The Girl Who Came to Stay

by Ray Connolly

  I learned about loneliness when I was very young. And most of all when grandma died, leaving me at sixteen to organise the funeral, which was small and sad. And to inherit her home, which I sold, and forgot about, while the capital gained interest at a merry rate, locked away in a building society, and which was eventually to serve as the deposit on this house, this home for the family I think I want. And then at 18 alone in London for the first time, trying to jump the gap from small town to big city, and thinking always about Cathy at home. And eating so often in that little café at Belsize Park. Beans on toast. And hiding behind the evening paper. At least I can eat better now. And I know well the ropes. And so I resigned myself to another weekend. By myself.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I was by the cornflakes counter in the supermarket when suddenly, with a tap on my shoulder, she was there—Tibby— that cheeky, pretty face, hair a bit straggled and nose quite pink from the cold. February had turned very cold, and lumps of frozen slush piled against the edges of the pavements made walking treacherous. Laughing with what looked like delight at meeting me, she immediately grabbed hold of my arm.

  ‘Benedict. I’d given you up for dead.’

  ‘No. I’d just given up.’

  ‘Having to shop for yourself, then, are you? Mortified, I fiddled with my half-filled supermarket wire basket.

  ‘Mrs Pollock’s got flu. I mean she’s the woman who comes in and looks after the house and does all this sort of thing as a rule, so I thought I’d better buy a few things for myself. Can’t find anything, though. It’s really terrible. Like a bloody maze.’

  ‘Come on, I’ll show you. What else d’you want?’

  And quickly she took over my errand and led me from counter to counter around the shop, picking up her own things at the same time.

  Outside the wind cut through us and our paper bags like a sword. A bitter Tuesday night, and, still embarrassed, we stood sheltering in the doorway.

  ‘How’ve you been, Tibby?’

  ‘Oh, great. Except that I’m out of work again and getting a bit hard up. I’ll have to get something soon, but there’s nothing I fancy. What about you?’

  ‘Oh. Well … I’m working very hard. On all kinds of things.’

  ‘I’ve read some of your pieces. You seem to be doing more these days.’

  ‘Maybe a bit more.’

  Both shy now. Neither of us daring to mention Clare. Yet I must find out about her. And really I don’t want to say goodbye to Tibby just yet. Is she waiting for an invitation home? Or just tolerating me? Feeling sorry for me?

  ‘Look, it’s freezing standing here. Do you want to come back for a coffee or a drink or something? I mean if you’re not dashing off anywhere … but it’s such a cold night.’

  ‘Oh yes. Thank you.’ And Tibby, slipping her arm between mine. Eager and happy as ever. Five minutes to home. Stepping carefully across the glazed pavements of Kensington, and gingerly up the steps outside my house. Into the warmth.

  ‘I’ll just take my things down to the kitchen. Be right with you.’

  ‘I’ll come and help.’

  Tibby following close behind. Shedding her coat in the hall. Sweater pulled hard down beneath her belt and into her jeans.

  ‘Would you like a drink? Or some coffee? Or if you’re hungry, you could have something to eat.’

  ‘Do you want me to cook for you?’ The words came like an echo, causing me to pause. ‘I mean if you aren’t going out this evening.’ Tibby was floundering to find her bearings again.

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well there’s not much to cook, really. We could have egg and chips. That’s my favourite.’

  ‘Okay. D’you want it now? Or shall we have a drink … not that I’m hinting. But all that cold outside makes me think I could do with a drop of something to warm me up.’

  ‘Oh yes. Come on.’

  Upstairs we went and poured two glasses of brandy.

  ‘Purely medicinal purposes, you understand,’ said Tibby, letting it slither down her throat. ‘How’ve you been, then? It’s ages since I saw you.’

  ‘Yes, well, you know why … I’m okay. Same as ever.’ I was trying to be jaunty, but without too much success.

  ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Well, you know, I … I mean it was all a bit traumatic at the time, but we, well, Fve learned to live with it… you know what I mean. It isn’t the first time a couple broke up.’

  Still I can’t ask about Clare, though I want to so much. Some more brandy. Smooth as mercury. Tibby leaning back on the settee, her fringe almost down to her eyes these days, long thin legs splayed open across the room towards me. She should have been a model. But then she probably has been.

