Long blue-jeaned legs, glorious tumbling amber hair with a fine golden fuzz clustered around the pale brow. A board creaked under Guy’s foot and the figure turned. He caught a brief glimpse of her face before she scrambled up and ran towards a dusty tapestry wall-hanging which she seized, wrapping it around herself as if she were naked.
She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Perfection. Guy gaped like a fool. It was half a minute before he recollected himself and when he did it was to realise she was terribly afraid of him. As she stood pressed against the wall, her breath was snatched and rasping like a cornered animal’s. Guy mumbled into apologetic speech.
‘I’m sorry… I didn’t mean… It’s all right. I’m a visitor. Here to see my daughter…’
It made no difference. She was panting now, scented with fear. Guy backed off, attempting with smiles and shrugs to show how safe he was. Then, in her agitation the curtain slipped. He saw her face again and got a further shock. His stomach gave a queasy flip and his forehead became cold and clammy. He looked away sick with disenchantment and disgust, for the girl was crazed.
Deep-blue eyes rolling wildly round in her head, lovely lips dribbling with slime, grimaced and pushed forward into a grisly tight circle. Then, for the first time, Guy noticed the size of the jawline and the large brown hand ferociously splayed against the wall and realised that the figure was not female at all but that of a young man. His disgust deepened and he almost ran from the room, slamming the door behind him.
What the hell sort of place was this? Guy had been willing to give the first chap talking to the empty air in the cabbage patch the benefit of the doubt, but there was no mistake about the demented second. He felt a deep sense of alarm at the thought of his daughter living here.
He returned to the central area of the hall where it seemed that, at last, his appearance had been noticed. Following the rattle of wooden curtain rings a girl had appeared in the gallery and was hurrying towards the staircase.
She had long dark hair in a plait and wore floaty muslin trousers which billowed as she moved like wide white mothy wings. The muslin was caught into anklets from which hung tiny bells tinkling in a delicate manner. She sped along on bare feet which seemed hardly to touch the ground, and descended the stairs like a piece of thistledown. As she came closer he could see that her plait was threaded through with small white flowers and that a red spot marked the precise centre of her forehead. Standing before him, she placed her hands together in a prayerful salute to greet him: ‘Welcome to the Golden Windhorse,’ and bowed.
Guy, absorbing his third shock in almost as many minutes yet recognised the moment for what it was. Fraught with danger, rich with opportunity. He looked down at her hair parting—which was also powdered with reddish dust—reached out and touched her shoulder very gently. Then he said, ‘Hullo Sylvie.’
‘My name is Suhami now.’ Even her voice was different. Gentle, colourless and curiously muffled as if strained through layers of cotton wool. ‘It means little dancing wind.’
Guy considered several rejoinders all of which seemed primed with the potential for misunderstanding so he kept silent. Just nodded and hitched the flesh in the lower half of his face up into a smile. Was this too bold a response? The bland downcast-browness gave nothing away. She said, ‘You are early.’
‘Yes. I hoped we might be able to talk before dinner.’
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’ She appeared disturbed at the very thought. A frown pleated the red spot.
Guy stood, ill at ease and uncertain, staring helplessly. Only Sylvie could reduce him to such a state and, for the first time ever, he felt a flash of resentment that this should be so.
She was going away without another word. Fluttering off across the hall, disappearing down a corridor. Surely she must mean him to follow. Guy lumbered off in pursuit feeling, in contrast to all that floss and cobweb, quite exceptionally gross. The corridor ended in a glass-topped door opening on to a terrace. Just before this on the left was a row of wooden hooks supporting an old mac and a peg bag. Beneath were assorted wellies and a paraffin stove. Facing this wall three shallow stone steps descended, ending in a further door from behind which came the sounds of crockery and the chink of teaspoons.
Turning the handle, Guy entered a kitchen, square with a low ceiling. The tiles and sink were cracked and old-looking, and there was a long iron range as well as a more modern gas cooker. Sylvie was making tea. She took some sprigs of mint from a flat raffia dish, put them in a small teapot and poured on boiling water. Guy hoped this was not for him and then hoped that it was.
