The Fountain

by Mary Nichols

  ‘Smile,’ Simon whispered, as a flashbulb went off only inches from her face. ‘Pretend you’re a star.’ In evening dress, as all the men were, he was thinner than she remembered him and his clear blue eyes held a hint of self-mockery. Those eyes, which she saw every day of her life in Jay-Jay’s chubby face, unnerved her more than a little.

  ‘A fat chance of that.’ It didn’t take a genius to guess that Penny’s invitation had been a spur-of-the-moment thing when she realised Barbara was feeling low, but it didn’t stop her feeling like a fish out of water. She hadn’t bargained on being paired with Simon either. She had expected him to come with Dodo. It was a surprise to learn they had decided to divorce.

  ‘It wasn’t working out,’ he had told her just before they set out from Penny’s flat. ‘My work keeps me in London and hers is all over the place and she likes to date other men. And I wanted children, she didn’t.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ What else could she say? Tempted as she was to tell him he was already a father, she couldn’t, knowing the consequences would be catastrophic. But the secret was like a lead weight in her breast.

  ‘It can’t be helped and it has its compensations.’ He smiled as he spoke. ‘I might otherwise have missed a new sighting of a very rare bird indeed.’

  She had laughed, genuinely laughed, for the first time in a week. ‘Simon, you can be so silly, sometimes.’

  ‘I know, but why not? If we can’t laugh at our problems, what is the point of it all? Now come on, we’re going to enjoy ourselves tonight.’

  The film was a spooky one, but it suited Barbara’s mood, which was black as night. Not that Simon intended it to stay that way. At the party afterwards he was attentive and smiling and apparently oblivious of the glitz all around him, with eyes only for Barbara. She drank too much, laughed too loudly and danced a lot. But exhaustion claimed her in the end and she sank onto a sofa in Penny’s overheated lounge, leant back and shut her eyes.

  ‘You’re done for, aren’t you?’ His voice in her ear was gently concerned and it wasn’t tonight’s tiredness he meant. He had always been able to read her moods and he knew, without being told, that she was at the end of her tether.

  ‘Mmm. I think I might be drunk.’

  ‘It won’t do you any harm. It’s hot in here. Let’s go out on the balcony and gaze at the moon.’

  The balcony was tiny and it looked out over the street, with its regularly spaced lamps shedding pools of yellow light onto a row of parked cars; all Penny’s friends drove cars. Above the rooftops the sky was clear and studded with stars. He put his arm about her waist and she leant her head on his shoulder and they stood side by side, silent and unmoving. A car door slammed; someone or something knocked over a dustbin and behind them the sound of conversation and laughter came to them over the music of a gramophone. None of it impinged: they were cocooned in their own little world of quiet contemplation.

  ‘We are a couple of idiots, aren’t we?’ he murmured.

  ‘Are we?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve let ourselves be led by the nose, both of us. I had no right to lecture you about losing the real you, I did it too.’

  ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘I don’t know. It depends. But we don’t need to worry about that tonight, do we? Tonight is for us.’

  She turned her head to look up at him, wondering if he meant what she thought he did. He smiled and kissed the end of her nose. ‘More therapy?’ she murmured.

  ‘Only if that’s what you want.’ She wasn’t happy. He could sense it, just as he could sense everything about her, every nuance of emotion, every quirk of her character. He wanted to tell her that he could make her happy, that he loved her, that they belonged together, but he held back, afraid of her reaction, of spoiling the little they had.

  ‘Oh, Simon, I don’t know what I want. I only know that it’s so comforting standing here with you. And I do need comfort just now.’

  He turned her in his arms and gently kissed her on the mouth. There was no pressure, no urgency; he was simply asking the question, waiting for her to give him an answer. She reached up and took his head in her hands and kissed him back. He took her hand and led her back indoors, past the noisy drawing room, to her bedroom.

