Down Among the Gods (25 page)

She doesn’t realise how much she has missed London until she arrives in it, and instead of going straight to Camden as she had planned, she spends the rest of the day visiting friends and catching up on the news. By the time she meets up with Gregory for a late meal at a Greek restaurant, her troubles seem to have evaporated, and she and Gregory make a pact not to talk about their men.

But the next morning she phones Patrick and gets no reply.

‘He’s probably sleeping,’ says Gregory, ‘or feeding the chickens.’

He has restored the computer’s confidence and also installed a new word-processing package, better by far than Jessie’s old one.

‘I don’t know what’s happening to him lately,’ she says, as they sit over coffee and croissants in the kitchen of the Camden house.

‘Why? What’s up?’

‘He’s changed all of a sudden. He’s become tetchy and argumentative. He’s always going down to the pub. Sometimes I wonder if he’s got his eye on another woman.’

‘I doubt it,’ says Gregory. ‘It’s probably hormones. I’m feeling that way a lot myself these days.’

He has still not got over James. He is still drinking his way out of it.

‘It’s the male menopause,’ he goes on. ‘The mid-life crisis.’

Ah, yes. The mid-life crisis. Don’t knock it. It is the second teenage, another chance for mortals to dissociate themselves from the gods and to change their allegiances. It has many of the same features as the adolescent confusion which seems to have been left so far behind, but in one important respect it differs. The adolescent will fall back again among the gods and reassume their powers as his own. But in mid-life, when the gods draw back, individuals get a chance to differentiate between what belongs to them and what belongs to the gods. And among the attributes that they will find does not belong to them, and never did, is immortality.

But on this occasion, Gregory is wrong. Neither he nor Patrick is going through mid-life. Not yet.

‘Do you think that’s what it is?’ says Jessie. ‘It seems to have come on rather suddenly.’

‘It does,’ says Gregory. ‘Believe me.’

Jessie looks at the television, sitting blank-faced in the corner like an overweight cretin.

Patrick has stayed the night on Dafydd’s couch, following a long and hard-fought darts match. He goes home after breakfast and spends another listless day pottering around the farm. In the evening Dafydd drives up a few cattle to graze off the meadow which he never got round to cutting, and Patrick gives him a lift back down on the back of the bike. The rap band are playing in the village again.

This time, Bronwen has no difficulty in persuading Patrick to dance. He doesn’t recapture the ecstatic excitement of the first time, but he enjoys it all the same, and stays out on the dance floor for much of the evening. When the bar closes and the band begins to pack up, Bronwen comes over and slips something that feels like a folded note into Patrick’s hand. He watches her as she heads out towards the toilets at the back, then glances down surreptitiously. It is not a note. It is a condom.

Patrick looks round the room, but vaguely, careful not to catch anyone’s eye. Then he makes his way towards the toilets and past them, out to the car park. There is no sound out there in the darkness, and for a moment he is afraid that she has made a fool of him. But she comes out behind him, from the Ladies, and leads him over to the trees.

W
HEN DIONYSUS BROKE OUT
of the dungeon, Pentheus determined to send his armies out to slay the maenads who were still having a ball in the surrounding countryside. But Dionysus persuaded him to spy on them first, and disguise himself as a woman so as not to be recognised.

The maenads were not so easily fooled. They spotted Pentheus, dragged him down from the tree where he was hiding, and tore him to pieces.

When Jessie gets home, Patrick is building a wall. The chicken wire that he has returned to its place across the yard distresses him disproportionately every time he sees it, and he has at last come up with a compromise. He has begun to move stones from the derelict building behind the sheep pens and bring them out into the yard. So far, he has built to the height of a foot and a half along the top of the bank.

When Jessie sees it her first thought is that a wall will obscure Patrick’s view far more effectively than chicken wire, but she keeps it to herself. He is coming to meet her, his eyes full of pleasure, and as soon as she is out of the car, they hug one another. It is he who prolongs the hold.

‘Jessie,’ he says, breathing the familiar scent of her hair.

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Just Jessie. What you are. I love you, you know. I missed you.’

She sighs in a flood of relief against his chest, and gently tightens her hold. He doesn’t look into the car before they go together into the house.

