‘Nice sweater,’ he says.
‘It’s my best one.’ She grins. ‘Cashmere, got it for Christmas last year. Feel.’ She holds out her arm and he touches the soft sleeve.
‘Mmmm.’ They are both in white. He sees them for a moment as a stranger might, fair and dark, an attractive couple. ‘Trouble is it’s white and because it’s cashmere I’m afraid to wash it.’ She giggles. ‘Look, it’s a bit grubby here …’ She draws attention to the wrist and he wishes she hadn’t, it doesn’t look grubby, he doesn’t need to know it’s grubby. Picks up his wine and takes a swallow, at least that tastes clean.
‘So, tell me about yourself.’ Lisa smiles at him over the rim of her glass. She picks up a fat green olive and bites into it. Her teeth are very white and small, almost like milk teeth. Finds he’s not revolted by the sight of her nibbling the olive. But what to tell? No way is he dredging up all that psychobabble stuff, childhood trauma, all that. And Christ knows he’ll not mention the worst. Four years inside. Oh yes, just the sort of thing to make a good impression on a girl.
‘Nothing much to tell.’ He should have concocted something, what has he said already? That’s he’s a writer.
‘Go on.’
‘You first. Tell me about you.’ Clever Tony to slide out of it like that. And she does, she tells him.
‘I’m second. My big sister Judy, she’s the clever one really. Cambridge – English and Philosophy. Works for the Open University, got two kids, she loves kids, two girls, she’s going to keep on till she’s got a boy. Me, I don’t know, don’t know about kids yet …’ She talks on, parents, brother-in-law, university, work and while she talks he watches her mouth and does half listen, rolls a fag, eats an olive or two, good olives marinaded in garlic and lemon. Have to try that, wonders if Constance Benson likes olives, little twang of excitement knowing soon he’ll be there. Lisa will give him directions and then he’ll be away. Tomorrow. Why not? But first there is tonight. Lisa’s tale is ordinary and pleasant, peppered with anecdotes in which she says or does something daft, is the butt of some joke. Self-effacing. She can certainly talk. How it must be to have a past that is such an open book.
A tall woman comes down the stairs, hair falling like a blackbird’s wings beside her face. Red mouth. Not his mother, of course it’s fucking not, her hair will be white now if she’s even still alive … funny to think he doesn’t know if she’s alive or dead, having severed contact will never know. And anyway what would she be doing in a trendy West End wine bar on a wet Thursday night?
Lisa giggles at something she’s just said. Pulls himself back, nods, tops up her glass. The band starts an arrangement of ‘Ain’t Misbehaving’. ‘Love this.’ She leans forward, elbows on the table, chin cupped between her palms, rapt, like a child listening to a story, except that the way she is sitting, her elbows push her breasts together. His cock twitches and he feels the flush of guilt that he still feels, that is ingrained in him deep as his response to his own name. She made him fear sex and she is a bitch for that. Can’t stand to hear piano, all right this jazz piano, though it makes him uneasy. It’s classical piano, the endless Chopin, Debussy, Tchaikovsky, played always a bit too fast, a bit too hard, played furiously at night when he was in his bed trying to sleep or read a book. Anger returns to him if he lets himself remember that, shouldn’t let himself remember that, won’t. But rage almost, even here in the safe bright cellar with this safe bright open book for company. She meets his eye. ‘Aren’t they great?’ One by one he straightens out his clenched fingers. ‘Great,’ he agrees.
Rolls another cigarette, his hands are trembling. The deep … what is it? … hypocrisy of the fucking woman. Yes, he’s talked it through with a shrink, yes, all very interesting, very illuminating, any idiot could see what was the matter with him, it’s how to put it right that is the problem. That’s why he needs Patrick. Patrick. Even the name calms him a bit. Like, almost like, love.
Concentrate on this sign who is smiling and saying something else. Concentrate, Tony. You couldn’t call her beautiful. Pretty, sweet, attractive, touching, sexy in a kitten way not a cat way not like … better if she’d had him aborted. Better if she’d had him adopted. Better anything than to give up a career as a concert pianist and stay at home, bitterly bringing up baby, watching the glitter and glamour roll further away, further and further out of reach, while the little brat grows fatter and messier, staggering, dribbling, crapping. Repulsive.
