A Rival Creation

by Marika Cobbold

  He pushed another forkful of mince and mashed potato into his mouth. It was the same with her surprises, he thought. He had once told Victoria soon after their first meeting that he loved the way she seemed to live in the present, relaxed and willing to grab any opportunity of pleasure. Now he never knew when Victoria was about to turn every day into a feast. He could be sitting reading, tired and sleepy from a long day’s uninspiring slog and she would appear with a rug and their supper in a basket lined with red and white check cloth. ‘A picnic in our own sitting-room, that’s great,’ he’d say because this fun-filled monster was his creation. But this evening, apart from pointing out that as it was such a gloomy day, she had cooked his favourite food, Victoria was quiet. In bed he found out why.

  ‘You’re so cold towards me these days,’ she said with a snuffle. She snuggled closer and with her voice choked with emotion, her hands busy across his body, she said, ‘Make love to me Oscar. Don’t reject me. I can’t stand it if you reject me.’ Her hands, small and strong continued their work expertly, rubbing squeezing, caressing. ‘Please Oscar, what’s wrong with me? Am I so disgusting?’ She wept openly now, as she slithered on top of him, her naked body soft and light against his. ‘Hold me please Oscar. I’m your wife. Don’t reject me again.’ She shook from all the weeping. ‘If I’m so revolting to you I might as well kill myself.’ She pressed against him, rubbing her knee up and down his thigh, and his body, a creature of habit, responded.

  ‘Oscar love me,’ Victoria whimpered, her legs clutching his waist. ‘Love me.’

  Twenty-eight

  Nancy woke earlier than ever these spring mornings. She slept better, too. It was having her own room that did that, she thought. She had moved into the spare room straight away on her return from Italy the week before. From the window she could see the bungalow being built on the plot of land at the bottom of the garden. She checked its progress every morning as she got up and then she looked with satisfaction at her stomach. The two went together. The baby had been bought with money from the sale of the land. She had simply cashed a cheque for half of the proceeds. Half of that, in its turn, she had put aside in a personal account for her future and the new baby’s. It had been so easy, it made her laugh.

  When she had first arrived home, she had pointed at the building works and said to Andrew, ‘It’s that erection, not yours, that’s made my baby possible.’

  Andrew, pale and set around the jaw, had flinched. ‘Please don’t be crude Nancy.’

  Andrew had become much quieter since it all happened. The business was being wound up by the receivers and now Nancy had returned announcing she was pregnant with another man’s child. ‘A medical student most probably, they’re always donating sperm. I told you I wasn’t too old. Well I had a little bit of help, but nothing major.’ She smirked. ‘I’ve always been very fertile.’

  Andrew had just stood there, taking it all. Never once had he ranted and raved, not once had he threatened. He just got quieter and quieter, and his normal ruddy colour seemed to have drained permanently from his cheeks. He seemed too defeated even to ask her for a divorce. Last night he had looked past her out at the garden and said, ‘I’ll go along with the pretence that your child is mine, but don’t expect me to be a real father to it.’

  Nancy had smiled sweetly and answered, ‘Of course not, you never were to the other two, so why start now?’ But it suited her that they stay together. Single parenthood was all very well for actresses and the working classes, she thought, but not for her, not for this baby. Look at poor Liberty Turner. The boy by all accounts had turned out well, but at what price? The woman’s life was a mess. No, Andrew could give his name to the child if nothing else. And she wanted the house, not a half share of the money from its sale that she would get if they divorced. In fact she wanted it all again, a baby there in that house, sleeping in the same nursery, playing in the same garden, having tea at that kitchen table, only this time, everything would be perfect.

  Andrew kept out of her way, spending his days in Winchester. For two thousand pounds, he and five other unemployed businessmen had the use of a small office, a part-time secretary called Mia, a fax machine, a BBC computer and most important of all, somewhere to go each morning. As far as Nancy knew he used his time there to despatch job applications together with an increasingly imaginative curriculum vitae.

  She had talked to Piers and Louise, too. She had not told them Andrew was not the father, but she did say, ‘I’m having a baby, to give it all the attention and love I didn’t give you.’

