A Sense of Guilt

by Andrea Newman

  ‘Surprise,’ she said. ‘D’you like it?’

  ‘It’s wonderful. But you look like someone else.’

  ‘That was the idea.’

  They stared at each other, smiling slow, delighted smiles.

  ‘And you’ve just missed Elizabeth.’

  ‘I know. I rang up and checked with the nurse. I think she enjoyed feeling she was involved in a plot. It probably helps that you’re famous.’ She paused. ‘I always talk too much when I’m nervous.’

  How strange it was, after six months without contact, that they were instantly conspirators again. ‘My God, how devious you’ve become.’

  ‘That’s what two terms at Sussex does for you. I didn’t know you wear pyjamas.’

  ‘Isn’t it shaming? Elizabeth had to buy them specially. Oh Sally, it’s so lovely to see you. Come a bit nearer.’

  She walked towards the bed but stopped out of touching distance.

  He said, ‘Darling, I’m so sorry about what happened. I’ve never had the chance to say it before. But I’ve thought so much about you. I kept wondering how you were. Only when you didn’t write again I thought maybe you wanted to be left alone.’

  ‘Don’t, you’ll set me off.’

  But she moved closer to him and they held hands. He thought what power there was in touch. She looked so fresh and new, and yet he knew what she’d been through and it altered his whole perspective of her. He hadn’t felt so turned on in months. God, he’d like to make love to her again. Wipe out the bad memories.

  ‘Are you really all right now?’ she said.

  ‘Right as rain. Christ, what a cliché. You can see my brain’s got scrambled in here. Wearing pyjamas can seriously damage your health. What’s right about rain, for God’s sake?’

  They laughed. They were still holding hands loosely, without pressure. Innocently, avoiding significance.

  ‘I was so frightened,’ she said.

  ‘So was I.’

  ‘And angry with Richard.’

  Her hair swung back and forth as she moved her head.

  ‘Oh, poor old Richard. He was only thinking of you. Doing his good step-father bit. If I hadn’t collided with the fireplace I’d have been fine.’

  ‘Right as rain.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A bit over the top though, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Straight out of Tony Blythe.’

  ‘But it could have been fatal.’

  ‘Well, I suppose so.’

  They were both silent, impressed by the drama they had caused.

  She said, ‘Felix…’ and it moved him, just hearing his name like that. ‘Can I tell you something? I’ll never be sorry about us. It was worth it. When I wrote you that awful letter I was bitter and miserable but I feel different now. I’ve grown up a bit.’

  He was touched by her generosity. ‘I don’t deserve that.’

  ‘Yes, you do. It wasn’t your fault, what happened. And I feel a bit guilty. If I hadn’t written that letter, Richard would never have found out and you wouldn’t be in here.’

  ‘Oh well. It’s all useful experience. I wouldn’t have chosen it but I can always write about it.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  He felt her hand waver in his grasp, so he kissed it and let it go. Watching her, he saw her eyes widen on the kiss.

  ‘Have some grapes,’ he said. ‘Have a drink. They don’t really approve but I’ve finally got some alcohol in here and it’s a great relief, I can tell you. The first few days, it was like being in Saudi Arabia.’

  They smiled again. There was immense unformulated goodwill in the room with nowhere to go. He poured two glasses of wine. He hated her seeing him in pyjamas.

  ‘You’ll always be special,’ she said. ‘Whoever I meet later on. I won’t ever forget you.’

  ‘Well, here’s looking at you, kid.’

  ‘Yes.’

  They drank their drinks. He thought it was time to be brave.

  ‘How’s that handsome boyfriend of yours?’

  ‘Oh, that’s all over.’

  Well, that was worth knowing. ‘Poor chap. I thought he looked very taken with you.’

  ‘Yes, he was, he was sweet. But I don’t want to get tied down.’

  Now what exactly did that mean? Was she playing the field or playing hard to get? It felt like a challenge but he wasn’t sure of his ground.

