I let him down gently, implying that though these feelings were shared, I could not possibly act. His eyes filled at the tragedy of it. Maybe mine did too.
I could have told her either of these tales, or others; embellished in whatever way I saw fit. Added period detail for accuracy or upped the heartbreak for a kick. I could, but I would not have been telling the story of her father.
44
That began in, what would it be? 1982.
Bella coming up to her first birthday; early perhaps to embark on this kind of thing, but my figure had snapped back and we didn’t breastfeed in those days.
I cannot claim I was depressed; I was not, that had passed. I was empty, bored, underused, but that is the lot of many women.
It began with a crash, a plane crash in Japan. I have googled it to get it right. I found the following on Wikipedia:
February 9 – Japan Airlines Flight 350 crashes in Tokyo Bay due to thrust reversal on approach to Tokyo International Airport, killing 24 among the 174 people on board.
It was the pilot’s fault; a deliberate act in a moment of insanity.
There was another accident, too, I found, the month before:
January 13 – Shortly after take off, Air Florida Flight 90 crashes into Washington, D.C.’s 14th Street Bridge and falls into the Potomac River, killing 78.
Two in two months.
I don’t remember the American one, though we must have spoken of it, a pilot and his wife. And we knew no one aboard the Tokyo flight; mine was not a disaster on that scale.
The first I heard was from Chris’s brother, Michael. He called from Gatwick, waking me up, shouting news of disruption and delay. He was supposed to be flying into Japan that morning. Now he was stuck.
‘I couldn’t stay, Mags, could I? Just tonight? Catch up with you both. Meet the little one. I’ll be off again tomorrow.’
Chris and I had been together five years and I had met Michael as many times, a couple of Christmases, their parents’ anniversary, our wedding. He lived abroad, but that they didn’t get along was apparent, if unacknowledged.
‘Chris’s not here, I’m afraid. He’s flying.’
‘Oh, right. Well, I wouldn’t ask but I’m a bit strapped at the moment, what with Claire. I just thought. Two birds and one stone?’
His wife had left him. A shame, I’d liked her. She carried her advantages lightly.
‘OK then, he’ll be back tonight anyway,’ I said.
‘Great. I’ll bring a bottle.’
He arrived before eight like someone awaited, arms wide on the doorstep, a grin that showed his teeth. I took a step towards him and we hugged – there was no choice, his hands were full and he wasn’t moving – and I surprised myself by recognising his smell. Sweat, a lime cologne, and hair cream – warm rubber and coconut. Delicious and alien. I breathed it in on his shoulder and felt the push of his belly against me. His flesh was soft, and eased as we stood there, pressed together; rearranging itself in reaction to me. It was new and intimate and not unpleasant. He pulled back, and moved his hands up to my shoulders.
‘And how are you, Maggie?’ he asked, as if I were in recovery.
‘Oh, fine, thanks,’ I said.
‘Good. You look well. And where is she?’
‘Bella?’ I said, to help him out. I remembered this now, his comfortable charm. The ex-pat chat.
‘She’s only one, Michael. You can’t expect her to come running, you know.’
He glanced back at me, thin-eyed and amused.
‘You’re right. I’m hopeless with children, birthdays, obligation of any kind. My mother and brother will have told you that, though, I’m sure,’ he said.
‘Not at all,’ I replied, though he was right. I remembered that I liked him.
‘What were you doing in Japan?’ I asked.
‘Oh, business. Helping a friend find local partners,’ he said.
I called up what I knew of him. Lazy, alcoholic, shady in his business dealings – a subsidiary to journalism. And flippantly dressed, in the foreign manner, which enraged his father. But Pa, as they called him, was wrong, I thought, as I followed Michael through to the lounge.
His look was considered and effective. Crumpled cotton with chestnut brogues and a battered document bag; the perfect collision of privilege and insouciance. But the bag was old, a hand-me-down from Pa or a gift, perhaps, from when it had all still been ahead of him. And well looked after; I could see on the strap where the stitching had been mended and the texture of the hide was mellow from wax. He worked at this. And he relied on people underestimating him.
