by Ray Connolly
‘Can I come in?’
A slight furrow between her eyes. ‘Well, yes. If you really want to.’
‘Please.’
‘Come on. It’s right at the top. You’ll get me a bad name calling at this hour.’ She led the way up the dim stairs, pressing the light button in again as she went. The whole place smelt of damp. Up to the second floor. And pressing another light button inwards. ‘You have to hurry up the stairs to make sure that you don’t get caught between landings when the button pops out and the lights go off. You could break your neck on these stairs.’ Third floor, and still climbing, but now up towards the attics, up a tight, narrow little staircase. ‘You should have phoned.’
‘I did, but nobody answered.’
‘No? The phone’s on the ground floor, and I don’t usually hear it. Probably there’s nobody in down there. Here we are. Come in.’ She held open the door, and stood aside. It was a small, cramped attic room with a sloping roof that came well down to just about four feet from the floor by the window, leaving just enough space in the rest of it to fit in a small bed, a dressing table with mirror, a chair, a gas fire and a gas ring. Across one end of the room, a bar supported by a couple of wooden shafts served as a wardrobe for all of her clothes. A small washbasin took care of the other corner. I sat down on the edge of the bed, and looked around. On the mantelpiece the framed picture of me that Clare had had in Kensington stared down. Clare looked uneasy. ‘Would you like some coffee?’
‘Please.’
‘There’s only one mug. So I won’t have any. I did buy two but I dropped one, and there never seemed to be any point in buying another.’ She sounded nervous. ‘It’s not much, the room, I mean, but it suits me. It’s very cheap.’ Gabbling on. Making excuses.
‘It reminds me of when I was your age. I always used to live in rooms just like this. But I never got round to organising them this well. Mine were always like terrible slums. But they were home.’
‘Yes. It’s home. In a way.’
‘What’s the matter, Clare? You’re so edgy tonight.’
‘Am I? I expect it’s because I’ve been here too long by myself. You’re the first person who’s ever been here.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, I suppose I felt a bit ashamed of it. I mean, it’s not much, is it? And when I left Tibby’s I just wanted to be by myself to think for a while. I didn’t know I was pregnant then, but I needed my own little place where I could sit and work things out. And it became a sort of thing with me. Not having anyone here. Not seeing anyone, actually, if you must know. Just bumping into the other people in the house occasionally on the stairs, or outside the bathroom.’
‘What about that coffee?’
‘Oh yes. Sorry.’ Filling a saucepan with water at the sink, putting it on the gas ring and taking a light from the fire with a taper, while I noticed for the first time that the sheets of the bed had been pulled back. She must have been going to sleep. ‘I’ve got a record player. Would you like something on? The records are over there, under the books.’
I went across the room to a wooden shelf and began going through the albums. ‘I see you bought yourself some Joni Mitchell.’
‘Mmmm.’
Carelessly my eyes began scanning the row of paperbacks, suddenly stopping: The New Childbirth. Then another: 101 Facts An Expectant Mother Should Know. And more: Booh of Baby Care.
‘Why’ve you come, Benedict?’ I went back to the bed, while she sat in the armchair.
‘Well, I almost forgot what day it was. And I was reading tonight’s paper when I noticed the date. So I brought you this…’ Feeling in my pocket for the packet, wrapped all casual in its posh paper. Passing it across to her. ‘Happy birthday.’
Clare biting her lip, and opening the packet. A cameo brooch, with a lady on it who looks like Queen Victoria.
‘Thank you. It’s lovely. I didn’t think you knew when my birthday was.’
‘You told me once. I bought this brooch for you a long time ago in Bond Street. And then something happened. And I never felt like giving it to you until tonight. I hope you like it.’ I was squirming with embarrassment. ‘But even if you don’t I suppose it’ll be too late to exchange it now.’
‘I got a couple of cards. From my parents. But they looked so lonely by themselves that I took them down this afternoon. I suppose nobody knew where to send them to. It’s a lovely brooch.’
And then she went quiet, blinking back her tears until later, I imagine, when she could enjoy the pleasure of crying to herself.
‘Clare, those books over there. Those baby books. Does that mean you’ve decided …’
‘I decided the day I knew I was pregnant. I never was going to have an abortion. I never even seriously considered it. You were the one who brought it up. Not me. I haven’t got any religious hang-ups about it, but I know I don’t want an abortion.’
‘You should have told me. On Saturday. I asked you what you were going to do. And you said you didn’t know.’
‘I still don’t know. I don’t know how I’m going to manage, or where I’ll have the baby. Or what I’ll do for a living. I said not to worry. You should have known. I thought you understood on Sunday. The abortion thing was only in your imagination. You and your baby seals. For twenty-nine, you’re a funny man sometimes.’
Chapter Nineteen
She was waiting for me by the boathouse. Sitting on a bench, with her old duffle coat pulled round her. And we hugged each other, and then I went and paid for a rowing boat and the man took us down the little jetty, and held our little craft still while we both stepped into it.. And then with a push we drifted away from the city, and awkwardly I pulled on the oars, splashing her with my clumsiness on this Friday morning. And then gradually I turned us around, pulling hard on one oar and resting the other, and slowly and unevenly we made our way along the lake, watching the young girls riding their horses along the far bank, cantering through the trees, being chased by dogs. And Clare sat and faced me, with the sun on her face so that her eyes had to squint to see properly. Once she tried dabbling her hands in the water, but she quickly changed her mind when she realised how cold it was. After a time my arms ached, so when we were far enough from the land I rested them, and allowed the boat to drift in the warm spring breeze. It was just as though we were a million miles away from London. It was so peaceful. After a while I asked her what she was going to do now, and she said that she’d probably go home. Back to Guildford, and hope that her father would understand. If she could get him to notice. And then I said there was another way. And told her that her room in my house was still empty, if she wanted to come back. She didn’t speak. But shook her head very slowly. And then I said how it seemed a shame to have such a big house and only me living in it. And really it was a family house, and that all I needed was a ready-made family and I’d be happy: I was old-fashioned like that. I could see her smiling at me through her tears. So I said how we could turn the box-room into a nursery, and I’d get the damp in the basement fixed, and our baby could have his own playroom. And she just looked at me, as we drifted down and all along the Serpentine, just the one boat on this empty lake. And then I said how every baby needed a father as well as a mother. And wouldn’t she just give it a try. Please. And she leaned forward and took hold of my hand. And then I rowed right on down the lake, and the sun got warmer. And together we watched the children sailing their little boats at the water’s edge. And she said, yes. She’d like very much to give it a try.
TO PLUM
This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP
Copyright © Ray Connolly, 1973
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ISBN: 9781448205998
eISBN: 9781448205684
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