Ken washed his hands and rubbed a flannel over his face. He paused for a moment, looking in the mirror. Some streets away an ambulance passed, its bell ringing. He waited until the sound faded; he never used to notice ambulances. Then he noticed the dirty marks on his shoulders and rubbed them off.
He went down to the kitchen. Ann was opening the oven door; she had her back to him. He sat down at the table.
‘You went there specially?’ she asked.
‘No, I was working –’ He stopped. ‘Yes. I went there to find out what your mad sister’s actually on about.’
‘What happened?’
‘We chatted about . . . well, how she thought it might be done.’
‘How?’ She turned. Her cheeks were pink.
‘Oh, various ways . . .’
‘You think – it might . . .?’
‘Happen?’
‘Do you?’ She stood there, holding the casserole. She looked small and eager, with her big oven gloves.
He paused. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Can we do it?’
‘I don’t know!’ He heard his voice rising to a squeak. ‘Let me think about it!’
Ollie went into the bathroom. Through the wall he could hear the murmur of Viv’s voice as she read to the children. Her voice rose to a West Country bellow: ‘you kids, stay off moi land!’ She was taking her time.
The sink was full of water; submerged in it was a drowned teddy. He lifted it out; it was waterlogged. He threw it into the bath. He started to wash his hands and then, suddenly, he plunged his face into the cold water.
He lifted up his dripping face, gasping, and rubbed his hair with a towel. He thought: now why did I do that?
When he got downstairs he poured himself a gin and tonic and wandered around the kitchen. She hadn’t started making the supper but this might be a sign that he should. With Viv, one never knew.
He had finished his drink by the time she came downstairs.
‘Wish they wouldn’t ask for that stuff,’ she said. ‘Nearly as bad as Enid Blyton.’
‘So he came to the allotments?’
She nodded, and fetched herself a glass. ‘Christ, I need a drink.’
He watched her getting the ice. ‘So what did he say?’
‘Ken?’
‘No, Dustin Hoffman.’
‘We just talked.’
‘Viv!’
She said: ‘You know, we’ve never really talked, Ken and me. All these years.’ She poured a large amount of gin into her glass.
‘What did he say? What did you say?’
‘Don’t interrogate me!’ She undid the tonic bottle; it hissed. ‘I don’t ask where you’ve been.’
‘That’s different.’
‘I don’t ask who you’ve had a drink with.’
‘That’s not important,’ he said.
‘Who was it then?’
‘Someone from the office.’ He sat down on the arm of the sofa. ‘Ellie, a new girl. I took her to a wine bar.’
‘He just came to the hut.’ She drank.
‘You arranged it?’
She shook her head. ‘He just arrived.’
‘With his bag of peanuts. What did you talk about? Your sprouts?’
‘For a bit.’ She raised her eyes, holding up a piece of lemon for his gin, but he shook his head.
‘Sounds like a conspiracy to me,’ he said. ‘Bribing my children, secret meetings . . .’
‘It wasn’t secret.’
‘I have a funny feeling I’m being left out of things.’
‘You’re not!’
The stairs creaked. Rosie stood there in her nightie.
‘You’re shouting,’ she said. ‘I can’t get to sleep.’
Viv slipped off her kimono and climbed into bed. Ollie lay there, reading Private Eye. He turned the page. She waited a moment, then she touched his cheek.
‘Sorry I shouted.’
He put down the magazine. ‘So am I. I’m sorry.’
‘We’re both a bit . . . you know . . .’
He nodded, then he leant over and turned off the light. He turned back and put his arms around her. Then he started nuzzling her neck. ‘Mmmm . . .’
She kissed him. He tasted of familiarity and toothpaste. His hand slid down her breast. ‘Viv . . .’
‘Mmm . . .?’
‘I’ve got a suggestion.’
‘What?’ she murmured, then lay still.
He moved his hand down between her thighs, and breathed into her ear. ‘Let’s start pn that baby now.’
She lay rigid. He went on stroking. Finally she said: ‘Ollie . . .’
‘What?’
‘There’s something I’ve got to tell you.’
‘Mmm . . .’ He was still stroking her.
