The Child's Child (2 page)

She was eighty-five. A good age, as they say. No one ever says “a bad age,” but I suppose that would be mine, twenty-eight, or my brother’s, thirty. We were just the age when people tire of sharing flats with two or three others or crippling themselves with a huge mortgage for two or three rooms, but at the time of our grandmother’s death we could see no end to it. We mourned her. We went to the funeral, both of us in black, I because it is chic, Andrew because as a fashion-conscious gay man, he possessed a slender black suit. My mother wore a grey dress and cried all the time, unusual for her in any circumstances. Next day we heard from her solicitors that my grandmother had left her house in Hampstead jointly to my brother and me.

I have been honest about why we wore black, so I may as well keep up the honesty and say we expected something. Verity Stewart—we had always called her Verity—had a son and a daughter to leave her considerable fortune to (and she did leave it to them), but as we were the only grandchildren, I thought we might get a bit each, enough, say, to help with getting on what’s called the property ladder. Instead we got the property itself, a fine big house near the Heath.

Fay, my mother, and her partner, Malcolm, expected us to do the sensible thing, the practical thing: sell it and divide the proceeds. Instead, we did the unwise thing and kept it. Surely a house with four living-rooms, six bedrooms, and three bathrooms (and about three thousand books) was big enough for a man and a woman who had always got on with each other. We failed to take into account that there was only one kitchen, one staircase, and one front door, congratulating each other that neither of us played loud music or was likely to have a party to which the other was not invited. There was one thing we never thought about, though why not I don’t know. We were both young, and if we had
none now, each had had several partners, and one of us, perhaps both, was likely to have a lover living in.

In Andrew’s case that happened quite soon after we moved in.

James Derain is a novelist, his books published by Andrew’s firm, as were Martin Greenwell’s, which is how Andrew knew about Martin’s literary output. They met at a publisher’s party. The occasion can’t have been the anniversary of Oscar Wilde’s birth or, come to that, his death, it was too late for that, but it was something to do with Wilde, a hero of James Derain’s. At that party James told Andrew about Martin Greenwell and a book he’d written but never published that was based on the life of James’s uncle or great-uncle. That party was the start of their friendship. It led to a relationship—and soon, a falling in love, which they celebrated with a trip to Paris for the weekend. They went to look at Wilde’s newly refurbished tomb. It had been restored to Epstein’s original pristine whiteness before its surface was damaged by the lipstick of all the women who came to kiss it over the years. Who would have supposed lipstick could scar marble? Andrew was happy about the lip imprints, saying it almost made up for all the women who spat at Wilde in the street after his downfall.

Andrew and I had made a rough division of the house, the rooms on the left-hand side, upstairs and down, mine, and those on the right, his. That was all very well, I got one bathroom, he got two; I got three bedrooms and Verity’s study, he got my grandfather Christopher’s study and three bedrooms. But we had to share the kitchen, which was enormous, and on my side of the house.

“How many places have you lived in,” Andrew asked, “where you’ve had to share the kitchen with two or three other people?”

I thought about it, tried counting. “Four. It seems different in a place this size.”

“Let’s give it a go. If we can’t stand it, we’ll have another kitchen put in.”

It didn’t much concern me. The house was marvellous to live in—in those first weeks—and like my grandmother I spent most of my time blissfully reading. It was spring and warm and I sat reading out in the garden, comfortable in a cane chair with a stack of books on the table in front of me, all of them fictional accounts of unwanted pregnancies and illegitimate births. Sometimes I raised my eyes to “look upon verdure,” as Jane Austen has it. Only one such birth in her works, only one “natural child,” and that one Harriet Smith, for whom Emma attempts the hopeless task of encouraging a clergyman, and therefore a gentleman, to marry her. Harriet may be the daughter of a gentleman, but somehow her illegitimacy negates that and makes her fit to marry a farmer but no one higher up the social scale.

One book I didn’t look at was
The Child’s Child,
and I wasn’t conscience-stricken, not then, though I did mention it to Andrew, who came out into the garden before going to work. He hadn’t exactly forgotten about the book but seemed to drag it up out of the depths of memory before light dawned.

