Canvey Island (23 page)

‘How do you do this?' I asked.

‘Oh, same old stuff. The dole. I help Masood out downstairs in the newsagent's when they're short. Sometimes I tell a fortune or sell a painting. And then there's always the dealing.'

‘What?'

‘Only joking,' but I couldn't tell. ‘Do you want this pasta or not?' she called.

‘All right.'

‘Well, put some music on then.'

I found some Sarah Vaughan and we sat on the floor, side by side, our backs leaning against the sofa, and ate our tagliatelle. I opened the wine and Linda smiled.

‘Can you remember?' she asked.

‘What?'

‘You know, the two of us, together.'

‘Of course.'

‘And what do you remember about it?'

‘I don't know,' I said. ‘It felt right.'

‘Even the first time?'

‘No. I wasn't so good the first time.'

‘You made up for it later.'

‘I did my best.'

‘You were good, you were. I remember.'

‘Well. We loved each other.'

‘Do you think so?'

‘I know so.'

We sat in silence, drinking and listening to ‘The Nearness of You'.

Then Linda stood up and took off her T-shirt. ‘I think we've got the message by now.'

She slipped off her shoes, unbuttoned her jeans and pulled them down. ‘Come on.'

Her skin was darker and fuller than I had ever remembered.

‘It's what you want, isn't it?' She threw her jeans on to a chair and walked off into the bedroom in her bra and knickers.

I followed.

When it was over we lay side by side and I felt Linda curl up against me as she had done in the past.

‘Happy?' she said, stroking my chest.

I had promised my father I would be home. ‘Of course. But I should go soon.'

‘Why? We're not seventeen any more.'

‘I know that.'

‘Then what's the problem?'

‘My dad. He disapproves.'

‘He knows?'

‘No, of course not. How could he? We've only just started.'

‘I can never tell with your family. They get to hear things pretty quick …'

‘He knows I've seen you.'

‘You told him?'

‘I think Vi saw us.'

‘God, some things never change.'

‘I don't want him suspecting. I promised I'd sort a few things out for him. I'll come back tomorrow if you want,' I said.

‘Of course I want. I want you now.'

‘Again?'

‘Yes, again, Mr Married Man. Don't be lazy. You're in for it now.'

We made love slowly and more tenderly. I did not know if it was regret that we had taken so long to find each other or whether there was already an awareness that it could not last. Then I started to get dressed.

‘I can't stay,' I said.

‘Of course you can.'

I pulled on my shirt. ‘I know I can, but please …'

‘Why?'

‘I can't stay here for ever …'

‘Why not?'

‘You know why …'

‘Then promise you'll come back.'

‘I promise.'

She turned on her side and watched me try to find my shoes. ‘Don't leave me this time.'

I leant down and kissed her on the lips. ‘I won't,' I said, and headed out into the night, the streetlights stretching away before me, the last drinkers silhouetted against car headlamps.

We were charged with trespass, resisting arrest and breaching the peace. We gave false names, the levellers and suffragettes who had gone before us, women hidden from history: Elizabeth Lilburne, Mary Overton, Katherine Chidley and Milly Fawcett. I was Emily Davidson.

When the police took statements and asked for our professions we didn't say we were schoolteachers or nurses or homemakers but that we were restorers of free speech, recoverers of liberty, servants of the people. We asked to be considered political prisoners but were refused.

‘You have broken the law.'

‘These are not laws we recognise.'

We spent the night crammed into the cells. We had a lawyer who gave her work for free, and she phoned home and tried to reach Martin. I didn't want him to read it in the papers. Joyce had got a message to me to say that Lucy was fine and she was looking after her.

Then the lawyer came back and told me that there was no one at our house. Perhaps Martin was working away from home?

I gave her the office number but they said he had taken some leave and they didn't know where he was, and so, out of desperation, I told her that she should ring Martin's father. He was always good about phoning his dad.

