To Have and to Hold (22 page)

‘Don't say that.'

He looked at her in suprise. ‘Why not?'

‘Just don't.' She stopped, then added: ‘Please don't rely on me.'

He paused. ‘Anything the matter?'

She shook her head.

He shifted the pencils on his desk, laying them beside his golfing trophy. ‘Annie, this might not be the time to ask, but . . .' He stopped.

‘But what?'

‘Well, I know that you quite properly . . . give me my marching orders. But what I was wondering was, well . . .' He coughed, and neatened up his biros. ‘Well, do you just think of me as some sort of a father figure?'

She stared at him. ‘Of course not!' she said, louder than she meant.

Everyone considers themselves a coward, in one way or another. Ken had flunked the dinner with Viv and Ollie but, as was observed at the time, he would be the first over the trenches. Ann remembered coming home to find the broken ironing board, teapot and kitchen cupboard fixed, his own mute way of making amends. He refused to let her thank him.

Her own cowardice dismayed her. All weekend she put off making a decision, and by Sunday night she felt as brittle as
glass. She snapped at Ken; she felt an impatient disappointment with herself, like a headmistress looking at a pupil more in sorrow than in anger.

On Monday she made up her mind. Douglas worked at the Gas Board headquarters, and she left work early to wait outside, like a grieving spy.

He appeared on the steps, soon after 5.30, and walked down the road. She followed his familiar back. He went into a greengrocer's shop.

He waited in the queue, pulling a carrier bag out of his pocket. She went up to him.

‘Hello,' she said.

‘Well, well!' He swung round. ‘Caught in the act.'

‘What?'

‘Being domestic.' He lowered his voice: ‘I'm learning, see.' He looked at her, his head on one side. ‘You've done something.'

‘What?'

‘Your face looks different.'

‘It's my hair,' she said.

‘Ah. And very nice too.' He gestured at the piles of fruit. ‘Want to give me some advice?'

She shook her head. ‘I want to talk.'

They sat in a café opposite the greengrocer's. A bun lay untouched on Ann's plate. The café owner, a beefy Italian, was quarrelling with the waitress, who looked like his daugher. His voice was so loud that for a moment Ann couldn't hear what Douglas said.

He repeated it. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘It's a bit late for that,' she replied.

‘We thought it better, your mother and I –'

‘That you'd pretend to be my father?'

‘I was!' he said. ‘I brought you up. It's that that counts.'

‘You think so?' She thought she could challenge him by holding his gaze. Instead she looked down at the table. It was a chequered formica.

‘Look Annie,' he said, ‘you're going to bring up somebody else's baby. You're going to call yourself its mother.'

She shook her head. ‘I'll tell it.'

‘You so sure?' His half-smile maddened her.

‘I'll tell it the truth.'

‘When?' he asked.

‘When it's old enough.'

He paused, then he scratched at his whitening sideboards. he looked up at her, and said: ‘You think that'll make it happier?'

‘What?'

‘It makes you happier to tell the truth, because you're that kind of person. But you've got to think of the child.'

‘You just thought of the scandal.'

‘Ann!'

‘You did.'

‘Don't say that,' he said. ‘Please,' He pushed the bun towards her, but she shook her head. ‘Think the truth does you any good?' She didn't reply. He began again: ‘Look, we had our ups and downs, but so does anybody.'

‘Call them that?'

‘What?'

‘Ups and down? You always favoured Viv, you were always nicer to her.' Her voice rose. ‘She was the one you made the little chair for, remember, and it was me who'd always wanted one, she hardly ever sat in it. And she was the one you let push the lawnmower, you never let me, and I was the oldest, and you were always shouting at me.' She stopped for breath.

‘Annie –'

‘And all those years I never realized the reason. You hated me because I wasn't yours.'

‘No,' he said. He sighed and inspected the table. He hadn't touched his cup of tea. He looked up at her directly: ‘No, I loved you. I always considered you mine. But if I favoured Viv it was because . . .'

‘Because what?'

‘Because she made me happy.'

There was a pause. Then Ann said: ‘I didn't?'

