New World in the Morning (19 page)

For, as soon as I'd spoken, I lifted her off the floor. She threw her arms about my neck and twined her legs around my bottom. She kissed me long and hard—inhaling sharply upon penetration. Between us we moved her back and forth, gently at first, then with mounting acceleration. It was murder on the biceps but nowhere else was the sensation remotely one of pain.

I needed another shower.

Moira took hers separately. “I warn you: we shan't be in any fit state to go to the theatre!”

“You wanna bet? That's another five or six hours away.”

We compromised. We made love only once more before then, and that was after five o'clock, before we started getting ready. And even then it was nothing too adventurous or demanding: just the plain old missionary. To a count of under four hundred. Not good. Not bad. Incredible.

We would save the goldfingering till later.

Meanwhile we followed one of Moira's earlier suggestions. “I get the feeling that I ought to humour you,” I said. So we went rowing on the lake: not the Serpentine: the one in Regent's Park. This was nearer and in addition there was somewhere nice, in Queen Mary's Garden, to have tea. (Obviously, we hadn't wanted any lunch.) The weather wasn't perfect for boating—perfect boating weather meant shirtless and a suntan rather than T-shirt and a jumper—and in some ways I'd have preferred to hire a skiff and feel that I was really showing off my paces, working hard and skimming across the surface like a skier or a bird; but all the same it was pleasant just to idle round the contours of the lake and around a central, wooded island; even—especially at those times when a watery sun tried to reproduce the brilliance I had awoken to—resting on my oars and allowing us to drift.

I said, “I enjoy rowing. I enjoy any form of physical exercise—the harder the better, really—anything that makes you feel your muscles are working. At Oxford or at Cambridge I'd have been a rowing blue.”

“Do they have rowing blues at London?”

“I'm not sure. Why?”

“I was only thinking,” she replied, “that if you're serious about coming to live up here why not apply to London University?” I had told her last night over dinner that I'd never been to university and how much I regretted it. “I'm sure you'd be able to get a loan and that somehow or other we could manage—one could manage—to pay it back.”

Before she'd changed it, she had definitely said ‘we'.

I stopped rowing. I wouldn't comment on that—I couldn't, of course—but
God!
The glory of the woman!

“That's an inspirational and magnificent idea,” I answered instead.

“Better than taking on some mediocre job…because these days, without a degree, you're not going to find anything else. And it would certainly be a good way of fulfilling yourself.”

“You know,” I said, “it's extraordinary how in just one week my world has opened up. Suddenly there seem limitless ways of fulfilling myself.”

“I'm glad.” She was leaning over and trailing her hand in the water. “In fact,” she said, “I feel it could truly be the making of you. I hope that doesn't sound patronizing.”

I paused. “There's something very solid about that phrase: ‘The Making of Sam Groves.' It has a ring to it. And even if it
were
patronizing (which it most emphatically is—how could you doubt it for one single instant?) let me tell you this. I know of no one I'd prefer to patronize me.”

It was time to return to the boathouse; we'd had more than our full hour. As I prepared to hand Moira onto the landing stage, a father and his three children were waiting to take our places. They had with them a large shaggy-haired white dog which jumped into the boat even before the two of us had properly left it and made everybody laugh. “Jimmy can sometimes be a little overeager!” the man apologized.

“Jimmy reminded me of Susie,” Moira said, as we walked away. “How is she—your little black-eyed Susan?”

As yet Moira knew nothing of the accident. I now told her what had happened; but may have kept talking of Susie as though she were my own dog, not that of our neighbours. “I still can't really forgive myself.”

“Well, it wasn't exactly
your
fault!” She'd been holding my arm and now hugged it to her sympathetically.

“Wasn't it? I should've had her on the lead. Some people are such
garbage!
” Indeed, even now I couldn't credit there were those who were capable of running down a dog—rat, pigeon, hedgehog, anything—and not stopping to ascertain the state the animal was in: if only with a view to killing it if necessary. “Scum!” I added. “Bastards!”

