I had never met anyone like her before and, talking to her, I realised I had always seen actresses in my mind’s eye as something from a race apart—women who figured in divorce cases and sensational headlines; self-absorbed, emasculating women who were concerned solely with their own careers and images. And Kate was not like that. She had wide interests and a sense of humour. There was a genuineness about her, a gentle warmth. And with her real modesty and simplicity she was utterly appealing.
I no longer kept glancing at my watch. With her standing there I wanted the party to go on, only sorry that the time would come when she would have to leave.
Half an hour later, before she had been commandeered by our returning mutual friend and taken out into the late afternoon I had managed to suggest—in the most tentative, circuitous way imaginable—that I contact her when next I was coming to London.
She nodded, “Okay,” and delved into her handbag—a large, cumbrous-looking canvas thing—and produced an old envelope. Adding her telephone number to her name and address, she handed it to me with a smile.
“Here . . . I have these things specially printed. I believe in style.”
I folded the envelope and thrust it into my pocket.
“I’ll be in touch . . .”
When I got home I took out the envelope and read it.
“Well, Miss Kate Robbins,” I said aloud, “I think I shall probably be in London again very soon . . .”
I was.
Two days later I telephoned her saying that I had a business appointment in Holborn and that it would be nice if we could possibly meet—if she was possibly free—and possibly have lunch together, or dinner . . . possibly . . .
I can remember my nervousness as I waited in the Notting Hill Gate restaurant—she suggested which one—for her to join me. Half of me knew that she would not fail to keep the appointment and the other half wondered what she could find to interest her in the company of a parochial, self-sufficient artist from a small Somerset village; someone who didn’t even own a television set, only occasionally went to the cinema, and knew nothing at all about her own career or way of life.
And then she was there, coming through the door, seeing me, walking towards me.
She was casually dressed in a wool suit of saxe blue, and the colour reflected in her eyes, changing, deepening the grey that I remembered. Her shoulder-length fair hair swung across her cheek as she sat down. I smiled at her and said fatuously:
“Well—here you are . . .”
“Yes,” she said, “here I am . . .”
We lunched—a long, leisurely lunch—and I relaxed and grew happier and happier in her company. I’d never met anyone like her before and I didn’t want our time together to come to an end. But of course it had to. She had an appointment at four o’clock at the Television Centre, she told me, and I became unbearably aware of the passing time, the minutes running out and abandoning me. And then, at last, much too soon, they had nearly all gone.
“I shall really have to dash,” she said, “or I’ll never get there.” She glanced again at her watch and then looked across at me.
“What about your own appointment? What time is that?”
I’d quite forgotten the excuse I’d given for my visit to London. Now, facing her, various possible elaborations of the lie went flitting through my mind. I rejected them all and in the end said nothing. She said nothing either, but just smiled, warm, knowing the truth.
The waiter brought back my change from the bill and I counted silver onto the plate. I looked up to see her eyes, steady, studying me across the table. She sat very still, as if allowing the progress of some inner debate. Then she said:
“But I’m quite free after my interview . . .”
When we met that evening it was in her Hampstead flat. I sipped a scotch-and-water while she finished getting ready, and then together we went out into the street. “I’m in your hands,” I said, and she laughed and told me I mustn’t make rash statements—that verbal agreements were as binding as written ones.
By mutual agreement we left the car where it was and walked half-a-mile up the hill to a small Italian restaurant where we were greeted by friendly waiters. As we were shown to a table in a fairly secluded corner I was aware of covert glances directed at Kate from one or two of the other diners—either due to the fact that they recognised her or because she just looked so marvellous; I didn’t care which—I only knew I was glad and proud to be with her.
Sitting opposite, I watched her in the warm glow. She was dressed quite differently now, wearing a soft, light-looking dress in charcoal grey with little patterns of gold at her neck and wrists. Her canvas bag had been switched in favour of a small, black, compact model.
When the wine had been poured she looked at me over the rim of her glass—those grey eyes—and I knew suddenly, just knew, that I had reached a watershed in my life—that the time was coming soon when I would have to make a decision.
I was pushing thirty-one. I had had a couple of short-lived affairs during my studies in London and afterwards fewer-and-further-between flings closer to home (there was far less opportunity there), but I had never treated any of it seriously—not with any view to permanence. Then, living alone after the death of my parents my life had become increasingly insulated as I got more and more wrapped-up in my work. My aloneness hadn’t bothered me, though—I wasn’t a gregarious person—and I never gave any constructive thought to what might follow. I had, over the years, I realised, come to accept—without design or consideration—a state of bachelorhood which, on reflection, seemed well-set to be the pattern for the future.
But Kate changed all that.
I was probably a bit of a fool that night. But the wine—like the situation—went to my head. I’m sure I smiled too much. I know I talked too much. But we both did—rambling on about everything, just cramming the streams of words into the space of time. And as we talked I became aware of our conversation hiding secret looks and touches. Our fingers brushed, and finally pressed as we exchanged cigarettes and tasted each other’s food. I put a morsel of chicken into her mouth and then put the fork, unladen, into my own mouth, watching her watching me, the warmth, the steadiness in her eyes.
