Often Tim said to him, jokingly, why don’t you get married, Dobbie, settle down? Dobbie would look at me with his lazy eyes and say because I can’t find a girl like Liz. He always said things like that, outrageous, complimentary, utterly untrue. When all this started though, almost six months ago now, I talked myself into believing that he meant it, that he really envied Tim, and had been nursing a secret and frustrated desire for me for years. My better judgement told me it wasn’t so, I had known Dobbie for long enough. I refused to listen. I continued to build up in my own mind a new picture of Dobbie in which he was passionately in love with me and in which we were carrying on a desperate intrigue beneath Tim’s very nose. The more I considered it, and where the notion came from in the first place I don’t know, the more determined I became. His visits were few and far between as always but I began to think about him all the time. I imagined that wherever he was he was thinking of me and aching to be home. I pictured us together in a hundred different scenes. His image was with me when Tim and I made love. When he actually did turn up, of course, there was a status quo, no progress had been made except by my imagination. In June I decided I could stand it no longer and that Dobbie would have to know. I did not feel particularly wanton. I was not eighteen but twice that age and knew that most men needed a push before they took the initiative they liked to think their own.
Tim was in the garden tying up the lupins and Dobbie and I were on the floor of the sitting room playing Monopoly with the children. Usually I didn’t play those games with them, they bored me. With Dobbie there I didn’t mind.
It was terribly hot; the hottest summer that we’d had for years. I still carried the tan for remembrance. The dice seemed to be on my side. I already had Bond Street and Regent Street and needed only Oxford Street to complete my set. Dobbie and I were sprawled on the carpet opposite each other, Dobbie not doing very well with only the Waterworks and Electricity company and some bad debts. Robin put the shaker in my hand. I could see Tim through the French windows on his haunches with the lupins; the hot air had a static quality. I yearned for Dobbie.
“Come on, Mummy,” Diana said, “it’s your go.”
I looked at Dobbie. His eyes met mine for a moment. He went back to making neat rows of the little green houses and red hotels in the property box; then he looked up again, puzzled. It was surprising what one could do with one’s eyes. The mirrors of the soul. They were more; the teleprinter and the ticker-tape. I want you to love me, mine said.
He received the message and looked with bewilderment towards the garden where Tim was staggering lopsidely with the watering can.
Robin gave me a push. “Mummy! It’s your go.”
That was June and it was November. I didn’t get Oxford Street, anxious now for the game to be over.
When it was, it seemed to take an eternity, I sent Robin and Diana to the shops for ice cream, although there was a block in the ice-box. Watched by Dobbie I began to clear up the Monopoly.
I wanted him to speak. I had put my cards on the table and having made the effort felt I could not, with any pretensions to modesty, do more.
“Liz.”
“Yes.” He was quite edible in his navy blue Italian shirt.
“Is anything the matter?”
“In what way?”
“You and Tim?”
I shook my head and stacked the cardboard property cards with exaggerated neatness, fastening them with a rubber band.
“I’m off to the Middle East in the morning.”
He was changing the subject which had scarcely been broached.
“I know.”
He lit a cigarette and I realised that he knew I was not completely across the river and was giving me time to go back. I’d once read an article in a woman’s magazine. It cautioned young girls against going out with married men because they would not be satisfied with holding hands in the pictures.
I was collecting the symbols we played with. I had the ship and the car and the silver thimble. Dobbie handed me the aeroplane. I knew very well what was involved and had no intention of turning back.
“How long will you be away?”
“Three weeks, four.”
He stood up, looking at me. I think he was trying to decide. I knew what the trouble was. He looked out into the garden. Tim was going for more water.
“Tim will be wanting tea.” I put the Monopoly away, and straightened my dress. I had bought it especially for Dobbie. “Iced coffee perhaps. It’s too hot for tea.”
Dobbie was watching me. I had set the wheels in motion and now I was embarrassed. I was not eighteen, I had told myself, but I felt as if I was.
