“I have seen it, darling. It’s a famous beach.”
“No, you should have seen it! Miles and miles of empty sand. Miles and miles of sky. Thousands and thousands of birds settling on the marshes at sunset. It was like being in a movie.”
“It was in a movie,” said Mrs. Fisher. “That one with Gwyneth Paltrow.”
As soon as Maddy had Imo on her own she said, “Let’s walk down by the river.”
“Oh, it’s like that, is it?”
The river walk was their favorite place for the exchange of secrets. A cinder track led from the side of their house and followed the bends of the river into open countryside. There were always a few walkers out with their dogs, rarely more than two or three, so the path felt both safe and private.
The river was full, its dull brown water flowing fast after recent rains. Two swans stood disapprovingly on the far bank, watching them go by. The evening light lit the underside of the low cloud on the horizon. The fields were turning the color of straw.
Maddy wanted to tell Imo how happy she was, how even with the day ending and the year fading she felt as if a new world was being born. Nothing had happened between her and Joe, just a few looks, a few words, but he was there, in the very near future, waiting for her.
But Imo had her own secrets to tell.
“Alex and me have decided it would be best if we gave each other some space. The truth is I knew it was never going to be serious with him.”
“No, you didn’t. You’ve just forgotten.”
“What have I forgotten?”
“You said Alex wasn’t like the others, he was more quiet and real. You said you were tired of all the clubbing and Alex was like a grown-up.”
“Did I?” Imo seemed genuinely surprised. “Well, anyway, maybe I’m not quite ready to grow up yet. I’m only twenty. And I’ve met someone else.”
“I knew it! So who is he?”
“He’s no one you know, and it’s early days still. But he’s amazingly gorgeous and a bit on the wild side and unpredictable and—oh, so sexy. He’s just so sexy.”
“And single? And into you?”
“How do I know? He’s not married, that’s for sure, but I doubt if he’s alone any more than he wants to be.”
“What’s his name?”
“Leo.”
Maddy knew as soon as she heard the name.
“He’s not Leo Finnigan, is he?”
“Yes. How do you know?”
“I’ve met him. His brother Joe’s in the year above me.”
“You’ve met him?”
“He and Joe were in the shop. He asked if I was for sale.”
“That’s Leo. He’s so bad.”
“How far have you got with him?”
“He was at this party in Norfolk. He flirted with me outrageously all weekend. But of course I had Alex dangling around. Now that’s all sorted out I can stop being Miss Virtuous. Though I think it did rather turn him on.”
“Listen, Imo. If I tell you something—”
But Imo wasn’t done with her own story yet.
“I’ve got two weeks before I go back to college. So however bad he is, he can’t break my heart too much, can he? You know he’s got his own flat, on the High Street?”
“That’s right.” Joe had said. “He’s got his own flat.”
“Up above Caffè Nero. So convenient, darling.”
“But why doesn’t he live at home?”
“He’s twenty-two, Mad. He’s busy applying for jobs and stuff. He was going crazy living at home. So Mummy darling, who dotes on him, decided to rent him his own flat so he doesn’t go and live in big bad London and never see her again.”
“That’s why they were buying furniture.”
“Leo says all he needs is a fridge for the booze and a bed for the babes. He’s tremendously un-PC. Just as well. I’ve only got two weeks.”
“Can I tell you my secret now?”
“I thought we were talking about me and Leo.”
“This is about Leo’s brother, Joe.”
“What about him?”
“I’m having a sort of a thing with him.”
“You’re not!”
“All we’ve done so far is email each other. He has a female Alex he has to dump before we can come out into the open.”
“This is unreal! You and Joe Finnigan! Is he as gorgeous as Leo?”
“He’s different. Kind of sweeter. Leo scared me. Joe’s not scary at all. He’s very sure of himself, like Leo. But he’s all open and smiley.”
“My God, Mad, this is getting practically incestuous.”
