Dangerous Thoughts

by Celia Fremlin

  And so, perhaps, did her mother-in-law? Was this an extra twist of the knife as she confronted the girl’s blithe and unrealistic hopefulness?

  I felt I would like to meet this older woman who was facing squarely and alone the realities of her son’s dreadful situation. But not yet, not until I had some sort of news to give her. I could see how my apparent inertia, my limp incompetence at extracting information either from Edwin or from some official source, must be just as infuriating to her as her daughter-in-law’s idle optimism.

  “Tell Daphne — tell your mother-in-law that I’ll phone her the moment I hear anything,” I said to Sally as the two of them left — Barnaby triumphantly retaining possession of a glittering trail of paper-clips which he had painstakingly been linking together, one into another, until it was several feet long, glinting and quivering. I had wondered what he was being so quiet about under the table all that time, and so I think had Sally, but we hadn’t wanted to find out in case it was something we would have to stop him doing. Then he’d have been on our hands again, fidgeting, interrupting our conversation.

  “But I can’t promise when it’ll be,” I finished, re the putative phone call. “You see, until I can actually talk to Edwin …”

  “Of course, of course,” Sally reassured me, climbing behind the wheel of her Mini and leaning over the back of the seat to fasten Barnaby into his safety-straps. “She’ll quite understand. And at least I’ve tried, haven’t I? I’ve actually come to see you, she can’t say I’m not doing anything, can she?”

  With which slightly disconcerting pronouncement she was off. I turned slowly back indoors, Edwin’s imminent arrival weighing heavily on me somewhere right next to my heart, like indigestion.

  On top of everything else, there would now be the paper-clips as well. What would Edwin say when he found them all gone, not one left, except for a few maltreated rejects, twisted too grossly to be any use? And below and beyond this lay the more basic, the more frightening question: how would Edwin be when he arrived home? What sort of problem would I have on my hands? A man who gets into a jittering state of nerves about a mistreated paper-clip — how would he have stood up to the fearsome and unprecedented ordeals that must have been his lot in the last few days?

  That was the most unnerving thing of all; that I hadn’t the faintest idea what to expect of our reunion.

  CHAPTER IV

  In the event, the shock was total. I have just said that I had no idea what to expect, but actually I must have had some idea, because I knew immediately that it wasn’t this.

  It was after lunch when the call came. Well, I call it after lunch, but actually I hadn’t had any lunch, I just couldn’t have faced food. My nerves were too much on edge, and also this was going to be my last chance of not bothering about lunch for goodness knew how long, so it would be a shame not to make the most of it. Anyway, it was early afternoon when the call came, and at first I didn’t even realise it was him. There was a lot of background noise, you see, snatches of loud music … a strident yap of laughter … a high-pitched female voice protesting “But I never said he said so, I only said …” and then, cutting its way at last through this undergrowth of noise, came Edwin’s voice. As I say, for a few seconds I didn’t realise it. So excited did he sound, so lit-up with happiness.

  Happiness? Edwin?

  “I thought you’d have seen me, darling,” were his first words — and it took me a moment to realise he was addressing me, so long was it since he had called me ‘darling’ — “we were on live! You know, News at Noon. I was rushed to the studio straight from the airport. I thought you’d have … Didn’t they …?

  No, they didn’t. Nobody tells me anything, I joked. Well, I hope I made it sound like a joke, but actually it was a bit of a sour one, for in truth I was feeling extraordinarily hurt. The feeling was extraordinary because, as I must have made abundantly clear by now, I no longer loved Edwin much at all; so why should I mind that he’d gone off to do a TV programme the moment he set foot in the country, without bothering to ring me first? Why should he ring me first, I ask myself? Here I was, dreading his arrival, dreading the impending return to our glum bickering life; what sort of priority does this entitle me to? On the other hand, dammit, I am his wife …

  Still, no sense in embarking on the said bickering right now. Rejoice, rather, that he seems to be in such a good mood, and pray that it will spill over into our home life, at least for this first evening. The fresh salmon, the vine leaves, the mushrooms, the white wine are going to have been a good idea after all. I had bought them with great trepidation, for should everything go wrong and a row develop within minutes of his arrival, then the meal would be a disaster. There is nothing worse than the combination of a quarrel with a celebration meal. I know, because it has happened to us, many times.

  So, no reproaches. Nothing to cloud his exuberance during these first hours. All the same, I couldn’t quite think what to say.

  “Where are you?” was the best I could manage. “Are you still at the TV place, or what? Shall I come and …”

  “No, no, darling,” came the hasty response (‘darling’ again? Who does he think he’s talking to?). “I’m not sure, you see … no, we’re not at the studio any more, we’ve moved on to … (a pause; I could feel his face turned away from the mouthpiece and directed towards the circumambient tumult) “No, well, actually it slips my mind, this chap’s name — but anyway, somebody’s jumbo-type flat, up at the top of somewhere, all sky and windows — you know. Acres of white carpet … the whole bit …”

  By now, I realised he was somewhat drunk, but what matter? He was happy, that was the wonderful thing. Happy! If only he could stay that way.

