‘So why bring it up again?’ He turned to face me at last, and whilst his voice remained perfectly even, his cheeks flamed with outrage. ‘I’m beginning to wonder, Marion, whether you’ve got a dirty mind.’
He snapped the wardrobe doors closed, pushed the bedside cabinet drawer to, straightened the rug. Then he strode to the door and paused. ‘Let’s agree,’ he said, ‘to say no more about it. I’m going downstairs. I want you to clean yourself up. We’ll have dinner and we’ll forget this. All right?’
I could say nothing. Nothing at all.
BY NOW YOU’LL have gathered that for months I’d tried my hardest to remain blind to what was between you and Tom. But after Julia’s naming of his disposition, my husband’s relationship with you began to come into sharp, terrifying focus. Comme ça: the words themselves were dreadful – they conjured an offhand knowingness that utterly excluded me. And I was so stunned by the truth that I could do nothing but stumble through the days as normally as possible, trying not to look too closely at the vision of the two of you that was always there, no matter how much I wished I could turn my eyes away.
I was, I decided, lacking in precisely the way Miss Monkton at the grammar had pinpointed all those years ago. She was right. Enormous dedication and considerable backbone were things I did not have. Not when it came to my marriage. And so I took the coward’s way out. Although I could no longer deny the truth about Tom, I chose silence rather than further confrontation.
It was Julia who tried to rescue me.
One afternoon during the last week of term, after all the children had gone home, I was in the classroom, washing up paint pots and hanging wet artworks on a string I’d rigged across the window especially for this purpose. This gave me the kind of satisfaction I imagine my mother experienced on wash days, seeing the line of clean white nappies blowing in the sunshine. A task well done. Children well cared for. And the evidence pegged out for all to see.
Without a word, Julia strolled in and sat on a desk, which immediately looked ridiculously small with her long limbs on it – she was almost as tall as me. Putting a hand to her forehead, as if attempting to stem the pain of a headache, she began: ‘Is everything all right?’
There was never much preamble with Julia. No skirting around the issue. I should have thanked her for it. But instead I said, rather surprised, ‘Everything’s fine.’
She smiled, tapping herself lightly on the forehead now. ‘Because I had this silly idea that you were avoiding me.’ Her bright blue eyes were on mine. ‘We’ve hardly spoken since we took the children to Castle Hill, have we? I hope you’ve forgiven my clumsiness …?’
Pegging up another painting so I didn’t have to look at her questioning face, I said, ‘Of course I have.’
After a pause, Julia jumped up and stood behind me. ‘These are nice.’ She touched a corner of one of the paintings and peered at it closely. ‘The head mentioned that your museum visit was a great success. I’m thinking of taking my lot next term.’
When the head had asked me about the visit, it had crossed my mind to tell him that you were nothing but an incompetent toff with plenty of artistic pretensions but no real idea of how to handle a roomful of children. However, I’d been unable to lie, Patrick, despite what had happened at the end of that day. And so I’d given him a positive if brief report of your activities and shown him some of the children’s creative efforts. He’d admired Alice’s mask in particular. Needless to say, I’d mentioned Milly’s puddle to no one. But I was reluctant, now, to give you any more credit. ‘It was fine,’ I said. ‘Nothing extraordinary.’
‘Shall we go for a drink?’ Julia asked. ‘You look like you deserve one. Come on. Let’s get out of this place.’ She was grinning, gesturing towards the door. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m very ready for a drop of the hard stuff.’
We sat in the snug of the Queen’s Park Tavern. Julia’s glass of port and lemon looked somehow wrong in her hand. I’d thought she would have a half of stout, or something in a shot glass, but she declared herself a slave to the sweet drink, and had bought me one too, promising that I would love it if only I gave it a try.
There was something wonderfully illicit about being in the dark, slightly dingy pub, with its heavy green curtains and almost black wood panelling, on such a bright afternoon. We’d chosen a gloomy booth in the almost-empty snug, and there were no other women in the place. Several of the middle-aged men who lined the bar stared at the two of us as we ordered our drinks, but I found I didn’t care. Julia lit my cigarette, then her own, and we both blew out and giggled. It was like being a schoolgirl again, in Sylvie’s bedroom, except I would never have smoked back then.
