To Have and to Hold (6 page)

Viv nodded. There was another silence. A man passed,
wheeling a sack of peat. An assistant passed, holding a bunch of keys. They watched a woman stroll by, carrying a fern in a pot.

‘If only it was that easy,' said Viv.

‘What?'

Viv pointed. ‘Buy a baby and take it home.'

Ann's voice rose: ‘Ready potted.'

Suddenly they both started to laugh hysterically. They sat there side by side, shaking and hiccuping, gasping for breath. Viv felt her sister lean against her at last, her shoulders jerking; the tears started to run down their faces.

The garden centre was closing. Above the glass roof the sky had darkened. Customers averted their eyes from the sight of two women, sitting together and now weeping.

The church bells were ringing for the early evening service. Ollie sat on the settee, reading the
Sunday Times
Colour Magazine. Ken furtively glanced at the clock: six. He willed Ann to hurry up. He felt a kind of queasy loneliness. At first he thought it was the result of all that drink but at last, with surprise, he identified the feeling as homesickness. He hadn't felt it so strongly for years. There was something about this place that unsettled him and made him long for his own safe lounge. He stood at the bookshelves, leafing through the
Portable Orwell
. Despite Viv's preconceptions he had actually read some Orwell and had always admired the passion of the man. At least Ollie had stopped talking.

Daisy wandered in and said: ‘I can whistle now.'

‘Can you?' He closed the book. ‘Show me.'

She whistled.

‘Excellent,' he said.

‘Can you whistle?'

‘Of course.' He whistled ‘Hills of the North Rejoice', a tune that never failed to stir him.

‘What's that?' she asked.

‘A hymn.'

‘What's a hymn?'

He stared. ‘You don't know?' He looked at Ollie, who was
busy reading. He turned back to Daisy. ‘You don't know any hymns?'

She shook her head.

Ann unwrapped her plant and put it on the windowsill. Ken was sitting in the armchair reading the
Sunday Express.
From behind the page he asked: ‘What's it called?'

‘What?'

‘The plant.'

‘I don't know.' She looked at the label. ‘Can't pronounce it.' She threw away the cellophane. ‘I just liked it.'

He turned a page. Then he said: ‘They don't know any hymns.'

‘Who don't?'

‘Your nieces. Isn't that sad?'

She looked at him. ‘But you're an atheist.'

‘Agnostic actually.' He turned another page. ‘I still think it's sad.'

She nodded, and turned back to look at the plant. It had little buds coming. She couldn't think of anything to do. It was becoming familiar, this feeling of panic. Nine o'clock in the evening and there was nothing in the world which seemed worth the effort. The only way to quell the panic was to tell herself: it's Sunday evening, that's why.

She wanted to ask Ken if he felt the same. But then she realized: if he did, it wouldn't make any difference. And that gave her the greatest fear of all.

Viv lay awake. It was the dead centre of the night. Beside her she heard Ollie's regular breathing; she heard the stirring of her children in the next room. The creaks and sighs of an old house; how many children it must have kept temporarily safe. She heard a car hooting. She heard her father's voice, shouting at Ann:
Life's not fair, young lady, and the sooner you realize that the better
! Ann, as young and tender as Rosie, her sweet wide face perplexed, for how could anyone bear to tell her the truth?

Down in the garden a cat yowled. The house breathed with its sleeping souls; she thought of Ann, washing her doll's
petticoat and hanging it up to dry, forgiving Viv who heard her murmurings under the bedclothes at night, speaking to a God she had to believe existed, for where else could one find the rightness of things? There had to be a rightness, otherwise one just believed in tossing a coin, and who could survive believing in a cruel flick of the wrist?

A bed creaked and in the doorway stood Rosie in her Mothercare nightie. She rubbed her eyes and came over to Viv.

‘I had a horrible dream,' she said.

‘Come here.'

Viv pushed back the bedclothes and Rosie climbed in, as she so often did.

‘I dreamed there were lots of long men . . .'

‘Ssh . . .'

She put her arms around Rosie and smoothed the hair from her forehead. But her daughter wouldn't be calmed; she turned her head from side to side.

‘And then one of them dropped down from the tree . . .'