‘It’s about my talk with Ken.’
His hand paused. ‘Yes?’
She said: ‘He wants it to be his child.’
_____Eight_____
IT WAS SUNDAY; post-rugger. The changing-room was noisy and smelt of damp men. Ollie stood in the shower cubicle, drenching himself, and sang at the top of his voice:
‘Love, oh love oh careless love,
Taught me to weep and it taught me to moan,
Taught me to lose my happy home . . .’
Ken was showering in the next cubicle. Suddenly Ollie stopped singing and shouted:
‘So you want to impregnate my wife?’
He rinsed himself and stepped out. Ken also stepped out, wrapping a towel modestly around his waist. With another towel he rubbed himself dry.
‘Did you say something?’ he asked.
Ollie wrapped his towel around his hips. ‘I just said: “Funny thing, life.”’
Ken smiled. ‘You mean, fifteen grown men kicking around a bit of leather?’
‘Something like that.’
He looked at Ken’s chest: packed and muscular, with a pair of good, broad shoulders and a surprisingly thick growth of hair. He remembered Viv running her hand over it and laughing: Small but perfectly formed. He had known Ken for years but he had never really looked at him.
Diz came up and tweaked Ollie’s ear. ‘Bit aggressive, weren’t we, bully boy?’ He indicated Ken. ‘He is supposed to be on our side.’
Ollie said. ‘Me, a bully?’
Diz ran his hand over Ollie’s chest. ‘No, you’re all soft and liberal.’ He turned to Ken. ‘Take note. A prime specimen of lapsed-radical, twentieth-century man. Note the equivocal slope to the shoulders, the privileged lack of muscle tone . . . a body wasted by introspection. Note, however, the one over-developed organ . . .’
‘What’s that?’ asked Ken.
‘The social conscience.’
‘Sod off, Diz,’ said Ollie.
‘I’m allowed to humiliate you. I’m your editor.’
In the pub Ken tried to buy the drinks.
‘Let me –’ said Ollie.
‘No, please –’
‘Come on –’
‘No . . .’ Ken nudged Ollie away and offered a tenner to the barman. ‘What’s the damage?’
As Ken paid, Ollie murmured: ‘Curious phrase, isn’t it?’
‘Isn’t what?’
‘“The damage”. What, exactly, is the damage it means?’
‘Search me.’
Ken passed out the pints.
‘Dart-board’s free,’ said Diz. ‘Come on.’
‘Look, Ken –’ began Ollie.
Ken was moving away. Ollie touched his arm; the beer rocked in his glass. ‘Ken –’
‘What?’
‘We must talk, the four of us.’ Diz had moved away; Ollie kept his voice low. ‘Viv and I’ve talked, and if we’re going to go through with this . . .’
Ken stared at him.
Ollie nodded. ‘She’s told me.’
Ken paused. ‘I see.’
‘Bit of a shock, but . . .’
They both drank. There was a pause.
‘I can understand,’ said Ollie. ‘No, really. I
know how you feel –’
‘Look –’ Ken glanced around at the crowded bar.
‘How about Tuesday?’ said Ollie. ‘You could both come round and have supper.’
‘Er, Tuesday’s Youth Club.’
‘Wednesday then?’
Ken nodded. They paused, then they walked over to the dart-board.
‘Stop talking rot,’ said Diz. He pointed to Ollie: ‘Bet you always pick our Kenneth’s brains.’
‘What about?’
‘Your house.’ He turned to Ken. ‘You must’ve learnt by now that journalists have a divine dispensation to get everything free.’
‘Oh shut up,’ said Ollie, and took the darts. He aimed, and hurled them at the dart-board.
Diz laughed. ‘Steady on, Ollie-baby.’
Ollie came into the kitchen, put down his briefcase and stared.
‘Good Lord, we’re not expecting the Queen Mother.’
Viv was on her knees scrubbing the front of the kitchen units.
He laughed. ‘Know something? You look like a proper housewife.’
‘Stop standing there. Come and help.’
‘You haven’t worn that apron since they were babies.’
‘Sweep the floor.’ She looked at her watch. ‘They’ll be here soon.’
