The Life Situation

by Rosemary Friedman

  With Karen it was the same. She was quiet and seemed to have lost weight although still tanned and healthy-looking from her holiday. She wore the Ungaro dress and the snakeskin shoes for work and did not go back to the Marks and Spencer underwear. She took off Friday afternoons to have her hair done and no longer changed into trousers when she got home. It wrung his heart but he was unable to explain that her efforts had not the slightest bearing upon the situation which tormented him constantly

  In bed at night she seemed to be filled with a tenderness he was not aware of receiving from her hands before but it had come too late to pierce the pall of his ‘unfeeling’.

  When Mrs Wilson rang to say that Ernest had gone away, that the nurse was out but Marie-Claire was going to look after Laurent for the afternoon so that they could meet in her flat, Oscar could hardly wait. He thrust his promise to Karen to the back of his mind. He would lie, cheat, steal; she could throw him out if she wanted to. He no longer cared.

  “It came as a dreadful shock, to Karen,” he said to Marie-Céleste. He could not tell her of Karen’s desire to slit her throat, kick her teeth in. Even thinking about it made him shudder.

  “I suppose she hates me.”

  He nodded.

  “Do you want me to apologise to her?”

  “Unwise.”

  “I would like to.”

  He was afraid of what Karen might do, remembering the rows in the early days of their marriage and the physical violence of which she was capable.

  “I promised I wouldn’t see you again.”

  “I promised Ernest.”

  “Would you marry me?”

  “You know I would.”

  “Leave Laurent?”

  “Ernest would never let him go.”

  “Would you leave him?”

  She looked up at him. Her face drained as if she hadn’t slept in weeks. He remembered the radiance of her pregnancy.

  “Yes.” It was a whisper.

  She looked at her watch. “I have to go home and feed him.”

  “Let me come with you.”

  She looked at him. By mutual consent they had not touched each other all afternoon. “If Ernest ever found out…”

  “How will he?”

  “I want you to come.”

  “Good as gold,” Marie-Claire said. She was in the drawing-room reading a magazine. “He cried once and I changed his nappy and had a cuddle and that was absolutely all. Disappointing; I was so hoping he’d be naughty and I’d have to hold him all afternoon.” She stood up.

  “You don’t have to go,” Marie-Céleste said. “I’ll make some coffee.”

  “I have an appointment with the chiropodist.”

  “You lie in your teeth.”

  “In Cannes one cannot get one’s feet attended to satisfactorily. I always save them for London.” She put on the short silk jacket which matched her sleeveless dress.

  “Goodbye, children.”

  Marie-Céleste moved.

  “I’ll see myself out.”

  “I love you,” Marie-Céleste said. “Come tomorrow.”

  He watched her bath the baby. The elaborate mise-en-scène of the nursery. Bowls of tepid water to fill the rubber bath, warmed towels, oil, talcum powder, aired nightie; so much for the cast of one very tiny bundle.

  She tied a flannel apron around her waist and made for the blue-trimmed cradle.

  “Let me!” Oscar said.

  He surprised himself. He tried to think if he had ever bathed the girls when they were small, but did not think so. Not that he intended to bath Laurent, only to pick him up, to hold him.

  He had not realized he would be so light; no weight at all really, the equivalent of a few bags of sugar. He held him awkwardly. The blue, almond shaped eyes, focussing inadequately, blinked up at him; the tiny hands, thumbs clenched, wandered like an impotent boxer’s; the scrappy red hair was Marie-Céleste’s; he felt warm and smelled of baby.

  Marie-Céleste was laughing.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You.” She pushed the hair back behind her ears and held out her arms.

  “I can’t see that there’s anything to laugh about.”

  “You’re not standing where I am.” Some of her former radiance had returned.

  She held the baby to her shoulder, expertly, putting the soft skin of his face against her own and whispering sweet nothings in French and English into his ear.