  ‘Most people’s embittered menopausal mothers go for the bottle or a new job,’ Louise had said but not unkindly.

  Piers had said, ‘Oh God!’ and put the phone down. Five minutes later he called back to say, ‘Whatever turns you on Ma, honestly.’

  Nancy was pleased that the children seemed to accept, even if they did not understand.

  These fat, calm days of growing, her baby, the bungalow, its four walls erected already, the beginnings of a new garden that Andrew had planted while she was away, were contented ones. She was so calm she surprised even herself. Was she the same person who had set off fireworks inside Evelyn Brooke’s barn and destroyed two gardens? She found it difficult to remember quite what happened that day when, with a throat raw from screaming, she drove across to Evelyn and pranced round her garden like the Angel of Death with her bags of salt. It had been so simple, that was the awful thing. A couple of sackfuls of coarse salt from Sanderson’s Seeds dumped into the pump inlet, switch the system on, and that was that; two days later, no garden, no pump. It had pleased her at the time that she did not have to resort to using any of the chemicals Evelyn fussed over so much, just salt, totally organic, usually harmless, salt.

  But she was truly sorry now. She had blamed the messenger for the message, blamed Evelyn for making her see how she had wasted her life on an unworthy cause. After all, it was Nancy who had created a God out of a thick-necked and ordinary young man and a life’s work out of being his wife. ‘Being Mrs Andrew Sanderson is all I want.’ How many times had she heard herself saying that.

  The same week that Nancy left for Italy, Andrew had gone over to Evelyn and told who it was that had ruined her garden. Nancy never asked what was said, enough to know that no official action was going to be taken beyond Andrew paying for the garden to be replanted and the irrigation system restored. But they had not received a bill yet, and when Nancy glimpsed Evelyn in her nephew’s car or out walking with Liberty Turner she hardly recognized her. No, Nancy was sorry but she did not dwell on it. What was the point? All that mattered now was the baby.

  She was having her mid-morning coffee when Neville Pyke called in. Poor old boy, still hoping that Tollymead be chosen as The Most Caring Village in the Tribune Area. Of course he, like everyone else, had no idea of Nancy’s own contribution.

  ‘The daffodils will be a great help,’ he panted on her doorstep. ‘But this time I’ve come about the fête.’ He looked impishly at her, his big, bald head to one side. ‘“There he goes again, old Neville,” I bet you’re thinking, “with another of his schemes.”’

  ‘Not really Neville,’ Nancy said, but she said it with a smile.

  ‘You know it isn’t many months ago that I wouldn’t have felt I could come on a little neighbourly visit like this and be welcome.’ Nancy said nothing and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘What I mean to say is, we need a much bigger do this year. No offence to you and the other ladies, but earlier years’ fêtes have been a bit of a disappointment to Mrs Pyke and myself.’

  ‘Come in for a moment then,’ Nancy stepped back to allow him in. As she led him into the kitchen she gave her stomach a surreptitious little pat. ‘Wouldn’t the silly old man be surprised if he knew about you,’ she mumbled. To Neville she said, ‘There certainly is room for improvement. Now we haven’t set a date yet, but we talked about the first Saturday in July.’

  Neville nodded. ‘But then we have no time to waste
. I am more than happy to serve on the committee.’ He spoke the words as if tasting his favourite dish. ‘The committee is most important. And of course with all that talk of inspectors going round judging the different villages, I can’t say I have seen any, but maybe they are incognito—’

  ‘Like the man from Egon Ronay.’

  ‘Now that’s just what Mrs Turner said the other day. So we have to be prepared at all times, that’s what I’m trying to tell everyone.’

  ‘What about a bonniest baby competition? They’re such fun. I’ll judge if you like,’ Nancy offered brightly.

  Saturday sun shining, benign breeze blowing beautiful… ? Liberty looked up at Oscar sitting next to her in the old hammock under the apple tree, and smiled beatifically. ‘If my name was printed down your spine and £5.99 stamped on your bottom, I couldn’t love you more,’ she said, and the words rolled up in her mind: blond blue-eyed blessed boy. She put her arms round his neck and whispered, ‘Blessed boy.’

