So, Walter was staring, Lydia was crying, Vivienne and Kate were listening, and then Walter was gone.
Lydia stayed on the beach with the twins while Kate went to search the dunes; Vivienne made her way to the cliff. She remembered running, not fast, and yet her chest hurt and her breath whined. As she approached the cliff she scanned its ledges and crannies, but Walter was nowhere to be seen. It was the colour that made her look to the sea, the red shirt billowing in the waves, his little body riding towards the rocks. She ran so hard, across the sand into the water, and then she was swimming, arms thrashing the foam, reaching him before he hit the rocks. Beautiful child, eyes closed, body so limp. Vivienne had never wanted to see a dead person.
She brought him in, the little wet body against her own. His lifeless limbs dangled freely and she tried to fold them in her arms. By the time she reached the shore Kate was there, silently waiting, her grief a thin taut wire you dared not touch. She wanted to be alone with her son. Vivienne hesitated, but Kate insisted she leave. As Vivienne walked away she heard Kate say there could be no worse death than drowning.
‘I will have to grieve for his terror as well as my loss,’ she said.
Vivienne took the path up the cliff, glancing back every few seconds to Kate and the dead child knotted together on the sand. She climbed to the summit where she found Walter’s sandals and sunhat weighted down with stones: he had always been careful like that.
Vivienne brought the clothes to Kate.
‘They were up there.’
Kate gazed up at the cliff and then to the water. She smiled and kissed the child in her arms. ‘He always wanted to fly,’ she said quietly. ‘He must have thought he could.’
Now, on the same beach, the cliff ahead, Kate turned to Vivienne. ‘It was a good death,’ she said. ‘Walter had his moment of joy.’
Vivienne put an arm around her friend and the two women turned away from the cliff and walked back towards the house.
‘Do you see much of Lydia these days?’ Vivienne asked.
‘Every few months I suppose. To be honest, even though she used to visit quite often, we shared little in common; she was really Elizabeth’s friend.’
‘I guess that’s what made the affair with Adrian so untenable. Your best friend’s husband – it was a bit much!’
‘And still is.’
Vivienne stopped. ‘You’re not saying that Lydia and Adrian are still together?’ Kate nodded. ‘After all these years?’ Kate nodded again. ‘And David? The affair must be twenty years old, what does David think?’
‘I guess he’s used to it by now.’
‘You astound me. I thought they finished years ago, not long after that dreadful day at the races.’
Kate shook her head and turned away. Unlike Vivienne, Kate knew that it could be easier to allow a relationship to persist rather than suffer the effort of extrication, but she would never have said this to Vivienne who would have reduced it to a tidy pile of moral inconsistencies.
‘I can’t imagine there’d be much joy in it for Lydia,’ Vivienne said. ‘Adrian’s never been a considerate man, and as for constancy, he’d see that as working against his own better interests.’
FIVE
Lydia Branch had been trying to contact Adrian since eight o’clock that morning; it was now after two, and still he wasn’t available. Lunch, his secretary said, Mr Dadswell was still at lunch. With his project manager. Yes, she had given Adrian her messages, but Mrs Branch must understand that with the opening of Eden Park only a week away he was run off his feet. Lydia resented the woman’s patronising tone – as if she needed to be reminded how busy Adrian was.
She hung up without bothering to leave another message. Adrian’s lack of consideration – she refused to think of it as neglect – invariably resulted in Lydia’s feeling compromised with people who simply should not matter. Run off his feet indeed! If only Lydia could be sure that was all he was doing with his project manager. Doreen would know, Doreen was one of those secretaries who knew everything, but Doreen would never betray Adrian. She was utterly devoted to him, and as she would never be one of his discarded lovers, being happily widowed and a good twenty years older than he, she would remain devoted. Lydia had never liked her, not from that very first day about fifteen years ago when Lydia, lachrymose and blotchy, had stormed out of Adrian’s office and banged into the new secretary returning from lunch. Doreen saw too much, she was that type.