  It wasn’t entirely true, I reflected at this point, that I didn’t love him at all. It was his bad temper I didn’t love, and his nerves, and his sulks and his insomnia; his needling of Jason, his faultfinding, his complaints and criticisms, his boredom, his restlessness, his endless fidgety presence, his mooning and moping and rooting for trouble …

  Well, that’s a lot to not love, isn’t it? It doesn’t leave much. But it leaves something.

  “… Everybody who is anybody!” He was exulting. “They all want to meet me … Offers galore … One of the nationals … a six-part exclusive … The producer of Heroes Today, as well as the Back of Beyond people …”

  Bemused though I still was, I was beginning to be caught up in his mood, rejoicing with him so far as one could down this sort of phone and in competition with that sort of noise.

  “That’s wonderful … That’s great …” I vaguely enthused. “But Edwin, I don’t know anything yet. What happened? … How did you …? Look, when are you coming home? I’m just longing to hear … and so’s Jason …”

  My voice, and his too, seemed to be caught up and whirled away on a Niagara of sound, and finally we were cut off — or else he rang off, I’m not sure which it was — and I was left, receiver still in my hand, and my mind a tumult of conflicting thoughts, among which the salmon steaks loomed large. What time this evening should I start cooking them? Because he might be back, or not be back, absolutely any time.

  Jason, home from school an hour or so later, took the news in his stride, remarking only that if dinner was to be at God-knows-when, then could he have scrambled eggs or something to be going on with? He had been forewarned, of course, that his father would be home some time today, and had exhibited neither implausible rapture nor unseemly dismay. He had, however, refrained from bringing any friends back from school, and without being asked had set himself to tidy out of sight such objects as might be expected to annoy his father. His collection of boomerangs, for example (“If someone gets hit with one of those things, guess who’ll be sued for damages!”) and the acupuncture charts which had been adorning his bedroom wall of late (I can’t remember what Edwin’s objection to these had been, except that it was strongly worded and contained little reference to any of the known data on the subject). And then, of course, there w
as the Meccano robot, who by now was almost complete and could already — after a fashion — hand round a tray of drinks, provided the glasses were sturdy ones, and only half-full. It could also, with jerky, agonised movements sweep an area of floor not more than two feet across in any direction, though it couldn’t, as yet, scoop up the resulting semicircle of dust and fluff and crumbs. Improvements though were on their way, Jason assured me; soon, an area four feet in diameter would be within the thing’s compass, which would mean, of course, a double-sized semicircle of residual dirt. No, more than double; something to do with Pi-R squared, wasn’t it? Not that it mattered; the creature was to be safely stowed away out of sight this evening, including any controversial calculations appertaining thereto.

  CHAPTER V

  The next morning I woke with a feeling I hadn’t had in years: that of being extraordinarily happy, but unable to remember why. The feeling reminded me of something — childhood, I think. This sort of thing comes much more readily to children because their lack of experience allows them to snatch at happiness wherever it presents itself, regardless of context or consequences. And of course there is a lot of happiness about, small nuggets of it lie around all over the place, but adults, on the whole, are scared to pick them up. You don’t know where it comes from, they say: you might catch something.

  It was very early, long before light, which at this time of year comes a little before six. For several seconds — perhaps as much as half a minute — I simply lay there, revelling in this sensation of unaccustomed, undiagnosed delight. In a minute I was going to remember what it was all about, and as soon as that happened I was also going to become aware — adult that I now was — of all the things that might be going to go wrong with it, whatever it was, and of all the effort it was going to involve, one way or another.

  And sure enough, bit by bit it all came back to me — how well, how marvellously well, last evening had gone. Edwin had arrived home in such a state of euphoria as had made nonsense of all my anxious precautions against annoying him on this his first night home. I had been preparing for a bad mood as one might prepare for a hurricane predicted in the weather forecasts — and which then doesn’t materialise. Confronted with all the preparations you needn’t have made, you feel quite at a loss, as well as relieved.

  For in the event, Edwin was absolutely delighted with everything. The salmon — the mushrooms — the asparagus soup — everything was perfect. Nothing was underdone, nothing was overdone; nothing was too hot … too cold … too spicy or too bland. The crème brûlée, for the first time in our married life, didn’t remind him of those other and better crème brûlées he had enjoyed at Cambridge during his student days. The white wine gleamed in our special long-stemmed glasses, the candles danced and glittered in the hero’s honour — and how he talked! Goodness knows, there was plenty to talk about, but in the past this had never been any guarantee against the stone-walling with which he was inclined to damp-down eager enquiries: “What do you mean why have they cancelled the contract? You seem to assume that anyone who opposes me must have a good reason for it, that’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”

  That sort of thing. But nothing of this kind had marred the relief and triumph of last night’s reunion. Our many questions and comments were seized on eagerly, and answered in such vivid detail, and at such enthusiastic length that anyone who didn’t know him might have surmised that he was high on drugs.

