She opened the dining-room door a crack, paused a moment, just outside. Charles was sitting at the table with his head in his hands, surrounded by empty walnut shells. She felt a stab of pity. The last few days had pounced on his neat and tidy life and torn it into shreds, presenting him, in turn, with a pseudo-pregnant wife, a drunken hostess, an illegitimate, non-existent baby, and a runaway teenager shorn of all her hair. His skin looked taut and greyish. Even his breath smelt slightly sour and tainted, unthinkable for Charles, who was always tingling-fresh with mint and vigour.
‘Try not to worry, darling.’ She took his hands, still felt stunned herself, as if she had been flung into a pestle and mortar and pounded into crumbs. But there were things to be done – Charles to be appeased, Magda’s future to be safeguarded.
Charles had already snapped up straight again. ‘I’m not worrying,’ he said, picking up his glass. The frown cut so deep between his eyes, it looked as if it had been gouged out with a chisel.
‘Look, Charles, I admit Viv’s a bit outspoken, but she’s right, you know. We shouldn’t really have agreed that Magda could leave – not before we’d phoned her mother. I mean, perhaps she doesn’t want the child. Isn’t that why she came to us, in the first place? That, and her education?’
‘It was an experiment, Frances, and frankly, it hasn’t worked. Anyway, if she’s run away from school and is refusing to go back, she’s hardly going to achieve much in the way of education.’
‘Yes, but how do we know that Piroska’s got room enough, or money enough? I mean, Viv just said that …’
‘Could we kindly leave Viv out of this? She’s hardly in a position to know the facts. I’ve never kept Piroska short of anything. She’s written to me, on and off, and, as far as I can see, everything’s perfectly all right. You and Viv are simply over-reacting. Anyway, of course I plan to phone. It’s top of my morning list. I’ll go over the whole thing with Piroska in detail – schools, housing, money, job opportunities …’
‘Why don’t you ring her now, darling? I mean, if there is some problem, we don’t want Magda lying there all night, planning a trip she might not even …’
‘I’ve told you, Frances, I’ll do it tomorrow. It’s too late now, in any case. Hungary’s an hour or two ahead of us, and they’ll all have gone to bed. Which – quite frankly – is where I’d like to be myself.’
The skin beneath his eyes looked almost bruised. He had gashed himself shaving and a cruel red line cut into the pallor of his cheek. He was like some wounded bird, but a proud, dangerous species, which refused to let anyone approach it, or show it tenderness. She longed for some warmth between them, so that they could turn towards each other and shut out all the pain. Not sex, not even caresses, just a quiet, united front against the world. But Charles was already on his way towards the door, his back a cold grey gravestone.
‘You go on up, then,’ she murmured, ‘and I’ll clear the supper dishes.’ Best to give in to him, leave him on his own. He’d be more amenable after a decent night’s rest. They could phone Piroska, first thing in the morning. Maybe she’d even speak to her herself. Her husband’s mistress no longer seemed so vile. Ned had somehow bridged the gulf between them.
Yet, all that Ned had taught her seemed to fade and shrivel when faced with Charles’ frown. Even now, with pain in every part of her, she was still scouring out saucepans and sweeping up nutshells when she should have been asleep upstairs. Why couldn’t she leave the bloody dishes? The kitchen was like a museum, as it was. Where were her new resolves, her determination to live more casually, to let both Ned and Magda creep inside the palisade, which she and Charles had built fifty foot high around them? She replaced the silver fruit knives in their rosewood box, rubbed at a scratch on the table, trickled disinfectant in the wastebin. Were habits stuck with you for ever, imprinted like genetic instructions on DNA? Or was it just something about this house? It was Charles’ house, so perhaps it was a tyrant, like its owner. The only time she’d escaped from it, she’d managed to cock a snook at dust and dishes. But, back in its dark, forbidding clutches, duty nagged and flogged.
Forty minutes later, she crept into the bedroom. Charles was already asleep – or pretending to be. He feigned sleep as she feigned climaxes. She undressed as quietly as she could, had already had her bath. Only Neds and Frannys went to bed unwashed. There was hardly room for her in her single bed, which was crowded with a raucous mob of gate-crashers, all quarrelling among themselves and confusing her with contradictory advice.