‘Ssh . . .'

She willed Rosie to close her eyes. She must smooth it all away, because in a few years it would no longer be possible.

That's nerves, like being on stage.
All the next morning Viv mouthed the words. Never had she felt such an actress, standing in the classroom with the faces in front of her and her eyes on the clock. Later she could remember nothing she had said, it had passed in a blur until lunch-break and she was driving the car to Wood Green High Road.

She parked opposite the building society. For a moment she sat there, her throat tight. Now she had made up her mind she felt a curious, hot shyness. But she also felt that she had just woken up. She got out of the car.

‘What's the matter?' Ann stared at her through the glass. ‘What's happened?'

Viv stood at the window like a customer. She felt she should write down her news and slide it through, like a cash withdrawal. She would see Ann unfolding the piece of paper; she would see Ann's face change.

‘Nothing's the matter,' she said. ‘Come out to lunch.'

‘What? Can't hear through this glass.'

‘Are you free for lunch?'

Ann nodded and went to get her coat. A minute later they were getting into Viv's old Peugeot. On its bonnet someone had traced, with their finger, I
AM DIRTY
.

Viv did not start the engine. Ann sat beside her.

‘I've been thinking,' said Viv.

‘What about?'

‘I've been thinking all night and I don't know why I didn't think of it before.'

‘What?'

Viv paused. ‘About the baby.'

Ann stared at her. ‘What baby?'

Viv said: ‘It's so obvious.'

‘What is?'

‘I'll have it for you.'

‘Have what?'

Viv said slowly: ‘The baby.'

There was a silence. Later, Viv remembered watching a traffic warden walk towards the next car, starting to write in her book. She remembered a blur of red buses.

Ann said: ‘What did you say?'

‘I'll have the baby for you.'

NEVER HAD A
afternoon taken so long to pass.

At last it was four o'clock. The bell rang, doors slammed, voices echoed along the corridors. Viv hurried back to the staffroom but Madeleine, as usual, was on the phone.

‘. . . Of course I'm ready for a relationship,' she was saying, ‘but not a commitment. Look I can't talk now . . .'

But she would. Viv fidgeted nearby. She felt big with her news, blushing with it. She clutched her ten pence, hot in her hand.

Harold, who worked with her in the English Department, came in and went to the lockers. He paused and turned round.

‘Viv dearest, I might be an obliging chap but I draw the line at correcting your homework.'

Viv stared at the lockers. ‘Christ. Sorry.'

She removed her books from his locker and put them into her own, one below. ‘My mind's gone,' she said.

He patted her shoulder. ‘Don't worry, we're all suffering from terminal fatigue.' He looked at her more closely. ‘Or have 4b been practising their sharing skills and passing you some of their substances?'

Viv laughed. Madeleine was still on the phone.

‘Bright-eyed one,' he went on, ‘are you going straight away or do you want a cup of tea?'

She looked at the phone. She had to ring Ollie. ‘Er, I'll stay a moment.'

‘I'm not rejecting you,' Madeleine was saying, ‘I'm just saying I've got to prepare my tests tonight.'

‘. . . What a bunch of tarts,' said Harold.

‘What?'

‘I said, guess who I saw in the pub last night with guess who?'

Alan, their Head of Department, came in.

‘Dare I tell him?' asked Harold.

‘Don't worry,' said Alan. ‘I'm innoculated. The ILEA does it for free.'

‘I was telling Viv, I saw the cream of our womanhood, Eileen and Yvonne from the Upper Sixth, in the pub last night with the schoolkeeper.'

‘Don't blame them,' said Viv. ‘He's got a lovely little bum
and
he comes with a free house.'

‘Know something, Viv Meadows?' said Alan, half joking, but you could never be sure. ‘You're worse than the lot of them.'

‘She's being very skittish this afternoon,' said Harold. ‘I think 4b slipped her something.'

Madeleine put the phone down. Viv darted to it.

‘Ollie? Hello. Listen, will you be late? What's happening tonight?'

Ollie said he was going to a gallery opening – one of the staff photographers had a show. ‘What's up?' he asked. His voice seemed faint and crackly, as if he were a hundred miles away. She wondered how she could ever tell him.

