Some Elgar was playing. As she spoke, the needle stuck; again and again it played the same bit.
‘Blasted bloody stereo!’ She switched it off. The record ground to a halt. Ken flinched.
‘Ann –’
‘Sorry. I know how precious your stereo is, more precious than anything in the world – and your fish, and your kitchen units, and –’
‘Ann!’
She paused. Then she asked: ‘Do you think we live a sterile, boring life?’
‘No.’
‘Fixing things and repairing things and putting polyurethane on them?’ she asked. ‘Leafing through our Habitat catalogue, when we should be reading Tolstoy?’
‘It’s called home-building,’ he said. ‘We’re building a home.’ He paused. ‘We’ve built one.’
‘She thinks it’s sterile and boring. I know she does. She thinks we don’t know how to live.’ Her voice trembled; she hated how she sounded. Peevish.
He sat down beside her. ‘Listen –’
She interrupted him. ‘That’s why she can’t bear to give him up.’
He looked at her in surprise. ‘Did she say that?’
‘No, but –’
‘Our life’s as good as theirs. Look what a mess she’s made of hers.’
‘Because of us,’ said Ann.
‘Rubbish.’ He took her limp hand. ‘Look, she’s in a state.’
‘I’m in a state.’
‘Yes, but she’s just had a baby. Women get funny then.’
Sarcastically she replied: ‘From your vast experience?’ How she loathed herself.
‘She’s all confused –’ he began.
‘And what’s she doing to everybody else? She’s playing with us, she’s the same old Viv, sneaking him out of the hospital –’
‘She did phone when she got home.’
Ann shouted: ‘Stop defending her! I know you find her irresistible –’
‘Ann!’ He jerked his hand away and stood up.
‘And far more exciting than me –’
‘That’s all finished!’
‘But it does seem remarkably tactless –’
He grabbed her hand. ‘Come on.’ He pulled her to her feet. ‘We’re going out.’
She looked at him, surprised. ‘Where?’
‘Have a meal. Get out of this place.’
That night Ollie, as usual, was sitting in a Real Ale pub off Kensington High Street. Most nights he ate there: sausage and mash that almost tasted like home. Not quite, but still.
He was staring moodily at his glass when somebody slapped him on the back.
‘In all the bars,’ growled a Bogart voice, ‘in all the towns, in all the world, and I have to come to yours.’
Ollie swung round. ‘James!’ He hadn’t seen him for years.
‘Hello, Meadows,’ said James. ‘All on your tod?’
‘I’m with Meryl Streep, but she’s just nipped out to the loo.’
James sighed. ‘Oh well. Till she gets back.’ He sat down. ‘You always pulled the birds, even at school. “Where’s Meadows?” we’d say. “Out wenching.” God how I loathed you.’
‘Most of the time, actually, I was teaching myself twelve-bar blues in the sports pavilion.’
‘Tell us another, sonny boy. I used to pray you’d get acne.’ He sipped his pint. As the years pass, most men flesh out. James, however, had grown drier and thinner; but then he was a lawyer. ‘No, life’s smiled on you, old chap.’
‘Think so?’ asked Ollie.
‘Whereas numero uno . . . Know how much tonight’s set me back? Forty-seven quid.’
Ollie asked: ‘What happened?’
‘This new bird, working for one of our articled clerks. I take her to the Bistro Vino, no expense spared, drinkies beforehand, pudding afterwards with flames coming out, the works, and what happens? She’s got to catch the last tube to Hornchurch. Where, I ask, is the return on my investment?’
Ollie laughed – the first time, he realized, in days. ‘James, I do love you.’
‘Glad somebody does.’
‘You’re so unreconstructed.’
James sighed. ‘Nowadays they don’t even apologize. Once upon a time you could at least count on a grope in the taxi; you knew where you were. I’m telling you, Oliver, I’m a lost soul.’ He drained his glass. ‘Know my problem? Never recovered from your heartless sister. Fancy being thrown over for the EEC. Look at me. Aren’t I more fascinating than the Agricultural Audit Directorate?’
