The Ice Age

by Margaret Drabble

  “Oh fuck," she said emphatically, as Anthony switched off the radio and car engine in the courtyard. “Oh fuck it all. I’ll never stick it out, he knows it. The whole damn bus, indeed. Do you know what the fool was on about today, when he wasn’t trying to get his hand inside my knickers? He says when he gets out, he’s going to charter a private airplane, and take off from that prison airstrip in style. There’s nothing against it in the rules, he says.”

  They both began to laugh. Len was, after all, mad enough to survive, in his own way. And the house cheered Maureen up even more. Like Giles, she loved it. “I say, Anthony,” she said, as she looked around. “Stables and all. What a place.” An owl hooted. “Owls too,” she said.

  “It’s a tape-recorded owl, just for you,” said Anthony. She was even quite nice about Pamela’s frightful little dog. “What a pathetic creature,” she said, patting it tenderly. She busied herself about the supper, finding cooking things that Anthony didn’t even know he’d got. How much nicer she is than Pamela, thought Anthony. And how odd that she and Len should be so very much easier to get on with than Giles and Pamela. It made the possibility of a future of some kind seem momentarily more probable, to see Maureen swamped in a large apron, filling a frozen chicken (rapidly dethawed under the hot tap) with packet stuffing.

  They enjoyed the meal, reminisced over it about the good old days, wondered if they would ever come again, for themselves, or for the country. “I don’t really understand inflation,” said Maureen, gnawing at the wishbone, holding it neatly in her greasy fingers. “I mean, what will happen when it stops? Will there just be a standstill, or will there be another boom?” She took another swig of her Spanish white wine. “And I don’t understand about the Arabs and oil, either. Why didn’t they think of putting the price up earlier? There was nothing to stop them, was there? Was it just that they didn’t think of it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Anthony, who did not know.

  Later in the evening, their mood became more somber. It was cold, despite the central heating: they huddled together on the old settee, in front of the erratic electric fire, Maureen with her feet curled up under her and her head on Anthony’s shoulder. “I really miss Len, you know,” she said, sighing heavily. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to wait. You know what I mean?”

  This time he did know, but the declaration, unlike Pamela’s covert invitation, did not disturb him: it was an appeal for sympathy, not sex. “It’s not so long,” he said. “Two years is a hell of a long time, at my age,” said Maureen. “I’ll be all fat and wrinkled when he gets out. But I’ll stick it out a bit longer, I suppose. The funny thing is, we didn’t get down to much in the way of sex in those last few months, anyway. Even though I suppose we knew he might get put away, and by rights we ought to have got on with it while the going was good. But we didn’t feel up to it. Anxiety puts one off that kind of thing, don’t you find?” She sighed, then laughed. “Len used to say he couldn’t keep his mind on it, he said his brain had turned into an enormous balance sheet, and his head was so full of figures he couldn’t concentrate on the job at all.”

  “I suppose I know what he meant,” said Anthony, who had not himself suffered from the same disability; but then, his financial problems had been so much smaller than Len’s, and until his heart attack, he had found sex with Alison much the best way of forgetting his worries. “I suppose it depends what kind of anxiety one is suffering from. And how bad it is. They do say that whenever war breaks out, everybody leaps into bed with everybody. To keep the human race going. Destroy, and procreate.”

  “Well,” said Maureen, “I can mark the exact point at which old Len started to lose interest. It was when Rosewood Securities called in that loan. That night . . . ”

  And she proceeded to describe, in some detail, what had happened that night. She was very amusing. They both laughed a lot. Anthony suggested that chronic debt might have the reverse effect on some characters: there were those who found it stimulating. “I can’t have been one of them,” he concluded. “Or I wouldn’t have had this heart thing, would I? I didn’t feel all that worried, I mean I always thought there must be some way out—but then, wham, there I was. Funny, really. It happened just as I’d worked out that even if the worst came to the worst, there’d still be Max Friedmann, who would help me out—mind you, I’d have hated to have asked him, but I could have asked him. Perhaps the body worries more than the mind.”

