Bad Girls Good Women (57 page)

George smiled at him. ‘You know I like to plan ahead.’

They returned to their work.

Julia walked slowly, feeling the sun on her face, frowning a little as if the warmth puzzled her. Lily was having her sleep, and for a moment she couldn’t remember whether Alexander happened to be away or at home. The recollection came back to her a second later. Of course, he was working. In the summerhouse, as he always did in warm weather. Encouraged by the sun, or by stepping outside the dimness of the house, she thought she would walk round and ask him if he would like some coffee.

Alexander was lost in what he was doing. A phrase repeated itself in his head, but the precise cadence that he wanted eluded him, like a fish sliding away under the thick skin of river water. He had had a small upright piano installed in the summerhouse and he sat motionless, hunched over the keyboard, his fingers hanging from the keys.

Then Julia’s shadow fell diagonally across his hands and he looked up in surprise, his eyes blank for an instant.

‘It’s me,’ she said. He heard the note of bitterness in her voice. It crept into everything, with monotonous frequency. As if to remind him, she added, ‘I live here, remember? I came to ask you if you’d like some coffee. That’s all.’

Julia might have said something different. It might have been,
Can I come and sit with you? It’s so light and bright out here after being inside, and Felix and George made me feel miserable
.

Alexander might have said,
I’d like some coffee. Stay out here and have yours with me
.

But with the tone of Julia’s voice in his head, and her dark, accusing face looking down at him, he answered curtly, ‘I’ll have some later. I want to finish this piece.’

Julia turned on her heel and walked back through the long grass.

They were only tiny incidents, each of them, but they punctuated the days and weeks, and every one drove the wedge deeper between them. As she headed unseeingly for the house Julia thought that it was already too late. Neither of them knew how to go back and take up the little, painstaking stitches that would repair the damage. There had been no big, tempestuous battles. It would have been better if there had, because those would have been easier to reconcile. Instead there was the slow attrition of coldness and misunderstanding.

Julia reached the wall of shadow cast by the house. It seemed to drop over her face like a veil. Her eyes stung, but she blinked and stared ahead. There wasn’t even anything to cry for, after all.

Alexander hadn’t bent his head to his work again. Instead he watched Julia going away, with part of himself still seeing and admiring her lean height and the economy of her movements. The rest of his consciousness went on gnawing at the familiar questions: what had happened to the girl he had married and why this different Julia, who still looked poignantly the same, couldn’t be happy with the here and now. If Julia could be happy, he thought, then he would be happy too. Alexander believed that he understood her horror of the fire, and he was also sure that there was no blame or forgiveness to be bestowed anywhere. What had happened had happened, and all that was needed was work to put the damage right.

What was much less fathomable was the fact that before the fire, long before, at the very beginning, he had brought Julia to Ladyhill. She had surely understood what it meant, and what she would be undertaking, when she had agreed to marry him. Yet now bewilderment, impatience and boredom seemed to fight for dominance in her, and Alexander felt himself stiffening in defence of the house he loved and the lives that belonged in it.

It would be so easy for them to be happy and comfortable here, the three of them. There should be a son too, for Ladyhill. Alexander wasn’t ashamed of his longing for that. And another girl, exactly like Lily. The shadows of the north wall of the house swallowed Julia up, and Alexander reflected that there wasn’t likely to be a son or a daughter because they didn’t sleep together any more, even though they shared the same bed. She had slept with Josh Flood, her comic-book hero, of course. Alexander’s anger at that had faded, but a different, colder, less focused resentment had replaced it. Alexander picked up his pencil and twisted it in his fingers.

He couldn’t make Julia want what he wanted, of course. He was becoming increasingly aware that no one could make Julia do anything. In that, she was like China. And China had left Ladyhill. A weary sense of inevitability settled around Alexander. As if to dispel it he stared fiercely at the house. The flames had devoured the ancient patch of yellow lichen on the roof. When he was a child, he had thought that the outline of the growth looked like a man’s profile. The new roof was bare, the colour of it not even softened yet by the weather. But the existence of it was a minor triumph. It protected the house beneath it. And the walls were intact. As a little boy he used to climb the apple trees and follow with his eyes the patterns made by the old bricks. The same patterns were still there, and the deep crack in one of the stone lintels, and the red rust biting into an iron brace whose bolts had long ago fused to the metal itself. That much of the house had withstood the fire, and he would see that the rest was restored.