  Oscar gently loosened her arms and looked quizzically at her. ‘What did you call me?’

  ‘Blessed boy,’ Liberty mumbled. ‘Man didn’t fit in.’

  ‘Ah,’ Oscar said. ‘I don’t think I shall ask what it did not fit with.’ He pulled her towards him resting his chin on the top of her head.

  ‘It’s a blessing too,’ Liberty said, ‘that we are capable of such limited compassion and understanding. A total lack of insight and an inability to use what brains we have, are probably God’s greatest gifts to mankind. Here we sit, perfectly happy, throbbing with barely-contained lust—’

  Oscar raised an eyebrow and was rewarded with a slap across his back.

  ‘—revelling in each other’s presence, whilst all round us people are having a tough time: Evelyn, and that prat Sanderson, poor old Ted Brain, the Haville-Joneses, last I heard, he was off demonstrating in Brussels, my father, even Penny, her husband is threatened with redundancy as well, and that would mean losing her house and, you know, she’s created a whole world around that house. There are thousands and thousands like them, what’s more, and yet I’m happier than I’ve been for eight years.’

  ‘You’re sure it’s not nine, or seven?’

  Liberty looked up at his laughing face. She smiled back not bothering to answer. After a few minutes she shook herself and said, ‘I’m getting cold. Shall we go inside?’

  She made some tea and while she moved round the small kitchen, filling the kettle, warming the pot, putting out mugs and sugar and milk, she kept looking at him. When the tea was ready to pour she sat down opposite him and said, ‘You’re so beautiful you should be on television. I know you used to be, but you’re even more beautiful now. I suit you.’ To her delight Oscar’s cheeks coloured. ‘You’re clever too. So why do you bury yourself here?’ She was serious suddenly.

  Oscar put his mug down with a precise little slam. ‘I’ve told you, I wanted a change. Anyway, I know you mean well but I wish you’d stop going on about how I look.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She was hurt. ‘Personally I would find it very gratifying if someone carried on about how gorgeous I was. In fact, I spent many an hour when I was a plain but clever young girl, wishing someone would love me for my looks alone.’ She turned away.

  ‘Hey,’ Oscar put his hand over hers, ‘I’m sorry.’

  Liberty got up and went across and plumped herself down on his lap. ‘I want to know why you’re here. I want to devour every grubby little detail of your life and absorb it into mine, so it grows all thick and glistening like a first-rate sauce.’

  ‘Look Liberty can we change the subject?’

  Know when to stop. Why do I never know when to stop? ‘You should see your eyes,’ she insisted instead. ‘They’re troubled and I want to know why.’

  Oscar bounced up from the chair pushing her off his lap. ‘I’m off. I should have been home ages ago.’ He was out of the kitchen with three big steps and then the front door slammed shut behind him.

  Liberty sat dry-eyed, staring out at the road as the sun set behind the gabled roof of the house opposite. After a while she got up with a sigh to get paper and pen to continue her letter to Johnny.

  ‘I’m on top of the world,’ she had written earlier that day, ‘but I can hardly wait until you’re home again. It never ceases to amaze me that each generation has to have babies of their own before they get any sympathy for their worrying, bleating, loving parents. When you get home, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’

  She looked at that last line now, wondering if she should cross it out. In the end she decided not to and she finished the letter describing Hamish’s impending retirement and friends she’d seen who had asked after Johnny. She put the letter in an envelope and sat down to work. At ten she cleaned her face and changed into her dressing-gown before going downstairs again to continue with the translation of the Jungman novel. She never liked splitting her time between two manuscripts, but she still had not finished the teenage fantasy novel. Her eyes grew sore from looking at the computer screen, and she rested her head against the desk. She must have fallen asleep, because she woke with a start to the sound of the doorbell. Her heart thumping, she jumped up and hurried to the door.

  ‘Who is it?’ she squeaked.

  ‘It’s me.’ She heard Oscar’s voice.

  She opened the door so quickly that Oscar, who had leant against the door, almost fell inside. He was sorry. Thank goodness, he was terribly sorry. And to her embarrassment, she began to cry.