“You’re staying for dinner? Supper really, just cold and salads, the heat …”
“I have an appointment in town.”
A horrid thought struck me. He was running away. He didn’t care two hoots. I had made myself cheap. He was laughing; sorry for Tim; snubbing me.
“See you when you get back then.”
I almost ran into the kitchen to prepare the iced coffee. He followed me. I was standing by the fridge. He lifted my hair and kissed the back of my neck, keeping his mouth there for a long time. I glanced out of the window but Tim was busy with the hose now.
“I’ve often wondered about your neck.”
I leaned against him, a hundred nerve endings feeling him and the summer and the infidelity of it all, everything you thought was neatly tied up in a box.
“I think one should consider,” Dobbie said. I knew his eyes were on the garden.
“One has.”
“You mean…?”
I nodded.
“How long?”
“Long.”
“You’re an extraordinary girl, Liz.”
Tim came in, mopping his forehead, for a drink.
There was a banging on the door and I realised that the bathwater had grown cold, my fingertips pale, the skin wrinkled.
“What is it?”
“The Salvation Army,” Mrs MacSweeney said. “They left an envelope.”
I needed salvation.
“You’ll find half-a-crown on the dressing-table.”
I pulled the plug out unwilling to let the water go.
Four
What did one wear?
I held my dressing-gown around me. In spite of the central heating the bedroom didn’t seem terribly hot. The fog seemed to get everywhere. I stood in front of my underwear shelf. The obvious choice of course was black. In films they always wore black. I don’t remember a seduction sequence in any other colour. Rejecting it as too obvious I settled for champagne trimmed with champagne lace; more subtle.
I put the underwear on, then my dressing-gown again over it and sat down in front of the mirror. Having examined it thoroughly I came to the conclusion that I was in good face. I was not beautiful. In spite of Robin and Diana, or perhaps because of, my figure was nothing to be ashamed of, just a shade too much over the hips perhaps but not like Martha, poor Martha who insisted on wearing trousers on Sunday mornings and really shouldn’t. My face was a victim of the moon. At the beginning of the month I was tolerably pretty, quite satisfied with myself, happy; as it drew to its close my features, nothing in themselves, faded to ordinariness. An undefinable plainness crept over them forming a mask I hated, but could not change. This was a good day.
I often longed for that sort of beauty that was indestructible; the Madonna kind that was independent of mood or of the moon, that looked good first thing in the morning or in any hat no matter how hideous; beauty of the non-fade variety that you saw once in every crowd and made you wonder why you bothered to compete. I would have liked to have been born with that, you needed nothing more, or failing that a voice. To open your mouth and hear heavenly sounds emerge; sounds that caused listeners to settle into an embarrassed stillness; to know that you had made them. There was a gift.
I took up the jar of moisturizing cream to make the most of what I had.
Dobbie always sent postcard
s to the children. After he left for the Middle East I got through the hot days as best I could and waited for them. Would they be the same? Would he send a message only I would understand, keyed to receive it? Was he laughing? When it came it had a picture of a camel and a little black-eyed Arab boy in ragged trousers, and was addressed to Robin who collected them and had an entire shoe-box full. “They are not as nice when you get close,” Dobbie wrote. “Covered in flies. I suppose that applies to everything. Best love to Mummy and Daddy, Uncle Dobbie.” That was all. Could I read anything into the parable of the camels and the flies? I wasn’t sure. Perhaps he meant it would be better if we kept our distance and our illusions. Perhaps he meant nothing of the sort, and it was my over-sensitive mind drawing incorrect conclusions. After the camels there was one more. A market in Marrakesh. It said “Tell Mummy just like Betterfare!” and that he was bringing Diana, to whom it was addressed this time – Dobbie was scrupulously fair – a necklace made of amber. Betterfare was our local supermarket. Even I, in my highly susceptible condition, could draw no esoteric message from the analogy. I had to wait, burning with impatience.
