The Longing

by Jane Asher

  ‘He will still be all right won’t he? You don’t think he’s in any real danger?’

  ‘As I said to you before, it’s always very hard to say in these situations, but my instinct, like yours, is still that your wife will be doing everything in her power to look after the baby and keep him safe.’

  Juliet was getting worried about – how strange. She couldn’t think of the baby’s name. It was extraordinary; how could she have forgotten? And she noticed that when she tried to remember his birth she couldn’t somehow picture it. She had given birth, hadn’t she? Well, obviously, she must have. It was all very confused in her mind. Simon. That was it, wasn’t it? Anthony had wanted him to be called Simon. Yes, of course. And now she could see the delivery room; Anthony was smiling, saying something about how excellent she was, or the baby was, or something. He’d looked so proud and pleased.

  But now she felt anxious about Simon. He’d gone so quiet, and he had a sort of floppy look which made her frightened. She hadn’t thought it would be like this; it had all sounded so easy. Where was Anthony? Why didn’t he come? She had told him where to find her, hadn’t she? She had seen him coming for her only last night, hadn’t she? Suddenly she couldn’t remember. Why did it all seem so mixed up? She felt suddenly angrier than she could ever remember feeling. Why did everyone have to make things so difficult? Michael knew she hated the dark; why was he leaving her here like this? She reached over from where she was lying next to the baby and pulled another bottle of milk from the holdall. She wasn’t sure it still smelt too good, but as she pushed the rubber teat into his mouth he sucked greedily at it, and she lay back again on the rug and closed her eyes while she kept the bottle still held in one hand.

  Anthony’s face appeared again before her, as it always did when she closed her eyes. He was smiling at her. She could see how much he loved her, just by the way he was looking down at her. ‘I love you,’ he whispered, ‘I need you, I love you, darling.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Juliet whispered back. ‘I know you do.’

  Her anger lifted and she laughed out loud, jerking her hand as she shook. Simon gave a small whimper beside her.

  Anthony frowned. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s the baby of course, darling. It’s our baby.’

  ‘What do you mean our baby?’

  ‘It’s our baby, the one we lost. It’s Simon. It’s all right now, it’s fine, I’ve got him back.’ Why was Anthony looking so angry now? Why was he making that ugly shape with his mouth and looking away from her? ‘What’s the matter, darling? What is it? Oh don’t, Anthony, I’m frightened, why are you looking like that? What’s wrong?’

  ‘You silly bitch!’ He was leaning back down towards her now, staring at her again and whispering fiercely, ‘That was Michael’s baby, that was your fucking husband’s baby, wasn’t it? We agreed about all of that, didn’t we? This isn’t mine, either, is it? IS IT?’

  Why was his face so big? It didn’t even look like Anthony any more; it looked like her mother. The head was too red, it was frightening her, she didn’t like it, she wanted Michael. No, no, not Michael, it was Anthony she wanted; she wanted Anthony back. ‘Don’t, don’t, please!’

  The face was even bigger now, a few inches from her own, the male mother spitting the words out at her. ‘You stupid little bitch, you lazy, stupid, fat little bitch.’

  ‘Who are you?’ she cried out loud. ‘Who are you? Where’s Anthony? Anthony’s coming, leave me alone, Anthony loves me, he needs me, Anthony’s coming.’

  The face leant even further down towards her, until she could smell skin.

  Juliet screamed.

  Simon turned his head and moaned.

  Anna’s room seemed smaller at night. The curtains were closed against the window and the light of the standard lamp was thrown on to the floor by a dark yellow shade that reminded Michael of his father’s study at home. He sat on the sofa with his arms resting on his knees, head bent down looking at the floor, while he talked quietly and gently to the tense and worn-looking girl in front of him. Without looking up, he was aware of her sitting anxiously forward in her chair, all her energy focused on listening, as if with enough concentration she would understand everything, and it would all fall into place. Her hands were clasped in front of her, a damp, screwed-up tissue showing in the hollow between the palms, the sleeves of the old blue chenille dressing gown she wore falling over her wrists and making her look younger and more vulnerable than ever.

