To Have and to Hold (15 page)

‘Blimey,' she said. ‘It works.'

She turned up the volume. It was ‘Land of Hope and Glory'.

‘Oh dear,' she laughed. ‘How proper.'

She turned the knob and the music changed to the faintest reggae, as if transmitted all the way from the West Indies. She felt Ken shift as he reached to the side for his cigarettes. It was the next day; the lost, at least losable, time between five and seven. She had left the girls with Julie down the road and said she was going shopping. She must remember to buy something on the way home. This was her most fertile time of the month and, as she had whispered to Ken over the phone, they might as well take advantage of it. Though it felt disconnected, to say these words to him, what made her feel more unlikely was phoning him at work, never at home. It was ridiculously hard to ask for Mr Fletcher. She thought of her children, sitting at the table, their eyes round.
Liar, liar, knickers on fire.
She didn't think of her children.

She said: ‘I'm getting quite fond of this awful room. Wonder why they always give us the same one.'

Ken didn't reply. He offered her the cigarette packet. She took two, lit them and passed him one.

‘That's nice of you,' he said.

‘You ought to do this. Like in the movies. It's very smooth.'

‘I'm not very smooth,' he said. He paused and looked at his watch.

‘I'd better lie still a moment,' she said.

He looked at her. it was the first time for half an hour that he had met her eye. He was a surprisingly resourceful lover, and tender, but he kept his face buried. Was he comparing her with her sister?

Then his expression changed as he realized. ‘Ah,' he said.

‘Strange, isn't it?' She smiled. ‘Years ago I'd be jumping up and down, trying
not
to get pregnant. Now I'm lying here, willing it to work.'

He frowned. ‘Viv . . .'

‘What?'

‘I wish you wouldn't, well, be so clinical.'

She raised her eyebrows. ‘We're supposed to be clinical, aren't we?' He was silent. She added: ‘Not that it isn't . . .'

‘What?'

‘Rather nice.'

He paused. ‘Is it?'

‘Isn't it?' she smiled. ‘In fact, it could become a habit.'

Suddenly he put his head in his hands. ‘Oh God.'

She touched his shoulder. ‘You promised,' she said gently. ‘No “oh Gods”.'

Ken didn't move. She looked at his bowed back, at the hand covering her face. His muscularity made him look all the more helpless, but she did not dare hold him. She said: ‘Just think of your body as separate. Men are good at that.'

He spoke through his fingers. ‘Are they?'

‘Fuck 'em and forget 'em.'

His head jerked up. ‘Viv!'

‘Come on. Haven't you ever done that? Before Ann?'

There was a pause. Ken drew on his cigarette. At last he said: ‘I'd only, you know, the once . . .'

‘No!'

He nodded. Down below, in the street, there was a traffic jam; she could hear cars hooting, the slamming of a door and angry shouts. Early evening noises. Through the net curtains
there was grey daylight; the upstairs solicitor's office opposite, an unpromising place lit with strip light, went dark, as the light was switched off. It was nearly time to go.

She heard Ken take a breath. ‘I went on this biking holiday to Belgium,' he said.

‘Belgium?'

‘Well, it's flat.'

She smiled. She wanted to ruffle his hair but she should know by now he didn't like that; he would consider it patronizing.

‘Anyway,' he said, ‘she was German. I thought it would be easier if I didn't speak the language. It was on this camp site. It was awful.' He stubbed out his cigarette and passed her the ashtray. She balanced it on her blanketed stomach. Outside, the hooting continued. ‘Someone shone their torch in, and all the noises . . .'

‘Multilingual screwing?'

He shook his head. ‘The couple in the next tent, they were English and they were arguing about her mother, and how she ought to be put into a home now she was incontinent.'

She burst out laughing and ruffled his hair; she couldn't help it.

‘Not very conducive,' he said. ‘I'd never seen a naked woman before, my mother was very . . .'

She nodded. ‘I know.'

‘Or even sort of naked. Except for Brenda.'

‘The one with the charm bracelet?'

He nodded. ‘Brenda would, well, show you, for five bob. Which was a lot of money.'