‘It was fun,’ she said, ‘on Castle Hill. Good to get out of the classroom.’
I agreed and drank several gulps of port and lemon, getting over the sickly sweetness of it and enjoying the weak feeling it carried to my knees, the warmth it created in my throat.
‘I try to take them as often as I can,’ Julia continued. ‘We have this wonderful landscape all around us, and most of them haven’t seen anything beyond Preston Park.’
I knew I could trust her with a confession. ‘Neither had I.’
She merely raised her eyebrows. ‘I thought perhaps you hadn’t. If you don’t mind my saying so.’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t know why not, really …’
‘Your husband isn’t the outdoors type?’
I laughed. ‘As a matter of fact, Tom’s in the sea-swimming club. He goes in every morning. Unless he’s on early shifts. Then it’s after work.’
‘He sounds very disciplined.’
‘Oh, he is.’
She gave me a sidelong glance. ‘You don’t join him?’
I thought of Tom holding me in the waves and carrying me back to shore. I thought of how light I felt in his arms. Then I thought of myself with all his possessions scattered around me on the bedroom floor, my blouse open, my hands grubbied. Taking another drink, I said, ‘I’m not a strong swimmer.’
‘You can’t be any worse than me. All I can do is doggy paddle.’ Putting down her glass, Julia lifted both hands in the air, let her wrists go limp and paddled furiously at nothing, pulling her mouth into a woeful grimace. ‘If I had bigger ears and a tail, someone might throw me a stick. Want another?’
I looked at the yellowed clock over the bar. Half past five. Tom would be home by now, wondering where I was. Let him wait, I decided. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Why not?’
At the bar, Julia stood with one foot on the brass rail that ran along the bottom, waiting to be served. A man with very few teeth stared at her, and she nodded at him, causing him to look away. Then she looked at me and grinned, and I was struck by how strong she appeared, standing at that bar as if ready for anything, or anyone. Her flat black hair, her red lipstick made her stand out wherever she went, but here she was like a beacon. Her voice, when she ordered, was clear and loud enough for everyone in the snug to hear, but she did not lower it. I wondered what she really thought of this place that was so obviously not her natural environment. Julia didn’t belong in beer-stained pubs, I thought; at least, this was not the sort of world into which she’d been born. I imagined her growing up riding a horse at weekends, attending guide camps, holidaying with her family in the western isles of Scotland. But the funny thing was, the difference in our backgrounds didn’t bother me at all. I found that her apparent independence, the way she was not afraid to look or sound different, was something I wanted for myself.
Placing our drinks on the table, she asked me cheerfully, ‘So. Marion. What are your politics?’
I almost spat a mouthful of port and lemon into her lap.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Is that an inappropriate question? Perhaps I should have waited until we’d had a few more drinks.’ She was smiling at me, but I got the feeling I was being tested in some way, and it was a test I badly wanted to pass. I remembered our conversation around the dinner table on the Isle of Wight, Patrick,
and after knocking back half my drink, I stated: ‘Well. I think mothers should be able to go to work, for a start. I’m all for equality. Between the sexes, I mean.’
Julia nodded and murmured her agreement, but was obviously waiting for further revelations.
‘And I think this H-bomb testing business is awful. Terrifying. I’m considering joining that campaign against it.’ This was not entirely true. At least, it didn’t become true until the moment I said it.
Julia lit another cigarette. ‘I went on the march at Easter. They have regular meetings about it in town, too. You should come along. We need all the help we can get to spread the word. A disaster’s waiting to happen, and most people are more concerned about what the bloody royals are wearing.’
She looked away from me, towards the bar, blowing smoke upwards.
‘When’s the next one?’ I asked.
‘Saturday.’
I said nothing for a moment. Tom had promised to take me out on Saturday afternoon, even though it was your turn to see him. It was his suggestion; a way, I knew, of making amends for going to Venice with you. Your trip had been fixed for mid-August, and Tom had said he’d spend every Saturday with me until then.
