Moonlight

by Fergus O'Connell

  ‘No, it’s not you. It’s nothing … I just need to think.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been such good company today.’

  ‘Do you mind if say something to you?’

  She looks at him. He takes both her hands and looks into her eyes.

  ‘We don’t know each other very well, we’ve only spoken a handful of times. But I want you to know –if you decided to go ahead – I would give you all the support I could in any ways that I could. I have friends … contacts. I know people.’

  ‘You’re very kind,’ she says, and she knows her eyes are starting to mist.

  Then she turns away, gets up and begins to thread her way through the crowd on the busy path. She feels like she needs to run but, of course, she can’t in the skirt she is wearing. And anyway, what would people think?

  She has just reached a point where several paths intersect when she feels a hand on her shoulder. She jumps. Her first thought is that it is Henry. She looks round.

  It is James.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just … I meant to tell you that I have booked holidays for the next couple of weeks.’

  Her heart sinks. Here it is. The one person in the world who seems to value her in any way, the one person she could talk to about any of this, is about to go out of her life.

  ‘You may remember I mentioned that I was intending to go to France.’

  Why is he telling her all of this? He seems nervous.

  ‘You see … that is to say, I had booked them. The holidays, I mean. But what with the situation in Europe, I thought it might be better for me to defer my holidays for now. Just in case anything happens, you know.’

  What does any of this have to do with her? She wishes he would let her go. She is afraid she is going to burst into tears and she can’t do that in public. And not in front of him.

  ‘Well, you see, I thought – if you wanted to – I could still take next Thursday off and we could spend it together. Or at least as much of it as you could … whatever time you could spare. Or any day, really. It doesn’t have to be Thursday if some other day—’

  Clara sees that James is nervous. He’s gabbling a bit. Realisation dawns. She smiles – a smile that feels weary and full of relief.

  ‘I’d like that very much.’

  ‘So whatever time suits you,’ he says.

  ‘I could be here for eleven. Or maybe a little earlier.’

  ‘Perfect. Usual spot?’

  ‘Usual spot.’

  ‘I’ll see you then,’ he says, and then, leaning forward, he kisses her on the cheek.

  She is so taken aback by this unexpected gesture that all she can do is to stand there while he raises his hat and then, turning around, walks off.

  In St Petersburg, a report is received from the Russian Ambassador in Vienna. In it he states that, ‘Information reaches me that the Austro-Hungarian government at the conclusion of the inquiry intends to make certain demands on Belgrade … It would seem to me desirable that at the present moment, before a final decision on the matter, the Vienna Cabinet should be informed how Russia would react to the fact of Austria’s presenting demands to Serbia such as would be unacceptable to the dignity of that state.’

  The Austrian Ambassador in St Petersburg is asked about this. He tells the Russians that Austria is not planning on any measure that might cause a war in the Balkans. The Russians take no further action.

  Clara lies in bed unable to sleep. She tosses and turns and is glad that Henry is staying up in town. He would be terribly annoyed if he was here and she was doing what she is doing now. She can’t imagine what the process of asking him for a divorce would be like. She knows he would be angry and that he would try to make it as difficult as possible for her. And she daren’t think about Ursula and Virginia – not yet. So instead of dwelling on how nightmarish all that might be, she tries to imagine life afterwards.

  Assuming it is true that she would be able to keep the house then she would be here afterwards with just the children. The poor girls – how awful it would be for them. And Clara would have to find a way of earning money. She doubts Henry would give her any. Does the law require him to? She doesn’t know. But even if it does, she knows he would try to ensure that it would be the least amount he could get away with. Where could she work? Working in a stationary shop is the only thing she has ever known. And even if she could get a job, who would mind the children while she worked? She wouldn’t be able to afford Mrs Parsons. And even if she could, and Mrs Parsons was minding them all day, would that mean that she would, in effect, become their mother?

  Almost without realising it, Clara puts her hand to her forehead. This is all too much. She can’t go through with any of this.

