Snake in the Grass

by Dominic Luke

  All round the staff room, curious faces were turned towards her, but Terry, like a shaggy dog, was standing guard valiantly. It was just his eyes, watching, that expressed misgiving.

  NINETEEN

  GWEN SLIPPED INTO the house. Downstairs was all in darkness. Basil must have gone up. She closed the door quietly, bolted it, put on the chain. This took longer than she had expected. She seemed to be having problems with her coordination. Anyone would think she was tipsy. All she’d had was two glasses of wine. Or was it three? She seemed vaguely to remember a third – it had, after all, been a very long meeting. But it couldn’t have been four. It couldn’t possibly have been four. She would never be so debauched as to drink four glasses of wine in one evening.

  She hung up her coat. It fell on the floor. She bent over to pick it up. Goodness, it was a long way down! Perhaps if she put the light on it might help. It wasn’t as if Basil wouldn’t know what time she had got in: he would know to the exact minute. All this creeping around in the dark was fooling nobody.

  Slowly she climbed the stairs. It had indeed been a long meeting. But at last they were getting organized. They were to start collecting exhibits next week. Tickets were to be printed. A preliminary sketch had been made on the back of a pub menu as to how the space inside the village hall might best be utilized. It had been suggested that, were exhibits particularly thin on the ground, then children’s artwork would be used to fill in the gaps, as well as handicrafts. Whatever the case, there was to be a kids’ corner where children could experiment. Of course, this would require even more volunteers. They had bandied names about. Would Dean? Would Amanda? Well, I’m not sure. Gwen had not held out much hope.

  Basil was in the bathroom with the tap running, which drove Amanda mad. (‘Don’t you realize how precious water is?’ ‘More precious than ketchup?’ Basil could be acerbic at times. ‘Or is it one rule for me and another for you?’ ‘You’re just a profligate pig!’ Profligate, no less! There were times when one’s faith in the education system was vindicated.) Gwen tiptoed past the bathroom, past Amanda’s room, noted the light under Dean’s door. (Why was he still up? She had been under the impression that teenagers needed lots of sleep. He would stunt his growth if he wasn’t careful – if, that was, his growth had not already been irrevocably stunted.)

  In the master bedroom, she quickly slipped out of her clothes in the light from the bedside lamps, pulled on her nightdress and dressing gown. She could pretend that she had been home for ages, that she had been sitting waiting for him to finish his protracted ablutions. It might just work.

  Oh, but look, she sighed: there were Basil’s clothes, willy-nilly all over the floor. He was as bad as Dean.

  She began picking them up, feeling absolved from guilt, on a firmer footing. She would not pass any comment, she decided, as she stretched to retrieve one of Basil’s rolled-up socks that had got lost under the bed, holding it between the tips of her thumb and forefinger. She would just let him watch as she tidied up after him; she would let him listen to her pointed silence.

  As she dropped the sock into the washing basket, Basil loomed up in the doorway, came shuffling into the room. He was wearing paisley pyjamas and had trodden down the backs of his slippers, which never ceased to irritate her.

  ‘So you’re home at last,’ he grumbled. ‘Newsnight’s been finished ages.’

  Newsnight was Basil’s curfew, except at the weekend when it wasn’t on. On Fridays he stayed up to watch that review programme – why he bothered, she did not know, as he only got het up and began shouting at the television, especially if Germaine Greer was on.

  ‘That bloody woman!’ (Yet another bloody woman.)

  ‘If you’d actually listen, Basil, you would realize that what she is saying makes perfect sense.’

  ‘Nothing that woman says ever makes sense. She has only one agenda, and that’s hating men. She’s a frigid Australian b—’

  ‘Basil!’

  Basil sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off his slippers. Gwen averted her eyes from the sight of his feet.

  ‘What have you been doing all this time, Gwendolen?’

  ‘You know very well what I’ve been doing. We’ve been having a committee meeting.’ She dropped his shirt into the basket with a flourish, moved to straighten his slippers, lining them up neatly by the bed, pulling up the trodden-down backs. ‘There’s a lot to discuss, a lot to be arranged.’