She crossed to a rack of assorted knives, took one down and started chopping at a large piece of shiny, tacky-looking hard stuff. Her father, who had recently seen a drugs documentary, thought it looked like cannabis resin.
‘What’s that?’
‘Rambutan crunch.’
‘Ah.’
Now she was laying a tray. Obviously the tea was not for either of them. Any minute now she was going to pick up the lot and vanish, perhaps for good. Guy studied the composed profile, searching for some reaction to their meeting. How was it possible for her to remain so calm? Did she really not understand the significance of the moment? Whatever he had expected it was not this. She was like a stranger. His daughter yet not his daughter.
Maybe she’d been brainwashed. Perhaps this was the headquarters of some weird cult—that would explain the wafty costume, the silly bells and that ridiculous red daub. Guy, having no historical point of reference for the transformation, resented it on principle as he did any change in the quotidian made without consulting him.
He noticed she was handling all the implements on the tray in an exceptionally mannered fashion. Over-precise and unnaturally concentrated, inclining her head in a solemn deferential manner between each movement. Like all rituals its effect was to exclude the mere looker-on. All this serenity was getting on Guy’s nerves. He longed to jolt her into a natural response even whilst appreciating that any such move might be extremely unwise. He didn’t think that she might simply dread his company.
‘A beautiful house Syl…er…Suzz…um…’
‘Yes. I’m very happy here.’
‘I’m glad—oh! I’m glad you’re happy, Sylvie.’ He saw her shrink front this intrusive exuberance. Moderating his voice he added: ‘Why is that? What is it about the place?’
‘I’ve found peace here.’ A graceful hand movement encompassed the old grate, cupboards and shelves. ‘And people who really care for me.’
Guy took the blow, barely winded.
He could see she was sincere, he could tell that. Or thought so which was really the same thing. That, no doubt, was what the face denuded of all emotion, swoony drifting movements and humble bow were all in aid of. Guy loathed humility. In Guy’s opinion you could stick humility right up your fart-hole. She was speaking again in that sexless, ripple-of-silk voice. ‘… so when the Master suggested that you should be invited down we all discussed it and thought my birthday might be the right occasion.’
The second blow so lightly delivered marked Guy much more deeply than the first. To be frank, it had him on the ropes. It was not her idea then that he should visit. The suggestion had come from some bunch of sharing, caring peace-dispensing Venus-watching nutters. He was here under their sufferance. Guy felt sick with wounded pride at the thought. And jealousy. Unthinkably, he wanted to be unkind. To hurt her for bringing him to such a pass.
‘I expect it will wear off.’
‘What?’
‘All this peace and stuff.’
‘No it won’t.’
‘You’re very young, Sylvie.’
‘I’m older than I look.’
The words were full of bitterness. He looked across at her and the gap closed. Honesty flowered and the room was suddenly full of wretched agitation. Opportunities lost, gestures never made, songs never sung. Guy moved towards her and she sprang away.
‘I’m so sorry
, Sylvie. Please…believe me… I’m so sorry.’
‘Oh, why did you come here!’ Her dignified composure vanished. Eyes glittered with sudden tears.
‘I got a letter—’
‘I mean why did you come now? Why couldn’t you just turn up at half past seven as you were asked?’
‘I told you. I wanted—’
‘You wanted, you wanted. Can’t you just once in your life simply do what someone else wants. Is that so impossible?’ She broke off and turned away, her hands covering her face.
There was a long silence. Guy, deeply distressed by this rapid and alarming descent into animosity, bowed his head. He recognised that it was all his fault. What matter that this opportunity to meet with his daughter had been set up by strangers? He had been given the chance—that was what counted. And, finding himself in a strange milieu, had assumed hostility and snatched the operational reins into his own hands. He thought, I’ve ruined everything, and immediately quenched the idea. One false step didn’t mean disaster.
