Four New Words for Love

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Four New Words for Love Page 22

by Michael Cannon


  When one starts to talk they all do. Three conversations pile in from the front door to the kitchen. The two Glasgow girls are too preoccupied, or happy, to notice anything. The three of them eat defrosted and scorched pizza. Gina didn’t have it in her to cook tonight, or to time the cooking. Before they sit down Ruth flourishes a piece of paper.

  ‘A letter,’ she announces.

  ‘No one’s ever written me a letter,’ Lolly complains.

  ‘Did you ever write anyone a letter to expect one back?’ Gina asks.

  ‘Not so much a letter as a note,’ Ruth says. Even in this state of being happier than they’ve ever been the other two have it in them to start an argument. She flattens it out in front of her and reads, very slowly.

  ‘If you’re reading this then you’ve opened the envelope (obviously) and that was under the strict condition you are all three together. There are three special bottles put away for your reunion. They’re in the shed. Gina knows where. They should be cold enough.’

  They rush out. The dog rushes with them and barks. They rush back. The dog rushes back and barks some more. They open three bottles of Veuve Clicquot almost simultaneously, racing drivers on the podium, soaking one another. There isn’t much left to taste but there are lots of bottles of Prosecco downstairs.

  ‘That Christopher,’ says Lolly, turning the bottle upside down and draining the frothy drips into her mouth. ‘Diamond geezer. He didn’t...’ she makes poking motions with the neck of the bottle. The look she receives back leads to the second moment of awareness she has had that night. ‘All right. Keep your hair on. Only asking. Since when did you become Mother Superior?’

  The bathroom is an acoustic cavern. He waits till she uses it first, looking down the hill. Will she have packed a negligée? When she comes out he can see her reflection, behind his reflection, superimposed on the roofs of Prague. She is wearing some kind of simple slip.

  ‘Close the curtains, Christopher.’

  He takes his pyjamas into the bathroom. There isn’t the same unflattering overhead glare of the bathroom at home, those intense lights he replaced once Marjory died. She had insisted on their installation. Why? They compelled remorseless scrutiny. He doesn’t remember her ever knowing herself any better as a result. If she ever did she was ready to forgive herself, exonerate all those faults she itemised so scrupulously, without acquittal, in others. Why is he thinking about her now? Perhaps because she is all he knew. And on the other side of that wall is a woman of vaster experience. He reminds himself that this isn’t a competition. And it suddenly occurs to him as sad that his only touchstone was as grudging in this as in all the important things.

  He thinks, I’m glad I’ve still got my teeth, as he rinses and spits.

  Lolly has found the Prosecco. The blaze of emotion has died to something less combustible, more capable of being managed. Gina knows this is Ruth’s doing. Something about her presence is soothing. She can see the change a year of Ruth’s company had brought about in Lolly. If it had just been the two of them here, without Ruth, then on Lolly’s side there would have been tears, tantrums, recriminations, reconciliation, elation, despair and relief all in the first half hour.

  Lolly hasn’t noticed anything of their surroundings yet, besides locating the booze. Ruth’s been looking around. She goes to the French windows and steps outside, takes in the darkling trees, swaying in whispers. Gina joins her.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Ruth says. ‘He’s kind. If you can’t be with us I’m glad you’re here.’ They stand side by side, looking. Lolly feeds the dog some chorizo she has found in the fridge.

  Christopher emerges from the bathroom.

  ‘Who were you talking to?’

  ‘Was I talking?’

  ‘Something about your teeth.’

  ‘I didn’t know I said it aloud.’

  ‘You’ve been alone too much.’

  He pushes aside the duvet and climbs in. The light is on his side. He reaches across to turn it off and turns back towards the centre of the bed. She rolls towards him in synchronisation. It is all easy, effortless, the unlearned automatic dance. He is so relieved there is nothing to worry about that the pleasure takes him by surprise. His body has been so clamorous of late he is surprised at how it works by itself. This, he thinks, is as easy as easy digestion. She is generous.

