A Gift of Poison

by Andrea Newman

  * * *

  David Johnson takes her to see Duke Bluebeard’s Castle. At Covent Garden, in the best seats, where she has so often sat with Felix that she thinks of it as their special place. It is a shock to turn her head and see David Johnson beside her instead, although she is grateful, of course. He is spending a great deal of money on her and asking nothing in return. She can’t help seeing herself as Bluebeard’s wife, demanding to know too much of what goes on behind Felix’s closed doors. No wonder it all ends in tears.

  ‘She brought it on herself,’ she says to David over dinner. She is just beginning, with an effort, to think of him by one name at last.

  ‘I don’t agree at all. He should have been more open with her. I never had any secrets from Kate.’

  ‘Some people think secrets are essential to happiness,’ she says.

  ‘By some people d’you mean Felix?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, embarrassed by his directness, by his intense dark eyes staring at her across the table. ‘I suppose I do.’

  ‘That’s not my view of marriage. I think the openness is the whole beauty of it.’

  She’s struck by his use of the word beauty. She has never thought of marriage in that way. Something about it reminds her of Lawrence.

  ‘I bet you’re a D. H. Lawrence fan,’ she says.

  ‘Wasn’t that obvious from my book?’

  ‘No. You’ve got your own voice.’

  ‘God, if I could write as well as Lawrence, I’d die happy.’

  ‘Well, there’s plenty of time,’ she says, smiling. She is enjoying herself with him again.

  ‘The poems,’ he says with passion. ‘The novels, yes, but especially the poems. He’s ridiculously underrated. It’s the English disease. They’re embarrassed by all that feeling so they send him up.’

  ‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘It’s self-defence.’

  ‘I’d go to the barricades for him,’ he says, as if he were a friend or a hero.

  ‘Just so long as you don’t have to grow the beard.’ She wonders if she is flirting with him. It feels awkward and unfamiliar, like a muscle she has not used for years. But she likes it.

  He says, ‘You know why I talked about myself so much when we first met?’

  ‘Because I was a good listener, you said.’

  ‘It wasn’t just that. Because you wouldn’t talk. Because if I asked you about Felix you were angry and you clammed up and I didn’t want to upset you, I wanted you to like me.’

  ‘There are other things we can talk about apart from Felix,’ she says, wondering as she says it if it is true. He fills her heart.

  ‘Are there?’ he says. ‘You mean like small talk. Party chat. I’ve got no talent for it. That’s why I was cowering behind the filing-cabinet when we met. You wouldn’t catch David Herbert making small talk at a party either, I bet. Life is too short to talk about trivia.’

  ‘What did you mean about the beauty of marriage?’ she says.

  ‘Oh, that opening up your soul that you get when it’s really going well,’ he says in a matter-of-fact tone, as if discussing something routine like cooking, nothing deep. ‘I know it’s fashionable these days to say you miss your children most when you split up, and I miss mine very much, but what I miss most of all is the intimacy I had with Kate. If I can’t have that again with another woman I’d really rather not be alive.’

  She hasn’t heard a man talk like that before. It shakes her.

  * * *

  When he takes her home this time there is no music on the car stereo, just a rather tense silence in the car. He parks at the house and they kiss for several minutes. She feels very aroused and thinks surely tonight he will come in and make love to her. She puts her arms round him to hug him and he feels wiry and young, very unlike Felix’s muscular, slightly flabby body. She strokes his dark floppy hair. He put his hand on her knee and strokes the inside of her stockinged leg for a moment, sending tremors of desire through her. She is surprised how much she wants him. Then he takes the hand away.

  ‘Well, back to work,’ he says. ‘Will you come to lunch on Sunday? I’m a good cook and I’d like you to see my place.’

  She doesn’t know if she is being teased or promised something. She says yes.

