by Unknown
Ralph was still boasting on his friend’s behalf, thought Marnie, and she was painfully touched by his generosity, which was exaggerated, self-destructive. She touched his shoulder and smiled, and he gazed at her for a few seconds, his eyes wild. She could almost feel the panic steaming off him.
‘Do you want something to drink?’ she asked Oliver. ‘Aren’t you thirsty?’
‘I’d love some water. Thanks.’
At that moment, Eric came out of the house with a tray and glasses. ‘White wine?’ he asked. ‘Or I could make a jug of Pimm’s as a treat?’ He didn’t seem surprised to see Oliver, whom he had never actually met.
‘Oliver’s come to stay for a day or two, if that’s all right with you,’ said Emma. And she went up to him and put a hand on his shoulder, smiling into his face. Such a small gesture yet it had the clarity of an announcement, and Marnie saw Ralph’s mouth half open and Lucy give a small acknowledging smile. It was as if a line was being drawn under the past ten days. They were all grown-ups again, and back in the real world where secrets pulse under the skin. She was suddenly conscious of her bare legs, the skimpiness of her bikini top.
‘I’ll get you some water,’ she said, and practically ran into the house. She didn’t immediately go to the kitchen but went upstairs to the bathroom, where she washed her face in icy water, then pressed her forehead against the mirror over the basin, closing her eyes. She thrilled to the knowledge that Oliver had come. She wished he hadn’t. She ached to be near him, and she wanted him to disappear at once, leaving the lovely simplicity of the summer intact.
The weather, which for two weeks had been warm and clear with occasional brisk showers, was now oppressive. The heat was thick, ominous; at night Marnie would lie on her duvet with the window open, feeling the faint lick of a breeze on her skin. A storm was on its way. Every so often a couple of fat raindrops would fall from the saturated air. The sky was no longer blue, but a brownish yellow. Sometimes in the distance they would hear the distant rumble of thunder. They had three days left. Summer was running out and already a few of the birch leaves were tinged with gold. This far north, said Eric, the summer came late and left early – a brief interlude between seasons of cold and darkness.
Nothing was the same. They swam, rowed on the loch, went fishing with Eric, sat over barbecues as the light faded and bats flitted between the trees, stayed up late over games of cards with bottles of beer, as they had before. But Marnie was only pretending to be her old self, moderate and sensible – the one who rigged the boat, made the tea, cleared up the enthusiastic mess Ralph made in the kitchen when he was cooking; the one who didn’t talk much but stood quietly back, letting everyone else take centre stage. Under the familiar surface she was electric with desire and dread. She could feel her blood coursing through her veins and hear the pumping of her heart, which felt swollen and tender in her chest. Her skin tingled. She lay awake at night, Lucy breathing deeply beside her, and thought of Oliver.
She got up in the morning, and when she saw him her legs were loose and trembly and there was a strange heat in her belly. She couldn’t eat properly. One gulp of wine and her head spun. She noticed the dimple in his cheek, the way his hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck, the golden hairs on his arms, the tiny scar under his left ear, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the way he bit his lower lip when he was thinking. Sometimes their hands touched; sometimes their eyes met and she would feel as though she was falling. Sitting in the boat together, his foot lay against hers. Once, he pushed a lock of her hair out of her eyes, in front of everyone and looking straight into her eyes. She heard the tiny involuntary sound she made in the back of her throat and for a moment she thought she must put her arms round him and draw him to her. She was sick with desire, weak and boneless. If he touched her, her flesh would burn, would melt. She felt that Emma was watching them and Ralph, too – and this made her awkward and self-conscious. She couldn’t remember how to behave normally. Everything she did was an act she was putting on, a parody of her old self that surely could fool nobody.
Chapter Fourteen
Ralph and Lucy were playing chess, lying under the shade of a tree on their stomachs with the small board between them. They had just eaten a late breakfast, sitting outside at the rickety table covered with a blue tablecloth. No one had spoken much: they were bleary from sleep and soporific in the heat; surely it must rain soon. Marnie poured herself a last half-cup of coffee, then piled the plates and breadcrusts onto the tray. Oliver was sitting opposite her. He was wearing a white T-shirt and his only pair of jeans. His hair was tousled; his cheeks were thick with stubble.