I wanted her very much, and I’m sure that the wanting was naked in my face and in my voice. How could I have hidden it? And I flaunted my desire within the circle of light coming from the candle that burned in the red glass holder between us. Everything was like some huge festive secret, as if our growing closeness, our happiness, was one-up on the other diners—not that we noticed them—and as if they could really have cared less, anyway. And always the conversation going on, almost as if that alone was the purpose of our being there.
But what sweet luxury to know that a greater sweetness was in store. And to put that sweetness off—another glass of wine?—another cup of coffee?—to delay it for the longest possible time—not from fear, but from wanting; making it even sweeter, knowing it would be mine, as I did know it would be.
In exchange for the piece of chicken she took a bit of garlic bread and put it to my lips, and I took her thumb, so briefly, into my mouth along with the bread. I couldn’t get close enough. What did it matter if anyone saw? I couldn’t be concerned with others—not when there was this turmoil of thoughts and feelings, hands brushing, limbs covered by clothing, fingers on fingers, breath catching on the surprise of deviously arranged contact. Then the eyes and the looks—and none of it was enough. Would anything be?—ever?
“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” I said.
“Am I—doing anything?”
“Correction. You do know.”
“Perhaps.”
And she drank from my wineglass to show that she could do anything.
Later, much later, lying in her bed, I looked out at the stars that showed between the partly-open curtains. She stirred against me in the crook of my arm, her hand light across my chest. I would have to move my position soon, I thought—I could fe
el my arm growing steadily numb. But not yet. Not while she burrowed so warmly against me like this.
In her sleep she murmured some incoherent, brief word and I left the sky and looked down at her tousled hair. I knew now. I knew, that as far as I was concerned, my decision was made.
That was in March. Just over four weeks later we were married.
SIX
Bonnie was a remarkable child. She crawled long before she was five months old, and Christmas found her scrabbling about the house at a speed that amazed us. Kate would look at her with continuing astonishment, saying that she had never seen anything like it.
Miss Jenkins, calling at the house to check on Bonnie’s wellbeing, was delighted with the progress and contentment she exhibited. “Though,” she said, smiling over her cup of tea, “I’m afraid you spoil her.”
“Oh, no,” Kate said quickly, and then relaxed, seeing there had been no implied criticism in the words. She smiled. “But she’s such a darling. Everyone loves her.”
It was true. Everyone did. Sam and Davie showed it in their unquestioning acceptance of her presence there—as they would have with any younger brother or sister—their feelings a mixture of tolerance, patience, natural affection, and the consideration that anyone more helpless demanded of them.
With Lucy—perhaps because she was that much older—it was slightly different. She seemed always very much aware that Bonnie had—so fortuitously—just come to us—out of the blue, almost. And her delight and surprise that such a wonderful thing could have happened was always there. For all her gentleness, she was fiercely protective, and very loving and loyal. I remember once I came upon her in the garden as she stood over Bonnie’s pram, shaking a rattle and cooing to her. She turned as I approached over the shaded grass and gave me a bright happy grin.
“I always wanted a sister. And now I’ve got one.” She looked back at the baby. “Beautiful Bonnie Blue Eyes. Beautiful Bonnie Blue.”
Like a fool I said:
“You mustn’t grow too fond of her, Lucy.”
The uncomprehending look she gave me showed just how ludicrous my words were. Don’t love too much, I was telling her. Don’t care too deeply. Lamely I added:
“Well, one day . . . she might have to go . . .”
“Go?” She was bewildered. “Go where?”
“Well . . .” I shrugged. “Well . . . go back . . . to her own mother.”
“No, Daddy, no!” I was surprised at the vehemence in her voice. “She’s got a mother. Mummy is her mother. Like ours. I won’t let her go. Bonnie is ours!”
“Yes,” I said after a moment. “You’re right, sweetheart. Of course you’re right. We won’t let anyone take her away.”
Inwardly I smiled at her childish aggression. But it was true—we did regard Bonnie as ours. And not as a replacement for Matthew, but very much in her own right for the individual she was. We felt she belonged. And not by dint of her comfort and the glowing reports from the social worker—but by loving and caring; she had become a part of our lives.
The days went by at their leisurely pace. Lucy and Davie went to the village school, I worked at my pictures in the loft and Kate stayed at home looking after Sam and Bonnie. Sometimes I worried about Kate being stuck in the house for such long periods, but she always firmly squashed any protest I made. She was all right, she insisted and, the memory of Matthew’s death apart, I believe she was.
In the spring she had taken—in a small way—to writing short stories with the idea of selling them to some of the more popular women’s magazines, and for an hour or two each afternoon she sat before her old typewriter and tapped away. She spoke very little about her work to me, and whenever I asked to read some of it she always hedged and put me off. “Later . . .” she would say, “later . . .” and I had to be content.
And in spite of her two-fingers-and-a-thumb method of working she met with success.
The first positive results of her labours came in the form of a cheque through the post one July morning, along with a letter of acceptance. And then, and only then, was I allowed to read the piece she’d submitted and sold. I was proud of her. It was a good story, and I must have been as excited and delighted as she was. Best of all, though, she had a new interest, and now, with the reward, the necessary encouragement to continue with it. From then on, as the weeks passed, her writing-time each weekday-afternoon became a ritual she rarely missed.
