Sextet

by Sally Beauman

  ‘He’s out cold, on the sofa. Dead to the world,’ said her son.

  ‘Tom, I’m sorry about this—’

  ‘It’s cool. No worries, Rowland. Cressida-from-upstairs did it the other week.’

  ‘Now listen, Tom. He may feel he wants to fight you. If he does, say you’ll fight him in the morning—then he’ll go back to sleep. Coffee when he wakes; lots of it. Oh, and Katya, one thing…’

  ‘Yes, Rowland?’

  ‘He may propose, at a certain stage; he’s been known to do that…’

  ‘So I gather.’

  ‘It’s a good idea to accept him; that way you avoid the maudlin stage, which generally comes next. I’ll take Lindsay’s car and drive her back to London. Meanwhile, just to be on the safe side…Lindsay, lean on Tom for just a minute, would you? Oh, she’s asleep. Hang on…’

  There was a pause while Tom propped his mother up and Rowland opened the bonnet of the Aston. He removed the rotor arm and handed this and the car keys to Tom.

  ‘That’s usually the best solution. He knows how to put it back, but he can’t manage it until he’s completely sober. I’m very grateful to both of you. I’ll call you in the morning…’

  There was movement and Lindsay began to wake up. Someone soft, who smelled of rose petals, kissed her. This was comforting, although a small voice in Lindsay’s mind kept insisting that there was something wrong with that kiss. She was still trying to puzzle out what that might be while her son reproved her, and possibly lectured her, but appeared to forgive her. She had the sensation that this son of hers found something amusing; she was hugged, heard footsteps, then a door shut.

  Immediately, as the door closed, two very strong arms encircled her and she found her damp face pressed against wool; the voice in her head now spoke with clarity; a clarion call. Of course, it was not the nature of that kiss which had been wrong, it was the identity of the person who bestowed it. She lifted her head and inspected Rowland’s features for some while. He did not appear to be angry; he might have been amused. He looked puzzled by something. He had the greenest eyes she had ever seen. She looked at the lamplight on his hair. She looked at green affection, green regret.

  ‘Lindsay, Lindsay,’ he said, and smoothed back her hair and looked at her face. ‘You really are terribly drunk, you know…’

  ‘I am,’ Lindsay agreed. ‘It feels wonderful, Rowland. Wondrous. Your eyes are very green. Astonishingly green…’

  ‘And yours are hazel; not brown, not grey. Around the iris, they’re darker. I’ve never noticed that.’ There was a pause. ‘What are you doing, Lindsay?’

  ‘I’m kissing your sweater,’ said Lindsay, who was. ‘I think I might kiss you. Yes. You’re so tall. If you could just bend down a little bit, Rowland…’

  Rowland did. Lindsay gently kissed his cheek, then his nose, then, as her aim improved, his mouth. Rowland did not appear to resist. They kissed chastely, in the lamplight, and when they drew apart, Lindsay saw that Rowland’s expression was now sad. She made no comment on this.

  Her handbag was found, and her keys, and her little car. One minute Rowland was lifting her into it, the next second he was lifting her into what she recognized as her bed. He removed her shoes and neatly aligned them next to the bed. He turned her on her side and covered her with a duvet. He switched off the bedside lamp and then stood in the stripe of light from the hall, looking down at her, his hair ruffled, his hands in his pockets. Lindsay, opening her eyes, then closing them again, thought he still had that puzzled, thoughtful expression on his face. During the night, at some point in the night, negotiating a dream, then a nightmare, Lindsay woke. She did not know where, when, who or what she was: she gave a little cry, swung her legs out of bed and felt her way into the shadows of her sitting-room. At first she thought that it was empty, then she saw it was not. Arms folded, Rowland was seated on the sofa, frowning into space. Lindsay came to a halt in the doorway.

  ‘Would you talk to me, Rowland?’ she said.

  ‘Of course.’ He held out an arm. Lindsay curled up on the sofa next to him and rested her head against his shoulder. Rowland put his arm around her; minutes ticked.

  ‘So, what shall I talk about?’ Rowland said after some while.

  ‘Anything. Ordinary things. I just like to hear your voice.’