  He sat on a chair decorated with rabbits and watched the ritual of the bath, the tiny limbs in constant motion. Each move made by Marie-Céleste seemed fascinating. With Rosy and Daisy after the first two or three times he was sure it had been a bore.

  “You do it very well considering it’s your first.”

  “We did handle babies in midwifery and in paediatrics; not to mention in the practice.”

  “Even so, you look…all of a piece.”

  “I feel all of a piece; it is very satisfying.” She cuddled him to her. He wondered how she was able to reconcile this statement with the fact that not long before she had declared herself willing to abandon him.

  He was clawing at the negligée into which she had changed.

  “Are you hungry, then?” she said in the manner of one talking to babies. “Tu as faim, mon petit Laurent, mon petit bébé…”

  She took her left breast, heavily swollen, and held him to it.

  Oscar held his breath. The last of the sun was washing the primrose coloured nursery with pale light, picking out the copper hair, illuminating the whole picture which could have come from the Rijksmuseum, the Wallace Collection. It was an amalgamation of soft lines, and light and completeness which grabbed at his entrails.

  They did not talk. Just sat at peace and watched Laurent, mouth pursed, at his feed. After a while she wiped away the milk which had trickled down his chin and shifted him on to the other breast. A few moments later his movements became more and more slow, his eyes flickered, closed and fell asleep.

  Marie-Céleste laughed. “Lazy little boy! Food! That’s all he thinks about.”

  Still sleeping she laid him back in the crib, tucked him up expertly, then set about putting the nursery to rights. Oscar emptied the bath for her.

  When she had finished, Marie-Céleste hung up her flannel apron and opened the window a little.

  She looked at Laurent who was sleeping soundly. “Well,” she said, “that’s that for four hours. You’ve no idea how quickly it seems to come round. I don’t know how people manage with half a dozen! One seems more than enough to me…”

  He was watching her. She stopped, recognizing the expression on his face.

  “Oscar!”

  “Marie-Céleste.”

  “No!”

  “Why not? There’s no one here. What time does the nurse come back?”

  “We promised. We both promised.”

  “Who will know?”

  “You; me.”

  “Don’t you want to?”

  She looked straight at him, properly, for the first time that afternoon.

  “So much. So very, very much.”

  It was a long while since they had been close. Her body felt strange, unfamiliar, without the distended belly of pregnancy.

  At the bedroom door she stopped.

  “I don’t know…?”

  “Really?”

  She looked up at him. “I know.”

  He left at seven, wishing he felt like Judas. He only felt happy, content, fulfilled.

  They’d made love gently. He’d been afraid of hurting her.

  Afterwards she said: “It’s been so long.”

  “Too long.”

  “What will we do, Oscar?”

  There was no answer so he made none.

  Finally he said: “Life is a bastard. We are the playthings of the gods.”

  “You think so?”

  “Sometimes. I know it doesn’t matter at the end of the day, none of it. But while it’s going on it can be bloody hell. What would Ernest do if h
e came back now?”

  “Shoot you probably.”

  Oscar laughed.

  Marie-Céleste got out of bed. Apart from her heavy breasts she had regained her figure. He had forgotten about the whiteness of her skin. She went into Ernest’s dressing-room. When she came back she had a gun in her hand.

  Oscar sat up. “My God! What are you doing?”

  “Teaching you to laugh.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “It’s Ernest’s.”

  “It’s not loaded!”

  “It is, you know.” She was laughing.

  “Well, put the damned thing down.”

  She pointed it at him.

  “Have you gone mad?”

  She turned it round and squinted down the barrel. He leaped out of bed and took it from her.

  “That’s how accidents happen! What’s it doing here anyway?”

  “He has a whole collection in the country. He usually keeps one here in case of intruders. He’s not supposed to. He’s quite a good shot.”

  He held the gun out. “Put it away, there’s a good girl. It makes me nervous.”

  When she came back he said: “You don’t really think he’d use it? Not Ernest.”