  ‘What’s that?’ Simon was sitting up in bed smoking a cigarette, waiting for Barbara to wake up. Seeing her again, being with her, making love to her, had been balm to his injured soul. She was wonderful in bed, caring and receptive, tender and passionate, in tune with everything he did. It was like coming into safe water after a storm. He’d wanted to tell her so, to explain about Dodo, but it would have spoilt their time together and he did not want to think about his wife, let alone talk about her. And so he had tried to keep it light, a bit of fun.

  His eyes had roamed round the room. His own clothes and Barbara’s were scattered about, a pair of stockings lay tangled with his shirt, a brassiere was draped over a stool. One high-heeled shoe lay on its side under the dressing table; where the other was he could not see. A make-up bag and a perfume spray stood on the dressing table. But it was the parcel that caught his eye. It was flat, done up with brown paper and string and was propped on a chair.

  ‘What’s what?’ She had slept well but it was hardly surprising after the night they had had. It had been wonderful, easy and relaxing at first, as they slowly explored each other’s naked bodies, then gradually the tempo had increased as she became more and more roused. She had a vague memory of really wild behaviour, of hands and arms and legs thrashing about, of mouths and tongues everywhere, of a sensation of soaring, of brilliance far beyond the bedside lamp they had left on. They had come together so perfectly, so beautifully, she had simply collapsed in sheer delight and not moved again.

  ‘That.’ He pointed. ‘It looks like a picture.’

  ‘It is. I brought it for Penny. But it didn’t seem appropriate to give it to her yesterday.’

  He got out of bed, naked, and walked across to pick it up. Drowsily, she watched him, admiring the long legs and slim hips, the absence of any sign of a pot belly. He was unselfconscious about his nakedness. Noticing where her eyes were travelling, he looked down at himself and grinned. ‘Oh, what the hell!’ Putting the parcel down he returned to the bed and stood looking down at her.

  ‘No, Simon,’ she said. ‘We can’t. It’s late and I need a bath.’

  He reached out and took both her hands in his, pulling her from the bed. ‘Come on, then.’

  She resisted, laughing, but he propelled her into the adjoining bathroom and turned on the bath taps. As the warm water filled it, he lifted her into it and got in behind her. He soaped her all over, letting his hands slip over her, kissing her wet skin, licking his tongue round her neck and behind her ears, making her shiver. He grasped her buttocks in his hands and lifted her onto him. Steam enveloped them. She felt she was drowning not in liquid, but in a kind of ecstasy that lifted her out of the shell of her body onto some higher plane. She had never experienced anything remotely like it before. Different from the first time, different from the previous night of uninhibited passion. This was more heartfelt, more ecstatic. It was perfect.

  Afterwards he padded off in search of towels. She stepped out, taking a towel from him and rubbing her hair. They did not speak, each knowing that the night which he had said belonged to them was over. He dressed in casual trousers and a shirt and, while she found a dress and clean underwear in her case, carefully unwrapped the picture. It was only when it was exposed and she looked at it from across the room, she realised how much like Simon Jay-Jay was, more than she’d ever noticed before. Already his baby blonde hair was darkening into something approaching red-gold, almost exactly the same shade as Penny’s. She held her breath.

  ‘Children on a Beach,’ he murmured. ‘It’s very different from Girl on a Rock, isn’t it?’

  ‘You told me that was too sad,’ she said, wondering if it had been such a good idea to bring it. ‘This is meant to be a happy picture, a com
panion piece, if you like. Do you think Penny will like it?’

  ‘No doubt of it. Are these your children?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve caught them beautifully, especially the baby. He is so full of life, the bright eyes, the chubby cheeks. I think I’d put up with almost anything to have a family like that.’ He paused to look at her and his wistful smile turned to concern. ‘Why are you crying?’ He put the picture down and came to stand in front of her, taking her shoulders in his hands. ‘Oh, my darling, I’ve upset you. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You haven’t upset me.’ She sniffed and fumbled for a handkerchief. ‘I’ve been a bit low lately, that’s all.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘I can’t. I’m sorry.’

  He waited, but when she didn’t speak again, he said, ‘Fair enough. Let’s go and find Penny.’