  Basil looked at her, suspicious. ‘Have you been drinking?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Oh, you barefaced fibber! ‘Well, maybe a glass of wine. One can hardly sit there with nothing when one is in a pub.’

  Gwen unfastened the cord of her dressing gown with a sinking feeling, changed her mind, retied it, pulled it tight, turned to the dressing table, sat down. She knew only too well what would happen next. It was always the same. Having told a little white lie – completely harmless – she would now feel an irresistible urge to confess some other misdemeanour in recompense. It was a bit like that dream she sometimes had, the one where she was sweeping dust under the carpet (a ridiculous dream: as if she would ever do something like that!). She would be there, in the dream, holding up a rug, sweeping dust under it; but as soon as she started sweeping under on one side, the dust came leaking out on the other. And so it went on, from one side to the other, sweep sweep sweep, leak leak leak, until she woke up in a cold sweat.

  ‘I think you should know, Basil …’ She picked up a bottle of perfume, turned it round, put it back down again. Please don’t do this, please don’t. ‘I had to tell Lydia about Richard.’

  There. It was done.

  She turned the perfume round again, moved it a centimetre closer to the mirror. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the reflection of Basil sitting in bed. A tuft of hair was sticking up on the left of his head. It always stuck up.

  He was not happy. She could see that a mile off. But now she had confessed, she actually felt better. It was a weight off her mind. She had been fretting about it these past few days. Richard was, after all, Basil’s business. Basil had a right to know.

  ‘It was impossible not to tell her, Basil.’ She moved the perfume bottle back to its original position and turned round on her stool to face the music. ‘If you must know, Lydia is pregnant, and was under the impression that Richard was the father.’

  ‘You mean Richard … and that woman…?’ Basil’s eyes widened. He groaned, ran his hand through his hair, making more tufts stick up. ‘Will that boy stop at nothing? Is he determined to make me a laughing stock?’

  ‘Make you a—’

  ‘He is my son. What he does reflects on me.’

  ‘He’s a grown man. He can do what he likes.’

  ‘But … but….’ Basil groaned again.

  Gwen got to her feet, had to put out a hand to steady herself. Catching the movement, Basil stopped groaning and looked at her charily.

  ‘Are you sure you’re not drunk?’

  ‘Of course I’m—’ Gwen was negotiating the acres of carpet between the dressing table and the bed. Who would have thought it was so far across – and so slippery! ‘I’m not drunk.’ Whoops, best hold on to the wardrobe, the floor had started swaying….

  Basil gave her another suspicious look, but then his eyes glazed over. Gwen could see another groan working its way up from deep inside his chest. ‘That boy … that woman…. But, for pity’s sake, Gwendolen, was it really necessary to tell her everything?’

  ‘How else could I convince her? She was so certain that the baby was Richard’s.’ Gwen struggled to get her arms out of her dressing gown. ‘Anyone would think you were ashamed, Basil – as if it was Richard’s fault.’ Gosh, I must be tipsy after all; I’d never talk to him like this normally.

  ‘What are you going on about, Gwendolen?’

  ‘Richard didn’t ask to be ill, Basil. He couldn’t help it. There was nothing he could have done.’

  ‘I don’t wish to discuss it. Now will you please get into bed
and turn that lamp off. You know I can’t sleep with the light on.’

  ‘Yes, Basil.’

  The conversation was over. The conversation was always over – hardly got going – when Richard’s illness cropped up. One might have been forgiven for thinking that Basil didn’t care, but that was just silly, Gwen told herself as she climbed into bed. Basil had his own way of dealing with things, that was all.

  She reached to turn the light off, settled herself, wondered if she would have a headache in the morning (four glasses!), felt Basil’s hand creeping along her thigh, said automatically, ‘Oh, Basil, not now, this nightdress is clean on, I thought you wanted to sleep?’ She barely noticed Basil’s hand disengage, her mind racing, going from Richard to Lydia to Lydia’s baby. Did Lydia have any idea how her life would be turned upside down?