  * * *

  She wakes in the night. Four o’clock in the morning, a favourite danger time. She wakes with panic that something terrible has happened and Felix is dying or dead. She can’t remember if she has been dreaming about this but it seems real. Her heart thumps with terror and she lies there shaking, sweating, taking deep breaths to calm herself. This doesn’t work: it still feels like an emergency. She thinks of Jane Eyre and Rochester calling each other across space. What if Felix really needs her? Suddenly it seems like lunacy to be trying to force herself to have an affair with David Johnson as a revenge when she knows she really loves Felix and wants him back. How could she be so petty and stupid? Perhaps she has destroyed both their lives.

  She picks up the phone and dials Felix’s number, this number that used to be a secret, that has only recently been given to her. It rings once, then she hears Felix’s beloved voice with a curt message: ‘Felix Cramer here. If you leave a message I’ll ring you back.’

  This calms her sharply, like a slap, and she doesn’t speak; she hangs up before the tone. Suddenly Felix doesn’t seem dead or dying any more, but fast asleep or out enjoying himself. It makes no sense: if he were dead she would certainly get the answering machine, but her panic has gone at the sound of his voice.

  * * *

  ‘How long is your husband away for?’ Felix asks. He is so relieved that all has gone well that he feels almost fond of Ella. Obviously the humiliating incident with Sally was a one-off and directly linked to Elizabeth’s behaviour. Foolish of him to let it worry him. Better perhaps not to see Sally again, though, until after he’s back with Elizabeth: a clear message from his subconscious, he thinks. But with Ella it was just like old times, no problem at all, and she seems positively grateful, the usual advantage with older women.

  ‘Till Monday.’ She strokes his thigh. ‘D’you want to stay the weekend?’

  This seems like a very good idea. Regular sex and meals and sleep in a comfortable bed would really set him up. Then next week he can go through his address book, ring a few more ex-girlfriends, say Christine, Linda and Ruth for a start. He should have done that before, not taken Elizabeth’s revenge so much to heart that he let it depress him, and then expected Sally to cheer him up when he knew she was inclined to be spiteful these days. The trick is not to let anyone know he’s temporarily alone: it changes his image and weakens his position. Once they know he’s at a disadvantage they go in for the kill, all of them. Perhaps on second thoughts a weekend is too long to spend with anyone. Maybe a little holiday in the sun would be a good idea, on his own, to see if he can find someone new to refresh him. He deserves a treat for finishing the book and he’s sick of living in the flat. A package holiday would be cheaper than staying in a decent English hotel, which is what he’ll soon be desperate enough to do. Then he’ll be nicely tanned and relaxed before he sees Elizabeth again. Only six weeks now and he’s certainly not going to contact her ahead of time. It occurs to him how much he misses Richard, who would be the ideal person to talk to in this situation. How ironic he can’t invite Richard to join him on holiday; he’s willing to bet Richard is longing for a break from Inge by now.

  ‘I’d love to,’ he says to Ella. She’s put on weight in the four years since he’s seen her, which is a pity, but she still has magnificent tits and gives great head. ‘But Elizabeth gets back on Sunday night, so I’d better go home in the afternoon.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ She looks at him speculatively. ‘You know, if you give me a bit of notice, I can always do lunch during the week. D’you still have the flat?’

  He nods, remembering to look cheerful.

  ‘Happy memories,’ she says.

  * * *

  Inge is in the supermarket whe
n the first pain strikes. She’s been feeling less than well ever since she had the amniocentesis, but it was such a vague feeling that she told herself she was imagining it, and then it was submerged in the joy of knowing she is going to have a daughter. She thought that knowledge would make all the difference to Richard, but when she said to him, ‘Aren’t you pleased it’s a girl?’ he just said, ‘Yes, of course I am, it’s wonderful,’ in a very flat, dutiful voice. She was hurt but she thought, Well, it’s still hard for him to accept, but when our little girl arrives and he sees her, then it will be all right. He’ll love her, I know he will, and then perhaps he’ll start to love me again too. Pregnancy seems to cushion her against letting him upset her; she feels much calmer about everything, insulated by the baby. She remembers feeling the same during her other pregnancies.