  ‘Do you think she knows you were here all night?’

  ‘Probably. But she’ll understand.’

  ‘If she does, it’s more than I do.’

  ‘Come on, now, no regrets. It was great, wasn’t it? The best ever.’ He picked up the painting to cover the need to hide the fact that he was as near to tears as he had ever been in his life. If only… He refused to let himself go down that road.

  They found his sister in the kitchen. She was dressed in a red silk dressing gown and was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in front of her. Beside it stood an aspirin bottle. ‘Hi, you two,’ she said. ‘What a night! Help yourselves to coffee. Make some toast or something. I’ve got to go out. I must have been mad to agree to a newspaper interview after a first-night party. I look like death.’

  ‘You look gorgeous, as always,’ Barbara said.

  ‘Barbara’s brought you a present,’ Simon said, resting the bottom of the painting on the kitchen table facing her. ‘What do you think of it?’

  ‘It’s lovely! Oh, Barbara, are you sure you want me to have it?’

  ‘Of course I do. Simon said Girl on a Rock was sad, so I thought I’d paint a cheerful picture to balance it.’

  ‘If you haven’t got room to hang it, I’ll take it off your hands,’ Simon said.

  ‘Why would you want it?’ Barbara asked him, her voice unnaturally sharp. Surely he hadn’t guessed?

  ‘Because you painted it.’ His answer was meant to disguise the true reason. ‘If you go on like this, you’ll be famous one day and it’ll be worth thousands.’

  ‘Well, you can’t have it,’ Penny said. ‘It can hang next to the other one. You can put it up while I’m out. Barbara, you’ll be here when I come back, won’t you? We’ve hardly had a minute to talk.’

  ‘I really ought to be thinking about going home.’

  ‘Wait until after lunch. A few hours won’t make that much difference, will it?’

  ‘I suppose not.’ She didn’t know why she agreed. As soon as Simon had unwrapped that picture and she had looked at that painting with fresh eyes, heard him say he would give anything for a family like that, she wanted to rush straight back to her children and hug them to death. But then she thought of the other side of the coin: her life with George and the prospect of years and years more of that daunted her. And there was her own guilt. It weighed heavily on her. Somehow she had to come to terms with that before she faced her husband again. ‘While you’re gone, I’ll go for a walk, get a breath of fresh air.’

  She knew Simon would go with her, but that was better than staying in the flat with him. She knew what would happen if she did and she didn’t trust herself. Her life seemed filled with regrets and now there was another to add to all the others. And yet, Simon was her solace, and she knew she loved him, had always loved him. But where did that leave George and her life with him?

  Quite apart from personal traumas, it was a dreadful year. Unemployment was still the main worry at home. There was unrest in India, and in Germany the Nazi party was gaining ground. In America there was a kind of boom, when everyone seemed to be speculating on the stock exchange until some of the more prudent investors realised the madness of it and began selling. The bottom fell out of the market in October, recovered briefly only to crash again in November, and naturally there were repercussions all over the world.

  George had to juggle his finances harder than ever. Honest George, he called himself, but Barbara knew that was a sham. He continued to bribe, cajole and deceive. Whether he had kept his promise not to see Virginia again, she wasn’t sure, mainly because they led almost separate lives, he with his business and his politics, she with her voluntary work and her painting. And her children. They were her life.

  She had been tempted to confess her affair to George but decided it would serve no useful purpose, except to ease her own conscience. She had to live with that, just as she had to live with the fact that she was not the only woman in her husband’s life, that she had to share him. God give her strength to bear it because there must be no more trips to London. Simon, dearest Simon, must be forgotten. She must look after her family, paint pictures and go about her charity work, trying to do some good where it was most needed, and if there was any justice in the world, it would all come right in the end.

  In 1931, when rumours were rife that Britain was on the verge of bankruptcy, Ramsay MacDonald agreed to lead a coalition government to deal with the financial crisis. The measures they took, draconian in many people’s eyes, included an increase in income tax, higher duties on beer, tobacco and petrol and cuts in civil service salaries. Worst of all, unemployment allowances were cut and a means test imposed. The pound lost a fifth of its value.