‘Yes?’ Lisa tilts the bottle towards him. He nods. Her fingernails are short and natural. Good. Fingers on him. No. Feels sick when an erection starts. Not right. She made him like that. She took the piss whenever he got stiff, far back as he remembers, she slapped him, called him dirty, filthy, looked hate at him if ever his hand strayed anywhere near. She hated that part of him and she made him ashamed, more than ashamed, made him frightened, made him hate it, too. Could have killed her. Should have, maybe, and the fury of it is still there, a deep scorch mark inside.
What if he said to Lisa with her blue eyes and her baby teeth: ‘Hey, I’ll tell you about my childhood. One time, I was only a little kid, maybe five, already afraid of touch, afraid especially of the feelings in my little prick, the way it sometimes got stiff. Scared, really scared of that feeling, not understanding what it meant only knowing it was something awful, something good people didn’t have. The night I woke up feeling sick. I never went to my mother’s room at night – not allowed. You weren’t allowed to sit on the bed, the cover was slippy blue like ice. I was sick on the landing and couldn’t clean it up myself. Tried to clean it with toilet paper but it got worse and worse, bits everywhere. Terrible stink and warm slime on my fingers that made me sick again. Must have gone to her room and knocked. No answer. Thought I heard her voice. Thought I heard her say, “Come in.” Opened the door and stood there … I did not know what … wet myself. Hot, heavy wet dragging my pyjamas down. Ran. Ran to the telephone to call the police. I knew all about 999 for the police. Because a man was killing her. He was on top of her squashing and squashing. His arse is what I saw, big hairy arse with a deep black crack and her face all twisted, eyes shut, mouth open, voice coming out all wrong. The lady on the phone asked what service I required and I said police that someone was killing Mummy but then suddenly she was there beside me, snatched the phone and laughing in her pretend way, not even smiling, said sorry, hair everywhere, face when she looked at me … repulsed. That’s what it was. She was repulsed by me. Wet and stinking. It was the man who cleaned me up, washed me, found clean pyjamas. That man had a nice face and I wondered if he was my father. Never saw him again. Could have killed her then if I’d been bigger. After that I would lie awake at night wishing to kill her, to get on top of her and squash her dead like I thought the man was killing her. And then I’d have nightmares that she’d died. And who could I call for? Not that I ever could have called for her.’
What would you think if I told you that, Lisa? Would you giggle, wrinkle up your pretty nose and think it kind of cute? Would you feel sorry for me and say you understood? But it would be a lie. You could not understand, with your nice little life, with your trustfulness. Christ, don’t look into my eyes like that, blue eyes. You don’t know me. Nobody does. I could wring that white white neck.
Tony gets up, jolts the table, knocks over the wine bottle, pushes his way through the crammed tables to the Gents’. Shuts himself in a cubicle just to be alone. To let his face slip, jaws open in a silent scream. Presses the heels of his hands into his temples and the sound he makes is a small boy’s moan of terror. Stands for a moment, touching nothing, fastidious even in his terror, waiting for it to pass. He’s damp still from the rain, with sweat, the clammy, smoky air of the cellar slick on his skin. Unbolts the door and washes his hands with cold water and slimy liquid soap that makes him shudder, dries them in the screaming hot air of a machine.
Wants home. Could leg it, just go, leave Lisa to the jazz. Need never see her again. She’d get over it, narrow escape tho
ugh she’d never know it. Always wonder what happened. Keep ’em guessing, Tone, oh no no no it’s sick that’s what it is, makes him feel sick … Dirty boy, you dirty repellent boy. Rush of applause, a guy pushes in through the door. Tony leaves. This is a test. You must be strong. If you run now you will forfeit the information you need. It’s like one of those fucking fairy stories or something. Except it’s not the princess he wants to win, it’s freedom from the princess. There she is, sitting in the smoke, fair hair just drying all fluffy, looking about her, a bit anxious now. But she is not the prize, she is the test he has to pass. All he has to do is charm her and get her to give him the key. Not try to screw her, not hurt her. That would be his downfall. Just ask her the way then he’ll be off. That’s it. OK? Pushes back between the tables and sits down.
