Alice stopped and reflected upon her own appalling impertinence, because wouldn’t God be rooting for Roland? He surely had every reason to. Roland seemed to proceed on that assumption anyway. It was part of what made him so equable and nice. All his hope on God was founded, even though he was far too polite and far too understated ever to make that overt. (And even though bloody God had given him the wrong sort of eyes to be a soldier with. Sod you, God. Couldn’t you have let him cheat on the eye test and have an armoured vehicle and a snake-bite kit?)
But Roland’s God wasn’t like that, so she might as well be saving her breath. If Roland’s God had decided in his wisdom not to let you play on Thursday, there was no twisting his arm to have it otherwise. And Roland’s God would never ooze or flash. Good Lord no! Nor would Roland ever get himself up in a winding sheet and beseech his God to ravish him. Good Lord no! God sat comfortably at the head of Roland’s mess table articulating the grace in a public-school accent like Uncle Mac’s. Alice was in no doubt at all, suddenly, that Roland’s God would always pee standing up.
From three places down, Alice could hear that Burnley’s voice was rising. It was rising perpendicular, like the pillars of the nave and hanging pendant, beautiful, in the groins of the fanning vaults.
Mrs Gubbins was dowdy beyond belief. She looked like a hippopotamus in clothes, Alice thought. And she marched Alice round her vegetable garden next morning where she talked about lettuces having ‘hearts’ in a curious, deep, transvestite voice. Then she observed – within the hearing of one of the skivvies, Alice was sure – that the ‘local people’, while they were ‘honest as the day’, were just a wee bit short on grey matter.
Alice thought that the school, with its crenellated battlements and its ivy and its arrow slits in the tower was like her own old school only writ so much grander and more deeply pretentious. The weekend was full of playing fields and chess and chapel and boys in blazers and Roland in his element and the senior boys sizing up her legs.
Then, finally, on the Sunday afternoon, Roland took her out in the car, saying happily how tremendously good it was to be alone with her in such superb countryside and wasn’t it a delight, after Oxfordshire, to be winding through such dales. Roland was resting on his laurels. Dr Gubbins had, as he had anticipated, offered him a job, not only as head of Maths, but, within a term of taking up that appointment, as one of his housemasters as well. It would mean he could be shot of old Braithwaite by Michaelmas and do what he was good at without the additional grind of having to cover for a fool.
At the same time, as soon as Alice had written her finals, he could offer her that truly charming little stone house, with sheep on a green hillside visible from the upstairs sitting-room window and stone flags on the kitchen floor. The kitchen had a range and an old painted dresser which ran the whole length of one wall. Upstairs were the four pretty bedrooms, already becomingly papered with trellis patterns and small flowers. The house was within the school complex and from its rooms one could hear the hourly chime of the school clock in the tower. It did not daunt Roland that the house had no central heating. He was happy to undertake the lighting up of the old Russian stove each morning, and, for the rest, one would encourage one’s family to take brisk walks and put on sensible clothing. All the bedrooms had their lovely old fireplaces intact, with tiles and lead-blacked hearthstones and, well, if anyone were ill (and it was extremely unlikely ever to be himself) one would not hesitate to make up a fire for them in the grate.
Roland savoured the prospect as he drove. He would not want to stay in the north for ever, naturally, but what a perfect place to start one’s married life and raise a young family. Apple trees abounded in the garden for one’s children to climb. There was a swing, and a stone wall, beyond which lay open fields and grazing land.
He gave thought, considerately, to the environment from Alice’s point of view. There were an awful lot of males about, to be sure, but his mother might be in a position to advise her on that. She had managed a happy and stable married life within a similar situation. Would it make his little Alice feel out of countenance, he wondered? She was a bit constrained with boys. But he would give her so much of his love and attention. Really. She would not feel bereft. She was not a great one for the gaggle anyway, if her college was anything to go by. Still, she ought to have the company of women from time to time. Not a gruesome old bat like Mrs Gubbins, of course. Alice needed a girlfriend. Or failing that a daughter.
