Rob, of course, said kindness was meaningless, that it clouded the issues, the real class struggle, that there were no exemptions. ‘Property is theft,’ he’d say with a grin, taking a five pound note from my purse. I used to think about it a lot. And one day I told him that he was right. I’d give it all up. I’d sell the house, the furniture, the clothes, give all my money to charity, get a job in a shop, be ordinary. They were all silent. Then they shrieked with laughter. ‘Oh, Octavia, you are funny!’
Rob laughed too. But later on he came to my room, kissed my forehead and looked in my eyes: ‘Now listen, Octavia – about what you said. I think, my angel, I need to protect you from yourself. You don’t seem to realize what a sheltered life you’ve led – nannies and governesses and all that crap. And money whenever you want it. I don’t think you realize what the real world’s like. It’s dog-eat-dog out there you know. Basically, princess, you wouldn’t survive.’ He put his finger under my chin and lifted my face, smiling in that way he had. ‘Now, I’m not getting at you. It’s not your fault. You can’t help your weirdo parents and their weirdo ideas. But promise me like a good girl you won’t do anything rash.’
I kissed him and promised, and he smiled and lit a cigarette.
Rob was always rude about my parents. About anyone’s parents. About families in general. They were bourgeois of course. And a drag, to be cast off as soon as possible. He said I was well rid of mine: ‘You’re a free spirit, you see. God, I wish I had your luck!’ He always assumed I felt the same way. Only once did he mention his two sisters: older, married, and living in ‘ticky-tacky houses’ in suburbs too bourgeois for words. He’d been lying propped on the bed with an arm round me, drawing on a joint and rambling a little. But when I wanted to know more, he turned away on the pillow: ‘They’re not important.’ His mother telephoned once, late at night: someone was ill, he needed to come back. He refused to speak to her, wouldn’t take the phone from my hand: ‘I don’t know where she got this number, but if she rings again, hang up.’
But he was forever staring at the silver-framed photos on the piano and the mounted snapshots in the stiff, brown pages of the old albums. He loved the pictures of my grandparents, formal on studio furniture with potted palms; my bachelor uncles – overcoats and dogs in the Highlands, light suits and gins in front of Raffles Hotel. And most recently, the end of our life in Delhi – my father against the white façade of government offices, our bungalow with its garden, the servants lined up, me a blond child in Manjit’s arms just months before we came back to England. Rob would pore over them for hours, jeering at my father’s moustache and droopy linen jacket, my mother’s Dior afternoon dresses, wide-brimmed hats and long white gloves. ‘Look at them! The remnants of our glorious colonial history. Thank God you were too young to remember it all!’
But I did remember it. The pressure of the air. And the brilliance of the flowers – the huge red dahlias blazing just in front of the house. And the distant clatter of china cups in the afternoon shade as I lay on my mattress inside the veranda. We’d been happy, all three of us. Perfectly happy. But I didn’t tell Rob all this. Rob always misunderstood about Mummy and Daddy. He’d turn the pages and snigger: ‘What parasites!’
I’d tried to tell him that it wasn’t like that. Daddy had worked himself to death, staying up late into the night with his boxes of papers. Everyone in the Service had respected him. And they’d loved my mother; she was so hospitable – always tea parties and guests for supper. Rob would look at photograph after photograph, faded smiles in bright light: ‘She certainly knew a lot of handsome young men.’
So I stopped telling him anything, let him go on drawing his conclusions. It pleased him to make fun. ‘Righting the balance,’ he said as he tried on Daddy’s silk scarves and Panama hats, striding up and down, snapping his fingers: ‘I say, you there, boy! A cup of char for myself and the memsahib!’
Rob made them all laugh, and I tried not to mind. I tried not to mind when he started wearing my father’s suits every day, staining them with food and cigarette ash; and when Jeni went out to a disco in my mother’s pearls and came back without them. And when Karen and Steve broke the Royal Worcester plates by sitting on them. And when Mandy burnt a hole in the pale blue Wilton when she fell asleep, stoned. They are my friends, I said to myself. And they must share what I have.
They stayed a long time, sharing. I can’t remember how long. But gradually they drifted away, got jobs, sent me postcards: Can you believe we’ve got our own mortgage and Bev is having a baby? And Steve’s been offered this fantastic job in Hong Kong? And Carl and Jeni have a book shop in Bath?