  Lolly pops the Prosecco in another frothy burst.

  ‘Well that’s that then,’ she says afterwards. ‘No need to be nice to you anymore now that I got what I wanted.’ And she bursts into a raucous laugh that he’s never heard before. It’s so full of life it makes him even happier than his relief at their successful rhythm. She props herself on her elbow. He can sense she is looking down at him in the darkness. ‘You lovely... no, my lovely man.’

  He feels he’s spent his life pursuing the path of least resistance. He doesn’t see what he’s done to deserve this.

  The next afternoon Gina drags the girls into the city. On point of principle she’s determined to show them some culture. She suggests the National Gallery. Lolly puts up a fuss. There are paintings back home, she reminds them. And what’s so good about art? It’s all a bunch of wank. They settle for St Paul’s. It’s quicker to get round. Lolly bridles at the suggested donation. It echoes down the Nave.

  ‘At least the other place was free. And they had paintings.’

  After a shower and breakfast the couple find themselves on the pavement. The sky is clear. Their breath levitates. Behind them the hill rises to the Castle, site of three ‘defenestrations’ that excites Christopher, not for the building’s historical significance but as the pretext for including a word he’s only ever encountered in dictionaries. Below them is the baroque froth of St Nicholas he has been reading about, five sauntering downhill minutes, and beyond the prospect of the undiscovered city, to be explored in café-stopped instalments. She is smiling at him in the sunshine. Her grooming is perfect but he is pleased to see she looks older in the morning light.

  ‘What would you like to see?’ he asks.

  ‘What would you like to see. This is more your thing. I’ve watched you absorb that guidebook and all the plaques we’ve passed so far. You have to find yourself in a setting. I don’t care. I’m just here for the sex.’

  She takes his arm. They begin to walk towards the dome he can see rising from the surrounding rooftops. She’s right. She knows him better than he suspected she did. He does have to locate himself, in a place, in the context of its past, at the bow-wave of its history. This is middle Europe, a place of intermittent purges, of soaring buildings to the glory of God and horrors enacted for the sake of liturgical niceties. Blood has run like gesso down the walls around here. And yet, with her at his side, he can’t feel the sense of thwarted expiation, of something seeking atonement that such old places usually inspire. It’s a beautiful morning. They’ll amble in a radius dictated by his hip and bladder till their first coffee, or drink.

  And there’s something else the weight of her arm in his makes him realise. Being with her has freed something else. Suddenly he doesn’t feel the same obsessive concern for Gina. He doesn’t love the younger woman any less, but he has the compensation of knowing that if she were to leave again he wouldn’t feel as if she had taken all the colour with her.

  * * *

  When he gets home she’s at work. He puts his case in the hall and sits to pat the dog. The place gleams. He imagines Lolly’s departure had required a complete cleaning. After he has rested and had some tea he takes the dog out. He is walking towards the common when he sees her coming from the opposite direction. The dog has rushed on to greet her. He stops about ten feet from them and looks at her intently. She’s in a half crouch, patting the dog. She looks up. Nothing has prepared him for the onrush.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘How was Prague?’

  ‘I’ll tell you tonight.’ She slits her eyes appraisingly, the way he imagines George Coleman would enjoy bei
ng looked at. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m on my lunch. I just wanted to check you’d got home and were all right.’ She straightens. ‘No need now. Walk me back. I’ll bring in dinner. Should I bring enough for Vanessa?’

  ‘Not tonight. Perhaps tomorrow.’

  ‘Or perhaps you’ll go there?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  A week later he visits the building society. The mortgage is long since redeemed but they continued to make deposits, saving up for Marjory’s ostentatious widowhood. The office paraphernalia he was once familiar with has vanished. No staccato typing. He misses the tactility of passbooks, of banknotes transacted, the solidity of cash registers, of jingling coins in the shunted drawer. He’s invited to sit at a veneer desk among muted office furniture. He imagines cables underneath carpet tiles, the hum of subterraneous transactions, of electronic money, flowing like corpuscles.

