Imelda was suffering from the aftermath of dental treatment and was behaving like a tragedy queen, resting. She kept going on about the marvels of the dentist’s waiting room; beautiful curtains seemed to be the stuff of her day-dreams. Julie tried not to envy her the joys of her excursion, only because although there were moments when she herself would have risked fire and injury simply to be out of here, if only for an hour, there were others when she was peculiarly reluctant to go. She smothered the jealousy with the realization that she could not possibly envy anyone a visit to the dentist, because such a thing terrified her, even the smell made her tremble. Cannon had been stoic in the face of it; she admired that, especially since she had not actually noticed his appalling teeth when they met, only ever his eyes. At the moment, she envied his comparative freedom.
The kitten made play with her ankle; its claws were sharper as it matured. ‘Sod off!’
She was dusting the statue of St George, flicking at it with absentminded violence. The tip of the spear poised to enter the dragon’s mouth snapped off and fell to the floor with a clunk. The kitten pounced on it. ‘Hell and fucking damnation …’ Julie suffered a moment of panic, feeling shifty and sacrilegious. Then, in a gesture that surprised her with its swift spontaneity, she found she had made the sign of the Cross over her own body, touched first her forehead, then her breast, then each shoulder, left to right, just as they did two dozen times a day, not only in prayer, with grace before and after meals, in here, anywhere, but at moments of stress and impatience, a calming gesture, but also one of warning, an admonition. She was horrified to catch herself in such an act: she had already assumed the seductive rhythm of their quiet speech; now she was assuming the movements of their hands. Next she would be wearing their talismans and soon there would be nothing left of her original self.
‘I’d rather go to hell,’ she said out loud. Jumped as a hand fell on her shoulder.
‘Would you really? I’m sure not – whatever the alternative you were hoping to avoid. Hell’s for eternity, a difficult concept I find.’
‘An eternity of having your teeth filled,’ Julie said lightly, thinking of Imelda, who had been the sole topic of conversation last evening, and hoping that Pauline had not heard her swearing, mild though it had been. Or seen her making the sign of the Cross; she was even more afraid of that. A vain hope for this gaunt gentlewoman of silent footsteps: Pauline missed nothing. Julie adored her, but the intense affection was tinged with a fear that went slightly beyond profound respect. Pauline had more than a touch of ruthlessness.
‘And, yes, I did see you making the sign of the Cross, child. What a curious thing to do when all you had done to precede it was snap St George’s perfectly dreadful spear. Don’t worry, my dearest, don’t worry. It really doesn’t mean that God has got you, like St George supposedly got the dragon. Not that George was really after the dragon. He was only after the maiden, after all. Most men’s ambitions centre on the carnal, in the end.’ She tapped the dragon’s nose. ‘They have to be the way they are for the furtherance of the species. It afflicts them all the time, even when they do it with each other into old, old age without any discernible result. And they know, of course, by another version of the same instinct, that the women will look after the progeny long after they’ve gone on to plant some more. So don’t trouble your head about St George’s spear. He only wanted to get the dragon out of the way. A rolling-pin would have done.’ She touched the broken spearpoint with her foot. The kitten skittered away.
‘Why did I make the sign of the Cross?’ Julie asked, ashamed of the aggression in her voice.
‘Oh, Lord, for the same reason you wave thank you at someone on a zebra crossing for failing to run you over. An automatic reaction against a repetition of danger or embarrassment. Really, it doesn’t matter.’
The St George of the statue had rosy cupid-bow lips, pursed in concentration. No primal scream forming through open jaws. The dragon looked like a larger version of the kitten, rolling on its back; not much of a contest, for all of its feigned agony, pathetic beast.
‘But what if God had got me?’
Pauline sat in a flurry of sudden consternation, settled herself. ‘What if? I’d be delighted if He answered my prayers, but the occurrence of that isn’t frequent so I’d also be surprised. What if? would be entirely for you to discover. It wouldn’t prevent you from loving your husband, if that’s what frightens you about it. Indeed, if you saw him as an instrument of God as well as a mere man, it would make you love him more. Is that what you mean?’