‘Be a tramp, be a gypsy!’ grinned Ned, biting into a giant-sized Mars bar. ‘Pawn the sodding fruit knives and buy a horse-drawn caravan.’
‘Back with Charles?’ mocked Franny. ‘Cramped by his Ten Commandments, crushed by his Tablets of Stone? What happened to that Brighton sybarite, that Barefoot Contessa?’
‘Love me,’ Magda pleaded. ‘Hug me, hold me. Let me know you want me.’
‘I don’t bloody want you,’ snarled Miklos, in his brutal pidgin English. ‘It’s your ma I fancy, and there’s not room for the two of us.’
‘Selfish, sterile, sour-grapes intellectualizer!’ Viv accused, popping another orphan under the blankets.
Frances struggled up. The voices slunk into the shadows, and were coffined in silence; silence so thick, she could feel it smothering her like a duvet, pressing down on her eyes, her mouth, her life. Even the bedroom furniture seemed to be holding its breath in an accusing, tight-lipped circle all around her, the whole house screwed up to breaking-point.
Could Charles be there, beside her, still breathing, still alive? She reached out her hand and touched the rough beard of the blanket, the curve of an elbow underneath.
‘Charles?’
No answer. Only another swirl and shiver of silence. She couldn’t wake him; it was sacrilege. With Ned, you could jump on his tummy in the middle of the night, or make him three A.M. milkshakes and share a coloured straw. Not any longer. That Ned was dead and buried, like her baby. There was only gelded Ned and supine Charles.
She was free, now. No baby to bind her, no life-plans to blinker her, not even any Ned to confuse her with his teasing. But was that really freedom, or just sterility and loss? Anyway, how could she be free, with Magda’s future undecided, with that morning phone call hanging over her, still threatening and uncertain? One wrong word from Piroska, and the longed-for trip to Budapest might shatter and collapse. Freedom and duty were fighting a duel inside her head.
She pressed her hands against it, trying to banish both conflicting voices. Would people ever understand how one hopeless, hapless, almost grown-up schoolgirl could tear your mind apart like that, make such a difference to a home, a life? She could hardly explain it to herself. Except that with Magda in the house she felt flattened, threatened, trodden underfoot; crushed like a flower in a flower-press, all the sap and colour which Ned had allowed to blossom in her stamped out and dried up. But wasn’t that Charles’ doing? Didn’t he, even more than Magda, have the power to trap her between the pages of a heavy, musty tome, and leave her gasping for light and air?
But Charles was impossible to fight. She couldn’t turf him out, or send him packing to his mother. It was his house, his flower-press, and all those weighty tomes which bludgeoned her bore his name, his crest, his imprint. All she could do was try to work towards a truce with him, and to remove the biggest obstacles between them. Magda, herself, was one of those big obstacles, a danger to their truce. The kid couldn’t help it, but there was something about her which would always lead to uproar and upheaval. Even now, she was causing rifts again, alienating Viv, splitting apart their precarious post-Oppenheimer peace.
Christ! How confused it all was. She threw back the blankets and swung her feet out of bed. The darkness was diluting a little, now that her eyes had grown more used to it. She could make out the hump of Charles’ shoulder, the lowering bulk of the wardrobe, the pale gleam of the charts, beside her on the bedside table. She was still thinking in terms of charts.
It was hard to break the habit of all those dots and dates and graphs. Tomorrow would be Day Four, almost time to start her last course of Clomid. Except she’d be chucking it down the lavatory, instead.
She groped in the shadows for the bottle, tipped one tiny smooth white tablet into her hand. White for innocence and safety, purity, fidelity. White for blank pages and clean sheets. White for breast-milk, baby-gowns, delivery rooms. Was she really sure she didn’t want a baby? There was still time, still hope. She’d been so wrong about herself for fifteen years, perhaps she was wrong again, and the last few days had been merely shock and self-deception.
