It is another planet underground. There are places where no human foot has ever trodden, which no human eye has ever seen. Cave exploration is pioneering. The idea makes him feel grand. There is dignity in discovery.
Roland must have felt this on his last journey, driving on this road. Not in this weather, of course, and not in the evening. Afterwards his movements had been pieced together: he’d set out on an early morning in June – the longest day. Simon imagines the tender pearly blue of the sky, the trembling newness. How Roland’s heart must have thudded at this adventure. The ultimate challenge of a solo descent. What fineness! What pride he must have felt. And fear perhaps – for Roland knew the risk he was taking. For glory, Nadia would say, a sneer in her voice, as if glory was a petty thing, a paper rosette to pin on your chest. But Nadia is simply wrong. There would be a sort of glory in a solo discovery – once it was known – but glory wouldn’t be the main thing. Not the nub of the achievement. That would be personal. That would be private, would be … oh what would it be? There would be a growth, an inner growth, a spiritual growth. Simon is uncomfortable in the realms of the metaphysical. He changes gear unnecessarily and shifts in his seat. But it would be something beyond the physical. It would be an expansion, a new knowledge of self, of the limits of endurance … the pitting of self against nature … he squirms, imagining Nadia’s hilarity if only she could hear his thoughts. However. There is something, something he hasn’t the vocabulary for, which is worth the risk of life. For Roland this had to be undertaken alone, it could not be a shared experience, for a shared experience is – however extraordinary – rendered common by the sharing. Simon understands this now. Forgives Roland for leaving him out.
Nadia holds the bedclothes up to her chest. Headlamps flit across the room. She has left it too late to murder Simon. She should have done it immediately. She should have waited for him in the kitchen, a smile on her face, a knife behind her back. The anger was there, and the strength. Now the strength has gone. The impulse to flee, then, was what made the difference between herself and a killer. Now the moment has gone. But one iota less resolve – a hesitation; the telephone ringing; stopping to find out what Iris wanted – any of these things and Simon would be a dead man. Might be. Oh so melodramatic! But all the same, it happens. She picks up the little plastic-covered New Testament and Psalms. At the beginning it has a list of topics for guidance. Where to find help when: Afraid, Attacked, Bereaved, Bitter, Choosing a Career, Conscious of Sin, Contemplating Marriage, Contemplating Revenge – she pauses at this one – Desperate, Distressed. So much to choose from, right through the alphabet to ‘You Have Left Home’. There is nothing beginning with Z to suffer from, it seems. She cannot choose from the headings, so she opens the book randomly, lets her fingers pick a verse from a psalm and reads:
My companion attacks his friends;
he violates his covenant.
His speech is smooth as butter,
Yet war is in his heart;
His words are more soothing than oil,
yet they are drawn swords.
Ha! Some comfort! She throws the book across the room where it hits the radiator and falls, open, on the floor.
What is he doing now, her oily companion? Missing her, pacing the flat? Or, more likely, waiting, unconcerned, feet up in front of the television, a can of beer beside him. Perhaps he is cooking her a meal. Or perhaps Celia has rung and told him that Nadia knows his secret. Perhaps they are together, fair heads touching, regretting the past, pitying Nadia. She grits her teeth. There’s nothing to stop the two of them getting together. Now there’s the baby, the future baby. Perhaps they’ll fall in love again. How could Simon? How could he fuck Celia and then come home to Nadia with never a word or a sign? Did he come home and fuck her too? Did he hope to score twice, two successful impregnations in one night? Oh, what a stud he must have felt!
Again she feels the urge to stab. Interesting that it doesn’t give ‘Contemplating Murder’ as an option in the Bible.
She realises what Iris must have been waving at her – her Amazon eyeshadow. She snorts at the perfect irrelevance, typical somehow of Iris. There is the smell of cooking, the sizzling fatty odour of chips. Her room is directly above the kitchen, and occasionally a puff of steam wafts up from the small window beneath and clouds her own. Even if she was hungry she could not go and eat, not yet, not with her clothes all wet. Even if they were dry she could not face the thought of eating in a public place alone. She cannot face the thought of food at all, not with the embers in her belly still glowing.