  ‘Why don’t you ask me about Clare, Benedict? You want to know, don’t you?’

  I’ve waited too long. Now she’s got me.

  ‘Yes, yes. I … I thought I’d wait for you to volunteer the information … I mean, to tell me. I didn’t know that you’d want to … well, how is she?’

  ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why didn’t you ever telephone her after she left? I’m sure she was dying to come back. Didn’t you want her? Oh, I know you did.’

  ‘It was her decision. What could I do?’

  ‘You could have fought for her. Shown her that you weren’t prepared to just let her wander off and leave you.’

  How little Tibby must have understood of our relationship. How could she have been so blind to the deception that our affair had been to both of us? An outsider should have known immediately. Especially her, privy to Clare’s little womanly world.

  ‘It’s not the middle ages, you know. We’re not feudal. She wanted to go, and that was that. I couldn’t go after her on my white charger and drag her back by her hair. Even though I might have wanted to. She promised to come and see me to talk, and I waited. But she never came. Some of her things are still here. I want her back. You know that, but I want her to want to come back.’

  ‘Poor Benedict.’

  ‘You don’t have to feel sorry for me, for Christ’s sake. I’m okay. Anyway, you didn’t tell me about Clare.’

  ‘Well, I mean, she’s fine as far as I know. After she left here she came to live with me for about a week and just sort of mooched about, and then she came in one day and said she’d found a bedsitter in Ladbroke Grove. And that was that. We both decided we’d had enough of working for your friend Paul, and we didn’t go back after New Year. I telephoned for both of us, and he went mad down the phone. Have you seen him recently? He really hates us now.’

  ‘No. I haven’t been out much. And he hasn’t called. So where’s Clare now?’

  ‘I suppose she must be in her bedsitter in Ladbroke Grove. She gave me a number to call if anything came for her. Nothing did. I’ve seen her about four or five times, that’s all. So far as I can make out she seems to be living a nice spinsterish existence in her little room. She says it smells of wet dandruff whatever that may mean, but she’s never asked me round. So I don’t know what it’s like. I met her for lunch last week, and she said that she was going to have to look for a job soon, too, as she was getting through all her piggy-bank money and didn’t like asking her father for any more.’

  ‘But …is she all right?’

  ‘Well, I think so. I could never tell what she was thinking ever. She was always a bit reserved, you know what I mean, and now she’s more reserved than ever. You know, she always puts up a front when you ask about things she doesn’t want to talk about.’

  ‘Did you go to Rose’s party, Tibby?’ The words squeezed themselves involuntarily from my throat, and instantly I knew I didn’t want to know anything about it.

  ‘Yes. And that’s all I’m going to say about it. I left before Clare did. And I never asked her anything. She would have told me if she’d wanted me to know anything. You know what she’s like.’

  ‘Better than most, I think.’

 
; ‘Do you want her number?’

  ‘No. There’s no point. She’ll call me if she wants me.’

  ‘Do you want her?’

  ‘I want my egg and chips. Come on.’ And I laughed in a curious sensation of catharsis. Warmed by the brandy and Tibby I felt somehow relieved. ‘What goes best with egg and chips—red or white? I think white. We’ll have a bottle of Liebfraumilch. All right?’

  Tibby at the cooker. Two eggs and chips, please. Leaning her long, thin body across the frying pan. Cracking the eggs and letting them slip gently down into the cup. Bacon too? No thank you. Nice to be a bit merry and have a pretty girl to look after me again. This is what I’ve been missing.

  ‘Cheers.’ I raised my glass.

  ‘To platonic friendships,’ said Tibby, joining me.

  ‘I didn’t think you knew the meaning of the word, Tibby.’

  ‘Cheek.’

  And so we drank our wine, and looked at each other, and smiled. And later on when we’d finished the bottle and had another brandy, Tibby decided that she wanted to dance, and put on some slow blues record, and pulling me up she put her arms around me, and arched her back in a concave curve that somehow fitted perfectly neatly into the contours of my thighs and body, and together we performed a silent ritual of growing excitement, though neither of us said anything. And before long we were down on the floor, necking, and pushing so close together. And I considered to myself how Tibby worked with an enthusiasm I’d not met in a long time: curling her hands up inside my shirt, tickling my tummy just below my belt, nibbling my ears, and always keeping her loins pushed close into mine, her thin thighs pressing sharply against me, purposefully and carefully increasing the excitement. And then, pushing me over so that I lay facing the ceiling, she leant across me allowing her fingers to wander over my body, exploring it all, coaxingly and carefully. While I watched her. And saw her sit up, and with a professional’s self-confidence, pull off her sweater, undo her belt and wriggle out of her jeans. And then Tibby, such long limbs exaggerated by the light of the fire, pretty Tibby, with the face and figure of a model, leaned across me again, pushing her slight small breasts into my face kissing me open-mouthed and sliding her fingers back down under my belt and between my legs.