  ‘And we’d tried for so long, you see, so very long. I don’t suppose I realised just how much it all affected her. I should have been more tolerant, I realise that now, but I just didn’t understand.’

  ‘I see, yes, I do see,’ Anna answered. It came out as a whispered croak; tight and rusty; seared by too much crying, and Michael gave a little instinctive clearing of his throat as though helping her to find her voice.

  ‘I can tell now that everything that happened was part of an illness, really. I should have been more sensible, I got upset, though, and I didn’t keep control of the situation as I should have. I blame myself dreadfully for what’s happened, I should have been looking after her more.’

  ‘You can’t blame yourself. You can’t afford that luxury. That’s one thing the police have helped me to understand.’ Her voice was clearer now, but still hoarse and strained. ‘If you think you feel guilty, believe me, you haven’t even started. I thought I’d go mad for the first few hours after he went. How could I have left him like that? How could I? I didn’t even want to survive. It’s only knowing how much he needs me that’s keeping me going. Of course you’re to blame, of course I am – so what? All that matters is finding him. I don’t give a shit about anything else. I won’t blame you, I won’t even fucking blame your wife, I won’t do anything, I just want to get him back and I shall never, never let him out of my sight again. Ever.’

  Michael surprised himself by feeling a jolt of shock at her language, and glanced up at her. How tough she looked, like a cornered animal protecting its young; the little girl he had seen out of the corner of his eye shown now to be an illusion. This was no child; this was no vulnerable innocent needing help and reassurance: he saw in her a primitive and basic instinct for survival that was more than adult in its intensity.

  ‘Anyway, I just wanted to apologise really,’ she said, ‘I treated you badly yesterday and I shouldn’t have.’

  ‘You don’t have to say that.’

  ‘I know. I wanted to. It was kind of you to come and see me – and brave too – and I shouldn’t have let go at you the way I did.’

  ‘Please, you mustn’t—’

  ‘No. Let me say I’m sorry. I’ve enough to worry about without upsetting you even more. I am sorry. Now, let me get you a cup of coffee or something. I haven’t got any drink I’m afraid.’

  ‘You don’t have to get me anything – I’m OK.’

  ‘Look, I’m nearly going mad here. I’m not even sure I’m real any more. For Christ’s sake let me do something normal, let me make you a coffee, for fuck’s sake. Sorry.’

  ‘Yes, thanks, yes that’s fine. Just black with one sugar.’

  Dinner with Juliet’s mother followed the same pattern every time. As Michael and Juliet changed – even though her mother had reluctantly had to abandon the formality of black tie she still expected a minimum of lounge suit and smart frock – the evening inevitably began with Juliet’s rhetorical but demanding question, ‘Why are we going?’

  This time was no different.

  ‘No, really, Michael, I mean why are we going?’ she said, as she sat at the dressing table fastening her necklace. ‘You know how I hate it, why do I let her do this to me? She could always get me to go to places she wanted, even when I was at school. When I think of all the ballets she dragged me to, just because she thought I ought to like it. Somehow it always felt like my fault that I was bored stiff. I really don’t want to go, you know. Do you think we could ring and make an excuse?’

 
; ‘Come on, darling, you know we can’t. It’ll be all right. She really does love to see you; just relax a little – she gets you so wound up. Feeling OK? You’re not sick or anything?’

  ‘No, no, I’m feeling good. It’s not that. It’s just her smug, irritating attitude – God, I don’t have to tell you, surely. You know how she gets me going. I can’t think why I always give in. I’m turning into my father, you know, that’s what’s happening. Now she hasn’t got him to drag all over the place, she’s using me instead.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, darling. She’s not nearly as bad as you paint her. I’m really quite fond of the old bat.’

  Juliet looked suddenly serious for a moment. ‘You don’t know anything. How dare you say that? You don’t know what I went through.’

  ‘Yes, I do. We’ve been over it a thousand times.’