June dragged into July; the end of term when we were to take the children to Italy was almost in sight. Dobbie must be back from the Middle East. Had he decided not to get in touch? Perhaps I had lost, Tim too, a friend of many years’ standing. Because of the kiss on the neck and my intuition, which could usually be relied on, I rejected these suppositions. I waited for an afternoon, when Tim was out, and before it was time for the children to come home from school, and rang his flat. I felt nervous. I told myself it was only Dobbie; old Dobbie. The old Dobbie, by my own machinations no longer existed. One could only go forward. A woman answered. She said Hyde Park two four two nine like a cat who had been at the cream. I put the receiver down without saying anything and decided I would make Tim cold fruit soup which he adored for dinner. I refused, absolutely refused to think about Dobbie. The incident, and it really was rather a stupid incident, childish in its way, was over.
I was waiting next morning for Harrods’ Soft Furnishings to call me back about the new fitted spread for Robin’s room when he rang.
“Yes!” I said, crossly. I’d waited twenty minutes and wanted to go out.
“Liz?”
“Dobbie.” I felt my face suffuse with red thinking of my call of yesterday. “You got back,” I said fatuously.
“I’ve been back a couple of days. I had some business to attend to.”
I bet.
“I’ve a spare Centre Court seat for Wednesday. Interested?”
I’d been out with Dobbie before but only with the children, a cosy family party as it were.
“Very.”
Dobbie was a keen tennis player and a very good one.
“I’ll pick you up at 1.30.”
“Come for dinner on Thursday,” I said. “We’re off to Italy at the weekend.”
“I’d like to.”
“Did you enjoy your trip?”
“I think something will come of it.”
Of course he wasn’t a starry-eyed traveller, and thought of the globe in terms of what it would yield to one Arthur Dobson.
“I’ll tell you about it when I see you.”
He was in a hurry.
“Tim and the kids all right?”
“Fine.”
“I’ll bring their presents. Tell Robin I’ve an Arab head-dress. ’Bye now.”
“Goodbye.”
I put the receiver down. The phone rang again almost immediately.
“Mrs. Westbury? Harrods Soft Furnishing …” I no longer cared.
I told Tim over dinner. Why not? Dobbie was our oldest friend.
“Good show,” he said. Tim had never quite forgotten the Air Force. “Some people have all the luck.”
He meant Wimbledon in the middle of the week while he had to sweat it out in the office. I can’t say I felt sorry for him, only amazed that he couldn’t read what was in my mind; how you could know someone as well as Tim and I knew each other, live side by side and yet not know one single bit. I was on the verge of deceiving him and he hadn’t an inkling because I was able to control my face and endow it with its customary expression. For all I knew he had murder in his heart. It was impossible to tell. You knew – nothing.
“I hope the weather holds,” Tim said.
It did. I don’t think I have ever been so hot. Clothes were no problem. I had a new navy linen dress Dobbie hadn’t seen, with its own jacket trimmed with white braid. I rejected navy blue accessories and decided on white then was worried in case I’d overdone the touches of white, a solecism against which the fashion pundits were always warning. I dressed with the excitement of a child going to a birthday but when I was ready, nearly three-quarters of an hour too early, knew that the effect was suitable and attractive. Looking out of the dining-room window I waited for Dobbie. At 1.30 exactly his green Mercedes swept into the drive. He seemed to get out before it had stopped.
At the front door he kissed me, no more no less than usual, looking desperately handsome and brown from his trip. He wore sun-glasses so I couldn’t see his expression.
“Ready?”
“Yes.” I picked up my handbag from the hall table.
“Let’s go.”
The heat in the drive felt more Mediterranean than English. It was shimmering up off the asphalt. We walked round the car to the other side and Dobbie opened the door. There was a girl sitting in the middle of the front seat and I was transfixed; I think open-mouthed.
“This is Catherine,” Dobbie said. “Catherine meet Liz.”