  ‘Come on, Benedict. You’re getting left behind.’

  And I thought about Jack Roper and all the blokes in the office who would be depending upon me, had they known; and I thought about Mary Jane Tinhorn, and her abused little porridge of a body; and I thought about Clare. And holding Tibby very close to me I stroked her kindly, and kissed her. And said, ‘No.’ And for a long minute there was a stunned and embarrassed silence, while we both thought of what to say, and while I continued to hold Tibby, kissing her occasionally. And then she began giggling, which was a relief. And we both laughed for a very long time.

  ‘Nobody ever said that to me before. Honestly. You really are the limit. You’re so lovely.’ And not a bit offended she snuggled closer to me, and kissed me on the cheek, lying there in just her pants while, still embarrassed, I tried to explain.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t fancy you, Tibby. But somehow … well, it’s something to do with Clare that I can’t quite work out in my head.’

  ‘You don’t have to explain. I know. I think she’s so lucky, though she never seems to realise it. You know, I always fancied you. From the moment we met in that restaurant, when Paul was taking me around as his front. But from the way you looked at Clare I always knew that I’d never have a chance. Thought I’d got you tonight, though. You fooled me there. Leading me on like that. Letting me get myself all excited.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that. I … I didn’t quite know what I wanted.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have to apologise. I should have known,’ and she began pulling on her clothes again just as quickly as she’d pulled them off. ‘I suppose I should feel mortally humiliated. But I don’t. In a way I’m rather glad. Now we can be friends. Proper friends. And nothing can embarrass either of us. Nothing could be more embarrassing than that,’ she said and rejoined me on the rug.

  So we lay there for a while and talked. And we talked quite a lot about Clare, and of how much I wanted her back, no matter what had happened. And I told her about the nights of lying awake, and the absurdity of my telephone-answering-machine. And the days of silence. And it was warm and comfortable there, pushing my nose into the ribbed pattern of her soft sweatered bosom. And much later she said she had to go, and I said come again soon. She said Yes, although I didn’t think she would.

  And she didn’t.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Clare came back at the end of March. She’d telephoned earlier and I was waiting for her by the window. Somehow I wasn’t surprised. And oddly I felt perfectly calm inside. No butterflies or clammy palms. No moments of terror. Since seeing Tibby, now nearly a month earlier, I’d settled down again into a quiet, though not miserable, bachelor existence. Slowly I’d begun to pick up certain selected threads of my life again, and though I had stayed away from girls it was not through any grand design of celibacy, but more through lack of inclination. A couple of times I’d been down to see Timothy and the expectant Caroligne, and once I’d kept my promise and taken Little Suzy Wong out to the zoo and on to see The Sound of Music; but mainly I’d got on with my work, going fairly regularly to the office, and even turning up at the occasional cocktail party. Once I’d met Paul in Kensington Church Street and we’d chatted about nothing for a few minutes, but it was clear from his eagerness to be off that he was no longer interested in retaining me in his circle of intimates, which suited me fine. Another time I’d bumped into Stella Levigne in the foyer of the Dorchester, being dragged along by a couple of enormous, slavering Doberman Pinchers.

  ‘Hello. Is Benedict Kelly off to do another of his clever little interviews? What a fascinating life he must have!’ Bantering mockery as the hounds strained at their leashes.

  ‘Ah. Stella. Yes, I am. But no it’s not fascinating. It’s usually very boring. I like your new hair. Or is it a wig?’ Her once fair hair, highlighted with streaks of gold, was now black, highlighted with streaks of white.

  ‘It’s not a wig.’

  ‘No. I don’t really suppose it looks too much like one. Anyway, what are you doing here?’

  ‘I just came to see a friend who’s in from America for a couple of days.’