  Two days later he follows this with a visit to his solicitor to instruct on the terms of his codicil.

  He decides to confront her head on.

  ‘I hope you won’t be angry with me.’

  ‘Last time you said that Mum arrived. She’s not coming back?’

  ‘God no!’ The shudder dispels his awkwardness for the instant it lasts. ‘I’ll come straight to the point. I’m old. You’re young. My wife is dead. I have no dependents. I want you to stay for as long as you want without you feeling you have to stay out of a sense of obligation. I wanted to put some wind in your sails. You always have a place here as long as I’m here, and it’s yours when I’m not here anymore. By that I don’t mean moving out or emigrating or anything...’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘The thing is’

  But she has abruptly interrupted him by standing and walking out. She goes up to her room to think. The dog follows. She sits on the floor, back to the bureau, stroking the dog beside her as she tries to digest what she’s just heard. She’s trying to comprehend the extent of her indebtedness to him, not just for this latest thing but for everything. Even before this she knows she couldn’t adequately repay him for the restoration of herself. The seriousness of this is too great and she finds herself taking inventory. She thinks about Nick, useless, vain, flimsy Nick, that stick-on transparency of a man. Perhaps he unintentionally established a prototype in her mind or perhaps her dad had already done that. She knows she hasn’t experienced a fair cross-section to generalise, but it doesn’t prevent her. Besides her dad there is the limitless succession of Lolly’s admirers. Simon was the best of a limited lot, and he didn’t even have the courage of his inclinations. She’s experienced or met the kind of man who fertilises, or in Simon’s case doesn’t, and runs. They’ve all been disposable. She can admit to herself now that all along she’s held a low opinion of men. None of them remotely stacks up. Except him, sitting downstairs, probably bewildered at her reaction and wondering if he’s done a good thing or not, or if he should come upstairs and offer some tea, his only reaction when he’s emotionally out his depth.

  What’s so difficult to accept is the event that would have to happen for her to come into all this. In her mind it’s impossible to disassociate him from this house. And this house without him is unthinkable. She sees an image of herself, face down, the top half of her body sticking out from under the front doorstep, the rest of the masonry bearing down on her back. He’s worked himself up to this and she’s walked out. She might have hurt him. She knows there’s nothing she can begin to say. There isn’t any combination of words, or any that she can think of that comes close. She drags herself to the top landing. He appears at the bottom with the wobbling cup. She bursts into tears and sits on the top step. He makes his way up, tea slopping into the saucer at each creak of the treads. He sits beside her. The dog insinuates itself between them yet again.

  ‘Deed’s done,’ he says. ‘Papers are signed. Welcome to the middle classes. Can’t say it’s ever made me any happier.’

  * * *

  It is her second summer in the house. When she returns from work she shouts through to the back garden, imperiously summoning him upstairs. He’s building the charcoal in a conical pile. They have this arrangement now timed so she can walk onto the terrace to glowing embers and start their meal. He dusts his hands ineffectually, one against the other, as he goes upstairs. She’s in the top hall taking something out of a Boots bag.

  ‘I’ve always had Lolly around at every crisis in my life. She’s not here. You’ll have to do. Wait here.’

  She goes into the toilet. Rustling. A pause.

  ‘I can’t, with you listening.’

  ‘I should point out that you asked me up. I’ve no desire to listen to your functions. I’ll go downstairs.’

  ‘No. Wait.’ The noise of a woman pissing that Marjory tried so very very hard to conceal. Now the tap and not before. She comes out and stands beside him as he tries to grasp the significance of the blue line.

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Christopher! It’s a home pregnancy test kit.’

  ‘I understand that. And I can guess what the line means. Is it an accident?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you want this to happen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was it deliberate?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He puffs like a stranded fish for three exhalations before the obvious question. ‘Who?’

  ‘The boy next door.’

  ‘Literally?’ For one dreadful moment Oscar appeared in his mind as a candidate, before being replaced by the two boys, equally fertile.