  ‘Come and sit down.’ Oscar took her hand and led her into the sitting-room. He sat down in the sofa, pulling her down next to him.

  ‘What have you told Victoria?’ Liberty asked before pulling a handkerchief from the pocket of her dressing-gown and giving a loud blow.

  ‘I said I was taking the dog for a walk.’

  ‘You haven’t got a dog. Sooner or later she’ll spot that.’

  Oscar laughed. ‘She’s asleep. I didn’t have to tell her anything.’ He put his arm round Liberty’s shoulders and pulled her close, resting his cheek against the top of her head. ‘You asked me about why I moved down here.’

  Liberty waited, snuggling closer, feeling his grip on her arm tightening. After a long moment Liberty eased herself free and stood up. ‘I’ll put on a record,’ she said. ‘Music brings things to the surface I’ve noticed.’ She padded across to the CD player and brought out the new recording of ‘Unchained Melody’. She turned to Oscar with a smile. ‘Music is good for the soul,’ she said. ‘Even simple stuff like this. Sometimes when I fear I’m just a tangle of nervous impulses, I put music on and up it pops, the elusive little devil.’

  ‘I lost my soul in Colombia.’ Oscar smiled back but his eyes were sad. ‘How about that for a song title?’

  ‘Don’t you make his blue eyes blue,’ Liberty sang softly. ‘No, that’s wrong.’ She walked back and sat down on his knees, her arms round his neck, her face buried against his shoulder. ‘You’re a good man,’ she whispered. ‘So what happened?’

  For a long time Oscar said nothing and Liberty, itching to prompt him, kept quiet and still. At last he began to speak. He spoke for a long time and Liberty understood from the way he picked his words so carefully that he had not talked much of this before, but that he had thought about it all the more often.

  It had all happened two years earlier. He had been living in Colombia with his girlfriend, a photographer, researching a series of major articles on the drug trade. ‘I really cared about this one,’ he said almost apologetically. ‘There’s a direct link between children dying in squats in London and Glasgow and some businessman sitting down for lunch with his family down on a ranch two hundred miles south of Cartagena. We all know about it, but he and hundreds like him still get away with it.’

  After months of tracking through the jungles and mountain villages, bribing and threatening, he had found a man prepared to act as intermediary. The young man had been frightened. ‘All the time he was working to set up a meeting with the lo
cal drug cartel he was frightened, but he carried on for reasons of his own. I never even asked what those reasons were. I was too busy chasing my story. A rendezvous was arranged.’ He paused.

  Again Liberty said nothing, waiting.

  ‘The man I was meeting was a boastful bastard. Full of bull and bravado, a survivor of countless assassination attempts, too used to evading the authorities. I think he had begun to fall a victim of his own publicity as an indestructible folk hero. Anyway, he told me too much, a lot of it on the understanding that it was off the record. I put it all in my article. I felt it was the right thing to do. Several members of the drugs cartel, including a government official, were arrested as a result.’ Oscar rubbed his chin back and forth against his fists.

  ‘The boy who had set up the meeting was beaten to death and his body strung up from the spire of his village church. Rachel was shot through the head as we drove to the airport. I survived.’

  Liberty leant across and took his hand. ‘So you married Victoria, thinking you could drown your memories in those great shallow eyes. You left the work you loved and took a job you couldn’t care less about down here. I can understand that.’ She paused, treading carefully around the broken bits of his past. ‘But I’ve never been a great believer in self-flagellation. Who does it help? It might ease your pain to know that although you’re still alive, at least you’re bloody miserable, but it doesn’t really do a lot for anyone else.’

  Oscar did not answer but sat looking straight ahead across the untidy sitting-room with its heap of books, unread, half read and read, in piles on the floor along with a huge unfinished jigsaw that spread across the hearth rug. Liberty did not want to badger him. Carefully, so as not to disturb his thoughts, she got up from the sofa and picked an apple-core from a corner of the room, chucking it into the wastepaper basket by the window. As she returned to him, he put his hand out and, smiling, pulled her down towards him.