  ‘If I’m ever passing through Sussex, shall I look you up?’

  ‘Why not? I’m not on the phone. But you could always take pot luck.’

  * * *

  Elizabeth tired of waiting for the lift and decided to climb the stairs. She was pleased with her purchases and eager to make amends for asking Felix too many awkward questions. She felt she had broken her promise to herself, the bargain she had made with God, that if Felix recovered then nothing else mattered. She must remember how terrified she had been at the thought he might die: it was amazing how quickly the memory faded. Perhaps she was not meant to know too much about his friendship with Richard.

  She was walking down the corridor, slightly out of breath, when she saw Sally coming out of Felix’s room, and Sally saw her. They were only yards apart.

  She said, ‘Hullo, Sally.’

  Sally blushed deeply. ‘Hullo. I’ve just been to see Felix.’

  ‘Yes, so I see.’

  She didn’t want to believe what this meant.

  ‘Richard asked me to come and see how he was,’ Sally said.

  ‘Oh, that was nice of him.’

  ‘Yes, he’s feeling awfully guilty about what happened.’

  It was too painful. She would rather believe anything else.

  They seemed locked in the corridor together, unable to move apart, she and this child she had been fond of, had envied Helen for having, had watched grow up, who wasn’t a child after all.

  ‘How’s Sussex?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, fine. I’m enjoying it. Lots of new people. I’m having a great time.’

  ‘Good.’

  Perhaps it could yet be innocent. Richard must feel guilty, he would send Sally. She was the only possible intermediary. He had quarrelled with Helen, who wouldn’t want to come anyway. Yes.

  ‘But they work us quite hard. Great long reading lists, too many essays.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  She looked older with short hair. She had a knowing look. And they were still stuck there, facing each other, being polite.

  ‘Well, I better get home,’ Sally said. ‘Mum’s a bit low.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Elizabeth watched till Sally turned the corner at the end of the corridor. She had a pain in her chest and it was difficult to breathe. She waited a few moments before going into Felix’s room.

  * * *

  He looked surprised to see her, and slightly uncomfortable. Or was she imagining that? He said, ‘Oh, hullo, darling.’ She put down the book and the bottle, feeling angry and stupid and hurt, longing to be saved. ‘I got you the Simenon and the champagne and I thought you might like to have them both for this evening. So I came back.’

  ‘That was sweet of you. How lovely. What a lot of trouble to go to. Thank you, darling.’

  It was too much. It didn’t feel right.

  ‘And I ran into Sally.’

  Watching him closely, too closely for her own comfort, she saw a sort of shift of focus behind his eyes.

  ‘Yes, she came to see how I was. I think Helen made her feel she ought to. She’s a sweet child.’

  No.

  ‘Well, that’s it really.’

  She turned her back on him. She wanted to be home but she didn’t know how to get out of this horrible place without breaking down.

  ‘Oh darling,’ he said, ‘stay and have a drink.’ He sounded quite normal.

  She said, ‘No, I think I’ve had all I can take for one day.’

  There was a long silence. She felt he ought to be able to hear all her nerve endings screaming. Something like that. A kind of torture she had
n’t known before and couldn’t really describe.

  ‘You know,’ he said in a very gentle voice, ‘things aren’t always what they seem.’

  She said, ‘And sometimes they are. Exactly that.’

  She managed to walk to the door but she still couldn’t look at him. How was it possible to feel such pain and be alive? All these years, all the love and forbearance, all the pretence, the bargaining, the forgiveness, the compromise. Were there no limits to what she was asked to endure or had she just reached the end?

  ‘What time will you be in tomorrow?’

  He sounded casual, but carefully casual. Could she face a showdown now? Could she ever face one? She couldn’t imagine life without him, but she also couldn’t imagine that life with him would ever be the same again.

  If she tried very hard, if enough time passed, could she believe she’d been wrong, made a simple mistake?

  She took a deep breath and it hurt her chest. ‘Oh – the usual time, I expect.’