“Hear, hear!” she said, yet seemed surprised at the pent-up rage with which I'd expressed what she agreed with. “But anyway, Sammy, you haven't a single thing to reproach yourself for. Not the least thing in the world.”

“I read quite recently,” I said, “about two men who gouged out a pony's eyes with an old nail.”

“Dear God!”

“I think they got three months.”

But happily we were interrupted. A football crossed our path and simultaneously we heard a cry: “Send it back, mister?” It broke our mood entirely. I thought, I'll show those kids a thing or two! Naturally I'd have looked a complete charlie if my kick hadn't connected but fortunately the ball went soaring in a hugely gratifying arc and covered the requisite thirty-yard distance as though it had a built-in homing device. The six or seven boys were patently impressed. “Here, mister! You want to come and join in?” I could have been strongly tempted. “Another time! But thanks, anyway!” They seemed like good kids. Totally unbidden, it crossed my mind: And I didn't have to ask
you
to get in on that one, either. Did I?

“Superman!” said Moira.

“Ah… What price glory?” I laughed.

“I, too, was quite impressed.”

“And so you damn well should have been! Just call me Alan Shearer.”

“You ought to be a father.”

“Yes…well.”

“You're as good with children as you are with dogs.”

“I hoped you were going to say with women.”

“Yes, even there you're not so bad. Clearly an all-rounder. All things to all people. In short—insufferable.”

For a while we walked without talking. I turned my head a couple of times.

“Why
don't
you go and join in?”

“It's already after four.” Actually the reason I had just glanced at my watch was because I'd briefly wondered about running across. “You know you're dying for a cup of tea. I am, too.”

Besides, supposing I hadn't managed to live up to that initial impression? It was years since I'd played football.

I said: “It's one of the most underrated secrets in life—knowing when to leave the party!”

But I wasn't certain she was listening.

“Is it one of your ambitions,” she asked, “ever to become a father?”

It was an awkward question and one I hadn't reckoned would come up, not carrying as it did, as I felt certain it did, the implication that Moira's childbearing days were rapidly running out and perhaps…

Ten years ago I'd allowed Junie to talk me into having a vasectomy. Apart from the obvious loss-of-manhood thing I'd never had a single reason to regret it. Until now.

I gave a shrug.

And thought I detected a flicker of disappointment. I hated the notion of being responsible for anyone's disappointment. Especially, of course, Moira's. I put my arm about her waist. To my relief, she then put hers around mine. It was a long time since I'd walked that way with Junie. (Junie was actually too short.)

I myself had earlier felt a flicker of disappointment…or, at least, of something. On the landing stage. That father with his three young children; presumably they'd all been his? He had looked lusty and attractive. I knew I had experienced envy of some kind. Or wistfulness.

Though whatever it was—and however fleeting—it had surely been uncalled-for on an afternoon like this.

“Yet I didn't finish telling you about Susie.” Did that sound a bit abrupt? “It's only a week since it happened but you wouldn't believe the progress she's been making. Everyone calls it a miracle. Even the vet.”

“That's wonderful.” My relief was increased by the lack of any flatness in her tone. “And for you that's not just some worn-out old cliché, is it?”

I gave another shrug—as if the thrust of her remark was something anyone essentially humble ought to feel ashamed of.

“And you love that dog,” she added, “as though she were your own.”

19

I'd bought the goldfingering at a haberdasher's in Abbey Road, on our way to Regent's Park. I'd hardly known it could exist: a London shop that surely hadn't changed in over fifty years. Possibly much more than that? Impulsively I'd stopped the car.

There was a parking space a few yards down the road. Maybe if there hadn't been I'd simply have smiled and driven on and thought, “Oh, what the hell, some other day possibly,” but the parking space
was
there and the combination of that and the haberdashery had seemed a charming gift too timely to refuse. I'd asked Moira whether she'd mind waiting.

“Not in the least. But what are you after?”

“A lifeline.”

“Oh? Is that all?”

