by Anne Doughty
‘Mmm, I see what you mean. How would you light it?’
‘Oh, available. On really fast film,’ I said firmly. ‘Those faces need big grainy prints. It would pull out the haze of smoke to stand for the haze they’re creating. I’d soften the focus too, blur the shapes a bit. Just like they do.’
He nodded and waited.
‘Alan, they don’t talk to each other. They don’t look at each other. They don’t connect.’ I heard the bitterness in my voice, but I went on. ‘Is it me? Or is it them? What’s happened to all those people I used to know and like?’
I saw him hesitate, but once he began, he was simple and direct.
‘I think you’ve changed, Jenny. Changed very fast. But so have they. And you’ve not taken the same path.’
I glanced up at him anxiously, afraid of what was coming next. Yet I was even more afraid that he would let me down and evade my question.
‘Most of the men in that room are living out a fantasy of some kind,’ he began. ‘Successful businessman. Jolly good chap. Real live wire. They don’t think about it. They just go through the appropriate actions. Very labour-saving device. Simplifies life enormously. Eliminates effort and confusion and guarantees a sense of superiority over anyone who decides not to do likewise.’
‘And the women, Alan. What about the women? What do they do while their husbands are acting out their fantasies?’
‘That depends. Most of the ones I can see from here have fantasies of their own.’
‘Such as?’
‘Capable wife. Caring mother. Dutiful daughter.’
‘And what happens if the wife hasn’t got a fantasy of her own? If, for example, she were one of those unfortunates who want to do differently, to find out who they really are.’ I knew he was looking at me, but I kept my eyes firmly on the pale liquid in my glass.
‘She has a number of options,’ he began. ‘Do you remember me telling you about Iona Patterson? No, you probably don’t. It must have been the Christmas before last.’
‘Oh yes I do,’ I replied quickly. ‘She was your boss’s wife, the one who painted that splendid watercolour you bought Val for her birthday.’
‘Right. Well, I asked Iona your question once. We were at a firm’s dinner and she’d said some of the things you’ve been saying. She was very honest. Drink, bridge or sex, she said, were the options. Most of the women she knew had taken up one, or two, or all three. But in her case, it didn’t work. She’s allergic to alcohol, bored by cards, and still in love with Jamie. Hence the painting.’
‘Hardly a substitute for a real relationship.’
‘Depends what you mean by a “real” relationship, Jenny.’
I could see the point he was making, but I doubted if it offered me a solution. ‘So presumably, as long as both parties play the rules of the game, all is sweetness and light,’ I said without enthusiasm.
‘Correct. Problems only arise if one party refuses to go on playing. Like my mother did.’
I looked up quickly. Alan had never mentioned his mother before, except in relation to Valerie.
‘Alan, was it because of your parents that you’ve been so hostile to marriage? You’ve always been so cynical about falling in love. I remember you saying most men gave more thought to choosing a car than choosing a wife.’
‘That remark couldn’t have made me very popular.’
‘No, it didn’t. Nor did the comments you made, my last year, about all the pairing off that went on. Most of our crowd got engaged or married that year. You didn’t think those marriages would last, did you?’
I saw his eyes flicker over the group nearest the lounge door. A burly figure broke away and dashed up the stairs behind us. The bathroom door banged shut but did not disguise the sounds of someone being violently sick. Only moments later, heavy footsteps re-echoed on the stairs and Alwyn McPherson elbowed his way back into the crowd as if nothing whatever had happened.
‘It seemed to me the people involved hardly knew each other. As real people, that is. It looked just like a Paul Jones – you married the girl opposite when the music stopped.’
‘Has it ever struck you, Alan, that the Paul Jones doesn’t stop with the marriage?’
‘Go on,’ he said quietly.
But now I had seen it, I felt too tired to bother. It was all so obvious. Quite pointless to talk about it or analyse it. Over and done with. Only the harm left to face up to.
‘Go on, Jenny,’ he insisted. ‘What happens then?’