  * * *

  Inge stayed in all day but the phone never rang. She left messages for Richard’s lawyer but he didn’t ring her back. When the boys came home they were eager for news.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Did Dad get out?’

  She told them she didn’t know, she had heard nothing.

  ‘Didn’t you go to court?’

  ‘I promised not to. The lawyer said he didn’t want me there.’

  ‘We thought you’d go anyway.’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I gave him my word.’

  She sat at the kitchen table, despondent, smoking, pouring red wine from a litre bottle. The boys hugged her.

  ‘They’ll have to let him out, won’t they?’ Peter said. ‘He didn’t kill anyone, did he? That bloke’s getting better.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s gone back to the cow,’ Inge said. The longer she waited, the more likely it seemed.

  ‘Cheer up, Mum,’ Karl said. ‘You’ve still got us.’

  ‘And we’re quite hungry,’ Peter said. ‘We need to build up our strength.’

  She made them supper. Evening sunshine poured through the kitchen window and lit up the dust and the grime. Well, it was clean dirt, she thought, and did not matter; it bothered nobody. She looked at her children fondly, thinking what good boys they were but they wouldn’t always be here. One day they would leave her, it was only natural, and then she would be alone for ever. Perhaps she would kill herself then. She pictured Richard alone in a bedsitter, killing himself. She pictured him going back to the cow. She wasn’t sure which was the more painful.

  While they were eating, the doorbell rang. Peter went to answer it. Inge called after him, ‘Whoever it is, if they want money we don’t have any.’

  After a few moments Peter came back but there were other footsteps with him. She had her back to the door and saw only Karl’s delighted, incredulous face. Then she turned her head and saw Richard. She jumped up, spilling her bowl of soup, and flung her arms round him, saying his name over and over again.

  ‘Don’t get excited,’ he said. ‘I just want to stay for a bit. Is that all right?’

  He looked terrible, grey-faced and exhausted. She wanted to kiss him all over but she thought maybe he wouldn’t like it.

  She hugged him and sobbed and hugged him again.

  He said, ‘Look, I don’t know if this is going to work.’

  She took her arms away. ‘I’ll be very good. I won’t annoy you.’

  He said, ‘D’you mind if I just go and sleep for a while? I’m very tired.’

  He went out of the room and upstairs. Presently she heard his footsteps above her head. She sat down again at the kitchen table, thinking that a miracle had happened and she did not know how to behave. When you get your heart’s desire, what do you do to celebrate?

  The boys hugged her. They looked so happy that just seeing them made her want to cry. All this time they had been suffering too, but she had been too busy with her own pain to pay them much attention.

  The footsteps upstairs had stopped. They all had some red wine. They tried to finish their supper.

  ‘We must make it easy for him,’ she said. She was laughing and crying. ‘We mustn’t play loud music or talk too much. Will you help me?’

  * * *

  Helen and Sally waited all day for news, tense with hope, mostly silent but occasionally snapping at each other. Finally, when she could bear it no longer, Helen rang John Hartley. ‘He got bail,’ she said, putting down the phone.

  Sally said, ‘That’s wonderful.’

  ‘So where is he? Why isn’t he here?’

  ‘Give him time,’ Sally said. ‘Maybe he only just got out.’

  ‘No, it was this morning, John said.’

  ‘He might have let you know.’

  ‘He thought Richard would be here by now.’ She paused. ‘He said he was going straight home.’

  Silence while they both considered what this could mean.

  ‘He can’t afford to live alone,’ Helen said. ‘They offered to put him up but he said no.’ She was very frightened.

  ‘He won’t be dead,’ Sally said, ‘if that’s what you’re thinking. He’s not that sort.’

  ‘He wasn’t the violent sort either.’

  ‘Come on. He’s just sulking. He’s had a big shock. It’ll take him a while to get over it, that’s all.’

  They looked at each other, unconvinced. Sally made tea and put whisky in it. They sat at the kitchen table and drank it together.