He sat on the sofa and reached out to Bella. She smiled at him and stretched up for his hair; longer, darker and more curly than Chris’s.
‘Ouch,’ he cried, as she pulled it, hard.
‘She’s gorgeous. Very much a Benson,’ he said.
‘Do you think? People say that. I can’t really see it myself.’
‘Too close, I imagine.’
He gave her a teddy picked up at the airport.
‘Now you get on with your day, Maggie. Don’t let me interrupt. I need to do some work anyway, if that’s OK? Is there somewhere I could sit, do you think?’
I put him in the dining room and made a coffee he didn’t drink. After a while he asked if he could use the phone – his friend would call straight back – and it rang and I heard him say: ‘Oh, hi, Chris. – It’s Michael. – Michael, your brother. – Waiting for you, of course, what else? – OK. Hold on. I’ll just get her for you. Maggie?’
I took the handset.
‘Hello,’ I said.
‘Please explain to me what he’s doing there,’ said Chris.
‘He got delayed. That crash in Japan.’
The line dropped for a second.
‘Hello,’ I said again.
‘Oh, right. Christ. When did he arrive?’
‘First thing.’
‘Well, there’s a problem here, too. I’ve been waiting to call. I didn’t want to wake you.’
‘What? In Hong Kong?’
‘A near miss. The runway’s a nightmare, remember? I told you. Anyway. I won’t make it back tonight.’
‘You’re kidding me,’ I said, my stomach jumping. I could see Michael bending over Bella, bouncing her chair with his foot.
‘Maggie, I’m sorry, really. I can’t believe you’re saddled with my brother.’
‘Don’t worry. When will you be home?’
He couldn’t hear me. I repeated the question, louder.
‘I don’t know. I’ll let you know as soon as I do. I’ll make this up to you, I promise.’
‘OK, bye,’ I said.
I put the phone down, my throat hot.
‘No Chris?’ he said, still pulling faces at Bella. ‘Stuck in Japan?’
‘No. No. Something else. But he won’t be back tonight, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, well. Next time. Tell you what, shall I cook for us? If you were at mine, it would be Beef Randang but given the shopping restrictions, will lasagne do?’
‘Delicious,’ I said, relieved.
‘OK. I need to finish up here and I’ll get on with it.’
It was a hard day to occupy and I realised how used I had become to being alone, the only adult in a still house. I spoke to Bella self-consciously but whispered, too, right in her ear, silly things that made her shriek. We went out in the buggy and I bought a pound of mince.
I listened to him on the phone, and heard his voice change between client and colleague. Michael wielded his accent to get things done. My husband had vanished his and I wondered why. Surely not to fit in, that was not Chris. And I realised it was to negate his advantage, to make things fair, so that he could be certain that his triumphs were his own. Chris’s arrogance to Michael’s expedience.
He came through at five and mixed us two huge lemony gin and tonics. This made me want to smoke though I usually waited till Bella was down. I pinched one of his, as if that made it better, but it was far t
oo strong and I stubbed it out halfway. It amused him and I felt like a teenager. I put the radio on, and he turned it up a couple of clicks.
‘Do you mind?’ he asked, and took off his shoes. He left them in the hall, heels tucked against the wall, and when I went to put Bella to bed, I saw that his surname was written inside. From school, then, the boarding school that Chris had loved and Michael loathed.
I came back in and there was something sweet and sad about him in his socks, sleeves rolled up, cutting onions in my kitchen. He sliced fast and thin on a board next to the oven and I stood the other side, holding my own cigarette, now, to the open window. The night beyond sucked out the smoke. We each drank a second gin.
He told me he used to cook a lot, but now there was no Claire, it didn’t seem worth his while.
‘Do you still see her?’ I asked.
