From the bedroom doorway Paul said, ‘May I come in?’
‘It’s your room, too.’
‘I thought you might not want to be disturbed.’ He came in and sat at the foot of the bed. Reaching out he set the crib rocking gently. ‘I’ll take it back to Parkwood. You can choose a new one.’
‘We can’t afford a new one.’
‘I have a little put by. Don’t worry about money.’
‘How much is a little? It would have to be more than a little if I’m not to worry.’
Looking at the crib he said, ‘My father will help us.’
‘So we have to go running to him, now?’
‘Robbie had savings.’ He turned to her. ‘In his will the money was left to Dad. Now he wants us to have it. Is that running to my father? Or is that claiming what’s rightfully yours?’
Ashamed, Margot looked away, unable to meet the pain in his face. Not only had she told him she hated the crib, but that she hated him, that she wished she’d never married him and why did it have to be Robbie who was killed? Her face burned as she remembered and she closed her eyes, trying to keep her tears in check.
Quietly Paul said, ‘Don’t start crying again, Margot. I don’t think I could stand it.’
‘I’m sorry. I try not to.’
He lay down beside her on his back and took his cigarettes from his pocket. Lighting one he said, ‘Dad thought you might hate the crib. He said he always did – he said it reminded him of something out of a Grimm’s fairy tale. My mother liked it, though. She thought it romantic.’
Trying not to cry she sniffed, ‘Do you think it’s romantic?’
‘Dad said when I was born he couldn’t bear to put me in it. I slept in a drawer by his bed. It had meant a lot to her so he hid it away, out of sight. Is that romantic?’
Hesitantly she said, ‘It must have been hard for you, growing up without her.’
‘Harder for Rob, I think.’ There are photographs of her with Rob. I used to be jealous of him for knowing her. Jealous of him for all kinds of reasons.’
‘Such as?’
He smiled slightly. ‘He was taller than me.’
‘Not very.’
‘Enough. Heavier, too. Not such a weed.’
‘You’re not a weed.’ She turned on her side to look at him. Often she felt she could spend hours looking at him; she had decided that his face was perfect, that no other man even came close to his perfection. It seemed wrong, sometimes, that he should be with someone as ordinary as she was. She laid a hand on his chest, wanting him suddenly.
He glanced at her. ‘I’m sorry I made you cry.’
‘You didn’t. It was Daddy’s fault. My fault. I shouldn’t be such a baby.’
He took her hand from his chest and held it at his side and absurdly she felt rejected by this small gesture. Wanting to regain a closeness she felt she had squandered she said, ‘I love you.’
He was silent for so long she thought he hadn’t heard her; her heart beat faster as she imagined repeating it. At last she said, ‘I’d understand if you don’t love me, but I love you.’
He turned on his side to look at her. For what seemed a long time he searched her face as though looking for signs that she might not be telling the truth. He pulled her towards him. The baby kicked and she pressed his hand hard against her belly as he kissed her.
Chapter Twenty-two
One Month Later
A DOUBLE BED HAD appeared in Mick’s room. Hetty stared at it.
Gently Mick said, ‘I was tired of sleeping in a child’s bed.’
She glanced over her shoulder, almost expecting to see Patrick watching her from the doorway. ‘Did Patrick …’ Words failed her. Mick wheeled his chair closer and took her hand.
‘I told Patrick the other bed was uncomfortable.’
‘So he went and bought this?’
‘He didn’t have to buy it. The bed was upstairs.’ He smiled awkwardly. ‘My mother used to call it the guest bed. It was never used.’
‘What must he think?’ Pulling her hand away from his she stared at him angrily. ‘What must he think of me?’
‘Why should he think anything?’
‘Because of that bed! Doesn’t it tell him what to think?’
‘I told him the other bed was uncomfortable.’
‘So you say! I bet he had a right good laugh.’
‘A laugh? Is it funny?’
She looked away from his angry gaze. ‘It’s humiliating.’