  She’s had a much more intimate relationship with the baby since she knew its sex. It has changed from being a way of keeping Richard and become a real person she can love and talk to, another woman she will understand. She hopes she will be able to give her daughter a happier life than she has had. She talks to her when she is alone and plays her peaceful music when everyone else has gone out. She is touched by the way Karl and Peter take an interest in the baby, much more than Richard does in fact, asking her how she is feeling and making jokes about vetting their sister’s boyfriends when she grows up.

  It’s a low griping pain, sharper than a period pain, and it takes her by surprise. She’s halfway round the supermarket with a few things in her trolley for her birthday supper the next day. Richard had offered to take her out but she could tell he didn’t really want to so she said no, let’s do that after I’ve had the baby. She thinks he will be more pleased with her by then: it would be sad to spend her birthday evening in a restaurant finding they didn’t have enough nice things to say to each other. At home there will be the boys to help out.

  She panics, hanging on to her trolley with one hand and clutching her stomach with the other. The pain comes in waves like contractions and she remembers it instantly from the first baby she lost, the one that caused the marriage, although it is twenty years ago. She doesn’t know what to do. That time it happened at home. There seem to be so many things she should be doing all at once: finding a lavatory, asking a shop assistant to call an ambulance and phone Richard at school, seeing if she can sit down in the manager’s office. But she does none of these things. She is too terrified to move or speak. She can feel the trickle of blood, wet and sticky between her thighs, and she thinks it is getting heavier. She feels as if her insides are falling out. She clenches her knees together and lets go of the trolley, hugging her stomach and sinking down on to the floor of the supermarket. Safer not to move at all. She daren’t do any of the things she should be doing; she can only concentrate on hanging on to the baby. If she sits there on the floor for long enough someone is bound to notice. And sure enough a young girl comes up to her presently and says, ‘Excuse me, Madam, are you all right?’

  * * *

  Richard is in the middle of a lively though somewhat irrelevant discussion with 4B as to whether The Merchant of Venice should be banned by the Race Relations Board on the grounds of anti-Semitism when he sees the school secretary signalling to him through the glass panel in the door.

  ‘Your wife’s been taken ill,’ she says in a low voice when he goes to her. ‘They’ve just rung through. She wants you to go home. I’ve told Mrs Johnson and she’s coming over.’ And in a moment he sees Kate hurrying across from the main building and down the corridor. ‘I’m so sorry, Richard,’ she says. ‘You get off now, it’s all right, I can cover for you. I’ve got a free period.’

  * * *

  ‘Please save my baby,’ Inge says to the ambulance men. ‘Please save my baby.’ It’s all she can think of to say, over and over again, like a litany.

  ‘We’re doing all we can, love. You just relax now.’

  She curls up under the blanket, hugging herself, bent double with the pain, pressing her knees together, feeling the blood getting thicker and more relentless. The last time she was in an ambulance was when she tried to kill herself by cutting her wrists after Richard told her he was leaving her for Helen.

  * * *

  Richard hurries to the car park, but the car won’t start. It could be a flat battery but he thinks it’s more likely the alternator. There’s no time to do anything about it now and he hasn’t enough cash on him for a cab. He hurries down the road to the tube station, looking out for a bus at the same time. He’s worried, of course, but he’s also aware of another emotion that he doesn’t want to examine. He doesn’t altogether want to get home quickly. He doesn’t quite want to know what this summons may mean. He doesn’t like the way an element of hope is creeping into his fear.

  * * *

  But when he gets home there is no sign of Inge and he suddenly wonders if the school secretary got the message wrong or if he misunderstood her. He stands in the kitchen wondering what to do. The house is very quiet and it strikes him how seldom he is alone in it. He wonders if he should telephone the hospital. Perhaps that is where Inge has gone. Perhaps that is where he was supposed to go, but the message got garbled while it was being passed along, as in the old children’s game of Chinese whispers.