‘I do. We are friends. She has a new fellow, very nice, much better suited.’
‘What went wrong?’ I said.
‘I disappointed her. I fell short in some unspecified way.’
He was smiling as he said it. He stirred the onion and garlic but the gas was high and I worried it would catch.
‘Do you add a carrot?’ he asked.
‘I don’t myself,’ I said.
‘Nor me. Now for the mince.’
He held the bag above the pan and pulled the meat out gradually, loosening the kinked strands between his fingers. A pouch of blood had collected in a corner and he raised it carefully, set a narrow stream tumbling into the oil. It hissed and spat and he stirred it through.
‘Were you upset?’ I asked, ‘when she left?’
‘I was, but I saw it coming. This happens to me,’ he said, with a glance across and raised eyebrows.
‘Would you get me a glass of red?’ he said. ‘I brought some. I think I left it in the dining room.’
I went in and found the wine, wrapped in white tissue. When I lifted it, the bottle nearly slipped from my hand.
There were papers all over and I wanted to look, to find out something more of him; uncover a secret, even, but didn’t dare. I picked up his passport and bent it open to the photo. It was an old shot and he was thinner and more handsome, with a bright open look. I felt it then, a kick in the pit of my stomach. I enjoyed the sensation for that second, and went back.
‘If you stir, I’ll open,’ he said.
I stood over the heat and kept things moving, smashing up the lumps; the noise of frying loud and agitated.
‘There’s some herbs, in that drawer, if you like,’ I said.
He chose a jar of oregano and came across to show me the label.
‘Enough?’ he asked.
‘I think so.’
‘Glasses?’ he said.
‘Up there.’
He reached into the cupboard and took two from the back – huge, wedding presents, rarely used – manoeuvring them carefully over the rest. He poured the wine, handed me mine and, stretching in front of me, tipped the bottle into the pan.
A rush of alcoholic steam rose, catching in my eyes and throat and turning to liquid on my skin. I moved away, a hand over my face.
‘Mags, I am so sorry. Are you OK? What a stupid thing to do.’
He took my glass from me and I felt his hands on the top of my arms.
‘Mags. Speak to me,’ he said.
I uncovered my face slowly, feeling stupid and tearful. He was very close.
‘I’m fine,’ I said.
‘Thank goodness. What an idiot.’
He picked up a tea towel, wrapped it round his right hand, and dried my face gently.
‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘I’ve smudged your mascara.’
I went off to the loo. I was flushed and fast-eyed and I knew that look.
We drank more while the lasagne cooked, its smell from the oven filling my mouth.
He asked me about my world and it felt tiny in the telling. I told him of the passion of loving a child. I wondered, would he like his own some day? But he didn’t know.
I spoke of the frustrations of suburban life, and he said he understood. That some simply don’t fit and he himself had felt a cuckoo, always. Unsuited to the steady English life, even as a child.
‘And my family hated me for it,’ he said.
‘Surely not.’
‘They did and they do. They see my difference as an attack.’
‘Even Chris?’ I asked.
‘You know your husband, Maggie.’
We talked some more about Claire.
‘She says that I’m missing something and I think she might be right, actually,’ he said.
‘What do you mean? What thing?’
‘Something in me. The solid bit.’
‘You mean you’re frightened of commitment? That’s not so uncommon,’ I said.
‘Not that. She said I don’t seem to need the same things others do. But anyway.’
He told me funny tales of growing up; the various ways in which Chris excelled and he stumbled. It was warm and good-natured and in another context might have made me feel proud for choosing my husband.
He brought the lasagne to the table.
‘Voilà!’
‘It’s beautiful,’ I told him, and it was; baked golden, two neat rows of sliced tomato running its length and meat bubbled up at the edges.
He served me a huge slice, then seconds, and I picked burnt cheese from the dish’s rim as we talked. He went to the cabinet and came back with what was needed for Singapore Slings. The drink was red and sweet and he had found a tin of maraschino cherries on the tray. We drank two each.
