She paused a moment four steps up, looking at the wife, who was nervously examining the widely opened window, and hadn’t heard her yet. She seemed too big for Christopher, a tall well-covered woman with too much of everything – a generous mass of hair, a soft bolster of a bosom, big eyes, big hands and feet; even several layers of clothing which looked curiously mismatched – a flowing poppied skirt worn with both a tee shirt and a knobbly knitted waistcoat, then a man’s severe tweed jacket buttoned over the top. Jane had a sudden image of the two in bed together – the wife rising like a yeasty loaf, swelling and expanding till Christopher was lost in dough, its soft pale yielding stickiness smothering his body, erasing its sharp lines. She jumped the last four steps, landing with a thud, to announce that she was there. She could no longer bear the tension of waiting to be found, waiting to be reprimanded.
‘Look, I’m sorry. I can explain, honestly. I had to let these wasps out. I mean, I had to let the smell out. I just didn’t know I … I’d …’ The words stuttered to a halt. She could hear herself sounding quite inane. She was thrown by Mrs Harville-Shaw, who had swung across the studio towards her, and was now standing very close. Her scent was sweet and heady, a jumble of conflicting flowers – honeysuckle, jasmine, lily of the valley – suppressing the last lingering trace of wasp-killer. Her eyes were greenish-grey, with little flecks of blue in them, as if they couldn’t quite decide which colour they should settle for, and had hedged their bets with snicks and streaks of each. She was older than she’d seemed at first, the flesh slack around her chin, the auburn hair scrawled with grey; wiry wilful wavy hair which tendrilled from its plait, escaped in eager spirals.
‘Who are you?’ she asked simply, unbuttoning her jacket – or was it Christopher’s jacket, an older shabbier version of the tweedy one he was wearing yesterday?
‘I’m … er … working for your husband.’
‘My husband?’
‘Yes.’
‘My husband’s dead.’
‘Dead?’ Jane slumped back to the staircase, leaned against it, stunned. Images of accidents were bloodying her head – horrific ghastly pile-ups on the motorway to Wantage, maimed and mangled bodies, twisted wrecks of cars …
‘What’s wrong? You’re white as a sheet. There must be some mistake. He died fourteen months ago. It was in the papers, on the news. Everybody knew.’
‘Fourteen months ago?’ Jane pulled herself to standing, cleared her throat, which still felt blocked and choked. ‘Then you’re not his wife.’
‘Whose wife? I’m getting muddled.’
‘Christopher’s.’
The woman laughed, an immoderate sort of laugh, which shook her heavy breasts, seemed to billow through her layers of clothes, remained sparkling in her eyes even when it rippled to a stop. ‘I’m afraid he wouldn’t have me. And I must admit I’m surprised to find you here. Christopher’s a loner, at least as far as work’s concerned. What sort of work are you doing for him?’
‘I’m not too sure. I haven’t really started yet.’
‘Are you an art student or something?’
‘No.’
‘So you’re not helping with the glass?’
‘Well, he did say he might train me, but …’ Jane broke off, suddenly uneasy. The woman was tugging at a button on her jacket, twisting it and twisting it on its fragile loop of thread. ‘I’m just here to help him generally,’ she mumbled. ‘A Girl Friday, you might say.’ Adrian’s term. She should have taken Adrian’s job. It would have been simpler altogether. The woman was still torturing her button, still looking at her anxiously, almost with resentment; or was she just imagining that? Could she be another stained-glass artist, someone who had tried – and failed – to work with Christopher herself? ‘Look, I’m just a sort of char, that’s all – the lowest of the low.’
The woman suddenly reached a hand out, a warm and plumpish hand, with chipped varnish on the nails, a Band-Aid round one thumb. ‘I’m sure you’re not a char, my love. You look far too bright for that. Though judging by the mess in here, the place does need clearing up. How on earth did all the wasps get in? I thought wasps died in the winter, or hibernated or something. But forget about the wasps. I still don’t know your name. Mine’s Isobel – Isobel Mackenzie.’ She gestured to her chest, as if she’d pinned a name-tag there, before letting spill another rush of words.
