She glanced at the bed. Bill was breathing heavily and deeply in his sleep. She bent down to kiss him and saw the tiny freckles on his nose.
She had supper still to make, and a pair of slippers that had to be dried out by morning.
PART FIVE - Five’s a Christening
28
At the weekend Megan, Larry and Bill had been invited to Zelda’s baby’s christening.
Zelda invited Lisa, too, but Lisa didn’t, she said, much care for churches, so she sent champagne instead.
The guests went into the cool, dark church out of the bright sunlight, bedecked in florals, like small shrubberies.
As Megan looked around she saw Zelda near the font, staring into it distractedly, her baby draped carefully over her shoulder.
As Megan went over, Zelda clutched her arm. ‘What sort of water are they going to use?’ she hissed into Megan’s ear.
‘Holy water’s the general idea.’
Zelda looked troubled. ‘I should have bought Evian, the vicar could have blessed it in the bottles and poured it straight in.’ She looked at the baby. ‘Because Taylor’s never had nasty hard water on her head, have you, little thing?’ The baby ignored her and looked into the distance, her fat cheeks resting on Zelda’s cream dress.
‘Cream, for the sick to blend in?’ Megan asked, stroking the baby’s hand.
‘Posset.’
‘Pardon me. See you later.’ She and Larry and Bill sat near the back. Bill looked through the hymn book, a nice fat red book which banged satisfyingly when shut.
‘Sh, Bill.’
Bill put the book down and unhooked the kneeler from the back of the chair in front. He sat on it, stood on it and then unhooked another to make a tower.
The church was filling up. Taylor, from her mother’s arms, let off a wail which echoed briefly in the vaulted ceiling.
‘She sounds like her mother, doesn’t she?’ Larry said.
Bill liked the acoustic effect, and tried coughing loudly.
Megan nudged him, the procession of clergy entered and they stood in a congregational Mexican wave.
‘Come here, Bill,’ Megan said, ‘you’ll be able to see better if you stand on this seat.’
The organ music began for the first hymn, encompassing them with its volume.
‘Where’s the baby?’ he asked.
‘There, in the front. The lady with the dark hair is holding her.’
‘What’s the baby’s name?’
‘Taylor. Look, this is the song we’re going to sing. Do you want to hold the book?’
But something else had caught Bill’s eye. He caught hold of Megan’s hair and leaned forward, almost toppling off the seat.
‘Look, Mummy, it’s Zoofie!’
‘Sh, it’s not Zoofie. Come on, sing. You like singing.’
‘It is Zoofie!’
Megan leaned over to look along Bill’s line of sight.
In almost a mirror image, Ruth was holding Cyrill on a chair, sharing a hymn book. The little girl was swaying erratically to the music and Ruth glanced back at the people behind in an appeasing, half-embarrassed way.
Megan felt shocked. So that’s who Ruth had left them for!
Zelda, her so-called friend, had stolen Ruth!
She took Bill’s hand and freed her hair from it.
‘She’s got someone else to look after, now,’ Bill said loudly, his eyes wide. ‘She’s got some other kid.’
And not a mention of it, Megan thought. She looked at the family group rather resentfully. That could have been her and Larry, with another baby and Ruth to look after things.
The service distracted her from her thoughts, but it didn’t distract Bill, who was craning his neck to see what was happening in the front. ‘Can I talk to her?’
When they came to the back of the church, to the font, Ruth passed, looking bored, but saw Bill and smiled quickly. Her glance flickered towards Megan. Another shy smile, slightly apologetic, aiming for defiant. Megan smiled stiffly back.
By the flickering candlelight as they swore to forsake evil, Bill suddenly pulled his hand free of hers and ran to Ruth, his feet echoing on the flagstone floor. Ruth, holding Cyrill’s hand, looked nonplussed as Bill lifted his arms to her, to be picked up.
She let Cyrill’s hand go and crouched to hug him, love temporarily overcoming embarrassment. As she straightened, Bill sat down on her feet, making sure she didn’t get away as Taylor was baptised.