‘Life's not fair, love, and it's nothing to do with who your
parents are. Some people . . . life smiles on them because, well, they make people smile around them.'

‘And what was wrong with me?'

‘Nothing.' He leant over and put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Come on, lovey. Let's put the past behind us.'

‘I can't forget it.'

‘Forget Archie,' he said. ‘He's not your dad.'

‘He is.'

‘Not really.' He squeezed her shoulder. She didn't move. Then he said: ‘He's given you nothing. Not even the shouting.'

At the greengrocer's he bought a bunch of flowers, chrysanthemums, and gave them to Ann. She went home.

Ken wasn't back yet. She went into the kitchen. Her little house seemed so quiet. Outside stood the skeleton of the extension, forever half-built.

She unwrapped the flowers from their damp paper and found a vase. She ached with self-disgust.

She was just about to put the flowers in the vase when she stopped. Instead she threw them away, jamming them into the swing-bin. Their silly heads got caught, so she pushed them down.

IT WAS THE
third week of the summer term. School had finished for the day and Viv and Harold were waiting in the staffroom; they were supposed to be having a meeting with Alan, their Head of Department.

Viv looked at her watch; she glanced out of the window. The sky was blue; her car waited in the empty car park. In the heat, the school railings shimmered. ‘Wish he'd hurry up,' she said.

Harold leered. ‘Off somewhere exciting?'

‘Mmmm.' She nodded, closing her eyes.

‘Where?'

‘My cabbages.'

He laughed.

She added: ‘Got to pick up the kids first.'

‘You're a strange woman.' He leant over to pat her knee. ‘Half siren, half earth-mother. Think I'll set you as a special topic.'

She asked: ‘How's Louise?'

He sighed. ‘You're a woman. Tell me, Viv, what is it they want?'

‘What's up?'

‘Can't keep them happy.' He sipped his tea. ‘Trouble is, you see, she wants another child.'

‘Another one?'

He nodded. ‘Just when we're getting on our feet. She's gone all funny again.'

The door opened and Alan came in. ‘Sorry I'm late,' he said, and sat down. He looked from one of them to the other. ‘I wanted to fix a time for our planning meeting. Got to sort out the autumn curriculum, and which of you'll be taking the Lower Sixth.'

Harold groaned.

Alan asked: ‘You two worked it out yet?'

Harold replied: ‘I have broached the subject but . . .'

‘But what?' asked Alan.

Harold pointed to Viv. ‘This lady is prevaricating.'

Viv felt herself blushing. ‘Sorry,' she stammered, ‘I didn't mean . . .'

Harold laughed and turned to Alan. ‘I think she's planning on doing a bunk.'

There was a pause. Alan turned to Viv. ‘You're not leaving?'

‘No!' she said hastily. ‘No, of course, I just –'

There was a tap at the door. They all stopped.

‘Who is it?' called Alan.

The door opened. On the threshold stood Ken.

Children are perverse creatures, possessed of a sixth sense. When you're trying to do something else, they hang around all the day, whining that they're bored. The moment you need them beside you for moral support they spring into creative life and dash off elsewhere, engaged in the sort of lengthy imaginative game you longed for them to do at any other time but this.

Such were Viv's thoughts as she walked across the allotments. ‘Don't get your feet muddy!' she called out helplessly, as Rosie and Daisy rushed off. Though it had rained heavily the night before, this was not the sort of stricture she would normally shout, but she was too flustered to simply let them go. Beside her, Ken trudged along the soft margins of the path. He was wearing his business suit; when she tilted her head slightly she could see the dark blur of his legs. She wished her children were here.

He said, again: ‘I'm sorry to barge in like that.'

‘I told you. It was a relief. I was getting into difficulties.'

He asked: ‘Can we go into the hut?'

She searched for her key. The sun was hot, but it seemed too confidential for her to take off her jumper. She opened the door and went in. The place darkened as he stood in the doorway.

‘Why won't you see me?' he asked.

‘I do.'

‘I must see you.'