  ‘Well, let’s see.’ She thought he smiled. ‘I’ve been useful. I’ve washed up one cup, one saucer and one plate—I’m used to washing up ones of things. I checked your answerphone for you, because the light was driving me mad—flash, flash, flash.’

  ‘Oh, I hope someone interesting called.’

  ‘Markov did, from Greece. He said he and Jippy were sitting outside a temple; I forget to which god. Max called. Someone called Lulu-something called, I’ve written it down…’

  ‘Lulu Sabatier? I won’t be calling her back.’

  ‘Then I’d called—this morning. So I listened to myself, which is always disconcerting; I sounded like someone else.’ He might have frowned; he sighed.

  ‘Then, let’s see, I read for a while, but I couldn’t seem to concentrate. I thought about Scotland: Skye, where I’ve been climbing…’

  ‘Tell me about where you were climbing. I had a horrible dream. It will make my dream go away. Make me see your mountains, Rowland.’

  ‘Well, you’ve seen those photographs at my house. I remember you looking at those, the first time you ever came there.’

  ‘I remember too.’ Lindsay closed her eyes. She could remember the occasion only too well, since it was then she had first realized she was in love with Rowland McGuire. It was then this entire debacle had begun; this, of course, could not be said. ‘There was one particular mountain,’ she went on. ‘A mountain with an impossible name…’

  ‘Sgurr Na Ghillean. I climbed it again on this visit. Provided the weather holds—and in the Cuillin the weather can change within minutes, which is why they can be dangerous, of course—there’s a place you can reach; it’s technically quite a difficult climb, a nasty overhang, but once you’re around that—if the weather is clear, and it was last week—you’re rewarded with an astounding view. You can look out across the Minch, and each one of the Outer Hebrides islands, you can see them, or their outlines; a black necklace of islands on the horizon. They look…’ He hesitated. ‘They look too beautiful to be real, like the Hesperides, perhaps. Then, sometimes, the rain comes in, or a mist appears from nowhere, and you lose sight of them. They disappear, and you think you imagined them…’ He hesitated again. ‘Whenever I’m there, I feel…’

  ‘Tell me, Rowland.’

  ‘I feel as if, finally, I’ve arrived in the right place, as if questions were unimportant, as if I were beyond questions, maybe. I can’t explain, I just like being there, looking at those islands. After those islands, there’s nothing, just open sea, thousands upon thousands of miles of sea—sea all the way to America, or to Newfoundland, perhaps…’

  He stopped speaking and silence fell. The silence, to Lindsay, felt huge and deep, like a benign ocean. She could see herself and Rowland very clearly, sailing across this Atlantic in some small yacht or skiff; the wind caught its sails; for the first time in her friendship with Rowland she felt she could ask questions—questions could be risked.

  ‘Are you happy, Rowland?’ she asked quietly, tensing a little, for he might resent this.

  ‘Now?’ He showed no sign of resentment. ‘I feel happy now, oddly enough.’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean that. I meant, generally. Day by day. Night by night.’

  ‘Not really, no. Not in that sense. But I’m happy—enough.’

  ‘May I ask you something else?’

  ‘You may.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll even answer, I expect.’

  ‘Have you ever loved anyone, Rowland?’

  ‘Yes, twice.’

  ‘And what came of it?’

  ‘Nothing came of it.’ He paused. ‘The first woman I loved is dead; her name was Esther. She was killed in Washington DC, a month
before our marriage; that happened a long time ago. And the second…’ He paused again. ‘Nothing came of it. It ended some time ago.’

  Lindsay heard the decision to disclose no more in his voice; she had expected the closing of that particular door.

  ‘Nothing ever came of my marriage,’ she said, in a rushed way, bending her head. ‘It took me years to see that. You could say Tom came of it, of course, except that I never think of Tom as coming from my marriage. Tom is my blessing, my gift from the gods. But Tom actually came from—you can imagine, Rowland—nothing special; nothing glorious. A night when I was miserable, when my husband was drunk…’

  ‘Don’t, Lindsay.’

  ‘No, you’re right. I won’t. It doesn’t matter anyway, because Tom changed my life. He—as soon as I held Tom in my arms—he wasn’t a pretty baby, even I could see that. He had this dark hair then, Rowland. He was born with dark hair. I was so proud of that lovely hair, then later, he rubbed it off, on his pillow, in his cradle, and the next hair that grew was fair, like his father’s…’

  ‘Lindsay. Dear Lindsay. Don’t cry.’