Someone beginning with J will have a lump, Iris said. Suddenly it comes to her that her mother begins with J – she is called June. How curious that this hasn’t occurred to her before. She thinks back to the last time she saw June. It was after her father had died, quite shortly after, at her mother’s wedding. June had married an Australian called Pierre. They married in England before they flew away to set up home in Sydney, near Pierre’s daughters and grandchildren. Nadia recalls the hurried little ceremony, her mother in an unlikely flowered hat strangling some freesias, the few embarrassed relatives eating vol-au-vents and searching for topics of conversation that avoided Nadia’s father or the funeral only nine months before – where they had unfortunately been treated to an almost identical repast. Now June is widowed again and back in England, and, if Iris is to be believed, developing a lump.
Nadia lies down, curls her knees up to her chest. She is cold despite the radiator and the blankets. Her hair is still damp. Her skin feels chapped. The fatty kitchen odour mingles with the smell of drying clothes. Her palms and her knees sting. She doesn’t know where Simon is or what he is doing or thinking. She has cut herself off. She cannot even telephone. Tears that feel surprisingly hot leak from her eyes. All she can do now is try to sleep. But how can she when the anger still lurks? It comes in waves, like labour, she supposes, a rhythm. That is how it works. No one can be angry every second. It ebbs and flows. When it ebbs she is engulfed in self-pity, but when she thinks about her predicament and why she is in it and how she has been betrayed it flows, it flashes, it flames.
There is a knock at her door. She shrinks into herself, curls tighter under the covers. It cannot be meant for her. Why should anyone be knocking at her door? She cannot see anyone. She is peeled, maskless. In this room she has stripped down to raw, flinching nerve. But the knock is repeated and there is a voice too – the landlady’s. ‘Miss Crowley? Miss Crowley? Are you there?’
Nadia squeezes her eyes shut. What should she do? Could it be something urgent? A fire perhaps. But there is no panic in the voice, there are no alarm bells or charging feet. Simon? But there is no way, not unless he’s trying every hotel in a ten-mile radius. She snorts at the ridiculous thought. More likely he hasn’t even noticed that she’s missing yet. He is probably sipping beer with Celia in a snug bar somewhere, red velvet seats, fair heads glowing in the lamplight.
‘Miss Crowley!’ The woman is not going to give up. Nadia gets out of bed, shivering, and goes to the door.
‘What is it?’ she asks.
‘Ah, good. Could I speak to you for a moment dear?’ She pauses. ‘I wouldn’t dream, normally, but we’re in a spot.’
‘What?’ Nadia’s voice is croaky.
‘Could I come in? Only I never like to talk through doors.’
‘I’m not decent.’
‘I’ll give you a moment.’
‘No, you don’t understand … all my clothes are wet. I’ve nothing else …’
‘Hold on then.’ There is the creak of floorboards under carpet and then silence for a minute. Nadia stands by the radiator. It is too hot to lean against with her bare legs, but doesn’t seem to be giving off any warmth into the room. Steam rises from her sweater with a wet woolly smell. It is beaded with white, like soft frost. What can the woman want? Curiosity has awoken within her, unfurled a tentacle.
‘Miss Crowley?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve got some
things for you here. Open the door, dear, and I’ll pass them in.’
Nadia fumbles with the lock. She receives a neatly folded pile of clothes round the edge of the door.
‘They should fit – pop them on and then come down to the lobby. I won’t enquire about your predicament. Ask no questions hear no lies.’
‘What is it that you want?’
‘A favour I’m afraid, not our normal policy to ask favours of our guests, but …’
‘Well I don’t know …’ Nadia is not in the mood for doing favours. But it seems that the landlady has gone. She looks at the clothes. There is a velour tracksuit – horrible blancmange pink – some sparkling nylon socks and a pair of fluffy pink mules. The clothes are slightly warm, as if from an airing cupboard, and they smell strongly of an unfamiliar detergent. They are soft and cosy like baby clothes. As she dresses, Nadia remembers a sensation, a swaddling in warm towels, slippery cold limbs, safety and comfort, someone big to hold her tight. She looks in the mirror and grins. She looks grotesque, white-faced, red-eyed, wild-haired, blancmange-clad. She brushes her hair and ties it back. She puts on lipstick – quite the wrong colour for the suit, it should be frosted pink, like cake icing. She hesitates, wondering what is to be required of her. Perhaps she should take it on, whatever it is. There’s nothing for her in the room but chilliness and misery between the waves of rage. It is actually a relief to have been dragged out of it, even if the relief is temporary and artificial. It will pass time and the more time passes, perhaps, the better things will be. Time heals all. What a rotten lie. It might make a scab, time, but this it will never heal. Simon will always have betrayed her. Oh she can just imagine his defence! His wounded eyes, his pretended incomprehension at her reaction. She could even end up seeming to be in the wrong … She takes her key and leaves the room quickly before she is engulfed again.