The grandfather clock in the hall struck half past two; Lydia winced, the twins would be home in just over an hour and she knew she couldn’t be bothered with them. She went into her dressing room and tidied her makeup and hair, changed her shoes, freshened her perfume, collected keys and bag and went downstairs. Joyce was in the kitchen doing the silver; as Lydia passed she called out she wouldn’t be long and that the children were to have the Boston bun for afternoon tea. Joyce, who was of the same school as Doreen and knew too much, did not even raise her head. Adrian’s fault again for placing her in such an invidious position, Adrian, who at the same time as he gilded her life with pleasure made her feel worn out, secondhand.
Lydia left the house by the front door and stood for a moment beneath the porte-cochère. She was more angry than upset, although the outcome – a pounding head and a stomach clogged with wire – was much the same. She stood and collected herself, the great white house behind her, the dark blue Corniche in front.
Lydia’s appearance was just right – for the mansion, the Corniche, the Astro-Turf tennis court, the pool and the lush, terraced garden. Exactly right. She was considered an attractive woman who was ageing well, indeed, at forty-four she looked better than ever, probably because she was slimmer than ever – and more miserable, but no one need know about that. Her clothes were always à la mode without being faddish and, being quite tall, Lydia was always elegant. Today she wore cream silk trousers with an apricot print blouse which was drawn in at the waist by a wide belt. Her hair rested on her shoulders, straight and blonde with paler highlights and a wispy fringe; now she flicked her head enjoying the caress of hair on bare skin. Good skin, fine-grained and smooth, with a light tan to set off the hair and the blue eyes. The nose and mouth were her best features: both perfectly symmetrical, clearly engraved curves of exactly the correct size. Lydia’s was the face in the women’s magazines and she was proud of it.
She opened the car door and got in quickly, feeling, as always, a little exposed. David insisted the Rolls be parked in front; he said it set off the house nicely. In truth, he was proud of the car and wanted it seen. This was, Lydia knew, one of the last vestiges of David’s very ordinary middle-class background, and although correct form would conceal the Rolls in the garage she let David have this one small vanity. As she guided the car around the drive to the street desperate to be away from the house and telephone, she wondered where she would go. She wanted to pass some gentle time, a couple of hours with Adrian out of her mind. She was exhausted with wanting him and ransacked by grievances, yet a life without him would be a barren and brittle affair. Besides, she could not give him up, no one could.
Except Elizabeth. Often in recent months Lydia had thought of her old friend, and now, as she found herself driving in the direction of the Dadswell home, she knew that if she could choose a confidante – and with the current state of play, she desperately needed one – it would be Elizabeth. Years ago, Lydia had talked to Kate and Vivienne, but Kate was a flighty listener and Vivienne so proper, and besides, in the past few years both had become such close friends of Elizabeth that to talk to either was now out of the question. Elizabeth had always been an uncanny listener, unfurling the mess of problems even as you spoke, so, by the time you were finished she was able to present the situation clearly: she would have ordered the mess, settled your nerves and removed the sense of impending doom that had started you talking in the first place.
But to speak with Elizabeth was impossible, there had been no contact with her for years. Lydia had tried to
keep up some semblance of friendship after the fracas at the races, particularly as Lydia’s version of events pronounced both her and Adrian innocent, but the attempt was soon modified by Lydia’s capitulation to guilt, and the friendship gradually came to an end. These days they had few friends in common and those they did deliberately kept them apart. Adrian never mentioned his ex-wife, and although Elizabeth would be at the opening of Eden Park, so too, would thousands of other people. Except across a crowded distance, the likelihood of Lydia’s seeing her was small.
Although Elizabeth must be reconciled to the breakdown of her marriage by now; after all, it had been a good ten years. Besides, how happy could she have been as Adrian’s wife anyway? There’d been Ginnie’s problems too. But never had she complained, never in all the years of her marriage had Lydia heard Elizabeth utter one word against Adrian, one word against the child – and there had been ample opportunity. In those days Lydia had spent almost as much time at the Dadswell home as she did at her own. In addition to the numerous dinners and barbecues that brought the Dadswell and Branch families together, there were literally hundreds of times when, with a pot of fresh coffee on the stove, Lydia and Elizabeth would chat for hours about all manner of things, but never Adrian, never the Dadswell marriage.