She flung the tablet on the floor. She couldn’t endure her frenzied, circling thoughts, her endless speculation. She poured out the rest of the tablets, let them fall between her fingers. Only cold, unfeeling things were as white and pure as that – ice and alabaster, marble lilies on a grave, Charles’ principles …
She lurched to her feet, swept the charts off the beside table, heard them sigh and rustle to the floor. Her body felt as if someone had wound it tighter, tighter, like a fire-hose on a reel. ‘Let Magda go,’ she prayed, the entire fire brigade clanking through her head, in the startled blaring silence.
She fell back into bed, turned over, away from charts and Clomid towards the second bed, and the dark shape called her husband. The long-case clock was booming through the hall, echoed by fourteen faint and muffled chimes. One A. M. All the clocks were back again, on duty, carving night and day into manageable pieces, reminding her that Time ruled in the universe, and Charles in Richmond Green. How could she have even thought to silence them? More foolish than Canute! If she chose to live in the bank-vault of her husband’s bounty, then she must accept his rule, his clocks.
Half a lifetime later, fifteen throats struck two. Sleep was an impostor, like herself. She crept out to the bathroom, and sat on the cold white shoulder of the bath, peering at the moon. Was it Hungary’s moon, as well? Was Piroska staring at it, even now, through the grandma’s greasy curtains, weeping for a lost daughter, or praying to some moon-goddess that she would never be sent back?
Frances drifted to the window. Thin steel knives of moonlight cut across the floor-tiles, flickered on her feet. She realized, suddenly, and almost with astonishment, that there was no decision to be made. All her tossing, frantic agonizing had been completely purposeless. It was Piroska herself who must and would decide. If mother opened heart and home to daughter, then she, too, would be freed. But, if Piroska hesitated, if there were the slightest frown or obstacle in Budapest, then Magda must stay with them in Richmond Green. However much she longed for the child’s departure, that was her basic duty, and she would follow it. No more reason to lie awake. It was simple now – Piroska held the final card. Softly, she closed the bathroom door, and climbed back into bed. The sheets stretched clammy arms around her neck.
‘Let her be happy,’ she whispered, to the darkness.
Charles flung out a hand and snorted in his sleep.
Chapter Twenty Two
When she woke, the silence was still there, but pale now, like sour milk. She looked across at Charles. The blurred black shape he had been all night had changed into cold white sheets, sheets turned neatly back, pillows smooth and plumped.
She dragged herself out of bed and leaned over the banisters. ‘Charles?’ she called.
Why hadn’t he woken her, to cook his eggs and bacon, before his early meeting in the City? She’d laid the table late last night, left the grapefruit ready in the fridge. She trailed downstairs, pulling on her housecoat. Her head was clearer now, her period pain reduced to a nagging ache. The kitchen was unscathed. Charles hadn’t even made a cup of tea. She wondered, suddenly, if he’d bothered to eat or drink at all while she’d been at Ned’s. It was almost beneath his dignity to boil a kettle, or poach an egg.
The kettle sat beside the telephone. In the interests of efficiency, Charles had fitted phone extensions in almost every room. The kitchen one was red, as a slight concession to frivolity. She picked up the receiver. Charles should be beside her now, making that vital phone call to Piroska – red-hot Piroska, who would pale to white and innocent, if only she would have her daughter back. Frances dialled the first digit of Charles’ private office number, then banged the receiver down again. She’d ring from the study, where the phone was grey and businesslike. There was nothing frivolous about this call.
The ringing tone sounded querulous, impatient.
‘Charles?’
‘Mr Parry Jones is in a meeting.’ The voice was pedigree barbed wire. ‘Who’s speaking, please? Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs Parry Jones, I didn’t recognize you.’ Barbed wire with icing sugar sprinkled on the top. ‘I’ll see if he can speak to you. Though it is a little tricky, I’m afraid. They’re right in the middle of a breakfast session.’
‘Tell him it’s urgent, please.’
‘Yes? Well? What is it?’ Charles was on the line now – grudging and abrupt.
‘Charles, what happened? Why didn’t you wake me? I’ve only just got up. I couldn’t understand it when I went downstairs and …’
‘For God’s sake, Frances, what do you want? My secretary told me it was urgent.’
