Remedy is None (11 page)

‘Come on, Mick,’ he said. ‘Come on.’

‘Get away from me. Ya bastard,’ Mick said, whimpering with pain and humiliation.

He rose unaided, with anguished dignity, biting on his pain. Hobbling over to the wall, he went off slowly, his hand propping him up against the stone.

Charlie felt terribly alone and the waste lot seemed to stretch indefinitely in all directions.

Chapter 9

SHE HELD HIS ARMS IMMOBILIZED IN A CASUAL LOCK,
one of those courting holds that Nature forwards free with menstruation. It was a truce of the kind that punctuates such engagements, during which energies are restored in comparative stillness. Only his right hand made fitful, restricted movements around her breasts, like a bored sniper. She suffered no loss of calmness from it. The same campaign had been fought often enough before, strengths had been tested, tactics resolved into a pattern, and a measure of mutual understanding realized. It was more a matter of exhibiting honourable endeavour than of seeking complete success. The customary concessions had been granted towards the satisfaction of honour. Her blouse had been separated from her skirt and three of its five buttons had yielded. His left hand had gained the top of her thigh, but only outside her skirt. She was even relaxed enough to let the hem of her skirt remain turned up, a permissible laxity, like open gates in a city, the citadel of which has been proved impregnable. From past experience, she knew that no further ground would be lost. In any case, there wasn’t time.

She tried to squint round his head, without moving her own, at the clock on the mantelpiece. She knew how offended he would become if he was aware that she was allowing such mundane considerations to come between her and his attentions. The tip of the minute hand appeared round the lobe of his ear like a diffident conspirator, pointing to four. He could stay barely ten minutes longer. It was a pity. Her neck relaxed back into communion with his cheek. With some surprise, she realized from the position of the clock in relation to herself that they were lying on the couch. Their running battle had started by the fireside. She tried to retrace the line of pursuit that had cornered her here. But it had been lost in
that blackout to external things that lust uses to focus concentration on itself. She wondered a little at her ability to forget everything so easily and it occurred to her that she should perhaps be ashamed of being able to forget so soon, even for a little while. She tried to feel guilty, but it was an empty gesture, carrying no conviction.

At eighteen she was still young enough to be subject frequently to the absolute authority of the moment. Her feelings had not yet fully evolved to that democracy which would establish their peaceful co-existence with each other. A strong emotion could still seize control of her despotically. She was still at that stage of emotional naivete when an alien and impractical ambition might take possession of her for days at a time, like the desire to be a film actress or to marry a millionaire. It was hardly surprising, therefore, that an emotion able to overwhelm characters much less insecure than hers should compel her to discard for a time an identity that often sat but loosely on her. A few minutes ago, they had both been less individuals than representatives of the species, participants in a ritual that glorified body over brain, inhabiting feeling rather than time, kind rather than place. It was only now in the aftermath of calm when she divested the mask and resumed herself that the possibility of self-criticism returned with her surroundings. The room was waiting like an ostler to reharness her to herself, to put the present back between the twin shafts of past and future. It chafed familiarly against her consciousness in the curtains that would have to be washed soon, the fire that would soon be needing more coal, the spot in the carpet where she had spilled ink a long time ago – in the vague shape of an accidental flower now almost worn away, fading memorial to her carelessness. The clock tutted prissily on the mantelpiece and she took its brass-tongued shock to herself, once again feeling that there might be something irreverent in what they were doing. After all, it was only a few weeks since then. She recalled how this same room had rustled with people who shifted their feet and moved their hands awkwardly. Fragments of the scene washed back
to mind, thrown up haphazardly, the self-conscious coughing that spread like a nervous contagion, the wetness of eyes, the small, saturated, lace handkerchiefs with which women strove ineffectually to wap the grief that overwhelmed them, the minister’s voice, circling like a whaup above their desolation. Already such random pieces were all that remained of the total melancholy of that occasion. Could it really be forgotten so soon? Not forgotten, but endured. Even so soon it could be endured and lived with. It had to be lived with. Already this room, which then had been no more than the bare crossroads on which their griefs converged, had again resolved itself into home, the centre of a network of practical needs and relationships, and to go on living in it their grief had to become just as practical. Hers had become acclimatized, had adjusted to the practical demands that were made on it. The life which had gone on in this place for so long still had to go on and could only accept death as a temporary lodger, had no room for it as a permanent guest. This was not just the house where her father had died, but the house where he had lived and the house where they were to go on living. With the practical persistence of the furniture that needed to be dusted and the windows that needed to be cleaned and the floors that needed to be swept, the house was already reasserting on her its old familiar identity. It was resuming in her life its customary position, in which her father’s death was no more than a part, and one that was beginning to be seen in perspective. It was true that her grief could still protrude awkwardly into the daily routine at the sight of a pair of her father’s shoes placed neatly under the chair of his upstairs room – to be left until called for – or of one of his ties in the wardrobe, with the knot left in it that was his trademark. But these were temporary problems that she could cope with as they arose. She knew that she was over the worst of it. With patience and persistence, she would besom her sadness into order, find an appropriate place for it like an ornament. In the meantime, how could it be wrong just to kiss and cuddle on a couch? She writhed a little closer.