She held out a black-gloved hand and smiled a cover-girl smile.
“Forgive me not getting out. These skirts make it quite a manoeuvre.”
She wore a black sleeveless shift, completely plain, black patent shoes on sensational legs, black bag, black glasses. On her honey-blonde head was a white pique beret. I felt like a Christmas tree with my umpteen touches of white and knew my navy blue two-piece was desperately ordinary. Not only that; she had the edge on me by ten years or more. I had never known Dobbie cruel. Could I plead a headache, stomach-ache, indigestion?
I shook the hand, returning the smile, and Dobbie said: “In you get.” I hadn’t the strength to do anything else but collapse on to the seat which was hot and feel my damp arm touch her cool one. She emanated Je Reviens; probably a present from Dobbie.
The only thing that can be said for the afternoon is that it passed. A Czech with a backhand like a tornado won the men’s singles. Royalty arrived and we went through the bowing routine. We had strawberries and cream without having to queue up.
Catherine was as nice as she was beautiful. I hated her. Dobbie was strictly fair dividing his attentions between us. I never remember feeling quite so hot or humiliated.
When they dropped me off at 6.30 I didn’t invite them in for a drink.
“See you tomorrow,” I said to Dobbie. “Don’t be late. It’s Tim’s early night.”
“Do you still want me?” I saw the eyebrows come up over the dark glasses he hadn’t removed all afternoon.
“Why not?” I said, although there was every reason.
I said goodbye to Catherine, still cool as a cucumber and chic and she said it was nice meeting me. Cattily I didn’t return the compliment.
Tim was home. He envied me my lovely afternoon and I took all my sticky clothes off angrily, giving a kick to the navy two-piece which fell on to the floor and got under the shower.
It was Tim who provided the impetus for the next step in the progress of my affair with Dobbie.
He came for dinner at the usual time. I wore a pink cotton dress not caring after Catherine and gave him beef which I knew he hated to punish him. He talked shares with Tim. Half-way through dinner Tim said what’s the matter Liz you’re very quiet and I said it must be the heat not looking at Dobbie. The telephone rang and Tim went to answer it and I made a great to-do over the apple pie and cream so that we didn’t have to tal
k.
When Tim came back he said he had to go out for a while after dinner to visit a client but that he wouldn’t be very long and he was sure we could amuse ourselves. Had it happened on the stage you would have said it was contrived.
After Tim had gone I took a long time clearing the table and putting the dishes into the dishwasher. I wiped the Formica tops thoroughly, swept the floor, wrapped the remains of the pie in tinfoil and leaving the kitchen immaculate, I did not always, carried the tray of coffee into the sitting-room. Dobbie was smoking and reading the newspaper with his feet up on a footstool.
I gave him his coffee.
“Did you enjoy your dinner?”
“No. Hated it.”
“Good”
“What was the idea?”
“Punishment for Catherine.”
“Sorry about that. I suppose it was a bit clumsy.”
“Downright ham-handed. Unnecessary to boot. You could have told me you and Catherine… I could have taken the hint.”
“But Catherine and I are not. Anyway I did it for Tim. Tim trusts me with you. I wanted to put you off. I was doing my duty. Did I succeed?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“It was cruel to bring Catherine.”
“I apologise.”
“Less young, less chic; you can’t be with two children and a home to run. The change is insidious. When you come up against someone like Catherine you realise just how far the metamorphosis has gone.”
“I love you more.”
“You love Catherine then?”
“Ships that pass in the night.”
“How interesting your nights must be.”
“Probably no more interesting than yours. Yours and Tim’s.”
“Why do you keep bringing Tim into it?”
“He trusts me with you. Seriously, Liz. I don’t notice anything different. You and Tim.”
“There isn’t anything.”
“I don’t understand then.”
“I can’t help you. I don’t really understand myself except that this has nothing to do with Tim. I keep thinking about you. It’s something I have to get out of my system.”
The Commonplace Day Page 4