Except once, and then it was not directly about Adrian or the marriage and neither were Elizabeth’s comments made specifically to Lydia. It had been about fifteen years ago, at a birthday party for Ginnie, Ginnie’s second birthday although her very first party. Elizabeth hadn’t thought it appropriate to have a party the previous year for, apart from the Branch children and Paulé and Oliver Warby’s James, there had been no one else to ask. But now, with her special mother and babies group, all that had changed.
She made out the list: Penelope Roscoe and Sam, Lauren Warneke and Sherrie, Kate and Walter, Vivienne Sweet whom Elizabeth had met through Kate, Lydia with Kerri and Timothy – this was well before the twins were born – Paulé Warby and little James. ‘Do you think everyone will mix?’ Elizabeth had asked Lydia, and Lydia had assured her they would; after all, they were there for the children.
The guests arrived at eleven dressed in their best. They made such an odd assortment that Lydia was pleased she had spoken with her two beforehand and made them promise to behave, particularly Kerri who was five and inclined to be outspoken. Elizabeth had gone to such a lot of trouble. There was pin the tail on the donkey, blind man’s buff and an easter egg hunt with an extra big easter egg for Walter because his birthday, his third, had not long passed; and there was pass the parcel with paper everywhere and much tearing and throwing of paper balls. The party food was a delight: hundreds of thousands on bread and butter, chocolate frogs in a pond of green jelly, marshmallows with faces made from Smarties and licorice pieces, lamingtons, and an ice-cream cake in the shape of a house. At the end of it all the mothers pronounced themselves full and exhausted and the children fell asleep; except for Walter who rarely slept and Kerri who said she was too big and climbed into her mother’s lap and was soon asleep too.
There is a certain atmosphere, a certain closeness when surrounded by sleeping children. Voices are hushed, bodies lean towards one another in an effort to hear: there is an intimacy where there might otherwise be none. And so it was on that day, when, surrounded by sleeping children, Lydia found herself asking Kate how she managed without a husband to help her. In retrospect she was shocked at herself, such a personal question to a total stranger. But Kate had not been in the least perturbed.
‘But are they such a help, these husbands?’ She had asked.
‘Andrew certainly is,’ Penny Roscoe said. ‘And not just with the children and household duties. It’s what he gives me, his support and interest.’
‘I’d say the Roscoe marriage is very much an exception,’ Kate said. ‘What about the rest of you?’
The silence was not long, just long enough to be noticed, then mumblings of how no marriage is perfect, and all men have their little ways, and you have to take the good with the bad. Kate accused them of hiding behind platitudes, Vivienne advised her to tread gently, and Elizabeth, sweet unflappable Elizabeth, told Vivienne that Kate should be allowed to speak, after all, the conversation had come about because of a question directed to her. So Kate had her say, and an elegant piece it was, yet the outcome was all wrong – or so it had seemed to Lydia. Kate was suggesting that marriages were maintained, their marriages were maintained, by pretence, ignorance and a dreadful all-consuming desire for normality.
‘I can’t tell you how often I sit with my married girlfriends and hear them complain about their husbands,’ Kate said. ‘They all say how Fred or Tom or Harry seems uninterested in them, how he doesn’t notice their new hairstyle, the clean house, the trouble taken over the evening meal; how he never discusses anything of importance with them – one of my friends describes the conversations she has with her husband as marginally less interesting than a shopping list – how he’s always too tired to talk or go to a film, how even the children seem too much for him. Each of them describes a litany of neglect, each shows in the most heart-rending way how her husband takes her for granted; each talks about how happy and energetic her husband is when he’s with his mates and how bored and lethargic when there’s only the family around. And each concludes with a platitude: “Things could be worse”, “At least he doesn’t beat me”, “Oh well, boys will be boys”, and each says she knows he loves her. “How do you know?” I ask. “He ignores you, he doesn’t notice what you do for him and the children, he seems bored with you, how do you know he loves you?” And my friends answer that they just do.’
