer like that.’

  ‘Then there’s the way you quarrel –’

  ‘He’s such a bigot.’

  Ollie kept his eyes closed. He smiled, feeling sick with himself. ‘It’s a form of flirtation. You needle him, you get him all excited. It’s very sexual.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Suddenly Ollie opened his eyes and sat up straight. ‘He’s an innocent, Viv. He’s putty in your hands.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid!’ She sighed. ‘I’d hoped you’d be more . . . large-spirited. You and your ideas about – oh, restructuring society and open marriage and everything. But scratch the surface and know what you are?’

  He was still smiling. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘An ordinary jealous male, thinking of his male pride and his male dignity.’

  Ollie raised his eyebrows. ‘Scratch the surface,’ he said slowly, ‘and you’re a slut.’

  There is a giant step between suspicion and action. Once the action is taken you have stepped into another room and closed the door behind you. In this room the furnishings are different and strange. You cannot return.

  Viv was thinking this the next Monday. It was the Easter holidays now and the girls were in the garden squabbling over the old plastic tractor they both thought too babyish to ride on till the other one wanted it. How entirely normal it all seemed. On the windowsill were jammed her seed trays, the same as every year: stout little cabbage seedlings, their palms outspread; green threads of cornflowers with their seed husks still clinging. On the radio a phone-in droned, just like a normal Monday; she wondered why the callers always sounded so whiney and always came from Ashford. She also wondered about her aching breasts, and the faint queasiness she had been feeling for a week, and how long exactly it had been since her last period.

  But there is all the difference in the world between wondering, uneasily, and actually walking to the chemist’s and buying a pregnancy testing kit. Asking for it in those words, hearing your voice speaking them, passing across real pound notes (no, she would have to write a cheque) and bringing it home.

  She put the carrier-bag on the table. To reassure herself she had also bought mundane items like bath cleaner and toothpaste. She had only been out a quarter of an hour, to the Holloway Road; in her absence the girls had come in and installed themselves in front of the TV, where they were watching a demonstration of nuclear physics and still squabbling. Nothing seemed changed; yet the room was altered by the fact that she had acted, and now there was a Boots bag on the table.

  And by the time the real children’s programmes had come on that afternoon, she had found out she was pregnant.

  It was Tuesday morning, and Ken gazed out of the window at the works yard. He looked at the stacked timber and the Portaloo and thought: can I phone yet?

  He hated even saying the words to himself. He looked at his watch. 10.15. By now he (he) must have gone to his magazine office. But what if he were ill, or writing at home today? These thoughts should not even be crossing his, Ken’s, mind. He was starting to behave like – no, he would not say.

  The steps outside thudded and Bob and Al came in, wearing their dusty overalls and jostling each other at the door.

  ‘– Nice little slagette,’ Al was saying.

  ‘Where did you give it her?’ Bob asked, grinning.

  ‘In me dad’s van.’

  Ken cleared his throat and put out his hand for their chits. Al wiped his nose on the sleeve of his overalls and said: ‘Honest, Kenny, I seem to have this terrifically sensual body, drives them mad.’

  Ken didn’t reply. He felt hot. He tried to concentrate on the chits. Looking up, he said: ‘Fourteen lengths of two-by-fours? This for Forsythe Road?’

  Al nodded.

  ‘Seems a bit excessive,
’ he said. As he looked down at the figures he could see the two men nudging each other. He went on, ticking off the items with his biro. ‘Sand and cement . . .’ He ticked, and then looked up. ‘Twelve gallons of Treatment? You used all that?

  ‘Blimey, Ken’ said Al.

  Ken cleared his throat again. ‘Just trying to keep the record straight. Keep things in order.’

  Bob opened his eyes wide. ‘Don’t look at us.’

  ‘See, boys,’ said Ken, ‘there’s been a lot of petty losses. I’m not blaming you, mind. But bits here, bits there –’

  ‘Bits on the side,’ grinned Bob.

  Ken paused, his biro in mid-air. His shirt felt tight.

  ‘Where were we, Thursday afternoon?’ Bob asked him, leering.

  Ken’s throat was dry. He shrugged and looked down at the papers. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Bob put his finger on the side of his nose.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Bob. ‘See no evil –’

  ‘Look, lads.’ Ken indicated his watch. ‘Better get a move on.’

  When they were gone he lit a cigarette. His hands were trembling. He looked at his watch: 10.30. He dialled.

  Thank goodness, Viv answered. He cleared his throat again and asked: ‘Just wondering if it was still, you know . . .’

  ‘On? Fine.’ Viv’s voice sounded faint and crackling. ‘Suzi’s taking them to the Unicorn Theatre, so we’ve got the whole afternoon.’

  He put down the receiver and sat there, gazing down into the yard. Their voices had been as hushed as conspirators’. He thought: when Ann told me she had to go to Swindon today, to see the new computer, I didn’t think: how nice for you; how interesting; how instructive. I thought: I might not feel quite so bad, with you out of London.

  He stubbed out his disgusting cigarette, violently.

  This time they were given their original room. They sat side by side on the bed. Ken passed her a paper bag.

  ‘Bought us these,’ he said.

  She looked in the bag and shook her head, grimacing. ‘No thanks.’

  ‘I thought you liked apple strudel.’

  ‘Not today.’ She passed back the bag to him. ‘Go on, you have one.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  They sat there in silence. Then she put out her hand and caressed his knee. He didn’t move.

  ‘This is the worst bit,’ she said gently. ‘Isn’t it?’