by Tracy Ryan
Pen smiled to herself – ‘had her’ – how grotesque. But there was no sexual allusion. The girl was an innocent. No need to worry there – the conversation would soon be forgotten. Kathleen had been in and out of the library now and then, but academics were always dropping by, for obvious reasons, and nobody at work really connected the two of them.
Yet at the end of the day Kathleen was there at the glass door again. Pen stepped out of the library’s air-conditioning into the lingering evening heat, and it was like a gateway to another world. Kathleen was tired but luminous, her hair slightly mussed, her blouse and skirt creased, as if she had rushed straight over from her office.
‘I’m sorry to jump on you like that,’ she said, striding alongside Pen to the car park. ‘I didn’t mean to give you a fright. Only I couldn’t wait. Have you thought about it? The trip? We’ll have to start organising. Have you got a good winter coat? I don’t mean like the ones people wear here – I mean a really solid one. Maybe we can go shopping. Please say you’ll come.’
Pen couldn’t get a word in. At the door of the Volvo she said, not knowing how else to break away, ‘Okay. I’ll come. I’d love to come.’
‘Fantastic.’ Kathleen hugged her, oblivious to passers-by, and Pen tried not to squirm.
‘But please, hold off paying till I’ve checked my passport and stuff. It might not be up-to-date.’
She had to temporise, after all. If she broke with Kathleen now, she’d still have to work her month’s notice and it would be awkward. Better to wait till that month was over, and make it a clean break.
There was nothing to pin her down, no trail of crumbs or pebbles in this would-be tale. She had been careful about that all along. She must stay careful.
At dinner that night, Derrick was solemn. He’d been solemn a while now, since Cliff’s death, in fact. He toyed with the Waldorf salad she’d brought home and barely touched his chickpea patties.
‘That inquest business,’ he said. ‘It looks likely. Takes months, apparently. By which time I guess most people will have forgotten things.’
Pen put her fork down and reached over to touch the back of his hand. He was so fragile, she could see that, from the ginger tendrils at his temples – overdue for a trim, not bothering – to his soft underlip.
‘Forgotten what things?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. Whatever there is to tell. Doesn’t the mere fact of an inquest mean they are looking for someone to blame?’
Pen resumed eating, doggedly. ‘You’re not to blame.’
‘Not directly.’ He considered a few moments. ‘It was Pollard, wasn’t it, who upset Cliff a lot of the time?’
‘Yes. But not only Pollard.’
‘Who else? You know they’re going to ask me these things. Not the inquest – but the head, who will have to attend, I imagine. He said today he wants to talk it through, to get the full picture.’
‘I don’t know much else.’
‘He didn’t bring up – you know, interference of any kind?’
Pen screwed up her face in distaste. ‘There isn’t a problem of that sort at school, is there? I never heard talk of it.’
Derrick shrugged. ‘I’m just trying to understand.’
‘Maybe it was the whole culture of the place,’ Pen said. ‘Don’t forget he had problems at home, too. But phys. ed. was his bugbear. And the science teacher, the woman who made them do dissections. Are you going to mention this stuff?’
‘Would you?’
‘Do you mean Would I, hypothetically, or Would I, please? You want me to speak to the head?’
Derrick appeared dissatisfied. ‘I don’t know. It’s kind of dropping my colleagues in it for very vague accusations. Aren’t we all guilty of neglect, if someone – does what Cliff did?’
‘He said Pollard was a sadist.’
‘Yes, but people use that word quite freely these days, like ‘Nazi’ or whatever, appalling as that is. It’s not very specific.’
Pen sighed. ‘I think maybe you just need to mention stuff in very general terms, when you talk to the principal,’ she said. ‘Because Cliff’s not here anymore to explain what he meant. That way you are telling the truth but not overdoing it. It’s tricky.’
‘And yet you guessed it was him,’ Derrick said. ‘The day it happened. You must have known he was in a pretty bad way. He didn’t – mention me at all?’
Strange that Derrick should ask her that again.
