Authors: Pat Barker
Stephen poured himself his usual generous double, then paused. ‘You’re not driving again this evening?’
‘No. I’m in now for the night.’ He sounded like somebody returning to an open prison. Stephen revised his estimate of what might be acceptable and handed him a glass so strong he choked on the first gulp.
‘My God, Stephen.’
‘You sound as if you need it.’
Robert sighed noisily, puffing out his cheeks, making a joke of unhappiness. ‘Is it that obvious?’
Stephen sat in the chair opposite. ‘Not to somebody who hasn’t known you all your life.’
‘Oh, I’m all right,’ Robert said. ‘I must say, Stephen, you look a hundred per cent better than you did when you arrived.’
‘I feel it. I jogged three miles yesterday.’
‘Good.’
‘And
it was up hill all the way. Do you know from the top of that hill you can see three burnt areas? Where the pyres were. I’d no idea they were as close as that.’
‘It started two miles down the road. We got the first blast. They closed the roads – sent in the army. You
could smell the carcasses for miles. I used to smell them on my skin at work.’
‘Yes, the smell does linger a bit.’
Robert took another gulp of whisky. ‘I say “we” but of course it isn’t “we”. We’re not part of it. Country life, I mean. We just float on the surface like scum.’
‘Scum?’
A short laugh. ‘You know what I mean. Buy up the houses. Commute into work. We don’t give anything back. I suppose Beth does a bit, more than me, anyway.’ He shook his head, drank again. ‘She’s a pillar of the community, in fact.’
It’s difficult to deal with anger when the topic under discussion isn’t what’s causing the anger. That was Stephen’s impression of Robert this evening, that he was above all else a very angry man, though the anger was continually suppressed. A kind of ongoing genial rage. No doubt working in the NHS gave plenty of cause for irritation, but he suspected the roots of Robert’s malaise lay closer to home.
‘Bad day at work?’ Stephen asked reluctantly. He didn’t really want to talk about it.
‘No, not particularly. In fact, we got the grant. Do you remember I told you, the one I was applying for?’
‘Good. Well done. How much?’
‘Three million.’
‘My God, Robert.’
‘It’s not going into my pocket.’ He hesitated. ‘Beth finds it very difficult.’
‘Oh? Why?’
‘Because part of the research involves the use of human embryos. And she has ethical objections. I suppose I shouldn’t have told her… But then if you can’t talk about the big moments, what kind of marriage is it?’
‘Pretty typical, I should think. A lot of married people live separate lives. They reach some kind of
modus vivendi
, and…’ He shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me. I didn’t manage it.’
‘All I know is I’m bloody well pig sick of it. I’m fed up with getting into bed every night with somebody who thinks I’m Josef Mengele.’
‘I can see you might get tired of that.’
‘It’s not funny, Stephen. She thinks I kill babies.’
‘And it’s not a minor flaw, is it? Not something you can overlook.’ He smiled. ‘There must be one or two women around who
don’t
think you’re Josef Mengele.’
‘Yes.’
Said flatly. Evidently no confidences were to be offered on that subject. ‘How bad is it?’
‘I don’t know. There’s Adam…’
‘Oh. That bad.’
‘And there’s the house. I can’t leave her stuck in there. She’s scared stiff when I’m away.’
‘You do go away quite a bit.’
‘I have to. It’s part of the job.’
A pause. ‘So what are you saying, Robert?’
‘That I’ve got to make a go of it.’
‘Would moving into town help?’
‘She loves the garden.’
Stephen had become aware of strains in his brother’s marriage, though when he first arrived he’d assumed it to be entirely happy. It seemed to him now there’d been a lot of masochism involved in his first impressions. He’d almost wanted Robert’s life to be in every way more successful than his own. It was a kind of wallowing in his own failure. But he was surprised to find Robert was thinking of moving out. ‘Are Beth’s objections religious?’
‘Yes. And they seem to be growing on her. It happens to some women at the menopause. I can’t respect it. I wish I could.’
‘Then you have to shut up and leave it alone. Can’t Alec Braithewaite talk to her? Isn’t he –’
‘He agrees with her.’
‘Ah, not entirely a menopausal symptom, then?’
‘No, I know. I’m being arrogant. Anyway, thanks for the drink. Thanks for listening.’
He tossed back the last of the whisky, almost like a foreign correspondent. Stephen was proud of him.