He took off his jacket and fetched the broom. ‘It’s only your sister and her husband, you know.’
‘Hurry up.’
He started sweeping the floor. When he got to the dresser he pulled it out from the wall. Reaching down behind it, he picked something up. ‘Fossilized toast!’ He inspected it closely. ‘I’d say circa the late seventies. Ah! and here’s the earring that red-headed slag lost at our party, remember?’
Viv didn’t reply. She was taking out the groceries and muttering. ‘Watercress, tomatoes, now where’s the sodding coriander?’
‘Look!’ he said. ‘Trish and Alan’s change-of-address card. No wonder they took offence. Think I’ll designate this a site of archaeological interest.’
She didn’t laugh. ‘Coriander, coriander . . .’
He straightened up. ‘This is ridiculous!’
She rifled amongst the packages. ‘It’s somewhere here.’
‘We’re not on display! We’re not a bloody shop window.’ Suddenly he grabbed a Pentel and went up to her. ‘Stand still.’
‘What’re you doing?’
‘Close your eyes.’
She was wearing a white plastic Mothercare apron; they had bought it together. On it he started writing, in large letters. 8 O-LEVELS, FERTILE, –
‘What’re you doing?’ She twisted her head down.
SOUND TEETH –
She pushed his hand away. ‘Ollie!’
He put his hands on her shoulders and shook her. She was damp from her work.
‘Look, Viv, you don’t have to do all this. Don’t you see?’
‘What?’
‘How lucky they are?’ He stared into her pink face. ‘How bloody lucky?’
She paused. ‘Don’t be aggressive with them.’
‘No.’
‘Don’t be angry with Ken.’
He gazed at her as he had gazed at Ken, following the lines of her face, looking at her thin shoulders under her T-shirt. Ken had looked surprisingly strong; Viv, he realized, had lost weight. She had always been slender but now, in her labelled apron, she looked about twenty years old, and frail.
He said: ‘I promise I’ll behave.’
‘This evening must be a success.’
He nodded. ‘God help us . . .’
7.45. Viv had rubbed the marks off her apron and hung it up. The table was laid. She had even found the real napkins Ann had once given her. They looked well pressed, because they had never been used.
8.0. ‘Hurry up, Ollie!’ She called upstairs, leaning on the banisters. He was right, of course, it was stupid to be so jittery.
Back in the kitchen she paced around the table. She was wearing her loose lurex harem trousers, the sort of garment you could hopefully curl up in and relax.
Ollie joined her in the kitchen. They drank a gin and tonic.
At last she asked: ‘Should we phone?’
‘Ken’s never late.’
She lit another cigarette, annoyed with herself because she wanted to save up any cigarette-smoking for when Ken and Ann were there.
8.15 . . . 8.20. ‘Bad for the nerves,’ said Ollie.
‘Bad for the bœuf en croute.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Surrogate motherhood’s going to be an expensive business.’
8.35.
‘Perhaps they’re late,’ said Ollie, ‘because they know we’re always late.’
The bell rang. They jumped.
‘You go,’ said Viv.
‘No, you.’
‘Wimp,’ she said.
She went along the passage and opened the front door. Ann stood there. Viv looked beyond her; Ken must be parking the car.
Ann said: ‘He’s not coming.’
The three of them sat at the table, eating bean salad. Ken’s empty place had not been cleared away; Ollie said he might have second thoughts.
‘I called him a coward,’ said Ann. ‘I shouted at him. It was awful.’
Viv poured them some more wine. ‘I still don’t understand. Is he going to go through with this or not?’
‘I don’t know. All he said was it was too private for one of your big heart-to-hearts.’
Ollie gestured round the room. What does he think? We’re on Candid Camera?’
‘He’s shy, you see,’ said Ann.
‘Shy?’
Viv nodded. ‘Course he is. That’s why he gets so aggressive.’
Ann looked at them pleadingly. ‘He’s not a coward really. He’d be the first over the trenches.’
Viv smiled. ‘But you don’t have to talk then.’
Ollie mopped up his vinaigrette with some bread. ‘There’s so much stuff we’ve got to talk about . . .’