‘Well, here I am.' She sat down on a bucket and took off her shoes. He watched her as she started pulling on her gumboots. She paused as he moved in a step, and closed the door behind him.

He spoke in a low voice. ‘You've been avoiding me.'

She looked up. ‘We've all got to meet. When I start looking pregnant we've got to decide what to tell people.'

He fingered his moustache. Then he turned away and inspected the packets on the shelves. ‘At Easter you said . . .' He paused. ‘You said you'd been unfaithful before.'

‘Watch out!'

‘What?'

She pointed to the packet he was holding. ‘Slug bait. They die in glistening heaps, like a horticultural Last Judgement.'

He put the packet back. Still he didn't turn. ‘Why did you say that?'

‘Because it's true.'

‘Were you just trying to tell me I was, well, just like one of the others?'

‘You're not like one of the others,' she said gently. ‘You're the father of my child.'

She willed him to stop. The hut was cramped and so hot. Her heart knocked. She wondered if she should simply pick up her hoe and walk outside.

‘Just playing, aren't you?' he muttered, with his back to her. He was standing against the window, his head haloed by the cobwebs that hung on the panes of glass.

‘What?' she asked.

‘Those other men.'

‘Ken,' she said. ‘It wasn't often.'

‘Why then?'

‘Because Ollie and I –' She struggled for the right words. ‘We believe in adventure. Life's short, it's to be lived and explored. You may not understand –'

‘Why not? Because I've got such a boring little marriage?'

‘No!' She paused. ‘Faithfulness . . .' She pushed away the sight of two people sitting in a street café. She said: ‘Faithfulness
is nothing to do with two bodies rubbing together in the dark –'

‘Don't be crude!' He spoke abruptly; the cobwebs swayed with his breath.

‘It's being honest.'

‘You and your honesty,' he said. ‘That's just a game, like the rest.' He turned and stared at her. ‘You play with people, you use them –'

‘Think It's playing when I throw up every morning?' Her voice rose. ‘When I have to lie to my children about why I'm being sick, and then I'll be swelling up, and having to give up my job, and saying God knows what to people, and carrying a baby that I know will never be mine? Think that's playing?' She stopped, breathing heavily.

His eyes didn't move from her face. He gazed at her; then he turned away and spoke to the veiled window. ‘You played with me.'

‘You haven't been listening,' she said. ‘You're just like Ollie.'

‘You and your striptease.'

She paused. ‘That was just a joke.'

‘Exactly.'

She tried to steady her voice. ‘Sex is supposed to be fun.'

‘Specially when you do it after you know you're pregnant.'

She paused and looked down at her gumboots, encrusted with last week's mud. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘Just two bodies rubbing together in the dark,' he said. ‘You used me.'

‘Men do it too.'

There was a silence. Then he said: ‘I don't want you to tell people.'

‘What?' She stared at his back.

His head was bent. ‘That you're its mother.'

She took a breath. ‘What do you mean?'

‘Ann and I'll just say we adopted it.' He was lighting a cigarette. He blew out the match. ‘I don't want people to know that the mother of my child's a whore.'

Her heart thumped against her ribcage. For a moment she believed this must be a dream. They were caught, like the
Sleeping Beauty, in this cobwebby little room, now wreathed in smoke. Suddenly she would shake her head, the mist would clear and none of this would have happened. She would be outdoors, hoeing the chickweed.

And he wouldn't be speaking now, in that low voice. ‘You're in my blood, Viv.' He wouldn't be saying this.

‘You're part of me, you're all of me. I wake up aching for you, the taste of you in my mouth, the feel of your skin –'

‘Don't!'

‘You're everywhere I breathe. It's getting worse. Viv, I've tried to stay away, I've tried to pretend it's not happening –'

‘It's not!'

‘Yesterday I parked outside your school. I had to. I sat there and I saw your car, your lovely grubby car. I looked at the school, at all those windows, and do you know? I was happy, for the first time in weeks, just because I knew that behind one of them was you.'

‘Ken –'

‘I'm ill, Viv,' he said. ‘I'm ill with you.'