‘God, it’s getting late,’ I said, at midnight.
‘And I’m on a plane first thing tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Oh. So it’s all back to normal, is it, after the crash?’
‘I’ve missed Japan. That meeting went on without me. I’m going straight home to Hong Kong. Has Chris ever told you about the Runway 13 approach? It’s famous, and magnificent, but extremely hairy –’
‘Hong Kong? That’s where Chris is. That’s where he’s stuck.’
‘Really?’ Michael said. ‘I’m surprised. They sold me a ticket this morning. Kai Tak? Are you sure?’
‘Yes. The runway. He mentioned the runway when we spoke,’ I said.
‘Oh, right. Well, I guess they must have sorted it out.’
He stood up with the dish. I hesitated, aware in some loose way of the reach of my next decision.
‘Will you find out for me?’ I asked, as he stood there at the sink.
‘Find out?’ he said and stopped the tap to better hear.
‘What happened in Kai Tak. If anything happened,’ I said.
‘Yes. If you want me to.’ A little grim, a little grave.
Michael used the phone in the hall and as I waited alone I felt a speeding inside me.
I thought of a girl, cabin crew, who ran up to Chris and me once, at Gatwick, calling ‘Captain! Captain!’ like something from an advert. Her mother’s car had broken down and seeing as we were neighbours would we mind terribly dropping her home? She trotted and chatted all the way to the car, stowed her bag in the boot before he had time to offer, and watched the back of my head as we drove, in swipes of look that were curious and confident and challenging. When Chris let her out at her modest home I called, ‘Bye then. Enjoy your weekend, dear,’ and she dropped those eyes and walked the path back to her mum as a scolded child.
‘What a silly girl,’ I said, as we pulled away.
‘Indeed,’ Chris replied.
I’d thought that I had won.
Michael listened, mainly, but I understood that there had been no near miss; that Chris had lied.
‘One advantage of being press, I suppose. There is always someone you can call.’
‘So there isn’t a problem?’ I said.
‘No.’
‘And nothing earlier?’ I asked. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes. I’m sure.’
‘I suppose he must be i
n Japan,’ I said.
Michael shrugged. He made no move to sit.
‘Who knows?’
‘He flew in three days ago. He must have stayed.’
‘For any number of reasons,’ Michael said, but he watched me.
‘He lied, though. Didn’t he?’ I said.
‘Yes, Maggie. I suppose he did.’
He waited. It was my move.
‘Is this news?’ he said, in the end.
‘Not really.’
‘Do you want to talk?’
I didn’t. That night I slept with my husband’s brother.
We were together maybe twelve times. When Chris was flying, always at my house. He would stay a night or two; once, memorably, three, but it became harder as Bella grew. I locked the bedroom door and dreaded her call, but she never once came.
They were strange abbreviated days. He hid in my room while I rushed her off to nursery; then we had the time together until lunch. He left when I fetched her, but never went far, circling us in the samey streets; aimless, footsore. He came back when she slept, full of stories; even Purley assumed a charm, the way he told it.
We spoke every week though, sometimes more; long wandering calls, and I loved him for all the reasons that Claire let him go, because he was easy and weightless and left no traces, or so I thought. He made my life happier and my marriage easier. I felt no guilt.
Two and a half years from the start, I fell pregnant with his child.
45
Chris took Bella away in her pyjamas, with just a bear.
He made me a cup of tea before he left.
‘For god’s sake, Maggie, look after yourself, can’t you? When did you last eat?’
I tried to drink it but the sensation was invasive, as if a hot drink were a new invention. The liquid pooled in the back of my mouth and I had to force myself to swallow. When it hit my stomach, I felt a disturbance, a contraction.
I had a week to sort myself out while they stayed with his parents in Thurlestone.
I went straight to Michael. Is there shame in this? To do it without a man, if I had any choice at all, seemed, at that point, unthinkable.
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