It makes it easier for Jessie when, later on, she asks him for a hand to unload the TV.

Jessie doesn’t ask Patrick where he was on the occasions she tried to phone, even though she is under strong pressure to do so. She doesn’t know Hera’s name, but she recognises her none the less, and is doing her best to resist.

For something of the same reason, Patrick doesn’t tell Jessie about his knee-wobbler among the trees with Bronwen. Although he doesn’t feel any guilt about it, he is sure that Jessie wouldn’t understand. It was a celebration, a natural climax to the evening’s dancing, and beyond that it meant nothing to either of them. Bronwen hasn’t the slightest intention of taking Patrick from Jessie. A relationship is the last thing she wants. As far as she is concerned she has merely, with Jessie’s implied consent, borrowed him for a few minutes.

But the next time Jessie sees them dancing together, she is very aware of how at ease they are with each other, how comfortable.

The rap band has become a regular fixture in the Bell on Friday nights, though it might not be for much longer. They are growing in popularity around the area and are beginning to be in demand.

Patrick comes back to the table, flushed and happy. There is a brief, agonistic encounter between him and Mel before Mel moves aside and allows him to sit next to Jessie.

‘You’re not dancing?’ he says, slightly breathless.

‘Not after last time.’

‘Oh, come on. It won’t happen again. You can’t spend the rest of your life on your arse.’

Jessie laughs. ‘You asking?’

‘I’m asking.’

‘I’m dancing.’

He takes her hand and leads her out among the others as the band counts down into a new riff. Jessie is aware of his ease out here, and envies his ability to relax and enjoy himself. There were times when she could dance with as much abandon as he, and many a man, and woman too, have found themselves entranced in the past, watching her lithe body and the swing of her liquid copper hair. But over the years she has lost that assurance, lost the ability to throw aside her seriousness and let go.

It is one of the reasons why those who are governed by Hera are so often attracted to Dionysus. The gods engage in struggle within the individual mind as well as between different ones. It is those who are over-controlled, within as well as without, who tend to seek refuge in Dionysus.

Jessie dances lightly, carefully, hiding behind her hair. And as she does so, her body begins to rediscover forgotten networks of movement. She begins to cover more ground, advancing and retreating, swinging and turning, all of her actions centred around Patrick.

But not all of his are centred around her. He is interacting constantly with the other dancers and they are interacting with him. It seems to Jessie as she watches that he knows everyone there in the room. He winks at the girls as they pass and occasionally swings one around. He nods to the men and the boys and enters into comic engagements over their partners.

And why shouldn’t he? It’s all in fun, after all. But Jessie begins to lose her enthusiasm and with it, her rhythm. She has the impression that everyone there is dancing together while she is dancing alone. She lasts until the end of the number, then returns to her seat.

Patrick goes to the bar. Jessie has had the two pints she decided upon but Patrick has bought her a third.

‘I didn’t want one,’ she says. ‘I told you that.’

‘Leave it, then. I’ll drink it.’

They sit out the next dance, chatting with Dafydd and Mel. Jessie sips her pint reluctantly, trying not to enjoy it. Patrick and Mel are clearly beginning to take a dislike to each other, and Dafydd is keeping out of their conversation. He looks over at Jessie and shrugs.

When Patrick asks her to get up again, Jessie shakes her head, a little sulky. ‘I don’t think I will.’

‘Why not? We were having a great time just now.’

Jessie procrastinates, waiting to be pressed. Patrick turns round to look at the band and is instantly swept into the fray by Bronwen.

Jessie sags. Beside her, Mel sighs and slides his pint a little closer to hers. She turns, instead, to Dafydd.

‘How is it you never dance?’ she says.

‘I can’t,’ he says. ‘Tone deaf.’

‘What has that got to do with anything?’

‘I can’t hear the music,’ he says. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘I’ll show you, then,’ says Jessie, taking his hand and dragging him to his feet. ‘Listen to the drums.’

Dafydd, indeed, cannot dance. But it doesn’t matter to Jessie. She dances fit to burst, flirting with Dafydd outrageously and sending her hair flying around her like an electric storm. But the only time she notices Patrick, he is giving her a thumbs-up of delighted approval.

