Dorothy refilled her daughter’s cup. ‘He’s very nice. You’ve kept him very quiet.’
‘He was my boss,’ said Prudence. ‘It was kind of awkward.’
‘Then she got his job,’ said Louise.
‘I think it’s amazing he’s even speaking to you,’ said Robert. ‘I wouldn’t.’
It would suddenly hit Stephen, the need to speak to his sons. His insides would buckle as if he had been punched in the gut. He remembered when he was a new boy at Bryanston being suddenly winded by homesickness. It was like that but worse, much worse.
He had to check that Dirk and Pieter were still speaking to him, that they were still alive. He had to hear their voices. He kept picturing the house falling down or going up in flames. Had Kaatya bolted the back door and screwed the security locks right in? What if the pilot light went out in the boiler: would she remember to push down that lever thing that stopped the whole thing blowing up when she relit it? And what about all those bloody candles she put everywhere? He pictured his sons – pale, solemn, alone in a world that throbbed with danger. He should be there protecting them. He should be keeping them safe. It was so unnatural to be wrenched away from them; it felt as if nature had been pulled inside out.
He couldn’t tell Prudence, of course. It would upset her and make her think he was unhappy. He wasn’t unhappy, he was just pining for his sons. Usually he phoned when they got home from school and Prudence was still at work. He needed to be reassured by their voices, however wary – cool, even – they had been during this past week. He needed to reassure them that he was still there, he hadn’t gone far. That he loved them. That none of this was due to them, it was between himself and their mother. Grown-ups changed; sometimes they couldn’t live together any more – all that.
He never got this far. He had tried to explain on that nightmarish evening when he’d left home, but they had refused to listen. Now, when he phoned, he just talked about safe, normal things – how was their day? How was Dirk’s project going? He felt that he was dabbing ointment, diffidently, on their flinching skin.
Kaatya, to do her justice, always put them on the phone. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, sounding somehow more foreign. He had always noticed her accent on the phone but now it seemed more pronounced, as if they were separated by national as well as emotional barriers. Then she would yell for the boys. ‘It’s your father!’ she said, as if she had found some cat sick on the carpet.
Stephen sat on the bed upstairs. He was in Prudence’s parents’ room. How large and smug the bed was! They had been married for over forty years; they had managed it.
‘Hi, Dirk, how are you? How was football yesterday? – What? Which one? Ah, Goldfinger, that’s a good one, isn’t it . . . No, you’d better get back to it – Is Pieter watching it too? . . . Ah . . . Give him my love, then – I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’
Down in the lounge Prudence said: ‘Nearly two months. It’s terrible to see that happening to a man. He’s desperate for anything, anything at all. He’ll take any sort of job. Boring, dirty, mindless.’
‘Why doesn’t he work for Grandad?’ said Imogen.
There was a silence. They stared at her.
She turned to Gordon. ‘You said you were short of people. Stephen could work for you.’
Footsteps descended the stairs. Stephen came into the room. They gazed at him.
Prudence, yawning, stood in her dressing-gown buttering slices of bread. It was seven o’clock. She laid slabs of cheese on the bread and pressed down the top slice. Stephen came into the kitchen. He was dressed in his jeans and a sweater.
‘I haven’t got up this early since rugby practice,’ he said.
She took out a Thermos. ‘Look what I’ve got. Belonged to my parents.’
‘Ah, for me tea,’ he said in a Yorkshire accent.
‘After your manly toil.’
‘Come here, woman.’ He slid his hand under her dressing-gown. ‘Feel these horny hands.’
‘They’re not horny yet.’
‘Ah, but they will be,’ he leered.
She wrapped up his sandwiches. ‘Thou’ll be late for thy bus.’
Stephen’s experience of builders was limited to those he had employed in the past. In his memory, that meant men whose unexplained absences alternated with long periods spent drinking tea and explaining the situation in Northern Ireland to his flatmates or, in the case of Kaatya, telling her about their aches and pains and sampling her homeopathic remedies. Builders hung around. That was their job. Wolf-whistling at passing girls, they waited for hours for their boss to deliver a length of coving. An hour after they arrived they knocked off for lunch, and on Friday afternoons they disappeared altogether to the pub.