Julie shook her head.
Pauline went on, ‘If this casual invocation of the Holy Trinity meant a realization that no human love is complete, totally fulfilling and providing all the answers, you’ll merely have taken a step forward. Several steps. It may make you judge him differently. Sceptically. Want something more reliable to love. Not instead of, as well as. You wouldn’t believe the flexibility of religious belief. If it does damn-all else, it puts things into perspective …’
‘Stoppit!’ Julie yelled, holding her hands over her ears. And then, more quietly, ‘Stoppit. Stop it. Stop doubt. Stoppit.’ She hesitated; she hurt. Old bruises came to life. She wanted to shout, ‘I’m pregnant.’ ‘Why is it that I could live by myself for two whole years when Cannon was in prison and never waver in the way I felt about him? Never waver in my complete conviction about whatever he said, never doubt? What are you doing to me?’
‘I? Nothing. God might be working on you. There might always have been the need for another kind of faith. You’ve never been among religious people before, have you?’
‘Contented people,’ Julie murmured. ‘Contented with a fraction of what I hope for. No, I’ve never dwelt with people who are content.’
‘Well, don’t let the appearances fool you. Why do you think Imelda grinds her teeth? We can’t all be free of doubt.’
‘What? Not even you?’
‘Especially not me. But this has nothing at all to do with me. And it wasn’t the same, being utterly faithful to Cannon when he was in prison and you weren’t. Now the position’s reversed and it surely gives rise to resentment, doesn’t it? After all, it might be all his fault. Or his fantasy. But your injuries were real, child. Entirely real.’
Julie turned on her with quiet fury. ‘Yes, they were, weren’t they? Only I’m no longer sure who it was inflicted them. A man who refused point-blank to look at me, couldn’t bear to see me. Put a pillowcase over my head so he didn’t have to. Got someone else to hit me. It must be his brother – oh, God, I hope it was his brother. There was nothing I would not do to keep Cannon. Nothing.’ She smiled uncertainly. ‘Maybe it was all simply an act of God, bringing me here.’
Pauline laughed shortly, the sound of it loud in the chapel. Her reverence for the place was casual. ‘God moves in mysterious ways, but they aren’t usually quite so convoluted.’ She touched Julie lightly on the shoulder, brushed her hair back behind one ear. It was as if she knew how much Julie longed to be touched, even as innocently as this. ‘Would you like to try to pray?’ Pauline asked. ‘It’s easy, really. All you have to do is just imagine God the Father does exist and chat to him. That’s all there is to it, really. You don’t have to praise him, you can complain to him if you like. I would, if I were you.’ She bent down and picked the tip of St George’s spear off the floor. ‘A bit of Elastoplast, I think,’ she said.
‘I’m hungry,’ Julie said. ‘Ravenous for food. Help me.’
Sarah sat and looked at the mess on top of the desk. She had put all the estate agents’ bumph into the bin, thought of the new flat and quietly applauded. Yes! Thought of William and smiled. Thought of Cannon and frowned. Enough was enough. In between everything else she had found a new place for him to squat: her new flat with the deaf neighbours. Throw money at the problem, Ernest had said, and she had. An immediate rental agreement, pending exchange of contracts, expensive but worth it. Cannon and Julie were going to bankrupt her, but that did not come
into the equation.
There were more art catalogues and a letter.
Dear Mr Fortune,
I have got your letter of today about ‘domestic properties’, ‘specialized services’ and all that stuff. I don’t find much wrong with estate agents, personally. At least they tell you what’s going on. This is just another way for you lot to squeeze more money, right? On account of foreigners who want flats having more dosh.
So, I’ll think about answering your questions, shall I?
Mind, I don’t see why I should advise you lot anything. I pay you lot plenty enough already and I don’t go much on lawyers. I think you’re a load of tosspots, reely.
