Breaking the Chain (14 page)

Nancy, after four years of marriage, had also had problems. Phoebe re-read the diary for 1950.

Wednesday, 19 April. Hugh is a cardboard replica (just like one of his own characters) it seems to me. He has no depth of feeling – no
ardour.
This is most disastrous when we’re in bed. He can’t seem to throw himself wholeheartedly into making love to me. It’s as though he’s afraid to lose control. I’m just the opposite. Unless I can give myself body and soul to it, it just doesn’t work, and this is well-nigh impossible with Hugh. It’s as though the cerebral part of him is standing there outside himself, uninvolved, watching the rest of him perform. His face wears an expression both sardonic and sheepish, as though the whole procedure were both ridiculous and unsuitable. It puts me off completely and stops me from feeling any desire at all. Then he ejaculates almost at once and I’m left unsatisfied, with feelings of worthlessness and anger. The crazy thing is that he thinks I’m frigid, when in fact the opposite is true! It’s just that I can’t bear to go through the whole unsatisfactory process, knowing that I’ll end up wide awake, frustrated and cross, so I often reject his advances even though I’m
desperate
for a proper married life. What an absurd paradox! What should I do? It’s not the sort of thing one can discuss.

*

It
is
the sort of thing people should discuss, Phoebe thought sadly, but it takes two to do it. Nancy had solved her problem by taking a lover, but I could never do that. It would be too confusing. I’d feel so torn, and if I got pregnant, it would be unthinkable not to know who the father was! I’d never put myself in that situation. But if I’m ever going to have a baby, I’ve somehow got to get Duncan interested again … There were things which Phoebe and her teacher had enjoyed together which had somehow never seemed appropriate with Duncan. She had considered that they would be beneath his dignity, and hadn’t liked to suggest them, but perhaps desperate problems required desperate solutions.

Phoebe worried about this as she hoovered the cottage. Wynne, her mother, was coming down for a couple of days to see the New Year in. She would notice every particle of dust, every filament of cobweb, every hair of the dog … Which reminds me, Phoebe thought, I must get some gin in. Duncan was due back at lunchtime, so that Phoebe could borrow the van and meet her mother off the train. If there was time, she could buy some food first. She put the Hoover away and, with special care, made up a bed in the spare room. She was devoted to Wynne and always glad to see her. She wondered whether she might after all confide in her mother; maybe even discuss her own problems with sex? Wynne and Phoebe’s father had got divorced twenty years before. Had Wynne had any sort of a sex life after that? Phoebe didn’t know. She had lived alone ever since Phoebe had grown up and got a flat of her own. She had had men friends, of course, but Phoebe couldn’t imagine her actually in bed with any of them. She had known about Phoebe’s long affair with the teacher, whom she had liked, but they had never discussed it. Perhaps it was time they talked, woman to woman.

Duncan was late. Phoebe went downstairs to look at the clock in the kitchen. He should have been home a quarter of an hour ago. At this rate, Phoebe thought, there won’t be time for any shopping. Why the hell can’t he do as he promises? She opened the front door and looked up the lane; no sign of him. The air she breathed in was mild. There were gleams of sun in the grey
sky and the first signs of snowdrops by the wall, pushing up through the earth. The great tits were already singing their repetitive spring song. Phoebe thought, Why don’t I feel full of anticipation for new beginnings too?

Duncan had spent the morning cutting up a fallen ash tree for a widow, and had been given a van load of firewood as well as cash in hand. He was feeling particularly pleased with himself. He closed the back doors by leaning hard against them, put his chainsaw in the passenger footwell, ushered Diggory onto the seat above and then got into the driving seat himself, and set off for home. Phoebe was waiting for him at the front door.

‘You’re late,’ she said.

‘P-Plenty of time,’ Duncan said easily.

‘No there isn’t! I was going to do a major food shop on the way, and now there won’t be time.’

‘L-Look what we’ve g-got,’ Duncan said proudly, opening the back doors of the van, ‘and all f-for free!’

‘Shit! Duncan, how the hell will I get Mum’s bag in there with all that bloody wood?’

That’s great, Duncan thought bitterly. We get free firewood and is she pleased? No, she fucking isn’t! Whatever I do, she moans. It really pisses me off. ‘It w-won’t take long to u-u-unload,’ he said sulkily.

‘There isn’t time,’ Phoebe said. ‘Just chuck some out and make enough space. I’ve got to go
now.’