‘Christopher’s making a memorial window for my late husband. In fact, he’ll kill me if he finds me here. He hates his clients coming to the studio, though I’m really a good friend. Still, friend or no, he won’t let me interfere, says you can’t judge a window till it’s actually in situ, and he hasn’t even started on it yet. Of course, we’ve done all the preliminaries, like getting the design through all those wretched councils and what-have-you, but he’s so busy always, isn’t he? Anyway, I wasn’t trying to snoop. I just made a little detour on my way back from Communion. I was more worried, actually. I mean, that dreadful storm last night, and I knew he was away, and perhaps hadn’t had a chance to check the place for damage. He’s gone to see this architect in Wantage – or was it Chadlington? D’you find you’re always muddling names – place-names more than people’s? The architect is Julian – that I do remember – and he’s got this quaint old water-mill, which he converted himself, way back in the sixties. Gosh! Forgive me rambling on like this. It must seem frightfully rude. Though I suspect it’s simply nerves, you know. I was scared there’d been a break-in, when I saw the door wide open, and I’m still recovering from the shock.’
‘I’m sorry. That was my fault.’ Jane started to explain, though she was recovering herself. This couldn’t be the donor Christopher had mentioned – the surgeon’s wife she’d pictured as a pious gawky matron, impeccably turned out in a quiet-toned Jaeger suit, and what was called ‘good’ jewellery, with a distant chilly manner, like their doctor’s wife at home. Isobel’s jewellery was the flash flamboyant kind – a hoopla of gold bangles on one wrist, dramatic dangly earrings which quivered when she moved, a brooch shaped like a lizard with sparkling eyes far greener than her own. And shouldn’t widows dress in black, or at least not those dizzy poppies, whose ripe and juicy red seemed more suited to a disco than to mourning?
‘It’s a wonder you weren’t stung, my love.’
‘I was.’ Jane pushed back her sleeve, gestured to her forearm which had puffed up to twice its size.
‘Poor child! That needs attention. Come into the kitchen.’ She took Jane’s other arm, coaxed her through the door, stopped a moment just outside, heavy bracelets jangling. ‘So what’s your name? I still don’t know it, do I?’
Jane paused, longed to give her real name, not to start the lies again. But this woman was the artist’s friend and client, so she didn’t have much choice, would have to stick to Rose.
‘Oh, what a pretty name! And my favourite flower, of course. I suppose everybody’s favourite. It’s a wonder roses don’t get quite big-headed. Now, you sit there, and I’ll see what I can find to help that sting. They say ice is very good – and bicarbonate of soda. Though I doubt if Christopher’s got that. Well, at least he’s got some ice. Here, put this towel underneath, so we don’t get you all wet. That’s it. Now just relax. Lean back against that cupboard and take a few deep breaths. You look very pale, you know. Has Christopher been working you too hard? I’m sure he doesn’t mean to, but he tends to get so utterly absorbed in things, he simply doesn’t realise that other normal people need a break. Actually, I really rather warm to that. Enthusiasm’s so rare. Well, perhaps it isn’t when you’re young, but at Christopher’s and my age … Now, how’s the sting?’
Jane nodded, couldn’t speak.
‘Better? Good. Let’s have a little look at it. Gosh! It does seem fearfully swollen. Is it wasps which leave their stings behind – or is that only bees? I can’t remember, can you? Perhaps I ought to suck it anyway. My daughter had a bee-sting when she was just a tot of five – a bad one on her leg – and I sucked it out immediately, a
nd all the pain and inflammation disappeared like magic. Odd how little things like that pop back into your mind. I haven’t given it a thought for almost twenty years, but you remind me of her, Rose – I mean, when she was a child.’
‘I … I’m not a child.’
‘’Course you’re not. But you’ve got that gorgeous child’s hair – you know, long and straight and natural. Rowan had it too, and almost exactly the same colour – sort of autumn brown I suppose you’d call it, wouldn’t you? I’m afraid she’s had it cut now – cropped and layered and shingled – or whatever it is they do in these top salons. Of course I told her it looked lovely – I didn’t want to hurt her. She’s such a dear, and was so excited anyway to have been to this John-Michael, or whatever he was called, but to tell the truth, I was really quite upset. I know it sounds stupid, but it was like losing the child part of her, which I’d had for all those years. D’ you follow what I mean?’