Mick snorted. Manoeuvring his chair around he said, ‘For God’s sake, sit down. I’m not asking you to test its springs just yet.’ He lit a cigarette and wheeled himself towards the open French windows. ‘I was thinking we could go out, later. It’s a lovely day and there’s a band playing in the park.’
‘Have you told Patrick about us?’
‘No.’
Going to stand in front of him she said, ‘Promise me.’
‘I promise.’ He looked down at his cigarette. ‘What do you take me for?’
‘I know how close you are.’ She heard Patrick moving about in the room above them and glanced up. ‘Maybe he’s guessed, anyway.’
‘Maybe. Would it really matter? Are you ashamed of us, now?’
‘No …’ She sighed. ‘It was seeing that bed. It’s as if you’re taking it for granted.’
‘It?’ He smiled slowly. ‘I wouldn’t take it for granted, Hetty. I’m far too amazed.’
‘Amazed? I’m amazing now, am I?’
‘You, it. Come here.’ He cupped her cheek, drawing her down so that their faces were level. Kissing her he murmured, ‘The bed is very comfortable …’ He kissed her more deeply. ‘We could test it, if you wanted.’
‘I thought you wanted to go out?’
‘We’ve all afternoon.’ His eyes searched hers, smiling. Above them Patrick’s footsteps sounded heavily and Mick grinned. ‘Lock the door.’
She remembered the first time, how she had helped him on to the narrow single bed before taking off her blouse and camisole and kneeling beside him. As he tentatively touched her breast she kept her eyes fixed on the wall, shy of him now, afraid to glimpse below his waist. She knew that he had unbuttoned his fly, that his hand was moving frantically to bring himself to climax. She heard him cry out and felt his hand fall away from her breast; she lay down and rested her head on his chest, listening to the dramatic thud of his heart and breathing in the soft, musk scent.
After a while he’d said, ‘I’m sorry.’
She looked up at him. His eyes were closed and he’d covered his face with his forearm. Reaching up she took his hand. ‘We were both scared, I think.’
He made a noise like a laugh. ‘Scared. I’m still shaking.’ Lowering his arm to look at her he said, ‘That was horrible, wasn’t it? For you, I mean. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s all right.’
‘Let me hold you.’ He moved on to his side so that they faced each other, their noses almost touching. Pressing his hand against her cheek he said, ‘Your breasts are beautiful. I knew they would be. You’re beautiful, my beautiful, sweet girl. How did I live without you?’ He kissed her. ‘I love you.’ After a while he said hesitantly, ‘It really wasn’t that you felt sorry for me, was it?’
‘No!’ She frowned at him and he touched her mouth as if to silence any further protest, smiling in relief.
Lying in his arms now, in the new big bed, Hetty kissed his chest. ‘You’re so handsome, you know? The most handsome man I’ve ever seen.’
He laughed. ‘What brought that on?’
‘I’ve always thought so.’
‘Have you? Astonishing.’ He rested his hand lightly on her head. ‘Hetty, on my desk there’s a letter addressed to me. Would you fetch it?’
She got up, padding naked across the room, aware of his eyes on her. Smiling to herself she picked an envelope up from the desk and turned to him. ‘Is this it?’
‘Yes.’ He held his hand out. ‘Now come back to bed. I want to read i
t to you.’
She weighed the letter speculatively in her hand. ‘It feels important.’
‘It is. Now come here.’
As she climbed into bed again he sat up and reached for his glasses from the table. Hooking the frames around his ears he cleared his throat and for a moment he looked embarrassed. ‘I’ve been keeping something from you.’
Anxiously she said, ‘Oh? What?’
‘It’s nothing to worry about. It’s foolish, really. Well, not foolish, exactly … I’ve been writing …’
‘Writing? Who to?’
‘No, not letters. Poetry.’ He coloured. ‘I’ve been writing poetry. I sent some poems away to a magazine.’
‘Oh …’ She smiled at him uncertainly, relief mixing with surprise. ‘And they’ve written back to you?’
‘Yes. They’ve written back to me.’ He glanced at her from the letter. ‘Several times. They wanted to see more, so I sent more.’ After a long pause he laughed. ‘They’re talking about publishing a volume, a slim volume, but a volume, nevertheless.’