  “I don’t know.” She sat on the bed pulling her gown round her. “I’ve watched him with rabbits. An odd expression comes over his face; as if he enjoys it. With people like Ernest I don’t think you can ever be quite sure.”

  “I’d better get dressed,” Oscar said.

  “Are you afraid?”

  “No. Yes. Why did you show me the damned thing?”

  “Joke.”

  He remembered from way back Arnold Katz at Laura Beaumont’s dinner party. ‘Zere is no such thing as a joke.’

  “Get him to take it back to the country. Tell him you don’t like it here. Tell him it makes you nervous.”

  “OK.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise. I didn’t mean to upset you. I didn’t know…”

  “You haven’t.” He took her in his arms. “Forget the ruddy gun.”

  “I already have.”

  They walked entwined into the hall. He held her at arm’s length.

  “Marie-Céleste, what are we going to do?”

  “Oscar, if I knew… This afternoon…” Her eyes filled with tears. “This afternoon was perfect.”

  He held her to him; such a slight, warm body.

  “Life is a bastard,” she said. “Such a bastard.”

  They had started dinner, looked up as he came in. Three faces, eyes questioning, differently motivated. He remembered suddenly things were not as they were. He was not free to come and go. There must be an alibi. Karen waited. He wanted to look in a mirror to see if there were any traces of his misdemeanour upon his person. No marabou; put it away for the summer. She did not use lipstick. He wondered if he’d put his sweater on back to front.

  “I was getting worried,” Karen said. “It’s liver and it gets tough.”

  Liver! Lies about films he had not seen and street accidents and petrol that had run out had been flashing through his head. He wanted to laugh; then cry. Thoughts of Marie-Céleste were not in her mind. She trusted him. Trusted him! Worried about his wellbeing. The fact that everything had changed seemed not to have permeated into her subconscious. A few tears, anger, a sadness and the ghost, for Karen, was laid. The liver was in the oven, all right with the world.

  “I had to pay ninety-five pence for the library book I lost,” Rosy said.

  Oscar sat down. “I’ll give it back to you.”

  She stared at him. “Say that again.”

  “I said I’ll give it back to you.” He put his hand in his pocket. “Got change of a pound?”

  She was still staring. Did not take the pound.

  “Are you all right?”

  He suddenly realized he was acting out of character. He must be careful. He put the pound note away. “On second thoughts you have to pay for it yourself. Why should I underwrite your carelessness. You should look after your possessions. You shouldn’t belong to the public library, for which I pay the rates if…”

  Rosy applied herself to her dinner, relieved as the familiar words flowed over her head.

  “It was falling to bits, anyway,” she said. “I think they’ve got the cheek. Can I have this week’s pocket money?”

  “How much is it?” Oscar said.

  “A pound.”

  “Fifty pence!”

  “Double in the holidays.”

  He handed over the pound which had assumed a different identity.

  “You owe me ten pence,” Daisy said, holding out her hand to Rosy.

  “Liar.”

  “I paid for your Lord Toffingham lolly in the park and you swore you’d pay me back. Araminta heard you.”

  Rosy put the pound in the pocket of her trousers. “I haven’t got any change.”

  “I’ll give you change.” Daisy was uncanny with her money and was always in pocket which was handy when the milkman or Christian Aid collector called.

  “Then I won’t be able to pay for my library book. I’ll give it to you next week. Besides I don’t even owe it to you…”

  “That’s the last time; the very last time…ow!” Daisy clutched her jaw.

  “What’s the matter?” Karen asked.

  “I’ve got a lump on my jaw and it hurts every time I open my mouth.”

  “Mumps!” Rosy said with satisfaction.

  “You’ve had it,” Karen said, “both of you.”

  “I expect it’s glandular fever, Michèle Thompson had glandular fever and she was away from school for six weeks.”

  Karen gave Oscar his dinner. “If it’s not better in the morning we’ll ask…”

  “Snow White?” Daisy said.

  Oscar looked at his plate.

  “No. Not Snow White,” Karen said.

  “Why not?”