‘Wankers,’ said Rob. He’d been the last to go. In the final months he lay about the floor, unshaven, gnawing at leftover food, slinking along the landings, turning knobs, opening boxes, pulling and picking at my life.
I couldn’t stand it in the end.
And now, today, this warm summer’s day, I will have to go the long way round to the park. When we first came to this house, Mummy and I could run straight there, out of our back garden gate, down to the lake. We’d lie in the sunshine under the dahlias, pretending we were back at the bungalow and someone would soon bring us tea. But the back gate is padlocked now, jammed tight with damp, and I will have to go along the Crescent, past the mansion flats, through the railinged gate. But it won’t matter. No one will be watching. Everything will be quiet.
It’s almost noon as I leave the house, and the light is falling in solid blocks, cutting shapes on the masonry, dividing the road with hard edges of shadow, the geometry of pointed gables in triangles along the middle of the tarmac. A few parked cars reflect the sun along the bright side of the road, but there is no one on the pavements. The residents of the Crescent are very private. They sometimes smile at me as I walk along, but they never speak. Most of them are old, and stay indoors.
I have put on my big straw hat and my dark glasses. I have to protect myself from the sun. My skin is just as ivory-pale as it’s always been. My eyes are just as large and blue. On a day like this I have to hide them from view. I wear gloves. A lady always wears gloves. I have many pairs. Today they are pale lilac, to match my frock. It’s my favourite, a Jean Muir original. It makes all the difference.
I visit the glasshouses first. As a child, walking with Mummy into the sudden wall of heat, I was reminded of India. And I am again, now. I see splashes of shimmering red, a jungle of deep green. Everything moist, warm, scented. I drift along the rows of terracotta pots. My high heels skid a little on the red tiled floor. Hoses snake across my path. Sprinklers start up suddenly, tingling on my skin. My dress is damp. It clings a little to my back, my thighs. The heat is building up. I remove my hat, my glasses. It is time.
I choose the spot. I am superstitious; I keep to the same routine. Here in view of the lake, on a quiet piece of lawn, near the bed of dahlias. Spiky red dahlias. They are very tall; they reach my shoulder as I stand beside them. They have no smell; they attract by show. I hold out my hand, touch their tubular petals, their splayed open centres. I lie down. The heat of the day will soon start to wane.
I know him at once. I smell him, the acid of his aftershave, the faint odour of tobacco and sweat. The sun is behind his head as he stands over me. He is a dark shadow. Thinner than Rob. Taller. He pauses, deciding. I know what he will decide. The dahlias vibrate in the background.
‘You make a beautiful picture.’
The usual words. I smile my usual smile.
He eases himself down beside me. He has long legs, grey trousers – grey flannel trousers. His face, as he turns, is pale and avid. He will be no trouble.
We talk a little. Very little. Then we walk, slowly, in the heat. ‘We can go indoors,’ I say. ‘My house is very near.’ I point out the back wall, the glistening windows of the Crescent rising above the trees.
As a lover, he is indifferent. I expect no more. He is too eager, too flattered to consider much beyond himself. He is a man who wears grey flannel tro
users on a summer’s day and is at the mercy of strangers.
He exerts himself, sweats a little, groans. Afterwards he strokes my hair. He looks around – the cornices, the mirrors, the mahogany furniture: ‘It’s a massive place. Do you live here all alone?’
‘Not quite.’ I like to tease on these occasions. He looks nervous, eyes the door. ‘You needn’t worry. We won’t be disturbed.’
He senses something. He wants to be away, but my body is across his chest, my fan of hair, still blond, scarfing his pitted complexion. He subsides. Strokes my hair again. ‘I can’t make you out. You’re very – different – do you know that?’
Of course I know that. I accept that now. I smile. ‘You’re not the first to say that.’ No, not the first.
He asks to get his cigarettes. They are in his shirt pocket, on the rosewood chair. I say I don’t allow smoking. He laughs and says that isn’t fair. I tell him this is my house and I make the rules.
But I bring him some tea. Indian tea. Strong and pungent. I bring it to him on a tray. White cloth, china cup. And a red dahlia head floating in a shallow glass vase.
