My House Is Falling Down
Page 16
We talk about children. Mine are the same age as their grandchildren, so our conversations have an adjacent quality. Angus is protective. He rests his chin on the top of my head. Some of these women pursued him in the past, or he them. A few say, ‘My God, Angus, you do look loved-up!’ or variations on the sentiment, in front of me. Most of them mean it kindly.
Driving back to Verity, I say, ‘I can’t recall seeing so many beautiful women in one place. What is it about women in their sixties? They’re powerhouses.’ Angus says, ‘I’ve never really thought about it,’ and I say, ‘Well, you should. We all should. We might learn something. Maybe it’s because they’ve reached an accommodation with life.’
Occasionally, I ask Angus what they mean to him, the women he knew before me. But his previous relationships he recalls as he might a series of good meals eaten years earlier; with a pleasure that is abstract and hazy.
I think perhaps it is because he understands how easily the past may be obliterated by the present, that pasts of all kinds seem to have little meaning for Angus. I say, ‘But didn’t you ever want more?’
He says that just knowing someone was there was sufficient for him; he admits that anything more would have meant unnecessary clutter and effort. I say, ‘What, you mean like reciprocity?’ and he says, ‘Well, I suppose so, nutcase, yes, though that doesn’t sound very nice. Look, it’s not like I’ve never cared about people – of course I have. But I’ve changed. You know that.’
‘I’m quite relieved I never knew you before.’
‘Thanks!’
‘But you’ve spent your whole life avoiding anything accidental happening to you.’
He says, ‘Until now.’
Now. When my clothes hang in his wardrobe. When in the bathroom – ‘our bathroom’, he calls it – my bottles of assorted fripperies on the tiled shelf outnumber his. When the key to Verity has a permanent home in the inside pocket of my bag, and attached to it is a keyring with a small blue-and-white painted wooden boat, roughly hewn, the grain visible through the thin paint; a gift from Angus. Written in his recently renewed passport is my mobile phone number. If, whilst playing in some overheated palazzo, he suffers a heart attack, mine is the number to call. Across time zones and continents he has the comfort of knowing I am his and that in absentia I may be summoned if need be. In sickness, if not in health, I belong to him on paper. In black and white it is official, with a government stamp.
‘Look,’ he says, grinning, indicating our clothes on the floor beside the bed, our mugs in the sink, my earrings in the bathroom. ‘Anyone would think we were married.’
But real partnership thrives on tomorrows: we both know that. It depends on the steady assumption and accumulation of the future, not merely the co-mingling of items, and as time goes on, the difference my temporary presence makes to the two of us is not clear. Angus tells me he is scared for the first time in his life. It occurs to him that love may not be enough; that, at best, he might find himself waiting for some time – and for what, exactly? Isn’t that what often happens in a situation like ours? He says the purpose of telling me is not to make me feel bad and he knows I have a life elsewhere, but our relationship has slowly bred in him the feeling of being in captivity.
I can’t tell Angus that for the very reasons he feels imprisoned, I feel liberated. I have nothing to lose – at least, not right now, right here on this boat – because with him I have nothing ventured: no marriage, no children, no house, no money, and no future dependent on our joint protection of any of these. With this absence of investment comes the freedom I have never experienced: to love without intent. I am his. He is mine. This is now. There is nothing else.
I say, ‘But Angus, you don’t understand. I have never loved anyone like this before.’
‘No one?’
‘I think if you have marriage on your mind when you meet someone, it can get in the way of loving the person only for himself. If you’re considering all along what kind of husband someone might make it can cloud the issue slightly. For women, anyway.’
‘I am sure for men, too.’
I think of Mark before me and the twins, painting freely under his tarpaulin.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘For men, too.’
In the bath, the water is so high that if we move too suddenly it sloshes up and over the edge and on to the floor. Angus’s hair is partially wet, slicked back from his forehead. Steam rises from the water’s surface, its sheen sitting lightly on his skin. He looks so sculpted and commanding that I want to lick his face. I want to run my tongue along the line of his jaw and the slab of his cheek; to luxuriate in its soapy heat and evening roughness. I want to make him wholly mine, with my mouth. I don’t lick him. I stroke his thigh, slippery under the water, feel the muscles beneath his skin.
