‘Well, h … honey, then. She’s got some acacia in the cupboard—or there’s limeflower if she prefers. She was telling me last night that limeflower’s really good for …’ This was Bunny’s husband, for heaven’s sake. He knew all about her honeys, was one of them himself. Bunny was always sugaring him. Honey this, sweetie that.
‘Or perhaps she’d like a slice of lemon?’ Something sharp and bitter to curdle all that saccharine.
‘No, just the tea.’
Morna still clung on to it, stirring it, dunking it, rooting about for a quite superfluous saucer. She needed time to rehearse her next few lines.
Neil, I want you to know I didn’t really …
I admit it was partly my fault, but if you hadn’t always insisted, I might have …
It wasn’t fair on Chris, you know. She never quite …
Listen, I love you, Neil, I do.
You selfish, bloody, self-opinionated louse!
‘Thanks, Morna. See you in the morning, then.’ Neil had cajoled the mug from her, was halfway to the door. He paused for one brief moment. ‘Don’t get cold down here. You ought to go back to bed, you know.’
Yes, she whispered silently. Your bed. Take me with you, warm me up yourself. It wasn’t Big Sam she wanted, but reassurance; not to be the reject and the loser. He had turned his back again. She could see the outline of his buttocks beneath the blue silk of the pyjamas, suddenly yearned to cup her hands around them as he had done so often with her own curves. She hadn’t liked it at the time, sometimes pulled away.
She took a step towards him. I’m sorry, she mouthed dumbly to his unseeing back. I’m really sorry. Just stay a few more minutes and I’ll …
‘Goodnight!’ he called, already through the door and out of sight. ‘Sleep well.’
Sleep well! Morna dragged out her suitcase from under the bed, started to pack, trying to move as quietly as she could. It was still only half past five, pitch dark outside, no sound in the house except the faint ticking of her clock. No clock had ever moved more slowly. Since Neil had returned to Bunny’s bed, each second had mocked her, spun itself out in obscene and taunting images—Neil slipping off the pyjamas, giving Bunny not her tea, but …
She couldn’t lie there another anguished moment, trying to concentrate on some paperback romance when a real-life one was in full flower just next door. She would leave in the morning, once Neil had gone to golf. Chris had been asked to caddy; Dean invited out to lunch. That left her and Bunny, which—oddly—made it easier. She had already explained to Bunny about her old school friend who had moved to California just ten miles up the coast and who had invited her, not to stay (since her apartment was too small for guests), but to take a room in the local motel which she highly recommended. She did, in fact, have a Californian girlfriend, one Chris knew about, which made it easier, since she hated lying to her daughter. What Chris didn’t know was that the friend had moved to Florida just two months previously. The motel was real enough. Morna had found it in an old and tatty guide book back in England, when she was planning her escape-route, chosen it partly for its modest rates and partly for its name—Ocean View. It was time she went to admire the view, made her reservation.
Bunny had been horrified by the thought of a motel, had even invited the girlfriend to come and stay as well, said she’d love to meet her and if her apartment were so poky, then she would probably appreciate a bit of space for once. Morna paused a moment, conscience-stricken. She would have to fabricate another batch of lies, repay Bunny’s hospitality with some cock-and-bull deception.
She removed the last of her tee shirts from the drawer, found David’s two letters hidden underneath them. She picked up the first one, dated October 2nd. That letter was the reason she was here—or one of them. She had been saying ‘no’ to Chris for almost a month, struggling between guilt and duty, mother-love and self-love, horrified by what her daughter was asking, appalled at what might happen if she went. Then David wrote—only a page, two sides—but enough to change her day, change her mind. David was missing her, and that simple stupid fact made her rush up to her daughter’s room with an impulsive hug, a sudden unconsidered ‘yes’. For that one strutting preening morning, she had courage enough to brazen out any number of visits to the States, any tricky encounter with an ex. Why fret about Neil with another woman when she had another man?