He lifts the cup, reluctant: ‘I don’t drink tea, normally.’
But today isn’t normal. Surely he can see that? Today is very particular.
I tell him, ‘It’s a special blend.’
The temperature has dropped now. The pressure is falling. The windows rattle a little with the evening wind.
I make myself supper. A slice of melon, cold consommé, anchovies on toast, a water ice. I cover the little folding table in my father’s study with an embroidered cloth. I put out a silver knife, fork and spoon. I pin the dahlia in my hair. I pour myself a glass of wine.
No one will disturb me tonight.
LYING TOGETHER
We’d chosen the countryside because it seemed the right thing. Honest, in a sort of way (more than we’d been, anyway). We’d savoured the thought in those last days cooped up together: two weeks in the open air, regular meals, exercise. And no drinking.
‘What about country pubs?’ I’d asked.
He shook his head: ‘No drinking.’
‘Maybe a shandy?’
‘No drinking.’
We’d allowed ourselves cigarettes instead. A hundred each to start off with. Sister Jenkins had looked at us. ‘They’ll kill you just the same.’
‘Have a heart,’ we said.
We’d chosen Wales. Or at least I had. Going home in a way, although the Marches were a bit off my track. I come from Newport; one of those towns people can’t get the hang of; neutral, faceless, confused – neither English nor Welsh. Just like me with my disappeared Welsh mother and my dear drunk English dad. But we’d always gone on day-trips up the Usk and the Wye. ‘Best scenery in the world,’ I said, remembering school outings, picnics by the river, ruined castles, endless sun. So Bill took me up on it, because I was always boasting and lying. ‘We’ll see if you’re right, you little toad. Little pissed Welsh newt.’
We’d hired a car. Gary, my ex (ex-what, I’d like to know, he’d never committed himself), let us have one of his write-offs as long as Bill was doing the driving. He doesn’t know about Bill; thinks I’m the unsafe one. I didn’t tell him. Gary does quite a business now, but doesn’t spend more than he has to. I imagine life above the garage is just as it used to be. Sex and engine oil. And invoices. Gary’s got a new girl, now. Blond, naturally, and bonded-on stilettos. But I could see engine oil at her roots. Gary insured the car (third party), did all the paperwork in his own name – some scam or other – and got a hundred quid from Bill. ‘For a rotten beat-up Mini?’ I said, but Bill said beggars can’t be choosers.
When the time came, I was nervous. Fourteen days. Fourteen days of being alone. And being alone together. I’d got too used to living in the public eye. There’s a kind of protection there; safety in numbers. Dr Barker said I’d been in too long. He was always saying that. It was his theme tune: What are you afraid of, Glenys? I’d been afraid of all the usual things before, but now it was Bill. I was afraid of Bill’s private reality, but I wasn’t telling Dr Barker that. I’d spent a year sitting in a room full of nutters, trading insults, smoking, watching the jagging picture on the telly and (in the last few months) watching Bill from the corner of my eye as Fat Margaret tried to park herself on his lap, with Dempster going on and on about the wicked ways of women before Sister Jenkins came to break it up. Our smiles across the room weren’t private. Always someone to comment, and someone else to bring it up on Mondays: Have Bill and Glenys got something to tell us? ‘Mind your own fucking business,’ I’d say. But even fucking wasn’t private when the only place to do it was behind a big prickly bush with some nosy bastard always coming past. It was our drinking place, though, that bush. When we had our famous lapses and sneaked off like kids with a bottle of Johnnie Walker, throwing up in the corner near the wheelie bins before the heavy brigade came to get us. Not a normal life, exactly. Not Mr and Mrs. But something we were used to.
Suddenly, sitting next to him in the Mini, having to make conversation, I was scared stiff. An hour after we’d got on the road, my ashtray was spilling over. And my nails bitten down worse than ever, starting to bleed. I used to have nice nails once. And nice hair – real blond, not bottle. I don’t know when it went mousy. When I went into that place, I think. Before that, I was a proper Marilyn Monroe.
‘She was peroxide,’ said Bill.
‘Well, Princess Di, then. My dad always said I looked like Princess Di.’
‘You’re such a liar,’ said Bill. ‘Such a terrible little liar.’