Verity shifts and creaks.
I say, ‘Do you ever think it odd that when we are in the bath we are in water, under water, but never actually drowning?’
‘Happy end of your birthday, my darling.’
The night-scent from the tobacco plants in their large pots is full-bodied and sweet. It’s nearly bedtime and still hot – so hot that we have eaten every meal outside this week, on deck.
‘Thank you, nutcase.’
I say, ‘What a wonderful evening.’
He says, ‘And what a wonderful day you’ve given me.’
‘Here’s to you.’
‘Here’s to us!’ He sings, ‘“Will you still need me, will you still feed me, When I’m sixty-four . . .”’
‘You’re sixty-one.’
‘I’m just covering my bases. Making sure you’ll be here then.’
‘Of course I will.’
He hands me a small box.
‘What’s this?’
‘It’s for you.’
‘But it’s your birthday, Angus, not mine.’
‘I know but I’ve been wanting to give it to you. This seemed the perfect day.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Just open it.’
His eyes are shining.
‘Oh, my goodness; my darling.’
‘Do you like it?’
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘It was my mother’s.’
I slip it on to the third finger of my right hand. Aquamarine.
‘I’m overwhelmed.’
He smiles. ‘It looks lovely on you.’
While Angus is brushing his teeth and I am tidying up, Di calls and says, ‘Sorry if I’m interrupting anything. I just wanted to catch you before you go on holiday. It is tomorrow you leave, right?’
‘Yeah.’
I tell her about Angus’s birthday.
She says, ‘His mum’s ring! Wow!’
‘I know.’
‘You sound really happy.’
‘I am.’
‘What’d you give him?’
‘A bodyboard, for taking on holiday. He’s already had a new bathrobe.’
‘Darling nutcase!’ Angus had roared with laughter when he saw the board propped up against the fridge. ‘What am I supposed to do with this?’
‘It’s for Devon, silly-billy. You said you’d never tried bodyboarding. Now’s your chance. I bought it from Amazon, it came two days ago; I had to hide it in your spare room. Anyway, you’re such a Tigger at heart, it seemed perfect.’
‘I’m an ancient Tigger.’
‘It’ll keep you young.’
‘My darling girl, it’ll be a shortcut to A&E. But I commend your good effort all the same.’
I also bought him a giant bottle of bubbles, to blow from the boat’s prow towards the river, which he did, at breakfast-time. I baked him a cake shaped like the letter A, and placed mini sparklers in the chocolate icing. I gave him a pair of oven gloves printed with the words ‘Too Hot to Handel’ and a small, soft corduroy lion with a wavy mane. Angus placed him, immediately and prominently, on a shelf in the kitchen. ‘King of the Feasts’, we named him.
In the hotel’s best room, the one with the
biggest balcony directly above the beach, he angles us in front of the mirror, his hands in my hair.
‘Look at this beautiful view,’ he says.
He picks up the envelope on the bed.
‘What’s this?’ He looks suspicious.
‘It’s for you.’
‘I can see that.’
‘Open it.’
‘What is it?’
‘A poem.’
‘“Wring Out My Clothes”,’ Angus reads. ‘You sure it’s not a form for hotel laundry?’
‘It’s a poem. By St Francis of Assisi.’
‘Blimey, I didn’t know he wrote poetry.’
‘He was a man of many parts. Like you. Read it to me,’ I say. ‘Out loud. It’s very short.’
Angus reads:
‘“Such love does
the sky now pour,
that whenever I stand in a field,
I have to wring out the light
when I get
home.”’
I say, ‘This is how it is for me, being with you.’
The sea is not as blue today as it was yesterday, or the day before. It has a pale charcoal hue, except in places where the tide is breaking its surface into fidgety, silver curls. Close to the cliffs the waves are strong. I watch them for a while, hurling themselves against rock, unyielding.
I can see him on the beach, reading. He looks a very long way away. Only a few hours ago he was so close that I could see the flecks in his irises. He looks up briefly, locates me, waves. I wave back. ‘Watch me,’ I want to call out. ‘Watch me!’ But he doesn’t. He watched me earlier.