‘Of course,’ said Julia, ‘they won’t let you in without a Fair Isle sweater and a pipe.’
‘Then I’ll have to do my best to get hold of those things,’ I said. We smiled at each other and raised our glasses.
‘To resistance,’ said Julia.
When Tom asked me where I’d been that evening, I told him the truth – it had been a hard day and Julia and I had discussed it over a drink. He seemed almost relieved to hear this, despite what Julia had said about you. ‘I’m glad you’re seeing friends,’ he said. ‘Going out. You should see more of Sylvie, too.’
I said nothing to Tom about my plans for Saturday. I knew he wouldn’t approve of me going to a political meeting. It wasn’t the sort of thing policemen’s wives were supposed to do. When I’d described to him my horror at the head’s recent announcement that all staff would be expected to teach a session on how to survive a nuclear attack, his response had been, ‘Why shouldn’t they be prepared?’ And he’d moved from the bread and butter to the cake I’d placed on the table in an effort to prove myself a good and loyal wife.
You can see, Patrick, that I was very confused about everything at this time. The only thing of which I felt sure was that I wanted to be more like Julia. At school, we ate lunch together and she told me about the march she’d been on. There was colour in her cheeks as she described the way that all kinds of people – Christians, beatniks, students, schoolteachers, factory workers, anarchists – had come together to make their voices heard. On that cold spring day they’d joined ranks and walked from London to the nuclear research centre at Aldermaston. She mentioned a friend, Rita, who’d marched with her. They’d walked all the way, despite the dismal weather and the fact that, towards the end, they’d wished they were in the pub instead. She laughed and said, ‘Some of them can be a bit – you know – po-faced. But it’s a wonderful thing. When you’re marching, you feel like you’re doing something. You’re all in it together.’
It sounded magical to me. It sounded like another world entirely. One I couldn’t wait to enter.
Saturday came and I insisted that Tom go to see you after all, saying that he shouldn’t let you down, and he could make it up to me next weekend. He looked confused, but he went anyway. At the door, he kissed my cheek. ‘Thanks, Marion,’ he said, ‘for being so good about everything.’ He was watching my face, obviously still unsure whether to take advantage of my apparent generosity or not. I waved him off with a smile.
After he’d gone, I went upstairs and tried to work out what might be a suitable outfit to wear to a meeting of the local Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament group. It was a warm July day, but my best summer frock – light tangerine in colour with a cream geometric print – would have been, I knew, deeply inappropriate. Nothing in my wardrobe seemed serious enough for the occasion. I’d seen pictures in the paper of the Aldermaston march, and knew that Julia was only half joking when she’d mentioned the need for a Fair Isle sweater and a pipe. Spectacles, a long scarf and a duffel coat seemed to be the uniform of those marchers, male and female alike. I looked through the pastel colours and flower prints of my wardrobe and felt disgusted with myself. Why didn’t I have a pair of trousers, at least? In the end I decided upon one of the outfits I regularly wore to school: a plain navy skirt and a light pink blouse. Taking up my cream cardigan with the big blue buttons, I set off to meet Julia.
When I arrived at the Friends’ Meeting House, I knew I needn’t have worried about blending in. Julia obviously had no such concerns: her jade green dress and orange beads were easily spotted in the crowd. I write ‘crowd’, but there can’t have been more than thirty people in the Meeting House lecture room. The room was white-walled with high windows at one end, and sunlight filled the place with warmth. At the back of the hall there was a trestle table with cups and an urn of tea set out on a paper tablecloth. At the front of the room was a large banner with the words CND BRIGHTON appliquéd on. As I arrived, a man with a short beard and a very crisp white shirt, the sleeves of which were neatly rolled to his elbows, was standing up to speak. Julia spotted me and gestured that I should sit on the bench next to her. I crept over to her as quietly as I could, glad that I hadn’t worn my kitten heels. She grinned, patted my arm, then turned a serious face towards the front.
The room didn’t look like a religious place, but a sense of quiet awe was present on that Saturday afternoon. The speaker had no platform on which to stand, let alone a pulpit from which to preach, but he was dramatically back-lit by the sunshine pouring through the windows, and everyone fell silent even before he began his speech.