‘And it’s true,’ Lauren Warneke said, ‘you do just know.’
‘Of course you do,’ said Lydia.
And then Elizabeth was speaking – private, uncomplaining Elizabeth. ‘You don’t. If he doesn’t show it, if he can’t explain it, if he treats you no differently to the washing machine or the vacuum cleaner, you can’t say he loves you. You might want him to love you, might pretend that his silence, his neglect, his treating you like a machine is love, but it’s not. It’s silence, it’s neglect and it’s treating you like a machine. You can’t assume love when there’s no sign of it, nor enjoyment or pleasure when all there is is habit and convenience. And while you can pretend all you like, it won’t make him love you, won’t even make him notice you, all it does is preserve the marriage and avoid scenes. Although for most of us that seems to be enough. For most women the alternatives to marriage are far worse than an unhappy marriage.’ She shrugged an apology to Kate and Vivienne. ‘Marriage gives women like me something where otherwise there would be nothing.’
‘You were an artist once,’ Vivienne said.
‘Pipe dreams, my art was a fantasy. No one would have taken me seriously.’
‘Do they take you seriously now?’
‘As a mother, yes. As wife to Adrian, probably, but only because I behave well, don’t make scenes. Men don’t like scenes, men don’t like to be caught out.’ Lydia was feeling distinctly uncomfortable, but Elizabeth was taking no notice of her, rather she seemed to be talking to Kate and Vivienne. ‘Men like pretence because they want everything to be just right. Normal.’ And she went on to speak about Janine, a teacher from art school, a woman of thirty-five who had been married for ten years. ‘Married to John, a minister of the church and a child psychologist who Janine guessed was having an affair with one of his patients, or to be more accurate, the mother of one of his patients. Time and again she confronted him and on each occasion he denied it. She begged him to admit to the affair so at least they could work out their problems, work together to save the marriage. But still he denied everything. This went on for months. After a while John counteracted the accusations with one of his own: Janine was being paranoid, he said, she needed professional help. Eventually, believing her husband could not possibly lie to her, and certainly not for months on end, she thought she must be a little crazy and agreed to see a psychiatris
t.
‘The week she was to see the doctor John was away at a conference. Janine was nervous about the appointment, wanted reassurance, so rang the hotel where he was staying. She gave her husband’s name and said he was part of the conference group. The clerk assured her there was no conference at the hotel that week, but John’s name was listed and he would put her through to his room. A woman answered, Janine heard her call out to John. When John took the phone he explained that a few of the delegates had come to his room for discussion of some of the issues raised in the day’s proceedings. He asked about Janine’s week and wished her well for the appointment, advising her to be totally frank with the doctor.
‘After she hung up Janine went to the car. An hour later she was at the hotel. She inquired at the desk and went directly to John’s room. She knocked, moments later her husband opened the door dressed only in a dressing gown. There was a woman inside similarly attired. John told Janine that the woman, one of the delegates, was consulting him over a serious problem with her son; she was very upset, he said, and Janine’s intrusion, her insane jealousy, would undo any good achieved thus far. But there is no conference, Janine said, there are no delegates; who is this woman? It is as I told you, John said, she is consulting with me, she is a patient of mine. You’re paranoid, he said, insane, he said, she’s my patient, he said, pointing to the woman in the dressing gown, in his hotel room at eleven o’clock at night.
‘Men don’t like to be questioned,’ Elizabeth said, ‘and they don’t like to be found out. They’re happy with the pretence.’
Vivienne and Kate waited for one of the married women to speak. Lydia was very quiet, she wanted none of this conversation. It was Lauren who spoke.
Gracious Living Page 13