by Jane Bailey
Could I really see him fitting in? Even for a day? I was probably torn between showing him off and being a little ashamed of him, wanting him to be the man I wanted him to be: the man who loved me, no matter what, who wanted me, not a type.
I thought of the child inside me. I hadn’t wanted one yet, but now that it was there, I felt its presence. The tender little aches in my womb made me feel its attachment already, although I knew from Patsy that it was early days, because that was when the nausea came on. No, I definitely wasn’t ready for a baby, but now that it was on its way, I felt protective. Strange not knowing if it was a boy or a girl, a Ralph or a Dora, a Rora or a Dalph. Strange to be so satisfied at being grown-up but afraid and excited at the same time. I held on to my news for as long as possible, and that really wasn’t very long. I couldn’t bear the thought of having a baby before the marquees and the public vows. I was terrified, so I turned to the only person who could help me, the person who would transform things and put them right.
‘I’m pregnant,’ I said to Ralph’s back.
He was at his desk in his study and turned around to me. His puzzled frown melted after a second, and he beamed. I felt a rush of relief. ‘An heir! Oh, my little Dora, come here.’
I went towards him and he sat me on his lap. He stroked my face tenderly. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘All right.’
‘Not ecstatic, then?’
I braced myself, but I had rehearsed this moment, so I said what I had to say.
‘I’m not . . . not yet . . . I’d like to be . . . I don’t want to have a baby until we’re married.’
He scrutinized my face as if I had said something difficult to comprehend. He gave a sarcastic, breathy laugh and shook his head. ‘Dora, Dora!’ He took a deep, exasperated breath. ‘I thought you were better than this. I thought you supported me.’
Now it was my turn to look puzzled.
‘I do! You know I do. What do you mean?’
‘You want me to marry you, is that it?’
‘Well, you said you wanted to marry me.’
His jaw dropped open melodramatically. ‘Did I? I can’t remember asking you to marry me.’
Humiliation came over me like an allergic rash, so sudden and unstoppable I was sure he could see it. ‘You said you wanted to spend the rest of your life with me.’
He smiled benignly then. ‘And so I do. So I do, darling Dora.’ He kissed me gently on the forehead. ‘But you must know I don’t believe in marriage.’
I drew back.
‘Oh, come on, Dora. I’m a socialist. Marriage is a bourgeois institution. We don’t need a piece of paper to tell us we can love each other the way nature intended. We’re free. We’re liberated from all that stuff.’
I stood up. ‘My father’s a socialist, but he still respected my mother enough to marry her before having children.’
‘Well, I’m sure he meant well, but—’
‘Your “heir” will be a bastard! No child of mine is going to be a bastard!’
He shook his head. ‘So you don’t want our child?’
‘No, not if we’re not married.’
‘What exactly do you intend to do about it, then?’ I hated the challenge in his voice.
‘I’ll get rid of it!’
‘Oh no you won’t!’ He rose to his feet as he said it.
‘If you hit me, I’ll scream!’
He clenched his jaw, clearly signalling an end to the patronizing stance.
‘I’ll get rid of it!’ I challenged again. ‘If you don’t want to marry me, I’ll get rid of it!’
He grabbed hold of my wrists. ‘Bribery now, is it? You think you can force me into marriage? You thought you could trick me into it, did you? Thought you’d enjoy the family fortune?’
‘I don’t want to force you into anything. You tricked me into coming here with you. You’ve got me into this mess. You can get me out of it!’
He threw me backwards, but I was ready for it and stepped back quickly enough to save my head from hitting the wall. He came up to me and grabbed my throat. ‘You will not kill my child! Do you hear me? You dare try to kill my child! You just dare.’
By now he was speaking through clenched teeth. I was choking. I knew that when he let go there would be a shove with it, and I was right. My chest and head hit the wall behind me and I was winded. He left the study, and left me gasping for air.