*
Back outside in the sun, Megan glared at Zelda. ‘You stole Ruth,’ she said. ‘Thanks a bunch.’
Zelda was brazen. ‘I didn’t steal her, I headhunted her. And you said she always complained because you bought the wrong food.’
Megan was still indignant. ‘She said she was leaving because I ate mouse droppings.’
‘There you are, then.’
The baby began to cry and Zelda looked around for Ruth, who was sitting on the springy grass outside the church, picking daisies.
Ruth took the baby and fussed her and she quietened quickly.
Zelda put her head close to Megan’s, confidingly. ‘You were right,’ she said, ‘she’s great with children but bloody awful to live with. Had to buy her a new polyester-filled duvet. She said she couldn’t sleep under the goose-down for imagining the agonies of all those dead fowl on her.’
‘And is Cyrill saying “Moommy”?’
‘It comes out now and again. Gerry thinks we could consider speech lessons when she’s older.’
Megan laughed in spite of herself.
‘I miss being in work,’ Zelda said, ‘but I can’t bear the thought of leaving the baby. Don’t tell Nigel I said that. How’s Lisa getting on? Come back to the house, we can talk there. Ruth, we’re going.’
Ruth gave her a belligerent look and dropped the daisy chain into Cyrill’s hands. Megan felt a pang. It was strange to think you could miss someone’s grumpiness.
‘Come on, Bill,’ Megan said, but Bill kept hold of Zoofie’s hand.
‘Look, Megan, don’t see it as losing a nanny,’ Zelda said, stroking the baby’s pink forehead, ‘see it as a way of keeping her in the family.’
Megan smiled ruefully. ‘Thanks, Zelda,’ she said.
29
Ever wanted to back out of something?
The aromatherapy class was about to begin and they were there in their loose clothes, Larry, not in shorts, but in jeans and a polo shirt, covered up for safety.
Larry was participating in equality at its finest and discovering that, speaking for himself, it wasn’t equality that he wanted but the upper hand. He blamed it on his upbringing, better than being the key words that little boys were taught.
Jean, Emma, Janet and Becky were standing together. Helen, as usual, was hanging back. And Larry was trying his best to be cool.
‘I’m Pat,’ the masseuse said.
Pat! He waited for the laughter, but there was none.
They gathered around a collapsible massage bed with a hole in the top of it, and a pale blue blanket draped over the lower end. The blanket was darker in the centre than at the edges. It looked as if it needed washing.
The women were uncomfortable with each other in their skirts, edgy in their new personas.
‘Who gets to sit on that?’ Jean asked, to laughter.
‘You’re not getting me on it,’ Emma said, with trepidation. ‘It looks like a pasting table.’
It did, in fact, look to be a fragile thing. Larry put his weight on his other leg and watched the woman who’d come with the bed, a small, thin-lipped woman who was slipping into a white coat, with the attitude that the sooner this was over, the better. ‘Who is going to go first?’ she asked. No volunteers.
Jean gave Larry a sideways look. ‘Larry,’ she suggested, nudging Janet. ‘We’ve all wanted to get Larry on a bed, haven’t we?’ This was followed by raucous laughter that went on longer than it should have done.
Larry could feel his face tighten. Larry, my man, this is male h
eaven, a voice — his voice — reminded him. He was unconvinced.
‘Go on, Larry, get them off.’
He turned to look at Helen for support. She was watching him with a distant look on her face and a slight smile and he couldn’t tell whose side she was on.
‘Take your shoes and socks off, then roll your jeans up and lie on your back,’ Pat said.
‘Woman on top, Larry. Just what you’re used to.’
His face felt like a mask from the effort of not responding. He climbed onto the bed and listened to himself not say a word. This was equality, all right, sexual harassment at its best. He stared at the ceiling and thought of England. Thought of walking out.
