The Diviners (24 page)

“A damn sofa is no place to make love,” Brooke says grimly, and despite themselves they both laugh.

The bed, true, is better. Morag feels no hesitance about peeling off her clothes. She is, in fact, undressed first.

“Let me look at you,” Brooke says, when they are lying together. “Oh my love, you’re so goddamn beautiful.”

He, too, is beautiful. His long body is taut, spare, lean. His ribs can faintly be seen under the skin, and the hair on his chest is light browngold, the colour his hair was before it
became grey. His cock is proud, long, ready, and she wants to touch it but wonders if he would think this too forward of her, so soon. He sees where her glance is, and smiles.

“Don’t be alarmed, love,” he says. “Women always wonder, the first time they see a man naked and erect, if there’s enough room inside themselves. Well, there
is
.”

“Yes.”

The first time they see a man naked. Should she tell him? But she cannot. What would he think of her? But is she deceiving him? Perfidious Morag. If she tells him about Jules, he will leave her. She cannot. Would he understand? Would any man? She does not think so, and cannot bear to take the chance.

“Put your hands there, my love. There–that’s good. You’re not shy–you have no false modesty. I knew you wouldn’t.”

Then their skins are close and touching all over, arms and legs entwined around one another, close close. And then he breaks away and fishes a small purple envelope from under the pillow, and takes out the safe, and she looks away, all at once embarrassed at this intrusion of some world outside their two selves, a world of drugstore and smirks.

Soon it is all right again, though. But when he tries to go into her, and she wanting him with every blood vessel and muscle in her, it hurts her. She tries not to let on, but her body betrays her and she flinches. Brooke is desperate, hardly able to hold back but unable to go on hurting her. Then he collapses, away from her.

“Oh christ, Morag. I can’t hurt you. I can’t.”

“Brooke–I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

She has failed him. He strokes her hair, her face, her breasts. Then lights cigarettes for them both.

“Hush, love. It doesn’t matter. I shall just have to be–well, as gentle as I can, and patient.”

“Brooke, I don’t mind if it hurts the first time or so–”

He grins wanly.

“I’m not very experienced with virgins,” he says. “Well, at least it’s proof positive, isn’t it?”

“What if I hadn’t been?” she asks.

There is a chill in her voice which her own ears catch, but mercifully he does not seem to notice.

“But you
are
, love, so the question doesn’t arise, does it? Idiot child, I wouldn’t have thrown you out on the street. I would’ve been–well, disappointed, I expect.”

“Why, Brooke?”

Now she is remembering overhearing a conversation between two boys in the college coffee shop.
I was all set to throw her the ice and it wasn’t one of your two-bit rings neither and then she gave in and whaddya know I wasn’t the first on that road so I thought the hell with that jazz.

“I don’t know, love,” Brooke says. “I suppose I like to feel that it’s something you’ve only experienced with me. It’s–well, if I didn’t care about you, I wouldn’t feel that way, would I? I think most men would feel that way about their woman.”

Their woman. Her clenched and doubting guts now dissolve with gratitude and care.

“Am I your woman, then, Brooke? For sure?”

He laughs and draws her close.

“For sure, my darling. For absolute bloody certain.”

His wife, then? Morag would be willing to be his mistress, fancy woman, kept woman, moll, or whatever. Just so he doesn’t leave her. Just so they can always be together, always and always.

“Brooke–I love you so much.”

“And I love you so much, my love. Aren’t you going to ask if I intend to make an honest woman of you?”

“Well, you haven’t made a dishonest one of me yet. Not that that was your fault.”

“Oh, it’s like that, is it? You’re asking for it, then, love?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“Well, this time I’ll make a dishonest woman out of you. Oh my love, just relax and try to trust me.”

“I do trust you, Brooke. And I’ll try–”

It still, however, hurts like hell. She wants only to focus upon him, upon the two of them together. But remembers how, in medieval times or somewhere, if the sheets weren’t bloody, the bride was considered a disaster and a jezebel and might be sent packing home to Ma and Pa. Imagine being sent packing to Christie and Prin for that reason. Prin wouldn’t understand what was going on. Christie would laugh his fool head off.

For one unbelievable and appalling second, Morag is suddenly homesick for Manawaka. Then the moment of inner-talk passes and she is again with Brooke.

“Brooke–”

“My love–oh God, I can’t keep it any longer–”

And he goes off, inside deep deep inside her herownself and she is inhabited by him at last.

Afterwards, when they are their separate selves once more, they are not separate.

“Morag, listen, my love, it’ll be better for you soon. It really will. I promise you.”

“I know. I do know. And it was fine–it was fine, anyway.”

“Morag?”

“Mm?”

“Listen, dear one. I’ve been offered a post in Toronto, full professor. Would you like Toronto, do you think?”

Would she like Toronto? Would she like Paradise? With Brooke, and away from the prairies entirely.

“Of course I would. Of course. Of course.”

But so strongly does she feel about this response that her voice comes out like a croak. She clears her throat.

“Sorry. Frog in my throat. Oh Brooke–Toronto would be great.”

Dramatic effect is somewhat marred, second time. Frog in the throat? What a gruesome expression. Who could ever have thought that one up? Ugh. Those clammy clambering teeny saurian legs in your
gullet
, for God’s sake? Worse, more hideous than crab-claws but why think of that now for heaven’s sake, crabs another word for
VD
or is it lice? She doesn’t know enough. Why think of any of that with the cleanest best man ever to walk God’s earth? But why did he say
Women always wonder if there will be enough room in themselves
, etcetera, and then said
Not much experience with virgins
. Well, no one would expect or want him to be a virgin at thirty-four and what a disaster it would’ve been if he had been. Crab is also Cancer the zodiac sign, Morag’s sign, and they always say lucky in career but not so hot luck in love, although oriented towards children and family. What a load of garbage. But to have Brooke’s children–that is what she now sees is necessary in the deepest part of her being. What a sign to have, though, Cancer, and why think of that in connection with a frog in your throat? Words words words. Words haunt her, but she will become unhaunted now, forevermore.

