by Jenny Diski
The consummation was perfunctory: more rushed and worrying than romantic or passionate. But gradually, as they got the hang of it, and with the aid of a book Michael had bought, they settled down to a regular sexual relationship. Michael was attentive and scrupulous about foreplay, explaining to Christina how important it was to allow time for her arousal, which in women was slower and more generalised than it was for men. Sometimes, he suggested alternative positions, though, neither being especially agile, nothing too exotic was attempted. Christina did not dislike having intercourse, at least at the beginning, but, as far as she knew, she never managed to have an orgasm, no matter how solicitous her lover was. Though he pointed out, for their mutual benefit, the exact site of Christina’s clitoris, and massaged it assiduously, having explained the mechanism of women’s pleasure, Christina failed to experience what he said she was supposed to. However, after a few weeks she began to make very small, tentative cries once an appropriate length of time had elapsed in their coupling, because Michael seemed to feel so strongly about a woman being fulfilled, and she didn’t want to disappoint him. The noises were miniature versions of what she had gathered about orgasmic behaviour from some of the more explicit European films of the nouvelle vague (Godard, Antonioni, Fellini) which they’d seen together at the Film Society. They seemed to be convincing enough to make Michael, who had also been a virgin before their affair, feel entitled to get on with his own climax. Before that, they had had interminable sex while he worked away at her, waiting with studied patience and some perplexity for her to come, while Christina, to pass the time, tried privately to guess from the rhythm of his thrusts which nursery rhyme he was staying erect by:
There was an old man called Michael Finnigan
He had whiskers on his chinnigan . . .
Higgledy piggledy my fat hen
She lays eggs for gentlemen . . .
Very quickly, it seemed there was no question that they would marry; that they would wait until both had gained their doctorate; and that nothing unexpected would intervene in the meantime to prevent the marriage from taking place.
Nothing did.
And then Thomas was born. Decided on: when they both had teaching and research work, and her parents had bought them a flat, it was time to have a child. Thomas. She had been even more ungainly during pregnancy, as well as deathly pale from an iron deficiency, but Michael had been devoted and read up on the subject, rubbing her back when it ached, practising with her the breathing technique she would need for a natural birth—though in the event she had a Caesarean on account of her narrow, far-from-child-bearing pelvis. She loved Thomas; of course she loved him. They were a proper family now.
Christina lifted her gaze from the sea bottom and turned her head to look back at their cabin. She saw, instead, the open, circular structure of the hotel bar on the beach which was now no more than a couple of yards distant. A frisson of panic ran through her. She had drifted without having had the slightest sensation of travelling. In just a few minutes of inattention the current had floated her a hundred yards or so along the beach, down from where Michael and Thomas were sleeping, and further out, though not so far or fast, but still a good few extra yards, from the shore. There was no danger, she was near enough to swim back to land if she had to, though she was not much of a swimmer. She had got as far as being awarded her hundred yards’ certificate at school, but hadn’t bothered after that. Sport had not been high on her family’s list of priorities. She supposed she could still swim a hundred yards, but, apart from the long and pointless drug-free labour Michael had insisted they try for before giving up and acknowledging the need for the Caesarean section the doctor was urging, she had no evidence that she possessed physical stamina enough for more than that.
Using one hand as a paddle, she turned the float mat to face the shore, and then pushed the water back behind her with both hands to get closer in. She worked her way parallel to the beach, against the current, which was not strong, until she was once again in front of their cabin. As she rolled off the mat and into the shallow water she told herself that, if she did it again, she must remember to keep an eye on where she was. Christina grabbed the mat before it began to float off, and dragged it back over the sand to the porch. The yellowbird was piping for all its worth, but fluttered off as Christina propped the dripping float mat against the wall of the cabin and went inside to take a shower.
That morning, Michael also found a use for the float mat, though if he noticed how sandy it was (the sun dried it off in minutes), he didn’t mention it. They were returning from a fraught breakfast, where Michael had taken the opportunity to introduce Thomas to the delights of tropical fruit. (“No, no, no! No cornflakes for you this morning. We’re in the land of mangoes and papayas. Yes, you will like them. There’s nothing to cry about. Mummy, tell him to stop crying! Try some, Thomas. Come on, it’s part of the adventure.”) Thomas was still sniffing back tears at being denied his cornflakes, when to distract him Michael dramatically stopped dead at the entrance to their porch, and pointed at the float mat.
“What is that? Eh, Thomas, do you know what it’s for?” he said in a rhapsodic voice intended to invoke curiosity and wild surmise in the little boy. Thomas’ expression remained neutral as he stared at the float mat. “Come on,” Michael said, taking his son by one hand and the mat in the other.
Christina just watched as they walked off, but called out as they got to the sea edge, “Be careful, Michael. Keep hold of him in the water.”
Her husband turned with raised eyebrows at her needless warning. His face was the one that told her she was being over-protective and would do her son more harm than good with such an attitude. She sat down at the table and watched her family, one hand shading her eyes, from the porch.
Michael bent down and lifted Thomas, carrying him into the surf as he pulled the float mat behind him with his free hand. Thomas hadn’t been to the sea since he was an infant and Christina saw his tiny hands lock in panic around his father’s neck as they waded in.