‘I’m here to show you the basic movements in massage. Sorry about the blanket, I do my regulars at night and their body hairs get stuck in the weave and don’t wash out. Anyway, for an ordinary massage I use sweet almond oil which is easily absorbed by the skin. Warm it in your hands, first…’
Larry, lying on some other man’s body hairs, could hear the sound of skin on skin. And suddenly the warm hands slid along his left foot, cupping it, sliding up as far as his ankle. And without wanting to, he grinned. It felt good, someone taking charge of his foot for him, yes, his own foot, one of those things that he stuffed into shoes and normally took no notice of. Sliding her hands, she began to straighten his toes, one by one, and he stifled a groan.
There was a murmur. ‘Larry’s enjoying it.’
‘Wait until she gets a bit higher.’
Brought back to the unfortunate present, Larry turned his head. Helen was still standing apart in an isolation of her own making and she didn’t meet his eyes.
He returned his gaze to the ceiling.
Pat was talking through the massage, rubbing along his tendons, kneading the balls of his feet, pressing around his ankle, explaining things that he wasn’t listening to, talking about reflexology. The centre of Larry’s being was now in his foot.
Presently, as Larry was wondering how long he could keep awake through these soporific ministrations, she clasped his foot tightly in both hands. ‘You’re done. Socks off, girls,’ she said, ‘and get into pairs. Take a mat each to rest on. Who’s going to partner Larry?’
There were no volunteers. No one, for all the talk, seemed particularly keen for the honour.
Larry felt like the last one to be picked for a team.
The women were busy getting their mats and Helen stepped forward and looked down at him, shrugging ruefully. ‘You seem to be stuck with me.’ She took a hairband out of her pocket and pulled the impossibly blonde hair away from her face. For a moment he looked closely at her; the easy gesture reminded him of Megan.
She took one of the small sweet-almond-oil bottles, poured some in one hand and replaced the cap with the other. A careful gesture, he thought. He watched her smooth it in her palms and make to take his right foot.
She had the coldest hands he’d ever felt, and he flinched and pulled his foot back.
‘Always warm the oil in your hands first,’ Pat said.
He could hear Emma begin to laugh, and Pat’s response was immediate. ‘If it tickles, do it harder, with firmer strokes. There. There. To the ankle. Take your time, make it relaxing.’
‘Warmer now?’ Helen asked.
He nodded.
‘What? Am I doing something wrong?’
‘No,’ said Larry, ‘not at all. It’s wonderful.’ In the small room all that could be heard was the whispering of skin being stroked.
‘Apology accepted.’
Then, to his disappointment, Pat called, ‘All change!’
Larry got off the bed and minutes later found himself smoothing his hands on Helen’s tanned and unshaven ankles. The hair on them was dark, like her eyelashes. Funny, he thought, how she’d looked like Megan for a moment. He felt as if he’d thought it before. A softer Megan, compliant.
He massaged the soles of her feet, pressing, kneading, pulling her toes, his hands slithering with the oil. She began to laugh and he stopped and looked at her. She had a lovely, thrilling laugh. He realised that despite her perpetual smile, he’d never heard it before.
‘Oy, you two,’ Emma called, ‘less of that.’
Helen stopped as quickly as she’d begun.
Larry was sorry. He wanted to make her laugh again. ‘You should laugh more,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘It suits you.’
‘I don’t deserve to laugh,’ she said.
Larry looked at her, her foot still cradled in his hand. He knew she believed it.
*
That night, Megan came in, late again.
Business was booming. The database was expanding, thanks to Lisa, but it meant more candidates to talk to, more clients to meet. She was more tired than she’d ever been in her life.
Larry, the ideal husband, was waiting for her with a glass of wine in his hand and she smiled gratefully and slightly guiltily, having had one with Lisa on the way home. She took the glass from him and had a sip before she kissed him so that he wouldn’t smell it on her breath. Just a drink with the lads after work, Larry, she thought. If she had to be a She-Man, then she’d better do it properly.
Larry led her by the hand into the sitting room, aglow with mellow light, and she sat down and thought, any minute now he will bring me my slippers and the evening paper.
‘How’s work?’
‘Don’t want to even think about it,’ she said. ‘Just before I left I got bawled out on the phone by someone who said headhunters were the leeches of the industry. I think he must have been approached before and turned down. For every person who’s happy to talk, there’s another who gets all precious.’ She took another sip of wine. ‘What did you do? Playgroup?’