‘Ah suppose Ah’ll have tae be goin’, Elizabeth,’ Harry said, tickling her neck with his breath and making no attempt to move.

‘Oh no, Harry.’ Her arms resigned their defensive position as an additional enticement. ‘Wait a wee while yet. Ye can always run for the bus. An athlete like you.’

‘It’s all right for you tae talk. It’s no’ you that’ll get the varicose veins.’

But he stayed where he was, lipping her throat absently like a goldfish. She was glad to prolong the mesmerism of the moment a little longer. The evening ahead of her was a blank once Harry left, and she knew she would just have to doodle it away with some trivial activities. There was nothing in the house that she urgently required to do. The only thing was Charlie’s tea. She had it made and it was being kept warm in the oven. She wondered why he hadn’t come home for it. In a way it had proved to be a blessing. It wouldn’t have been as convenient for Harry if Charlie had been here. That was an accidental connivance with their luck they hadn’t expected. But the immediate advantage was more than outweighed by the long-term implications. This was typical of the way Charlie had been acting lately. She was worried about him. He seemed to have no further interest in university. He had become frighteningly withdrawn. He had spoken barely two consecutive sentences to her since their father died. She knew it was all somehow connected with their father’s death, but whenever she tried to induce Charlie to talk about it, he became angry or completely quiet. It was frightening how close to him anger always seemed to be, following him everywhere like a dog at his heels, ready to snap at the slightest invasion of his privacy. He had become unexpectedly a mystery to her. The familiar brother she had known was lost behind strange broodings and inexplicable bursts of temper that excluded her from his confidence. She had no idea what he did or where he went during the day. She only knew him now by what was reflected in the reactions of others. She knew that he had avoided John for more than a week and
that John was anxious to see him to talk to him about going back to university. She knew that he had not once seen Mary since coming down from Glasgow. She hadn’t known what to say when Mary had called at the door earlier in the evening just after Harry had come in. She felt annoyed at not having asked Mary in, but it would have been awkward with Harry there. She still felt embarrassed for Mary as she recalled their conversation on the doorstep. Mary had been near to tears of puzzled humiliation, and out of pity Elizabeth had made a provisional arrangement for her to meet Charlie on Friday night, and she had said she would tell him about it. She didn’t relish Charlie’s reaction, but she had made the arrangement and she would have to do her best to see that he kept to it. As if for luck, she kissed Harry’s cheek. He gnawed her ear in acknowledgement.

‘Ah’ll really need tae get away noo,’ he said, coming out of his emotional hibernation.

His right cheek was red from contact with her shoulder and patterned with her blouse.

‘Oh, no. Ye can skip the night school for one night.’

Her forefinger tobogganed down his nose on to his lips, and she eyed him with provocative petulance.

‘Aye. But Ah canny skip the exam.’

‘Ye don’t really have to go, do ye?’