Duncan did. Then he watched her drive away in the van. He hoped that by the time she came back, she would be in a better temper. Wynne would cheer her up. She was a nice comfortable sort of a woman. Why couldn’t Phoebe be more like her? Duncan couldn’t imagine Wynne making the demands that her daughter did. Duncan was made to feel that he was always in the wrong these days. He always seemed to have disappointed Phoebe in some way, but he was never sure why. She looked hurt or reproachful at the drop of a hat. She sighed a lot. She clearly wasn’t happy. What was he supposed to do about it? He would be content enough if only she’d leave him alone. There was nothing wrong with
him.
Why couldn’t she just get on with life like everybody else? She kept saying that she wanted
encouragement; wanted him to talk to her. He
did
talk to her. Then she said she didn’t want just ‘pass the salt’ sort of talk, but real
communication.
So, to get things started he’d asked her if she’d like a cup of tea, but she’d yelled at him and stormed out in a rage. It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be the time of the month all the time; perhaps she was having an early menopause? Duncan hoped that Wynne would sort her out.

As Duncan changed out of his working clothes into something marginally cleaner, Phoebe brushed her hair and prepared to go downstairs to cook supper. She could hear her mother moving about in the other bedroom, unpacking things from her suitcase. She was looking well, Phoebe thought fondly, she seemed younger than her 55 years and full of confidence and optimism. Phoebe looked forward to having her on her own the next day, so that they could have a really good talk. She wished Duncan wasn’t around that night, preventing them from doing it at once. She brushed her hair, trying to make it bend the way she wanted it, but it stuck out annoyingly and she gave up with an irritated exclamation.

‘Damn!’ she said. ‘I should have washed it. It’s a real mess!’

‘Yes,’ Duncan said, pulling on a sweater, ‘it is r-rather.’ Phoebe threw her brush on the floor. She looked furious. ‘N-Now what?’ he asked.

‘Don’t you know
anything?’
Phoebe demanded, keeping her voice low so that Wynne wouldn’t hear. ‘Didn’t it occur to you that I might be wanting some reassurance? Couldn’t you have said, “Nonsense, it looks fine”?’

‘I was only a-a-a-agreeing with you.’

‘Well, don’t! I don’t know why I ever bother to get dressed up; you never notice. You’ve never
ever
complimented me on my appearance. You’ve never said “You look nice” or “I like that dress”. I feel bloody invisible when you’re around. It makes me feel why the hell do I bother.’ Duncan was silent. ‘Well?’ Phoebe demanded.

‘You l-look all right n-now’ he said reluctantly.

‘I’m not talking about
now.
I’m not dressed up
now,
am I? I’m in my ordinary clothes. Can’t you even see that? I’m talking about things in general, about Christmas, for example. I made
a huge effort on Christmas night and did you say anything nice to me? Did you hell! I could have been wearing a couple of flour sacks with holes cut in them, for all the difference it made to you. You’re my husband, Duncan. You’re supposed to boost my confidence, make me feel appreciated, cared for. It surely isn’t much to ask; just a handful of words at the right moment?’

Duncan sighed heavily. ‘It’s a b-b-bit late n-n-n-now,’ he finally said.

‘Damn right!’ Phoebe said. ‘You said it!’ Duncan slid his feet into his slippers and made for the door. ‘That’s right,’ Phoebe said, ‘run away as usual!’

‘I t-take it that you d-d-don’t want to involve your m-m-mother in this d-discussion?’ Duncan said.

‘No, of course not.’

‘W-W-Well then, I’ll s-see you d-downstairs.’ He went out. Phoebe heard Wynne coming out of her room at the same moment, and the two of them going downstairs together. She heard her mother saying, ‘You’ve done so much to the cottage, Duncan. It’s a real little gem, isn’t it?’ Then the door at the bottom of the stairs was closed and she was left to pull herself together.

She hadn’t meant to have a row. She never did. When things happened to infuriate her she tried to keep them in, and told herself they were not important; that she’d get over it. Perhaps it was her own fault. Perhaps if she reacted at the time, then Duncan would learn. It was clearly no good bottling everything up and then releasing it in a flood at inopportune moments later on. Duncan didn’t understand what was going on then. He had no intuition, no responsiveness; no capacity for abstract thought. If something couldn’t be made sense of in immediate terms, then to him it was nonsense and better ignored.