‘Well, as you say, you marry when the music stops,’ I said, taking a deep breath. ‘But, if you’re a woman, the Paul Jones goes on. And on. The next time it stops, you’re opposite velvet lounge curtains and a holiday in Spain. The next time, the new car and the washing machine. And the time after that, the second car and the first baby. But if you miss your cue and you’re not in the right place at the right time, you start to think about the whole preposterous business. That’s if you can hear yourself think with everyone telling you at the top of their voice where you’ve gone wrong and how you get back into the dance before it’s too late.’
I paused. The strain of talking over the din from the lounge was making my voice crack, or so I told myself. I sipped my sherry, cleared my throat and tried again.
‘You know, men deciding on marriage and women deciding on children comes to much the same thing in the end. Most of the women I know give more thought to choosing a new dress than having another baby. That’s why Val has had such a wretched time. She refused to play the game.’
I stopped abruptly, aware of the build-up behind my words. Waves of anger were flooding over me. Alan could cope with whatever I threw at him, but whether I could was a different matter.
‘Jenny dear! Sorry to butt in.’
I got one look at Bob’s face as he bent to kiss me. He looked hot and agitated.
‘Is anything wrong, Bob?’
‘No, but I need reinforcements. Val’s had to go down to the summerhouse. The smell of the pastry was making her sick. Would you come and direct operations if Alan and I fetch and carry for you? Val says we need to go ahead right away or the savories will spoil.’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said jumping to my feet. ‘But is Val all right?’
‘Yes, truly. She was just fed up she couldn’t keep going. She says she’ll be back the moment the smell’s gone,’ he replied, as we trooped along the hall to the kitchen.
Val’s supper was certainly going to be memorable. She had made all the food herself, including the fresh cream gateaux I found when I opened the fridge. The oven was full of sausage rolls and vol-au-vents, and there were dishes of colourful bits and pieces on sticks and tiny sandwiches cut in interesting shapes. The only problem was where to put anything. The work surfaces were covered with bottles and clean glasses and the draining boards were covered with dirty ones. There wasn’t time to wash up, for the savories were indeed ready. I could see why the smell had got to Val. The state my stomach was in, it was getting to me as well.
But things got better as Bob and Alan carried stuff through to the lounge. The smell in the kitchen got less and the noise from next door diminished magically.
‘Jenny, could you manage for a few minutes if Alan and I go and open another keg of beer?’
I shut the oven door with my foot and looked at Bob over my shoulder. ‘Fine. This is the last trayful. I’ll take them through myself. What about the coffee?’
Alan plugged in the percolator and switched it on. ‘We’ll be back before that’s through,’ he said reassuringly as he followed Bob out to the garage.
I perched the hot tray on the edge of the sink so I could loosen the golden triangles with an egg slice. I looked for something to put them on but there wasn’t a plate in sight, so I picked up the tray again and carried it in as it was.
Neville was leaning against the doorpost, munching devotedly, his broad back blocking the entrance.
‘Neville,’ I said quietly. He didn’t hear me. He was looking across
the room at Karen, where she sat, still surrounded by the same group of women. On her lap she held a well-filled plate of sandwiches and savories. Alwyn McPherson was leaning towards her, a dish of cocktail sausages in his hand.
‘Oh no, Alwyn, I shouldn’t,’ she protested coyly. ‘I really can’t have any more little sausages. They’re frightfully fattening.’
‘Oh, c’mon Karen, treat yourself. You can work it off later. A skinny woman’s no use. Give Neville something to hold on to.’
Karen’s lips tightened as she stretched out her hand and took another sausage.
‘C’mon, Karen. Bloody hell, what’s the use of one? C’mon.’ Alwyn’s voice was thick and slurred. As he leaned further forward, the sausages skidded towards her outstretched hand.
‘It’s all right, Karen,’ Alison Craig put in. ‘It’s only carbohydrate that matters. As long as it’s protein, you can absolutely stuff yourself.’
Karen shrugged. ‘That’s fine then.’ Her podgy fingers tightened round a handful of sticks, transferred them to her plate, and began to pop them whole into her prim little mouth.