She sat on the bed, read both the letters through again. They sounded conventional now and stilted, the words sitting four-square on the page, instead of exploding off it as they had before. Could she really have allowed these shy and formal phrases to influence her decision on such a crucial matter? No. It had been far more complex—a whole seething mix of guilt and obligation towards her daughter, a fear of depriving Chris of her father even longer than the five vital teenage years she had already been without him; a desire to compensate her, do something for her, something real and tangible, even make some sacrifice. Perhaps it was David who had suggested that, unconsciously. He had used the word ‘sacrifice’ in his letter, though in a completely different context.
She had to admit there were also baser motives—weaker ones, but still ignoble—a sneaking curiosity to view the new mènage, despite the risks and dangers, lay eyes on Bunny, find some fault in her, plus a wild irrational impulse to see Neil again as well. She had seen him now—and all she wanted was to run away. It was too exhausting to keep battling with contradictory emotions—fury over footling things like the way he iced good wine or ate his food American-style with just a fork; anguish when he ruffled Dean’s hair or played Bears with him which he had never done with Chris; murderous envy if he put an arm round Bunny. If he wouldn’t talk, refused to make some overture, then better that she cut the ties completely, made the decree absolute at last.
She packed the last few items, retrieved David’s silver coin from the drawer beside her bed, held it in her palm. Had it really brought her luck? She tried to think back to the evening he had given it to her, the next amazing afternoon. David had stayed all Saturday, given the day an electric blaze and flare. Or had she just been high, imagining things? The silver on her memories had somehow dulled and tarnished like the phrasing in his letters. She was confused now and uncertain, could hardly disentangle reality from fantasy. She held the coin against her cheek, felt it cool and hard; one side slightly roughened, the other worn smooth. David was as real as that, as solid. So why did he seem so strangely insubstantial, like the wraith of sea mist which shrouded his own island? The courage he had given her had vanished like mist as well, evaporated in Bunny’s glow and sparkle, the flash of Neil’s fake smile. She had to leave, she had to, whatever Bunny said—however much she dreaded being on her own. She would make her stand at breakfast, insist she left straight afterwards.
She wrapped the coin in a chiffon scarf, slipped it in the suitcase, added the two letters, closed the lid. In just five hours or so, she must be unpacking that case in the Ocean View Motel.
Chapter Eleven
‘You can’t stay there, for Chrissake!’ Bunny exclaimed, winding down her window and staring out at the dingy concrete pile with its bare stone steps and rusting railings.
‘Y … Yes, I can. It’s fine.’ Morna wondered where the ocean was. The only view was of a weed-infested car park, a garage strung with a thousand coloured plastic flags as if to distract attention from the ugly petrol pumps and ramshackle buildings straggling out beneath them.
Bunny had got out of the car, was standing in the drizzle on the bottom broken step. ‘It looks like some kind of prison to me, or something in—what’s his name?—Charles Dickens. We’ve got fabulous motels. I could find you one with a pool and a sauna and free movies in your room—or better still, come back with me. Bring your buddy, too. I’d really like to meet her, though it beats me how she could recommend this dump. Hey, why don’t we go visit her right now and I’ll invite her myself?’
Morna still found the lies abhorrent, was getting flustered and confused, had to be almost
rude to make Bunny accept that she was staying, shake her off, refuse to allow her to inspect the rooms or complain to the management. She watched with a mixture of relief and remorse as the scarlet Pontiac finally shot away; picked up her case, lugged it up the steps, head bowed against the rain. The blazing sun of their first few days had vanished, like a false promise wrapped in flimsy golden paper, now torn off and trampled in a puddle.
The room at least was better than she had feared—shabby, yes; basic, yes, but surprisingly large—a double room or even family-sized, judging by the width of the bed. Walls and floor were both a sickly brown, carpet thin and scratchy, walls milk-chocolate-coloured with lighter mottled patches as if the chocolate were sprouting mould. Three cheap prints of the sunny Riviera were contradicted by the three windows streaming with rain. The lampshade was pink-tassled, the bedspread purple-fringed. The wardrobe smelt musty and contained a forgotten pair of denim dungarees and a few wire hangers, most twisted out of shape. There was still no view—just a tangle of dripping roofs and garish signs.