She shook her head. ‘I suspect it was more to do with type,’ she said. ‘Something I could just read in him, something familiar.’
Derrick looked away. You have consumed me and spat out the wretched pieces – can’t you feel how wretched I am? What he’d written to Kathleen. Kathleen of all people! Pen remembered that wretchedness in him when they’d first met, his delicacy of soul – Cliff had reminded her of that in Derrick.
‘Anyway, there’s something else I want to talk to you about.’
There was never going to be a perfect moment. And none better than countering all this death talk with baby news.
Nights, now, he slept with his arms wrapped right around her, as if afraid to let go of her – their child – for one moment. Tentative, too, about making love, perhaps fearful of doing damage, though they both knew that was unlikely.
They’d made an appointment with an obstetrician, and Pen had quietly given her notice at work.
To Maureen she told the truth – the relative truth – and asked her not to repeat it. Maureen was solid that way.
‘I lost a baby before,’ Pen said. ‘I’d rather keep it to myself until I know all’s well. That’s the other reason I want to take it easy now, you see.’
It would do as an explanation for leaving work so early in the pregnancy, these days when everyone expected you to be superwoman right up till the last month or so – taking it easy because of a previous miscarriage. Only Maureen would know, but she could fend off the curiosity of others. Pen’s belly wouldn’t show for a few months yet, and by then – before then – she could have dealt with Kathleen.
But each time she went to Kathleen’s house, she felt herself sinking in deeper. A couple of times she pleaded off – too tired, not feeling well – yet she had to keep up the appearance of normalcy, or Kathleen would figure out something had changed. So Pen drove around in the evening to watch a movie with her as usual, or brought takeaway for them to share. It was always at Kathleen’s place, the excuse being that hers was still not finished, and too far away.
‘It’s not that far,’ Kathleen said. ‘I don’t care about the building stuff. I’d just like to feel a part of things. However bad your house looks, you don’t have to hide it from me!’
‘I’m not.’ They were on the sofa, eating Hokkien noodles from tall shiny boxes, about to watch Alain Delon in an early French version of Highsmith’s Ripley. Plein soleil, it was called: right out in the sun, in full sunlight, the sort that would burn you or give you heatstroke.
‘Like Meursault,’ Kathleen pointed out, ‘when he commits murder. Maybe it’s an allusion to that. He doesn’t know why he does it, he thinks maybe it was the sun …’
‘I know the book,’ Pen said, rather sharply. They’d studied it at school, even in English.
Kathleen looked at her, surprised. ‘I wasn’t meaning to be patronising. I was just musing aloud.’
Pen said nothing, merely pushed the remote control. Something in her was brewing, the urge to start an argument, to have done with it all. She must keep control of herself.
The DVD whirred into action: trendy sixties credits and design. Ripley and Dickie – here he was called Philippe! – at an outdoor café.
Something was wrong, but it took a moment for them to realise.
‘Oh no, it’s in English,’ Kathleen groaned. The mouths were moving out of sync with the words. ‘I can’t bear dubbed movies.’
‘Me neither,’ Pen said, and pressed stop. ‘No point.’
They looked at each other. ‘Well, t
hat puts paid to that.’
‘We could watch something else,’ Pen said.
Kathleen shrugged. ‘Or we could snuggle up and just enjoy each other. It feels like ages, Pen.’ She ran her hand up the inside of Pen’s leg, just so far that it made Pen tremble.
‘Can’t you stay the night?’
Pen shook her head.
‘But you can stay a while. At least as long as the film would have taken.’
She meant to say no, to think up some excuse, but the fine grain of Kathleen’s palm and fingertips on her thigh was mesmerising. It was like giving in to gravity. The fighting urge she’d felt before melted into another shape, a compulsion to push, to tear, to devour the other person until you were replete. The heat of her a blaze that must be obeyed. People said desire was irrational, yet it was so blatantly logical – this, then this, then this – so logical it was impossible to counter. As easy as falling …
Afterwards, they fell asleep, and it was near midnight before Pen could extricate herself.