He looked at Sylvie, still with her back to him. The thick blossomy plait had fallen forward, leaving the defenceless hollow at the nape of her neck clearly visible. This at least had not changed. It seemed as tender and snappable as it had when she was very young. The executioner’s deadline he had once heard it called and was as chilled as if the trade had been his own. He stumbled into speech again.
‘I’m afraid I’ve done the wrong thing but it was only because I wanted so much to see you. And now I have I don’t seem able…’ His throat closed on an excess of helpless, remorseful longing.
The rigid line of his daughter’s back slackened. Suhami was already experiencing a sense of shame at her uncontrolled outburst. This was not what she should be about. What was the point of all her meditations, of struggling to walk in the light and send out loving rays to all sentient beings if she could not even welcome a single one of them with courtesy. Her father was a hateful man but she must not hate him. He had done her immeasurable harm but she must not seek revenge. The Master had counselled her to this effect and she knew that he was right. To harbour malice damaged only oneself. Her father was to be pitied. Who in the whole world loved him? But I—Suhami took a long and consoling breath—I have known love. From the Master, friends here, Christopher. I have been nourished and comforted. Should I not be kind in my turn? She turned and faced him. He still looked bullish but post-picador, his chin sunk on his chest.
‘I’m sorry too. You mustn’t think…’ She struggled to find something honest to say. ‘Everyone is intrigued at the thought of meeting you.’
Guy responded quickly. ‘And I’m looking forward to meeting the Craigies.’
‘The…?’ Suhami looked puzzled then laughed as if he had said something really witty. ‘Oh—it’s not like that.’ She lifted the plait, letting it fall once more down her back. ‘It’s not like that at all.’ Then she picked up the tray. ‘I must take this to the Master.’
‘Won’t it be cold?’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’
Guy realised then that they had only been in the kitchen a few minutes. In fact it was barely ten since they had met in the hall. Ten minutes to roller-coaster through a meeting that had obsessed his every waking moment for days.
On the steps, she turned—indicating the glassed-in door by the Wellingtons. ‘You can go out that way. I don’t know if you’d like to look round the gardens? Or there’s a library.’
‘I think I’ll go and dump my bag and have a shower. I’ve booked into a hotel.’
‘A hotel?’
‘I decided to stay over. I thought it might not be convenient here. I don’t want to be any trouble.’
Suhami stared at him for a moment then smiled. The smile was prompted solely by amused surprise at the idea of her father not wishing to be any trouble, but Guy saw it as uniquely and transparently affectionate. All his previous confidence, vanquished by anger and distress, surged back. Everything would work out. All he had to do was play it her way. He could manage that. He would agree with everything and like everybody, and if he didn’t he would dissemble. As he watched his daughter leave, Guy felt quite proud as if he had pulled this impossible achievement off already.
Sylvie would see that he could change and perhaps eventually would be able to acknowledge that his love for her was true. Excited and hopeful, he made his way past the old stove and wellies and out into the sunshine.
Chapter Five
‘There’s someone on the terrace.’ Trixie moved her cheek on the windowpane. It made a soft squeaky sound but the man did not look up. ‘I suppose it’s Suhami’s father.’
Janet crossed over and, hand pressing lightly on Trixie’s shoulder, also looked down. Trixie moved away saying, ‘He looks like a gangster.’
He did a bit. Chunky enough head-on, foreshortened, Guy was practically cuboid. The bloom on his jowls, mauvey-grey directly after shaving, was now the colour of hot-house grapes.
‘And what a foul suit.’ So, eagerly allying herself, did Janet dismiss the Gieves & Hawkes double-breasted silk and mohair. She observed the powerful, surprisingly shapely head covered with dark curls squatting on wide, meaty shoulders. He seemed to have no neck at all. ‘I bet he wears a toupee.’
‘Course he doesn’t.’ Trixie dropped into a green flock armchair swinging her legs over the side. She was wearing a thin nylon housecoat and little else. ‘I think he looks rather virile actually. A bit like that strange man in your book. The minnator.’
