“Let me do it.” I moved to take the silver-pink ball from her, and our fingers brushed and she took my hand in hers, looking at me, her grey eyes steady, but uncertain, on my face.
“Are you all right . . . ?”
What a question coming from her.
A little silence fell between us. The piping voices of Lucy and Bonnie sang into it: And what was in those ships all three—on Chri-istmas Day? On Chri-istmas Day . . . ?
“. . . Yes, I’m all right . . . of course . . .”
“Really . . . ?”
“Really . . .”
It was as if I hadn’t seen her in months. We stood looking at each other. The voices of the girls, in shaky unison with the sweet-sounding chorus, filled the room . . . All the bells in earth shall ring—on Chri-istmas Day . . .
Apart from a single side-light, the only illumination in the room came from the fire and the tiny lights we had hung on the tree. One, glowing orange, reflected in her cheek as she looked up at me . . .
. . . On Chri-istmas Day . . . And all the bells in earth shall ring—on Chri-istmas Day in the morning . . . !
“It was the only way, wasn’t it . . . ?” She meant the move from the village. “It was the only thing to do . . .”
. . . And all the angels in heaven shall sing—on Chri-istmas Day . . . On Chri-istmas Day . . .
“. . . It was, wasn’t it? Tell me it was . . .”
“Yes. The only thing . . .”
We stood there facing each other, almost shyly—but in those few seconds my world came right-way-up again.
When it was time for bed she went, as before, into the girls’ room, but then—creeping softly so as not to waken them—reappeared carrying her dressing-gown and night-dress over her arm.
Neither of us commented on her return.
When I came from the bathroom I found her already in bed. I thought she was asleep. Till I got in beside her. And then she reached out her arms to receive me, drawing me close.
It was at that moment, as I pressed her to me, that Bonnie, in the next room, began to cry.
Kate tensed in my arms, and we waited together for the crying to stop. It didn’t. After a while Kate broke away from me and sat up.
“I must go in to her. Perhaps she’s having nightmares . . .”
She went out and came back fifteen minutes later with Bonnie in her arms.
“I’m sorry. I just can’t get her to settle.” She looked at me apologetically. “I told her she can stay with us for a while. Is that okay?”
“Okay . . .” I felt cheated.
I felt cheated even more when Bonnie crawled over Kate’s body to snuggle down between us. Kate sighed. “I’m sorry, darling . . .” She looked down at Bonnie who was already drifting off to sleep. “I don’t understand what’s upset her.”
Not long after, Kate was fast asleep too. I turned over on my side. Ah, well, there would be other nights . . .
When Bonnie cried again the following night and was brought into our room, Kate said, “It’s probably a bad patch she’s going through.” I said nothing. She added, “We can’t just let her lie there and scream. Lucy wouldn’t get any sleep—not to mention us. Though don’t worry—it won’t go on.”
But Christmas came and Christmas went, and night after night after night Bonnie came to share our bed.
It was amazing how quickly her tears dried when she was brought in. How quickly she settled down. You’d hardly have known she was there.
But she was.
So the only time Kate and I had to ourselves was in the late evening after Lucy had gone to bed and before we, ourselves, went. On two or three of these occasions when we sat alone in the living-room together I reached out for her, taking her in my arms. But that’s about as far as it got. Any attempt at further intimacy just never worked. She would suddenly tighten up, tense, fearing that one of the girls might waken and come wandering out from their room; and of course it was a possibility. In the end I knew better than to try. And anyway, there was always the consolation that this could be the night when we wouldn’t be disturbed, and as I undressed for bed I’d wait, listening, almost praying for Bonnie not to cry out. But she always did. I wanted to say to Kate, Leave her. Let her cry. There’s nothing wrong with her. She won’t come to any harm. But I didn’t. I couldn’t insist. After what had happened to Matthew and Davie and Sam, Kate just wouldn’t take any chances.
“She’s just got into the habit,” I said. “She knows she can get her own way.”
“Give it a while longer and she’ll get over it.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Please, Alan—she’s no real trouble . . .”
No, she wasn’t. Once asleep she slept soundly. She hardly ever stirred.
Except one particular time.
That was the night when I lay awake much longer than ever. I wanted Kate so badly, and my thoughts, my needs, made it impossible for me to get to relax.
In the end I spoke her name, softly, and she answered, and I crept out of bed, went round to her side and got in with her.
We kissed. In the pale light that fell from the window I could see the eagerness in her face. I pulled her night-dress up around her waist and caressed her, pressing my near-naked body against her own, desperate for the release of long-pent-up feelings and desires.
“Kate . . . Kate . . .”
Her fingers fluttered like a bird’s wings on my chest. “Oh, darling . . . darling . . .” she murmured.
And then Bonnie’s voice.
“Daddy—Mummy—what are you doing . . . ?”
She was lying there looking at us, watching us.
“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing . . .”
I moved away from Kate’s now-rigid body, sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on my pyjama-jacket.
“Go back to sleep, baby . . .”
I tried to sound calm, reassuring, when all I could feel was resentment and frustration. What was happening? First it had been Kate, herself, and now it was Bonnie who was getting in the way.