  ‘But I tell you, you’ll never really understand. She was the one who put me in those hospitals, Michael, she—’

  ‘Yes, yes, Julie, I know. Now, don’t get in one of your states. You’re really overreacting, darling, we’re only going to dinner, for God’s sake. Just get this one done and we needn’t see her for a bit. She can’t hurt you now.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’

  Michael smiled at her. ‘Don’t be so melodramatic’ Then he took her by the shoulders and smiled again. ‘You look completely wonderful in that outfit, darling. You’re gorgeous and I love you.’

  It was true Juliet was looking particularly glowing. She had put on a straight black velvet skirt topped with a boned black silk strapless top which pushed up her neat white breasts into semicircular mounds either side of the pearls she wore, like two little moons half eclipsed by the dark curves of the material. She had twisted her hair up into a sleekly pinned coil and Michael leant over and kissed the back of her neck.

  ‘Let’s go and do battle,’ he said. ‘I wonder what scintillating guest she’s dug up for us this time. It can’t be any worse than the American stockbroker.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t stockbroking, he was something in property, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Oh yes, I think you’re right. Anyway, he holds the boredom record. She’ll never top that one.’

  ‘Don’t bet on it,’ she laughed. ‘Mummy has hidden depths of talent; reserves of energy for creating the dinner party from hell that can always top the last one. I think she keeps these people in a cupboard somewhere. I can’t believe they function anywhere outside her gatherings, they’d have been murdered years ago, surely. She keeps them filed on different shelves I expect. Dull, boring, super-boring and mind-blowing.’

  ‘Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the dining room.’

  ‘OK,’ Juliet sighed. ‘Let’s get it over with. Dear Mama – here we come.’

  Mrs Cynthia Palmer (since being widowed at the age of sixty-eight she had, correctly, insisted on reinstating her own Christian name in any correspondence) lived in a flat in a large, well-maintained service block in St John’s Wood. Michael always felt a slight sense of unreality as he walked into the marble-floored, halogen-lit hallway, to be greeted with a nod and smile, tinged with an almost imperceptible edge of superiority, from the immaculately uniformed porter. The small lift, furnished like a tiny drawing room with red embossed wallpaper and a gilt-framed picture of grazing cattle squeezed on to one wall, took them to the third floor, where Juliet’s mother waited in the narrow gap between the old-fashioned metal lift gates and her open front door. It always amused Michael and Juliet that Cynthia insisted oh coming out of her flat to welcome them effusively in this particularly awkward space, where the three of them would invariably entangle with each other and the heavy lift gates while attempting to kiss cheeks and exchange greetings before eventually moving into the marginally less cramped conditions of the flat’s own hallway.

  ‘Darling, you’re looking absolutely wonderful!’ she beamed at Juliet, who was edging her way out of the lift past her mother’s dauntingly large bosom. ‘And Michael, dear, you’re well, too, I see. I’m absolutely thrilled you’ve both made it, because there’s someone I particularly want – oh, sorry darling, mind the – oops, sorry – there’s someone I particularly – damn that’s my shawl, can you just open the gate a bit again, Michael dear? That’s it, thank you – yes, I was saying, there’s someone – oh, what lovely perfume, Juliet darling, is it a new one? Now do come in, both of you.’

  The stream of chatter didn’t slow until they had moved from the lift, through the narrow hall – negotiating their way gingerly past the wobbly marble table covered with little silver boxes and china cherubs – and into the small, warmly lit sitting room. In the visual confusion of the ornament-encrusted room it took Michael a few moments to register the small man, dressed in a dusty-looking black suit, attempting to prise himself out of a velvet-covered armchair in one corner. Michael knew that chair only too well; it had been so heavily depressed over the years by Cynthia’s not inconsiderable bottom that the springs had long since abandoned any attempt at normal suspension, and the seat now almost touched the floor, creating a deep bowl of velvet into which guests would innocently lower themselves, unaware of the feat of strength it would take for them to get out again.

  Michael moved quickly across the red Persian carpet towards the struggling figure and held out his hand: ‘Oh, please don’t bother to get up. I’m Michael, Cynthia’s son-in-law, and this is my wife Juliet.’

