Dennis guffawed. ‘Don’t be absurd, you silly child! I call all the nippers “little soldier” – it means nothing.’
Her hands were birds flapping to escape her wrists.
‘Not my son,’ came a version of her voice.
Dennis was frowning, and her heart went fathoms deep, actually left her entirely, at his doctorly expression: serious, reasonable, a mite amused. Poor heart throbbing loose. ‘Are you quite all right, Clem? Here, let me feel . . .’ He got up and approached her to put his hand against her brow but she shrank back into the chair. His face floated over her like a balloon.
‘Quite well. Don’t touch.’
Maroon balloon buffoon. Dirigible. Is that a word?
He stood for a moment, considering, then shrugged, cut another slice of cake, sat down, picked up and flapped open The Times. She could smell the ink and the paper and his scrubbed coal tar hands. Those coal tar fingers went inside her sometimes as if he was fishing for something lost.
The infant began to mewl and she scooped him up, cupped her hand round the vulnerable curve of his skull, held him against her chest as if protecting him, or herself, from the enemy, his brain in soft skull-bone against her heart. All the insides packed in tight. Outrageous anger blasted through her, a series of detonations in her mind.
Dennis put down the paper, stood. ‘Here, let me take him.’ He reached out but she could not put the child in those fishing hands.
‘Don’t ever again call him “soldier”.’ It came from somewhere in a scream.
Her feet took her from the room, climbed her up the stairs – oh, so cold after the hot room – up towards the nursery, Dinah’s realm. Her knitting – the start of a sock – lay abandoned on the floor beside a rattle. But Dinah was out. Clem lay on the nursery daybed with Edgar squirming in her arms. Not a soldier, not a soldier, not a soldier, not a soldier, you will never be a soldier. The infant was deafening now. Never be a soldier. Never. There was a pillow. Oh yes, of course. She got up and laid him on the bed and one hand went onto his chest and the other held the pillow just above, not touching, just above, a soft, smotherly, motherly way . . . surely better than war?
Dennis stood white-faced in the doorway, the black of his moustache comical against the chalky skin, a trick moustache cut out of felt. Clem stepped back, held the pillow against her chest like an easier, more pliant child. Dennis lifted Edgar just as Mrs Hale came in. He handed the infant to her, removed the pillow from Clem’s arms, which had gone like raw pastry now; he could easily have torn them off.
Of course she wouldn’t have done it.
Of course she wouldn’t have done it.
Of course she wouldn’t have done it.
Of course she wouldn’t.
7
NO NEED TO call a doctor; this was a house of doctors though old Dr Everett barely ventured from his room any more. Dennis knew what to give her to make things right.
Months, months after months, a blur. Fingers on the arm, a steel shaft in a vein, sparkle of drug in blood, limbs loose, child cries, someone always looking in. Hands between legs, smell of coal tar, another injection, wetness, after all, only reasonable, wife. Light all night it seems, birdsong, child sound outside, stale nightdress, sweet slop, white food, white drink. Sometimes a face in the mirror, pale, all that hair, should have it bobbed, one day. Write to Harri, where have they all gone, the people in her life? A magpie in the gutter cranes down to peer in; one can hear the scritch-scritch of claws. The hand roams, Powell’s hand she’s almost sure, clutching, clutching at the air. Sometimes it rains, sometimes it moans, sometimes it shines; ponies and carriages, motorcars drive by. A leaf sticks to the glass, sycamore, mottled like an old hand, and a feather drifts past, dirty white. Don’t they say angel? Murmurings in the chimney, chinkings from under the floor, feet on stairs, doors banging, telephone ringing and smells of food. Sometimes a wisp of appetite, a sudden longing for lamb chops or an apple. Mrs Hale is hale and hearty; Dennis all solicitation, moustache and fingers. Old Dr Everett looks in now and then, and she overhears an argument about medication. Speak up, he roars as always, speak up, you blithering idiot. Such a very handsome man is Dennis, or so they say. Keep your voice down. Funny how it gets so hard to tell. One day Harri’s there, is she? But not like Harri, her face askew; she says nothing. Sometimes a child appears, not Edgar but a shining insubstantial child who reaches out her hand, retreats and vanishes. Light at the end of tunnels one never seems to reach. Sun setting earlier now, rust in the sky, fog pressing its mushy face against the glass. Mrs Hale brings nourishment, soft things, mashed like baby food and milky sweet. Dennis lies with her now and then; arms giving a shape to her body. Coming back to herself, they say, coming back.