John Smith
She agreed with the last sentiment, albeit with reservations. She could quite understand why any member of the paying public might consider a lawyer no more than a highly trained thief extracting money from grief and necessity, a servant with an exaggerated sense of self-importance, not in the other guise, as protector, which was the way she saw it. Someone who led others through the minefield of highly regulated contemporary life, stuck with them and brought them through to the other side. That was what she did, when allowed.
So, Mr Smith, I may have you on a hook. I may get to have a proper look at you at last. What will you think of me? Shall I be able to make human contact with you or will you spit? The writing was similar to what she had seen; similar, but not identical. The spelling was different and the result inconclusive.
The mirror faced her on one turn of her restless pacing. Window open for forbidden cigarette smoke. No, there was no way she could make herself look like a boy, but she could probably make herself look less like a woman. Scrape back the hair, omit the makeup, try to look pale and uninteresting; add specs. She rather liked the idea of disguise. It was only an extension of daily life to assume the colours of her surrounding company, not for camouflage but to make them feel at ease. An actress, playing a number of parts.
Cannon. Who still had not phoned. If Cannon was telling the truth when he said there was no answer to the terrible threat of Johnnyboy until Johnnyboy was tired of the game, then she would have to find the solution for him. Blackmail of the kind Cannon had forbidden. After all, at one remove she knew quite a lot about John Smith’s business. The countdown to Christmas was short, but it was still too long, even if John Smith had promised. She had the sense of time running out, even before Pauline phoned. The office this morning was hot and stuffy.
‘Where have you been?’ The mere sound of that authoritarian voice sparked the guilt that had lain pretending to be dormant. Pauline reminded her how little of her own life she seemed to possess, but it seemed wrong to complain about that. She shut her eyes and tried to recall the moment when she had seen the new flat; a moment of unalloyed, undistracted happiness. As if it was ever going to be hers.
‘I’ve been nowhere, Auntie.’ Pauline hated being called Auntie. ‘I’ve been busy doing nothing. As always. You know how it is.’
There was the sound of heavy breathing. Sarah doubted she was using the convent phone, sited in the hall next to the dining room – not for confidential conversations and sparingly used as necessity demanded. Sarah had offered to buy them a fax and met a barrage of puzzled faces. Why would we need it?
‘How soon can you come and see Julie? How soon?’ She was whispering urgently, sounding childish, as if enjoying the conspiracy, relishing the keeping of secrets. No wonder it had been easy to persuade her into such discretion: she was a closet spy.
Sarah glanced at the letter from John Smith, ending with his illiterate signature. Ridiculous secrecy: the man could not even spell. He was a clown who swam like a piece of cork on legs, and she herself was delaying because she was no longer able to believe that any of this had been necessary.
‘Why should I?’ A weary question, sounding grudging. Julie was her responsibility was why, just as Cannon was. She had made them thus. Was it laziness and wanting her own life back that made her resentful? But she loved them both, Pauline and William, too. It was just that none of them seemed to be aware of it. ‘Oh, I don’t mean why, I mean why now? It’s only a few days since …’ She was sounding apologetic, and cross for feeling it. Why could she never do enough?
‘Well, if you came today, most of them are out. The sermon in the Cathedral …’
‘Why?’
‘Look, things move fast with the human soul,’ Pauline hissed. ‘It doesn’t stay consistent. I’m worried about her. Cannon’s missing two nights. They argued. She’s getting frightened. She’s also getting addicted to this way of life. Thinks it’s easier than coming out. She’s starting to pray.’
‘That’s your fault,’ Sarah said, icily calm in her anger. ‘Your fault. You can’t leave well alone.’
The breathing became heavier, indignant. ‘Do you think I want a convert at any price? Well, I don’t. I don’t want someone I can mould into belief simply because they’re weakened, impressionable and fearful. Especially someone who feels they’re being abandoned. Not much of a gift to God, is it?’
‘I can’t make her happier. Cannon’s the only one who can do that.’