“It’s been lying in a cupboard for half a century,” he said. “No harm done if it hangs about for a bit longer.”

Something happened that afternoon which was to have great importance in my life, as much as it has had in Andrew’s. I met James Derain.

T
HE FIRST
thing anyone would notice about James was how handsome he was. Not like an actor, because actors aren’t necessarily good-looking the way they once were. Or film stars once were. Andrew had amassed a huge collection of DVDs of thirties and forties films, and the male stars, Clark Gable and Cary Grant and James Stewart and Gregory Peck, were all stunningly handsome and, when amalgamated, looked like James. Or he looked like them. Maybe more like Cary Grant than the others. I’ve heard that Cary Grant wasn’t very bright. If that’s so, the resemblance didn’t extend to his brains, for James was very bright indeed. He was—well,
is
—tall, slim, dark, and seems to have a permanent, perfectly natural tan. His eyes are dark blue; his teeth are like Americans’ teeth and have apparently been looked after by a dentist from Boston. He’s a flawless man with perfect, long-fingered hands and feet, which I saw bare in the garden on a hot day, strong and sinewy but as unblemished as a child’s.

I’ve described him as if I found him attractive and I did, but only as one finds a man in a painting or a photograph desirable. Even if I had leanings that way, I’d have tried to suppress them because he was Andrew’s, and because I know how pointless it is for a woman to have sexual feelings for a gay man. I rather disliked him and I worked on suppressing that too.

I encountered them in the hall. They had just come into the house and Andrew introduced us. James said a cool “Hi” and
walked off ahead of Andrew towards the right, having already been told, I suppose, that the right-hand of the house was Andrew’s and the left-hand side mine.

So I worked on it, telling myself that he might be shy or just awkward with women. He stayed the night but not, as far as I could tell, the next night. I found myself listening for his departure next morning, and when I heard Andrew seeing him off and from the study window saw him walking down the street, I felt relief. This I crushed down, telling myself I shouldn’t judge someone on an isolated meeting, and when he came back after a week or so, I concentrated on feeling how good this was for Andrew, who looked happy the minute James appeared.

He began to be at Dinmont House much more often than he had been at first. That’s normal in a love affair, of course. If it isn’t going to fizzle out, it’s going to grow stronger. I realised I was thinking about it far too much, speculating about it, even watching them together for what signs I could spot that they were thinking of themselves as a couple rather than an
item
—stupid word but expressive of the start of something that might never become a relationship. Was this going to be that? The worst possible outcome, as far as I was concerned, was that they intended to live together. In other words, that James would come and live here. I could have asked Andrew but I told myself that I didn’t want to put ideas into his head. Stupid of me, because who could be made to live with a lover because his sister suggested it?

In the interests of observing signs I invited them in for coffee one Saturday morning. James had been staying here since Thursday evening. We went into my favourite room, Verity’s study. Like the drawing-room (Verity’s name for it) and the unused dining room and several bedrooms, it is full of books. Books on the shelves, books in the cabinets, stuffed in double in places, one row pushed to the back and another two in front of it. James picked up
Adam Bede,
which was lying face-downwards on the table, glanced
at it, turned a few pages, and said he wouldn’t have the patience to read anything like this.

“The way he goes on and on, paragraph after paragraph and page after page. Description and dialect—bores you to tears.”

I said, “He was a woman.” I was shocked because I thought everyone knew that, and James is a published author himself. But shocked at myself too, for speaking so scornfully. I was still trying hard to like him.

“Why call himself George then?”

“Because she was more likely to get published than if she used her own name.”

“Wasn’t that dishonest?”

In spite of the way I spoke, I didn’t want to quarrel with him, so all I said was that that was an original way of looking at it and had they had breakfast? Would they like something to eat?

“No, thanks, Sis.” Andrew had taken up this unusual and old-fashioned usage when we were children. “We’ve both got hangovers. Coffee is fine.”

James stared. “
Sis?
That’s amazing. I’ve never heard anyone say that before.”