  At exactly the same time, Mary lies post-coitus in the crook of Henry’s arm. Their room is in darkness, Henry having put out the bedside lamp shortly after they had both climaxed – Mary genuinely so on this occasion. It was a bit of a struggle for Henry to get there tonight, since he had other things on his mind. But Mary coaxed him along, gripping his cock and eventually jerking it savagely all the while saying lewd things to him like a prostitute, until eventually he splashed all over her hand. He would dearly love to sleep now, as he is exhausted, but he cannot let another moment go by without them having this discussion.

  ‘You do take precautions, don’t you?’ he says, lying on his back and trying to make it sound like he is speaking to the darkness.

  ‘Precautions?’

  The fake innocence really irks him.

  ‘Against becoming pregnant, of course.’

  ‘You wouldn’t like me to have your baby?’ the innocent voice continues.

  ‘Not until you and I are together,’ he says, and he thinks this is a pretty good rejoinder. And he is happy that he said ‘together’ rather than ‘married.’

  He wants to hear her say, ‘Of course I take precautions. Don’t you worry about any of that.’ Instead, what he hears is, ‘And what would you do if I did become pregnant?’ She pauses – for effect, he thinks. ‘Before we were together, I mean.’

  ‘I couldn’t afford another child at the moment.’ Henry had decided – after a lot of thought – that this was probably the best argument to advance. He hopes this will be the end of it, but she is relentless.

  ‘So you’d want me to not have the baby?’

  ‘That would be your decision.’ Henry speaks to the darkness again.

  He thinks that this is another really good riposte and he waits to see what she will say in response to this. There is a long pause and then Mary extracts herself from Henry’s embrace. She turns her back to him and moves away to the edge of the bed. Henry doesn’t know what the morning with her will bring. Maybe she will have had time to consider this and will have absorbed it. Maybe she’ll still be angry with him. Maybe this will be the end of it. Henry finds he doesn’t actually care. He feels she has pushed him around quite a bit up until now, but with this he’s been able to strike back. It’s a good feeling; a satisfying feeling. He’s pleased. The talk has had the desired effect. She knows where she stands. He turns his back to her as well and goes to sleep.

  Chapter 29

  Friday 17 July 1914

  Henry is pleased to find that Mary wakes in good humour. Indeed she is awake first, kisses him from sleeping and repeatedly calls him ‘darling’ as they dress and get ready to leave – separately – for work. The talk last night has had the desired effect. Henry is whistling as he leaves the hotel.

  Berchtold, the Austrian manager, is feeling the pressure. What if Serbia accepts the terms of his ultimatum? This would really be an own goal for his team. While it would be a diplomatic success, Austria – and by implication, Berchtold – would be seen as weak and no longer capable of vigorous, decisive action. Its powerful ally Germany, in particular, would take a dim view of this.

  Berchtold’s unhappiness continues. Hi
s mood isn’t improved when the Austrian team’s Quartermaster General reports cheerfully that he can ‘move at a moment’s notice.’ ‘We in the General Staff are ready,’ he continues. ‘There is nothing more for us to do at this juncture’; thereby reminding Berchtold – as if he needed reminding – that the ball is firmly is his court.

  Clara finds herself thinking a lot about James. He seems so happy even though he has no wife. He gives the impression of being … well, sort of self-contained, like he doesn’t need anybody else. Or if it’s not that exactly, that he is at least happy in his own skin – content to be himself.

  She imagines him waking in the morning in his house. Does he have a woman who comes in and does for him? Clara assumes he must, even though he hasn’t mentioned her. Does she make the sandwiches or does James make them himself? And cooking – does he cook? Clara has a feeling that he does. It is one of the things she must ask him.

  She imagines him to be very good at what he does and highly respected in his job. She assumes he has a great deal of responsibility and many friends whom he meets to discuss the matters of the day. Or maybe he prefers to stay home and read. She pictures him in a sort of study cum library surrounded by books. Then, at weekends, she pictures him walking in the countryside, stopping at some wayside pub.