  ‘I don’t mean to cry, I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m happy really. I love Tom so much. I just wish…I just wish…I wish he’d grown up with a proper father. Some man—not the man who is his father, because he didn’t care, and he should have cared, and I’ll never forgive him for not caring for Tom as long as I live…’

  ‘When did he leave? Tell me, Lindsay.’

  ‘When Tom was six months old. There was some girl, I think; there usually was. All the time, really. When I was pregnant, before, after. I didn’t find that out until later, of course. He—well, he lied a lot.’

  ‘Lindsay—’

  ‘It’s all right. I can see it in perspective now; I couldn’t then. He turned up again, when Tom was about eighteen months old. He’d turn up, beg to come back, then he’d stay a day or two, sometimes a week. After a while, I began to see—he only came if he wanted to borrow money, or if he had nowhere else to sleep, so I threw him out. But even then, I still used to write and send him photographs. I sent him pictures of Tom for years. First as a baby, then as a little boy, on holiday, his first day at school—things like that. I was so bloody obstinate…’

  ‘Lindsay, don’t get upset. Here—’

  ‘I kept thinking, it didn’t matter if he didn’t love me, but he had to love Tom. Even if he wasn’t a good father, he was the only father Tom had, and Tom needed him. So I kept on hoping, in this weak, stupid, futile way—and then one day, I suddenly stopped. I realized—he was such a shit. I didn’t like him; I didn’t respect him, and Tom was better off without him. After that—’

  ‘You never thought of marrying again?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘No-one asked me, actually,’ Lindsay said, in a small voice. She began to laugh, then cry. ‘Which is just as well, because I might have said yes, and I can see now that would have been a terrible mistake. I’ve had quite a lot of unmemorable lovers, Rowland…’

  ‘So have I.’

  ‘Dull as ditch-water, most of them. Prudent. I had a thing about prudent men, for a bit.’

  ‘Because of Tom?’

  ‘I expect so. And—there was one who kept his loose change in a purse; he was pretty bad. There was another one who, when we went out to dinner, he always tipped precisely eight and a half per cent. It took him hours calculating it. I left him in mid-soup…’

  ‘Mid-soup?’

  ‘I just got up and walked out. It was minestrone. He was talking about pension plans. I think he might have been about to propose, actually, now I look back. I expect that’s why I fled. I don’t really like prudent men. I—I’m not very prudent myself—I expect you’ve noticed that—and I didn’t really want a husband anyway; I wanted a father for Tom, which wasn’t fair on them, and—I’m sorry about tonight, Rowland. I’ve been a fool. I’m ashamed. Reeling around on that bridge. I’ve embarrassed everyone…’

  ‘You haven’t embarrassed me.’

  ‘Oh, hell. Now I’m really starting to cry. I’ll make your jacket all wet. Rowland…’

  ‘I’ve got a handkerchief somewhere. Wait, I’ll do it. There.’ He dried her eyes, then kissed her forehead. ‘Now, look at me, Lindsay…No, look at me properly. Now, do I look embarrassed?’

  Lindsay looked at him for a long time. She looked at his dark hair and his shadowed eyes; any harshness in his features was softened by the half-light. She lifted her hand and rested it against his face.

  Rowland took her hand and clasped it in his own. He gave a sigh, leaned back and gathered her more comfortably against him. He looked away across the room and made no reply. Lindsay, positioning herself so she could look up at him, saw his expression was now bleak.

  She tightened her grip on his hand and rested her head against his shoulder. She watched the quiet rise and fall of his chest; she let the quietness of the room enter her veins. All the words she would have liked to say, and all the comfort she would have wished to give, rose up in her heart like a tide. Her feelings were of the utmost eloquence, but words would not contain them. Perhaps silence could speak, she thought, hoping it was so. She pressed his hand, then raised it to her lips. She kissed his knuckles.

  ‘You’re still crying,’ Rowland said.

  ‘Only a bit. I’ll stop soon. I’m glad you’re here.’

  ‘I’m glad I’m here too.’

  ‘I wish things were different for you, Rowland. I wish that things had worked out. That you weren’t alone…’

  ‘I’m used to it.’