‘Well, it is urgent, Charles. We’ve got to ring Piroska. I must know what’s happening, before Magda gets up. I’ll phone her myself, if necessary. I’d rather do that, than have to let Magda down this evening, when she’s …’
‘I’ve already phoned.’
‘Already? But when, Charles? It’s only half-past eight.’
‘So? I thought it would be safer from the office. No chance of Magda overhearing then, just in case there was a hitch.’
‘And was there?’ The study held its breath, the blotter sprouting doodlebugs beneath her trembling pen.
‘No. Everything’s fine.’
‘You mean Piroska’s glad about it? She wants Magda back?’
‘Yes. Delighted.’
‘Are you sure, Charles?’
‘What d’ you mean, am I sure? I’ve just spoken to her haven’t I?’
‘I’m sorry, it’s just that you sound a bit – well – flat. Did you check on all the problems? I mean, are you certain they’ve got room for her?’
‘Well, they are a little cramped, but they’ll manage.’ She could hear him tapping a pen against a desk and an electric typewriter stuttering in the background. ‘There’s an attic they can use, apparently.’
‘An attic! We can’t send Magda to an attic. She’s not a suitcase, or a piece of lumber.’
‘Don’t be absurd!’ The pen tapped faster. ‘Magda won’t be sleeping there. It simply means they’ve got a bit more room, if they find they need to expand. Anyway, sooner or later, they’ll have the whole flat to themselves, which is quite a stroke of luck. Flats are scarce in Budapest. A lot of the bigger ones are still held by the State. Now, look here, Frances, you’ve dragged me out of a very important meeting …’
‘Wait, darling, wait! This is urgent, too. I’m still a bit worried about all the formalities. You know, visas and permits – all that sort of thing. I mean, it’s a Communist country, isn’t it? They might not let Magda in, unless she …’
‘No problem. My secretary’s looking into it right now. It’s much easier apparently than it was ten years ago. It should only take a matter of days to get her in. They can complete the formalities once she’s over there.’
‘Days, Charles? But surely you don’t want …?’
‘I’m sorry, Frances, but I simply can’t talk any longer. They’re holding up the meeting for me, as it is. I’ve got two bank managers in there, and the President of American Continental.’
‘Please, Charles. Just one more minute. I must get things clear, before I see Magda. Look, what about Miklos? Is he still there?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Not sure! But couldn’t you have …?’
His ‘goodbye’ was like a steel bolt rammed home in her face. She sat at the desk, staring at the me
ssy blotter. Well, she’d got what she wanted, hadn’t she? Magda off her hands, room in the flat (just about), a delighted mother, even a secretary’s capable help with the visa. So why did she feel so joyless?
It was probably just Charles’ irritation rubbing off on her. He always sounded strained at work, hated interruptions. When he got home that evening, he’d fill in all the details. The main thing was that Piroska wanted Magda. She was free!
She plodded up the stairs to change her Tampax. It still seemed strange to have a period, when she’d planned on no more tampons for at least nine months. She stared at the fierce, dark blood trickling into the lavatory bowl. Why were physical things so messy and barbaric? Babies themselves were squalid, primitive – as she had been at Ned’s, and at the party …
No, she mustn’t think of that. If only she could stick a tampon in her brain, to plug it up, stop it analyzing. Better to keep busy. She marched back to the kitchen. The kettle had boiled and turned itself off. Even kettles were well-trained in the Parry Jones household. She’d take Magda tea in bed – not just tea, a full-scale breakfast. She wanted, suddenly, to spoil the kid, shower her with treats and affection, now that she was leaving. The trouble was, Magda didn’t eat breakfast, just grabbed a piece of toast, or stuffed a bar of chocolate in her pocket. She didn’t like bacon, she wouldn’t touch eggs. She was always finicky and critical at meals. All she ever wanted was trans-Atlantic junk-food – hamburgers and ice cream, pecan pie and Pepsi. You couldn’t serve up triple-scoop Banana Boat for breakfast.
Perhaps she’d make real French brioches, or a plaited loaf with poppy seeds on top. But yeast needed time to rise, and it would be lunchtime before she got it in the oven. She thumbed through her cookery books. What did you give a runaway for breakfast, a refugee, a hostage?
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