Keeping Secrets (7 page)

‘Which I find quite extraordinary,' said Stephen. ‘Because I've thought of nothing but you since we met.' He smiled. ‘And that, at least, is the truth.'

‘Well,' said Hilda. ‘Well … I …'

Stephen reached for her hand, and this time he did not brush it lightly but took it, holding it in his, and this time she let it rest there, feeling his warmth, and a deep, surprising, joyful sense of belonging.

They sat without speaking, she looking across the room at the bar, which had suddenly the radiance of a painting, Stephen at her face. Then he reached out and turned it gently towards him, to that she had to look at him. ‘To think,' he said, ‘that holding hands should feel like everything.'

‘I know,' said Hilda, ‘I know.'

‘I have to say,' said Stephen at last, after another silence, ‘that this feels absolutely right.'

‘I know,' said Hilda again, feeling herself to be a different person from the one who had stepped in here less than half an hour ago. ‘But not … not really. Is it?'

‘Do you want me to answer your questions? Because I will, if that's what you want.'

She hesitated. ‘I can only assume that things are wrong, or you would not be with me now. I suppose I want to know if they have been wrong for a long time, or just since …'

‘Not just since,' he said. ‘Meeting you confirmed what has been missing always.'

‘Always? Is that true? For you or for both of you?'

‘I think,' he said carefully, ‘for both of us. In different ways.'

And that, thought Hilda, could cover, and mean, anything. And suddenly she didn't want to hear any more, or to know anything – about his wife, his son, their past, their life together. Only.

‘What about others?' she said lightly. ‘Do you make a habit of this?'

He shook his head. ‘There have been one or two … diversions? Nothing more.'

‘Everything all right?' The waiter was beside them, carrying a tray. He looked at the soup bowls, disappointed. ‘Didn't fancy it?'

‘It was delicious,' said Stephen. ‘We're just not very hungry, that's all.' They waited for him to clear away, leaving plates, and salad. ‘Do you want any of this?'

Hilda shook her head. ‘I couldn't eat a thing.'

‘Shall we go?'

‘Go where?' she asked, and looked at her watch. ‘My God, I must be getting back to work.'

‘Can't I take you home?'

‘I'm teaching.'

‘I know. Skip it.' He pulled a face. ‘Couldn't you?'

‘I'm head of department,' said Hilda, laughing. ‘I've never done such a thing in my life.'

‘Even heads of department must get headaches sometimes, don't they? Or is it – I mean, would you
like
to go home with me? Or am I rushing you? I hardly like to ask this, but has your lack of contact with men meant …'

‘A life of celibacy? Not entirely. Let us say that such encounters have left me with no particular desire to repeat them.' She found she was shaking. ‘Anyway, it's not just that, is it? You have to go home, don't you?'

‘But not until tonight.'

Hilda thought about taking Stephen back to Anya's, climbing the stairs to her flat, showing him round, making him coffee, and then … And then. And afterwards? She saw herself standing at her darkening sitting room window, watching him drive away, going home. This won't do, she thought. I stop it, now, or I accept from the beginning.

‘Hilda? Perhaps I could stay the night … I could make a phone call …'

‘I skip a class,' she said, ‘and you make a phone call. And that's two people lied to before we've even begun.'

‘And that,' said Stephen, ‘will have to be the nature of things. Inevitably.'

Hilda considered. ‘I can't be responsible for what you say to anyone, but I am going to teach my class. If you would like to amuse yourself for an hour or so until it's over, I'll be happy to take you home for tea. There's a library just down the road, I'll meet you there.'

When they came out into the street the rain had stopped and puddles shone. Hilda pointed up towards the library.

‘Can't I walk with you to your college?' he said, his hand on her shoulder.

‘No, thanks. I'll meet you about half-past four, all right?'

‘Don't get wet.'

She opened her bag to reveal a black collapsible umbrella. ‘I have come prepared, at least for the weather.'

‘Very good.
Lés Parapluies de Cherbourg.
Did you ever see that? The most romantic song in the world, do you remember it? “If it takes for ever, I will wait for you …”' He raised an eyebrow, humming.

‘I must go,' said Hilda, and he bent down and brushed her lips with a kiss.