Jane nodded, understood.
‘Good. Now how about that sting? I’d take you to the doctor’s, but he isn’t there on Saturday. Mind you, if it’s still inflamed on Monday, I think I’d better give him a ring, make you an appointment. It’s not wise to neglect these things. Look, I’ll pull this other stool up, and if you just roll your sleeve back right above the elbow, I’ll have a go at sucking it, okay? Relax – you’re very tense, you know. I promise I won’t hurt you. Why not shut your eyes, go into another world? I used to tell my children that, if they’d hurt themselves or couldn’t get to sleep or something. In fact, we had our own invented world – a very small and peaceful one, full of things called Pondles, which were green and soft and kind.’ She laughed, a husky laugh, which seemed to come not from her larynx, but from some laugh-box deep inside her. ‘Ridiculous! Except Rowan seemed to like it. Oh dear, I must stop reminiscing. I don’t know what’s got into me. A lot of good I’d be if you’d just had a heart attack, instead of a wasp-sting. You’d be dead and gone by now. Right, first aid coming up.’
Jane shut her eyes, tried to slip into another world, as the woman had suggested, but it wasn’t small and peaceful, rather vast and hot and feverish, throbbing like her sting. Isobel felt dangerously close. She had taken off her jacket, and despite her layers of other clothes, she seemed naked and exposed, her ample breasts so near now she would probably squash against them if she moved a fraction forward. The tail of hair was tickling on her knee; the scent of flowers cloying, almost nauseous, and there were other much more intimate smells – a whiff of musky talcum powder from warm perspiring flesh – the private secret Isobel now open to her, flaunted.
The woman’s lips were on her arm, nuzzling the bare skin, sucking with a gentle tugging pressure. The sting still hurt, yet the sucking seemed to soothe it – pain and pleasure fused, so she couldn’t disentangle them. And suddenly, unsettlingly, Christopher was there as well, Isobel sucking his bare arm, their two warm bodies touching. They seemed familiar with each other, hands knowing where to go, their silence charged, provocative, not tense and scared as hers was. She felt excluded, strangely jealous. They had so much more in common than she would ever have with either of them – both roughly the same age, both confident and cultured, achievers in the world. Had they actually slept together, shared not just plans for windows, but mouths and beds and bodies? She longed to swap with Isobel, to be full-lipped and heavy-breasted, with a mass of tumbling hair, to be at ease in her own body, relaxed with someone else’s.
Irritably, she shook her head, as if to dislodge her envious thoughts, tried to blank out everything but the steady lulling suction on her arm, the disquieting sensation of cool lips on burning sting, the strange contrast between tension and abandon. She was losing all her boundaries, sinking down, dissolving, being taken over, cared for, lost in someone else. She let her breath out in a rush, hardly aware that she’d been holding it so long, uncrossed her legs, unclenched her rigid hands. No need to be so wary, close her body off, or crave to be an adult, someone’s sensual mistress. She must just lean back and relax, as Isobel had told her; become a child again, a child of five, like Rowan, with long straight natural hair in a gorgeous autumn brown; Isobel’s young daughter. Strange to have a mother so different from her own. Yet mothers should be plump – warm and soft and open – all curves and flesh, not angles; and have tousled messy hair, instead of tight and prissy perms; and invent small and peaceful worlds which didn’t let you down; and should talk too much, pour out words like milk. She recalled some other words – peaceful words, deceitful words – couldn’t quite remember where she’d heard them. ‘And underneath are the everlasting arms.’
She suddenly slammed up, yanked her arm away.
‘What on earth’s the matter, Rose?’ Isobel reached out to right the trembling chair, which had tipped back from the impact. ‘I didn’t hurt you, did I?’
‘N … no.’
‘Look, if the sting’s that bad, we ought to call the doctor. He’ll come out for emergencies. I’ll go and ring him now.’