‘C’mon Alison, here y’ar, girl, have some bloody sausages. Build you up into a big, strong wench. Great for the figure. Don’t tell me Jim doesn’t fancy a nice round pair. Thassright, isn’t it, Jim?’
Alison giggled and helped herself. She was already eyeing a lemon meringue which was disappearing fast as the plate passed from hand to hand across the room. ‘You can’t be careful all the time,’ she moaned, as she filled her plate. ‘You just can’t. Why, I eat practically nothing and I still put on weight. So what’s the point?’
I tightened my grip on the hot tray and wondered how I was going to get it safely across the room to the empty plates on the sideboard.
‘Neville,’ I began, ‘could you walk in front of me? This tray’s very hot.’
Neville jumped and turned round so quickly he nearly knocked it out of my hands.
‘Jenny! Here, let me take—’
‘Neville, it’s—’
‘Oooww . . .’
All conversation stopped as Neville licked his burnt fingers.
‘You being raped then, Neville?’
‘Whassat? Who’s being raped?’ Alwyn turned round and made his way unsteadily towards us. ‘I say, I say, and where have you been all evening, Jenny McKinstry? C’mon then. I saw you out there with Thompson.’
I moved briskly into the space left by Neville and slipped past Alwyn to the sideboard, ignoring him as best I could.
‘Could I have those empty plates, please, Jim?’
‘Anything for you, Jenny,’ he said agreeably as he passed them along.
I started to unload the savories. Conversation had stopped and showed no signs of starting again. I could feel their eyes upon me and it was all I could do to keep my hands from shaking as I slid the last golden triangle on to a plate. I took up my empty tray, turned, and found Alwyn blocking my path.
‘Whassis then, Jenny? Not talkin’ to me tonight? Zat it?’ He slid his arm round my waist and pulled me towards him. I could smell the whisky on his breath and his body reeked of sweat. He felt hot and damp against my bare shoulders.
An overpowering sense of claustrophobia swept over me. Silent figures surrounded me, munching, a vol-au-vent at a mouthful. A sandwich at a bite. Watching me. Waiting to be entertained. Even by a man who’d had far too much to drink making an absolute fool of himself.
‘Where’s McKinstry tonight, then?’
For God’s sake humour him, Jenny. Keep it light, I said to myself as I felt his grip tighten on me.
‘Off to the big city, Alwyn.’
‘Ah-ha. So thass it. While the cat’s away . . .’ He slid his hand up from my waist till his thumb pressed into my breast. I gripped my tray and tried to press his hand away without making it too obvious to the watchers.
But he wouldn’t move his hand or let me go.
‘We all know ‘bout London, Jenny. McKinstry’s not sittin’ in tonight, izzy? A fine upstandin’ lad like Colin, he’ll be living it up,’ he went on, breathing in my face. ‘UP,’ he repeated, hiccupping. ‘So what about you ‘n’ me havin’ the lass dance? I’ll see you gets ’ome all right.’
‘Alwyn, you’re standing between me and another pot of coffee. And some people’s cups are empty,’ I said, making a supreme effort to sound easy.
But Alwyn was past talking to. The needle had stuck in the groove and on he went. ‘Oh, a pot of coffee, is it? Well, thass a new name for it. Jim, d’ye hear? She calls it apotocoffee.’
Jim sniggered. Beyond the solid obstacle of Alwyn’s large frame, I caught a glimpse of Neville. He was looking very uncomfortable.
‘C’mon Jenny, wass Thompson got that I haven’t got? What d’ye want to sit out there for talkin’ to him all evenin’? He’s not one of our crowd. Oh, we saw you, didden we, Jim? We not fancy enough for you these days? C’mon, Jenny, less go an’ ’ave a danse.’
‘Sorry, Alwyn, I’m busy. Let me past, please.’ I couldn’t keep the thin edge out of my tone. I was getting desperate. ‘Please, Alwyn,’ I repeated, more sharply. I pressed the tray onto his hand as hard as I could. He belched and released me.