There was so much still to do
.

The thought was like a goad. Alexander hunched his shoulders over the keyboard again. He brought his forefinger down on middle C, holding the note so that it reverberated in the humming quiet, and then died away.

As soon as she walked into the house Julia heard that Lily was crying. She often woke up irritable after her midday sleep. Julia went upstairs and found her standing up in her cot, gripping the bars with her fists and her face red and wet and accusing. When Lily saw her she stopped crying for a second, then started again, twice as loudly. Julia went to her and picked her up. Lily’s legs and arms were stiff, and she wouldn’t yield as Julia carried her over to the window and tried to soothe her.

‘Shh, see the birds? You’ve woken them up. Shh, there’s my girl. Look, can you see Felix?’

Felix and George were strolling between the wings of the house. George was wearing a panama hat and carrying a silver-knobbed cane.
How bloody affected
, Julia thought. Lily’s screams swelled in volume. Suddenly, standing there by the window, Julia felt her like a dead weight in her arms. The paved courtyard below shimmered in the sun, and beyond it the grass rippled. Empty, emptiness everywhere except for Felix and George in the foreground, their arms and legs moving like clockwork figures.

Despair gripped Julia like an iron fist.

Lily’s screaming was intolerable.

She dropped the baby awkwardly back into her cot and ran out of the room. Out of the room, down the stairs and outside, without any sense of where she was going except that she must escape.

It only increased her claustrophobia when she stopped running at last, panting for breath, to realise that she had no idea where to escape to.

George and Felix went back to London, to the neat shell of Tressider Designs, taking their notes and their sketches and measurements with them. Alexander went to London and then to the States, and Julia stayed at Ladyhill with Lily. Autumn came, and the borders silted up with the russet and gold patchwork of dead leaves. Julia scraped half-heartedly at them with a wire rake while Lily stumped to and fro in her wellingtons, picking up fistfuls of leaves and letting them fly. They whirled around her head like huge brown moths.

It grew cold, and the first frost came early. At once the landscape took on a dead, closed-up aspect. Looking out at it, Julia said aloud, ‘I hate this place.’ She thought of Josh, gleefully waiting for the first fall of snow, like a boy with a new toboggan. He had disappeared just as effectively as he had always been able to do, but he was still with her. She had the sense of him wherever she looked, somewhere just beyond the line of her vision.

Alexander came back, but his presence didn’t make much difference. They were like strangers now.

In the middle of December, Julia went Christmas shopping. She left Lily with Faye and drove the forty miles to the big town in Alexander’s red Mini. She made the circuit of the shops, buying toys for Lily and a dashing plum-coloured silk dressing gown for Alexander and a Victorian jardinière for Faye, all the time with a numb sense of isolation from the bustle and glitter of the shops. She felt as if she was standing a little way off, watching her own preparations unbelievingly, like absurd antics. There was a Salvation Army band playing outside one of the stores but the Christmas music seemed to come from a long way off, filtering through layers of separation that muffled and deadened it. Julia shook her head from side to side, but the misery didn’t lift. She went back to the car, tossed the bags of shopping in around the jardinière, and drove back to Ladyhill. When the bare fingers of the trees along the drive laced over her head, trapping her, Julia found that she was shuddering. When she rounded the corner the low winter sun behind her was shining into the windows of the house, and it seemed for a fraction of a second that its eyes blazed with flame again. Julia heard the greedy crackle and her throat filled with the acrid taste of smoke. She braked violently and sprang out of the car. Running towards the house she saw that the windows were reflecting the setting sun, nothing more.

Alexander and Lily were playing together. They looked up as she stumbled into the room. Their faces were alike and their calm expressions mirrored each other.

‘Did you get your shopping?’ Alexander asked politely.

Julia was breathing hard from running and her heart was thumping, but she answered with the same politeness. ‘Yes, thanks. I think I got everything I wanted. It wasn’t too crowded.’