He stopped. Opposite, the solicitor's light flickered on again; somebody must have forgotten something.

‘Go on,' she said.

‘So I washed our neighbour's car, and polished it with wax, and got the five bob. Well, I paid her, and she showed me, in the boiler room, and do you know what?'

‘What?'

‘Next day my neighbour pranged his car. A write-off. I felt terrible.'

‘Why?'

He paused. ‘I thought it was the wrath of God.'

She didn't know whether she should laugh. She concentrated on the window; opposite, the lights were again switched off. The room was gloomy now the daylight was fading.

She said: ‘What did Ann say?'

‘What?'

‘When you told her?'

He turned to look at her. ‘I didn't.'

‘Why not? It's a wonderful story.'

‘I couldn't.'

‘Why?'

‘She's my wife.'

She couldn't help herself this time; she burst out laughing. ‘You are an extraordinary person.'

‘Don't say that!'

‘Why not?'

He turned away. ‘I'm not in a test tube.'

There was a silence. At the basin the tap started dripping; it had a life of its own. She said gently: ‘I'm sorry,' and got out of the bed. With her back to him she pulled on her briefs and then, swiftly, her dress. She turned: ‘Do I look a mess?'

He gazed at her. He said: ‘You look very young.'

She buckled up her belt. ‘You don't have to say that.'

‘Can't I?'

She didn't reply. She wished he would get up. She pulled on her tights; how can one do this fetchingly? Impossible. She should have worn stockings again. She started brushing her hair.

‘So do you still believe in the wrath of God?' she asked.

He hadn't moved. ‘I don't know,' he said. ‘I don't know anything any more.'

She ran her fingers through her hair and shook her head to make it curly. She felt she was sitting on a silent stage. ‘Well don't worry,' she said.

‘What do you mean?'

She gestured around: the dripping tap, the darkening
window, his clothes heaped on the chair. ‘This room must never have known such worthy sex.'

He stared at her. She could no longer see his face clearly.

‘Worthy?' he asked.

‘Isn't that the word?'

‘Is it?' He gazed at her, still not moving.

Ann was cutting up liver; the strips slumped on to the wooden board. In the early years of their marriage she had got Ken to do this for her; she couldn't bear to feel the slippery, wet bonelessness of the stuff. Besides, she had liked him protecting her and smiling at her disgust. But she had pulled herself together; squeals were less charming in one's thirties. Or was it that he had stopped offering? He used to hover around her in the kitchen, busying himself with something, as if the air in the other rooms were thinner with her absence. But wouldn't one be a fool to expect that to last through fourteen years of marriage, a flat and then a house, several thousand meals?

Seven o'clock. The radio pips sounded; it was only then that she realized the radio had been speaking all this time and she hadn't heard a word. She looked out into the garden; it was smaller than Viv's, and paved because Ken had said you couldn't keep a lawn this size. Tubs stood around the walls, spaced as regular as sentries; they glimmered white and attentive. In them, wallflowers had faded in the evening gloom. April had come in cool and blustery.

Above the wall Ken had fixed a trellis; it unsuccessfully screened Mrs Maguire's washing – gently rocking Babygros and Mr Maguire's enormous underpants. She thought: there is no mystery in my garden. How barren and self-respecting it looks. She felt herself flush with shame, for hadn't she herself helped Ken to make it that way, working beside him, clearing rubble and laying slabs?

She felt tired and old and her fingers were bloody. It had seemed a long day; strange how much more exhausting work could be when one's mind was distracted. She heard the front door click. Ken paused in the hall, clearing his throat. He always
did that, when he was looking at the letters. She only realized that now.

Behind her, he entered the kitchen.

‘Hi,' he said. He never said ‘hi', he said ‘hello'. Or had she just not noticed? What else had recently escaped her, that she must now rewind and inspect with her sore eyes? New words; old clearings of the throat.

She half turned. He was carrying his sports holdall.

‘Sorry I'm late,' he said. ‘Had a swim.'

She turned back to the liver. ‘You don't have to explain, you know.'

A silence. ‘What?' he asked.