Rain beat on the windows and shadows of the drops ran down the pale hills of her knees. Her hands were soft and clean, so clean, from doing nothing, the nails long and sharp – a stranger’s hands.
Dennis came in. ‘Darling.’ His face broke and he was crying, crying. Dennis crying. ‘It’s Father,’ he said.
He’d had a stroke so another invalid in the house. But the new one did it properly; he overtook her and died. People came and went. Harri, dressed in black, the squeals of her twins winding up the stairs. How many hearts beating in the house all at once? A complicated syncopation like the clocks in different rooms, the chimes and booms. Pull yourself together, darling. Best foot forward. Dennis the man of the house now, taken over the whole of the practice. The smell of tears. A reaching hand. Regaining edges, coming back to herself at last, they said, becoming bored. Canada, Canada. Now, don’t allow that. Stuff and nonsense. Tommy rot. Here we are now. Here.
They brought in the infant – big and strong, all fight and bluster, black hair like Dennis and already the eyebrows darkening. And bright brown eyes like conkers. A perfect baby stranger.
And then she was up. Finding her feet. A daily stroll in the garden where it was spring, it seemed; crocuses ached mauvely among the drifts of last year’s beech leaves, green sparked on twig tips, the last huddles of snowdrops hung their creamy heads.
She was allowed an hour a day with Edgar, supervised by Dennis. They resumed their habit of afternoon tea, Dennis up from the surgery carrying his smell of coal tar, bay rum on his cheeks, hands scrubbed red, knuckles like something from the butcher’s shop.
‘Watch him walk,’ Dennis said, one afternoon. ‘Come on, Eddie . . .’ He was on his knees on the hearthrug holding out his hands and the child managed to stagger a step or two before he tumbled back and sat grinning on the rug, flames flickering on his white woollen suit, his rosy cheeks.
‘He’ll be running around in no time,’ remarked Clem. ‘We shall have to get him some shoes.’ She switched her eyes to her needlework. She was hemming a handkerchief, a singularly useless occupation, attempting a picot edge. It was destined for Harri’s birthday.
‘Such a clever little s—’ Dennis stopped himself. ‘Er, fellow,’ he finished. Clem was grateful to him for refraining from the appellation. No warlike words near Edgar, please. Her skull’s interior was a house with an upstairs room and a basement; the basement locked with a long, serious key; Edgar and teatime and picot-edged handkerchiefs stayed upstairs. As long as that was the case, one was safe.
Dennis returned to his chair and his cup of tea. ‘You’re looking more chipper,’ he said, and Clem relaxed a little in the sun of his approval, realised how tightly her fingers had been pinching the needle.
‘I am chipper,’ she said with a little smile.
‘Good show,’ Dennis said. ‘Have a macaroon. We want a bit more flesh on those bones, please, Mrs Everett.’
Clem stretched out her hand, twisting it and admiring the thinness of her wrist.
‘You know I can’t stick macaroons,’ she said. ‘But I’ll take a piece of bread and butter.’
She began to get up, but Dennis rose instead. He put a finger of bread and butter on her plate, leaned in to kiss her head. ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘W
hy don’t we visit Harri on Sunday? About time you saw the hovel she chooses to live in. Perhaps you can help bring her to her senses.’
A spear of excitement shot through Clem, followed by a clutch of alarm. The limp buttery bread drooped between her fingers, and she returned it to her plate. She hadn’t been further than the garden for such an age. ‘Perhaps,’ she said and unthinkingly wiped her buttery fingers on the handkerchief.
‘That’s the ticket.’ Dennis flopped down in his armchair. ‘And look!’ he said. Edgar had balanced on his feet and managed two steps towards Clem before falling onto his bottom and reverting to the greater efficiency of hands and knees.
‘Oh, I’ve ruined it.’ She held up the greasy scrap of cotton lawn with its uneven edging. She could stitch skin together, it seemed, but not make a tidy handkerchief. ‘Please excuse me a moment,’ she said, and fled.
The cottage was in Malton, one of a row that slumped damply beside a boat yard, low by the river. The lane was untarmacked and the car jolted horribly over the ruts. The air smelled of the river, of cinders and cats; a bramble caught in the hem of Clem’s coat as they unlatched the rickety gate.