  Sleepless nights, smelly nappies, puke: thank goodness, said Gwen, I am past all that … though when I say, past it … I am not quite at that stage yet, am I? If there was to be a little accident … it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility, even at my age … and they have such tiny fingers, such tiny toes. I am not that much older than Lydia … first words, first steps … but, no, I couldn’t, it’s not practicable … and I shudder to think what people would say. Anyway, there is hardly likely to be an accident of that sort unless we— One never knows if he’s sulking or if he feels he’s done his duty, made the effort, and that it’s my lookout if I push him away. Why do I push him away? What sort of wife does that make me?

  She shifted her position, tried to dampen down her rampaging thoughts. Basil had his back to her. Sulking or not, she knew from experience that he would soon be asleep and snoring. She would never drop off once he started snoring. But at least in the dark (be thankful for small mercies) one couldn’t see the hair on his head sticking up in tufts; nor did one have to face the sight of all that chest hair in the V of his pyjama jacket (why did it make one think of lawnmowers?). Perhaps tonight for a change he would keep to his own side of the bed, wouldn’t prod her with his feet (why were men’s feet so ugly: so pale, bony, misshapen – and so cold?)

  Gwen sighed, turned on her side. Wasn’t alcohol supposed to make one sleepy? Instead, she was wide awake. She wondered if she dared switch on the lamp and read a chapter of her book. If Basil was asleep she would get away with it, but if he wasn’t she would never near the end of it. (‘I’ve got work in the morning…how can I manage on two hours’ sleep … why must you read that trash anyway … that light is hurting my eyes….’)

  Be fair, Gwen said to herself, he is a good man at heart. He has taken care of me, of Dean and Amanda too. How many men would have taken on a task like that?

  She ought to feel grateful, she told herself. She ought not to feel trapped, to feel that the walls were closing in on her. Perhaps it is my fault, she whispered. Perhaps if I tried harder, if I was more amenable. Her first husband, in the latter stages of their marriage, had got into the habit of describing her as—

  But no, no, she couldn’t think about him, wouldn’t, mustn’t! It brought the walls that much closer; they threatened to smother her, to crush her; she had to push, push, push to keep them at bay – to keep him at bay, his smiles and jokes and affability, everyone’s friend—

  But to be fair, Basil could be charming too when he wanted. Perhaps not so much in the days when he’d been wooing her (it had been business-like), but what about the proposal on Westminster Bridge? They had been in London for the day, sightseeing, a meal, the theatre. Basil had not gone down on one knee when the time came (and thank goodness for that, on Westminster Bridge), but his eyes had shone with an eager light. It was later – much later – that she had begun to wonder if the shining eyes had been for her, or if he had actually been looking over her shoulder, indulging in fantasies of demolishing the Houses of Parliament and replacing them with a nice modern shopping centre—

  Oh, I’m so cruel, I shouldn’t, I really shouldn’t.

  But there was no getting away from the fact that Basil did like demolishing things. Terry might be an unfortunate little man, but he did have a point there. The Houses of Parliament were safe but closer to home Basil had decimated the town centre, flattened all those picturesque old buildings, built concrete monstrosities in their place, filled in the lovely lido, turned it into a car park. What a fuss there had been over the swimming pool, such a broo-ha-ha! She had begun to dread going into town. It had been the only topic of conversation in Waitrose. But the more people protested, the more Basil had dug in his heels. He did know best; they would listen to reason. He was stubborn, so very stubborn.

  Gwen sighed again, twisting round to lie flat on her back, staring up into the dark which covered her like a shroud. Why did I accept him? If he’s that bad, why did I say yes?

  But her head had been in the clouds on Westminster Bridge – almost literally so after stepping off that giant wheel.

  What a horrendous experience that was. I kept my eyes shut nearly the whole time. I’ve never liked heights. I prefer to keep my feet firmly on the ground.

