The Private Parts of Women (12 page)

Shows we went to …

West Side Story, Oklahoma, The King and I and what was the other …?

Music and dancing. Romance.
Irresistible and coming out to play
.

June nights, the sky blue glass, swallows drawing loops in the air.

Walking till our feet ached.

If I'd known that was our heyday …

Bugs and lamps and lanterns.

The smell of elderflowers down by the river and the moon wobbling in the water.

The ecstasy of close warm flesh pressed the whole length of you.

The flesh of another. Separate. Being.

Without Blowski to love, Trixie and I, we could not have lived for all these years. We could not have lived.

SWEET PICCALILLI

When Pauline arrived, Robin was ecstatic. He climbed on her lap, played with her glasses and hair, stuck his fingers in her ears, would not leave her alone. She was delighted with Robin, excited to have him to herself. She'd brought him a toy fire-engine with a diabolical siren and, for my birthday,
Delia Smith's Complete Cookery Course
. It looked overwhelming – 632 pages of things you can do with food, things which by implication
I
should do with food.

‘Thank you,' I said.

‘Well, it might inspire you.' I saw her eyes meet Richard's in a conspiratorial way. ‘There's a lovely recipe for sweet piccalilli in there,' she added. ‘Richard's always loved his pickles. Matter of fact I've brought a jar of chutney. Last year's green tomato.' She fished it from her bag.

‘We can have it with lunch,' Richard said. ‘Sherry? Martini?'

I tried not to behave like a sullen child. I even pretended pleasure at the thought of my break. I packed a cotton dress that Richard admired, walking boots and shorts, several rolls of film and my favourite old Pentax. I even remembered sun-tan lotion.

We set off in the early afternoon. The car seats were hot against the backs of my legs. Richard drove. Pauline stood by the gate holding Robin, encouraging him to wave. I waved my hand at them, but did not properly look. When we had rounded the corner, Richard put on a tape. Bach's
Magnificat
. The voices filled the car and flowed out of the open windows.

‘There,' Richard said. As if he had proved a point. He put his hand on my bare knee.

‘There what?' Every bloody person in sight was holding the hand of a child, or pushing a push-chair or wearing a tiny baby in a sling. I could not even bear to look at the empty child-seat in the back.

Richard gave me a look and joined in with the tape. I watched his Adam's apple slide in his throat. I did love him then. Despite his confident demeanour I could see he was apprehensive about what I might do, or accuse him of. Cruelty.

‘Aren't you the lucky one,' Pauline had said to me over lunch. ‘I never had one single day away from Richard and Lucy. Not a single day. It never would have entered Fred's head. But then you didn't then, think of it. You didn't expect any respite, then.'

I knew I must pretend. For Richard, for Robin, for Pauline, perhaps even for myself I must pretend that I was capable of this, of letting go for thirty hours. That's what I calculated. I'd insisted that I had to be back on Sunday for Robin's bedtime and Richard had reluctantly agreed.

Richard looked across at me in the car and smiled. ‘Happy?'

‘Happy,' I lied. The miles pulled threads of love from the pit of my stomach all along the road behind us, catching on lamp-posts, tangling at corners. I saw that my hands were clenched into fists. I made myself open them and wiped away the little snakes of sweat on my skirt.

I knew I was pathetic, how friends of mine would leap at the chance of a break from their children but … I just did not.

It was a golden day. Once we'd got clear of London I noticed that the trees were a million fat greens, that the sky was stupidly, childishly blue. I shut my eyes as the miles passed, and the hours. I listened to the music and Richard's voice joining in, and dozed. When I opened my eyes again, the Derbyshire hills, like the rounded flanks of animals were sleeping in the sun, grey walls and bushes threading their creases.

‘Awake now? You're not much company.'

‘Sorry, where are we?'

‘Nearly there.'

‘Really?'

‘You've been asleep for
hours.'

‘Tired.'

‘Well I put my foot down. No sense wasting time.' Richard stopped the car in a lay-by and we got out.

‘Smell,' Richard said and I drew in a lungful of the polleny air.