  This is Henry Pulford, a good friend of mine, Michael,’ added Cynthia. ‘Michael, can I get you a sherry, or will you have a gin and tonic?’

  ‘A sherry, please, Cynthia.’

  The look of relief on Mr Pulford’s face as he allowed himself to relax back into the red depths of the chair was immediate. ‘How do you do?’ he smiled at Michael, reaching forward and upwards to shake hands. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you. And you, Juliet. Your mother has been telling me all about you both.’

  Juliet, in turn, leant over and grasped the dry, cool hand and smiled back down at him. ‘Yes, I can imagine,’ she said, ‘I hope she hasn’t been boring you with our entire family history.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Mr Pulford answered. ‘In fact I think we may have quite a lot in common. Your mother tells me you have quite an interest in—’

  ‘Juliet darling, do sit down – you shouldn’t be standing so much you know. Put your feet up, darling, and I’ll get you an orange juice or something. Or would you like a glass of milk?’

  Her mother’s capacity to interrupt someone in mid-sentence without any apparent awareness of the havoc she invariably caused in the conversational process never failed to take Juliet’s breath away, although she had long ago ceased trying either to point out this fault or to persevere with the original thread of dialogue. Any attempt at ignoring the interruption would simply result in her mother repeating the offending phrase, in progressively loud tones, until she was answered. Both Juliet and Michael had come to accept that it was simpler, and ultimately less destructive to the other participants, to abandon any attempt at conversational flow, and simply negotiate the sharp turns involved with as much control of the route as possible.

  ‘I’ll have some mineral water, please, Mummy, if you’ve got some,’ answered Juliet, annoyed that her mother should assume on her behalf that she would not want to risk drinking even a small amount of alcohol, and even more annoyed that she was right.

  ‘Yes, I was saying,’ continued Mr Pulford, ‘I think we share a common int—’

  ‘Fizzy or non-fizzy?’

  ‘Fizzy, please, Mummy.’

  ‘—we’ve got quite a lot in common. I believe you are interested in minerals, Juliet, and—’

  ‘Do you want ice? I’ve got some in the tray thing, if you want some?’

  ‘Yes, OK. Thanks.’

  Michael sensed from Mr Pulford’s smooth handling of the imposed breaks in his attempt at an opening gambit that he was no stranger to Cynthia’s company, and that, far from being offended, he had already become adept at keeping his tr
ain of thought retained in a sort of temporary limbo until able to re-release it on command. As he saw Pulford opening his mouth to go for a fourth attempt, Michael found himself toying with the pleasingly suitable phrase ‘suspended sentence’, and stored it away to amuse Juliet with once they got home.

  ‘I am a geologist, or used to be. I’m semi-retired now. Your mother tells me you have quite an interest in minerals?’

  Juliet turned and sat on a small square pouffe in front of the gas log fire. ‘You really couldn’t possibly. call it an interest, I’m afraid. I think my mother’s been exaggerating a bit – Mummy, whatever did you mean about me and minerals?’ she called into the kitchen. After a brief wait, filled only with the distant sound of an ice tray being violently hit against a hard surface, she continued: ‘I suppose she’s thinking of the little plastic boxes of stones and rocks I used to keep in my room – some of them were from the Science Museum I think, when we went on a school trip. I don’t even think I could remember half the names, now.’

  ‘Well, it’s actually a fascinating subject.’

  Michael saw an evening of fossils and quartzes stretching ahead. As he rose to move to the kitchen to collect the drinks he surprised himself by realising that he was looking forward to it.

  Chapter Ten

  Anna was starting to cry. Very quietly, almost as if she were unaware of it, a small sob escaped from her throat and a tear spilled over from one of her brimming, glittering eyes and made its way down the side of her nose. She continued talking while she rubbed at it with the crumpled tissue, making an even redder patch in the blotchiness of her skin. Michael watched her as she talked on, curbing his instinctive desire to rush forward and cradle the distraught girl in his arms, knowing that he must continue to listen to every word, that only by allowing the misery and guilt to flow up like bile through her body and out of her mouth could he be of any help to her.