The Grass Memorial

by Sarah Harrison

  ‘Ageing, you?’ Jamie gave her a cod-flirtatious look. ‘Mind if I reload?’

  While he was gone she sipped her wine. It was lovely to see him but the curry no longer seemed such a good idea. She pushed the greasy chunks of samosa around her plate, her stomach rebelling. When he returned, his plate piled with pilau rice and sauces red, brown and green, she decided to pre-empt further comment.

  ‘I’m sorry, you’re going to have to put up with me watching you eat. I’m just not hungry.’

  ‘It’s a free country.’ He speared a samosa. ‘I’ll have it. So why are you depressed?’

  ‘I’m not, really.’

  ‘You said you needed cheering up.’

  ‘Sunday blues.’

  He made circular movements in the air with his fork while he finished a mouthful. ‘How’s the love life?’

  She laughed, remembering that she used to ask him that. ‘Quiet.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. Or have I got the wrong end of the stick – is quiet good?’

  Suddenly, she wanted to unburden herself to Jamie. Unlike others in whom she might have confided – her mother, George, even Derek – she knew that in spite of his casual affection for her, the natural self-centredness of youth would ensure both his disinterest and his discretion.

  ‘May I be frank?’ she asked.

  ‘Go on.’

  She told him everything, without using names. He listened and ate. When he’d cleared his plate he scraped the contents of hers on to his own, and ate that. The only time he interrupted her was to order more drinks, a Tiger beer for him this time. She’d talked for half an hour when she ran out of steam.

  ‘So there you have it. It’s been salutary to do this, it makes me realise what a cliché the whole thing is.’

  ‘Yes, but a cliché’s a cliché because it’s true.’

  She smiled weakly. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘And anyway, the situation may be a cliché, but you’re you and he’s who he is, so the chemistry’s unique. What are you going to do?’

  ‘What would you do?’

  ‘Oh, no—’ he held up his hands ‘—no, no! I’m staying well out of it. You don’t need my advice.’

  ‘I’m not asking you for it. I’m asking out of purely scientific interest what you would do in my situation.’

  ‘Ideal world, or truth?’

  She pulled a come-on face. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘In his place or yours?’

  ‘Either.’ She shrugged. ‘Both.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Well, he’s easy. If I was him I wouldn’t have a clue where I stood with you, probably be shit-scared of you – no, you asked, this is my turn – so I’d be hanging in there waiting for something to come along and change the situation for me. I probably really like my wife even if we’re not shagging, and feel I owe her something – especially if we’re not shagging – so I’m not going to just walk out on her without a good reason. He’s probably hoping to get caught so she’ll throw him out, or that she’ll start something with the neighbour so he can walk with a clear conscience.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Stella raised her hand. ‘No good reason? I thought I’d spent the last however long telling you the reason.’

  ‘But does he know – did you tell him?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Shit!’ Jamie blushed and banged his forehead with a fist. ‘I dunno – that you’re in love with him, something like that?’ ‘Not in so many . . .’ She cleared her throat. ‘Not in so many words.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m not advocating it, I don’t even know if it’s true, all I’m saying is that in his shoes, hey, I’d need a pretty big incentive to blow everything out of the water.’

  ‘Right. And what about in mine?’

  ‘I give up.’

  ‘No, come on, you promised, you’re doing fine.’

  ‘Yes, but that was the easy bit, blokes I can do.’

  ‘Look on it as a challenge.’

  ‘Fine. Then I’d probably let things go on as they are.’

  ‘Would you?’ She was crestfallen. ‘Well, that sounds really, really exciting.’

  ‘Don’t be like that.’ He looked aggrieved. ‘The way you told me it is pretty exciting. Everyone gets to act out, and then go home. Who doesn’t like a bit of drama? Especially you. Nothing wrong in that.’

  Oh, well, she thought as she walked home, talk about ‘Out of the mouths . . .’ She’d asked for it and she’d got it. Not advice, but the unlovely and unpalatable truth.