‘It is beautiful,' I admitted. We stood at the roadside gazing at the complex view, hills, trees, more hills, the spire of a church emerging from amongst a dark huddle of distant trees. It was the first time I'd been outside myself since Robin had been born. For a moment I became flickers of birdsong and nodding of grasses and the deep cold creep of the river in the valley. A lightness grew around my heart. The pretence had worked.

I had almost forgotten the magic I'd learned as a child, that if you pretend very hard to feel something, then sometimes it will work and become real. Like a wish coming true. I could make myself cry by pretending to be sad. I could become truly grateful for the most hideous thing. And now the pretence of happiness, romantic happiness even, that had stuck like a seed in my throat had grown shoots and leaves. It wasn't for long after all and the countryside was so glorious – and all Richard wanted was my happiness.

We stopped in Bakewell and toured the souvenir-shops. We bought a book of walks, some plastic dinosaurs for Robin and a box of fudge for Pauline. In a café we shared a pot of tea and ate slices of Bakewell pudding, all thick and eggy. We managed to chat about something or other neutral, friends, memories, laughed at the conversation going on at the adjacent table. ‘He gave me every excuse under the book,' a powdery middle-aged woman was saying. ‘But I wouldn't have none of it. “I'm not having it,” I says. And him with only the one leg!'

I'd forgotten how eavesdropping used to be such fun, such sneaky pleasure. Now if I was in a café or restaurant I was too completely taken up with Robin.

‘God it's good to see you smile,' Richard said and touched my lips with his finger. ‘Aren't you going to finish your pudding?'

‘Too rich. We could take one back for Pauline.' He leaned over and finished it for me, then we walked arm in arm through the little town imagining living somewhere like this, looking in estate agents' windows and rhapsodising about rural schools.

We drove to our hotel in time to change and have a drink before dinner. The view from the hotel bar was outrageously beautiful, a steep hill plunging down to a shallow silvery river far below and hills rising in the distance that looked as if they'd been blessed by the powdery evening light. I couldn't resist that light and went out to take some photographs.

Everything conspired to be perfect: the weather, the wine, the food. My dress looked good, clung and dipped in all the right places. For the first time in years I wore lipstick and, to please Richard, I put on my new, glamorous, prickly watch. I behaved very well. Richard glanced at me anxiously from time to time and I responded with a smile. He was wearing a white shirt with a stupid collar but I pretended not to mind. As the weekend successfully progressed, his expression grew increasingly smug. He had been right after all. Doctor Goodie. All I'd needed was a break. He was partly right. I was surprised I hadn't died from the forcible separation from Robin. Whole minutes passed when he didn't even cross my mind.

After our green-lipped oysters, duck and syllabub we walked for a little in the dark. The sky was full of stars like bright press-studs and the moon was almost full, low and buttery. On the hills were the lights from scattered houses and sometimes the moving brightness of headlights on a far-off road. Richard held my hand.

‘Bats,' he said. Deeper scraps of darkness swooped around us as we passed a looming barn. We heard the deep hoo-hooing of an owl.

‘It is so silent,' I said. There were no traffic sounds, no voices, no wind to moan in the trees. The silence was like black velvet, thick and soft in my ears.

‘When I was little,' Richard said, ‘I used to think I could hear the stars.'

‘What did they say?'

‘Nothing. They squeaked.'

I laughed. ‘Let's get back.'

‘Wait.' Richard pulled me close to him and kissed me on the mouth. ‘Pity we have to go back,' he murmured, ‘we could do it here …'

‘Do what?'

He kissed me again and put his hand on my breast.

‘Come on.' I pulled away and walked back towards the hotel.

‘No sense of adventure, that's your trouble,' he said, following.

‘I'm only thinking about thistles,' I said, ‘and midges and cow-pats. Just being realistic. Anyway, I'm chilly.'

He caught up with me and put his arm round my waist. ‘But are you feeling randy? That's the main thing, we can do it anywhere you like, long as we do it.'

‘Mmmmm,' I said. I was feeling sleepy. All I wanted to do was sleep – preferably alone – for a very long time and then drive straight home to Robin. But sex, of course, was part of the deal. That's what we'd been leading up to. And it should be what I wanted to do. I just didn't. I felt suddenly deflated, disappointed in myself.