In retrospect, I don’t know why any of this surprised me. Nor do I know why I was surprised that he stopped my visits to the market with Patsy, or that he prevented me from using the telephone by having it disconnected. However, what happened next was enough to surprise anyone. I certainly didn’t see it coming.
41
ARTHUR
Let’s see. It would’ve been spring 1953. It must have been about two months after the baby was born and just a day or two after my mother had left. I returned home from work and had a real shock.
The baby was sleeping in the pram in the hall. I edged past to greet Pippa in the kitchen, but she was not there. There was some sign of culinary activity, though: a tin had been opened and the oven was on low. Not in the living room either. I called her name, but there was no answer. I went upstairs to use the bathroom, half expecting to find her there, luxuriating in a bubble bath. When I came out, I became aware of the sound of gentle music. With the roar of the flush still whooshing about the landing, it took a few moments to realize that the music was emanating from the bedroom. Our bedroom.
We only had one radio and that was downstairs, so I couldn’t imagine what was going on. The bedroom door was ajar, so I pushed it very gently open.
All I could see to start with was our record player, sitting beside the dressing table and plugged into the socket we normally used for a lamp. The room was in semi-darkness, as the curtains were drawn and the sun was already low outside. When I walked in, the first thing I saw was a candle flickering by the bedside. We never used candles. Then I saw Pippa, lying on her front on top of the bedcovers. She had on black stockings and suspenders, and her beautiful – and now slightly fuller – backside was adorned in pale lacy silk. Her back was completely bare, and her head turned away from me. As I took this in, she propped herself on one elbow and turned her head towards me, her body following. She ran her free hand down the length of her curves, stopping at her hips. She looked at her breasts, as if surprised to see them naked, then looked at me. It was an unmistakable look, the one she had given me almost a year ago.
I kicked my shoes off clumsily and lay down beside her, and she placed my hands where she wanted them. It was too much. I was on my feet again, cursing the buttons and zips on my clothes until I was beside her again. She was magnificent. She wanted me so much. She whimpered and moaned and I could hardly contain myself. I didn’t contain myself.
If I’m honest, I had spent most of the previous few months fantasizing about a girl in our office called Vivien. I would wake early in the morning and think about how it would be to creep up on her from behind and bend her gently over the drafting desk, lifting her little pleated skirt. Usually she had let me take her before Pippa woke up. Now it was all coming true with my wife: my wife! She was everything I had once thought she was and more. I was deliciously helpless. I was a wreck.
I must have slept afterwards for a little while. When I opened my eyes I still had my leg over hers, and she was pushing at her nails with a cuticle stick. I watched her for a few moments before she noticed me, then she stroked my hair and pulled herself towards me again, assuming a languorous, eyes-half-closed look.
‘Darling,’ she whispered gently into my ear, ‘wasn’t that wonderful?’
I probably nodded.
‘Wouldn’t you like to do that more often?’
Ditto.
‘If we had a nanny, we could do it whenever we liked.’
I sighed.
She pouted.
As if on cue, Felicity woke up and started bawling.
‘A nanny would deal
with that.’
I slumped away from her and looked at the ceiling, my arm across my face as if to protect myself from her pouting and her wiles. ‘We can’t afford a nanny.’
She was relentless. She rubbed her body against mine with the hint of a whimper.
‘You do still want me don’t you?’
I had to stand firm on the nanny business. We really didn’t have the money. That was the last I saw of her silk underwear. She tried to sabotage my resolve with the occasional innuendo or lustful look, but it all evaporated far too quickly when I said, ‘No nanny.’ After a while, the insincerity of her lust began to hurt. If it had all been fake, she was astonishingly good at it. Unfortunately, the speed with which she could turn it on and off said it all, and I was pained to remember – couldn’t help but remember – our first sexual encounter. Though I couldn’t, for the life of me, imagine why she might have wanted to trick me into marriage.