Bonnie at these times could be relied upon to sleep; she was a creature of extraordinarily regular habits, but Sam was rather a different matter. He was a mercurial boy and could sometimes be totally unreliable. So, in the end, in order to give Kate a little peace, and freedom from his time-consuming chattering and interruptions, I finally persuaded her that now was the time to have that paid assistance we had talked about.
And so we got Mrs. Gordon, a middle-aged, capable woman from the village who happily agreed to come in four afternoons a week, to keep Sam amused and out of Kate’s productive way, and also to give some help around the house. The arrangement worked beautifully and Kate went on with her writing with added enthusiasm.
One thing I’m sure of, she in no way missed her acting career. Often I had felt that, by marrying her and burying her in the country, I had forced her to give it all up. But she was adamant that it no longer had any meaning for her. And she meant it.
At the start of our marriage she had kept in touch with her agent and often received letters and phone calls from directors or producers offering tempting roles in various shows. But she always, after consideration, turned them down. “Do it,” I would tell her. “You want to do it, so do it.” And she would ask me how I was so sure what she wanted to do, and say, anyway, that there would be time enough—and if there was not, then what did it matter?—for the present she had “enough to go on with . . .” Also, how could she leave me to fend for myself? Wasn’t that what she had married me for—to save me “from a life of drudgery?” Then, of course, when Lucy had come on the scene, the possibility of Kate going back to her acting was, I suddenly saw, rather remote. At least for the time being. And so, gradually the offers stopped coming, the phone calls became fewer and eventually ceased, and her career really became a thing of the past.
On occasions our neighbour, Mrs. Hazlitt, would tell us that Kate was to be seen on television in the repeat of some play or series or film, and I would eagerly walk down the lane to sit tensed in her little sitting-room and watch Kate—a younger, different Kate—playing some pretty heroine or other. And I would be consumed with possessive pride—pride tinged with—what?—jealousy? Probably—jealous of the time before we’d met, when I had been no part of her life.
Sometimes in the beginning, with a certain amused curiosity, she would come with me, and as she watched the flickering screen so I watched her face for some sign of regret that it was all over. But I never saw it there. She seemed to view the programme much as one might go through an album of old snapshots. She made the odd comments as her memories stirred, but still she accepted it all as something long gone, beyond her present reality. In the end she hardly ever bothered to watch at all—there was always something else to do—something more important cropping up. “I’ve already seen it,” she would tell me. “You go.” It was plain that she was just no longer really interested.
My own work had progressed considerably since she and I had married. My talent came to be in greater demand, I was getting more interesting jobs to do and was offered more commissions than I could comfortably cope with. And really it was because of Kate; because of her and the children I worked harder; I had something to work for.
In a way, that year—the year after Bonnie came—really seemed ideal for each of us. All the children seemed happy, Kate got over Matthew’s loss and forged ahead with her writing, and I continued, very content, with my own projects. I was in an enviable situation, I know, and I was fully aware of it. I was doing work that I loved, and when each working day was over I could go home to a wife and family
who were glad to see me. I never lost that sense of excitement I experienced each day on my short homeward journey—knowing that Kate and the children would be at the end of it.
Often during the spring, summer and early autumn, I had company on my walk through the village. Lucy. So many times, when the weather was fine, I could look from my window as five o’clock approached and see her come tripping along the narrow pavement, keeping as far back from the road as possible, as she’d been taught, her face reflecting the seriousness of her purpose. She would come up the side-stairs, tap on the door, let herself in and then wait for me while I got ready to leave. Sometimes, if she was extra early, she would take paper and paints and get to work on a picture herself, soon becoming totally absorbed in her own composition and never bothering me if I had to go on with my own work.
When I think back, I don’t believe she ever really viewed my occupation as work. Natural, I suppose. Her school-friends’ fathers did things like farming, teaching, or looking after shops. Painting pictures was something you did for relaxation in school; something that was far more pleasant than arithmetic or history. I’m sure that she regarded the many pictures that I produced as the result of so much play.
She had a very definite artistic talent herself. Sam and Davie exhibited none at all so I was delighted to see it show in her. I would often stand above her, watching as she sprawled full-length, labouring over some particular painting. Her tongue would move over her lower lip in the effort of her concentration, and she would sing—little snatches of unidentifiable songs—the happiest sounds, her mood reflecting in her work. The pictures she made, vibrant, colourful and quite beautiful, adorned the walls all around her bed in the room she now shared with Bonnie across the landing.
Bonnie, of course, had become perfectly installed in the house, though, while the children took her presence for granted, Kate and I just couldn’t. The one dark spot on Kate’s horizon was the fact that, as a foster-parent, she had no actual legal claim to Bonnie. I could see how she was affected every time Miss Jenkins had been to pay one of her visits. Her periodic calls always brought home to Kate the knowledge that Bonnie was still officially in care—and in such a situation we had no guarantee that she would always be with us.
The Godsend Page 5