Later, as I still lay awake, irritable and angry, Kate whispered:
“I’m sorry, darling. Really. Just try to be patient a little longer . . .”
“I’m sick of being patient,” I said.
I was.
ELEVEN
“You’re back early,” Kate said, looking at me as I stood in the doorway wiping my wet shoes on the mat.
“Yes. That room’s like an ice-house today. The gas-fire just isn’t enough this weather.” I took off my jacket and flopped down into my chair. “I’ll get a little oil-heater tomorrow—something. It’ll be okay then.”
It had been snowing all day, and I’d sat for hours hunched up over my drawing-board, feeling miserable, and trying to coax a little production out of my cold fingers. In the end I’d given up. To hell with it.
“I thought they forecast milder weather for February,” I said.
“They did.”
Lucy brought me my slippers and I put them on—what relief. She had been cutting out robins and holly and things from a little pile of old Christmas cards, and now she went back to her task, her tongue working in the corner of her mouth as she manipulated the scissors. On the rug beside her, Bonnie was making a puzzle. I saw the concentration in her eyes as she snapped the pieces in place. On the lid of the box were the words, For ages seven to ten. Very bright little girl, Bonnie.
“I’ll make you some tea.” Kate got up and moved into the kitchen. On the dining-table I saw her typewriter, uncovered, a stack of untidy papers next to it.
“You’ve started again,” I said when she returned, “—have you?”
She shrugged, smiled. ‘Well, I tried. Got to make a start some time, as they say.”
“Good.”
“Though I’m afraid I didn’t get much done. You can’t—not with a small child running around all the time . . .”
Over the tea a little later I suggested that we find someone to look after Bonnie for a
couple of hours each afternoon. I almost said, Like with Sam . . .
Bonnie looked up at the mention of her name, her eyes going from me to Kate, then back. I grinned at her and said:
“I’m sure Bonnie wouldn’t mind. And it would give you a break.”
“Oh, she’s all right.”
“Of course she is. But you just said you can’t really give your mind to anything while she’s on the go.” It was important, I felt, now that Kate had made a new start with her writing that she should be able to continue with it. “Maybe Mrs. Taverner would have her,” I said. “Her youngest daughter is about Bonnie’s age. They get on well together.”
Mrs. Taverner was our neighbour across the landing, a large, good-natured, unflappable woman, mother of two young children and wife of an engineer who seemed to work nights for ever. I had sometimes wondered how his upside-down schedule affected their marriage; while he slept away the days she was always busy with their son and daughter or her clay-modelling; he rarely had a chance to be alone with her. But there, perhaps it suited him that way . . .
Kate said, after a little moment’s thought, well, yes, she could certainly make use of the time, and then later—yes, perhaps it would be all right—after all, why not . . . ? and finally—okay, she’d speak to Mrs. Taverner about it.
She went to see her that same evening and returned, smiling, to say that it was all arranged. Mrs. Taverner would be very happy to help out with Bonnie (“That dear little soul? Of course!”). Also the “little something” Kate offered her for her trouble would, she had been told, “come in very handy”. And there’d be no trouble with Mr. Taverner; another child in the house wouldn’t disturb him. According to his wife it would take a bomb to do that.
So it was settled. For two hours each afternoon, until the time when Kate went to fetch Lucy from school, Bonnie would go over to stay and play with Mrs. Taverner’s Gillian. Bonnie baulked at the separation at first, but she soon came to accept it and made no further protests. I was relieved. And the fact that Kate, herself, was willing to let Bonnie out of her sight during this time was also cause for gladness: more evidence of the growing ease within her mind.
And how she made use of those two hours! She can’t have wasted a single minute of them. My only slight regret was that she had no real space of her own in which to work. The dining-table just wasn’t good enough; she had always to be packing her papers and typewriter away at the end of each session and then getting them out again for the next one.
And that’s what gave me the idea. I would make our little box-junk-store-room into a little study. For her. A place where she could leave her typewriter and her papers and books readily available, where she could make as much muddle or tidiness as she wanted, a place that would be her own, that she could lock behind her, safe from the children.
It was just after this—the time of my idea—that she decided—with a little persuasion—to join a local Women’s Guild and also a writers’ circle. It meant she’d be out of the flat for two evenings a fortnight. It wasn’t much, but I’d make the most of it and manage somehow.
I did.
First of all I sorted through everything in the room.
The crate of books and the little framed prints that were her own I let remain—they would be needed. Other things I was able—with much care so that Kate wouldn’t notice them—to distribute around the flat, and the few odd items which were absolutely no use at all and which she’d never ever miss, I got rid of. Then I set to work on the room itself.
Two evenings a fortnight, while Kate was out and the girls were asleep. Two evenings a fortnight when I worked like a madman, painting, measuring, building shelves, and always packing up ten minutes before she got back, securely locking the door behind me (no one ever went in there, anyway) and greeting her with all the guile I could muster. It wasn’t easy, keeping my secret—not that she was in danger of discovering it herself, but because I simply wanted to tell her. But I managed.
