Two Loves (4 page)

‘He's gone upstairs to watch
Neighbours.
Don't you ever listen to what he says?'

‘He seems to thrive on neglect,' Rosamund answered. ‘He knows I'm dotty about him; that's all that counts.' She didn't at all want her mother's company that evening. She'd been on the point of setting out to fetch her son when Marian's little white Fiat had appeared at the front gate.

‘I don't think he'll need to eat much more, dear. He had a very good tea; mushroom and broccoli risotto, followed by apricot flan and custard. I brought some over for you – some of the flan and custard. Would you like it now?'

‘Oh, please.'

Marian bent to get a plastic container from her bag, then fetched a plate and spoon from the kitchen.

‘I don't know what I'd do without you.'

‘Neither do I.'

*   *   *

They were sitting outside in the old playground, still called the yard, though Anthony had had the concrete surface replaced with old bricks, grey and faded rose pink, worked into circular and semi-circular patterns. There were large terracotta pots round the slatted wooden table. Another job for me, Marian thought, looking at the near-dead wallflowers they contained. Luckily, she and Brian had plenty of geranium cuttings in their neat little greenhouse.

‘So what did she think of your paintings?' she asked her daughter. ‘What was she like? Did she take any photographs? Isn't it too cold to be sitting out here now?'

‘Well, I don't think she's in any way an art critic,' Rosamund said, scraping her plate very thoroughly, ‘but she enthused about the house and took lots of photographs and she's going to send me the article for my approval.'

‘Country Homes,'
Marian said. ‘I'll have to order a copy. I'll tell Mrs Johnson about it and I'm sure she'll display it in her window. If only you could arrange an exhibition in Stow or Cirencester, I'm sure you'd do so well, dear.'

‘My own exhibition? No, I don't think so; it would be too much of a gamble for any gallery. You're the only one who's bought one of my latest lot of paintings … And you don't really like it.'

‘Oh, I do, dear. Now that I've had the lounge re-done in Malaga Spice, it looks much better, much less obtrusive. Even Brian says so.'

‘What I'd really like is a new baby,' Rosamund said.

‘Darling! Darling, that's the last thing you need. Whatever's brought this on? You couldn't possibly cope with a new baby as well as your painting. You couldn't cope with Joss, you know that. I had to leave my home, sell my business. I'm not going to leave Brian again if you have another.'

‘Mum, that's not fair. I couldn't cope with Joss because Anthony was ill. I had to look after Anthony, you know that.'

She remembered nights of sitting up with Anthony, talking to him, reading to him, playing music to him; anything to make him forget that he was dying. Usually she didn't know whether he was listening or dozing, but occasionally he'd say, ‘Fetch the little one. I want to see the little one.' ‘He's asleep, love.' ‘I want to see him.'

She' d fetch the baby and lay him down in the crook of his arm and he'd smile and fall into a deep sleep. She'd carry Joss back to his bedroom, listening to his faint murmurings, breathing in his warm sweet smell; baby soap and talc and clean nightie – Marian would have no truck with anything called a baby-gro – with sometimes a slight suggestion of ammonia. It was an effort to go back to the hospital smells of the sickroom.

‘You did look after him so sweetly,' she told her mother.

‘Of course I did. But we're both getting too old for another.'

‘I'll make a fresh pot of tea,' Rosamund said. She'd hoped for at least a little enthusiasm.

‘I didn't really want Joss,' she said then, without getting up. ‘I mean, he certainly wasn't planned or anything. Well, you know that. But now I feel really broody. It's my age, I suppose, the old clock ticking away. Of course, I'd like a partner as well, if possible. Someone intelligent and helpful.'

‘What's brought this on?' Marian asked again, getting up to make the tea. ‘Last week you were going to save up for a walking holiday in Spain. You can't have everything, you know.'

‘Last week is a lifetime ago. Everything's completely changed since last week.'

‘Whatever happened, dear?' Marian sat down again.

‘Oh, just an ordinary, just a quite desperately ordinary little upset. Which seems to have changed everything. Made me realise that I have to face up to things and try to make a new life for myself.'