Before long, my Vivien fantasies started up again with a vengeance. She was a sweet girl and she smiled a lot. She didn’t smile at me in particular, she smiled at everyone. She had a gentle and generous nature. Nothing was too much for her. She would fetch me cups of tea and dry my coat near the radiator if it was wet; she would ask after my baby and my wife and give me magazines she had finished with for Pippa to read. I usually put these in the bin on my way home, because I couldn’t bear to watch Pippa scoff at the knitting patterns and the sherry trifles. Vivien wore soft knitwear, on the tight side. She had short-sleeved jumpers in pastel blue, pink and cream, and with each she wore a matching cardigan and a string of plastic pearls. She put her hair up on each temple with blue plastic combs, a little old-fashioned for a twenty-year-old.
Sometimes, in the room between my office and the main draftsroom, I would catch her reapplying her lipstick or powdering her nose. I used to imagine that she did these things for me, but I knew it was just that she was going out over her lunch break. Once, I saw her change her flat shoes for a pair of maroon high heels that matched her handbag. She wore those high heels in my dreams. She never took them off, not even . . . And once, once I saw her going through her handbag and take out a little . . . you know . . . woman’s thing, and for weeks afterwards all I could think about was where she put it and that she put it there under the same roof as my office – yards away, probably, only yards away.
I could hardly bear it. I thought about asking if she could be transferred to another office, but I couldn’t bear the thought of that either. Once, when I gave her some files, her cardigan brushed against my wrist. I must have almost flinched.
‘That’s very . . . soft . . . soft wool.’
‘It’s angora.’
‘Ah.’
‘British Home Stores, if your wife’s interested.’
I looked at her standing there in front of me, the pastel cardigan over the tight soft jumper, the breasts bursting to get out, the pleated skirt that I had so often lifted at dawn, the big, candid eyes gazing expectantly, waiting for something more, hoping to please me if she could find more clues to my well-being.
‘No, I’m afraid my wife isn’t interested.’
She looked puzzled. I had knitted her brow. I was a monster.
‘Doesn’t she like fashion?’
I wanted to touch her. I was glad there was a desk covering my lap. I loathed myself. This wasn’t who I was.
‘She’s just not as interesting – interested! – as . . . as you.’
Vivien beamed. She smiled in a way Dora used to smile, with every sinew of her face. I started to follow her movements. I followed her out one lunchtime to see where she went (a meeting with a stumpy-looking girlfriend in a cafe). I even bought silk underwear for her – the sort she wore under her skirt in my fantasies (plain virginal white with lace) – although I never gave it to her, of course. I kept it locked in one of my cabinets and took it out from time to time and fondled it when no one was there.
In May I hired a home-help for Pippa. She came for two hours a day. At least the baby got fed and the beds were made. It didn’t help our marriage much. Pippa was holding out for a nanny or nothing, so all I had in bed was her back and a series of exasperated sighs, until sleep and Vivien blocked them out.
To be honest, I was crawling up the walls. I think I went a bit mad. I was afraid of what I might do next.
One cold spring morning Len called into my office.
‘Fancy a jar at the pub tonight, mate?’
It was odd: the breezy message did not tally with the frown on his face.
‘I don’t think I will, thanks.’
He stood there, still frowning. ‘Only, I need to have a word.’
‘Oh, well . . . lunchtime, then? It’s just that Pippa won’t like it if I go out. You know how it is.’
‘Actually . . . it was Pippa I needed to talk to you about.’
He was fumbling with a file in his hands, flicking the corner of it and looking anxiously at the edge of my desk. I asked him to shut the door and invited him to sit down and tell me what it was. I could see he would much rather have a pint in his hand, but my interest had been sparked now, and anyway, I wanted to keep my lunch hour free in case I had an encounter with Vivien.
‘The thing is . . . the thing is, Arthur, my Maureen is a bit worried about Pippa, and I promised her I’d say something to you. It’s none of my business, so please don’t think I’m criticizing or anything, it’s just that Maureen’s at her wits’ end.’
‘What’s been happening?’