‘No.’
‘Well, how about some aspirin? You may be in a state of shock. Some people do react like that to stings.’
‘It’s not the sting. It’s …’
‘It’s what, my love?’
‘Don’t call me that.’ Jane turned to face the wall, tugged her sleeve down roughly. ‘You’re not my mother. I haven’t got a mother.’
Isobel stood anxious at the door. ‘I’m sorry, Rose, I don’t quite understand. What happened to …?’
‘You couldn’t understand.’ Jane’s voice was muffled, choked. ‘No one could, not unless they’d … Look, forget it, please. I’d rather not discuss it. I swore I’d never say a word – never, never, never – not to anyone.’
‘Look, I don’t know what the problem is, but it’s sometimes a bit easier to tell things to a stranger, someone who’s objective, hasn’t got an axe to grind. Couldn’t you trust me enough to …?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. That’s fair enough. I don’t want to probe. There’s nothing worse than people interfering. Tell you what, why not come back home with me and we’ll have a bite of breakfast?’
Jane shook her head. ‘Not hungry.’
‘Well, a nice hot cup of tea.’
‘I’ve got to clear the wasps up.’
‘That won’t take a tick. I’ll do it while you fetch your coat.’
‘No.’
‘Forgive me, I’m intruding. And you’re probably right, you know. It’s sometimes better just to be alone. When my husband died, I spent whole days on my own, and it helped more than constant sympathy or people rallying round.’ She paused a moment, lost in thought – or mourning – then returned the ice-trays to the fridge, mopped up a drool of water. ‘Let me put this room to rights, then I’ll get out of your way. But if there’s anything you need, my dear, or you simply want a chat, ring me on this number.’ She scrawled it on a Kleenex which she fished out from her sleeve, left it on the worktop, underneath a cup. ‘And you’d better watch that arm of yours. In fact, why not rest it now? Pop upstairs and have a little zizz.’
‘Yes,’ said Jane. ‘I will.’
She dawdled up the stairs, flopped down on the bed, heard Isobel below her, moving to and fro, broom rasping on the floorboards. She listened for the door to close, heard it click, at last; heard the woman’s slip-on shoes scuffling down the path outside; the slam of a car door. Thank God, she thought, as she sagged back on the duvet. She had to be alone, had to keep apart, must steel herself to silence, not be tempted to confide. It wasn’t safe to trust people. They would only let you down, turn out completely differently from what you dared to hope. She was officially an adult now, shouldn’t need a mother, or a mother-substitute, must learn to cope without one, forget her dreams and nightmares which all seemed to feature mothers – faceless mothers, wombless mothers, mothers without arms.
She shrugged and chewed her hair, one long strand of it wound round and round her fingers, as she waited for the car to pull away.
At last, she heard the gruff snort of the engine, a complaining grind of gears. Her sting was hurting badly. She rolled her sleeve back, closed her eyes, felt the woman’s mouth again, sucking it and soothing; smelt her potent mother’s smell, the smell of warmth and honey. She dashed to the small window, jumped up on a chair, rammed the stiff frame open, shouting desperately: ‘Wait! Don’t go. Come back.’
Isobel couldn’t hear her, her attention on the wheel, the uneven rutted driveway. Jane banged against the glass, willed her to look up; kept yelling, waving, hammering. Suddenly, the car stopped with a slam and squeal of brakes.
Jane subsided on the bed again, nursing her bruised fists, counting stairs as Isobel walked up. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. The door opened with a creak. Neither of them spoke. Isobel joined her on the bed, sitting cross-legged like a child, her voluminous skirt bellying round her knees, her hands and hair and jewellery now completely still, as if they’d been injected with a tranquilliser. The silence did feel tranquil – healing, very safe. Difficult to break it, maybe downright dangerous. Jane heard her voice sounding strange and shaky, seeming to speak against her will, to come from miles away.
‘I … I’ve never been bereaved myself, but it probably feels a bit the same. And it happened really recently, not fourteen months ago.’ She groped her hand out, touched one flamboyant poppy. ‘Promise not to say anything, not until I’ve finished.’
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