‘But not a baby, dear. I often wish you could meet a really nice man, but you never seem to hit it off with nice men. Dr Wilby, for instance, was quite smitten, anyone could see that, but you weren't at all interested, were you?'

‘I suppose I might meet someone on a walking holiday in Spain, but I'd probably never see him again, you know what holiday romances are, and what I'd really like is a more permanent arrangement. Dating agencies cost too much, and who'd come out here anyway? How did you meet Brian?'

Rosamund looked at her mother with considerable respect. Her mother had remarried, found herself an eligible, solvent, fairly presentable widower with no apparent effort. ‘This is Brian, dear, who's very kindly asked me to marry him.'

Marian bridled. ‘Brian is a thoroughly decent man, far more thoughtful and considerate than your father ever was, and very fond of Joshua. I won't have anything said against Brian.'

‘Of course not. I wouldn't dream of it.'

‘Good.'

There was a short silence. ‘Do you love him?' Rosamund asked then.

‘Love him?' Marian repeated, as though she'd never really thought about it. ‘Well, obviously I do, or I wouldn't have married him, would I?'

The question was relegated to the very back of her mind: there were more pressing things to consider. ‘You see, my feelings are that you should be satisfied with one child, as I was. You have a really beautiful and lovable little boy.'

Joss appeared as though on cue. ‘I'm going over to Harry's,' he said. ‘I've got my torch.'

They watched him climb over the school wall. ‘Be back by nine,' Rosamund shouted. ‘Don't be late.'

‘I saw Harry's mother in the butcher's yesterday,' Marian said. ‘She looked really washed-out. Who'd believe she'd have wanted another baby at her age! She'd got three boys already, hadn't she? She must be well over forty.'

‘She's thirty-nine. Four years older than me.'

‘Well, she looked really terrible. Women who have babies in their late thirties are very foolish, in my opinion. It plays havoc with their hair and skin, to say nothing of their figures. Very unwise.'

‘Didn't you ever hanker for another baby? Didn't you ever get broody?'

‘If I did, I'd just buy myself a very tight-fitting new dress, and that cured me. I'm going to get that pot of tea, dear.'

*   *   *

In a few minutes her mother was back with scrambled eggs prettily dotted with chives and two pieces of thin toast as well as tea in the best flowered teapot. ‘Really, Mum, you shouldn't have. Thank you. I could have done this, you know.'

‘Oh, yes, no doubt,' Marian said drily. ‘Anyway, dear, I've been thinking. What you need is a boost to your career. Why don't you have a nice little break in Fulham with your father and Dora? When did you see them last? It must be almost a year. Brian and I will look after Joss and you could go round the Bond Street galleries and try to get one of them to arrange an exhibition of your work. That article in
Country Homes
will be very useful, they'll be impressed by that. But first, of course, you must get some new clothes. Dora's got good taste, though a bit
outré,
and she could certainly tell you where to find a smart outfit. Because you'll have to look the part – stylish rather than Bohemian. Something quite plain in cream or ecru.'

She looked up at Rosamund and frowned. ‘The things you wear are just not right for London.'

‘Ingrid Walsh had a smart outfit. Black.'

‘Black needs a great deal of care, dear. Not black.' She got to her feet again. ‘And now I must go home. It's my WI night, otherwise I would have kept Joss a bit longer. Some lecture on industrial architecture. Never mind, it's the gossip and the coffee and biscuits afterwards that we enjoy. Why don't you phone your father tonight and tell him about
Country Homes.
He'll be so thrilled.'

‘No, he won't.'

‘Well, phone him anyway. He was very fond of you, you know, when you were little.'

‘All right, I may phone him later.'

‘And if he's not very responsive, ask for Dora. Dora will do anything for you. Well, you know that.'

‘Bye, Mum. Thanks again.'

*   *   *

As soon as her mother left, Rosamund started to think about Eliza again; the way she'd wronged her, and hoped she'd been able to convince her that she was truly sorry.

In her heart, she still believed that Eliza had more or less abandoned Thomas, but whatever the position between them, they were married and had children and she should have respected that.

Several times she'd wanted to phone to ask if she was feeling better, but had held back fearing that Eliza might have revealed more and pleaded more than she'd intended, so would be embarrassed. I've got to put it behind me, she thought. It's they who must find ways of making their marriage work again. My part is to keep out of it.