‘Half-past four.'

She nodded, unable to speak, and turned away, waiting on the pavement for a moment to cross. The flower shop on the corner of Albion Road looked, as the bar had done, like a painting: bronze and yellow chrysanthemums, smoky Michaelmas daisies transformed, as if she were seeing them for the first time. At a gap in the traffic she crossed, walking up towards the side street to the college and, watching her from the other side of the road, Stephen raised his hand.

Fallen leaves from the trees in the square blew along the pavement. As Hilda took out her key to the front door of the house it opened, and Anya came out with a basket.

‘Oh, Hilda. I am just going to the shop …' She hesitated, clearly a little disconcerted, looking from Hilda to Stephen and away again.

Hilda introduced them, and Stephen held out his hand with a smile, open, polite. Hilda had the sense, then and for years afterwards, that he was – like Tony, although she did not make the comparison then – capable of meeting anyone on their own terms, could instantly summon the right, most agreeable manner, knowing what would please people, and put them at their ease. It did not occur to her, then, to wonder how genuine it might be.

Anya looked up at Stephen with her bright brown eyes, assessing, warming a little.

‘Is there anything I can get you?' she asked, turning to Hilda.

‘No, thanks.' Hilda moved towards the open door and gestured to Stephen. They said their goodbyes and she led him across the hall, with its faded rugs and photographs in brown frames and up the three flights of stairs to her own front door. She unlocked it, standing aside; with a queer feeling she watched him climb the little flight of steps to her hall with his easy, loose-limbed stride. She followed him up, letting the door click to behind her, and he put out an arm without turning to look for her. They went into the sitting room, overlooking the square; into the bedroom, which overlooked the garden. They stood at the tall sash window, looking down on to Anya's quiet terrace, the weatherbeaten table and chairs, at the patchwork of neglected and well-tended gardens. Someone had lit a bonfire, and the smoke was drifting towards the trees.

‘So,' said Stephen. ‘You like it here.'

‘It suits me,' said Hilda simply, leaning against his shoulder and thinking: does there have to be more than this? I should be happy to stay here like this for ever. ‘Would you like some tea … or anything?'

‘Later, perhaps,' said Stephen, stroking her hair. ‘Unless you …'

She shook her head, feeling suddenly safe. I think it's all right. I think, this time, it will be all right. Stephen turned her face up to his; he bent to kiss her, his mouth warm, soft, enveloping, and Hilda, who had never been held by anyone without feeling a cold little part of her watching, distant and untouched, found herself, at first uncertain and unsure, now longing, lost, the inhabitant of a new, demanding body.

They drew apart, and with tenderness Stephen took off her glasses, folding them, placing them carefully on the table by the window. Then he pulled the curtains, with a rattle of wooden rings which shut out everything.

‘Are you all right? Let me look at you.'

She propped herself up on her elbow. ‘I'm fine,' she said smiling, leaning over him, and he reached up and pushed her hair back from her forehead.

‘Such a lovely face. Do you look different now? Let me see … the face beneath the face …' His fingers traced each eyebrow, her nose, her lips. ‘I could look at you for ever.'

Hilda shook her head, still disbelieving. ‘This can't be happening.'

‘But it is, it is. I didn't know it was possible to feel like this, to be sure, to know from the beginning.' He pulled her to him. ‘Come here, come here, lie on top of me, I want you again, I want you …' His hands ran down her back, over her bottom, between her legs, drawing her on-to him. ‘Come on … It's all right, I won't come inside you, you're safe, come on, come on …'

Afterwards, they slept, and when Hilda woke the room was quite dark and for a few moments she couldn't work out what was going on or what she was doing here, in bed at a time when she was never in bed. She turned to look at the little luminous clock on the bedside table. Twenty to seven. In the morning? No. Beside her Stephen was breathing deeply. ‘Stephen?' she said quietly, yawned and moved a little away from him, feeling sticky and uncomfortable and sore. Carefully she pushed back the bedclothes and made her way in the darkness to the bathroom, closing the door. She stood under the shower for a long time, and when she had finished, and pulled on her towelling dressing gown, she stood rubbing a space in the steam on the mirror and looked at herself, uncertainly, with-damp hair and clean skin.