I began to worry that something was wrong. I thought of all the terrible things that could have happened: illness, accident or a freak event. I realised how much Martin had done for me and how badly I was missing him.

‘Here,' she said. ‘I want to give you this.' It was a pebble, with the sea at night on one side and dawn on the other. Underneath Linda had written the date when we had made love again in tiny white numerals. ‘You're supposed to guess what it means.'

‘Dawn and dusk?'

‘Night and day …'

She told me she had once taken a job on local radio to earn a bit of money. One of her first ‘how to be a DJ' lessons had been what to do in the event of a nuclear attack, and behind the turntable was a fading copy of
Frank Sinatra's Greatest Hits
. As soon as she heard the three-minute warning, she was supposed to slap it on and head under the nearest table.

‘From then on, any time I heard Frankie on the radio I began to panic: have we only got three minutes left or are they having a laugh? His music always makes me think of the end of the world.'

We drove up the coast and stayed in a country-house hotel with a spa and twenty-four-hour room service. The receptionist looked disapprovingly at Linda's ripped jeans and scuffed shoes, but said nothing. She didn't even remark when we asked for a bottle of champagne for the room, but I could see the smirk at the corner of her mouth that said: ‘I bet you're not married.'

We went upstairs. ‘Happy?' I asked.

‘Of course I am. You?'

‘I can't believe we're doing this.'

‘Well, we are,' she said. ‘You see how happy you can be if you just let go.'

‘I didn't think it was possible to feel like this again.'

‘Let's stay here for ever,' she said, ‘or at least until the money runs out. Have you got enough?'

‘Of course,' I lied.

‘Then you're richer than I thought.'

We ordered late breakfasts, had a swim before lunch, and made love in the afternoons. ‘Our honeymoon,' said Linda.

I tried not to think of Claire but on the second night it rained hard and it reminded me of university where the girl in the next room had a tape of ‘natural sounds' and rewound to the thunderstorm whenever she was about to have sex. Claire and I always remembered it as our little joke whenever there was thunder.

Linda was in a dreamy mood, drinking champagne, reciting bits of poetry and falling asleep:

A book of verses underneath the Bough
A jug of wine, a Loaf of Bread – and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness –
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!

‘I had forgotten you could recite poetry,' I said.

‘Well, I like to impress you from time to time; keep a bit of mystery going.'

‘What was it?'

‘Edward Fitzgerald.
The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám
. He's buried down the road. There's a rose from Persia on his grave. Do you want to go?'

‘When?'

‘Whenever you like. We can do anything we want, remember? Once you take away the fear of responsibility you can do anything.'

Her hand closed slowly into a fist in front of my face. ‘Look, here's your old life, scrunched up in my hand, and lo,' she blew and unfurled her fingers, ‘abracadabra, I make it disappear …'

We drove to the village of Boulge and found a squat church with a sixteenth-century tower and a Victorian nave. We parked by the
side of the main road and approached through early autumn fields. It must have been the darkest interior in Suffolk, the only light coming through small windows of thick coloured glass: Faith and St Nicholas, the Annunciation, the Baptism of Christ.

As we walked up the aisle Linda said, ‘Just think: we could have got married here. I could have been Mrs Martin Turner after all.' She took my arm. ‘Here comes the bride …'

‘Don't.'

‘It might have happened.'

‘Stop it, Linda.'

‘And it still could, of course. It just takes a bit of courage. In two years' time we could be here again like it was supposed to be. I could even wear scarlet. That would get people talking …'

‘Don't …'

‘We could have our child baptised in the font. Look, black marble. Why not?'

‘Linda, we should go. I don't want anyone seeing us here.'

‘Who's going to see us? It's the middle of nowhere.'

‘Someone might come …'

‘I'm going to sign the visitors' book.'

‘Don't,' I said. ‘Please don't.'

‘Why not? Martin and Linda Turner. What's wrong with that?'