Morna didn’t unpack her case. She could still move—find somewhere more luxurious, more cheerful, except that would mean trudging around in the rain in a completely unknown area. Anyway, she had to keep her costs down and, whatever else, the Ocean View was cheap. Her translation of Misère et Mort Dans Le Midi was paying for the trip, at least this part of it. She had to retain some little independence. Admittedly, Neil had paid the fares, but since he had wangled them for free, they hardly counted. Chris was a different matter. She was still his daughter—not ex or superseded—so no reason why he shouldn’t pay for her.
Best stay where she was, give the motel a chance. She hadn’t even explored it yet—though that would hardly take her long. The place had no bar, no restaurant, no public rooms at all—not even any foyer or reception, apart from a makeshift desk stuck at one end of the ground-floor corridor, with a grumpy man behind it. Just fifty or sixty bedrooms, apparently deserted. She opened the door, stuck her head out, looked up and down the passage. No stir of life, no human face, no chirp of radio or drone of vacuum cleaner. Perhaps the staff had gone off-duty, and the other guests were sleeping in. No—guests was the wrong word. Inmates seemed a better one, suggesting prison, deportation.
Morna shut her door again, prowled around her own room, comparing the view from the three different windows—rain and roofs, rain and garage, rain and car park. The problem was she had been spoilt by Neil. He had chosen all the hotels before, insisted on Michelin stars, lavish accolades. She had paid him back between the sheets (or on top of them in Mediterranean climes). Neil’s appetite increased on holiday. She had often arrived at some foreign resort, exhausted by the journey, longing to sleep, and sent mental vibes to Neil that he too was flagging, so why not postpone it till the morning or even the morning after that or … It had never worked. Neil was never tired (enough) and hadn’t she been taught at school ‘not my will but thine’? In fact, the more exclusive the hotel, the more lavish the food and service, the more she felt she owed him. A two-roomed suite with a sea view and a balcony and a magnum of Moët chilling in the ice bucket merited at least a new position; and how could she guzzle Gâteau de Homard Soufflé, perfected by a top French chef, and then cavil at an after-dinner session?
Once she had lain recovering on her hotel bed in Malaga and suddenly imagined Sister Clare, the school infirmarian, doing a check on all the girls’ pudenda, as she had inspected their hair for dandruff or their mouths for coated tongues. She could see the nun shuffling along the row of beds, stopping at Morna Conyers’, peering in with torch and rubber glove, springing back in horror. Bruised, battered, over-used, chewed, abraded, sore and swollen. And all after a few short years with Neil. Perhaps she needed some of that cosmetic surgery which so intrigued her daughter—not a nose job or a breast implant, but a genital tuck and remake, to remove Neil’s traces, his defilement. But what use would new pudenda be? Who would ever see them, enjoy the benefit? Below the waist she lived like a nun herself now.
Why not make the most of it? There was no debt to pay off here, no instant demands to lie on her back (or front or side or kneel or …). She could do what she liked, go to bed to sleep, even sleep with all her clothes on if she wanted. It was lunchtime though, not bedtime. She ought to go out and find a restaurant, get to know the district. She flopped back on the counterpane, closed her eyes. She had hardly slept at all since she had arrived in California. She would just relax a moment, have a brief nap to restore her energies before setting out again.
It was dark when she awoke. She could hear a siren ripping through the silence, the bray of a police car scorching past. She fumbled for the switch on the low-wattage bedside lamp, squinted at her watch. Three o’clock. So why the dark? She jolted up in bed. It must be three a.m., for heaven’s sake, not afternoon. She had slept for thirteen hours, right on into Sunday, slept fully dressed, even with her jacket on. She could hear the rain still lashing at the windows. A wet Sunday, on her own. She shrugged off the jacket, removed her watch and bracelet, slipped between the sheets, pulled the blanket over her head. Best to shorten the day, sleep right through it, on into Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday; remain unconscious and unthinking throughout the remainder of her stay, until her merciful plane home on January 30th.
When she woke again, she had no idea what time it was, what month, had lost track of where she was and why. She groped for her watch, couldn’t find it, stared in confusion at the unfamiliar room. A mean grey light was seeping through the windows, another siren shrieking out its warning. She rubbed her eyes, tried to shake off the heavy lumpen greyness which seemed to have moved inside her head from the dripping streets outside, clogged her brain. Her stomach kicked with hunger; her clothes were crumpled and uncomfortable, skirt rucked round one leg, tights sweaty, even smelly. She reached out for the bedside phone.