‘Do
you
have any views about it?’
‘What? Research on human embryos?’ Stephen shrugged. ‘I’ve seen too many kids blown to bits to worry about that.’ He took Robert’s glass. ‘How’s Adam?’
‘Running Justine ragged, poor girl.’
A slight constraint. Of course Robert and Beth knew. They couldn’t not know, with Justine’s car parked outside the cottage most evenings and occasionally all night.
‘Oh, by the way, Beth wants to know if you’d like to come round for lunch on Sunday.’
Stephen nodded. ‘Yeah, love to.’ He showed Robert to the door and watched him stride away along the country lane, looking bizarrely out of place in his shiny black shoes and dark grey suit.
Twenty-one
Sunday dawned bright and clear. After a good morning’s work – he was on the home straight now, beginning to relax – Stephen set off to the farmhouse. He knew Justine was going to be there because she’d mentioned it, but he wasn’t sure if there were to be any other guests. It had crossed his mind that a family lunch, just the four of them – and Adam, too, of course – might be Beth’s way of acknowledging the relationship.
A tight-lipped Justine met him at the door. She’d seemed doubtful about the invitation when she first mentioned it, but evidently something had happened to disperse the doubt. She was now unequivocally livid. ‘You’d better wait in the conservatory,’ she told him rather ungraciously. ‘Beth’ll be along in a minute.’
She was wearing an apron over her dress, and he supposed that was what had made her angry – being forced into the dual role of guest and kitchen assistant. She bustled off. Looking at that rather broad and firm backside, he thought, God help the patients who don’t watch their cholesterol levels – she’ll give them hell.
Adam was in the conservatory, his freshly brushed hair sticking up in spikes, and, beside him, glass in hand, was Robert, chatting to a man in black with silver hair. When he turned round, he revealed an intelligent
sheep’s face, the eyes at once keenly alert and innocent.
‘Alec, this is my brother, Stephen,’ Robert said. ‘Stephen, Alec Braithewaite.’
They shook hands.
‘Justine’s father,’ Robert added.
‘Yes,’ said Stephen.
‘Justine’s talked about you a lot,’ Alec said.
Stephen took the glass Robert held out to him, noticing that without being asked Robert had poured him an extra stiff whisky. Alec was on sherry. Stephen raised his glass, looking intently into Robert’s eyes, trying to relay the message, ‘If you think a double whisky’s going to get round me, you two-faced, treacherous, lying, conniving bastard, apology for a brother, you can think again.’
‘Oh?’ Stephen said.
‘She admires your work. Bit of hero-worship, I think.’
The doorbell rang. Robert was about to move off when ‘I’ll go!’ Justine called from the hall.
Feminine flutterings and flutings and cooings, though a bit one-sided – Justine seemed to be growling – and then Angela came into the room, looked at Alec, blushed, looked down and said in reply to Robert’s question that she might just have a glass of white wine. But only a small one, she was driving.
‘You can leave your car here,’ Alec said. ‘If Robert doesn’t mind. I can’t drink anyway. I’ve got Evensong.’
‘Oh, dear.’
Much to Stephen’s relief, Alec and Angela had eyes only for each other, and he was able to withdraw from
the conversation and corner Robert. ‘He’s an intelligent man,’ Robert said blandly. ‘You’d like him.’
‘Is that why he’s here?’
Robert raised his eyebrows. ‘He’s here because he’s Beth’s vicar and our neighbour and we like him. Don’t be so bloody paranoid. Here, have another whisky.’ He looked round the room. ‘We don’t do this often enough. It’s bad for a marriage when you get too isolated.’
‘Is it?’
An awkward pause.
‘Well, isn’t it?’
‘I think the trouble comes first. The isolation’s just a symptom.’
‘All I know is, it’s bad for mine,’ Robert said, wincing.
‘You’re hardly an isolated
couple
. You’re never here.’
That wasn’t tactful, but Stephen couldn’t help himself.
‘I thought I might take Beth away for a few days. Try to sort things out.’
‘Oh, where are you going?’
‘Paris, I thought.’
‘Oh, very nice.’
‘Paris in the spring.’
‘Don’t spend all the time arguing about stem-cell research, will you?’
‘No-o, I thought we’d do the sort of things people normally do in Paris.’
‘Eat croissants in bed.’
‘That sort of thing. Bed, anyway.’