“You’re not to tell anyone, right? Not even Leo. Joe’s being very proper about this. He’s not two-timing anyone.”
“Just like me. I’ve been very proper with Alex. But it doesn’t take long. When’s he going to do it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t really care. I’m loving this in-between time. I’m just so happy.”
“Look at you.” Imo smiled at Maddy fondly and took her arm in a sisterly embrace. “I’ve never seen you like this before.”
“I’ve never been like this before.”
“So you think this could be it?”
“Could be.”
“Are you ready for it, Mad? You don’t want to go getting pregnant.”
“No way.”
“You can’t trust the boy. You know that?”
“I don’t think Joe would do anything stupid.”
“He’s a boy, isn’t he?”
“All boys aren’t the same.”
“Yes, they are. All boys don’t get pregnant. It’s different for them.”
“So what do you do? Carry condoms in your handbag?”
“I can’t stand condoms. Real passion-killers. I’ve been on the pill since I was fifteen.”
“Oh.”
“Go and see Dr. Ransom. She’ll sort you out. And don’t leave it too late. It takes a few days before it starts working. And it’ll clear up your spots.”
With this forthright advice Imo felt she had covered her little sister’s sex life and could return to talking about Leo and the Norfolk house party. In the old days Maddy would have been hungry for every detail, but now she hardly heard a word. She was struck by Imo’s casual assumption that she should be “sorted out.” It was easy enough to make an appointment with their family doctor, but around this simple decision danced a crowd of confused emotions: excitement, pride, fear, all stirred up by the prospect of her very own sex life. Even the term “sex life” sounded different to her now, because it had taken on a face, a body, a name. It meant “sex with Joe.”
What would it be like to make love with Joe? She tried to imagine it, without too sharp a focus on the physical detail. No Amy-the-bunny sex for her. Instead, she let herself think of it as an extension of touching, as a closer form of closeness, in which their bodies merged and she no longer knew where she ended and he began. Yes, she liked that. She hugged herself as she walked, pretending her arms were Joe’s arms round her. She felt a shudder of gratitude and tenderness. She felt her body ache for the real thing.
This was all entirely new for Maddy. She had shared in the giggly talk with her friends over pictures of boy bands in magazines. She had daydreamed about what it would be like to be in bed, naked, with some unknown boy. But it was all a game. In her fantasies the exquisite thrill lay in being chosen by her dream boy, rather than in the delights that might follow. Even with Joe, until now the biggest rush had come from his response to her, not hers to him. He wants me, he wants me, was the song of her secret heart.
But now there was something else. All through rehearsals she had watched Joe, lingering over every detail of his physical being: his gangly legs, his long-fingered hands, his bare forearms dusted with tiny black hairs, his strong shoulders, the place where his bare neck met that tangle of black hair—not quite black, very dark brown, you could see that in his eyebrows—and his eyes of course, blue-green and limpid, intent as they caught hers
, brimming with soundless laughter, and his mouth, a strong mouth, a beautiful mouth, a mouth she wanted to be kissed by, a mouth she wanted to kiss …
“Mad?”
“What?”
“Do you think I should or I shouldn’t?”
They were almost home. Maddy had no idea what Imo had been talking about.
“You won’t pay any attention to anything I say,” she said. “You’re only talking out loud to find out what you think yourself.”
“Actually that’s quite true,” said Imo. “I’m going to say yes. Actually I’ve said yes already. I just don’t want to rush things.”
“Things go the way they’re going to go, whether you rush them or not.”
“You’ve got very wise all of a sudden. It must be love.”
Maddy called the Health Center and asked for an appointment with Dr. Ransom. She was offered five o’clock on Thursday. This was sooner than she had expected. She found she had said yes before she had time to think about it. For some time after the call ended she sat quite still in her bedroom staring ahead at nothing. When she came out of her trance she found she’d been staring at Bunby, the cloth rabbit who had been her closest companion for as long as she could remember. Bunby’s little brown bead eyes seemed to be fixed on her reproachfully. One of his well-worn ears was folded back behind his head, making him look drunk.