‘She doessn’ fancy me,’ he announced to the whole room, waving his tankard in the air. ‘Well, thass all right. Thass juss all right. You go off with nice boy Thompson. He’ll spin you a fine yarn. Don’ know who your frenss are, Jenny,’ he called after me as I left the lounge as swiftly as I decently could.
I stumbled down the corridor, threw open the kitchen door and banged it shut behind me. I leaned against it, shivering violently, wincing in the brilliant fluorescent light. For a moment I thought I was going to be violently sick.
‘Jenny, what on earth’s the matter?’ Alan put down the percolator, dragged out a stool from under the work surface and sat me down. I leaned back against the wall, my eyes closed, tears streaming down my cheeks. ‘What’s wrong, Jenny? Tell me what I can do. Shall I fetch Val?’
I shook my head. ‘Alan, for God’s sake get me away from here. Now, this minute. If you don’t, I won’t be responsible for what I do.’
‘What coat were you wearing?’
‘The black cloak.’
‘I’ll get it and tell Bob we’re going. I won’t be a moment.’ He ran the water till it was cold and filled a glass. ‘Here, that might help.’
I drank it gratefully. I looked at the glass, turning it in my hand. A pity it was one of Val’s best. I couldn’t bear to smash anything that was precious to her. Besides, if I smashed it, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop there, and at this moment the kitchen was just full of glass.
Chapter 11
We slipped out by the back door and headed down the hill, past the long line of cars, to where Alan had had to leave his after his expedition for the milk. After the steamy heat of the kitchen, the cold, frosty air whipped my breath away. My teeth began to chatter, so loudly I was sure they’d be heard far and wide. I was quite terrified someone would appear and try to stop us getting away. But apart from an unidentified figure having a pee in a flowerbed by the front door, there was no one to see or hear us as we ran the last few yards to the car.
‘Here, wrap this round you,’ Alan said as he opened the passenger door. He grabbed a rug from the back seat, thrust it into my lap and hurried round to his own side. ‘Where to?’
‘Anywhere.’
I pulled the rug up round my neck, shut my eyes and tried to pretend I was warm, but I just couldn’t stop shivering. At first, all I was aware of was the flicker of neon street lamps and then the festoons of coloured lights that meant we were now down on the road along the lough shore. Alan was driving fast. We turned right and began to climb. The gradient steepened and I could feel the darkness grow all around us. Only an occasional car broke the deep stillness of the countryside with the whoosh of its passing. In a little while, I felt warm air blowing on my feet. I stopped clutching the rug so fiercely and opened my eyes a little.
Perhaps Alan had grown up quickly because of Val’s need. After their father’s remarriage he was all she’d got left of the loving home her mother had made for them. It had certainly made Alan different. I looked cautiously at the strong lines of his face, his eyes intent on the road ahead, and thought of the men at the party, the ones I’d been watching all evening. They seemed to me just like the crowd of rowdy small boys at that birthday tea, all of twenty years ago.
I shut my eyes again, grateful for the quiet and the sense of smooth, rapid movement. Usually, I don’t like driving fast. I get frightened when Colin puts his foot down on the few bits of open road between the city centre and Loughview Heights. But Alan wasn’t pretending he was driving a sports car ‘with a bit of poke’, he was simply taking me away as quickly as he could from the blare of voices and the choking smoke, the throb of the hi-fi, and a drunken man fumbling at my breast.
Alwyn had said I didn’t know who my friends were. In one sense, he was right. I had forgotten just what good friends I had. One of the strangest things about these last two months was the way I had let myself be separated from the people who knew me best and cared for me most. I hadn’t contacted Val, nor invited her and Bob to come for a meal. When I’d thought about it this morning, I’d still accepted that it was simply pressure of work. Now I saw a more convincing reason. If Val and Bob had come to supper and Colin had behaved in his usual manner, Val would have seen what I was trying not to see. The Colin and Jenny Show wouldn’t have fooled her for a minute, even if I’d gone on letting it fool me.