Much as Roland relished the prospect of fathering male children, he hoped, for Alice’s sake, that his first child would be a girl. He turned his thoughts for a moment to that ghastly cock-up over the mysterious, vanishing RC. His heart still bled for Alice whenever he thought about that day. That this wretched child should have beguiled her with lies and claimed her heart and then abandoned her in that peremptory way. Quite extraordinary, really. People didn’t behave like that. He had some intention of approaching the headmistress himself, once he could do so unambiguously in his role as Alice’s fiancé, and see if something could be unravelled. Not that he wanted this dubious creature in his house, but to have it settled would be to let the matter rest. And Alice deserved to know.
Right then, Roland was conscious of a debt of gratitude to Alice. Granted, he was terribly good at his job, and his little boys had shown up extremely well, but darling Alice, who had not wanted to come with him in the first place, had really done him proud. She was so exquisitely pretty in that unfussed, sensible way. So polite and quiet; so attentive and respectful to her hosts. Her conversation – always circumspect and a little bit restrained by the stammer – had been intelligent, diplomatic and well-informed. Sometimes, in the past, when they were on their own, she had said some rather curious things. Funny little troubled eccentric things, but, really, only because she wanted coaxing out of them. Yes, Alice had been absolutely splendid these last two days. Alice had come up trumps. Dr Gubbins had clearly been delighted by her – as well he bloody should be! Even the old battle-axe had been quite enchanted. Roland smiled. That could well materialize as too much of a good thing of course, but the Gubbinses were due to retire quite soon. Mrs Gubbins would not be haunting Alice for long.
Roland recalled with amusement the affable severity with which this awesome person had marched Alice off around the vegetable garden, stamping across the hall in those seven league brogues and sounding every inch like the Red Queen on the warpath. He would have to protect his darling wife from the over-zealous interest of this daunting, pedagogical matron – just for a year or two. Keep the girl busy, that was the trick. Find her a nice little part-time job until the babies came along. This would not be a problem – not now that he had taught her how to drive. He was confident, also, that within the year he would have taught her how to swim properly. Funny that she didn’t like water.
‘Sweetie,’ Roland said and he drew the car to a halt at the verge. ‘Your turn to take the wheel, I think.’
Chapter 20
Alice had very recently begun to enjoy driving the car. For a good while after Roland had started to teach her it had remained one of those things, like swimming twenty-five metres, which she believed only other people accomplished. But suddenly it had felt quite different. Being able to drive was enormously gratifying. It was like a passport to adulthood. Or it would have been, had not her parents immediately announced their intention of buying her a brand-new car for her birthday. Alice had not suggested it or even hinted at it. And it was compromising too, because Roland, she knew, thought it indefensible for her to have a brand-new car when he was available to look over any number of decent secondhand cars for her and to guide her choice with care, but there it was. She could not let them down. They would sweep her into whatever was the adult equivalent of Hamley’s toyshop and wait to see which one of the shiny little new cars could make their baby’s eyes shine brightest. To watch her would make their own eyes shine bright.
And that afternoon Alice could not enjoy the driving. She could no
t enjoy anything at all really, because brewing on the horizon was an inescapable confrontation.
Roland had noticed her new competence with satisfaction. Only that week, he had stopped feeling always on duty, like an instructor, while Alice drove his car. Teaching her had not been easy, but he had begun at last to sit back like a passenger and relax. Right then, he had folded up the Ordnance Survey Map and had put it in the cubby hole alongside his shining new ice pick.
‘You’re driving well, Alice,’ he said. ‘Have you got a date yet for your test?’ Alice shook her head.
‘You’ve been increbed-beb-beb- – incredibly k-k-k-,’ Alice said. ‘You’ve been very kind, Roland. It’s been v-vv-very h-h-h.’ She stopped and tried again. ‘Your car,’ she said. ‘I hope I haven’t abused it.’ Roland gestured graciously. He was eager to pass on good news.
‘Dr Gubbins offered me a job as head of department this morning,’ he said. ‘His head of Maths is retiring at the end of the summer.’ He paused. ‘And one of the housemasters is moving on. He means to have me take that over after Christmas.’ He paused and smiled at her, trying to look modest. ‘I think that congratulations are in order,’ he said. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Oh yes,’ Alice said. ‘Oh y-yes. But-but you’ll miss W-white-scroff and Pyecross-scroft.’