  ‘Literally.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Of course it does. He has responsibilities.’

  ‘He’s a child. He’s a nice boy and in time he’ll meet a nice girl. He doesn’t know.’

  ‘He will.’

  ‘He’ll know that. He won’t necessarily know it’s him.’

  More baffled breathing. ‘Where? How?’

  ‘You’ve met Lolly. She’s got a gift for improvisation in these things.’ He remembers the balcony kiss. ‘The weather’s been good. I just imagined how she’d go about it and did the same, minus the precautions. And there was all the time you’ve been out at Vanessa’s.’

  ‘It all sounds a bit clinical.’

  ‘I got what I wanted. Don’t worry, Christopher, it’s good stock. Look at that family. Look at the parents. It’ll dilute the genes on my side.’

  ‘You can’t mean that. He might want to know.’

  ‘If he comes up to me and asks I won’t lie.’

  ‘He gave you a gift.’

  No, she thinks, he didn’t give me a gift. He just did what they all do. What we all do. That dance. That itch the unborn make us scratch just to keep this show on the road. You, Christopher, gave me the courage to ante up again, to want to try, to have a place, to keep my show on the road. You, Christopher, you gave me a gift.

  * * *

  Christopher is on the common with the dog. He could calibrate the day by the foot traffic. Give him a snapshot of the people and he’ll guess the time. Early morning are the vigorous employed who walk faster than their loitering pets and stand vigilant with poised plastic bags over shitting dogs. After nine are the young mothers, supervised crocodiles of nursery children and the elderly. The unemployed emerge around noon and sleep off their indoor complexions in the long grass. Three until four thirty the successions of children as the schools stagger their release. Then a miscellany: older children with kit bags crossing the grass after practice; an elderly couple, touchingly congenial with library books; a belated nursery teacher, vexed as she searches the grass for something valuable dropped. Around seven or seven thirty the same vigorous employed appear with new plastic bags and the same pets, dogs costive through the long day, bursting with energy and more shit. And at any time after school the ball kickers, hide and seekers, kissers, promenaders.

  The turning of the light i
s later each evening. Sometimes he loiters for the cavalcade and the spectacle of dusk. She understands. Either they’ll eat early or late. Today he left before the evening news. She’ll delay the dinner until his return and their visitor arrives. The workers are out for their evening constitutional. Half a dozen ball games are going on in adjacent stretches of green. There are vigorous shouts, different people encouraging different people kicking different balls, groans and burst of laughter. It’s intoxicating.

  He sees George. He’s seen him before, on the opposite side of the High Street, gliding past on occasional buses and once, standing indecisive among the potted shrubbery of the garden centre. He’s seen him also, solitary on the common. Unless one of them takes evasive action this is the first time their paths will cross since the funeral. George hasn’t yet seen him. He has the opportunity to study the other man. He has aged, markedly. Somehow he looks chronically lonely in a way that Christopher knows he does not. Although fastidious as ever, there’s now a whiff of desolation coming off George that he can sense at this distance. Somehow the louche outings never materialised. There’s something of the fallen streamers and flaccid balloons about him, of the party that happened next door and abandoned the paraphernalia of gaiety to fade. It’s so obvious that people don’t want to be contaminated by proximity. He’s not the neighbourhood roué, just a sad old man without the comfort of past compassions to console him. Perhaps, Christopher thinks, this is no more than he deserves. Like Marjory, the limits of his concern stopped at the epidermis. Christopher is thinking of turning round, or drifting off into the copse and escaping detection, but thinks better of it. The funeral was one in a succession that will eventually include both of them. There is too little time left. If he had gone to the crematorium he probably wouldn’t have met Gina and had the light introduced. George did him a favour.

  ‘Hello, George.’

  ‘Oh... hello, Christopher.’ He is startled and wary. Their last real exchange was the calculated snub at the funeral. George is thinking that perhaps Christopher crept up on him to return the favour. ‘And how’s the bonny wee Scots lassie?’

 

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