It was always the wrong moment when it came to explanations, Phoebe thought. If you’d taken trouble to dress up and put your face on for an event, but went unnoticed by your husband and were feeling snubbed, hurt and low in confidence, how could you then say so without bursting into tears, wrecking your make-up, and rendering yourself incapable of carrying off the occasion with any sort of self-possession? Of course you couldn’t. So it had to be contained, only to burst out at an
inappropriate time later on. Any intelligent man, Phoebe thought, ought to understand that; ought to be prepared to learn what to expect from his wife. No, it wasn’t so much that Duncan was unwilling to make the effort. It was worse than that; he just didn’t appreciate that there was any effort to be made. Phoebe sighed. It seemed hopeless. She took a deep breath and went downstairs.

Wynne was sitting in the kitchen talking to Duncan. Diggory was sitting on the floor next to her, resting his chin on her lap and angling his head rapturously so that her absently stroking hand landed on the desired part of his hard muzzle or on his soft scratchable ears. Duncan was making tea.

‘Just think,’ Wynne said, ‘1992 tomorrow! I wonder what that will bring?’ Phoebe knew she was thinking about grandchildren.

‘Who knows?’ Duncan said. Phoebe knew he wasn’t.

‘I think Mum would like a drink, Duncan,’ Phoebe said.

‘Nearly r-ready,’ Duncan said, watching the kettle.

‘No, not tea, a proper drink. Here, let me …’

‘I’ll d-do it,’ Duncan said firmly. ‘Gin?’

‘That would be lovely,’ Wynne smiled. She turned to Phoebe as Duncan went to get the bottle from the next room. ‘He’s looking very fit, isn’t he?’ she said. ‘I always forget what a good-looker he is, until I see him again. You’re a lucky girl!’

‘Yes,’ Phoebe said.

The rest of the evening was fine, Duncan thought. Phoebe had cooked steak as a special treat and they had a bottle of red wine with it. Wynne chattered away cheerfully about nothing in particular, stopping every now and then for him to agree with her, so there was no need for him even to look at his wife. When he did glance in her direction half an hour later, she looked as though she’d got over her temper and was enjoying herself. Thank goodness for her mother! he thought.

‘My trains did well,’ Wynne was saying. ‘The first was only ten minutes late, so I got the connection with no trouble at all. I’m glad I wasn’t in the Severn Tunnel when those two trains went into each other though …’

‘Yes,’ Duncan said.

‘D’you know, they had to wait five hours before they were rescued? I couldn’t have stood that, all shut in. You’ll never get me in that Channel Tunnel …’

‘No,’ Duncan said.

‘I mean, that will be far worse. Just imagine being stuck in there!’

‘Yes,’ Duncan said.

‘Mind you, I reckon as soon as it’s finished the IRA will bomb it anyway. It will be such a tempting target, won’t it? How will they resist?’

‘Yes,’ Duncan said.

‘Unless they blow themselves up first, of course, like that couple did in St Albans in November. I thought at the time that it served them right, but when they said that the girl was only 18 and the man in his twenties, I was sorry for the poor thing. I expect she was led astray by him; didn’t know what she was doing.’

‘No,’ Duncan agreed.

‘You’re very quiet, my pet.’

‘I’m fine, Mum,’ Phoebe said.

They ate fruit salad and cream for pudding and then went into the sitting room to watch television, ending up seeing the New Year in and laughing with Clive James.

‘Here’s to 1992,’ Wynne said, raising her glass to Phoebe, ‘and future happiness for us all. It’s been a lovely evening. The food was delicious and your handsome husband is lovely to talk to. She raised her glass to Duncan as well. ‘Happy New Year!’

‘Yes,’ Duncan said, tipping his own glass slightly in her direction. So he was lovely to talk to, was he! He liked Wynne. Perhaps she could knock some sense into her daughter. He caught Phoebe’s eye, but couldn’t interpret her expression. She clinked her glass with his.

‘Happy 1992,’ she said.

On New Year’s Day Duncan went back to work. The weather in Somerset was grey and quite mild, so he was able to continue with the stone wall which he was building for a client in the village. Phoebe handed him his box of sandwiches and watched him turn the van and drive away up the lane. The following
morning she would be back at her job too. It was not an inspiriting prospect. She went back into the kitchen. Wynne was still eating toast. Now, Phoebe thought, now we’ll talk.

‘How’s Duncan’s work going,’ Wynne asked her, taking some marmalade, ‘what with the recession and everything?’

‘All right at the moment,’ Phoebe said, ‘but I don’t know for how much longer. Luckily most people in the village have hung on to their jobs and can afford Duncan, but there’s an increasing number of builders from further away who are getting on their bikes and competing with him for jobs. So far, thank goodness, folk would still rather have someone they know.’