When the number is over, the band takes a break. Jessie watches them, noticing how confident they have become. There is something intriguing about the drummer, who is gazing distractedly into space as though listening to something that no one else can hear.

Patrick doesn’t come back to the table. Another of the pub regulars has bought him a drink and they stand together on the other side of the room, leaning against the wall and smoking cigarettes. Jessie watches him. She has never seen him smoking before. He is at home here, relaxed and secure among friends, but she isn’t. Mel is sitting too close to her, singing a Welsh ballad in a small timid voice, waiting to be asked what it is. Dafydd has disappeared. The last time she saw him he was dancing, ineptly, with Bronwen.

‘Another pint?’ says Mel, though she is not yet half-way down the last one.

‘No, thanks, Mel.’ She stands up and crosses the floor to where Patrick is standing and taps him on the shoulder.

‘I think I’ll go home.’

‘Why?’ he says. ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing. I’ve just had enough.’

She turns and goes out through the bar. Patrick raises his eyes to the ceiling for the benefit of his friends, then follows her out into the street.

‘Had enough of what, Jessie?’ he says. ‘Are you feeling all right?’

‘Yes. My head is fine. Perfectly clear. I’m just not really enjoying myself.’

‘Why not?’

‘I suppose I’m a bit tired, that’s all.’

Patrick stands deadlocked, looking at the road. He is in his shirtsleeves, still hot from dancing, and the wind is cold from the west, blowing straight along the street. The ash trees behind the car park are hissing like waves on a beach. Jessie puts on her jacket.

‘All right,’ says Patrick. ‘I’ll see you later, then.’

She turns away to hide the disappointment in her face. ‘See you.’

As he watches her go, he is saddened for a moment and then, inexplicably, angry. There is a quiet malevolence in his voice as he calls after her.

‘Enjoy the rarefied air!’

Jessie walks wearily back up the side of the valley. The calm serenity of the surroundings might lighten her heart if she let them. There is poetry here, lying like mist among the dozing gorse and mountain ash but Jessie doesn’t hear it. She has not yet learnt how to.

At home, she lies awake in the darkness. The motorbike is shut up in the cow-shed but she is still listening for it. Occasionally she thinks she hears it but each time it is only the stream splashing down the crag.

She is still awake when Patrick comes home. It is late, but it would have been much later if Dafydd hadn’t given him a lift. He thinks that Jessie is asleep, and makes rudimentary efforts not to disturb her, but he fails and lands rather heavily on the bed. Jessie waits. She has nothing to say.

Patrick undresses and rolls underneath the covers, snuggling up against the warmth of Jessie’s back in the darkness. Then he stirs, remembering Bronwen, and slips his hand beneath her nightshirt.

She lies quietly, but in spite of the drink Patrick senses the rigidity in her stillness and moves away with a sigh. For a while the stream tries to lull them with its unique syncopation, but at last Patrick says, ‘Why did you leave?’

‘I told you. I’d had enough.’

‘You didn’t tell me enough of what.’

‘Enough of you ignoring me and flirting with everyone in sight.’

Patrick is silent, and Jessie senses danger behind her and turns on to her back. The night is too pure here for her to be able to see him but she knows that he is staring up at the ceiling.

‘You spend too much time in the Tardis,’ he says. His voice, the strangeness of what he has said, fills the room like an unwelcome guest.

‘What do you mean?’

‘This place. The Tardis. Old and innocuous from the outside, but crammed full of technology.’

‘What do you mean, technology?’

‘Computers, fax machines, washing machines. Fridges, mixers, blenders. Hair dryers, for god’s sake.’

‘TV,’ says Jessie.

‘I haven’t turned it on, yet.’

‘We haven’t got an aerial yet.’

‘Whose fault is that?’

Now Jessie is staring at the ceiling, wondering how he does it, how he manages to turn everything she says around and use it against her. More and more lately she finds herself walking on eggs, terrified to say anything in case it is the wrong thing. The stream tries again, fruitlessly.

‘It’s a bubble, Jessie. A little, private pleasure dome set into the side of a mountain. Like a chunk of London that fell out of a passing magazine and got wedged underneath a big rock.’