The shop had a polished mahogany counter and a wall fitted with small drawers that would have made young Arthur Kipps, or even H.G. himself, feel instantly at home. Not seeing any kind of railway overhead I still half-expected to discover, tucked away in some remote corner, a chute for change-bearing cylinders. Half-expected to be served by somebody sweet and venerable and wearing a choker.

But at least I wasn't let down in the one respect that mattered. The young woman with the unremitting sniff knew immediately which drawer to go to.

In fact, I hadn't imagined for one moment that she wouldn't. I remembered Moira had only brought me this way because she'd wanted to show me the studios where the Beatles had recorded. But I also remembered—and for the second time in far less than twenty-four hours—that apparently some people claimed there was no such thing as coincidence. Or chance.

It made me think again about
The X Files
.

The truth is out there!

When I returned to the car Moira must have seen I'd been successful. I sat in the driving seat and handed her the paper bag. Inside…the ball of goldfingering.

“The last they had. I'd otherwise have bought a second but I think the one should be enough.”

“Oh, good, you honestly do believe so?”

“Yes. Though, by the way, I didn't realize it was called that. Did you? They also showed me a hank of wool, gold Lurex, but I thought the thread was more appropriate.”

“I am likely to scream before long.”

“You do repeat yourself.”

“Maybe I'm driven to it. Maybe it's the kind of men I sometimes meet in Kentish seaside towns.”

“I am sorry. I know you think I'm only playing games.”

She said nothing—her silence was sufficiently expressive.

“And on one level, I suppose…yes, that
is
what I'm doing.”

“What sort of games?”

“You remember the myth of Theseus and the Minotaur?”

“I know it's something I must have read about; yet you'd better remind me.”

“Okay, then. But where to begin? The Minotaur had the body of a man but the head of a bull. He was a pitiful hybrid who's always received an extremely poor press. Which is obviously unfair: he was merely the victim of his own natural dictates. No more inherently evil than a crocodile. But he caused a lot of suffering.”

“And so Theseus—Theseus, did you say?—set out to… To what? Kill him? Reform him? Show him the error of his ways?”

“No, that would have been sweet, wouldn't it? Really sweet. Bible lessons; cautionary tales; Just-So Stories. Aesop. But, alas, I don't think reformation was ever quite on his agenda. I'm afraid I have to tell you he was doomed from the beginning.”

“Theseus?”

“No! The Minotaur!”

“Sorry. Got muddled.”

“My fault. Didn't mean to snap. Any mix-up and it's me.”

“At all events. Our hero slays this sad, pathetic beast?”

“Assisted by a beautiful princess who remains at the entrance to the maze. I forgot to mention that the creature lives in this maze—a melancholy place, practically impossible to get out of.”

“But she couldn't have been much help if she merely remained there at the entrance. Or did you say she had long arms? Extendable? Twistable around corners?”

“No, stop it, this is serious!”

She looked contrite but I could sense she was trying to keep a straight face.

“Don't you see? It's my own slow progression I'm attempting to describe. The princess stands there clutching the thread which Theseus has attached to himself and without which he'd be lost. Utterly lost.”

In one way, however, I already
was
lost: Moira's laughter couldn't be contained. Neither, suddenly, could mine.

And our giggles in that parked car reminded me of when Junie and I, not quite a week ago, had had to roll about in bed, so helpless it had almost hurt.

Moira was the first to recover. There were passers-by and for once I think she was more aware of them than I was.

She waited until no one could have overheard. “The thread! I do believe I'm beginning to see daylight. Tell me: how—or where—has he attached this thread?”

“Ah, now. Perhaps we'll have to puzzle that one out tonight?”

“Mmm. Well, I hope it's good and strong.”

“Of course it is. It's golden and enchanted.”

“I fear I may have got confused again. Are we talking of the thread or the thing it will be tied to? But before you answer that—you haven't told me yet the name of the beautiful princess. Was she Titian-haired and quite amazingly captivating? And did she capture all men's hearts?”