  Silence hung in the kitchen.

  “Well, she’s just had a baby, hasn’t she?” Karen said. “She can hardly come to see you if she’s just had a baby.”

  “I could go to her. I’d like to see the baby again. I love babies. He was so choochy! Perhaps she’ll let me bath him.”

  “You might be infectious.”

  “Michèle Thompson was infectious. She couldn’t come to school for six weeks. She had to have a blood test. They took pints and pints. Almost all she had.”

  “I’ll ring Dr Powell.”

  “No!” Daisy said. “I’ll wait until Snow White can come. It feels better anyway.”

  “I don’t think she’s going to work again,” Karen said. “We shall have to find another doctor.”

  “But we liked Snow White, didn’t we, Daddy?” Rosy said. “You liked her, didn’t you?”

  The liver tasted like old rope. Karen had fried the zucchini as he liked them. He could not eat.

  “Daddy used to change his pullover,” Rosy said, “put on his Sunday one. He made Mrs Hubble wash it.”

  Oscar stood up.

  “What’s the matter?” Karen said.

  “Headache.”

  “Glandular fever,” Daisy said. “I expect it will go round the family.”

  “…I don’t feel hungry. Will you excuse me?”

  “Sometimes you go all yellow…” Daisy was saying.

  In his study he sat at his desk in front of Death in Heraklion to which he had not added a word in weeks and put his head on his hands. He could not go on. Something had to break. He wished he had Ernest’s gun. No; he was too much of a coward. He thought of Hedda Gabler. They were always shooting themselves in Ibsen plays. It was a neat solution. He must be depressed. Most writers were anyway, it was common knowledge, Tolstoy, Dickens, Thackeray, Colderidge…perhaps it was a sine qua non. Composers too, although they seemed more to go in for particularly nasty illnesses. What was he to do? What was he to do? He stared out of the window at the plane trees but the answer did not come. He looked at the telepone. ‘It must be somebody’s
birthday.’ It probably was, poor sods. He realized suddenly he’d forgotten the number. Forgotten! When it was more familiar to him than his own. He knew enough to be aware that it was not going to come to him suddenly. He had buried it too deep. He found his diary; dialled. Probably still on holiday.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Oscar John.”

  Don’t say hallo, how are you, nice to hear from you; silly bugger.

  “I’d like to see you. Is there anyone in my usual time?”

  Have you replaced me; found another child?

  “At the moment they’re on holiday. You can come tomorrow and up till the end of the month. After that we shall have to see.”

  Big deal. “All right.”

  “I see you tomorrow then.”

  Oscar put the phone down.

  “I’m worried about you, Oscar,” Karen said, when they went up to bed. “You’re looking tired…”

  Shagged.

  “It’s been a lot for you lately, your father and the holiday cut short.”

  He waited but she ignored the main problem.

  “I thought when the children go back to school we might manage a few days on our own…the Cotswolds or the Lake District…lovely in the autumn and I could ask Mrs Hubble…”

  It was the last thing he wanted.

  “I know you must be going through a bad patch.”

  The understatement of the year.

  She put her arms round him. “Things will be better. We’ll make them better.”

  If only it could be done by wishing.

  “At Christmas we could take the children to Brighton. Your mother would like that. Of course there wouldn’t be room in the flat…”

  She was full of plans.

  “Would you like me to get you something? You had no dinner.”

  He shook his head.

  “You’re all right, though?”

  “Yes, I’m all right.” He was walking, talking, had all limbs, all parts in working order.

  “Come to bed then.”

  It was raining. He walked up from Finchley Road towards the Heath. Unbidden, the ‘Grand Old Duke of York’ came into his head. ‘He marched them up to the top of the hill and he marched them down again.’ He passed the ubiquitous woman with the shopping trolley. She had a plastic rain-hat tied under her chin. He did not try to seduce her with his good looks. He was wearing his old writing sweater and he hadn’t taken a raincoat. If asked by the police she would not remember seeing him.