‘Minotaur.’ Too late Janet could have bitten her tongue.
‘Should have been a teacher.’ Stitchings of malice pointed up the subtext. Dusty blackboard, scornful or indifferent pupils, lonely nights marking careless homework. Lengthy unappreciated preparations for the following day. ‘Always picking people up.’
‘Sorry.’
‘What do you want anyway?’
‘I came to borrow some cotton.’
The truth was that Janet just loved being in this room, even when Trixie was not present. Sometimes she thought she preferred those occasions. She could be more herself then. Relax. Drink in the heady atmosphere: face powder, perfume, cheap hairspray, a bowl of roses. Once she had smelt cigarette smoke. This commingling of scents produced a slumbrous ante-bellum atmosphere with a base note of sweet decay. The roses were illicit. Garden flowers were meant to be cut only on special occasions and then displayed in public rooms where everyone could share them. But Trixie always did as she liked, banking accurately on the communal reluctance to criticise.
Janet pulled open a drawer and pretended to look for the cotton. She disturbed a peachy satin slip, gossamer tights and some garments made of oyster satin that she had once referred to as cami-knickers. An archaism she was not likely to repeat. The second drawer held two boxes of Tampax and several half-cup wired lace bras.
‘You won’t find what you’re looking for in there.’
‘No—how silly.’ Janet’s long bony face crimsoned and she dropped the filmy skimp like a burning coal. ‘I meant to put it on Arno’s list.’
One day, she thought, when I come in for a plaster or an aspirin, a tissue or a safety pin, she’s going to challenge me and say that she knows I really want none of those things. That I am here simply to breathe in the air that she exhales. Or touch the things that touch her skin.
‘I can’t get over those muscle-packed shoulders.’ There was always a curl of anticipation in Trixie’s voice when she planned some unkindness. Janet recognised it now and braced herself. ‘I wonder what he’s like in bed.’
What does she expect me to say? What can I say? Laugh it off? Make some all-girls-together joke? ‘There’s only one way to find out?’ But of course, if I could do that, she’d never have asked the question.
Pictures flared in Janet’s mind. Pale delicate limbs twined around swarthy, hirsute, rutting masculinity. Hands gloved by black hair, roaming, probing. Thick blunt fingers squeezing tender breasts, knotting honeyed curls. Nauseous, near to
tears, she glanced across at the armchair and caught a stone in the sling smile.
‘I really fancy screwing a millionaire. Everyone says power’s an aphrodisiac don’t they?’
‘Who’s everyone?’ Trixie was like Cleopatra, dowsing for gold.
‘I bet it’s true. This one really looks as if he’s built to do damage.’
It was the perfect opening for a sharp reply. For when Trixie had first joined them it was plain that a fair bit of damage had only recently been inflicted. Her arms and neck were badly bruised, her lip cut, her hair tufted patchily. But, in spite of Heather’s frequent early attempts to corner her for some compassionate one-to-one counselling, Trixie had never even referred to, much less explained, these injuries. Dare Janet refer to them now? She came timidly close.
‘Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who enjoy being knocked about by men.’
Trixie laughed: A spontaneous shout of amusement, as if Janet had said something completely ridiculous. Then she swung her milky legs forward again and stood up. ‘If you only knew…’
‘Knew what?’ Janet stepped hungrily forward at this hint of a possible revelation into the other girl’s past. Perhaps Trixie would explain the letters that sometimes came in cheap blue envelopes. Or the phone calls where she hung up if anyone came into the room.
But Trixie just shrugged and sauntered over to the window. Guy was still there, chunkily looking about him. He had moved to the terrace steps which dropped to the herb border and was gazing over the lawn. Trixie lifted the latch.
‘What are you doing?’
‘What’s it look like?’
‘But you’re not…at least put something…’ Janet watched helplessly as Trixie perched on the window ledge, holding her robe bunched lightly at the waist, the fabric slipping from her left shoulder. She glimpsed Trixie’s daring excited profile and saw how fascinated she was.
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