Richard massaged me first. I tried to relax, but I was worried that the oil would get in my hair. The way he did my shoulders was lovely, but then he moved down to my buttocks and slid his slippery fingers up the insides of my thighs. How could I say I didn't want it?

We ate slices of black-pudding as big as saucers with our bacon and egg breakfast. The hills were shadowy. I was relieved to have got the night over. I had even slept and not woken until the luxurious hour of eight o'clock. We planned to walk, lunch in a pub and drive back. My heart skittered at the thought of being home again, holding Robin in my arms to kiss him goodnight.

Richard's head was bowed over the book of walks. I noticed for the first time a few grey hairs in his black curls. His chin was stubbly – he never shaved on holiday. He was wearing a black T-shirt and a little wisp of black hair curled in the hollow between his collar-bones. When we weren't in bed and there was no danger of having to make love, I sometimes still desired him.

I shot rolls and rolls of film that day: leaves against the sky; tissue-paper layers of hills; smooth dry boulders on the moors; ewes, their too-big lambs almost nudging them off their feet in a late effort to suckle; a revoltingly pretty cottage by a mill-stream. Richard smiling, frowning, pointing, concentrating on the map. We discovered a dead tree, long dead, carved by the weather into an upward spiralling shape, and what was most curious, its trunk was divided into two, so that it seemed to be standing on two legs. It looked like a fury; a woman, her arms, bones, hair all streaming upwards, swirling in a silent cry. Of course, I didn't say this to Richard.

We stopped to look round a village church and eating ice-lollies wandered round the graveyard. Every stone I saw seemed to be for a child.

‘Listen to this,' Richard said:

‘Dear is the spot to evry parent's eye
,

where mouldering in the dust their children lie
.

Thither remembrance sends their frequent moan
,

and fond affection marks it with a stone
.

Christ! talk about maudlin!'

Tears rose to my eyes and when Richard saw them, he stalked away, irritated. ‘Come on,' he called over his shoulder, ‘or we'll never get any lunch.'

I followed, wiping my eyes on the back of my hand. And then I had a sudden awful realisation.

‘Richard! Last night … I didn't have my cap in!'

He paused. ‘What? I assumed when you got up to go to the loo …'

‘No. I don't know what … I just forgot. Can you believe it?' We walked in silence down the steep sunny street. Peonies, lobelia, nasturtiums tumbled from boxes on the cottage window-sills.
I
could not believe that I'd forgotten. I could never have another child, that is what I believed, what I had decided. I hadn't told Richard yet. I didn't think he'd understand my reasoning: that I loved Robin too much; that it would be a betrayal. I didn't have any more love to give and I couldn't think of giving less to Robin. I knew this would cause trouble between us. Richard wanted another child, he wanted two, close together, like himself and his sister. We went into a low dark pub full of the smell of beer and roast meat. Richard bought two halves of bitter and we sat down to look at the menu.

‘Cheer up.' Richard leant over and kissed me. ‘It's unlikely you've conceived – look how many tries it took for Robin. And if you have stick them. It was March… well … it's not the worst thing that could happen. Actually, I'd be quite pleased.'

‘I know
you
would.'

‘Beef or lamb? And so would you once you got used to the idea. Look how much you love Robin.'

It was useless trying to explain so I shut up. He seemed to know what was best for me better than I did myself. And after all, it was me who'd forgotten my cap.

OPENING FIRE

I am not in love with Blowski, not in a romantic way. I go back over the faces in my mind and can find nobody that I have been really
in
love with. Only Jesus, though that love is different of course. But it's only in His love that I feel at home. Though, truth be told, I have never felt really at home anywhere, not even in my self. I've always had the feeling that there is someone there, hiding behind doors in my mind, smirking through windows, rustling about under the bed of my sleep.

I remember when I first fell for Jesus. We were having a week in York, visiting Father's relatives, and Mother had insisted that we spend an afternoon in Harrogate visiting Auntie Ba and her family – though Father couldn't stick them. It was March 1926. I was sixteen. It was a bright cold day. On the Stray, crocuses like yellow and purple gas-flames flared up through the wet earth. Dogs yapped and birds fluttered about in the trees. Puddles reflected the moving sky.