The waves are more powerful than they were on the day we arrived. I hold on to Angus’s board and I paddle hard but progress is slow. I keep getting knocked back. I think of the sea in France, early in my marriage, where there were no waves to speak of. It’s a while since I’ve bodysurfed in swell this rough. I wonder if I’ve lost the knack. The morning sun is in my eyes. I look away from it, westwards, down the coastline. My babies are somewhere there.
Jesus! All of a sudden, the light disappears. I have no idea which way is up, which way is the seabed, and where the sky has gone. I feel my neck rip, there’s a fire in my shoulder, but I am too busy clawing at the water. I know I have been hurt, I know this for sure. I scrabble, trying to find footings, sand, something solid. What has happened I don’t know. A wave I did not see coming.
The water has inhaled me and now, being rolled and pummelled as if I am something it took in error, something it does not want and is preparing for disposal, I am to be reduced and deformed. I can hear the tide, the swell of heavy water over tiny particles. I flail, hoping to hit something firm. There is only the insistent surge. I do not want to be swallowed. As a child, I would wake on occasion coiled at the bottom of my bed, humid and blind, panicked by the tight smother of blankets over my head, and like a swimmer in the deep end of a pool I would kick until I found the wall through the bedding, and propel myself upwards to air and space. The way was narrow but straightforward. Now, I do not know where I am. I fight. With one foot, I make contact with the seabed, but I lose it again, feel only the sharp abrasion of packed sand along my left hip.
As abruptly as I was overcome, I am expelled. I gulp for air, mouth full of salt, the taste repulsive. I hear my coughs, jagged and harsh. I am choking. Yet more water slams into my face, tearing at my skin: it’s in my eyes, down my throat, up my nose; I can’t see, I can’t swallow, I can’t breathe. I am being murdered. It feels like indifference, what the sea is doing. A revelation: Violence can be entirely arbitrary. My body is contorted, the sensation in my torso is of twisting ropes. Spikes of sun are in my eyes. A cloud turns too quickly on its axis. I wonder, fleetingly, Where’s the board?
The smack of water on the right side of my head is so powerful I am knocked sideways once more. My ear explodes. I am held under, crushed by waves like a downpour of cement. I gasp but there is nothing. My insides are ablaze. Something pulls at my left arm – once, and then again. I understand this is terrible. Nutcase, you can’t breathe.
There are people close by. Towels. Flasks of tea. A lot of legs, flip-flops and bare feet. A man is crouching, his hand on my arm, his swimming trunks stretched tight across his inner thighs, his calves hairy and taut. I can’t see his face easily. A woman is leaning over me, strands of salty hair skimming my face as she talks to me in tones I use for my children. ‘It’s okay, babe,’ she says, ‘it’s okay now.’ I can’t see her face, either. Blue bikini top, large breasts; nice ones, men will like her. People slightly further away – an outer circle, milling, chatting to each other. Their interest – piqued – keeps them nearby.
Angus.
‘My darling,’ he is saying. ‘My darling.’
He is beside me. I can’t lift my head or turn my neck to look at him. But I know his are the hands holding an unfamiliar-looking metal mug. He raises it to my lips.
‘Sweetheart,’ he says. ‘Try to drink.’
I can’t.
Someone says, ‘Might be best to leave it. She’s in shock.’
‘Babe,’ says the woman. Her voice is husky. A smoker, perhaps. She is crouching now, like the man with the taut trunks and calves. Silver bangles jostle for space on her wrists. ‘We think you’ve dislocated your shoulder, yeah?’
I have? A croak at the back of my throat; a mild objection to the news.
‘It’s okay, honey,’ she says. ‘They’ll sort it for you at the hospital, you’re going to be fine. But we have to let them do it, yeah?’ She strokes my wrist and I flinch. ‘The pain’s really bad?’
I try to nod but I can’t do that, either.
The shivering won’t stop.
The woman turns to someone standing behind her, enquires, ‘Are they on their way?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, sweetheart,’ says Angus. He asks, ‘Does anyone have another rug?’