In his experience it was he himself who did all the work. Clearing up the place before they arrived, rushing to the shops to buy them sugar for their tea and queuing in the bank to get them out cash so they could swindle the Inland Revenue. Their tools broke; he would spend hours searching the house for masonry drill attachments and extension leads. He would field phone calls from their girlfriends when they were up ladders and finally rick his back by trying to push-start their hopeless, untaxed vans.
How wrong he was. My God, how wrong. That first morning he was sent to a house in Kennington which was being renovated. He met Frank, a quick-tempered man with a high complexion, who soon left him alone with a young Ulsterman called Eamonn, who was built like a bull and who lifted sacks of cement with humiliating ease. Though it was bitterly cold Eamonn wore a singlet. Shiny with sweat, he heaved sacks of rubble down the stairs and loaded them onto a wheelbarrow. Outside, a plank was propped against a skip. Eamonn took this at a run, tipping the sacks in and backing off in a cloud of dust.
He treated Stephen with benign contempt, as if he were retarded. ‘Not done this before, have you?’ he said, taking the shovel from him and demonstrating how to mix sand and cement, folding them into the puddle of water like a chef folding a sauce. Stephen had never worked so hard in his life. As the hours dragged on he felt like a beast of burden. His mind, far from being freed by such toil, went leaden. All he registered were the jolting stairs as he trudged up and down, bent double. Eamonn spoke little too. He seemed incurious that this middle-aged man, so obviously unfit, should have joined him as an apprentice.
By mid-morning Stephen was exhausted. His back ached; his hands were blistered. When he straightened up, pain shot down unfamiliar muscles at the back of his calves. He sat down heavily on the stairs, wiping his nose.
Stephen took out a pack of cigarettes. ‘Fancy a gasper?’
Eamonn shook his head. ‘Know what that does to your lungs?’
Stephen put the packet back in his pocket and unstoppered his Thermos. Eamonn took out a plastic bottle.
‘What’s that?’ asked Stephen.
Eamonn showed him the label. ‘Sparkling water with a hint of mango.’
‘Goodness.’
‘Personally, I prefer the pomegranate,’ said Eamonn.
In the following silence Frank returned.
‘Gordon been in?’ he asked.
They shook their heads.
‘If he comes, tell him I’ve gone to Sutton.’
Stephen had been dreading meeting Gordon. It embarrassed him to be working for his girlfriend’s father, particularly as he was proving so incompetent. He was too inept, too unfit. He was determined to make a go of it, for Prudence’s sake as well as his own, but he wanted to avoid his boss until he had more fully mastered his craft. For this reason he was relieved that Gordon didn’t show up that Monday. Or, indeed, the next day. In fact, during that week Gordon hardly showed up at all.
It was April’s day off. Outside it was already dusk. In the fog, the street lamps glowed smudgily. Christmas lights chased themselves around the shop windows.
Gordon and April lay in each other’s arms, naked under her duvet. ‘It’s all wham-bam-look-at-me, aren’t I a stud, where’s my medal?’ April said.
‘Wou
ld I get a consolation prize?’ asked Gordon.
‘You’re lovely . . .’ She stroked him. ‘You’re kind and caring, you’re not trying to prove anything.’
‘If I did, I’d probably have another heart attack.’
She chuckled. ‘And you’re cuddly . . .’
‘And I’ve got a lovely bald patch . . .’
‘And sweet little hairs coming out of your ears.’
‘All the better to hear you with. Any more?’
‘No, I’ve finished now.’
He kissed her broad forehead. ‘You’re a miracle to me, know that? My April, my spring blossom . . . I want to take you places and teach you things, I want to take you to Paris.’
‘That’s an improvement on Neasden.’
He whistled ‘April in Paris’.
‘What’s that?’ she asked.
‘I’ll teach you . . . oh, my love, what do you see in me, apart from my sophisticated and experienced lovemaking . . .’
‘Your extensive repertoire of old songs . . .’
‘My plumbing skills?’