‘That looks nice. Flattering colour, pink. I’m Ruby, by the way.’
‘Nadia.’ Nadia follows Ruby out of the hotel reception area through the bar, through a door marked PRIVATE and into a living room which screams with roses – trellised on the wallpaper, puddled on the carpet, stretched in neon nylon on the three-piece suite. She is so dazzled that she does not at first see the carry-cot.
‘What?’ Nadia asks again.
‘This is kind of you,’ Ruby says. ‘Of course, we’ll make a reduction for your room.’
‘Yes?’
‘You see George and Liz have left Paula with us for the night – our granddaughter you know, our first.’ She indicates the carry-cot. ‘Usually no problem, we think the world of her, but tonight Barry and Anna have let us down – bar staff! Hopeless! – and I simply have to go out. Obligated. No two ways about it. Cancel, Stan says!’
‘Stan?’ Nadia asks weakly.
‘Husband. Flat out he is. Busiest night, Fridays. He’ll cope with the bar but Paula’s due for a feed at ten. Like clockwork she is, not like George, he was a terror – but she’s hard to settle, colic. I’d take her with me if I could, but it’s not on – Old Time Music Hall tonight – I do a bit of the theatricals, you know. So could you possibly, dear? I’ll tell you what, room and breakfast on the house. How’s that?’ She pauses, confidently anticipating Nadia’s agreement.
‘All right,’ says Nadia. She hasn’t the strength to refuse. It is warm in here. The gas fire glows a cosy orange. ‘That’s no problem.’
‘An angel of mercy.’ Ruby smiles and pats her arm. ‘Now …’ She leads Nadia into the kitchen and points out the baby’s things. ‘She’s actually breast-fed normally, of all inconvenient things, but she’ll take a bottle if coaxed. Now, bottle made up, there. Needs warming in pan, there.’ She points to each item, which increases Nadia’s feeling that she’s just arrived from another planet. ‘More formula here, if you should need it. Gripe water here.’ There is the faint bass thud of the jukebox starting up in the bar. Back in the sitting room she hears a snuffling from the carry-cot.
‘How old is she?’ Nadia asks.
‘Nine – no – ten weeks. Bless her.’ Ruby pauses and lets her face go soft for a moment. ‘Now. Drink? I’ll fetch you something from the bar. What’ll it be?’ Nadia hesitates. ‘Port and lemon,’ suggests Ruby, ‘to warm you up? As I say, I won’t ask what you’re doing here with no luggage.’ Nadia gives a wan smile. ‘TV, videos, all mod cons. Make yourself at home. I won’t be back till the early hours – Stan should be finished by midnight or half-past. Regulars stay late on Fridays. All right, dear?’ She flaps through the heavy door into the bar and comes back with a large brimming glass. ‘Got you a double. Help yourself from the fridge if you’re peckish.’ She puts the glass down on a beer-mat on the tiled coffee table. ‘All right then. By the way, any experience with …?’ she gestures at the carrycot.
‘Oh yes.’
‘An angel of mercy,’ Ruby says again, flicking open a powder-compact and dusting her nose. She fetches her coat, buttons it and smooths her hands down her portly suede body. ‘I’ll be off then. Bye-bye, darling,’ she coos into the carry-cot. ‘And cheerio, dear. See you at breakfast.’ And she leaves.
Nadia sinks back onto the sofa and feels her hair crackle with static from the nylon. There is the smart clacking of high-heels past the window, the starting up of an expensive engine and a soft purring as the car drives away.