‘See what I mean?’ Dennis said. He rapped at the door and flakes fell from the rusty elfin knocker.
Harri opened the door. ‘You wretch,’ she said to Clem, hugging her, ‘you utter wretch, not coming for such an age.’
‘What ho, Harriet,’ said Dennis. ‘Foot in your mouth before we’re over the threshold. Top marks.’
Harri swooped Edgar from his arms and buried her face in him. ‘Oh, the divine odour of an infant!’
In the tiny hallway, Clem tried not to stare as she removed her jacket and hat, found room for them on the cluttered pegs. Harri, always a messy girl with a singular taste in clothes, looked odder than ever in a shapeless rayon thing – could you even call it a dress? A scarlet comb haphazardly stuck in her bundled hair. She’d grown stouter and there were no stays, nothing to hide her loose fleshy figure, from which Edgar was struggling to escape.
‘Now, you must meet the girls properly at last. Do step in.’ She swept her arm in an ironically grand gesture of welcome. The hot, poky room into which they followed her was a-scatter with skittles and piles of clothes. As they entered, a thin, dark-complexioned girl with a twin in each hand came through the opposite door.
‘Thanks, Mildred,’ Harri said. ‘This is my sister-in-law, Mrs Everett. And you know my brother – we’re still not speaking to him.’
‘Pleasure, I’m sure.’ Mildred flashed Dennis a confused look. She had a missing tooth in the front, the tip of her tongue probing the gap, the pits of old blemishes on her rather fine cheekbones.
‘Mildred helps with the girls and her mother does for me twice a week. Does a marvellous job, they both do.’
Mildred turned dark red. ‘Ta very much.’
‘And this is Edgar.’ Harri plonked him down on the floor.
By now, a girl had wrapped herself round each of Dennis’s legs. They were a sturdy pair, identical, with floating white hair, round faces and clear hazel eyes. One had a flaming rash on her cheeks. Harri squatted down to their level. ‘Now, this is your auntie Clem, who’s been so poorly. Say hello.’
‘’Lo,’ they both said, regarding Clem shyly from under white lashes.
‘This is Phyllis. Dennis, you may as well look at her rash since you’re here. And this is Claris.’
Claris was hugging Edgar roughly round his head.
‘Hello, girls,’ Clem said. ‘How on earth do you tell the difference?’
‘Not sure that I can,’ Harri said. ‘Mildred, could you get the tea, please? Do sit down, Clemmie, before you fall down.’
Clem moved a golliwog from the sofa before she sat, noticing the grubbiness of the old chintz and a low frieze of smudges on the walls and woodwork. The smell of smoke and grime was sweetened by that of a bowl of hyacinths, lolling their blue heads against the window. The room was bewilderingly strewn with books, paintings, jars, brushes, a vase of dead roses, twigs that dangled ribbons, apples and painted fir cones. A goldfish lurked sadly in a murky bowl.
Harri rescued Edgar from the twins, and sat with him on her lap. ‘Now then,’ she said. ‘Let’s have a proper look at this little chap.’
Edgar reached out for her amber beads. ‘Of course you shall have them, my darling.’ Harri unlooped them from her neck and let Edgar put them in his mouth. ‘Imagine – he’s teething on a prehistoric fly!’
One of the twins came and stood before Clem, regarding her curiously.
‘Have you been playing skittles?’ Clem asked.
‘Not skittles, farms,’ the child replied.
‘Rosacea,’ Dennis pronounced, letting the other twin go. ‘It’ll clear up. No treatment required.’
‘In the meantime it’ll help me tell them apart,’ said Harri. ‘No, of course I can tell: Claris is bigger and her eyebrows are thicker. And Phyllis is the menace, aren’t you?’ The rashless one supplied a demonic grin.
‘This is a pig,’ said Claris seriously, ‘and this is a bull, silly.’ She put two identical skittles on Clem’s lap.
‘Don’t be cheeky to your aunt,’ Dennis said.
‘Pretty name for an ailment! Rosacea. Is it catching?’
Dennis shook his head. He settled back into an armchair, regarded his sister through narrowed eyes. ‘You look seedy,’ he said.
‘Your considered medical diagnosis? Seedy? How much should one have to pay for that?’