“It’s all right, Bunby,” she said, picking him up and hugging him tightly in her arms. “I’ll never love anyone as much as I love you.”
In bed that night she opened The Art of Loving and read some passages that Rich had marked with a line of pencil. One in particular held her attention.
“Love,” wrote the author, “is active penetration of the other person, in which my desire to know is stilled by union … In the act of loving, of giving myself, in the act of penetrating the other person, I find myself, I discover myself, I discover us both, I discover man.”
For all that it seemed to be written by a man for men, these lines had a strong effect on Maddy. She understood them to say that through the act of physical love she would find peace. The endless unanswerable questions would cease: Who am I? Why am I alive? What right have I to happiness? In their place would come the one simple but immense certainty: I am to love and to be loved.
She phoned Cath.
“You still awake?”
“No. I’m asleep.”
“It’s really true, Cath.”
“What’s really true?”
“I’m in love.”
“I had noticed, actually.”
“I just had to tell somebody.”
“Okay, sweetie. You can say it again if you like.”
“I’m in love.”
13
Rich writes Grace a letter
“When are you going to put lights in my doll’s house?” said Kitty to Rich. “Because you did say you could do it, even though I don’t believe you can.”
This was typical Kitty—a plea linked to a criticism.
“Soon,” said Rich.
“In time for Gran’s birthday?”
Gran’s eightieth birthday was less than two weeks away and was turning into a watershed event, like Christmas, or the summer holidays. Whatever was discussed in the family was now defined as before or after Gran’s birthday: specifically, anything required to be done by Rich’s mother was postponed to after Gran’s birthday. Mrs. Ross was organizing the party. She was also training her Tiny Footsteps to sing a special birthday song for Gran as a surprise. It was unlikely to be a very great surprise, since every morning for days now the house had been filled with their reluctant trilling, lagging behind Mrs. Ross’s brisk piano.
“I love you
A bushel and a peck
A bushel and a peck
And a hug around the neck …”
The song from Guys and Dolls was one of Gran’s favorites. Gran’s celebration was to be big on the singing of old songs.
“Where are they all going to sit?” worried Mrs. Ross. “Who’s going to hand everything round?”
There were to be almost twenty guests in the big front room, the room that housed the nursery school on weekday mornings.
“Couldn’t you bring a friend, Rich? I could do with more pairs of hands. I’ll be at the piano so much of the time.”
Rich asked his friend Max if he wanted to help out. Max declined.
“I won’t know anyone and I’m no good at pouring and anyway I’m not a pretty girl. My dad says you can tell it’s going to be a good party if there are pretty waitresses.”
“I don’t know any pretty girls.”
“You know Grace.”
“Oh, sure.” He almost said, “Better than ever,” but he had not told Max about the scene behind the playing field shed. It was too private, and too unfinished. “I can just see Grace handing round sausage rolls to my uncles and aunts.”
“Maybe she’d pop out of a cake in a bikini.”
“Have you ever seen Grace in a bikini?”
“No. You?”
Rich shook his head. But he enjoyed the imaginary scene. It was sufficiently unreal to be harmless. He and Max operated an unspoken rule that the subject of girls and sex was to be treated either as a joke or as a species of higher theory.
It was in this spirit that Rich introduced Max to The Art of Loving.
They were sitting in the curtained gloom of Rich’s bedroom playing Blood on the Tracks on Rich’s turntable.
“Love is not the result of adequate sexual satisfaction,” Rich read from the extract copied into his diary, “but sexual happiness, even the knowledge of the so-called sexual technique, is the result of love.”
“Pass that by me one more time,” said Max.
Rich repeated the passage.
“Okay, I’ve got it now,” said Max. “It’s bollocks.”
“It might not be.”