He slid a hand – strong, long-fingered, leather thong round the wrist – over the table and covered hers. A jolt went through her. She didn’t move and didn’t speak. Behind her, she could hear the faint click of chess pieces on the board, a murmured comment from Ralph. She lifted her gaze and met Oliver’s; couldn’t look away. She tipped her hand so that now they were palm to palm. Their fingers curled together. She closed her eyes, opened them again and saw Oliver still watching her.
‘If you do that,’ Ralph said, ‘it’ll be checkmate in two moves. Do you want to take it back?’
Marnie sighed, pulled her hand away and stood up with the tray. In the kitchen, she filled the sink with hot water, then very slowly washed the crockery. There were footsteps behind her but she didn’t turn round. She went on washing up, the cutlery now, the coffee cups. Her entire body was molten; it seemed impossible that she should still be upright. There was a hand on her waist but still she didn’t turn; she leant back slightly, with a sense of languorous delight. His lips were on her bare shoulder and she shuddered; now his hands were on her breasts. She twisted to face him, put her soapy wet hands in the tangle of his hair and held him back for a few seconds so that she could relish this moment before they kissed, before she pressed herself to him and felt the burn of his stubble on her face, before he was holding her so tightly that she thought all breath would be squeezed out of her, but that it could never be tightly enough.
‘My gorgeous Marnie,’ said Oliver, and kissed her again; she tasted blood on her lip.
‘Someone will come in,’ she managed at last. ‘Stop.’
And, sure enough, they heard voices coming towards them, Lucy laughing.
‘What are our plans for today?’ asked Ralph, as he bounded into the kitchen. ‘We’ve got to make the most of the short time we’ve got left.’
‘I agree,’ said Marnie, smiling dazedly. Her lips were sore; her entire body throbbed. Surely it was obvious.
Of course it was obvious. I knew as soon as he arrived. He was my very best friend and when he came over the hill I was shaken with wretchedness – gutted, that’s the word. I saw the way he smiled at you and I saw the way you looked at him and…
In the forest, in the soft green light, dim and aqueous, he pulled her out of sight behind a tree and kissed her again, hard. She felt the bark dig into her back and her skin flowered under the press of his fingers.
‘Come on, the two of you!’ shouted Ralph. ‘Don’t lag.’
… the two of you, the two of you. And me…
In the boat, staring up at the lowering sky, feeling the weight of the air pressing down on her summer body, and one of his feet was pressed against her dusty calf. Her body was soft, boneless, hot. She heard Ralph talking, Lucy replying; their words buzzed over her head. In the distance, she saw a falcon falling out of the sky. Let this moment never end.
… let this moment end. How long was it possible to sit at the bow of the boat, feet dangling in the water, creak of oars in the rowlocks? I was a marble statue weighing down the frail vessel, words bubbling out of my stiff, grinning mouth. Misery is heavy, cold and dull…
By the side of the loch, eating ginger cake and drinking ginger beer. ‘Where will we all be in ten years’ time?’ said Lucy.
‘Here,’ said Ralph. ‘We’ll all be here, of course, sitting by the loch together.’
‘But really, where?’
‘You don’t want to know,’ said Marnie. Her hand moved across the grass and the tips of her fingers touched Oliver’s.
‘How true.’ Ralph’s voice was almost a whisper. ‘What a curse, to know your own future.’
What a curse to know your own future, I said. What a curse…
And he said, ‘Marnie…’ She stopped him, putting her hand across his mouth.
‘Tonight,’ she said. ‘I’ll come to you tonight.’
‘Where?’
‘In the woods, by the fallen tree. As near after midnight as possible – when everyone is safely asleep.’
‘You promise?’
‘I promise.’