She sips from the glass. The drink is sweet and sticky. A red-stained slice of lemon floats on top. She sits very still, listening to the nibbling sound of a carriage clock on the mantelpiece. This and all the other shelves are crammed with framed photographs and the stiff frills of china roses. The drink begins to warm her, her limbs relax; she had not noticed she was holding them so tensely. An occasional flame leaps against her ribs, but she quenches it with port-and-lemon. She finishes half the glass and then she gets up, unsteadily: it is the drink on an empty stomach. She goes over to the carry-cot and kneels down to look inside. She breathes in the smell of baby lotion and sweet breath. She cannot see much of the baby; she is lying on her side with her back to Nadia. There is a puff of dark hair, a smooth cheek. She makes such a tiny hump under the blankets. Nadia lays her hand lightly on the baby’s back and feels the movement of her ribs, thinks she can feel the tiny beating of her heart.
The wind that blows is full of the smell of rain, although the rain itself has stopped and the sky is clearing. It is a sweetish night, the wind is mild and full of the scent of spring. Simon throws his head back and inhales. He is invigorated by the sappy, peaty smell. The clouds have broken to reveal the ink of the sky, hard points of stars, the skinny conspiratorial grin of the moon. Right above him is the Plough, the simplest most childish constellation. He attempts to focus his eyes beyond the stars and his eyes ache with the strain of the emptiness. But it is not emptiness. The unknown is far from empty. If he lived in another age, another life entirely, Simon might have been able to explore those reaches. He has an explorer’s heart and it beats loud enough to hear at the thought of all that space. Unknown but not unknowable. A soft bank of cloud drifts across the stars, blotting them from his sight. The wind blows, a soft sound, a mumble in the hills, a sibilance in the grass, and his heart beats steadily: a muffled drum. Above him are the taunting heavens which will never be his: but below his feet is a kingdom that is. Below him is a labyrinth. The earth is laced with secrets and they are his to know. Nobody else quite comprehends his feeling. Perhaps Roland felt it, but nobody else. Even Miles and Celia see the caves as sport and challenge rather than as understanding. He cannot, of course, say the things he feels to anyone. ‘Boys’ Own adventure’, Nadia would scoff, and the others … well there is no need for him to say. The feelings are his own business and they are serious and real.
He walks down from the road where his car is parked towards the entrance to the cave. There is a cross flurry by his feet, a sleeping bird or animal disturbed. He imagines Nadia at home. By now she will have read his note, telephoned Miles. Miles will be out and she will assume they are together. If Miles is o
ut. If not, what will they think? Miles wouldn’t believe he would undertake the trip alone. Miles will know he’s having Nadia on. Will he? Is Simon not capable, then? Capable, yes, but not stupid. Is that true? The stars are so bright out here away from the lights of town; they are layered above him like the scattered atoms of some solid object.
When Simon was a boy he used to wonder if the world was just a tiny fragment, a molecule of a larger world. It seemed to him that looking through the lens of a telescope took you one way into the massive spaces, while looking though a microscope lens took you the other way towards the minute ones. He would wonder about this until his head felt ready to burst with the ungraspable idea of infinity. Did it go on for ever, then, both ways?
Why shouldn’t he, tiny, complex, enormous creature that he is, go where he wishes to go? He stumbles and nearly falls. The ground is drenched. Nadia would be furious. It hurts him that she does not value what he considers the best part of him, that part that marks him out. If he’d been born earlier, in the middle of the nineteenth century, say, he’d have been an explorer – the jungles and deserts of Africa would have been his, the Arctic wastes. But now, in the late twentieth century, what is he, what is his discoverer’s spirit reduced to? Teaching geography in a comprehensive. Apart from this. Apart from this way of reaching the so-far unreached. Of being the first to set his foot in the unknown places of the earth.
Above him on the road a car sweeps by, its headlamps two long cones of powdered light flicking across him. It seems to slow down and he holds his breath. Catches himself almost ducking. For if Nadia has telephoned Miles and he was in, they might between them decide that he has flipped his lid. They might come after him. He imagines them slamming the car doors, leaping out, shouting his name into the darkness. How stupid he would look! He relaxes. This car has driven on, its red eyes receding into the darkness. But eventually it will happen. He will be missed.
Limestone and Clay Page 9