  A general election was called in October and George campaigned as hard as anyone. He was at the town hall on the night of the count, buttering up the Conservative candidate who, if elected, could be very useful to him. Barbara stayed at home listening to the news on the wireless while she painted. It was the last item which grabbed her attention. There had been a traffic accident on the Great North Road in pouring rain. Incredibly no one had been killed, but Simon Barcliffe, the brother of the well-known actress, Penny Barcliffe, had been injured. Barbara didn’t wait for more, but rushed out to the hall to ring Penny. Her friend was out, but she left a message with her maid to ring back and returned to the sitting room to wait for her call. At midnight she gave up and went to bed.

  It was at breakfast next morning she learnt that there had been a huge Conservative landslide. ‘There’ll be the usual celebration,’ George told her, buttering toast. ‘I’ll let you know the date.’

  After he had gone, she got the children off to school, then cleared up the breakfast things, listening for the telephone. It rang in the middle of the morning.

  She snatched it up. ‘Penny, I heard the news. How is he?’

  ‘He’s got cracked ribs, a broken leg and a lot of bruises.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Peterborough General. I’m ringing from there.’

  Peterborough was not far; she could do it in little over an hour and Kate would look after Jay-Jay. ‘I’ll come, shall I?’

  ‘He’d like that.’

  She found her friend in a small waiting room, nursing a mug of coffee. She was grey with fatigue, wore wide trousers and a sweater and, without make-up, certainly looked nothing like the glamorous Penny Barcliffe her fans knew. Barbara sat down beside her. ‘How is he?’

  ‘Better than yesterday. He’ll be pleased to see you. He was mumbling about you when they brought him in.’

  ‘Me?’ she queried in surprise.

  ‘Yes, don’t sound so surprised. I knew there was something going on between you when you came up for the premiere of Dragon Castle, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the first time…

  Barbara didn’t attempt to deny it. ‘Oh, Pen, I don’t know what to say. We were both feeling low and it was no more than two close friends comforting each other. I’ve never ceased to regret it, except…’ She stopped suddenly.

  ‘You were going to say except for Jay-Jay, weren’t yo
u?’

  Barbara’s breath caught in her throat. ‘Jay-Jay?’

  ‘Oh, Barbara, I wasn’t born yesterday and I’m not judging you, but Jay-Jay is Simon’s son, isn’t he?’

  ‘Don’t ask me that, Penny, please.’

  ‘I don’t need to ask. I have the picture of the children on the beach. It’s plain enough to me. Does George know?’

  ‘No. No one does…’

  ‘Not even Simon?’

  ‘There was nothing to be gained by telling him. After all, it was not a real affair, and getting pregnant was simply an accident. I’ve tried to put it behind me…’

  ‘I don’t think you have. And I know Simon hasn’t.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Barbara. Two people couldn’t be more in love…’

  ‘You wouldn’t tell Simon about Jay-Jay?’ she asked, breathless with alarm.

  ‘No, but I think you should.’

  ‘What would be the point? Jay-Jay is part of our family and that means George is his father in all but the seed that made him. I can’t risk losing all my children, because that’s what it would mean if George ever found out. I can’t do it, I just can’t.’

  A nurse came into the room before Penny could add to her argument. ‘Miss Barcliffe, Mr Barcliffe is awake and asking for you.’

  Penny took Barbara to the private ward, then crept away, shutting the door behind her. Barbara, aware that she had gone, walked to the bed. Simon was lying on his back with drips attached to each of his arms and one plaster-encased leg supported in a hoist. His eyes were dull, but when he saw her, they lit with pleasure.

  ‘Barbara.’ His voice was husky. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes.’

  She sat on the chair beside the bed, forcing a bright smile. ‘How are you?’

  He attempted to grin. ‘OK. They say I’ll mend. Good of you to come.’

  ‘I wanted to. What happened?’