  She has a sense that he enjoys everything. Whether the sun shines or it rains; whether he sits outside bathed in sunshine drinking a pint of beer or pulls in close to a roaring fire, sipping whisky; whether he is concerned with great events at work or feeding the ducks in St James’s Park, she has the feeling that he is content. Even though he lives alone, he doesn’t seem lonely. He enjoys being by himself or with other people. He seems to find pleasure in every day; in just being alive.

  Now, Clara realises that she knows very little about James and that a lot of this is just her imagination and may not have much basis in reality. Yet she has a very strong feeling – indeed, for her it is pretty much a certainty – that this is what he is like.

  And how different all that is from Clara. She is so discontented. And even as she thinks this, she feels guilty – again reminding herself of all that she has to be thankful for. But there seems to be some kind of central core missing from her life – a core that James appears to possess. Or is it just an attitude? If she approached each day as he seems to, and if she could take pleasure in all of the little things that made up the day, could she find some of his contentment?

  And then she remembers with a shock that she once had that contentment. When she worked in her father’s shop, before she met Henry, she did have that contentment. The James she is describing, that she pictures – that was the way she was before she got married. That’s why it seems so familiar and also why she is so certain about it. It is because she knows this feeling herself. She was once like this. But where and how did she lose it?

  Clearly it was when she married Henry. In the same way that he took on the role of what he thought a husband should be, she too took on a role – the dutiful wife. She wanted to be the perfect wife for him. But in doing so, she lost something. She lost that very core of herself that she recognises in James. And now she wonders if it’s possible to get it back and, if so, how? Or is it lost forever?

  Chapter 30

  Saturday 18 July 1914

  Mary finishes work at lunchtime and goes home to the house she shares with two other women. Her housemates want to go and do something. Get out and enjoy the fine weather. Go to a park, lie in the sun. All three of them are in their twenties, single and unspoken for. Mary is the eldest. The biggest concern all three of them have – though none of them ever talks about it – is that they will be left on the shelf. So the urge to go out and ‘do something’ is actually an unspoken wish that today they will meet the man of their dreams. Or if not that, then at least some man.

  Most of the time, Mary goes with them on these Saturday afternoons. All three work and so, on Saturdays, all three have been paid. They will perhaps buy an item or two of new clothing because all three of them love pretty things. Especially in fine weather, they will stroll in the park, eat ice cream, perhaps flirt with some men. They will have tea in a restaurant and often go to a music hall show in the evening. But today, Mary tells them that she’s not feeling very well – ‘usual complaint,’ she tells them – and so they go off without her. In reality, there is nothing wrong with Mary; she feels absolutely fine. But there is something she must do.

  Mary is, more than anything else, a realist. She wasn’t always like this. Looking back to the time when she nearly got married, before the man threw her over, she sees how starry-eyed she was. She was in love and just got swept away with the whole thing; she thought it would be always like that. After it was over she spent a long time thinking about what a fool she had been, but she is past that now.

  Now she understands that nobody is perfect. She sees how love and marriage are about settling; about saying to oneself that this is as good as it is going to get. Of course, she wouldn’t settle for any old thing. A man who drank or beat her or never washed – there are some things that she just couldn’t countenance. But in Henry she feels she has found most of the things that would enable her to settle.

  To begin with, he has a good secure job and she has the impression that he is reasonably highly regarded in the company. She thinks he will see further promotion in the years ahead. (This high regard is not necessarily shared by some of Mary’s workmates – not that they know anything about her relationship with him. While most are indifferent to Henry, she has heard one or two make disparaging remarks about him. They think he gives women the glad eye and that he touches a bit too much for a married man. They reckon ‘he puts it about’ and that they ‘wouldn’t fancy being his wife.’)