‘I know,’ said Ann. ‘The legal side, the money side. He wants to discuss those.’
‘Why the hell isn’t he here then?’
‘Ollie!’ Viv glared at him.
Ann paused. ‘You know perfectly well why.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you make him feel inferior.’
‘We don’t!’ said Viv.
Ann nodded. ‘It shows.’
‘What does?’
‘The trying.’
Ken knelt on the kitchen floor, mending the ironing board. He banged in a nail. Beside him, spread out on a newspaper, was the broken teapot he’d been meaning to mend for months. He would get on to that next.
While Viv poured out the coffee, Ollie went over to the fridge and brought out a bottle of champagne.
‘Let’s drink this anyway.’ He opened it, and filled three glasses. They raised them. ‘To this generation, and the next.’
Viv said: ‘And the older one too.’
‘What?’ asked Ann.
‘Dad and Vera.’
Ann put down her glass. ‘What?’
There was a silence.
Viv said: ‘Hasn’t he told you?’
‘Told me what?’
Viv stared at her. ‘Oh God.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I presumed he’d told you by now.’ Viv paused. ‘He’s getting married again.’
There was a pause as Ann took a sip from her glass. ‘No he hasn’t told me.’
‘Oh hell,’ said Viv.
‘He hasn’t bothered to tell me. All he’s bothered to do is ask me for a mortgage.’
Nobody spoke. They gazed at the empty bowl in the middle of the table. Some scrapings of cream remained in it, and a stray glacé cherry.
Ann made a faint hiccuping sound, then Viv realized it was not that: she had started to cry.
Viv jumped up and knelt beside her. ‘Don’t.’
Ann raised her streaming face. ‘He doesn’t love me –’
‘He didn’t m
ean to –’
‘Oh I’ve always known that, of course, I have! It’s just . . . oh, nothing’s any good. Ken can’t even bother to swallow his pride and come here, just because he’s embarrassed, but why does that matter, for God’s sake? Why does it matter if it’s his baby, it’s only a little mechanical business, everything else seems so much bigger than that, but the trouble is he doesn’t seem big enough for it, probably none of us are. Everything seems so empty –’
‘Don’t –’ started Viv.
‘– All these years, all these miscarriages, and my darling little girl who was hardly there but she was, she was there, she was mine, I held her, she was all perfect, except she never moved, and what’s the point of anything, what’s the point of lovely meals like this and kind sisters and even Ken being loving because he is really, but nothing’s any use, it doesn’t mean anything when I can’t have a child!’
Ann stopped, hiccuping for breath. Viv and Ollie stared at her. She fumbled for a handkerchief but she couldn’t find one; Viv grabbed the napkin and wiped Ann’s face with it, her poor wet eyes, and then her nose.
There was a silence.
Then Viv said: ‘Listen, Ann. Whatever happens, I’ll have this baby for you.’
Ollie spoke for the first time. ‘She will.’
‘Leave Ken to me.’ Viv wiped Ann’s eyes again. Ann hardly ever wore mascara but she had worn it for this evening; her cheeks were streaked. ‘I’ll take him out and get him drunk and tell him what we’re all going to do.’
Ann turned to face her. ‘Will you really?’
Viv nodded.
_____Nine_____
MADELEINE, AS USUAL was on the phone. Today she kept her back to the staffroom and spoke in a whisper. Viv gazed at the broad bottom in the faded jeans. She resented Madeleine for using the phone, yet she felt grateful to her for delaying things. She sat down on the sofa beside Harold, who looked up from his Guardian.
‘Trevor wrote me a note today saying could he go to the toilet, spelt TOYLUT. I said he could go to it when he could spell it so he changed it to BOG.’
Viv laughed. Harold pointed to the newspaper. ‘There’s a post here in Norfolk, Grade 2. Would they be fresh and innocent in the fens?’
Viv shook her head. ‘They just keep it in the family.’
‘Don’t think I can stand the hormone level here much longer. Very unsettling for a middle-aged chap.’
‘Poor Harry.’ Viv stroked his head and glanced at the phone.
To Have and to Hold Page 8