“It’s quite safe,” Michael said. “I’m holding you. Look, the water’s only up to Daddy’s knees.”
Thomas relaxed and began to enjoy himself from the safety of his father’s embrace. He laughed gleefully as a bigger wave than the rest splashed his calves.
“Wet. Wet. Wet,” he chortled, scissoring his legs in excitement.
“You see?” Michael grinned at him, speaking in the high, singsong whine he invariably used to the child. “It’s lovely, isn’t it? This is the sea.” He turned to give a brief, satisfied nod to Christina, who allowed her tensed muscles to relax.
“Now then . . . don’t worry. Daddy’s here, you’re safe as houses.”
Michael lifted Thomas away from his chest and carefully put him sitting in the centre of the float mat. Thomas’ smile disappeared and a look of terror appeared on his face, but Michael immediately held onto the mat.
“It’s all right. See? I’m holding onto you. There’s nothing to be afraid off, you can’t float away. I’m holding on.”
Thomas watched his father’s hands on the edge of the mat for a moment, and then, looking cautiously around him, began to enjoy the odd, though faintly familiar feeling of the sea’s gentle undulations beneath him. He smiled with pleasure at his new position, as a sense of lording it over the massive and mysterious sea came to him.
“That’s it,” Michael encouraged. “Look at you. Are you the captain of your ship? Yes, you are!”
Thomas laughed with a gathering hilarity, while the pitch of Michael’s affirmations climbed higher and higher, almost to a scream: “Yes, you are! Yes, you are! Yes, you are!”
With each “Yes” Michael extended his arms so that the float mat moved away a little, but he held onto the edge and brought it back in close to his body each time. But on the final “Yes,” as he straightened his elbows, he let go of the mat after a final shove and it floated free, away from the shore.
For a few seconds Thomas was too caugh
t up in the thrill of the game to take in what had happened. He could see no reason why the squealing and teasing should not go on increasing indefinitely—he was too young to sense that such a crescendo of enthusiasm had to lead to a climax, and, of course, he trusted his father, who had promised to hold tightly onto the mat, who had promised he was as safe as houses. So it was a moment before Thomas realised he was disconnected from his father and alone at the mercy of the sea. Even then it took another instant before the momentum of his childish screams of joy could be halted. The remnants of laughter died in Thomas’ throat as he felt the deep power of the sea moving underneath him and realised that there was no steadying, adult hand keeping him in touch with his life. His father had let him go.
Every muscle in Thomas’ small body went rigid, and his face transformed into a gaping mask of terror; the open mouth a black, stunned O, the large blue eyes bulging in disbelief. He saw his father, standing still, knee-deep in the water, grinning across the widening distance between them. Michael raised his arm and flapped a limp wrist up and down in mock farewell to his son.
“Bye-bye. Bye-bye, Thomas.”
Thomas found his voice, and his mouth, which had locked open after the laughter had so suddenly died, opened wider now to cry out in fear and panic. He screamed so loudly that on the other side of the tiny island people stopped and listened for a moment, wondering if they should go and see what was happening. Christina had been watching the yellowbird and trying to phase out the noise of the hysterical game her husband and son were playing. As Thomas’ screams hit her ears, she turned her head sharply and jumped up, ready to run to the rescue. The yellowbird retreated into the neighbouring tree.
Of course, the float mat had not drifted far, barely a few feet, and Thomas was in easy reach of Michael, who was a strong swimmer. It only seemed to Thomas that he had been cast adrift, things looking different, vaster and more distant, from a toddler’s perspective on the unfamiliar and insecure surface of the sea. Christina saw at once that there was no actual danger, and even as she looked, Michael had stopped the game and was wading deeper and reaching out for Thomas on the float mat. No more than a minute had passed. Christina watched as Michael scooped the stiff-limbed, howling child into his arms, and splashed with him back to the shore, clucking and laughing scornfully at his son’s ridiculous fear.
For the remainder of the holiday by the sea, Christina knew, as her heart returned to its regular rhythm, they would have trouble persuading Thomas to go anywhere near the water. She knew that much of the restfulness of such a holiday was lost now, and that Michael would make a project of reintroducing Thomas to the sea, while she would murmur uneasily that it didn’t matter, why not leave it till next year. A stab of anger went through her. Why had Michael been so stupid? How could someone who prided himself on his intelligence and who spent his days conducting research into human behaviour have done something so asinine? The answer came as a dull replacement to the sharp edge of anger: because he was an ass. Her husband and Thomas’ father was an ass: a fool who thought it funny to frighten a small child, who could not resist the small, mean act of betrayal that proved him more powerful than his four-year-old son.
And that ass was her companion in life; her—the dullness washed through her—partner. In a kind of enraged anguish she thought: Why hadn’t there been someone else? Why was he the only man who had presented himself to her? The truth was anyone else would have been better than Michael, and she’d known that even at the time. But the rage subsided and the dullness returned; no one else had wanted her. The unfairness of it, of who she was, of what life had entitled her to claim for herself, brought painful tears to her eyes which she had to blink back as her husband brought their unhappy son towards her.