‘Friends. Thank you all for coming today. I’m especially pleased to see some new faces …’ He turned his gaze to me, and I found myself smiling back. ‘As you know, we’re here to unite in the struggle for peace …’
As he spoke, I noticed how gentle yet firm his voice was, and how he managed to appear both casual and urgent. It was something to do with the way he leant back very slightly as he spoke, smiled around the room and let his words do the talking, without the dramatic gestures or the shouting that I’d expected. Instead, he was quietly confident, as were, it seemed to me, most of the people in the room. What he said was so evidently sensible that I found it hard to understand why anyone should disagree. Of course survival should come before democracy or even freedom. Of course it was pointless to argue about politics in the face of the destruction a nuclear attack would bring. Of course the H-bomb tests, which could cause cancer, should be stopped immediately. He explained how Britain could lead the world by its example. ‘After all, where we go, others follow,’ he declared, and everyone clapped. ‘We are supported by many great and good men and women. Benjamin Britten, E.M. Forster and Barbara Hepworth are just a few of the names I’m proud to say have added their voices to our campaign. But this movement cannot afford to be complacent. We rely on the grass-roots support of men and women like you. So please, take as many leaflets as you can and disseminate them as widely as you can. Leave them in public house, classroom and church. Without you, nothing can be done. With you, much is possible. Change is possible, and it will come. We will ban the bomb!’ As he spoke, there were vigorous nods of approval, and murmurs of assent, but only one woman shouted out, and she did so at odd moments. I saw a pained look pass across the speaker’s face as she bellowed ‘Hear, hear!’ at the words ‘Collect your leaflets from Pamela, who’s stationed at the tea table …’ Pamela gave a little wave, then patted her tight curls. ‘After you’ve had tea, of course,’ she added, and everyone laughed.
I thought, for a moment, how pleased you would be that I was part of something that involved such an esteemed group of writers and artists. You’d introduced Tom and me to the work of the people the speaker had mentioned, and you would be proud, I knew, to see me sitti
ng there and listening to this speech. You’d be proud that I’d taken, in my own small way, a stand for what I believed in. You might even help me, I thought, to convince Tom that he should be proud too.
But I knew that such exchanges and understandings between the two of us were impossible. I would never tell you about this day. It would be my secret. You and Tom had your secrets, and now I had mine. It was a small, rather harmless secret, but it was my own.
After we’d collected our leaflets, Julia suggested a stroll along the seafront. As we got closer to the sea, we were harangued by salesmen hollering their wares to the crowds of day-trippers: big-banger sandwiches, fresh-shelled oysters, cockles, winkles, dirty postcards, ice cream, sun hats, sticks of rock, toilet-roll holders with naughty inscriptions. Reaching the prom, we leant on the railing and watched the scene on the beach below. The high sun felt like a slap in the face, I remember, after the gentle light of the Meeting House. Behind windbreaks, families were busy consuming sandwiches and cream cakes; children cried to go in the sea, and then cried to come out again; young men in coloured shirts sat in groups, drinking bottles of beer, and young women dressed in black tried to read novels in the glare of the sun; little girls shrieked at the water’s edge, their skirts tucked into their knickers; ladies wearing head-scarves, sitting silently in deckchairs, lined the pavement, surveying the whole thing.
It was a very different picture to the one that had greeted me the morning I’d first met Tom for our swimming lessons. Now there was endless noise: the clatter of coins from the amusement arcade, gun blasts from the shooting gallery, laughter and music from Chatfield’s bar, screams from the helter-skelter. The image of Tom’s face at the top of the stairs, pale and childlike, came to me again. That had been the only time, I realised, he’d shown me any real weakness. I looked at Julia, who was shading her eyes against the sun, smiling down at the chaos of the beach, and I had a sudden urge to tell her everything. My husband is afraid of heights. And he’s also sexually abnormal. I thought I might be able to say these things to her and she wouldn’t be shocked or disgusted; I might even be able to say such things without fear of ending our friendship.
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