Roland gestured yes-no. ‘I shall miss you, my dearest poppet,’ he said. ‘So now you see that all the driving lessons have been mere selfishness on my part. I mean to have you up and down rather often over the next two years.’ He paused and sighed. ‘Seven eight-week terms. That’s quite a long haul, admittedly, but we shall have every minute of the vacations together. I do promise you that.’ He smiled at her with intent to give solace. ‘Will you like to live up here with me, my sweetie – in this beautiful, empty country?’ Alice could not formulate a reply before he said, ‘And “Grandma” might appreciate having you so close.’
Alice briefly clenched and unclenched her hands. All weekend he had been so surrounded by Gubbinses and housemasters and the chaplain and the schoolboys that there had been no opportunity to speak, and anyway it would not have been fair. And now that the moment had really come, it was going to be so difficult. It was always difficult to talk seriously with Roland.
‘But this is-isn-n-isn’t the Social-l-lis Plerublic of Chelester-s-s-s-s – Street,’ she said.
Roland laughed. ‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘But it is very much closer. You’re tongue-tied today, my poppet. Are you feeling tired?’
‘R-roland—’ Alice said. ‘Th-thw-th-th—’
‘First things first,’ Roland said. ‘You relax. Talk later. I’ve bought you a present. It’s very small, but it signifies something very momentous for me.’ He spoke with a kind of innuendo which brought ice to Alice’s throat. Was this, she speculated, Roland’s delicate way of saying that he had bought a packet of condoms and that he meant to use them on her?
‘I’ve bought you the prettiest little ring,’ he said. ‘I shall give it to you shortly.’ Alice felt so powerfully reproached that she could not respond at all, but Roland did not require it. ‘Before I give it to you,’ he said. ‘There is something that I mean to do first.’
‘W-what?’ Alice said.
‘Make love to you,’ he said. Alice turned and looked at him. She opened her mouth. Before words had formulated themselves, Roland spoke again. ‘Eyes on the road, my sweetie,’ he said. ‘The terrain is just a wee bit unpredictable around here. Rather dominated by the course of the Tees, as you’ll have noticed.’ Alice turned her eyes quickly back to the road.
‘W-we can’t,’ she said. ‘W-we m-mu-b-b-b.’ She damned her affliction more so at that moment and more vehemently than at any other time in her life. ‘Not with old G-Bugg-ug-ug-ug-gub—’ Roland laughed. He was in a mood so glowing with good feeling that it bordered on skittishness.
‘Do try not to call him “old bugger” to his face,’ he said. ‘And calm yourself, sweetie. I really do not mean that we should perform the act under his nose. There’s a nice little area of dense mixed woodland coming up to our left in a half a mile or so, and that is where you will pull up.’
It was suddenly perfectly clear to Alice that Roland had planned the route they had taken with intent. He had studied the map and had arranged that they should approach the area of dense mixed woodland with an hour to kill before they would need to head back for the chess finalists and old Gubbins presenting the cup. It undoubtedly explained the presence of Roland’s Eurohike compressed foam exercise mat which lay, compactly rolled, upon the back seat of the car. How thoughtful he was, as ever, to be insuring against her discomfort from pine needles and sharp twigs. He would take her delicately in this pleasant pastoral setting, after which he would affiance her with his pretty little ring and then they would return to receive the Gubbinses’ congratulations. Whitecross would rally the foursome to the expression of respectful witticisms and her life would be sealed for ever. Mann und Weib und Weib und Mann.
‘N-no!’ she said.
‘Oh but yes,’ Roland said firmly. ‘Absolutely, definitely yes, my poppet. I have been idiotically patient and you have been idiotically shy. It has all been completely silly and unnecessary and as from right now it is going to stop.’ He was beginning to talk to her just slightly in his Whitescruff-and-Pyecrust voice. ‘I hope that I make myself perfectly clear,’ he said.
‘Yss,’ Alice said. She wondered, would he ask her to speak up and not to mumble?