She knew that he did and she had no intention of trying to prevent him from doing so. Their relationship was firmly founded on practical considerations. It was already rather like a houseless marriage that had still to be consummated. They knew the financial preparations that were necessary. They were planning and saving with the acumen of two business enterprises due to be merged at some future date. Summer had been set as the time for their engagement. The following summer was the earliest possible date for their wedding. Meanwhile, life had become for them a sort of extended bottom drawer in which the future was being neatly laid out for their communal use. Attendance at night school was one of Harry’s contributions, an investment that would earn them
interest in terms of higher wages for himself. Elizabeth appreciated the advisability of the move. But she couldn’t help teasing him about it now, playing off his allegiance to her future against his desertion of her present, in a jocular excess of that feminine logic which enables a woman to turn any compliment into an inverted insult.

‘Ye’re always so anxious to get away. Ah feel quite offended. Sometimes Ah wonder what goes on in that night class. Y’re a wee bit too keen tae get there.’

Harry rose as delicately as a walrus to the subtle bait.

‘Ah, wouldn’t ye like tae know?’

‘Confess,’ she said, threatening him with a kiss.

‘Well, actually Ah’ve got off ma mark wi’ this wee textbook Ah met. Ye should see her. She’s got a lovely set of diagrams.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Algie Bra. A sexy name, i’nt it? Ah think she’s foreign.’

‘If Ah get a hold of her Ah’ll batter her.’

Love, like a studio audience, is easily amused. But the inspired fatuity of their conversation embarrassed even their indulgence and they transferred their mock dispute to the physical dimension. They wrestled briefly on the couch and then formed a last intense alliance of themselves before Harry would have to go. They became so engrossed that they did not hear the key turning in the outside door and by the time it swung shut, the living-room door was already opening. They struggled up blindly, Charlie’s presence hitting them like the beam of a policeman’s torch, sending their inhibitions scurrying for cover.

‘Whit the hell goes on here?’ Charlie said.

‘Nothing, nothing,’ Elizabeth said quickly, her hands trying to endorse her mouth by tucking her blouse inside her skirt and making nervous passes at the buttons.

Harry had stood up awkwardly, looking down and pulling at his suit as if he was getting a fitting for composure.

‘Whit dae ye think this is?’ Charlie was looking at Elizabeth, keeping his anger in the family. ‘A bloody kip-shop?’

‘Ah’d better be gettin’ down now, Elizabeth,’ Harry said.

‘Aye, ye’d better.’ Harry’s voice drew Charlie’s anger like a magnet. ‘While ye still can, Valentino.’

‘Who dae ye think you’re speakin’ to?’ Having buttoned in her embarrassment, Elizabeth was ready to entertain other feelings besides shame, and the first one that came along was sheer indignation. ‘The lord of the manor here. What does it have to do wi’ you? You can go when it suits you, Harry. Not before.’

‘It’s all right, Elizabeth. Ah’m late as it is.’ Harry picked up the coat that lay across a chair and put it on. He lifted the black attache-case that was his passport to better things. ‘We wereny doin’ anything bad, Charlie.’

‘Well, it wis a pretty advanced form of bloody tiddly-winks, then.’

‘Never mind excusing yerself to him, Harry,’ Elizabeth said, taking his arm.

Harry’s lips puckered under the pressure of the anger they were holding in. He shrugged, and Elizabeth saw him to the door.

As she came back in, her anger hit Charlie from the hall.

‘What do ye think ye’re doin’ ? What was all that in aid of? You’ve got no right to speak like that to Harry. There must be something wrong with you.’

‘Listen. Ye might gi’e the grass time to grow on ma feyther’s grave before ye start bringin’ yer boy friend into the hoose for wee sessions.’

‘That’s a filthy thing to say!’ Elizabeth’s anger gave way to self-pity. ‘Why are ye sayin’ that about me? Boy friends? Ah’ve been goin’ with Harry for a year and a half. Ma feyther knew about him. He thought it was all right. Ah didn’t mean any disrespect to ma feyther. Ah miss him as much as you do. But you’re queer about it. Why are ye bein’ like this? Charlie, there’s something wrong with you. You’re ill, Charlie. You’re ill.’