Dennis ignored her. ‘Sleeping? Eating properly?’
‘He’s dropping off,’ Harri remarked; Edgar was leaning against her bosom, sucking rhythmically on an amber bead.
‘There’s no need to manage all alone, as you perfectly well know,’ Dennis said. ‘Stanley’s gone, his family would understand.’
‘I’m not alone,’ she said. ‘They’re marvellous.’
‘Move back to the Beeches, just for the time being,’ Dennis said. ‘Clem would love it now she’s better, wouldn’t you, old thing? Why not come back with us today?’
Clem stared at the faceless skittles on her lap.
Mildred rattled in with a trolley of tea and cake.
‘Shouldn’t you like that, Clem?’ Dennis insisted. ‘A bit of company. Bring you out of yourself. You’d do each other good.’
‘Could you take the twins out of the way?’ Harri said, and Mildred took one in each hand down the passage to the kitchen. ‘They’ll have the trolley over,’ Harri explained. Edgar was asleep on her lap now, clear drool spilling from his open mouth.
‘Out of myself? What a ridiculous expression,’ Clem said. ‘Harri should live wherever she chooses.’
‘See,’ said Harri.
‘You can hardly think this a suitable place to bring up children.’
‘I’ve managed up to now!’ said Harri. ‘And people do, they manage in places worse than this.’
‘Not people like us.’
‘Dennis!’ shrieked Harri, waking Edgar, who looked around with big startled eyes. ‘People like us! Great heavens above, if your patients could hear you!’
‘You know perfectly well what I mean.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with it,’ Clem said. ‘It’s . . . quaint.’
‘Well, you’re hardly in a position to judge,’ Dennis said.
Harri snorted and Clem gaped at him. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Dennis rubbed his chin; he did have the grace to look abashed. ‘I only mean you haven’t been yourself, old thing. Don’t take on.’ He braved the eyes of the two women for a moment. ‘Look here, Harri, see sense. There’s ample room at the Beeches and I don’t mean for ever. This damp – not good for their chests.’
‘Their chests are perfectly splendid, thank you,’ said Harri. ‘The whole world doesn’t revolve around the Beeches, you know!’ She turned to Clem. ‘How do you stick him?’
Edgar wriggled down and staggered away.
‘Now, you simply must try the cake,’ she said. ‘Sta
n’s ma invented it; it was his favourite.’ She removed the skittles from Clem’s lap and replaced them with a wedge of yellow cake on a cracked plate. ‘Guess the secret ingredient? Make yourself useful, Dennis, and pour the tea – if that’s not beneath you.’
‘Of course I’d rather no one suffered poor conditions,’ he said as he stooped over the trolley.
‘Well, how very civilised of you,’ Harri said. ‘You’ll be joining the Fabians next.’
Scowling, Dennis reached for his tea.
Clem lifted the damp, heavy slab of cake to her mouth. It was sticky and so sweet it made her teeth ache.
‘Marzipan?’ she said.
‘Isn’t it killing? She drops bits of it in the mix. One can see the creativity in the family. Look at that darling stool.’ Clem regarded the stubby three-legged object. ‘We had a plan, you know, for after the war: Stan was to make furniture – stools and little tables and so on – and I was to decorate them.’
‘God almighty,’ said Dennis. ‘And then you’d go hawking them from a gypsy caravan, I suppose?’
Clem put down her plate and stood, feeling a sudden longing to be outside, away from them.
‘We shall all take a stroll, presently,’ said Dennis.
‘Clem?’ Harri caught her hand. ‘Are you quite all right, you look frightfully—’
‘A breath of air.’ Clem plucked her hand from Harri’s and made for the door. She put on her jacket, repositioned her hat with its stupid curving ostrich feather. Old hat, she thought, and almost laughed. Dennis stood, and she managed to look him in the face, almost to meet his eyes in a normal manner. ‘Really, I’ll only be—’
‘But, darling . . .’ Dennis began.
‘We’ll come and find you,’ said Harri.
‘I’m not sure she should be out all alone, not yet.’
‘Who’s she, the cat’s mother? Bolt, Clem, bolt!’ Harri pushed Clem out of the door and stood barring it with her hands on her hips.
‘Harriet! You’re behaving like a chimney sweep!’ came Dennis’s voice.
Clem fled.
Blasted Things Page 5