  Mary knows that, just as with all men, there is not a lot she can do about Henry’s fidelity. But she feels that if she keeps him interested in the sex then he should not have too much reason to want to look elsewhere. He is not a bad lover, though nowhere near as good as the fellow who nearly married her. But Mary flatters him and pretends when she has to and that seems to keep everything in the garden rosy.

  Mary really would like to have a child, with Henry as the father. But at the moment she is being careful not to. It would be far too risky to play that game – to become pregnant and then to try to force him to marry her. She is certain that he would do what most men would do – pretend to have no knowledge of it and drop her like a hot potato.

  But while this is a risk she is not prepared to run, there is another that she is. And it is this that has kept her indoors on this glorious Saturday of hot sun and blue skies and London parks buzzing with people, carefree for a few hours at least.

  She is pretty sure that Henry was not telling the truth when he said that he had told his wife he wanted a divorce. But whether he is or not, time is running on and things are moving too slowly for Mary. She suspects that, given the chance, Henry will delay and delay and it could be years before he leaves his wife – that is, if he leaves her at all. So Mary is going to see what she can do to accelerate the process. She is going to try to force the issue. She is conscious that this could all go terribly wrong. But she is prepared for that. If it does, she will just have to start again and go and find somebody else. And if what she is proposing to do works, then she will have finally reached that happy place that has eluded both her and her housemates up until now.

  Mary sits at the heavy living room table. Outside the sky is blue above the slated roofs and chimney pots of the houses opposite. However, the room feels cool. It is as though the net curtains draw the heat and passion from the day outside. In front of her are some sheets of paper that she took from work earlier. She dips her pen in the glass inkwell and begins to write.

  As Mary is busily writing, Sir Edward Grey is heading to Hampshire after a fairly uneventful week. He arrives, sheds his jacket and tie and decides he will go a long trail. There has been very little rain this month and the lawn that leads down to the riv
er is getting brown.

  As usual, it is the birds he is most conscious of as he rambles. The older ones are moulting now, the younger ones spreading about and discovering the world for themselves. The river and lakes are full of broods of water hens, coots, dabchicks and ducks. A couple of weeks ago he spotted a cuckoo’s egg in a reed warbler’s nest and this nest now contains a solitary young bird growing feathers. He looks forward to a good day’s fishing tomorrow.

  Clara is in bed and trying to quiet her racing mind so that she can hopefully fall asleep. She has been through all the things she must do tomorrow and decided upon the food she will cook for each meal. Normally, like a sentry who completes one section of the perimeter he is patrolling before moving on to the next, she would move on to worrying – about the girls, about Henry, about herself. How she hates that she does this but there never seems to be anything else to think about after she is finished with the next day’s practicalities. Except that tonight there is. Her mind turns to James.

  What is he doing now, she wonders? It is close to midnight so she assumes he is asleep. She wonders what he wears in bed. Pyjamas? An old-fashioned night gown? Or maybe nothing at all. Clara has often thought that she would like to sleep like that – especially when there are clean sheets on the bed. In winter it would be like being an animal sheltering from the elements, hibernating in a cave. In summer, on those really hot nights, she could throw the bedclothes off and let the moonlight bathe her body.

  She is all alone in the world. Of course, everybody is alone, everybody lives their own life, is born, does whatever they are going to do and then dies. But everyone else doesn’t seem to think of themselves as being alone. They are parts of families, they are relatives or friends of other people, they are parents of children, they are in clubs or work together. For heaven’s sake, she lives in a house with three other souls. Two of them are her children, sprung from her body. And yet she feels so utterly alone.

  If she asked Henry – which she wouldn’t, of course – if he was alone, she knows he wouldn’t really understand what she meant. And if he probed a bit – which he wouldn’t because he doesn’t particularly care – and she managed to explain what she meant, he would say that he has her and the children and his extended family and his workmates. He might expound that ‘no man is an island’ and that we all live our lives in a web of links to other people.