‘Oh, nothing,' she said. ‘See you later.'

Ken was still out, visiting sites. Ann put down the phone. If only she could simply hear his voice; though what she could tell from his voice she had no idea. She just wanted to know he was there, and that at some point she could speak. It was 4.30. She pictured him tramping up and down some rubble-strewn house, innocent of her news and therefore incomplete.

Derek came over to her desk. ‘Er, Annie.'

‘Yes?'

He showed her a sheet of paper. ‘There's a little something here that puzzles me. You worked this out?'

She nodded. ‘Just now.'

‘Correct me if I'm mistaken, but shouldn't these,' he pointed, ‘be in hundreds?'

She stared at the paper. ‘I am an idiot.'

‘Don't be silly. Rather a relief really.'

‘Why?'

He touched her shoulder. ‘To see that even you can make a mistake sometimes.'

Faces stared. They grimaced, they grinned. They pointed their fingers at her. Their hair was spiked and their cheeks painted: tattoos, swirls. Sometimes their chests were bare; that was when they were African tribesmen. Sometimes they wore chains and pins; that was when they were punks. Viv moved from photo to photo, pretending to look. She tried to feel casual.

‘All this narcissism.' Diz came up behind her. He was Ollie's magazine editor.

She pointed to the photos. ‘These?'

‘Us.' He indicated the guests: smiles, glistening lips, small whoops of laughter. ‘Who's looking at the pics?'

‘I am,' she lied. Now she saw Ollie.

He came over, eyebrows raised. ‘What're you doing here?'

‘She couldn't resist these beautiful bodies,' said Diz.

‘Don't inflame her,' said Ollie. ‘You're heading for trouble.'

Diz passed him a glass of wine. ‘Half an hour with the Pentels and you too could be an art object.'

‘Sex object.' Ollie sipped. He looked at Viv over the rim of his glass. She smiled and wished she hadn't come. ‘She wants something. I know that look.'

Diz refilled Viv's glass. She drank. ‘I just felt like it,' she said. She wanted to shout her news and silence the room. She wanted never to tell anybody.

Giggling, they stumbled into the hall.

‘Where're the kids?' Ollie asked.

‘Julie's got them for the night.'

They went into the living room and she started pulling off his jacket.

‘Hey, what're you doing to me?' he mumbled.

‘Come on, now's our chance.'

‘You're pissed. This is rape within marriage.'

‘You're always going on about knee trembles.' She pulled him on to the sofa, unbuttoning his shirt.

‘I knew you were turned on by primitive men.' She gave up with the shirt and pulled it over his head. His voice came out muffled. ‘All gay, you know, those tribes. Poncing about – ow,' as she yanked, ‘poncing about with their little mirrors.'

Viv got his shirt off and silenced his mouth, kissing him. She ran her cold fingers down his back, feeling him flinch. She would heat him up.

‘Women are just for reproductive purposes,' he muttered, lifting himself up so she could slide his trousers off. ‘Just bodies, just wombs . . .' She pulled off his shoes. ‘Just duty . . . it's only what I'm doing, after all . . .' She eased off his underpants . . . ‘Just doing my duty . . .'

She flung aside a child's shoe and climbed on him, pushing back his head. Over on the dresser the wheel scraped as the hamster, now wide awake, went round and round.

‘Candles,' said Ken, nodding appreciatively, he sat down. ‘We ought to do this more often.'

‘You like it?' The lights were low. Ann lifted the lid from the
coq au vin
. ‘Ken, I wanted to ask you something.'

‘Tell you what. Let's be really romantic.'

He jumped up and went over to the music centre. He searched amongst the records and held up a Simon and Garfunkel. ‘Remember when we first heard this?'

She nodded.

‘At Bob and Jenny's.' He smiled. ‘There you were, looking through the records and feeling as spare as me. In that red dress with the things on it.'

‘Listen, Ken –'

He switched on the stereo. The lights fused.

‘Blast!'

Viv and Ollie lay on the sofa, their limbs damply locked. Clothes lay strewn on the floor. There was silence, but for the scrape, scrape of the hamster.