Her knife was sharp; the liver parted, pink, soft as butter, as she cut it. She said: ‘Exactly where you've been.'

‘But I have been swimming! Look!'

He came up to her, grabbed her free hand and pressed it on to his wet hair. She pulled her hand away, showing him her bloody fingers.

‘Ugh!' he said.

‘Sorry.'

‘Sorry.'

She had finished slicing the liver. She put on the tap, a little turn of the cold, a little turn of the hot, and washed her hands under water.

‘Ann . . .'

She went on washing.

He said: ‘It's about this clinic business. There's something I've got to tell you.' He paused.

‘Don't!'

He stared. ‘Don't what?'

‘She spoke swiftly: ‘Don't tell me.'

He looked at her. ‘What do you mean?'

‘I'd rather you didn't spell it out.'

‘But –'

‘It might relieve you . . .' She spoke more gently, and turned to address the sink. ‘But I don't want to know.'

There was a pause. He cleared his throat. ‘How did you . . .?'

‘I guessed,' she said. ‘Remember, I've known you an awful long time.'

‘But –'

‘
Please!
' She swung round.

He gazed at her. ‘Don't you care?'

‘Of course I care. What do you think?'

He sat down at the table and ran his hands through his hair. It stood up in spikes. ‘Oh God.'

‘But this is more important than how I feel,' she said. ‘Or how
you
feel. Do you understand?'

He stayed sitting there, gazing at the cruet.

She said: ‘And after all, it'll soon be over, won't it?'

There was a silence.

‘Won't it?' she asked.

He nodded.

She turned back to the sink and rinsed the chopping board; then she washed up the knife. ‘Just promise me one thing,' she said. She stared out at their little garden. Of course she loved it. She said: ‘If this is going to work, I don't want you crawling in like a dog that expects to be beaten.' She dried the knife on the tea-towel. ‘I won't beat you.' She moved over to the units and opened a drawer. ‘But please don't say how grateful you are.' She laid the knife in the drawer, with the others, and closed it.

Ollie closed the Kelly's Street Directory. There was an odd, echoing sensation between his ears, as if his skull had swelled.

Ellie passed him, and paused at his desk. ‘Found what you were looking for?' she asked, pointing to the Kelly's.

He nodded, slowly, and stood up. ‘You going to lunch?'

‘Hey!' Ellie's flushed face flew past him. He pushed harder. She was sitting on a child's roundabout, her bleached hair flying. ‘Hey, stop it!' She put out her boot; it scraped as the roundabout slowed down.

She jumped off, breathless. ‘You must've been a right bully once.'

He nodded. ‘I used to pull the wings off little girls.'

‘Well, keep your hands off mine,' she said, smoothing down her skirt. ‘They're the only pair I've got.'

He didn't smile. She looked at him curiously as they walked out of the playground and down the street towards the piazza. It was warmer today; a watery sun shone on the yellowed stone columns. Ollie led her to a cocktail bar and they sat down at an outside table.

When the drinks came she looked in her glass and said: ‘Like fruit salad in here.' She took out a cherry and ate it.

‘Like it?'

She took a sip and grimaced. ‘Tastes like the stuff me mum gave me for my tonsillitis.'

There was a pause. Then he said. ‘You come from a happy family, don't you?'

She shrugged, and nodded.

‘It shows,' he said.

‘How?'

‘You know how to trust people.'

She raised her eyebrows, but he didn't say any more. Instead, he indicated her drink. ‘I'll get you something else.'

She put her hand over her glass. ‘I want to be wicked and sophisticated.'

‘Don't!'

‘What?' She stared.

‘Stay as you are.'

She looked at him in surprise. They sat in silence. Ollie finished his drink; she sucked a mint leaf. Down the piazza, a group of people started shouting. Ollie jerked his head in their direction. ‘Is that street theatre or are they just pissed?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Just a Covent Garden joke,' he said.

She grinned. ‘You seem to be cheering up.'

He paused. ‘Only because of you.'

In the staffroom, teachers were taking out their lunch. Harold opened a can of Tizer. It hissed. He stared at it and said: ‘Now why did I buy this?'