Derrick would be out of his mind.
Pen smiled to herself at the expression, patting her cheeks, trying to sober up. Like the Emily Dickinson poem: ‘Inebriate of air am I / And debauchee of dew.’ She’d had nothing to drink, but you didn’t need drink to be intoxicated.
‘You’re not really going,’ Kathleen murmured. ‘Stay in bed, Pen. It’s getting ridiculous.’
Pen looked at her watch. ‘The witching hour,’ she thought. So late that it would be near impossible to explain anyway.
She said, ‘I just have to use the bathroom.’
The bathroom was not far from Kathleen’s room; Pen ran a tap to help cover the sound of her phone.
‘I was feeling unwell after the evening shift,’ she told Derrick, ‘so I’m at Maureen’s. She said she can put me up. I’m going to wait till morning – don’t want to risk the drive.’
He offered to come and get her, but she said, ‘Darling, it’s so late, it’s not worth it. Yes, I’m sorry, I should have rung earlier. I know. I know. No, really. I love you too.’
She was whispering.
When she crept back to the bedroom, Kathleen said, ‘Who were you talking to? Or was I dreaming?’
Pen laughed. ‘Must have been. Unless I was talking to myself. Which is quite possible, you know.’
She slid back under the covers, nestled against Kathleen’s smooth shoulders, and slept again instantly.
13
‘Can I come round this evening?’ Pen spoke softly.
Kathleen was silent a moment on the other end of the line. Then she said, ‘Yes, do. I’ve got some marking, but that doesn’t matter. If you don’t mind. I’d rather see you than not.’
It was like sleepwalking. Each time she’d been with Kathleen lately, Pen had told herself, ‘I won’t do this anymore. I won’t do it this time.’
Then she would see the fine white bloom at the side of a silken cheek, or the slight pulse visible above the collarbone, and she knew the logic would have her again.
It was as if, because she knew it was coming to an end – had to come to an end – her hunger for Kathleen had grown enormous. Not only could she not say no, she was even seeking her out.
This was diametrically opposed to her actual intention, which was to break things off. As soon as work was finished, as soon as the last goodbyes on her last day there, she meant to cut the tie. Without a trace.
Derrick was wry and rueful, the nights she was home.
‘I thought pregnant women were supposed to be … you know.’
‘What?’ Pen was munching on halva, avoiding a sink full of dinner dishes. She didn’t care if people said cravings were mythical. For once she was listening to her body. And as Derrick pointed out, halva was made of sesame, and sesame was full of calcium. Never mind the sugar overload … You could justify anything if you looked at it from certain angles.
‘Well, you know. Raving with lust for their husbands and all that.’
He was trying to soften it by making a joke, the way he said it. But she could hear the hurt behind the hyperbole.
‘Oh well,’ she said, trying to match his affected lightness. ‘You’ll soon have me all to yourself again.’
It was frighteningly true. Soon there would be nothing to fill her days except the waiting, and getting the house ready. They’d put in a concertina room divider, like the ones used between classrooms. They needed the extra bedroom back again.
The room where Pen had found the letter.
‘All to myself!’ Derrick laughed. ‘I think not. I think I’ll be the one sleeping in the spare room. You’ll have your hands full with a third party, don’t forget.’
A third party. Redolent with irony. Pen thought yet again of Diana: There were three of us in this marriage, so it was a bit crowded. Why did this always come back to her? Acid wit designed to win public sympathy – a skilled speechwriter, no doubt. The other woman present from the very beginning. You had to fight her with whatever came to hand. Nobody else would do it for you.
Pen had no public to bear witness, no ally to vindicate her cause. She would have to look out for herself, just as she always had. Take your own part against the world, Leon had said.
But which was her own part? When she thought of giving up Kathleen, her body ached. Kathleen was her own private victory, her stash, her hoard, her trophy. No longer Derrick’s other woman, but her own.
For the first time, Pen felt panicked.