Ollie laughed. What had he written? The clackety-clack of high heels, of women with somewhere to go. Last night he had finished his novel. ‘It’s called having a career.’ He drained his glass. ‘I do know how you feel.’
‘You? You’ve always got it right,’ said James. ‘You wenched when there were wenches, and when the last wench became extinct you discovered how to be a sharing, caring, creepy, dishwashing, understanding bloody husband.’
There was a pause. Then Ollie said, ‘Then why do you think I’m sitting here?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Are you sitting comfortably?’ asked Ollie. ‘Then I’ll begin.’
It had been years since Ann and Ken had been quite so drunk. They staggered, giggling, into the hall. He propelled her into the lounge, and she flopped down in the armchair. He switched on the light.
She waved her arms vaguely. ‘Welcome to my nice sterile lounge. Note the fitted units and overall cleanliness.’
‘Mmm,’ he said, looking around, ‘Very nice.’
‘I like to keep things spick and span,’ she said, half closing her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed. ‘I’m a deeply nice person.’ She opened her eyes wide. ‘Who are you?’
‘A deeply nice man, but with unexpected pockets of violent, spontaneous, unboring masculinity.’
She frowned, looking him up and down. ‘But are you worth an Indian meal? Twenty quid you’ve set me back.’
He raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Oh Lord, it’s one of these liberated women. What do I have to do in return?’
She stretched out her legs, kicking off her shoes. ‘We’ll see.’
He looked at her, his head on one side. ‘You know, it’s funny – what was your name again?’
‘What was yours?’ she drawled.
‘In my experience, of necessity limited because I’m a happily married chap and deeply in love with my gorgeous wife, who incidentally bears a strong resemblance to this brazen hussy here –’
‘Get on with it.’
‘In my experience . . .’ He came over to the armchair, sat down on the floor and ran his fingers up and down her leg. ‘In my experience Indian meals can only lead to trouble. They have in the past . . .’ He moved his hand up her thigh, pushing up her skirt. ‘Lots of trouble,’ he murmured.
A baby won’t solve your marriage, Viv had said, or words to that effect. Ken lay in bed the next morning. The winter sun shone through the curtains. It’s up to you two.
His tongue was dry and his head ached. What had a girl in the office said? Ann had told him. My mouth feels like a lizard’s latrine. If he didn’t feel so awful he would smile. That girl, what’s-her-name, she lived life to the full, by all accounts. Then so did Viv.
He curled against Ann, cupping her hip in his hand. He had a terrible hangover. But then, when she woke, so would Ann.
That weekend Ann stayed away from her sister. So did Ken. He said they mustn’t pester her. Besides, in some superstitious way, she felt if she busied herself elsewhere Viv might make up her mind.
She put on her overalls and spent the weekend at the garden-centre site, painting the staging in the newly erected greenhouse. Ken put on the radio and painted beside her. He whistled along to an old Frank Ifield song, ‘I remember you-hoo’ . . . It was like the old days when they had fixed the flat together, long before the house; innocently masculine, he had made her his apprentice. They had lived off tea and doughnuts; she realized that she equated happiness with having no money. Then she realized that
, in fact, she just equated it with youth.
When you’re young, anything is possible. She remembered standing in another garden centre, months ago, with Viv. They had inspected the seed packets. Ah, the dizzying possibilities, Viv had said, smiling. That Sunday something had germinated in Viv’s mind. Perhaps, if they had never gone to the garden centre and Ann had never sat on that bench and cried, there would be no Mark.
She put down her paintbrush. She longed for him so much, she felt weak.
On Wednesday Ann arranged to drop in with some lunch for Viv. Perhaps they could talk without the girls being there; perhaps it might be easier.
When she arrived the midwife was in the room. She was just putting away the weighing scales. Turning to Ann, she said: ‘You tell your sister to buck up and decide.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Ann.
‘She’s got to make up her mind about this little chap.’
Ann’s heart stopped.
Viv said hastily: ‘She means his name.’
Ann relaxed. Mrs Archer pointed to Viv, who sat on the sofa with Mark in her arms. ‘Was she as bad with her daughters?’
‘No,’ replied Ann.
‘Does she listen to you, or is she just as obstinate as with me?’