‘What’s been happening is that nearly every day now your Pippa calls by and leaves the baby with Maureen. She always has some good reason: has to go to the doctor’s, has to go and see her sick mother, has to go to the dentist’s, needs something urgently in town. You know, it’s probably all true and that, it’s just that Maureen has her hands full herself. She’s got three of her own to cope with, and like she says, she wouldn’t mind popping into town herself sometimes. And the thing is, Pippa doesn’t come back and pick up the baby. She’s away all day sometimes. Just gets back at five or something. Maureen says I have to tell you. She doesn’t like to say “no” – how can she? She’s a good, kind woman is Mo, and she can’t imagine refusing someone in need. And it seems your wife is always in need.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I’m sorry, mate. I’ve got to look after my wife, haven’t I?’
It took a few seconds for this to sink in. I had, for many weeks, heard accounts from Pippa about how dull her time had been, spent all day at home with the baby, and I had felt guilty because of it, had planned to take her away somewhere special, and to buy her little treats to make up for it. ‘I had no idea. Len, I’m really sorry. I’m sorry. You mean she’s left the baby there all day?’
‘Lately, yes. It started off with just an hour or two, but lately she says she’ll just be an hour, and then she leaves it all day. I think Maureen made an excuse yesterday. Said she was going away for the day, but then she felt guilty and didn’t dare leave the house in case your wife saw her. That’s no way to live, is it?’
‘No. You’re absolutely right.’
I put my head in my hands. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘Maureen reckons she should see someone. I mean, she thinks Pippa might be going a bit . . . you know.’
‘Bonkers?’
‘Well, I don’t know. Maureen says it happens sometimes, after a baby.’
I stared out of the window at the blank grey-white sky and pictured Pippa in a mental asylum and poor Felicity motherless. How would I cope? For the briefest of moments, Vivien swooped into my head and took care of my child. And she took care of me too.
‘I’ll, um . . . I’ll see what I can do. I’ll have a word. She won’t bother Maureen again, I’ll make sure of that.’
So she had her way. A full-time nanny, which I couldn’t afford, and days spent doing what the hell she liked. I made it clear that the nanny option was dependent on her seeking help. Of course there was all sorts of drama about that. Did I think she was mad? W
as I going to lock her in the attic like Mr Rochester? And so on. However, after a few days she surprised me. A London friend of hers had recommended a psychiatrist, and she would agree to see him once a week in London. This meant more expense: three guineas per session! Not to mention the travel. I agreed, but only for two months. After that she would have to find someone cheaper and local. I also travelled up to London with her one Friday afternoon – time off I could ill afford – in order to take her to the first session. I didn’t trust Pippa, and I had visions of her taking my money and sloping off to Harrods on a spending spree. I still had an uncomfortable feeling there was nothing wrong with my wife except her own personality, but what did I know?
Life, after that, became far easier. The nanny was a young girl called Beryl who showered affection on Felicity, cooked simple, wholesome meals and kept our bathroom clean. She wore a white apron over fitted skirts and tied her long, fair hair up in a ponytail. It was all I could do sometimes to refrain from touching the little wisps at the nape of her neck or from openly eyeing the changing shape of her skirt as she shifted neatly inside it. Still, Pippa came home from her expeditions refreshed, and she was better company slumped on the sofa watching television and not lifting a finger to help with her baby than she had been before, grumbling and moaning but still not lifting a finger to do anything. She was no better company in the bedroom, though, and I reminded her of how she’d said that a nanny would make our lovemaking possible again. But, of course, there was no logic with Pippa. She never played a fair game. She would simply yawn and turn her back on me with an implied ‘Yes but not tonight’, or she would tease me and get me excited and then pout, saying I should make love to Beryl if I was that desperate. Then she would turn her back on me as if I already had. She would let me coax her back at enormous length, allowing me to touch her and pleasure her, but when I reassured her that I hadn’t laid a finger on Beryl, she seemed to lose her interest completely. Well, I don’t need to go into all that. Let’s just say that she didn’t keep her side of the bargain.