  * * * * *

  Robert called her from the hospital early on Wednesday and said he could get away at midday, could he come and see her?

  The first thing he said as she let him in was: ‘You’re looking skinny, let’s go out to lunch.’

  ‘I’d much rather not. There’s food here, and anyway I’m not hungry.’

  ‘I am.’ He put his arms round her amorously. ‘But food doesn’t feature.’

  He made love to her with great tenderness but briefly, not holding back, as if he were simply breathing his passion into her. These days, after so long, it was often like this when they first got together – a blind, wordless, mutual imprinting.

  He gasped, fell back, then buried his face in her breasts. ‘God help me ...’

  She stroked his head, kissed his hair. ‘Why should he? You don’t pay him no never mind.’

  His shoulders jerked with laughter. ‘I’m told he likes a challenge.’

  They lay quietly for some minutes, safe and sound. These were the almost-perfect moments, when they had made love, and effortlessly understood one another, and everything else was still out there, too far away to trouble them. If the essence of these times could be bottled, thought Stella, a spoonful a day would have seen them through. She put her arm about his head, cradling him. His breathing was deep and steady, but he wasn’t asleep. His hand was moving over her diaphragm, her hips, her back. After a moment he tilted his head back to look at her.

  ‘You know, you really are too thin.’

  ‘I like to be near the knuckle.’

  He grunted, ran his thumb over her collarbone. ‘You’re that all right . . . I suppose it’s the show.’ ‘Probably.’ Not comfortable with this subject, she asked: ‘How is Natalie?’

  He pulled himself up next to her, kissed her cheek. ‘She’s had the operation, and it was a success as far as it went. Now it’s a case of keeping a close eye on things. And of course the poor girl has to learn to live with the prosthesis.’

  ‘Of course.’

  In the pause that followed he played with her hair. She sensed an announcement, and was not surprised when he said: ‘We’re going up to Glasgow to see them the week after next, I’ve got a couple of days off.’

  ‘She’ll appreciate that.’

  ‘What, a visit from Uncle Bob?’ He affected a strong Glaswegian twang. ‘I don’t know about that, it’s more for our consciences than their wellbeing, but these things must be done. Only trouble is, you’re so damn’ popular I haven’t been able to get a ticket between now and then.’

  ‘Just turn up when you can. They can always find the odd one, and I’ll give them your name.’

  ‘Would you? Thanks, I’d hate to miss it.’ He rested his chin on her shoulder. ‘Did you say there was food about?’

  They lunched on brown bread, ham, tomatoes, a wedge of cracked and crusty strong Cheddar, and red wine. The picnicky nature of the meal meant that her lack of appetite went largely unremarked. Afterwards, they went back to bed, and as usual it was different the second time: more protracted; more tense and aware, less relaxed; more to say and less time to say it. She thought she would surely come, and when she didn’t, was desolate.

  ‘Don’t fret,’ he said, teasing her mortification. As so often, he thought she hadn’t seen him glance at his watch. ‘You have nothing to prove.’

  This was so like what her mother, and Jamie, had said to her, that she thought: The world is full of people who claim to know what
I’m feeling better than I do myself. And the thought stopped her from saying, as she might otherwise have done, what those feelings were.

  On the Saturday night there was a note for her at the stage door.

  Dear Stella,

  This is just to say that I shall be out there this evening and rooting for you every step of the way (not that you need it, according to the papers!). I am living and working very contentedly in Colchester now, at the above address. I mention this because I want you to know that I’m always there if I can be of service. It has been several years since I saw you, except in the spotlight, of course, and it would be so nice if some time or other we could meet up for a drink, and talk, but I shall leave the ball entirely in your court.

  Yours ever,

  Gordon

  As she changed and made up she reflected quite fondly that Gordon was the one man who could sign himself ‘Yours ever’ and be taken literally. That in itself was a comfort, when comfort was scarce and she needed it. Jamie and his flatmate Jonno were in the audience tonight as well, there need be no feeling of exclusivity . . . On an impulse she summoned the ASM and sent her round to the front with an invitation to Gordon to join Derek, herself and the others (she was careful to list them) for a drink after the show.