It was even more difficult not to contact Thomas, who'd become a close friend as well as lover. When she'd told him that they mustn't meet again, his eyes had looked into hers as though into a great darkness. It was difficult not to love someone who seemed so desperate for that love.

She was still deep in thought when the phone rang.

It was Ingrid: ‘I did enjoy myself with you this afternoon, and I loved seeing your work. I hope I didn't cause you too much distress.'

Rosamund found herself floundering. ‘Of course not. It was a lovely afternoon. You were so kind.'

‘I meant about the poems. Your late husband's poems.'

‘No distress at all. I already knew about the poems.'

‘So you won't object if they're published?'

‘To be honest, I haven't had time to give it much thought, but I don't think it's going to affect me much. Anthony always intended that they should be published eventually, I think I mentioned that.'

‘Yes, but in twenty years' time.'

‘I'd have stuck to that – that's what he wanted – but now it seems to have been taken out of my hands. I don't think it matters too much.'

*   *   *

Rosamund wished she could remember the poems more clearly.

Anthony had passed them to her one evening when he was already very ill. ‘I know you won't object to these, Rosie,' he'd said, ‘because, well, you know what I'm like and you've never objected to any of it. But I know Molly would be very hurt by them and so, perhaps, would one or two other women. Read them, will you?'

She'd read them there and then, sitting at the bedroom window, getting the last of the light. Eighteen poems, some of them quite short.

They'd made her feel very tender towards her husband, then so frail and near death. He'd loved women, loved their bodies, their intimate smells, all the things he'd been able to do to excite them, all they'd been able to do to excite him. There were several words and phrases she hadn't seen in any previous poem, but nothing that shocked or displeased her.

‘I wish I'd known you when you were young,' she'd said. She'd taken all her clothes off then, to perch on his bed. He loved to look at her, though he couldn't bear to see his old hands on her young body. Looking deeply into his eyes, she spread oil on her breasts and her belly and her thighs, while he smiled at her as gently as he did when watching a robin pecking crumbs at the windowsill.

She'd promised to safeguard the poems for twenty years.

He must have thought the originals were safe with Erica Underhill. They'd had a long, passionate relationship, perhaps she owed him some loyalty – but she was surely well over seventy by this time, everyone she knew and cared about probably dead and everything getting more and more expensive. Perhaps she'd had to pay for an urgent operation – or a facelift – and was deeply distressed at having to have the poems published. Could his former wife, Molly, care so much after all this time? It must be over thirty years since she'd divorced Anthony. Could she still be jealous?

Anyway, Molly had inherited the large London house and the copyright of his three collections of poetry, while Erica had probably had nothing.

She sat at the window waiting for Joss to come home. The thrushes and blackbirds were still singing their passionate courting songs; pornographic perhaps, but certainly beautiful. The little wild daffodils were out in the orchard, the narcissi and tulips already in bud. Spring was making her restless, stirring her blood. She had a moment's longing for Thomas, but thrust it out of her mind again. No, what she wanted, she told herself, was the wilder love of Anthony's poems: she wanted passion. Yes, she wanted a baby before it was too late, but even more she wanted that intensity of love she'd only read about.

She watched the light fade. Evenings were sad. She had a sudden vision of becoming like her mother, a woman fulfilled by the trivia of everyday life – the trip to the supermarket in town, the chat to so-and-so at the library, the weekly visit to the hairdresser, followed by lunch at the George with Brian. She kept herself busy, ate the right health-giving foods, never drank too much, washed her underwear every day and went to church every Sunday. There was nothing wrong with her mother. She loved her, of course she did, couldn't begin to manage her life without her. But she wanted to be someone else, someone vastly different. Oh, what was it she wanted? She'd once had large ambitions of becoming an important artist; those were long gone. It wasn't that she'd matured, rather the reverse. For the first time in her life, she seemed to have the preoccupations of an adolescent: she wanted to be swept off her feet by some violent passion. ‘You'll find love one day,' Anthony had promised her. ‘You've got it all in front of you, all the fever and the fret.'