  Helen said, ‘Sally, what if he’s not coming back? Not ever.’

  ‘We managed without him before,’ Sally said firmly. ‘We can do it again.’

  ‘I can’t believe it. I make one mistake and that wipes out everything.’

  ‘And it’s all my fault.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘Well, it is, in a way. You were protecting me and now he’s punishing you.’

  Helen said, ‘I thought I was more independent than this. I didn’t realise I’d miss him so much.’

  ‘He’ll be back,’ Sally said. ‘You just wait and see. He’s angry with you now but he loves you really. And he’s got nowhere else to go.’

  But Helen didn’t believe her. And she didn’t think Sally believed it either. Had she taken Richard for granted all these years? She hadn’t been aware of it and yet now he had gone the pain was so sharp that she didn’t know how to bear it.

  * * *

  The bed smelled of Inge. Richard burrowed down into it. It was warm and dark and safe. It didn’t matter that he had to keep appearing in court, that it would be months before the case was heard, that he might lose his job, that he might go to jail. Just for now he could rest. He could forget everything.

  Downstairs were the only three people left in the world whom he could trust. If he listened hard he could hear their voices; if he took his head out from under the duvet he could smell their supper. He had deserted them once and he had been terribly punished. Now he was back, not because he wanted to be but because he did not know where else to go.

  He was taking the coward’s way out and he was too tired even to be ashamed.

  He hoped Inge would not expect him to make love to her tonight; he knew he couldn’t manage that yet. The way he felt now, he couldn’t imagine making love to anyone ever again. But then he equally couldn’t imagine driving a car or cooking a meal: anything requiring the least flicker of energy seemed beyond him. It had taken all he had left to get himself here. It was the last refuge he knew.

  In his heart he felt the venture was doomed and yet he had hope, he wanted to make the attempt. He didn’t need a court to judge him: he had passed sentence on himself. He couldn’t bear to be alone and so he would try to atone for the last ten years.

  When she came to bed she would hold him and he wanted to be held; she would love him and he wanted to be loved.

  * * *

  Felix felt quite tired after Elizabeth had gone. A dangerous crisis, narrowly averted,
he thought, and containing more drama than he could comfortably handle in his convalescent state. Coming on top of Sally’s visit, it was very nearly too much for him.

  But he forced himself to be positive. Elizabeth could only suspect now that he’d been involved with Sally; she hadn’t actually accused him and he had admitted nothing. She had no proof of an affair and she certainly had no reason to suspect an abortion. If he played his cards right it would all blow over. After all, they both had a vested interest in preserving the status quo. But it had been a close call: perhaps he should be a little more careful in future.

  Still, it could all have been a great deal worse, he had to remember that. He could have been dead. That concentrated his mind wonderfully. Or reduced to some kind of slobbering vegetable. Richard could have been put away for manslaughter or GBH. It was very bad luck that Sally had got pregnant but it was her own fault and she seemed to have recovered remarkably well from an unpleasant ordeal. Helen and Richard had over-reacted but they would eventually calm down, he thought, and life would go on much as before. In his experience, that was what usually happened.

  He wasn’t sure what to do about Sally: he wanted her, certainly, but she might be just teasing him and perhaps it would be foolish to go back to such a dangerous place. Still, there was no hurry to decide about that: it could be left to time and chance. Even the remote possibility could be a lurking delicious pleasure.

  And in the meantime, he was going to be very busy with his new book. He had to get his mind into gear for that; he couldn’t afford too many distractions. It was a challenge, certainly, to take such a well-worn theme and make it new, but he welcomed that. The young girl, the middle-aged man, the jealous wife. This time the man would die heartbroken, deserted by them both, and the feminists could make what they liked of it. But en route for death there was much to be said about the pleasures of the flesh and the pangs of guilt. And he was scared, as he always was, that he couldn’t write it well enough, could never do justice to the vision in his mind. That fear was agony and would never go away. He just had to live with it.