‘You all right?’
‘Fine.’ He forces a smile.
‘Do we need another bottle?’ She’s shared the last of the wine between their glasses. Doesn’t know. Yes. No. But what else? It’s all right for a bit longer. Because what when they’re out of here? It’s warm here, quite safe. The band having a break. Might as well be here as elsewhere. Reaches for his wallet.
‘My shout,’ she says. She gets up and he watches her go to the bar. Tight black jeans. Hips slim as a boy’s – but more curved than a boy’s. Other men watch her, too. Not that he’s any right to be proud. Rolls another fag.
‘You’re very mysterious,’ she says as she sits down again. She pours the wine. He smiles a mysterious smile.
‘Go on,’ she urges, ‘tell me something about you. Star sign or something. No, let me guess.’ She regards him thoughtfully, the tip of her pink tongue nipped between her lips. ‘Gemini? Libra?’
He shakes his head.
‘Aquarius?’
He sips his wine.
She laughs. ‘I give up. What?’
‘Don’t believe in that crap.’
‘Something else then. What kind of music do you like?’
‘You’ve got lovely eyes,’ he says. Just the perfect thing to say.
She shakes her head. ‘I can see you’re going to drive me mad,’ she says.
Quarter to midnight on the shivery street. The rain has stopped but everything is wet and water gurgles in the gutters. His ears are full of a rushing sound – from the loud music maybe, from having to concentrate on Lisa’s soft voice through it. Hasn’t been in the West End this time of night for … Christ knows. Somehow couldn’t bring the subject round to Benson in the wine bar, too much noise and she got on to the subject of writing, how she wants to write a book, and it took all his wits to appear in the know. Write a book? Aren’t there enough of the fuckers already? Beggars in doorways. Keeps his eyes averted, been there, done that. Lisa slips her arm through his. Doesn’t mind, a friendly arm only, firm inside the furry coat. ‘It’s been a really nice evening,’ she says.
‘Yes.’
‘Think I’m a bit pissed.’ She looks up at him, a teasing sideways look, ‘only a bit.’
So now, if he wasn’t Tony, what would happen? They would make another date. Presumably this counts as a date. They would both go off home, looking forward to next time. Or would she want it now, tonight, might she invite him back for coffee and kiss him while the kettle boils, take him to her bed, let him see and feel her naked skin? Would she do that? Stupid stupid girl when there are such monsters about. Tony is beyond it now but knows the danger. Sex. That is what it is about, sex or a promise, or sex and a promise or sex as a promise.
They have reached the tube station. They stop. ‘Well …’ she says. ‘I’d better find a cab.’ He doesn’t look down but he can feel her eyes on his face. The top of her head comes only just above his shoulder, she’s smaller than he thought and slight in that big coat. The thing that tightens his chest is almost tenderness, but tenderness shrivelled immediately by a blast of anger. Because he can’t.
‘I’m … going away for a bit,’ he blurts, ‘if not I’d …’ What, what would he do?
‘Where?’ Her voice is small, a sinking in it as if she’s disappointed.
‘Norfolk,’ he says.
‘Well, that’s not the end of the world!’
Somehow she is in front of him now, somehow she has got his arms to go round her back. Her hair still smells – through the cling of smoke – faintly of almonds. It’s like hugging a toy, the thick fake fur quite safe. Her arms tighten round his back. He has an idea.
‘I’m going to see Constance Benson … in connection with, you know …’
‘Your book? Lucky you. She’s wonderful.’
He nods his face against her hair.
‘Trouble is, I’m not sure where I put the address, the directions …’
‘Driving?’
‘Train.’
‘But it’s miles from any station – the back of beyond. Can’t think what the nearest station … King’s Lynn?’
‘Did you say you’d been there?’
‘Give us a minute,’ she says. She lets him go and fishes in her bag for a notebook and pen. ‘Turn round.’ She leans the notebook against his back and scribbles something. ‘There. Directions from the village anyway.’ She comes round in front of him again, tears the page from her notebook and gives it to him. He puts it in his inside pocket. She waits for his arms again and he does it, grateful, relieved he’s got what he wants, he gives her a hug.