  “Must do,” said Maureen. “During the trial, I came out in these awful spots. All over my chest, would you believe it? I mean to say, what a place to get spots. I’d never had such a thing in my life before. I’m not saying I never had any spots, when I was a girl I had my fair share, but they were in proper places, like all over my face—but on my chest, I ask you? The doc said it was anxiety.”

  “Have they gone away now?”

  “Mostly. Look, I’ll show you. I bet you wouldn’t fancy sitting so close to a really spotty person, would you, but it’s not so bad. Look.”

  And she pulled up her jersey, and displayed her midriff, and her breasts, encased in a black bra. There were indeed a few small spots, and a quality in the skin that suggested the departure of more.

  “I wouldn’t call those spots,” said Anthony gallantly. “More a kind of rash, really.”

  “You’re sweet, Anthony,” said Maureen, and resumed her place on his shoulder. They sat, companionably, in silence, for a while. And then the phone rang. Anthony at once assumed it was Giles, about to repeat his villainous offer to buy Anthony out: he rose to his feet and strode to the phone, determined to reject the offer, and moreover to insist that Pamela remove her wretched dog. But it was not Giles, it was Donnell Murray, Alison’s husband.

  Donnell was in a bit of a fix, he said. He wondered if Anthony could help. If it’s money you want, you’ve come to the wrong person, said Anthony, hollowly; it was astonishing how many people had come to him with pleas for financial assistance since they had heard he was really in the shit, as though working on the principle that Anthony might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb. In vain did he protest that he simply hadn’t got any money any more: they clearly did not believe him. But Donnell did not want money. He wanted Anthony to look after Molly for a fortnight while he himself went off filming in the Caribbean.

  “I thought Molly was at school,” said Anthony. So she ought to be, Donnell agreed, but unfortunately she had become so disturbed by Alison’s prolonged absence that the school was finding her too difficult to manage. He had an urgent appeal from the school that morning, had tried to ring Anthony but Anthony was out, was sorry to ring so late . . .

  He was pissed. Anthony, now himself always sober, was very much aware of the drunken condition of others.

  The thing is, said Donnell, she needs to be with somebody who knows her. And I can’t very well take her to the Caribbean with me, can I? And she likes you so much, she’s always so good with you.

  What an unbelievable cheek, thought Anthony. He did not know what to say. He said: “I don’t honestly know if I could cope, on my own, Donnell. I’m supposed to be taking life easy, you know.”

  That took the wind out of Donnell’s sails slightly; he hesitated, then started on a new tack. “I’d send a girl up with her. To cook for you both. I’d pay. I’d get someone from an agency. It’s just that she needs to be with someone she knows. And Alison’s always done so much for her herself, she doesn’t really know anyone else.”

  Anthony knew that he would consent. He was, even, flattered to be asked. He saw himself turning into a full-time dog-minder and child-minder. He consented. Donnell was relieved, delighted, could not thank Anthony enough. He would drive Molly up the next day, picking her up straight from school. He would see Anthony in the afternoon. How ever could he thank Anthony enough.

  “What’s this film you’re doing in the Caribbean?” asked Anthony. Donnell said that it was a piece of commercial crap, about gun running, and he himself was playing a double agent
who got shot in the first reel. It seemed appropriate.

  He went back to Maureen. She had fallen asleep, was snoring slightly. He wondered if he dared ask her to stay on and help with Molly. He didn’t want a strange girl from an agency. But he didn’t suppose she could. She’d have to get back to her architect employer. He sat down by her, joggled her, woke her, told her about Molly. “Poor old you,” said Maureen sleepily. “You do get put upon.”

  “Do you think I’m some kind of fall guy?” asked Anthony. He was not quite sure what the phrase meant.

  “No, I just think you’re nice,” said Maureen.

  “It’s probably the same thing,” said Anthony glumly.

  They went to bed, got into the same bed, for warmth. It was bitterly cold upstairs. He was somewhat ashamed of the sheets, but she promised not to look. She turned away from him, and he held her. The temptation of St. Anthony, he thought, and stirred slightly. But he was not much tempted. She was Len’s girl. He held her breasts: she moaned slightly and appreciatively, then shifted around a little restlessly, then said, “Go on, give them a squeeze.” He squeezed them, obligingly. They were firm and squashy at the same time, under her striped nightie. “They really need squeezing,” said Maureen. “They miss it. Poor old Len.” She giggled, sadly. “What a life,” she said.