I had determined to have it ready for the 15th March,—the anniversary of our meeting—and I thought for a while that I’d never be ready in time. But I managed that too.
The day came. Kate made no mention of the date’s significance and I went off to my studio as usual. I worked steadily until just after one o’clock and then downed tools and set off back to the flat. When I got there it was a quarter-to-two. Bonnie had been safely delivered to Mrs. Taverner and Kate was sitting before her typewriter at the dining-table. She looked up in surprise as I entered.
“What’s up? Is something wrong?”
“Why should anything be wrong?”
“Well, what are you doing here?”
“Some welcome. I’ve got to have a reason for coming into my own home?”
“You’re never back at this time . . .” She could tell from my expression that I was keeping something from her. “You always say that nothing must upset your routine.”
“Did I say that?” It was all I could do not to smile.
“Frequently—of old.” She grinned at me. “What is it?”
“I felt like coming home. Is there any harm in that?”
“None at all. It’s a free country.”
“So I was always led to believe.”
I had asked that the deliverymen be here promptly at two o’clock, having explained how important it was. Now I looked at my watch. Kate looked at me.
“Well, I suppose I’ll find out some time,” she said.
“Some time,” I answered. “Now if you’ll excuse me . . .” I went from her to unlock the room. As I stood there in the doorway, checking that everything was as it should be, I heard her voice as she approached from the kitchen.
“Something’s going on . . .”
Quickly I pulled the door shut and stood with my back to it.
“What have you got in there?” she asked.
“Don’t ask so many questions.”
I was wondering how much longer I could hold out, when I heard the ring at the door-bell. “I’ll answer it,” I said before she had a chance to move, and went towards the stairs. Looking at her from the top step, I said:
“Now it would please me very much if you would go back and get on with your work.”
She shrugged at me over the banister, “Okay,” and went. I turned and ran down the stairs.
The desk was not large, so the two men had no difficulty in manoeuvring it. But it was a long haul, and by the time they got to the top they were panting from their exertions. I murmured more apologies about not having a lift, and led the way into the room. When the desk was safely installed and the men on their way again with a good tip, I stood back for a few moments and surveyed the effects of my handiwork and planning. I couldn’t help but be pleased. Then, the door once more locked behind my back, I went into the hall again and called out to Kate.
She came towards me with a pencil in her hand and one eyebrow lifted.
“Oh, I’m wanted now, am I?” Pause. “Well . . . ?” Pause. “You look like the cat that got the cream.”
I said nothing. I took her hand and put the key into it and stood clear of the door. She looked at the key lying in her palm, looked up at me for a second or two, then came forward and turned the key in the lock. I watched her as she opened the door, watched her face as she stood there; and every second of my work was worth her expression.
“Well, go on in then,” I said at last.
She went in, almost cautiously, while I leaned in the doorway. I saw her run the tips of her fingers over the surface of the mahogany desk, brush the newly-re-upholstered seat of the Victorian chair, open the drawers, close them, open, close . . . She smelt the flowers I had placed there, and the so-new scent of the room itself: the wood, the paint, the carpet. “Olive green,” she said, looking down. She put a hand up to the shelves, shining white, that ranged the wall, laden with her own books, smiled up at the Pre-Raphaelite print—her favourite of long years—that I had dusted off and hung in a new frame. There was a calenda
r above the desk. She saw the date and looked back at me, remembering.
“I’m a pig,” she said. “I forgot.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
We didn’t talk very much then. Not for a while. In the bedroom I undressed her and she lay naked on the bed, watching me as I took off my clothes, waiting. We were quite alone in the flat. Bonnie wouldn’t be back for well over an hour.
Kate sighed against my neck, her lips soft, her hands coming round me, cool on my back. “We’ve got lots of time,” I whispered.
“Yes . . .”
I entered into her and her fingers pressed harder, holding tight. She was as starved as I was.
“Yes,” she said again. “Lots of time . . .” And drew me closer still.
Bonnie cried again that night.
As before, Kate brought her in to sleep between us, but after what had happened that afternoon I didn’t feel so much bothered by it.
“I promise you, darling,” Kate said—Bonnie was already fast asleep—“that things are going to be different.”
I smiled, unbelieving. “You said that already.”
“No, this time I mean it. We can’t go on like this. She’ll have to learn. Just give me a few more days. I promise that by next week she won’t be sleeping with us together any more.”
As it turned out, she was right. Though neither she nor I could possibly have imagined how it would come to be.
TWELVE
It took five days for Kate’s promise to come true, and even then she didn’t have much to do with it.
Returning home from the studio about half-past-five, I heard her in her new study, hammering away at her typewriter. I took off my coat and went in to her, kissed her.
“You’re working late.”
“Yes.”
She put the cover over the machine and tidied a few papers.
“Where are the girls?” I asked.
“Lucy’s in her room. Bonnie’s still with Mrs. Taverner. And I’m afraid she’s going to have to stay there for a while.”
“Why?”
“Gillian came down with the mumps today. The doctor’s confirmed it.”
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