  It was the purest coincidence that she saw him. The small window of her dressing room overlooked the side alley between this theatre and the next, where the right-hand stalls fire exit opened out. At the interval she felt so hot and lightheaded that she opened the window and stood there for a moment, breathing in the bracing West End fumes and watching the people below. And there he was, smoking a cigar. He stood, typically, right in the middle of the alley, one hand in his pocket, as if about to address a meeting. Occasional couples, taking a shortcut, had to part company to avoid him.

  She was just about to give him a shout when he dropped the cigar and screwed it out beneath his foot. His wife came up to him, she carried a programme – not the two-pound one, but the souvenir version, with pictures, oh, God, of the show in rehearsal . . . Stella stared, peered, tried to read their body language as they stood there, their lips as they exchanged a few words, but it was like trying to read Hebrew – upside down, back to front, unrecognisable, a closed book. How could she ever understand them with all those years of marriage to their name? They might be out there, she in here, but it was she who was the outsider.

  He glanced at his watch – that, at least, was a familiar gesture – and they walked back into the theatre.

  Stella’s head swam as she sat down; her hands were white and cold, like dead hands. There was a sour taste in her mouth, she only just made the lavatory in time.

  ‘You played a blinder tonight,’ said Derek. ‘I thought you’d done all you could with most of those songs. Goes to show how wrong you can be. There were tears in my eyes once or twice. Put it there, doll . . . Blimey, but that’s a frigid digit!’

  Later Stella was at her most glittering, out of her skull on drink, applause and misery. She took them all out to dinner – Derek, Jamie, Jonno and Gordon – to one of those big, grand old restaurants where it was still possible to make an entrance. She who never pulled rank asked for a table in the middle and got it. Waiters hovered, candles glowed, champagne popped, heads turned. Isn’t that . . .? Have you seen . . . they say it’s terrific. She likes to surround herself with men, doesn’t she? Do you think those young ones are her nephews, hmm? Never thought I’d say this but that is too thin ...

  She knew she was astonishing, could see it written in their faces. Derek’s pleased, proud, a little baffled; Jamie’s absolutely chuffed to death, a quite unlooked-for triumph notched up; Jonno, if-myfriends-could-see-me-now; Gordon dear Gordon – quite simply the happiest man in the room. She spoiled them, flirted with them, flattered, indulged and amused them.

  She dazzled, for tomorrow she died.

  Outside on the pavement she accepted their thanks and kisses, but linked her arm through Gordon’s.

  ‘Let me get you a taxi,’ he said. ‘I can drop you off and go on to Liverpool Street.’

  She sat with her feet up on the seat, her head on his shoulder. It was all draining away now, and she was cold. Cold, and tired, and sick. When they got to Victoria Mansions he roused her gently.

  ‘We’re here.’ He kept his arm round her waist as he said to the driver: ‘I’ll just see the lady to her door, if you wouldn’t mind hanging on.’

  He supported her in the lift, and out of it, and found her key for her. In the open doorway she put her arms round his neck.

  ‘Gordon . . . don’t go.’

  ‘But, um, I think you need to get to sleep.’

  ‘I will if you stay.’

  ‘I’ve told the taxi to wait.’

  ‘Then tell him to go away.’

  ‘Stella, I . . . Do you think this is wise?’

  ‘Don’t be pompous, Gordon.’ She kissed him on the mouth. ‘Get down there and pay the man.’