  ‘You ought to have children, Rowland…’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘…I watch you with Tom sometimes, and I think—you’d make such a fine father…’

  ‘Would I? I hope so.’ He hesitated. ‘I sometimes wish—’

  ‘What do you wish?’

  ‘Oh, the usual things: that the plot had worked out differently, I expect.’

  ‘Tell me, Rowland; talk to me. You’re too reserved; it’s not good to be as reserved as you are…’

  ‘Maybe not.’ He shifted her position a little, so she was curled in his arm, and they sat for some while in silence. Lindsay closed her eyes; was it three in the morning, four? The city was almost silent; its stir had subsided; no cars passed; it was quiet in the dusky room, the only sound their breathing, and quiet in the streets.

  After a while, Rowland began speaking again. He continued to hold her hand, and he told her innumerable things, in no particular order, but perhaps, she thought, as they played before his eyes, or swam into his head.

  He described the small farm his Irish father had owned on the west coast of Ireland, which he had left when he was eight, after his father’s sudden death. He described living in London with his English mother, and his school, his scholarship; then, jumping over years, spoke of his mother’s unyielding character and her lingering death. He talked of the purchase of his strange and beautiful house in the East End of London, and then—houses being perhaps the association—he described Colin’s search for Wildfell Hall and the house near the sea, which he and Colin had eventually found, and which Tomas Court appeared to like.

  From this house, he said, a path led down to a remote and little-visited beach, a horseshoe between two headlands. There, only a few days ago, while Colin remained at the house, taking his photographs and making his notes, Rowland had walked. Shells underfoot, shells pulverized by the waves; the cry of gulls as they swooped; a heavy sea, the tide racing in and engulfing the rocks.

  Lindsay, eyes closed, her body warmed by his, listened to the crunch of those shells underfoot; she listened to the scream of the gulls, the heave of the tide, and listening to them, watching Rowland alone on a pale, shrinking strand, she fell asleep.

  The next morning, that morning, when it was light, she woke to a changed Rowland, or perhaps to a more familiar Rowland, a man who had reverted, who was considerate, but distant again, kindly and polite
. It was only six, but he was preparing to leave. Lindsay watched him numbly. She felt as if someone had injected novocaine into an artery; novocaine was numbing the muscles of her face; novocaine impeded her breathing and interfered with her voice.

  ‘I haven’t been fair to you, Rowland,’ she said, finally, when he was almost at the door, the words jamming, then coming out in a rush. He turned.

  ‘I’m sorry. I wanted to say something at lunch yesterday and then I couldn’t. I wanted to say something last night—and I forgot…’

  ‘Lindsay, it doesn’t matter. It’s irrelevant now, in any case.’

  ‘It isn’t. It isn’t. Three weeks ago you made me a proposal, an offer—a very generous one. You gave me the time to think about it, and…’

  ‘Lindsay, you obviously don’t want the job. That’s all right. I was a little confused, when you announced your resignation, your plans. And disappointed, obviously. But I understand now…’

  ‘No. No. I shouldn’t have done it like that. I don’t even know why I did. I should have talked to you first. I should have talked to you before I resigned. I should have explained when we were on our own, not sprung all that on you at lunch, with three other people there; I owed you that. Oh, why was I so stupid, stupid…I was afraid, I think.’

  ‘Afraid? Am I such an ogre?’ Rowland gave her a puzzled look. He hesitated, and for one singing moment Lindsay thought he was about to change his mind and stay. He unlatched the door, then turned back.

  ‘I blame myself, not you,’ he began awkwardly. ‘You’re right, I can be arrogant. I assumed—I thought you might like to work with me again. I thought you might want to move on from fashion. It seemed such a good plan…’ He paused. ‘Do you remember, Lindsay, when I was Max’s Features Editor? You never stopped telling me how to do my job…’ He smiled. ‘I’m sure I never admitted it at the time, but your ideas were good. I haven’t forgotten that. I can hive off the heavier stuff and leave you as Features Editor, with responsibility for everything else. All those damn columns: gardens, property, restaurants, food, cars; they matter to the readers, and they’re not good enough. I’d give you a completely free hand. You could continue to oversee the fashion, if you want. If you want to reconsider, the offer’s still open—you do understand that? If it’s a question of salary…’