I'll go and get us some coffee, she thought, and suddenly felt happiness well up inside her, and saw the face in the cloudy mirror give an enormous smile.

She went into the kitchen and put the kettle on, and laid a tray, taking from the cupboard a packet of chocolate biscuits Anya had given her one Sunday. She leaned against the fridge, tapping the packet in her hand. She thought: one moment there is someone who looks vaguely interesting, whom you think you might like to get to know, the next you have fallen in love. How can that be so? How can I never have known it could be so? The kettle came to the boil. She made coffee, and put the biscuits on a blue plate, and carried it all through to the bedroom.

‘Stephen?' The tea things rattled, and the room was still in darkness, lit only through the open door. She set the tray down carefully beside the bed and took the lamp off the table and put it on the floor, so that it wouldn't be too bright. When she switched it on the room felt deliciously like a room from childhood, warm and secure and softly lit as if she were ill and were being looked after.

‘Stephen?' she sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over to him, kissing his forehead. ‘I've made some coffee.'

‘Mmm.' He rolled towards her, and opened his eyes, smiling. ‘Mmm. I dreamt you'd gone.'

‘I've come back,' she said, kissing him again.

He stretched, yawning. ‘What time is it?'

‘Quarter-past seven.'

‘Christ. Christ, is it really?' He ran a hand through his hair and sat up, rubbing his face. ‘How did that happen?'

‘What time should you have left?' Hilda asked carefully, and turned away and began to pour out the coffee. Stephen sat up, and pulled the pillows behind him as she passed him a cup.

‘Thank you. It's all right, don't worry about the time, it doesn't matter. I'll …'

‘You'll what?' Hilda poured out her own cup and sat watching the steam rise and drift out across the top of the lamp.

‘I'll sort it all out,' said Stephen. ‘I'm sorry, I shouldn't have worried you, it's got nothing to do with you.'

Hilda said nothing.

‘I mean … oh, God, take this a minute …' He passed her his cup and when she had put it down he took her hand. ‘You do know the last thing in the world I want to do now is get-out of this bed and leave you?'

She shrugged. ‘Well, I …'

‘You do know,' he said. ‘You must know.' He put a hand under her chin and she felt her eyes fill with tears. ‘Beloved … All too much too soon? Is that what it is?'

‘Perhaps.' She swallowed. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘You don't have to be sorry about anything,' he said. ‘It's I who should be sorry. Come here.' He pulled her to him, turning her so that she was lying next to him, and tucked the dressing gown up round her, straightening the collar. ‘There.' She put her head on his shoulder and he stroked her hair again, no longer urgent and filled with desire but tender and reassuring. ‘Better now?'

‘Yes.' She raised her head and saw him looking down at her. ‘The coffee will be getting cold.'

‘So it will. Pass it over, then.'

They sat up against the pillows with their cups. After a while, Hilda said: ‘Tomorrow I shall wake up and won't believe any of this. I can hardly believe it now.'

‘I know.' He put down his cup and began kissing her again, her hair, her cheeks, her eyes, and she held him close, his long firm body warm against hers beneath the bedclothes, wanting to say to him: Stay. Please. Don't leave me now. Be here tomorrow.

‘Hilda?'

‘Yes?'

‘You will be all right?'

‘Of course. I'm used to being alone. I actually rather like it, most of the time.'

‘I know, but …' He hesitated, looking at her gravely. ‘I feel already as if I'm never going to be able to give you enough, be with you enough. You – you know you wanted me to be honest?'

Hilda thought: he's thinking about home, he doesn't want to have to feel guilty about her. Or me. ‘Be honest, then,' she said lightly.

‘You've gone all on edge again, I can feel it. Only …' He frowned. ‘You think I'm going to say something horrible, don't you? That I'm going to get up and go out of here and maybe never come back. Or just drop in when I feel like it.'

‘Yes.'

‘I'm not,' he said, shaking his head. ‘What a mistrustful person you are, to be sure; I can see I shall have to spell things out.' He leaned over, and kissed her forehead. ‘If anyone had asked me before if I believed in love at first sight I'd have said never. But … if I weren't in my situation, I'd be staying here tonight and hope to be staying for a long time.'