‘You know what's wrong with it. Why are you being like this?'

‘Like what?'

‘Not yourself. A bit hysterical.'

‘Well, why do you think? Nothing about any of this is normal.'

‘What do you want then?'

‘I want you to accept me and for us to be together in public like normal couples.'

‘But we're not a normal couple, are we?'

‘I hope you're not ashamed of me all over again.'

‘No,' I said. ‘Of course I'm not.'

‘I don't want you starting to have doubts.'

‘Let's go outside. I'm sorry. Look, it will be all right. I find it a bit difficult.'

‘And you think I find it easy?'

We looked at Fitzgerald's grave, and it began to rain. The rose from Persia looked withered. Linda grabbed my arm and stood up
on the railing round the stone. She lifted up her face and shouted to the sky:

Some for the Glories of This world; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!

‘Sometimes I think you're a bit mad,' I said.

‘Of course I am,' she replied. ‘That's why you love me.'

When we got back to Canvey Linda told me that she wanted me to stay at her flat rather than my father's. We didn't even need to tell him we were there. I could pretend I was going home but then stay on secretly. It would be the start of my double life.

I took another week off work, knowing that if I didn't start explaining myself soon I could run the risk of losing my job. I was aware that I could not go on much longer and my head began to fill with fear: of discovery, of Claire, and the choices I had made.

Two days later, we were woken at six-thirty in the morning. It was Masood from the newsagent's below.

‘Miss Walker, there's a phone call for the man staying with you.'

‘Who is it?'

‘His father. It's urgent.'

I pulled on yesterday's clothes, unable to think what could be wrong. Perhaps Dad had been burgled or something had happened to Vi. In the shop, Masood was writing the addresses on newspapers and his son was sorting them ready for delivery. The boy looked about ten. I turned my back but could feel him staring at me as I picked up the phone.

‘Dad … How did you know I was here?'

‘I'm cleverer than you think, son.'

‘Are you all right?'

‘Never mind me. Claire's been arrested.'

‘
What?
'

‘Some of the women are looking after Lucy, but you've got to get over there and pay the fine. Claire's refusing to do it and said she'd rather go to prison but we can't have her in the nick.'

‘I'll get my things.'

‘And don't tell anyone.'

‘It'll be in the papers, Dad.'

‘I don't mean about Claire, you idiot. I mean about Linda. Don't tell anyone. Especially don't tell your wife. Don't go home and dump it all on her.'

‘I'm not that stupid.'

‘I'm serious, son, even if she asks; don't make it worse by telling her. Keep it to yourself.'

‘I don't need your advice, Dad.'

‘You're getting it anyway. You've got to shut up about it unless you're planning on doing something daft like leaving her altogether. She's a good woman, is Claire. Don't keep messing it up.'

‘I'm not messing it up.'

‘Then what are you doing?'

I put the phone down. Masood and his son pretended they hadn't been listening. I couldn't work out how much they might have guessed from my end of the conversation.

When I went back upstairs, Linda was still half-asleep. ‘Come back to bed,' she said, ‘I want you.'

In the past, I'd always been frightened of police officers. They made me feel guilty, as if I'd forgotten that I'd murdered someone and they were coming round to remind me. And I'd never been in a courtroom in my life.

But the magistrate looked nervous. Perhaps his only experience of women was a compliant wife and placid old ladies up for driving without due care and attention. He could tell he was in for a rough ride when Sasha refused to swear on the Bible.

‘You must give the oath, madam.'

‘I will not swear by Almighty God. That is a male construct.'

‘Then what will you swear by?'

‘I'll swear by the goddess, but not by the god.'

We had packed the court with supporters who, when asked not to speak, began to hum ‘We Shall Overcome', swaying from side to side: Abby who had given up work as a therapist, Sue who wanted to start a Greenham newspaper, women from all over the country: Catherine, Mandy and Emma; Ali, Amy and Morwenna.