‘Of your poems?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well … that’s good. Lovely …’
‘They’re going to pay me, Hetty. I’ve actually earned some money!’
‘Well done. I’m really pleased.’
Taking off his glasses he looked at her. ‘Well, I think it’s exciting, anyway.’
‘So do I!’
‘Then you might act as though you do.’
‘I’m surprised! You never mentioned anything, not even that you wrote.’
‘I wanted to keep it to myself … if I’d failed …’
‘Failed?’
‘If no one had wanted them … anyway, now I’ve told you. Now you know. I write. It keeps me sane when you’re not here.’
‘What do you write about?’
‘The war.’
‘Oh.’
‘I tried to write about other things but it was all terrible, sub-Wordsworth stuff. And it’s all I know, isn’t it? War. And butchering, I suppose. Not too many good poems in a pig’s innards, though.’
‘But there are in men’s?’
‘Yes.’ He gazed at her. ‘You think I shouldn’t exploit it? I’ll write about how lovely the spring flowers are, shall I? Not upset anyone.’
‘Are your poems upsetting?’
He was silent, reaching for his cigarettes and lighting one. Hetty watched him until he met her eye. At last he said, ‘I didn’t write them to upset people. I know you lost your brother …’ After a while he said, ‘I wrote things as I remembered them.’
Hetty lay down. She tried to imagine him writing, settling himself at the desk with paper and pens and realised she didn’t even know what his handwriting looked like. She imagined poets as dishevelled and eccentric, their desks littered with papers. Mick’s desk was almost bare. She imagined he kept its drawers locked.
‘I knew you liked to read, but writing poetry …’
‘It’s quite common, really. Lots of men scribbled away – the trenches were chock-a-block with poets.’
‘Did you write then?’
‘I’ve always written.’
She thought of the poetry she learnt in school, lines learnt by rote that left her feeling hollow with boredom. She remembered the empty hours staring at the strange formation of words on paper, listening to the drone of her teacher’s voice, the beat of his ruler on his desk as he kept time. Agitated by the recollection she got up suddenly and began to dress.
Mick said, ‘Don’t you want to hear what the letter says?’
‘It says they want your poems, doesn’t it?’
He tossed the letter down on the bed. ‘That just about sums it up, yes.’
‘Do you want to go out?’ She buttoned her skirt. ‘I think it’s a good idea. The fresh air will do you good.’
She felt his eyes on her as she finished dressing. At last he said, ‘I thought you’d be excited. Pleased, at least.’
‘I am. I’m pleased for you.’
‘It’s the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.’
She laughed without thinking. ‘Is it?’
‘Apart from you.’
Turning to him she said, ‘Do you want to wear your suit? If the band’s playing everyone will be out in their Sunday best.’
‘Hetty, don’t be like this.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know … brittle.’
‘Brittle? What does that mean? Is that a poet’s word?’
‘You know what it means.’
‘No. I’m not as clever as you.’
‘Oh Hetty, you’re brighter than anyone I know.’
‘Bright! I left school when I was thirteen.’
‘So?’
‘So? I don’t understand poetry, Mick. I don’t understand it and it makes me feel stupid. So there. Now you’ve learnt something about me.’ Snatching his clothes from the floor she tossed them on the bed. ‘Here. Let’s get you dressed.’
‘Hetty.’ He caught her hand, holding it tightly as she tried to pull away. ‘Hetty, I haven’t changed into someone else since this morning. I still love you. The only thing that’s changed is that now perhaps I can be more independent financially. I’ll have a little bit more than just my army pension …’ Taking her other hand he held them both between his own. ‘Do you still love me?’
‘I should, shouldn’t I?’
‘Should?’
Looking away she felt herself blush. ‘If I didn’t I couldn’t do what we do … and you don’t just stop loving someone, just like that.’
‘Not even if they tell you they write poetry?’
She smiled. ‘Not even then. Come on, get dressed up in your suit and let’s go and see this band.’