  But I did know him, and I could tell that he was high not on drugs, but on fame. For famous he was, just for the moment. Television appearances yesterday: radio interviews: and more lined up for today … his delight in all this was spilling over into his home life, and long might it continue to do so! It was wonderful — amazing and wonderful — to see my husband and son in close and happy communication for once. The light from the candles flickered on the two absorbed and shining faces as they leaned towards one another across the table, eyes sparkling, Jason asking pertinent questions to which Edwin knew the answers — just as it had been, in fact, long long ago when Jason was a toddler. And in the present case, Edwin not only knew all the answers, he was the only man in the world who could know them.

  So where did you meet up with the other two? … Was it before dawn, then? Which of you drove — or did you hire a driver? What happened to him? What was it like … where the town stopped, I mean, and where the desert began … Were there huts and things? … Was there any sort of proper road still? Did you have to bring drinking water? What about petrol — they use an awful lot, don’t they, jeeps? What did you take with you to eat — did you each bring your own, like a picnic? …

  Thinking back over the scene, in these early hours of the next morning, I realised it was Jason who had asked most of the questions — the factual questions anyway. As for me, I had been sitting back rejoicing — revelling in the sight of my husband and son not annoying each other, not at cross-purposes, for the first time — it seemed to me — in years and years and years. Of course I was listening too: of course I wanted to hear the whole story in detail, right up to its happy ending: and even more so because it hadn’t — so far — been a happy ending for all of them. Edwin’s two colleagues, Richard Barlow and Leonard Coburn, were still out there, somewhere, in the clutches of someone or other, perhaps under threat of death. We hadn’t, I realised now, asked all that many questions about these two, so absorbed were we in Edwin’s own experiences. As soon as possible, I must get him to fill in the gaps, because this morning, as soon as it was a reasonable hour, I must ring up Sally and her mother-in-law and tell them everything I possibly could. Meanwhile, lying there, waiting for the first streaks of the October dawn to penetrate between our not-quite-meeting bedroom curtains, I set myself to go through the story Edwin had regaled us with last night, get it together in my mind in some sort of chronological order so that I’d be able to give the Barlows a reasonably coherent account over the telephone. Of course, as soon as possible they must come over and talk to Edwin themselves. But not today. “Quite impossible!” Edwin had told me — a trifle peremptory for the first time since his triumphal home-coming. “I told you, Clare, I’ve got to be at Ealing first thing — the car will be here for me before nine. And then there’s this press conference … and lunch with that agent I was telling you about. And you haven’t forgotten, Clare, have you, Channel Whatsit want to come here as soon as possible for some informal shots of you and me and Jason all together — you know, the Family Reunion bit. We’ve got to find time for that. And then in the evening …”

  So anyway, it was clearly going to be up to me to report the long-awaited news to Sally and Mrs Barlow, and to reassure them — if I somehow could — about Richard’s likely situation. For actually, Edwin’s story wasn’t very reassuring so far as his colleagues were concerned. Well, at least they were both alive when he last saw them, and uninjured. This much at least I could report to Richard’s wife and mother; but of course they were going to want details, as many as I could possibly recall of the journey into the desert; of the preparations for it … of the hopes and the fears; what the three of them had talked about as they drove along, “Did they mention us at all?” — that sort of thing.

  How much of this sort of personal detail had Edwin’s narrative actually contained? Closing my eyes against the faint outlines of furniture that were just becoming visible around the room, I set my memory to work.

  Where to begin? At the point in the story where Edwin had watched his companions being dragged, bound and blindfolded, into a waiting vehicle? Or at the beginning, where tense with excitement, lit-up with purpose, the three had met silently, in a narrow cobbled street, just before dawn, and embarked on their perilous mission? Perhaps it would be best to start the story just where Edwin had started it.

  First, the ride into the desert. No, not expanses of yellow sand, as one tends to imagine; just grey, gravelly sort of stuff, and grey scrub, as far as you could see, all suffused in pearly light from the oncoming dawn.

  No, th
ey didn’t stop to eat, they had to keep going, they snatched mouthfuls of this and that as they went along, taking turns at the driving wheel. By the time it was Edwin’s turn, the sun was well up above the vast curve of the horizon, and blazing cruelly into his eyes, even with his sunglasses on.

  “So you were driving pretty much due east, then?” Jason had enquired eagerly. “Due east from Al Bahaar would get you to that settlement where …”

  “Oh, well, due east, I don’t know about due east … I only know the bloody sun was right into my eyeballs … you’ve no idea … the blinding rays almost horizontal across the desert, you can’t see a thing … it’s a job to keep on the road at all — not that there was much of a road by then, just a sort of track among the scrub. We were doing three-hour stints … it must have been just about mid-afternoon when …”