‘Ring me when you get back?’ she asks. And then, ‘Oh no!’
‘What?’
‘I’ve left my flowers … I put them down by the table … oh no …’
‘I’ll get you some more,’ he says into her hair, ‘next time.’
She’s quiet for a minute. Can he feel her heart or is it his? ‘So there is going to be a next time?’ she mumbles against his shoulder. ‘I thought …’
‘Next time,’ he repeats, a sinking in his heart. A promise made and he hates to break promises, that’s why he hardly makes them. Before he knows what’s happened she’s reached up and kissed him lightly on the lips. Soft brush of dry lips, barely warm, a pause when he could have kissed back, kissed properly, but didn’t. She must have been on tiptoes, sinks down again. An empty cab comes round the bend. She leaps out, hand up, and it stops. Likes the way she did that, assertive, confident. As the taxi carries her away her fingers might have gone to her lips, she might have blown a kiss.
On the tube he takes out the scrap of paper. There’s an address and instructions, go through Wisborough, past shop and straight down unmade-up road by sea, about one and a half miles. PS I fancy you! the exclamation mark fat as a balloon with a flower for the dot. So girly. So much the sort of thing his wife the nurse would do. Folds the note carefully and puts it in the breast pocket of his shirt. So. That is done, the test is passed and he is on his way. Need never see her again. Shuts his eyes. Thanks, mate, he mouths.
TWENTY-FIVE
On the 1st of May Connie rose with the sun. It was her sixteenth birthday. She pulled a sweater over her nightdress and tiptoed down the stairs of the still slumbering house. The clock in the hall tick-tutted, not five o’clock yet. She crept past the sleeping dog and slid her feet into Sacha’s Wellingtons, cool and gritty inside to her bare feet. She opened the door and stepped outside. It had rained overnight and the world was clean rinsed for her, the bird-song in the shadowy trees rose to a crescendo as she stepped on to the soaking lawn and her heart lifted as if it too would sing.
She liked her birthday being on the 1st of May, a special day. Her mother used to tell her the story of how she had woken with labour pains at dawn on that day, how she had crept up and out and walked in the garden while father was still asleep, holding her hands around her big hard belly and talking to the baby that moved in there, the soon-to-be-born stranger. And when her mother had told her that Connie had felt that she almost remembered it, absurd of course, how could she? But it would have been just such a morning.
Connie pressed a hand on to the flat space where her womb was. Unbelievable tha
t a child could ever grow in there. We nearly called you May, Mother used to tell her every year, but Father thought it too indefinite. May? Like a question. So they christened her Constance May. Constance is definite, don’t you think? And it suits you. Constance would nod but privately wished she had been May, a taller girl, fairer, less serious, less constant. Only now, now that everything had changed, she wondered if she was different. She wondered if she knew herself at all.
She walked through the garden to the trees which were alive with the rustle and song of birds. She stopped and looked back at the house. The windows flashed in the rising sun. From the open door a trail of her own green boot marks was printed on the silvered lawn. This is my home, she thought. And I am Constance but not constant. I am more May? Patrick and Sacha are – not quite my family but my people now. What was the feeling that flooded her at that thought? Not sadness or loss or joy. Not even regret or gratitude. It was more a sort of hunger, but not a hunger for food or anything she could imagine.
She walked on between the beech trees. Up through the wood, spellbound by the stillness of it. Filaments of spider’s web spun between the trees broke across her face. She stopped in a clearing beneath a great beech, her favourite tree. She looked up at its smooth grey trunk. There was a hole for an owl and dark tracings, too, that looked, if you wanted them to, like eyes. She put her face against the bark, not as smooth to touch as you’d think, pleasingly rough and cool. The sensation of the tree-trunk against her forehead and the flat of her palms filled her with calm. She stood for several moments like that pressing against the tree, in a daze or reverie, no particular thought in her head. And then she heard Patrick’s voice: ‘Conn-ie, Co-on …’
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