‘Maybe we should think about moving,’ she said to Derrick. ‘Rather than all this work. It might be simpler. And a fresh start.’
Derrick contemplated it. ‘That’s probably just as much work. Even if we really wanted to leave here. You’ve never wanted to leave here, Pen.’
‘It’s just an idea.’
‘Okay, but think about it. We’d still have to get the house ready to sell – nobody’s going to look at a place halfway renovated. And then there’s the whole process of finding another one – subject to sale, all that stuff. We’ve not even been following the market. It takes ages. No, I think now is not the time.’
Pen fretted at her fingers, the cuticles, the knuckles. Derrick tutted. He was always policing her little habits. And she his. The way he rubbed at his beard, or scratched his scalp in his sleep. Only years together could create such patterns, a kind of interlock.
If she’d lived with Kathleen, she would have known all her habits too. But she could not live with Kathleen. Not now. And probably never. She must face facts, with a child on the way.
‘Could we go away somewhere, then?’ she said. ‘I don’t want Mum breathing down my neck once the baby’s born.’
That much was true.
Derrick laughed mildly. ‘Don’t worry, darling. I’ll protect you. You know what: it’s just the changes in your body making you jittery.’
He put his arms around her and placed his rough cheek beside hers.
‘And I thought they called them happy hormones … Why don’t you come to bed now and I’ll cheer you up.’
‘The dishes,’ Pen protested. The greasy load of them still in the sink, a kind of resistance to the real.
‘Leave ’em. I’ll do them in the morning.’ Derrick often said that, but then he usually forgot.
Pen stood up shakily and allowed herself to be led.
In her last week at the library, Pen took the precaution of changing her mobile phone number, and clearing out all the little details you might usually leave lying behind you.
She did not tell Kathleen she was leaving her job. Instead, she made a time to meet for coffee.
‘I don’t have to see her,’ Pen said to herself, pulse racing, as she waited in the café. ‘I could just disappear, tell her nothing.’
But she’d decided against that for at least two reasons.
One: if she disappeared, Kathleen would look for her. Complete silence would beg inevitable questions, even pursuit. Doubtlessly pushing her library colleagues for information, trying to find out wh
atever she could, and understandably so. Better to make things clear.
Two: she cared for Kathleen. She owed her at least the honesty of a decisive split, if not the whole story. The whole story was not an option.
There was a sweet excruciation in the process of breaking something that felt so whole. Pen knew it at once as Kathleen stepped into the café, her eyes seeking Pen with their same ordinary trust.
Pen could have slapped her then, as if to say, This is what you get for such an open face. This is what you get for love. She tuned out the silky black shirt, the Indian cotton skirt that lifted slightly with a breeze through the door. It wouldn’t do to linger about this.
Instead she nodded and stayed seated. In command. She’d chosen a spot on the terrace, empty of other customers.
Kathleen scanned the bare table-top. ‘What can I get you?’
Pen reached into her pocket for a fiver. ‘Just a decaf.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Kathleen pushed back the money and whipped out her purse. ‘You can pay next time. And since when did you go decaf?’
Pen shrugged. She watched Kathleen stroll up to the counter; watched too her deftness in balancing the tray all the way back. So far, so good. Pen breathed deep. If she could manage not to touch or be touched, she could do it.
‘We really need to talk.’
Kathleen straightened her cup. ‘That sounds ominous.’
Pen bit her lower lip. Steady.
‘Is it about Paris? It’s past crunch time, you know. The ticket will be astronomical. If there’s even a seat left. Are you getting cold feet?’
‘Cold feet, maybe, though I wouldn’t have put it that way. But it’s not the trip, Kathleen.’
Kathleen was silent and regarded her with a flatness Pen had not expected, as if stiffening some inner part of her. Then she said, ‘Go on.’
As if she knew. As if she was primed for moments like this, whether from instinct or from past experience. As if she could not be derailed, ever, by any surprise. Perhaps that was what it meant to be older.
‘I …’ What a silly word. ‘I want to stop … I don’t want us to go on seeing each other anymore.’