“Listen, bozo.” Max began to bounce up and down on Rich’s bed with the earnestness of conviction. “Any girl who gives me sexual satisfaction gets my love. Hundred percent guaranteed, no questions asked.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Okay, I don’t know it. I feel it. My body feels it. Love is passion. Passion is sex. People only talk about love because they’re desperate for sex and haven’t had it yet.”
“If you’re that desperate you can always have a wank.”
“Not the same thing. Not the same thing at all.”
“I don’t see why not. If you don’t want to be bothered with love, why bother with another person at all? Cut out the middle man. The middle girl. Go straight for the orgasm.”
Rich thought this rather witty.
“All I can say,” said Max, speaking with slow emphasis, “is that if a fuck is no better than a wank I shall be bitterly disappointed. Centuries of propaganda will be shown to be a lie. It would be enough to make me lose my faith in the human race.”
“Of course it’s better,” said Rich. “It has to be better. Like going to a movie with a friend is better than going alone. Like talking with you now is better than talking to myself.”
“Oh, bollocks to all that,” said Max. “Sex isn’t about conversation. It’s about bodies, and nakedness, and feeling the excitement, and—oh, oh—”
Little elfin Max with his scrunched-up face and sticky-out ears hugged his knees to his chest and rocked back and forth on the bed. He should have been comical in his helplessness, but Rich saw nothing to laugh about. He shared Max’s hunger, and would have moaned as loudly alongside him on the bed had he been a little less inhibited.
Later, after Max was gone and supper was over, Rich found he couldn’t concentrate on his schoolwork. He suddenly felt that he had to get out of the house.
“Going up to the wood,” he called to his mother.
He cycled the short distance out of town and left his bike chained to a fence at the bottom of the farm track. The track, deeply rutted by farm vehicles, climbed to a dense beech wood that covered the north
flank of the hill. At this time of evening the wood was shadowy and full of rich leafy smells. The ground was squelchy under foot after the rain, and the low branches on either side of the path slapped wet against him as he passed.
Rich knew this woodland path well. He had walked alone here in springtime, as the leaves were unfurling; and in the high glory of summer, when bright shafts of sunlight speckled the beech mast underfoot. Now in mid-September the evenings were closing in, and the wood had grown older and less brash. The muted colors in the fading light suited his mood.
Entirely alone at last, he allowed himself to think about love and sex and Grace, but mostly about Grace. Max was totally wrong, that much Rich knew. Love was not just sex. When Rich thought about Grace, his greatest happiness came in the imagined moment when her eyes met his and she didn’t look away; when she let him take her hand in his; when she leaned in close to him so that he could put his arms round her slender body. His fantasies had no need to venture further. His heart beat too much simply at the dream of her touch.
Then there was the dream of words. He neither offered nor expected grand talk of love. What did it mean anyway? In his fantasy, it was enough to have her say to him, “I’d like to see you in the lunch break.” If he went any further than this, it was only to have her tell him what it was that made her so unhappy, so that he could console her. Rich wanted Grace to see him as the one person who truly understood her. He had no confidence in himself as a seducer, but he knew he could be a comforter; hoping through kindness to arrive at closeness.
This, Rich realized, treading his way through the wood, was what Max didn’t understand. It’s closeness we all want. Sex too, in time, but only because it’s the closest kind of closeness. He was far more afraid of being alone than of being a virgin. Also—it struck him suddenly and he blushed—closeness is safe. Closeness is manageable. Sex is scary. Do it wrong and there’s nowhere to hide. Everyone makes out it’s as natural as breathing, but you can breathe with your clothes on. For sex you have to take your clothes off while she’s watching. As for the next stage, the passage from nakedness to sex, where was the instruction book for that? The situation seemed to lend itself to moments of ridicule. And if he became ridiculous, his dick, so insistently pushy at inappropriate times, would shrivel to nothing, and the long-awaited sex act would not take place after all. Then what?
Rich and Mad Page 8