‘Good,’ Roland said. She drove on for a half a minute in quaking silence. Mrs McCrail flashed absurdly across her mind, along with the bluebell wood and the chef and the yellow waistcoat and the torn stockings in spirals around Mrs McCrail’s legs and the four strong men in the parlour and the razor strap. Are you asking to get beaten, Pykestaff?
‘I c-can’t,’ she said. ‘S-somebody will see us.’
‘Absolutely nobody is going to see us,’ Roland said. A tone of indulgent certainty was colouring stage one of his crowd-control voice. ‘It’s completely, divinely empty up here. And at all events, my sweetie, nobody is going to see very much of you. I shall “cover” you, as they put it so delicately in the horse trade. And if any passing Yorkshire-man should happen to catch an eyeful of my buttocks bobbing in the undergrowth, well, he’s bloody welcome, is all I can say. I shall be far too busy to care.’
Shock waves passed through Alice’s brain, sabotaging all possibility of speech. She saw the letters in her head, all churned into a can of Alphabetti-Spaghetti. The best she could do would be to spoon them out at random.
‘R –,’ she said, and her tongue jammed; a cramped muscle against her hard palate. Roland waited for her to proceed. Then he accepted that she could not. Having made his point so forcefully, he felt very tenderly towards her. The poor darling girl. But really. One could not pussyfoot around for ever, and who could tell? It might even do wonders for the stammer. She’d been so curiously sheltered all her life. So puzzling, when one considered how pretty she was. Had nobody noticed that, back in darkest Surrey? What had been the matter with everybody? Had all the males been blind? How else was it that she hadn’t gone through any of the usual teenage induction processes; the groping in darkened, smoke-filled rooms with the record player pulsing out heavy rock and somebody’s vomit on the stairs? She was like a princess locked in a tower. And right now, he had to say it, her face was an absolute picture. He couldn’t help wanting to tease her.
‘Chin up, my sweetie,’ he said. ‘This isn’t a funeral, you know.’ Then he reached out to her, moving a little closer; making to put his arm around her shoulders.
For some months afterwards, Alice could remember almost nothing of what had happened. She remembered only the face of Mr Fergusson as he had swelled and swelled and haunted her dreams. Dreams that shut off always as he was about to burst his skin. All the letters in the spaghetti can had suddenly ranked themselves in rows.
‘Don’t you dare touch me or I’ll kill you!’ Alice screamed. As she spoke, she pu
shed down on the accelerator pedal and swung the wheel violently to the right in an impulse to avoid Roland and the area of dense, mixed woodland, both of which were looming to her left. They had come upon the little bridge so suddenly, and there, equally suddenly, was the small white van, but the terrain, as Roland had rightly observed, was a wee bit unpredictable. Alice, having swung at the wheel, then braked. The Citroën skated sideways through the parapet. It juddered through a section of masonry and fell heavily into the water at an angle of north-north-east.
Roland was really rather splendid in the circumstances. Given that the look of hysteria and distaste on Alice’s face as she screamed at him not to touch her was enough to paralyse him for a moment and render ineffectual all his well-assimilated survival strategies. Given that it was enough, finally, to force the truth upon his sanguine consciousness, so that he knew, quite suddenly, quite certainly, that Alice did not love him and that, rather than have him make love to her, she was hurling his beautiful old car into the river at great risk to both their lives.
The first thing he did was wrench her towards him to the passenger side of the vehicle. None the less, the fall knocked her unconscious. The Citroën began to sink fast and the doors and windows were jammed. Roland worked very quickly and with laudable presence of mind. He thanked his stars for the Snowdonia trip, without which he would not have purchased the ice axe. And without the ice axe they might quite conceivably both have drowned.
Once he had got her to the surface, Roland laid Alice on the riverbank and turned her carefully face down on to her side. He tilted up her chin and checked the pulse in her neck. He suspected, after brief examination, that she had fractured some of her ribs. His forearms had begun to run with blood from numerous superficial lacerations acquired through contact with the window frame. When he turned for help towards the bridge and the road, it was with enormous relief that he saw the driver of the small white van. The man, who was young, probably younger than Roland, was peering from the ruptured parapet with an expression of wonder and disbelief.
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