Ann went over to the oven and switched it on. She said: ‘She won’t listen.’
‘I do!’ said Viv.
‘She doesn’t,’ said Ann loudly, to Mrs Archer. ‘She’s always had her own way.’
‘She means pig-headed,’ said Viv lightly.
Ann, blushing, put the lasagne into the oven. ‘You said it.’
Viv spoke to the midwife, who was just leaving. ‘I’ve always annoyed her like that.’
‘Just annoyed?’ asked Ann. In a rush she thought: what have I wanted of Viv’s? Her gaiety, her slim thighs, the love of our dad. I want her son. She felt nauseous again, and added: ‘She thinks I find it sort of appealing.’
‘I don’t!’ said Viv.
‘Charming people . . .’ began Ann, and stopped. They were both looking at her. She said: ‘Charming people can get away with a great deal.’
There was a silence.
‘Well,’ said Mrs Archer, ‘you’ve got a charming little son, anyway.’ She gave Viv an appointment card. ‘Now, remember his six-weeks check-up at the clinic, and at three months his first triple shot. No forgetting?’
Viv nodded. ‘He’ll be there.’
She got up and showed Mrs Archer to the front door. Waiting beside the oven, Ann’s heart quickened. But when Viv returned she was as polite as ever.
She gestured to the oven: ‘You shouldn’t have brought that, in your lunch-hour and everything.’
‘I want to,’ said Ann. Then she realized something. ‘Hell. Forgotten the salad.’
‘I’ll get it.’
‘No –’
‘I’ve got the car,’ said Viv. ‘It’ll only take a moment. Need to get out of this place for a bit.’ There was a pause. Then, with a queer, sideways smile she passed the baby to Ann. She said lightly: ‘Why don’t you feed him? Bottle’s there, it’s all ready. If he doesn’t finish it, don’t worry.’ Swiftly, she took Ann’s door keys and left.
Outside, there was a grind of gears as she started the car. Mark felt heavier since the last time. The moment his mother went he started to cry.
Ann held him tightly, pressing his hot face against hers. ‘Don’t,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t . . .’
Viv sat at Ann’s kitchen table. The salad was there, in a plastic bag, but she didn’t move. She sat, looking at Ann’s rubber gloves, laid on the draining board. The special red holder for the dish-mops. A couple of cups and plates were slotted into the rack: breakfast for two. There was no sound, apart from her own breathing. A cook’s calendar hung on the wall; it still showed October. How unlike Ann, not to turn it over.
The minutes ticked by – or rather, on the silent kitchen clock, they passed. She hadn’t been here for some weeks. There was no sign of the pram. They had probably put it in the empty extension; or perhaps they had got rid of it. But behind the door, wrapped in polythene, there was a brand-new high chair.
She picked up the salad and stood up. Then, on impulse, she opened the cupboard. Next to the tea-towels there was a Boots carrier-bag. Inside it was cotton wool, zinc cream and baby shampoo.
She ought to go. Instead, she sat down again and put her head in her hands.
After lunch, when Ann had gone, she put the baby into the car and drove to the garden centre. Sleet was falling and it was bitterly cold.
Ken was standing in the greenhouse, connecting the lights. When she said they should go to the Town Hall as soon as possible, to register Mark, he said quickly: ‘I’m coming now,’ and turned off the switches.
_____Twenty-five_____
IT WAS A stormy night. Sleet rattled against the windows in Viv’s house, and a damp patch had appeared in the ceiling above the sink. Oblivious of household maintenance, the baby slept in his basket. Viv was watching a re-run Starsky and Hutch on the TV; for some days now she hadn’t had the concentration to read.
The doorbell rang. She glanced at the baby, but he didn’t wake. He was becoming a good sleeper, better than either of her girls had been.
Ollie stood in the doorway. He was wet, and bent double.
‘Have pity on a poor chap,’ he mumbled, ‘seeking some refuge, some alley, some frozen doorway in this cruel concrete jungle where he can find a moment’s warmth, a flickering fire, beside which he can consume his cod and chips.’
They went into the living room. ‘Haven’t made the fire,’ Viv said.