  Within five minutes, both were asleep. But at three in the morning, Maureen woke again, as she often did these days, shaking slightly, her heart beating loudly with panic, only slightly reassured to find herself by the sleeping Anthony: she had been dreaming of those last days, which she had tried to describe in amusing terms to Anthony, but the reality had not been amusing, it had been terrifying, to see Len’s stubbornness, to see his determination to justify himself, to see the mad energetic streak in him that had created his success harnessed to precipitate his failure. For Len was no good at half measures: he was a man who threw himself wholly into everything, and he had thrown his whole self into self-justification, in and out of the witness box. It had been frightening to watch, frightening to live with. He was a bad witness, unlike Maureen; he was rude, passionate, impatient, and the prosecution had found it easy to rile him into contemptuous remarks about shareholders and colleagues. It had been horrible, sitting there loyally watching, while they baited him, and then going back to the luxury flat to listen to his imprecations, to watch him pace about, to watch him drink himself into a frenzy. She could tell that he was saying all the wrong things, in court: he should have kept calm, but instead he lost his temper. Then, guilty at having lost his temper, he would lose it again every evening, not at but for Maureen, who, he clearly felt, might be judging him for his behavior on many counts. Maureen had not felt herself to be a judge; she was on his side. Nevertheless, it was hard to listen to him without becoming aware that so much passion could only indicate, on his part, a bitter sense of failure, if not of guilt.

  The day of the verdict, they had driven to court, knowing that unless there was a miracle of obstinacy on the jury’s part, they would not drive back again together. Len drove: Maureen had not fancied driving the Rolls back alone, it was too big, it frightened her, and when she drove it people whistled and leered at her, which she did not mind as a pedestrian, but which distracted her as a driver. She had taken Len’s toothbrush and razor and socks and things in a briefcase, as though packing for him to go on a business trip. Neither of them had been able to believe that this was the end. The trial had dragged on so many weeks, the preparation for the trial for so many months, it seemed unreal, to find themselves at the end of the road. But that was how it had been. She had driven back alone, paced alone around the empty flat, watched the television news alone, while Len, alone, served the first night of his four years.

  Anthony heaved in his sleep: he had his arms around her still, holding from behind. She could feel his cock, heavy against her inner thigh. It would be easy to wake Anthony, to rouse Anthony. For comfort. But she didn’t want to. It wasn’t that she didn’t fancy Anthony, exactly, because she did and always had. But she couldn’t really imagine sex with him. She didn’t have that kind of relationship with him. Maureen’s views of sex were not very proper, and Anthony seemed to her a proper person. Of late, she had to admit it, she’d been thinking more and more about the architect who employed her. It was impossible not to. He, like Anthony, was quite a proper person, but their relationship made any personal remarks improper, and he had been making a few of late. About her wasting her life while Len was put away, a young woman like her, and about how his wife had started going to evening classes because she thought the children had destroyed her identity. Maureen knew where that kind of chat led, and indeed last Tuesday Derek had kissed her—not very forwardly, and with the pretext of saying good night, but nevertheless full on the mouth, and holding her against him at the same time, with a bit of pressing of the leg. “You’re a good girl, Maureen,” he had said, and she had smiled back, excited by the contact. It was true, she was still a young woman, and if she wasn’t going to wait for Len to get out, what was the point of waiting at all? It wasn’t even as though she was married to him.

  Still, it would be shabby, to do it so soon. It would be more decent to wait a while. I wonder if Len could tell that Derek’s trying it on, she wondered. He never asked about Derek, so she never mentioned him, but Len knew as well as anyone what kind of life she’d been used to before she jumped into bed with Len. It would be different if we’d got married, had kids, she thought. But it’s so easy not to have kids, these days. I’ve probably ruined my chances of having any ever, with all those pills I’ve swallowed. And then, if you did have one, what if it turned out like poor old Alison’s? Maureen had kept on taking the pill, even after Len had been put away. It seemed a bad sign, as though she was expecting the worst. Giving in well in advance, throwing in the sponge. I’ve got a rotten character, thought Maureen, philosophically.