  She tottered away from him, her shoulders shaking. Gordon, always humble, thought she must be laughing at him, but he was entirely wrong.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘On a small, crowded island where forty-five million people live, each man learns to guard his privacy carefully – and is careful not to invade another man’s privacy’

  —‘Over There’,

  Instructions for American Servicemen in Britain

  Spencer 1944

  Spencer was Janet Ransom’s lover for six months, but he never felt he knew her. The reserve she displayed in everyday life transmuted into a deep secrecy in the bedroom. There was no lack of physical passion, but it was as though she was speaking in a different language, or that she was feeling him blindfold, interpreting his touch through her own, in ways he could never know or understand. This was as exciting as it was saddening. The desire to break through the invisible barrier, to hear her call his name, or even open her eyes and look at him, drove him wild. Then, when once again these things didn’t happen, no matter how great it had been, he was cast down.

  Nor was there any way of saying how he felt about this, or asking her what she thought, because the rest of their relationship continued to all intents and purposes exactly as before. The presence of Davey and Ellen, and less often that of Rosemary, placed constraints on it, but even without these there was little change. He went to the cottage on Sundays, and on one evening during the week if possible. On Sundays there would be afternoon tea; on a weekday something also called tea, and with the teapot in attendance, but served later and consisting of something more substantial. In return Spencer took goodies from the base, and did odd jobs. If they were on their own and likely to be undisturbed, they went up to bed. The signal for this was always the same. She would hold out her hand and say: ‘It’s all right,’ as if comforting a child. And, childlike, he went along. He learned that she never took any risks, was always to be trusted.

  Davey was in the room next door, and the baby’s cot was in the same room, behind a folding screen: to begin with he was like a cat on hot bricks in case they woke up. But Janet assured him that the kids could sleep through anything – fighters, bombing raids, it would take more than doing this to disturb them – and eventually he got used to the idea.

  When it was over she would kiss his cheek and say softly, ‘Thank you.’ The thanks made him feel uncomfortable, as though this was just one more job that he did around the place. Then after a very few minutes she’d get up and dressed and go downstairs. She never came back up, or called him, and after a while he’d go down as well and there she’d be in the parlour with a tray of tea, and the bourbon if there was some, with a glass for him.

  One evening he caught her hand as she was about to get out of bed and said: ‘Honey – don’t thank me.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You don’t need to. It’s the two of us here. I’m happy, you’re happy—’ He rocked his head on the pillow.

  She looked down at him, her hand lying quietly in his. ‘I know th
at.’

  ‘So no more thank yous, huh? For me.’

  She’d smiled as if to say yes, but it had made not a blind bit of difference. The thanks were as natural to her as breathing. It made him wonder even more what went on in her head when they were doing it, so quietly and fervently.

  Another time they took Ellen out round the village in her ‘push-chair’.This was another activity he’d learned not to be self-conscious about, even though he was sure there were a few looks. Janet said it would be all right, so it was. And it did seem like whatever they might say about him, she had some kind of aura around her that other people noticed, and a natural dignity that they respected.

  It was the end of October and they’d walked quite briskly down the high street, and then down the hill to where the little old river trickled along, known as Norton Water. They called it a river, but it wasn’t much more than a ditch, it made Moose Creek look like the Mississippi. Along here it was more sheltered and they slowed down. Ellen had fallen asleep, her shiny red cheeks bulging out of her blue knitted pixie hood. Spencer plucked up the courage to ask about Edward Ransom.

  ‘Tell me something about your husband.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  Everything, he thought. How you met, what he was like, whether you loved him – why you got me into bed the moment you knew he’d died ...

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Whatever you want to tell me.’

  ‘Let’s see.’ The way she said that pretty much told him that she wasn’t going to spill any beans worth having. ‘He was very handsome – you’ve seen the photograph of our wedding.’

  ‘A good-looking guy. You made a great couple.’

  She smiled her close-lipped smile. ‘He was a garage mechanic, here, in Deller’s garage. A whizz with an oily rag, like you.’

  ‘So where did you and he meet?’

  ‘We’d known each other for years. Not well, but to say hallo to.’

  ‘And then, what happened? Your eyes met, your hands touched – what?’ ‘Nothing like that. He asked me out.’ ‘You started dating – where’d you go?’ ‘The first time we went to see The Thirty-nine Steps, with Robert Donat.’