There was a snort of derision, an unspoken curse. Men. ‘I wasn’t suggesting you could, but you could alleviate this sense of abandonment. Come and talk to her. Make plans for her. Cannon’s not communicating. Tell her there’s an end to this charade. Give her some version of what might happen. Tell her he’ll do anything for her. As she would for him. Anything.’
Sarah was silent. Pauline had always asked the impossible.
‘She’s afraid of the frailty of love.’ And Pauline added, saving the best until last, ‘I’ve a feeling she might be pregnant.’
Perhaps it was something he had done or said; perhaps it was the imminence of Christmas, and a time when his clients consulted their budgets and decided their teeth could wait in the interests of other, less important and purely seasonal spending, but business was not brisk, William decided. This did not worry him unduly: money had never worried him much, apart from a vague discomfort about the fact that perhaps it should – in the way that a new suit or a different piece of wallpaper should excite him and didn’t quite. In fact, anything that had to be shopped for, money included, was always a trifle disappointing. He surprised himself by thinking that what he really appreciated in life were the surprises: the events, the gifts, the people wished upon him unexpectedly before he had a chance to head them off. Sarah; Cannon; a truly unusual set of teeth presenting themselves for his inspection; the challenge of John Smith. The surprise to the eye or the emotions of something exquisite or hideous. He was not sure whether John Smith was a real person or an event. Whatever he was, there was something stupendous about his arrival. He was a gift without wrapping.
Early in the morning William was home, Sarah and he embarking in their always separate directions. Wouldn’t have to be so early if she moved into that flat she’d described. He liked the idea of her living nearer; definitely liked it, a lot, so much so that he wished he could remember the address she’d told him before he’d been distracted, wished he had told her about John Smith, but on the whole was pleased he had not. She was so damned helpful. He wanted to deal with John Smith by himself; create an achievement all by himself, alone and unaided. I’m not such a klutz, am I? I can make a real difference to two lives. And I’m a good lover; me. She had said so.
What he liked about John Smith’s teeth, and by the same token what he had liked about Cannon’s, was the fact that they were so much worse than what he normally saw and they belonged to rather unreasonable people. The rest of his patients were so reasonable, so prosperous, so educated about the state of their fangs that they arrived at the first sign of trouble and did what they were told, boringly, so predictably co-operative they scarcely needed him at all.
By eight o’clock the wintry sun began to creep into the corners of the room. There had been a touch of frost as he had walked down the road and the railings flanking the door felt frozen
to the touch. Shop windows, black, and what would he buy her for Christmas? A rubbish van was collecting black sacks left on the pavement; there was something positive about the place looking cleaner even as he watched.
One of the blinds was up. William frowned. He could not remember leaving it like that and he was precise about such things. He pulled up the blind that was down, releasing a shaft of sunlight. It fell on Cannon’s painting, and he stood before it, lost. A woman in her bathroom, drying herself. Ready for her toilette, a dress strewn over a chair, the only furniture in a simple room with painted stone walls, a rough-tiled floor against which the nude had guarded her feet with bright-coloured slippers. A small selection of glass jars on a shelf, backdrop to her ease; she would not hurry for anyone; there was no preening in the pose, no apparent knowledge of the observer. Had he, William, ever regarded Isabella with such frank admiration, been allowed to gaze at her in this way? No; he could not remember it; nor, he imagined, could she. He could only recall the degree of lust, which did not comprehend details, and could not have stood back to observe her. Did not look, only wanted to grasp. He could also recall that the details of her toilette were always secret: he would glimpse her going into the bathroom, glance at her during her cursory scrubbing of teeth, but by and large Isabella never stayed au naturel. She emerged from behind closed doors fully armoured for the day. It was the finished product she presented for admiration, never the body, as if she had hated it.
William felt a great stab of pity for her, and shame for himself. How little they had known each other. How intimately, by comparison, he knew Sarah, who would sit joyfully naked for all the world to see and not care what it thought. She was the one happier without the clothes and the accoutrements, a creature requiring no second skin. He must ask Cannon about the painting. Why did he never ask things? In his heart of hearts, he did not want to know it was stolen.
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