Thomas ran to Christina as soon as he was released from Michael’s embrace. He wrapped himself around her pale legs and held tight, burying his wet, swollen face, hiding from the impatience of his father. Christina stood frozen, the weight of her son around her calves like an anchor, the weight of the future, as she looked at her husband, even greater.
“He’s such a silly baby,” Michael said, singsong, sneering, like a playground bully, mocking the childish fears of his victim and inviting his wife into a collusive alliance against their son. “He thought I’d let him float away. I wouldn’t let that happen to my baby boy, would I, Mummy? Silly billy, baby . . .”
When the look in Christina’s eyes did not change Michael shrugged. The silence in which his words were received made their echo ring, so that his own piping intonation returned to discomfort him. He felt uneasy, caught out, and perhaps became resentfully half-aware of his own meanness of spirit, the smallness and the shame of needing to make a child miserable and frightened so that he might feel superior and adult. So he shrugged at his impassive wife and snivelling child, and marched past them briskly into the cabin to take a shower and peevishly to nurse his annoyance at having been betrayed by Christina, who was supposed to be on his side.
An hour later Michael emerged from the cabin. Thomas had calmed down by then, and he and Christina were playing Snap on the porch table. Christina was losing absentmindedly, doing little more than turn her cards over until yelps of triumph from her son told her she had failed to notice a matching card once again. Her lack of involvement in the game didn’t matter to Thomas, who was exulting in an orgy of winning.
“I’ve won again,” he squealed, jumping up and down in his seat and gathering the pile of cards towards him. “I’ve won. I’ve won. I’ve won.”
Christina managed a distant smile and congratulated him politely.
Michael had that scrubbed look; his hair wetly slicked back, the skin which emerged from his short-sleeved shirt and long shorts, pink and pale against their vivid red and blue. He carried a baseball cap in his hand and swung it on to his head as he stepped into the sunlight. In his other hand was a yellow frisbee. His mood was painfully buoyant.
“All right, team. Let’s play frisbee!”
Thomas stopped dealing cards and stared indignantly at his father.
“We’re playing Snap.”
“What we need around here is a bit of energy.” He sounded like a holiday-camp host. “Come on, Mummy. Come on. Let’s play.”
Thomas threw the pack of cards at the table in a temper.
“I want to play Snap,” he whined.
“You know what we do when little boys have silly tantrums and won’t join in the fun, don’t you?” Michael said, taking Christina’s wrist and pulling her up. “We ignore them, don’t we, Mummy? And we get on with enjoying ourselves without them.”
Thomas remained at the table and sulked while Christina and Michael played frisbee. Christina stood just inside the porch and unenthusiastically caught the yellow disc Michael threw at her from the pathway, just by the edge of the beach. Though she retained the same distant smile she’d worn while playing Snap, her insides churned sourly at the sight of Michael’s frenetically self-conscious dance: ducking and feinting, jumping from side to side, his arms raised wide, and whooping “Okay! Okay! Come on, you won’t get past me!” as he waited to receive the frisbee. He looks demented, she thought, pitching it straight towards him. Michael made a balletic sideways leap into the air and missed the catch.
“Brilliant!” he yelled, awarding his wife praise for so cunning a strategy. “Now, let’s see what you can do with this.”
He pranced about for several minutes, jerking his arms in pretend throws, and shouting to Thomas to watch how he was going to fool Mummy completely. Thomas didn’t look up, but continued to sit with his head on his arms at the table. Christina waited, bored, embarrassed, for the throw. As he finally released the frisbee, and she reached up a listless arm to retrieve it, she wondered if Michael would change over the next twenty years.
Michael had put some kind of spin on the frisbee, so that halfway between the pitch and the catcher, it changed direction, veered to the right of Christina, and landed with a thud on Thomas’ lowered, unsuspect
ing head. He wasn’t badly hurt, just slightly grazed over one eye and shocked, but as Christina rushed over to him, the screaming began again.
When she’d got Thomas calm she looked up and saw that Michael was sitting, his legs extended, on a sunbed, in the shade of a palm tree at the edge of the beach, reading some academic papers. He’d undone the buttons on his shirt, which hung loose on either side of his hairless, pink chest, but still wore his baseball cap, navy socks and matching deck shoes. She hated herself for being someone who was married to such a man.
Michael sulked for the rest of the day, which meant, at least, that there were no further dramas, only an atmosphere at dinner when the three of them ate together in an awkward silence at the restaurant under the stars. Later, Christina lay awake next to Michael for several hours, unable to get the thought of the next twenty years out of her mind. She was stuck with the idea that Michael was what she deserved, that they were a true match, and therefore there could be no thought of leaving him. Two inadequate people had found each other, and the only difference between them was that Christina understood that that was what they were. What it was that made other people adult, adjusted, interesting, was beyond Christina’s understanding, and had always been. She’d never felt herself to be okay but could never isolate what it was that was actually wrong with her. She saw herself in the mirror of Michael, and she knew that she was bound to him in matching isolation and gaucheness; doomed, she felt now, to gaze on her reflection through Michael until she took her last breath.