Brooke is lighting two more cigarettes and smiling at her.

“That’s settled, then, I guess the spring would be a good time to be married, would you have thought, Morag?”

Yes. Yes. Anytime. How about tomorrow?

“Yes. It would be a really good time to be married, Brooke.”

Then she thinks of something else.

“Shall I go on in university there, Brooke?”

He considers.

“Quite honestly, love, I don’t know what to think about it. If you want to go on, of course you’ve a perfect right to do so. On the other hand, you might feel a bit awkward about attending classes, with your husband teaching there.”

“I–don’t know.”

“Well, you won’t need the degree. My salary won’t exactly be princely, but I can afford to keep a wife. Why don’t you audit some classes? Or simply read. Education isn’t getting a degree, you know. It’s learning, and learning to think.”

True. Hm. And if she isn’t attending classes, she will have time to read and also work at her own writing. And care for the house, naturally.

“Another thing, love,” Brooke says. “What about seeing a doctor? I mean, a diaphragm would be better.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes. Definitely. More reliable. We don’t want accidents.”

Accidents. He means kids.

“All right, then, I will, Brooke. But I want a child of yours, Brooke. You know?”

He laughs, but very gently.

“My true love, lots of time for that. Let’s not think of it now, shall we? Get yourself fixed up, won’t you?”

“Yes. Of course.”

The doctor’s office is small and very dark. Probably in external fact it is normal-sized and normally lighted. When finally summoned Morag finds an unknown resource within herself and does not whisper, stutter or slump.

She explains that she is about to be married. The doc, oldish, with a thin tired face, fixes her with a beady raven’s eye.

“Well, suppose you come back to me when you
are
married, eh?”

What if she’d turned up with a Woolworth’s brass ring on her left hand? He would not have turned a hair, likely.

“What if I get pregnant before–”

“Would that be the end of the world?”

No. No. It would be fine. For her. But but but. It has to be two people’s decision. It would be difficult, moving to another city and that. Not to mention the money. None of which would bother Morag, but then she is not the one who has to worry about the money and all.

She leaves. She does not see whether the expression on the doctor’s face is one of boredom, or resignation, or sympathy, or what.

In the waitingroom, going out, she finds herself powerful with fury. She goes to the reception desk and makes another appointment. For the day after her wedding.

Dear Christie:

I have something to tell you. I am going to get married. His name is Brooke Skelton, and he teaches English here in the university. He is an Englishman (I mean, from England) and is a really fine and wonderful man, and I am very happy. As I am not yet 21, I guess I would have to have your permission, although am I legally adopted by you? But I guess you would be classed
as my guardian. I feel sure you will say okay, though.

We are not having a real wedding, just very quiet, so we’re not actually having any guests, as it seems a waste of money. I hope you don’t mind. I will come to see you beforehand, as we will be moving to Toronto soon afterwards. Brooke would just love to come along, also, but cannot, unfortunately, as he will have examination papers to mark and can’t get away, but I will show you a picture of him, and no doubt he will write to you.

I hope this is okay with you, and I hope Prin is reasonably all right.

All the best,

Morag

Dear Morag–

Well you are getting married that is some news all right and I wish well to you and him. You know damn well I would not say no and it is your life and I hope all goes well too bad he is English and not Scots ha ha. Come home when convenient. Prin not good in herself these days.

Yours,

Christie

Memorybank Movie: Hill Street Revisited

The house is just the same, only worse. Perhaps Morag notices it more now. The sour smell is sourer. The exposed light bulb in the kitchen looks bleaker, dimmer, than before, the old sideboard more cluttered with newspapers and unironed clothes, Christie’s shaggily upholstered chair more shabbily torn and worn.

“Hello, Christie.”

He is fifty-six, only. He looks about seventy, his hair sparser than she recalled, his badly shaven jaw more tweedlike with sprouting hairs, his eyes less blue, more clouded. As expected, he also stinks. But has put on a relatively clean shirt for her visit. The effect is somewhat diminished by the fact that the shirt was made to wear with a detachable collar which has got itself detached permanently and is no doubt among the dustballs under a bed or sofa.

“Hello, girl. By all the saints, then, and by the lord Harry, and by the–”

“Yes. Well. How’s Prin?”

“She’s–she’s took to her bed now, Morag. Doesn’t rise, these days. Can’t hardly manage to rise. She ain’t old, you know.”

“No. I know.”

The hulk in bed is barely discernible under the thick welter of blankets and eiderdown. Christie pulls away the sheet from the face. Prin’s skin is the colour of uncooked pastry, yellowish-white. Christie shouts, as though to penetrate the veil of the years which comes between Prin’s mind and now.

“Here’s Morag to see you, Prin.”

The eyes flutter open, and a smile, small and faint as the ghost of a child, crosses the puffy lips.

“Morag–Morag?”

“Leave me be, with her, for a bit, Christie, will you, then?”

“Sure, girl. Whatever you say.”

Morag sits down beside Prin’s bed. Prin smiles again, trustingly, like a young girl about to be married.

Morag becomes different, in this house. Older, older. With Brooke she feels young, too young sometimes, ignorant. Here she feels too old, too knowing. She should stay here and look after Prin, look after both of them. But cannot. Will not.

“Prin, I’m going to be married.”

The faraway eyes try desperately to focus on Morag’s face, to understand.

“Marry? Morag–little girl.”