The pubs along the valley were bright and beautiful, with fairy lights and striped umbrellas and baskets of flowers. Best pubs I’d ever seen. But we’d agreed no stopping, not even for a lemonade, not even to have a pee. Ground rules, Bill had said. Only common sense. Sister Jenkins had been unconvinced: ‘How long do you honestly think you’ll last?’
‘We’ll show you,’ we’d said, deciding on B&B for the nights. Farmhouses, we’d said. Off the beaten track, well out of danger. ‘Don’t people drink in the country, little newt?’ said Bill, but he knew what I was after.
The first farmhouse was up a lane. It was so far up I thought we’d missed it. Then a muddy farmyard and mangy old dogs barking like crazy, running out under the wheels of the car, Bill braking hard enough to send us nearly through the windscreen. We had a picture of a plump farmer’s wife: a smooth white apron, a welcoming smile, but everything looked dead and ramshackle. The dogs went on barking and we could hear the fog-horning of some cows in the distance, but no sign of human beings, not a flicker of welcome. We couldn’t get out, not with those dogs ready to take a leg off us, so we just sat there: helpless and surrounded. After a bit, Bill slammed the window down and leant on the horn, shouting at the top of his voice. The dogs went manic, jumping and showing their teeth, but nobody came.
‘Deaf buggers! Ignorant bloody peasants!’ Bill shoved the car into reverse, dogs scattering and yelping. ‘Stupid bloody animals! They should be kept under control!’ He gripped the steering wheel hard, nearly scraping the gatepost as we shot out of the yard. He wouldn’t look at me as we went back down the hill.
After that, we thought we’d keep it simple. Something on the main road. No lanes, no dogs, just a straightforward guest house. And there it was, a swinging sign – Ty Gwyn. A neat white house with geraniums and a polished brass doorstep. And two single ladies reluctant to let us in. ‘Don’t want their rooms dirtied,’ said Bill as he pulled our bags from the boot. ‘Don’t really want anyone actually staying at all.’
I thought it was the car that put them off. Gary hadn’t bothered to fix the dent in the side.
‘One night only,’ they said. ‘And single beds.’
We nodded.
‘Oh, and cash in advance.’ They thought they had our number, but Bill drew out his wad, what was left of his lump sum, and they let us in.
‘And breakfast at eight, no later mind, as we have to t
idy up by nine. And out of the room by half past, please, so we can change the sheets.’
They watched us, hoping we’d change our minds, go away, give them a reprieve. I expect we looked the sort to want to lie in all day, but hospital gets you out of that, breakfast at seven most days. Eight was a treat. So we nodded and ran up the stairs and fell on their pristine sheets in our shoes.
A tap on the door: ‘And no smoking.’
‘Perish the thought,’ said Bill, sitting up and unwinding the Cellophane from our second pack.
We opened the window and leant out, letting the ash float secretly onto the neat chips of gravel. ‘Almost yellow,’ I said, looking down on them.
‘Muffin,’ murmured Bill, who’d spent hours decorating the marital semi before Cheryl upped and left. He had the colour cards off by heart: Driftwood, Oatmeal, Cornsilk, Honeycomb, Harvest Moon, Buttermilk. He laughed. ‘Or maybe, Crumpet?’
We pushed the single beds together, rucking up the thin square of carpet, scraping the polished floor. We stopped, holding our breath, expecting the women to come. But they didn’t. We laughed: Too busy polishing the fridge!
Then undressing. Both of us nervous with buttons and zips. He had old-fashioned Y-fronts and dark socks that came up to his knees. And part of me was laughing and part of me was gritting my teeth, not wanting him to go any further, not to take off any more. It’s stupid, with all the blokes I’ve been with, but I’d never seen a man naked, not close up, not all over. They’d all kept their kit on, as far as I remember; which of course isn’t much. Even Gary couldn’t be bothered to take his jeans off most of the time and always fell on me with some sort of greasy T-shirt flapping around his tackle. And I’d close my eyes anyway, knowing he’d be quick. Now I felt shy in my new white undies. Like a bride. Like a virgin. We both laughed and Bill started to sing that song by Madonna, and I was still laughing when I knew I couldn’t do it, when he caught hold of me and the blackness opened up in my head, and I couldn’t stop shaking. He thought I was shaking with wanting him so much, and nearly didn’t stop.
Lying Together Page 20