  ‘Probably the same person I’m on my way to interview.’

  ‘Quite possibly. I must dash. How’s Clare?’

  ‘She’s great.’

  ‘Give her my love. Bye, Benedict.’ And the beasts dragged her off towards the revolving doors, where for a moment a very nasty accident looked likely as both dogs tried to get through the swirling doors at once, leaving Stella in danger of losing an arm or a leg in the rush.

  I’d lied about Clare without a moment’s hesitation. If Stella didn’t know we weren’t together I wasn’t going to be the one to tell her. It didn’t matter, anyway. She wouldn’t really be interested one way or the other. And there was poor Clare, her devoted disciple through all the misery of Christmas. And I’d smiled to myself, and gone off to do my interview, mentally drawing a neat line through the name of Stella Levigne in my address book.

  It was late on Saturday afternoon when Clare phoned. I’d been watching television, waiting for the football results, and resented this ringing intrusion into my day, a sunny spring day, that was spraying my home in light, and making the dismal winter seem so far away.

  ‘Benedict, it’s Clare.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Er … well, I’m fine.’

  ‘Can I come and talk to you? Please.’

  ‘Yes. You know that. Any time.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘I’ll be waiting.’

  ‘I won’t be long. Five minutes.’

  And we’d rung off. Quietly I waited for the First Division classified results to come up. And then slipping upstairs to the bathroom, I che
cked my looks, patting my hair to one side, and then guiltily added a smack of aftershave to my cheeks. It was quicker than washing.

  Outside, shoppers’ cars were parked all along the pavement right up from the High Street, and little troupes of girls and young men, clutching their little black plastic boutique bags, trudged past and up the hill, their day’s spending done, their sacrifice to the deity of bas couture made for another week. And then there was Clare crossing over from behind a row of cars on the other side of the road. Catching sight of me at the window, pretending she hadn’t noticed, and then smiling when she saw my expression.

  I opened the door just as she reached the top step. That’s a new mac she has, but otherwise not a hair different.

  ‘Hello.’ So grave. Frightened? Of me?

  ‘Liverpool lost. You’ve come on a bad day.’ Silly how I’m immediately flippant and inconsequential.

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry about that. But they’re very high in the League, aren’t they? I look every Sunday to see where they are.’

  Sitting down together on the settee, washed in the spring sunlight filtering through the acacias and the cherry tree at the back. Clare commenting on the daffodils in the garden. It’s nicest in May when the bluebells are out, and when the cherry tree flowers, I say. Such silly small talk after so long.

  ‘I read all your articles…’

  Clare, love, you should know better than that. You must know I don’t give a sod. You can’t have forgotten.

  ‘That’s nice. Tibby told me that you needed a job.’

  ‘Oh, yes, that was a few weeks ago. I don’t think I’ll bother now. I might go home.’

  ‘How’s your father?’

  ‘He’s fine. I’ve been home quite a lot since I saw you last. He still ignores me when I’m there, though.’ A short cynical laugh. ‘Benedict … I’m pregnant.’

  Through eyes half-buttoned I watched my mother pedalling smoothly down the sandy cart track towards the farm. The afternoon sun was shining into my face, and I was having to take particular care. This morning I wouldn’t have given much for my chances of going blackberrying when she’d stayed in bed, saying that she had a bad throat. But she’d made the effort and got up around lunchtime to make me lunch. She still didn’t look well, but she was, she insisted, feeling better now, and we’d better go today or else we’d miss them all. On the ride out she was very quiet, hardly speaking, and all I could hear was the clink of empty jam jars in the basket on her handlebars. If she felt better tonight she was going to make me some blackberry tart. On the far side of the farm the brambles thickened by the side of the track and we both got off our bikes and peered into the leaves. This was a good place, I was sure, I said, there were lots here, and my mother got the jam jars out of her basket and sat down on the grass verge. You pick them, Benedict. I’ll just have a rest for a while. And there she’d stayed while I leaned and bent among the thicket, leaving the green and red ones, and dropping the big black and purple ones into my mouth and jar alternately. There were lots of them, and I collected happily away, now and then catching my brown windjammer on a thorn and balancing precariously over the bushes as I released myself. For a while my mum came to help, but then she went and sat down again, with her head in her hands. Watching me occasionally through parted fingers.