‘Yeah?’ said the man in reception, after a delay of several minutes.
‘I … er … wondered what time it was?’
‘Ten after seven, ma’am.’
Morning or evening? She tried to make her brain work. Must be morning with that greyish light. It was dark by five in January. If it was still January.
She switched the receiver to the other hand. ‘I mean the … er … date.’
‘Beg pardon, ma’ am?’
‘Could you tell me what day it is. I imagine it’s still Sunday isn’t it, or …?’
‘Yeah, Sunday—all day. Until tomorrow. That’ll be Monday—if we’re lucky.’
Morna heaved herself out of bed, splashed her face with water, cleaned her teeth. Every tiny action seemed to tire her out. She was still sunk in lethargy, drugged from too much sleep, yet craving more. She turned on the television, returned to bed to watch the morning show. At least it would be company, another human voice. She was missing Chris already, missing Dean. This was the time he usually padded into her room, clambered into bed with her, some truck or car or fire engine digging into her side, asked her about England and why she and Chrissie didn’t live here all the time instead, so that he could see her every day, and would they still be here for his birthday in July, and why was her hair called red when it wasn’t red like fire engines …
Morna smiled, slumped back against the pillows. The commercial break had just begun. A woman in a cowboy hat and boots was feeding four Afghan hounds and a mongrel. ‘Three out of four dogs prefer Mighty Beef Dog Dinner.’ She wondered how they worked out their statistics. She had read in the Los Angeles Times that even leading scientists (let alone mere market researchers for pet-food companies) were faking their results, some claiming degrees and doctorates they had never even sat for. She switched to another channel. Cops and robbers. There were enough of those outside—for real—judging by the sirens. Twenty-three thousand murders every year and almost a thousand of those in Los Angeles alone. Those were the statistics Bunny hadn’t given, nor the fact that a horrifying proportion were domestic murders within the family. Yet was it really so impo
ssible to imagine pulling out a gun and shooting Neil for no other reason than that he regarded Bunny’s little expeditions to the gym or beauty-parlour with the same amused but weary tolerance with which he had once dismissed her evening classes in philosophy and politics, or her translation work? Or putting a bullet through his yellow socks? She watched the movie with a new interest. Criminals were always other people until …
Three murders later, she was sickened. She turned the sound down, lay back on the bed, stretching out diagonally. She had never realised how lonely and demoralising a double room could be when you were just a single—the silence, the empty space and unused drawers, the sense of time dragging, hanging heavy. She was hypocrite enough to miss Neil now—want to shoot him, yes, but want him all the same. She had resented his demands, criticised his powers of conversation, but was it really any better to lie here on her own king-size bed without the king?
She tried to swap King Neil for David, somehow found it difficult to imagine David in America at all, especially in the fat and whacky West. However much she thought of him, re-read his letters, touched his coin, he remained strangely faint and blurred, like a figure on a coin himself, flat and one-dimensional.
There was a burst of muffled gunfire from the screen. She struggled up to watch it, winced as the tomato-ketchuped corpse was prodded by a sneering sheriff’s boot. She’d had enough of violence. Her head was throbbing, stomach growling. She needed food, fresh air. She switched the set off, ran a bath, rummaged in her suitcase for a change of clothes. She dressed slowly, like an invalid, the silence more oppressive now that the rain had stopped. She walked along the passage past the rows and rows of doors. Still no sign of life, no fellow prisoner emerging from his cell. The elevator was broken, so she used the stained stone staircase, crossed the road to the first café she saw, peered through the steamed-up glass. Two negroes in jeans and dirty singlets were sprawling at the bar top; the waitress filing her nails. Morna walked on. Almost every other building in the street sold food of some variety—hamburgers and hot dogs, Dunkin Donuts, Mexican burritos, Chinese takeaways, Kentucky Fried, pizza parlours, salad bars. ‘Breakfast Served All Day’, she read. ‘Eddie’s Oriental Feast’, ‘Try Our Buns—They’re Bigger’.
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