‘Search me.’ She took his hand and moved it down her belly. Her pubic hair was enchantingly neat, as if she kept it clipped. Wiry little whorls of hair that just covered the mound. His fingers smelled of her – a moist, musky smell that made him dizzy. Sometimes, back home, he pressed his fingertips against his nostrils, breathing her in. He inhaled her until he felt faint.
She rolled on top of him and sat up, straddling him. He touched her nipples; they were small and dark, puckered like currants. She liked manhandling him in bed, pulling him this way and that, telling him with her body what she wanted. He was unused to this – he was unused to any of this. He’d been young when he had met his wife and had had little experience of women.
She gazed down, seriously, into his face. ‘I love you because you’re a decent, kind man and you make me laugh.’ She traced his nose with her finger. ‘Because I trust you and you make me feel safe. And you stayed with me when I needed you. No bloke’s ever done that.’
‘Doesn’t sound too exciting.’
‘Oh, it’s exciting all right. Believe me.’
They got up and had a bath together. This was something else he had never done before. April was voluptuous; it was a tight fit. He slotted his legs around hers. He never ceased to marvel at the beauty of her skin, the darkness of it pressed against his pallid flesh. She soaped him tenderly. Her expression was intent – impersonal, even; it reminded him of Louise when she had been playing with her dolls.
Dizzied with love, he gazed at April. The light shone on her hair. Oiled and wiry, it was scraped off her face and tied with an elastic band threaded with plastic daisies. He had never seen it loose. Even in her most abandoned moments it stayed fixed, like sculpture. He gazed at her lips, beaded with moisture. He thought: in five minutes I’m going to have to get up and go home. He felt ill – the familiar, sour guilt, scouring out his stomach.
He climbed out of the bath. She climbed out. They rubbed each other dry.
‘What’s she like, Gordon?’
He paused. ‘All my life, she’s been a part of it. We’re friends, old friends. She’s my wife.’
‘But what’s she like? I’ve only seen her once. I want to know about her.’
Gordon went into the bedroom. ‘I don’t want to think about that.’
‘Please.’ She followed him in.
He sat down heavily on the bed. ‘It’s like I’m in this boat, and I’ve pushed off from the shore . . . And there’s this person there, waving and shouting but I can’t hear the words . . . That’s her. That’s the truth of it.’ He pulled on his socks. ‘I can’t help it, April. I’ve gone from there. I’m here with you. I felt – my life was ending. But it’s only just started.’ He stood up and pulled on his shorts. ‘All the clichés – moon in June – all the songs – they’re true, aren’t they? All those songs I’ve been whistling and I never knew why.’ He looked at her. ‘You feel that, too?’
She nodded.
It was Friday. Tesco was jammed with shoppers stocking up for Christmas. There was that seasonal panic in the air, as if nuclear war had been announced. Louise pushed a trolley so overloaded that she had to support one side with her hand. She bumped into her son, who was stocking shelves as fast as they were emptied. She liked these occasions; there was an intimacy about meeting Jamie outside the home.
He gazed at her shopping. ‘Blimey, Ma.’
‘Cranberry sauce,’ she muttered. ‘Double cream. Forgot to ask if Erin’s a vegetarian. I bet she is.’
‘Because she’s a lesbian?’
‘Ssh!’ Louise looked around. ‘She just looks like one.’
‘A lesbian?’
‘A vegetarian!’
Jamie pushed the jars of gherkins to the back of the shelf. ‘What do lesbians do?’
Louise lowered her voice. ‘I don’t know. Same as everybody else, I suppose.’
‘But isn’t there an item missing somewhere?’
‘They seem to manage. Pass me one of those, will you?’
He handed her a jar of olives. ‘Do Granny and Grandad know?’
She shook her head. ‘They’d have a fit. She’s just Maddy’s flatmate. Anyway, they won’t be here. They’re leaving tomorrow.’
‘Lucky sods.’
She trundled her trolley away down the aisle.
In the office, the lads were queuing for their wages. There was a pre-Christmas buzz in the air. Dorothy gave out the envelopes.
‘Happy Christmas, Kevin. So who’re you having it with this year?’
‘Charlene and the kids.’
‘Is it their turn?’
He nodded. ‘Twins on Boxing Day.’