Pass the Parcel, where you take the layers off one by one. This is the other way around. They keep adding to me. I am a mound of fleecy blankets and someone’s jacket. ‘Mind her shoulder!’ Angus kneels on all fours in front of me, stooping very low, his head bent so that I can see him. He looks like a child pretending to be an animal. He seems very worried. I am puzzled. His face has gone black and white. There is no colour whatever. A treble buzz begins in my ears, expands to a screech.
‘Lucy!’
‘It’s okay, mate.’ I think someone is reassuring Angus. ‘Pain does that.’
A different voice, a new one, ‘What’s happened?’
‘She just fainted.’
‘She’s vomited.’
I can feel my cheek congealed against wet sand.
‘She fainted?’
‘It’s the pain.’
‘Shouldn’t we sit her up again?’
Hands on me; damp. They try to move me.
‘Lucy, do you think you’re going to be sick again?’
My neck burns.
‘No, stop!’ someone says. ‘Wait for them to get here.’
‘Yes,’ I hear the new person say, in a telephone voice. ‘Yes. She’s with her husband.’
In the ambulance, they give me gas and air. By the time we reach the hospital, the pain belongs somewhere else – possibly even to someone else. I think of a dog on an extending lead.
‘It’s like that,’ I say. My voice sounds thin and remote.
‘What’s like what, darling?’ Angus asks.
‘A dog. Pain. It goes away from me.’
I can’t keep my eyes open.
‘Are you there?’ I keep saying. ‘You’re still there, aren’t you?’
‘I’m right here. Don’t try to talk.’
The A&E nurse is practised and swift. Once my shoulder is back in place, the relief is immediate.
She tells me that she will put my arm in a sling, and she tells Angus the way to the hospital pharmacy, where he can take the prescription for my painkillers. He says before he goes, ‘Sweetie, do you want anything else?�
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‘I just want to go home.’
‘Sinéad,’ he turns to the nurse, ‘I can’t thank you enough. Can I get you a coffee?’
Sinéad says, ‘I only drink whisky when I’m on duty.’
‘Marvellous!’ Angus replies. ‘At last, a woman who speaks my language.’
When Angus is gone, she says, ‘What a great husband.’
‘He’s not my husband.’
‘Oh, sorry.’
‘I am married,’ I say, ‘but not to him. He’s my – my boyfriend, I suppose. I don’t know how to put it, really. My husband knows.’
‘No problem,’ says Sinéad. ‘Main thing is, you’ve got someone to look after you.’ She lifts my arm and places it in a diagonal across my chest, as if I am about to swear allegiance to something. She says. ‘If you could just support your elbow there for a moment with your other hand.’
I wince. She asks me how much it is hurting on a scale of one to ten if ten was the pain before she put it back in.
‘About six, as long as I don’t move.’
‘Okay, that’s fine.’
‘Yeah, for you, maybe.’
She giggles.
‘Sorry if what I just said seems weird to you,’ I say. I am embarrassed.
‘I promise you, almost nothing seems weird to me.’ She adjusts my arm slightly.
‘Ow.’
‘Sorry, pet.’
‘I wouldn’t want you to think that it’s just some horrible, hidden thing. It isn’t. It’s nothing like that.’
I am talking too much.
Angus has asked me several times, ‘Why do you care what people think?’ And Mark has asserted, repeatedly, that when it comes to other people and their opinions, he doesn’t give a damn either way.
But I do. I care because for all my don’t-give-a-damn attitude, I do give a damn. I don’t want to be a pariah. I love Angus, I do, but I have liked marriage, too. From the beginning, I have been grateful for its less refined points; its temperate climate and steady, repetitious nature. There is something to be said for the refuge of the commonplace. Yet I have been drawn always to the unfamiliar, to the kinds of people for whom strange, new lives must be lived. I wonder occasionally, Should I have sought something more extreme? Rich and Newfoundland were the closest I ever got: a man in a canoe, his hands salty-rough; the local women with their tram-lined skin and pocket knives, resilient. Cod hauls, high winds, and knowing there were bears in the hills. In bed in wild Canada, I would lie awake in thrall to the peculiar.