He shivered, or perhaps he was exaggerating. ‘Is there room in this inn? It’s the season of goodwill.’
‘Not for three weeks.’ She indicated the sofa.
He sat down. She sat on the hearthrug. He offered her the open package. ‘Want a chip?’
She shook her head. ‘Had some lasagne, from lunch.’
He was still in his overcoat. He sat there, eating a chip, Then he asked: ‘You all right?’
She didn’t reply. Instead, she gazed into the red bars of the electric fire. Behind it lay the empty grate, swept clean by her sister.
‘You must be sure,’ he went on. ‘You mustn’t let anyone force you, or you’ll never forgive them.’
She looked up. ‘Not stupid, are you?’
‘I’ve had plenty of time to think.’
She looked into the empty fireplace. Ann had even polished the grate. Nearby, the baby sighed in his sleep.
How quiet the room was. There wasn’t even the noise of the hamster’s wheel; he had escaped, the week before, and the door hung open. The girls said he might want to come home, and who was she to disenchant them?
She said: ‘I’ve behaved badly?’
‘We all have.’
There was a pause. Then she shifted nearer and put out her hand. ‘Can I have a chip?’
He gave her one. She sat, leaning against the side of the sofa. Then she reached into her bag and gave him something. He showed his greasy hands, shaking his head, so she held it up for him to read. It was the Birth Certificate.
‘I’ve registered Ken as the father,’ she said.
Ollie said nothing.
She said: ‘Give us another.’
He passed her another chip. Then he said flatly: ‘Well it’s done then.’
She nodded. There was nothing to say. He leant over and, with his foot, pushed a carrier-bag in her direction.
‘Want to read my book?’ he asked.
‘Is it about us?’
He half smiled. ‘Alchemized into art.’ He paused, then he said: ‘I’ve been so lonely.’
There was a moment’s silence. Then she said: ‘So have I.’
She suddenly moved towards him. She knelt beside him, pressed against his coat. Its buttons dug into her. He tried to keep his hands away, they were so greasy, but she grabbed them greedily. She kissed his greasy fingers, his neck, his warm mouth. He was kissing her
back, numbly.
The next day Ollie moved back into his own home. He and Viv were very close; he had never seen her so bereft. For the first time in their marriage she made it plain that she needed him. They stayed at home most of the week. Out of some obscure desire to solace themselves – though they said it was for the children – they bought a video recorder and hired the sort of movies they’d never quite bothered to get a babysitter for when the girls were little. They sat, eating smoking mounds of cauliflower cheese, watching Chinatown and Tootsie.
Viv strapped the baby to her breast when she went around the house so he could feel her beating heart. It was arranged that she would give him to the Fletchers just before Christmas. She said she needed to know him before he went, and nobody felt in a position to contradict her. Perhaps it was some sort of comfort, to pass him over like a Christmas present; nobody liked to ask.
Something was called for, some event, and Ollie suggested a Christmas party for the girls. It would be a treat for them; in their offhand, spasmodic way they had become attached to the baby – Rosie in particular, liked to half smother him in her arms – and to mark Mark’s change of ownership, as Ollie put it, there would be balloons and celebration. Viv would take him to her sister’s after the guests had gone.
But that was two weeks ahead. First they had matters to sort out, and a meeting was arranged for noon on Saturday. The girls were sent to play with neighbours; the sun was shining and the baby put into the garden. It would be easier to talk with the house empty. Viv, hoping to calm her nerves, lay on the sofa doing her Jane Fonda postnatal exercises while the aproned Ollie swept the floor.
‘It’s not so much fun cleaning out this place,’ he observed, ‘since your sister’s been around.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she replied, ‘it’ll all be back to normal soon.’
He emptied the dustpan into the bin, and asked: ‘Are we back to normal?’
She lay back, panting. ‘Hope not. Who wants to be normal?’
The doorbell rang. They looked at each other.
‘Which ones?’ asked Ollie.
‘I’m not telepathic.’
He grimaced at her. ‘Ah, but you’re so intuitive.’
He went to the front door. She put away her book and sat up. It was all three of them – Ann, Ken and James.
To Have and to Hold Page 28