‘“Not tonight, Josef.”’
‘You’re a cruel bastard, Stephen.’
A wisp of cloud drifted across the sun. The shadows of the trees in the garden lay in a network all over the black-and-white tiled floor, gleaming and dancing.
‘The right time of year for it, anyway,’ Stephen said, feeling a stab of envy, not of Robert and Beth but of some ideal couple – himself and Nerys twenty years ago, perhaps. Not as they actually were, but as they ought to have been.
Robert turned. Stephen became aware of a very tall, red-haired youth, all angst and acne, hesitating in the doorway. The doorbell hadn’t rung, so he must have been in the bathroom or somewhere else in the house. Robert waved to him and he came across, head down, taking his time.
‘Mark, this is my brother, Stephen. Stephen, Mark Callender. I’m supervising Mark’s Ph.D., which’ – a broad smile – ‘is going very well.’
Mark was so shy he needed all the boosts Robert could give him. Unless he had something dreadfully wrong with his bladder, he must have been hiding in the bathroom rather than visiting it. Watching Robert with him, turning the full force of his attention on Mark, making him feel at ease and eventually even risk a smile, Stephen saw what only a few days before he’d tried to see, and failed: Robert as he might appear to a stranger meeting him for the first time. Charismatic was the word that sprang to mind, not because he made a parade of charm and intelligence, or tried in any way to attract attention to himself, but because he didn’t. His
whole attention was focused outwards. At the moment, this awkward young man felt himself to be the centre of the universe, and he blossomed. With women, the technique would be devastating.
Beth appeared, presumably leaving Justine to put the finishing touches to the meal. She looked tired, and again he had the sense of somebody who was being gently and persistently erased. She and Angela were evidently close and were soon deep in conversation, leaving him to talk to Alec.
‘I met a friend of yours in Newcastle the other day. Peter Wingrave.’
‘Ah, Peter, yes.’
‘I gather he’s been in prison?’
Alec blinked rapidly. ‘Did he tell you that?’
‘No, I –’
‘Ah. Justine.’
‘No, not Justine. I guessed. It wasn’t particularly difficult – he gave me two stories to read, one of which could only have been written by somebody who’d been inside.’
‘I suppose he might have worked in one?’
‘He might.’
‘What did you think of the stories?’
‘Very good. Very disturbing. And both of them – it’s only just struck me – were about stalking.’
‘Yes, he’s
interested in that. Because it’s a pattern of behaviour that’s been known about for centuries and has only quite recently been declared pathological. He’s interested in the way psychiatry’s expanded and laid claim to previously… neutral, or… anyway non-pathological areas of human behaviour.’
‘There was nothing “neutral” about the behaviour in his stories. Torture. Mental and physical. Murder.’
Another sip of the sherry, another blink of the mild but far from stupid blue eyes.
‘What did he do?’ Stephen asked.
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘You mean you don’t know?’
‘No.’
‘No, you don’t know, or no, you won’t tell me?’
‘No, I can’t tell you.’
‘Stalking?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
Stephen stayed silent, and, as he’d rather expected, Alec cracked. ‘I doubt if he’d use his personal experiences in his stories.’
‘Why not? People do. He certainly used the setting.’
‘I just don’t think he would.’
Beth was looking in their direction, aware of some exchange going on that went well beyond pre-Sunday lunch chat.
‘You won’t mention Peter’s prison record to anybody else, will you? I mean, it could be very damaging, and’ – a deep sigh caught and held – ‘I do think he deserves some credit for the way he’s rebuilt his life.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, I won’t go round blabbing.’
‘Good.’
‘Of course, you’re committed to the idea that people can change. I mean…’ Stephen’s gaze lingered almost insultingly on the dog collar. ‘Professionally.’
‘Can
be
changed. As an act of individual will, no, I’m not sure I do believe it. I think that’s actually quite a secular belief. Therapy. Self-help books… It’s an industry, isn’t it?’ A pause. ‘And what about you? Do you believe people can change – or be changed?’
‘I think they can learn to manage themselves better.’
‘Sounds a bit bleak.’
It was strange to be forced to delineate his beliefs in this way. A taboo was being broken. ‘I believe people can heal themselves.’
‘Themselves?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘How?’
‘Ye-es. How?’
Stephen spread his hands. ‘Create something. Almost anything. Get your body moving. Have sex.’