…he put his bare foot on your bare foot. Your eyes flicked upwards to his face and then away. You leant across the table and poured a glass of water and I watched as you drank it. He watched as you drank it. I saw the way your throat worked, and tiny drops of water spilled on your chin. You wiped your hand across your mouth. You had your hands on the table, on either side of your plate heaped with food that you weren’t eating. I looked at your thin wrists, with a white strap mark round the left one where your watch had been. Slender tanned arms, covered with tiny grazes from two weeks spent scrambling through the forest. Prominent collarbone. Swell of breasts. Dark, unkempt hair in a tumble round your face. Thick brows; tiny white scar glancing through the right one. I have learnt you. Can anyone love you the way I have loved you? No no no no no.
Ralph insisted that they sat outside at dinner, under the threatening sky. He said that soon enough they would be back in their indoor lives, like pale grubs. His voice was angry and full of tears, and Marnie saw Emma look at him anxiously, putting a hand on his shoulder as she passed.
Emma and Marnie cooked that evening – a roast chicken with different salads and garlic bread, followed by a cake topped with wild strawberries that Emma and Eric had gathered that afternoon. They stood in the small kitchen together and every so often a raindrop would splatter against the window.
‘I feel I’ve hardly seen you,’ said Emma, crushing garlic into butter and mashing it.
‘I know. But it’ll all return to normal soon.’ Marnie didn’t want her mother to ask her intimate questions or look at her with her penetrating stare. She sliced open a slightly stale baguette and spread the garlic butter on it, then wrapped it in silver foil.
‘You’ve had a good time?’
‘A lovely time.’
‘Is Ralph OK?’
‘Fine.’
‘He seems a bit –’
‘He’s all right. He gets odd sometimes, you know that.’
‘Yes,’ said Emma, doubtfully. She started to shred lettuce into a large bowl.
‘Shall I open some wine?’
‘You and Oliver –’
‘I don’t ask about you and Eric.’
‘You can ask me anything.’
‘But I don’t want to.’
‘Be careful, that’s all.’
‘I’ll be careful,’ Marnie replied lightly.
She didn’t want to be careful: she was sick and tired of being careful, tactful, practical, sensible, diligent, thoughtful, considerate, good. She didn’t want to think about other people’s feelings, Ralph’s feelings. Not now. Not tonight. This was her night. No more holding back and no more waiting. She was hollow with longing; desire sluiced through her; excitement and fear trickled down her spine; her mouth was dry; her skin pulsed. Tomorrow, she would be a different person. She would be Marnie whom Oliver had loved.
They carried the meal outside on trays. Eric poured wine but Marnie only took a few sips. She already felt drunk. Her legs trembled. She felt slightly sick and couldn’t possibly eat the food on her plate. She pushed it around with her fork. Chicken was impossible. She chewed a lettuce leaf, drank some water. Emma cut the cake, still warm and steaming from the oven, with a long knife. Tiny strawberries scattered over the plate and Marnie put one in her mouth. They had a mineral sweetness and she would never again taste one without remembering this particular evening.
‘… are you even listening?’
‘What? Sorry?’ She smiled dazedly at Ralph.
‘Lucy suggested a midnight swim. Our last. Yes?’
‘Oh. Maybe. I feel a bit tired. I thought an early night for once.’
‘Come on, Marnie. Don’t be a party pooper.’ This from Lucy. ‘We’re all going. Aren’t we, Ollie?’
‘Are we?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s going to be a storm tonight.’ Eric was looking up into the hot brown sky, frowning. ‘Don’t leave anything out.’
‘Don’t swim if there’s lightning,’ said Emma.
‘Don’t worry.’
‘Don’t tell me not to worry!’ Her tone was sharp. ‘I’m serious here. You’re not to go into the water if there’s a storm.’ There were years of anxiety in her voice.
‘OK. Sorry.’
‘I’m trusting you with this.’
‘What about Ralph in his tent?’ asked Lucy. ‘He’ll be swept away. Should he come inside? He can put his mattress in Ollie’s little box-room, can’t he? There’d be room.’
Marnie tried not to show her dismay.
‘I’ll be fine,’ said Ralph. ‘I’d quite like to be out in the tent in a storm. Why don’t you join me, Ollie?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Oliver, casually. ‘I’m not quite as bonkers as you.’
‘No – go on. Join me.’
‘It’s a one-man tent.’
‘That doesn’t matter for one night. We’ll squash up.’