I managed a broad smile, but my eyes, I fear, remained cold. Still, I was determined to like him come what may and, once they had gone, return to the novel James Derain, the
novelist,
thought was written by a man. Verity, quoting from somewhere in the Bible, used to tell me not to sit in the seat of the scornful, so I resolved not to be scornful or scathing even in my thoughts. So back to
Adam Bede
(telling myself that James’s mistake was one even an intellectual might make), and it occurred to me as I read that nowhere does George Eliot actually say that seventeen-year-old Hetty Sorrel is going to have a baby. Hetty has been seduced by Arthur Donnithorne, and this we also must assume. All we have been shown happening between them is a kiss. Hints are dropped, a great sorrow weighing on poor Hetty is talked of, but
that she might be pregnant is never mentioned. No doubt James would call this dishonest, but those of us who know anything about Victorian prudery are aware that the author dared not refer directly to the unmarried Hetty’s pregnancy if she wanted her novel to be published or if any publisher dared accept it. We only know of the baby’s existence when Adam is told it is dead and Hetty is on trial for murder.

We are supposed to be in 1799, but George Eliot was writing in the 1850s, and the moral attitude hadn’t changed much if at all. Before I started on
Adam Bede
I had been reading a paper on a school in Cheshire specially started for young mothers aged fifteen or younger to go back to school and take their babies with them to work for their GCSEs. It is a world away from Hetty Sorrel. The concept of disgrace and shame is utterly gone. In George Eliot’s day, unmarried pregnancy and birth was all about disgrace and shame, as it still was halfway through the twentieth century. About punishment and endless retribution also. I start checking on detail in
Adam Bede
once more, and I’m wondering if Hetty even knew she was pregnant, if living on a farm hadn’t taught her that what happened between her and Arthur might have this outcome. But, no, if girls weren’t told how they might get pregnant, would they make any connection between themselves and a cow coupling with a bull in a field?

At least all this had distracted me from Andrew and James. I picked up
Adam Bede
. Only George Eliot could make me—or anyone else, I should think—actually approve of a man such as Adam Bede’s marrying a Methodist woman preacher. We don’t dislike and despise him for it, we certainly don’t cast up our eyes because he’s married this woman who is also the choice of his difficult, old mother. There is even some guilty relief that now he can’t marry poor little Hetty because she has been transported for her crime. I wondered what Trollope would have made of it all. He has at least one illegitimate child in his fiction, but she is
a rich, well-connected woman whose life led to a happy ending. I have moved on now to Fanny Robin in Hardy’s
Far from the Madding Crowd,
another poor girl whose impending “confinement” drives her to some sort of sanctuary in the workhouse; she nearly gets married but goes to the wrong church by mistake. But it is she that Sergeant Troy loves, not Bathsheba Everdene, whom he marries. And a lot of good that love does Fanny when she dies, alone and wretched, in childbirth.

I made a calculation of when the condemnation of “unmarried mothers” ended. Easy to know when it began: the distant past, since for ever, since marriage came into being—marriage that men did their best to avoid and women dreamed of and struggled for. But when did society stop ostracising these girls, even praising them and encouraging them to go back to school with their babies and plan for their futures? The conservative Christian culture of the fifties kept many women from premarital sex, but this changed with the coming of contraception that worked: with the pill. I fix on the mid- to late sixties, much the same time as homosexual activity ceased to be a crime.

My saying this, quite innocently, because we had been talking about the possibility of civil-partnership legislation’s being extended to same-gender couples, led to a row between James and me, that quarrel I was determined to avoid. I didn’t foresee this—why should I? Besides, I was trying to like him, to step down from the seat of the scornful. I had a little fantasy about that, seeing it as a cumbersome armchair that I put up for sale on eBay, nasty old antique that it is. So, having got that out of the way and trying to establish a friendship between him and me, I invited them to dinner. I was quite a good cook in that I dared to make things that are supposed to be culinary challenges, and tonight we had a cheese soufflé followed by a lamb dish with aubergines, vaguely Greek, which I knew Andrew enjoyed. James ate his without comment. They had brought the wine, a bottle of white and
a bottle of red, and I resolved to drink it or drink one glass of it, supermarket plonk that it was. That the wine wasn’t good hadn’t surprised me because that was what they drank all the time. Not for want of cash. James was rich, independent of his book sales. I think he had a wealthy father.