  She wondered what it would be like if they ever introduced these conjugal prison visits the papers sometimes talked about. Fucking to order didn’t somehow appeal, and although men were different, maybe even some of them would feel a bit embarrassed to be told to get on with it, as it were, by order, at the Queen’s pleasure. She couldn’t imagine herself and Len getting down to it, seriously, on prison property. It had been hard enough, as she’d described to Anthony, to work up much interest even when Len was out on bail. Sex isn’t the most important thing in life, she decided, wriggling her bottom slightly to see if her movement would affect Anthony. It did: he stiffened slightly, but slept on. But if sex isn’t the most important, what is?

  Several things happened during the first week of Molly’s stay with Anthony. Kitty Friedmann was released from the hospital, and went home to her house in St. John’s Wood, and tried to learn to walk on one leg. She was embarrassed about her own clumsiness, and did not like to practice in front of other people, but as she was never left alone by her affectionate family, she did not get much practice, except late at night, in the privacy of her own bedroom, and even then she was frightened of banging and making a noise and making other people anxious.

  A date was fixed for Jane Murray’s trial. It was to be held in three weeks’ time. Clyde Barstow, the consul, thought this remarkably prompt, and seemed to expect Alison’s gratitude. He was a large, agreeable, and erudite man who had during the war been obliged to walk across a large section of the North African desert, with two companions, both of whom died on the journey. He confessed to Alison, over a bottle of mellow Wallacian wine, that he had never been able to take anything very seriously after that. He liked Wallacia: he had actually requested the post. Alison, who had assumed that such a posting would be insignificant and undesirable, and that a man who had walked for ten days across a burning desert ought to have found a more comfortable niche, asked him why, and he said that he had always been interested in the Iron Age, and Wallacia contained some fine sites; also, that he was something of a linguist, and was enjoying learning Wallacian, a notoriously difficult language. S
he found these reasons for liking Wallacia inhumanly pure. Were people really motivated by such fine considerations? Perhaps they were. Or perhaps the consul was a diplomatic liar, concealing intrigue.

  During this same week, the intrigue over the Riverside site thickened. The local authority met, planned, considered, and considered again. There was a lot of money at stake. They could not afford to make any more mistakes.

  Giles Peters, who was more privy to their deliberations than he had chosen to inform his partner Anthony Keating, waited in something more like real agitation than he was accustomed to experience. From his point of view, also, there was a lot of money at stake; and even more, in his case, of that priceless commodity, selfrespect. It would be hard to exaggerate the degree to which Giles Peters wished not to look a fool in the eyes of the financial world. Maybe he was even prepared to deceive his oldest friend Anthony in order to preserve his reputation as a sharp dealer. Or maybe, as he occasionally said to Rory Leggett, he felt it his duty to preserve poor Anthony from any more anxiety and uncertainty.

  He need not have worried so much about Anthony. Anthony, after three days of Molly, rang up to reassure Giles: I’m quite prepared to hang on with you, said Anthony, don’t you worry about me. I couldn’t dream of accepting your kind offer.

  Giles’s first thought was that somebody had been talking to Anthony. Who? Rory? Friedmann? No, of course, Friedmann was dead. The boys of the Merchant Bank? His second thought was that Anthony was fool enough to believe that the offer had been made for his own good, and quixotic enough to wish to go down with the ship, if the ship went down. His third thought was perhaps the most perceptive: that Anthony, like himself, had more to lose than money, and that his attachment to the Riverside scheme was even more emotional than his own attachment to his own selfrespect.

  He knew Anthony well enough to realize that there would not be much point in trying to put any pressure on him. So all he could do was to wait, while the Twyford Authority deliberated and did sums on their calculating machines. He did not like waiting. The strain encouraged him to eat too much, and he developed a light but irritating rash on his face, put on weight, and suffered from sleeplessness and indigestion. Pamela left him and went off with a stockbroker. Uneasy lies the head that is waiting to see whether or not it has lost its share of twelve million pounds.