‘It leaks when you touch its walls.’
‘So?’
‘Well – we’ll get wet.’
‘Like drowned rats,’ said Lucy, cheerfully, trying to dispel the tension.
‘I’ll see.’ Oliver stood up. ‘Let’s go swimming at once, shall we, if we’re really going to do it? Before the storm.’
The four made their way down to the shore. Before they even arrived, the rain was falling. The sky was now so dark it was maroon. The loch looked chilly and sullen, its colour barely distinguishable from the sky. Marnie shivered. ‘Are we really going to do this?’
‘Last one in,’ said Ralph, ‘is a – what? You lot decide.’ And he pulled off the T-shirt he was wearing with his swimming trunks, and walked onto the jetty. His bony body glimmered palely. He gave a loud hoot and jumped high in the air, arms up and legs apart. For a moment he seemed to hang there, like a bird. Then he hit the water with a splash. They all watched as he struck out for the centre in his wild, energetic crawl.
‘OK,’ said Oliver. He turned so he was facing Marnie, and took off his shirt. He took a step forward, nearly touching her, and put up a hand. He touched her cheek very gently, then grazed her lip with a thumb. Marnie stood quite still, rain dripping onto her head, running off her bare shoulders. She knew Lucy was watching them.
‘Whatever the weather,’ he said very quietly, so only she could hear.
‘Yes. Whatever the weather.’
There was such a storm across the land. Thunder cracked and broke in the heaving purple sky and lightning streaked garishly across it, illuminating the lake, the trees, the stony and grassy ground, making everything unearthly. Rain fell in a thousand bullets onto the water, sending up small explosions. It torrented through the trees, turned the path to liquid mud, and clattered noisily on the roof of Eric’s house, which was stalwart under the onslaught. Usually I love storms, great winds, deluges, hail. All my life I’ve loved them. But not that night, because its buffeting violence seemed to be my own internal turmoil. As if I had been turned inside-out and all that I hid, all that I kept secret, was blowing around in the open and there was nothing I could do to stop it…
Marnie lay in bed. Outside, the thunder was no
w only a distant rumble and the rain had almost stopped, although she could hear the steady drip of water from the trees. On other nights, there had been a moon, stars, a band of light on the horizon so that as evening faded morning was already on its way. But tonight it was quite dark. She strained her eyes and could make out no shapes. How would she see her way to the fallen tree? Beside her, Lucy shifted and muttered something thickly.
‘Lucy?’ whispered Marnie. ‘Are you still awake?’
Lucy didn’t answer, except to let out a tiny snore. She would give it another few minutes and then go. Now the time had come, all desire seemed to have drained away, leaving only a dull sense of dread. She shivered under her thin covers. It seemed that the languorous blue heat of summer had gone in a single day. It was wet and muddy outside, with a sighing wind, but Oliver would be waiting. She had promised.
Very cautiously, she sat up in bed and pressed her face to the small window. In the garden, she thought she could see a faint, blurred spot of light – Ralph’s torch, dim behind the canvas of the tent. He was still awake, then. She imagined him huddled in his sleeping-bag. What would he be doing? Reading? Writing in the diary he scribbled in each day? Lying gazing up at the sagging roof above him, the drops of water oozing through? His face flashed before her as it had this evening: she knew that he knew, and she knew – while trying not to – that he was wretched and lonely and angry and scared.
She inched her legs out of the bed and stood up. The floorboards creaked. She pulled her old grey cardigan over her cotton pyjama shorts and bra. Holding out her hand, she groped her way towards the door. The room seemed to have rearranged itself – everything was in the wrong place. The door had moved. At last she was on the landing, one foot cautiously in front of the other, down the stairs, hand pushing on the banister to lighten her weight on the steps. Around her there was silence. She fumbled under the stairs for where she had left her wellingtons, at first finding the wrong ones and pushing her feet into a pair that were far too large, like paddle boats. Perhaps she should turn the light on – but she didn’t dare. She was beginning to make out vague shapes, and felt along the chairs standing at the kitchen table for her waterproof. When she put it on, it felt cold and clammy against her skin.