‘Good.’

Civility was a weapon too, the way Alexander used it.
They used all the weapons against each other now that they were enemies
, Julia thought,
except passion. There was too much heat in passion
.

She carried her parcels upstairs, but she felt too sad to put the purchases away. She sat down on the wide bed instead, and picked up the telephone from the bedside table. She dialled Mattie’s number and listened to the ringing tone, on and on, imagining the small rooms and the view over the Bloomsbury street. Mattie didn’t answer. Julia replaced the receiver. Her head was heavy with the weight of tears, but she didn’t cry. Instead she went back downstairs.

She asked Lily, ‘What shall I make you for tea?’

‘Egg,’ Lily answered stoutly, and Julia smiled at her.

That night, Julia had a nightmare of the fire.

She dreamed that the flames had engulfed Lily and Alexander and Flowers and everyone else she cared for, and that as she ran to save herself Sandy pursued her, calling her name out of a mouth that melted and flowed like lava.

Julia didn’t scream. Her eyes opened and she stared silently into the darkness. When the trembling had subsided she sat up. She was wet with sweat, and the cold air struck like ice. Alexander was asleep, turned away from her with his shoulders hunched. His breathing seemed very even. She knew that even if she did disturb him he would tell her, ‘The fire’s over. You must forget it.’

Looking down at him Julia remembered the night in the white house when she had watched Josh sleeping. She wondered now, as she had often done in the last weeks, if she would feel the loneliness less sharply when she really was alone. As the sweat of terror dried between her shoulder blades she thought that nothing could hurt more than the parody of closeness that she and Alexander made one another live in at Ladyhill. Carefully, so as not to wake him, she lay down again, but she didn’t go to sleep before Lily made her first morning summons from her bed in the next room.

Christmas came closer. On the day before Christmas Eve, Alexander brought home the tree. Julia and Lily met him in the wide hallway amongst the seemingly permanent detritus left by the builders. Alexander swung the tree off his shoulder and stood it upright for them to admire.

‘But isn’t it too big?’ Julia asked, puzzled. The huge specimen would fill half of their little sitting room.

‘I thought,’ Alexander announced, ‘that we should put the tree back in the drawing room this year.’

Lifting the tree again, and without looking at her, he crossed to the drawing room door and opened it with a flourish. With Lily tugging at her hand and shouting, ‘Yes, Daddy, yes, Daddy,’ Julia followed him. The empty room, freshly plastered, seemed a huge, gaunt shell. There was no furniture and on the new, bare floorboards a few woodshavings uncurled. Alexander went across and balanced the tree in its old place, in front of the window, where the ancient velvet curtains had fed the candle flames so generously.

Julia whispered, ‘No. Not in here. Why not in the little room?’

The fresh, festive scent of the pine needles threatened to choke her, and she could smell melting wax too, and see the merry points of light twinkling between the thick green branches.

Alexander almost threw the tree aside. He came across the room and Julia shrank a little, drawing Lily’s fist, clenched in hers, closer to her side. As if she or Lily could protect each other against him. Her grip must have hurt because Lily whimpered, complaining.

Alexander didn’t touch either of them, of course. He came so close that Julia could see a tiny pulse beating at the corner of his eye. She also thought that she could see anger and disappointment only half masked by his anger, but she was angry and very afraid herself, and somehow she found a way to ignore whatever Alexander might feel.

‘I think we should have the Christmas tree in this room, where it belongs,’ Alexander repeated. They were confronting each other now. Julia knew with cold, exhausted certainty that the moment had come. She looked around the room and recognised, with faint surprise, that even though the fire had started here, no visible trace of it remained. The leading in the windows that had melted, and the shattered glass, had been replaced, and the new floorboards of seasoned oak butted together so snugly that there were none of the scything draughts that had characterised the old room. The old oak panelling and the intricate plasterwork of the ceiling had been entirely demolished, and not even George and Felix were proposing to try and copy them afresh. In their place was smooth, as yet unpainted plaster. The smoke-blackened Tudor roses of the carved stone fire surround had been cleaned, and the hearth only needed a new log fire. The room looked just what it was, a big, fresh, airy space, waiting to be lived in again.