From his bedroom window Patrick watched Hetty push his brother along the street towards the park. In the distance he could hear the brass band playing a marching tune he felt he should know the name of but didn’t. The tune reminded him of square-bashing and he drew the curtains in an attempt to muffle the sound. It made no difference and he went to lie on his bed, wondering how he would kill the hours until Mick came home. Looking at the box of Paul’s letters by his bed he reached out and trailed his fingers across the ragged tops of the envelopes.
Choosing one at random he switched on his bedside lamp and turned the letter over in his hands. He’d read them all, many times, and recognised this one from the way it had been opened: a ragged tear ran through A’s surname, disfiguring the letter s. A must have been desperate to get to the letter inside; there were greasy fingerprints along the bottom of the envelope, as though he had interrupted his breakfast to open it. Patrick thought of A standing in that filthy kitchen, pausing briefly before tearing the envelope almost in half in his haste. Closing his eyes, Patrick tossed the letter down.
He thought of asking Paul about A every time he saw him and every time the question wouldn’t come. Usually they made love almost at once, Paul slow and sensual, calming him, making him take all the time they had. During this long, sweet process there could be no question of talking.
He could have asked about A in the pub, he supposed. Dropped it casually into the conversation between the plink, plink, plinks of the piano. He had thought about it, thought of asking, Who was best man at your wedding? He imagined Paul’s quizzical look, that smile of his that still brought on the stirring of a hard-on even while making him feel stupid.
Often he told himself that Paul couldn’t possibly be seeing this man. He had a wife he seemed to love, and he had himself, enough sex for anyone. More often he believed that Paul did see him and the jealousy kept him awake at night. He would turn on the light then and re-read the letters because oddly they were reassuring. When he wasn’t writing about what was going on in France Paul wrote like an adolescent with a crush on his teacher. His words seemed to clamour for A’s attention, suggesting to him that A could barely summon the interest to write more than a few lines in reply. It made him
want to smash the man’s face in for his callousness but it also made him believe that the relationship was doomed. He thought about A outside the church on Paul’s wedding day. He’d looked as though he’d rather be a thousand miles away.
Restlessly he got up and went to the window, drawing back the curtains and opening the sash. He leaned out, listening for the band and trying to pick out the tune. Eventually he recognised it: The Merry, Merry Month of May. He smiled to himself. With sudden decisiveness he closed the window. He’d follow Mick and Hetty to the park – a normal, Sunday thing to do.
Chapter Twenty-three
MARGOT’S ANKLES WERE SWOLLEN and her wedding ring cut into her finger. The midwife had told her the baby’s head was engaged and she pondered this odd expression as she walked slowly, arm in arm with Paul, along past the cemetery and Parkwood towards the park and the sound of the brass band. She wished she didn’t feel so ponderous, like a great seedpod about to burst.
Behind them a voice called, ‘Paul! Margot! Wait for us!’
Adam Mason smiled as he walked towards them, a young woman following closely. Breathlessly he said, ‘We thought it was you two!’
She had seen Adam only once or twice since the wedding and had hardly spoken more than a dozen words to him since. Now he was smiling at her as though they were the closest of friends. He turned to the girl behind him. ‘Emma, you know Paul, don’t you, from school? This is his wife, Margot Harris. Emma is one of our French teachers, Margot.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Margot.’ Emma linked her arm through Adam’s. ‘It’s a lovely day, isn’t it? Adam and I thought it was perfect weather for a stroll in the park.’
The girl was slight as a boy, neat in a grey two-piece and a matching hat. Her skirt skimmed her calves fashionably and Margot noted that her shoes and handbag matched and that she wore the slightest suggestion of lipstick. She looked severe and clever at once and she felt huge beside her. Self-consciously she moved even closer to Paul as though he might shield her from the girl’s condescending smile.
Paul said, ‘We’re going to the park, too, if you’d like to join us.’
‘But we’re slow.’ Margot laughed awkwardly. ‘You’d have to drag your feet …’
The girl said, ‘Oh, we don’t mind, do we, Adam?’
The Boy I Love Page 20