  She closed her eyes as she had done on the wheel, shutting out the dark and the encroaching walls but not shutting out a voice that seemed to whisper by the bedside, faint and indistinct like the wind round the windows: a mistake … mistake … mistake…?

  But, really, what else could I have done? I’d been abandoned, I was on my own, I had two children. I couldn’t have coped all alone. I needed a man. I had to take Basil when the chance came. I had to. There was no other choice … no choice … no choice….

  TWENTY

  DRIVING OUT OF the college car park, Lydia joined what was known as the ring road, which carved its way through the middle of the town, cutting it in two. She drove in a twilight convoy before turning onto a smaller road that led to the council estate. She had been weighing this sortie in her mind for several days. It was not that she owed Richard an apology as such; she was simply dissatisfied with the way things had been left. She had said some things at their last meeting which, given what she now knew, might be construed as insensitive. Not that Richard came out of it (she resisted calling ‘it’ the affair) smelling of roses, but what else could one expect? He was a man – and a very young man at that. But if she now offered an olive branch, they could at least part as friends.

  The car juddered and lurched; the wheels thudded into pot holes. Terry was right. The road surfaces were appalling, but perhaps the residents didn’t notice or didn’t care. Most of them never bothered to vote, Terry said.

  Parking by the flats – Jubilee House – Lydia got out of her car and locked the door. She looked round suspiciously. Would her car be safe here? Would she come back to find it gone, the windows smashed, the wheels missing? Nigel had called the people who lived on council estates trash; criminality was part of their culture, he had said. But did that say more about Nigel than it did about the inhabitants of council estates? Had Nigel, in fact, been a fascist and she’d never noticed?

  What did that say about her?

  Terry would never use the word trash in reference to human beings, she thought, as she picked her way along a cracked pavement to the door of Jubilee House. But why think about Terry? It was getting to be a habit.

  The door to the flats was ajar, propped open by a pile of free newspapers. Lydia hesitated, looking into the dingy entrance hall. A flight of stairs led up into the gloom. Was this a good idea? She didn’t even know which flat was Richard’s. She’d heard Gwen speak of Jubilee House, but hadn’t liked to ask for a complete address. It did not seem appropriate, after making such a fool of herself where Richard was concerned. Perhaps the buzzers might work. She could buzz a few flats, might strike lucky. But it was quite possible that Richard was not in. She had no idea what shift he was working this week.

  She turned to go back, experienced a sense of relief, but then she was struck by the thought of what her mother’s ghost might say later: something along the lines of, That’s always been the problem with you, my girl. You neve
r see things through. You never stick at anything. Well, noodles to her. This time she would see it through.

  Pushing the door fully open, Lydia stepped over the free papers and into the hall. There was some post on the floor, junk mail by the look of it. She bent down, sorted through it. Mr Richard Collier, Flat 7, Jubilee House, Tudor Avenue.

  She found flat seven upstairs. There was no bell. She banged on the door, waited. A TV was blaring inside.

  I’m wasting my time, she said, staring at the mucky door, the lopsided plastic number seven, but at least I’ve done my bit, I’ve made the attempt, tried to—

  The door opened. Richard stood there with tousled hair, a grubby T-shirt, baggy boxer shorts, bare feet. He looked like he had just woken up.

  ‘You,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, Richard. Aren’t you going to invite me in?’ She surprised herself with her insouciance. Not quite the femme fatale, but definitely high-handed. ‘I’ve brought up your post.’ She barged past him, giving him no option.

  Richard’s main room was something of a tip. She surveyed it warily. The sagging sofa and stained carpet were decorated with takeout cartons, beer cans, CDs and DVDs and their covers, copies of Auto Trader, Zoo and Nuts, several TV guides, plates, mugs and cutlery, not to mention bills, bank statements, wage slips, final demands and a football. The curtains were half-pulled. Possibly they stayed that way permanently. A print of a Monet painting of London hung on the wall: left by a previous tenant, perhaps – or did Richard have a dash of culture in him? The huge widescreen HDTV was shiny and new. On screen, Anne Robinson was insulting a contestant on her quiz show.