‘I’ve started a massage course,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a taster if you like.’
Megan looked at her wine and swirled it thoughtfully around the glass. You work late a few nights and your husband spins off in a totally new direction. Her heart was not rejoicing in the way Larry seemed to be expecting it to. ‘A massage course? What about Bill?’
‘It’s at the playgroup,’ Larry said. ‘One of the mothers looks after the children while we do it.’
‘The itsy-bitsy mothers,’ Megan said, and she didn’t fancy the idea at all, not one bit. Because if she was working her guts out, she didn’t see why Larry should be having fun, especially not that kind. ‘I thought the whole idea of not getting another nanny was because you wanted to be with Bill and now you’re leaving him with some — mother — in a playgroup.’
‘It’s a one-hour session,’ Larry said, ‘and there are five of them over a five-week period. What difference is that going to make? If you’re that worried about Bill you can try coming home earlier.’
She stared at him, and began to laugh incredulously. ‘Larry the nurturer speaks! Who are you, the Penelope Leach of househusbands? If I didn’t work so damned hard, you wouldn’t have the luxury of sitting back on your heels and waiting for jobs to come to you, you’d have to go out and find them like everybody else.’
‘You’re jealous.’ Larry looked sick-makingly smug.
‘WHAT?’
‘But there’s no need to be. There are no itsy-bitsy mothers there at all. The playgroup leader is a grandmother and the others are —’ Lost for words, he waved his hands dismissively.
She looked at him with contempt. ‘And that’s supposed to make me feel better, is it?’ she asked. ‘I preferred Larry the nurturer to Larry the I’ll-only-rate-them-if-they’re-pretty.’
‘I can’t win, can I?’
Megan finished off the wine. ‘No. Not tonight you can’t,’ she said. ‘I’m tired. I’m going up to see Bill.’ She saw an anxious expression cross his face and she frowned. ‘I won’t wake him.’
She put the glass down.
Upstairs, Bill was still sleeping. The glow of the night light gave her a deep shadow to accompany her to his bed.
What a day, she thought, looking at him. The ph
ones had rung continually, and she’d missed Zelda desperately. A couple of researchers had come in to help and got high on the excitement. There was so much noise it had sounded like a non-stop party. Come to think of it, it was a good job Zelda wasn’t there. She was a stickler for quietness, confidentiality, control.
The sleeping Bill made her long for sleep herself.
Where did he go to when he was asleep? What did he dream? She wanted to hold him.
Larry hadn’t been far off when he’d said she was jealous. Maybe not of the itsy-bitsy mothers, but she was jealous nevertheless.
She was jealous of him.
30
It was only the rain that made the prospect of playgroup seem attractive, Larry thought as he listened to it beating on the window, the noise drowned occasionally by the sound of tyres swishing past. Bill wailed again as his Brio track failed to join up.
‘You have to make sure it makes a circle,’ Larry said with a sigh. ‘Why didn’t you leave it as it was?’
Bill didn’t look at him, but carried on with his attempt to force the track to join up.
‘You’re going to break it,’ Larry said impatiently, and wondered why he was trying to find an excuse to go there. Of course, there was no reason why he shouldn’t. He and Bill couldn’t be expected to get on all the time, any more than anyone else. Even children could have their off days.
He went to the speckled window again and watched the raindrops distort the view of the bright green grass outside. He thought of all the lonely mothers out there. There must be plenty of lonely fathers around, too, he thought, remembering the man at the zoo wearing the blue denim shirt on a boiling hot day, the sweat seeping through between his shoulderblades. ‘Got custody?’ Said more as a statement, not a question. He thought of all the fathers looking after their children and feeling second best when the child cries for its mother — knowing they were second best, or in his case, third best behind the nanny.
Behind him, Bill was saying, ‘Ts, ts, ts,’and pushing the Brio steam engine slowly along the track. He had given up trying to make it join and had put a buffer at the end instead. Larry hunkered down beside him, going for jovial. ‘Great track, son.’
Striking a Balance Page 17