Stephen stepped up, the next in the line. She gave him his envelope. ‘So how did you enjoy your first week?’ She stopped. ‘Your poor hands!’
‘They’re fine,’ said Stephen.
She took his hand and inspected it. ‘I’ve got some TCP in the house. I’ll get it for you.’
‘No, honestly –’
They looked up. Prudence had arrived. ‘I got off early,’ she said, turning to Stephen. ‘I’ll give you a lift home.’
Dorothy reached down and gave her two carrier bags. They were filled with Christmas presents for the family. ‘They’re all labelled. Thanks for taking them down.’
‘No problem,’ said Stephen.
Prudence stared at him.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘You’ve never said no problem before. Where’s Dad?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Dorothy. ‘He’s supposed to be taking the lads out for a drink.’
‘Oh well, give him my love.’ Prudence kissed her mother. ‘Have a wonderful time.’ She turned to the men. ‘Happy Christmas!’
Stephen picked up the carrier bags and they left.
In the General Stores Mrs Malcolm, an elderly widow, put a tin of cat food into her basket. The only other customer was Imogen, who was inspecting the rack of Christmas cards. They were of the spangled, coach-and-horses variety.
Outside, Louise parked her Space Cruiser. It was loaded with her carrier bags. She came into the shop and greeted her daughter. ‘Forgot the sugar lumps.’
‘For Skylark?’
She shook her head. ‘For your dad’s champagne cocktails.’ Picking up a packet, she called out to Tim, ‘So what’re you doing for Christmas?’
‘Quiet,’ said Tim. ‘Just myself and Margot. Actually it may be our last.’
‘You can’t close! I’m going to organise a campaign in the New Year. Support Our Village Shop.’
Imogen whispered, ‘Hypocrite! You did all your shopping at Tesco.’
Louise ignored her. She went up to the counter. ‘Can’t you have, well, more fresh stuff? The shop at Hadleigh has organic vegetables and home-made cakes and things.’
‘It’s a question of turnover,’ he said. ‘Last week Margot and I had to eat up all the pork pies ourselves.’
>
‘Why?’
‘They were past their sell-by date.’
Louise sighed. ‘I know the feeling.’
‘Don’t say that!’ he said abruptly.
Louise smiled at him and went to the door. ‘Want a lift home, Immy?’
Imogen shook her head. ‘I’ll walk.’
Louise left. Imogen waited until her mother had driven away. Then she selected the least embarrassing Christmas card – a robin surrounded by holly – and took it to the counter. ‘Can I borrow a pen?’
A few moments later she emerged into the dark. It was six o’clock; behind her, Tim turned the sign to SORRY, WE’RE CLOSED.
Karl’s van was still parked outside the pub. Imogen looked around. There was nobody in sight; just parked cars, already matt with dew beneath the Christmas lights.
She hurried up to his van, slotted the card beneath one of the windscreen wipers and hurried away.
Gordon parked his car in the garage. Its headlamps illuminated the stacked lumber of family life – the old dart-board, the pairs of skates. On the dashboard, the clock displayed 6.34. He switched off the headlights and sat there.
After a while he got out of the car. He let himself into the house. The lounge was in darkness.
Dorothy had found out. She had left him. She had left no note, nothing; he would never see her again. He felt such airy gratefulness that he suddenly loved her again.
He sat down in the gloom, took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. Upstairs, he heard her moving about. He inhaled deeply.
‘Gordon, is that you?’
He stubbed out his cigarette and climbed to his feet. He went upstairs.
‘Gordon? Come in here!’
He opened the bedroom door. The room blazed with light. Dorothy had been packing; her suitcase lay on the bed. She stood in the middle of the room. She wore a flowery dress, big red roses. It was too short for her.
‘Do you like it? I got it at Fowler’s.’ She pirouetted around. ‘You don’t think it’s too young for me, do you?’ She grabbed a piece of cloth and held it against herself. ‘Look at this! It’s a sort of sarong thing. The girl said everybody’s wearing them now.’ She wrapped it around her waist. ‘When you come from the beach you just do this . . . what do you think?’ She turned around. ‘Does my bottom look too big?’
Close Relations Page 17