  * * *

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ the doctor says when he gets there, ‘but it’s almost inevitable at this stage.’

  He does his best to present a face of grief. It is not too difficult with a stranger.

  * * *

  Inge is on a drip when he sees her. He hates to see that; to him it always seems to make things look more serious than they really are. She is crying and he can see the pain in her face. ‘My little girl,’ she says. ‘Oh, Richard, I’m losing my little girl. I can’t hang on to her. I tried so hard.’ He holds her hand for a moment and feels quite defeated: they know each other so well that even in extremis she can read what he feels. He says, ‘Do you want me to stay?’ and there is a terrible moment when it feels as if absolute truth flows between them. He sees a look of horror in her eyes. Then she shakes her head and turns her face to the wall.

  * * *

  He arrives early at school the next day, glad to have somewhere to go to escape his thoughts, but Kate is there ahead of him. He has never yet managed to arrive earlier than Kate, not that it matters, but it gives him the image of her as someone somehow superhuman.

  Today she looks anxious. She says urgently, ‘Oh, Richard, how’s your wife?’

  ‘Well, she’s all right, but…’ He sees Kate’s face settling into sympathy and he feels a complete fraud, a monster, because relief is still far stronger than grief, because he is like a man who has found his cell door unlocked and can only slightly pity the fact that this is due to his gaoler’s death. ‘I’m afraid she lost the baby.’

  ‘Oh, Richard, I’m so sorry. How awful. You shouldn’t have come in, we could have managed.’

  ‘No, it’s all right, I’d rather be busy. I’m going to collect her this evening.’

  ‘Well, if you need to leave early or anything…’ Her kind, plain face is open and guileless. He can see her searching for the right thing to say. ‘Please give your wife my best wishes. It’s an awful thing to go through. It happened to me once so I do know how she feels.’

  * * *

  He brings her home the following evening after the D and C. It is her birthday and there are cards and presents waiting for her. She is very quiet and sad, but calm. He has already told the boys that she has lost the baby. They hug her and he sees how much they love her. It’s as if he’d never properly realised that before. They love her so much more than they love him, if indeed they love him at all. Is it because of who she is or is it because she has always been there? Karl looks at him with hatred now and Peter won’t meet his eyes. He’s finally lost them both, he thinks.

  ‘I’m so tired,’ Inge keeps saying. ‘I’m so tired.’ She sounds surprised.

  He makes scrambled eggs because she can’t th
ink of anything else she could manage to swallow and she has supper on a tray in front of the television. Then she goes to bed.

  Karl goes out. Richard watches TV with Peter.

  ‘Mum will be all right, won’t she?’

  ‘Yes, of course she will. She’ll be fine.’

  Peter goes to bed, rather earlier than usual, Richard thinks. He goes up to see if Inge wants anything, but she is asleep. He puts off going to bed as long as he can, telling himself he doesn’t want to risk disturbing her, even wondering if he should sleep on the sofa for that very reason or would that be construed as rejection? Eventually he goes up again and finds her awake.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘All right. Tired. Sore.’

  She looks very pale, her face fading into the pillow, as if she is being bleached out of existence. He feels so sorry for her. And he doesn’t know where to hide his relief.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘Could I have some more orange juice? I’m so thirsty.’

  ‘Yes, of course. With ice?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  He goes downstairs, glad to get away, nervous of going back, and returns. He gives her the drink.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says very formally. ‘That’s lovely.’

  He watches her drain the glass.

  ‘Would you like some more?’

  ‘No, that’s enough.’

  Eventually the moment can’t be put off any longer. He’s tired too and there is school tomorrow. He will offer to come home at lunchtime, he decides, but he can’t bear the thought of staying at home all day. He’s terrified of being alone with her.