The Doll’s House (23 page)

‘So what went wrong?' he asked.

‘My career. I thought he understood how much it meant to me, but I don't think he really took it in. He thought marriage would change me. He wanted me to have children and settle down at home.'

‘And you wouldn't,' he prompted.

‘No, I wouldn't give everything up and just be a wife. He made children the issue but it was more than that really. He was jealous. He didn't like me being independent.'

‘Maybe you wouldn't have needed the job so much if he'd made you happy.'

‘I don't know,' she said slowly. The brandy was warm inside her, and she felt relaxed. She turned to look at him. ‘I felt the most terrible failure.'

‘You shouldn't have,' Harry Oakham said. ‘He just didn't know how to look after you, Rosa. My wife wanted children, the one I left. I always said no.'

‘Why? Why wouldn't you?'

She had fine eyes, he thought, a clear hazel that changed in the shifting light. He could have taken the glass out of her hand and pulled her into his arms at that same moment. But he wouldn't. He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to know what went on inside.

He knew all about women's bodies and what to do to them, but with her, it wouldn't be enough. He wanted more. Why not open up to her a little? It would be a relief to lift the mask, to let her glimpse the real man for a change.

‘Because I didn't want to leave my kids without a father,' he said quietly. ‘Civil Servant is a pretty broad description. Part of my life involved taking a few risks. I didn't think it was fair. That's why. Not that I could tell Peggy the reason. She wouldn't have understood.'

‘What were you doing?' Rosa kept her voice calm. He was confiding in her. Trusting her.

‘I can't tell you that,' he said. ‘And you wouldn't like me if I did. But it seemed right to me at the time. I shouldn't have got married. Not the second time, anyway.'

There was a long pause; neither of them spoke. She watched him quietly, waiting. He was staring at the fire and he was far away from the room and from her.
He wouldn't talk about her
, the ex-wife's complaint came to her mind.
She was dead, that's all I knew
…
She was too bloody precious to talk about
…

‘Harry?' she spoke softly.

He looked up quickly, ‘Sorry, I was miles away.'

‘I know you were. What was your first wife like?'

‘Beautiful,' he said. ‘And sweet. The sweetest, funniest girl in the world. God knows why she married me.'

He looked at Rosa and she saw a lurking pain in his eyes. It shocked her. He could feel, and feel deeply, even after many years of loss.

‘What happened?' she asked.

‘I lost her,' he said simply. ‘She was a great skier. We were on holiday in Verbier, we'd only been married a little more than a year. There was an accident. She broke her neck. I picked her up and she was dead.' He reached out for his glass and drained it.

‘How terrible,' Rosa murmured. ‘I'm so sorry.' He wasn't looking at Rosa, he was staring at something she couldn't see. ‘Go on,' she said. ‘If it helps.'

‘Nothing helps,' he said. ‘I tried everything, throwing myself into my work – I was the guy that never said no to an assignment, however lousy it was.' He lifted his empty brandy glass. ‘This didn't help either; I tried it for quite a while, but then I stopped. It was the coward's remedy, and Judith would have hated me doing it. Then one day I picked up a girl in a café. She was very pretty, a bit like those blonde dolls that kids used to play with, Barbies weren't they?'

‘I slept with her and it worked. I married her because nothing had been any use with anyone else after Judith died. I was lonely and lost and I hoped …' He shook his head impatiently at his own mistake.

‘The worst thing I could have done. For both of us. I made her miserable, Rosa, and she made a complete jackass out of me with other men. The awful thing is, I didn't care. I didn't give a damn.'

‘And you never got over Judith?' she asked the question quietly.

‘No. I got on with my life, if you can call it that, but you don't forget someone like that. She was a great sport – you know? – loved life, and game for anything. My mother adored her. You couldn't help it, she was that kind of girl. God, we used to laugh about the stupidest things – she loved playing silly jokes …' His voice died on the last words. There was silence; one of the logs crackled and fell apart, sparks soared up the chimney.

‘She was only twenty-four,' he said at last. ‘She hadn't even lived … I brought her home and she was buried in Dedham churchyard with all the other Oakhams. I haven't been near the place since.'

There were tears pricking in Rosa's eyes; he looked at her and saw them. He said softly, ‘Why you funny thing … Don't be upset, please.' He slipped an arm round her and for a moment drew her close to him. ‘You've got a soft heart, Rosa. Don't let it get you into trouble.' He pressed his lips against her cheek. ‘Thanks for listening to me. You're the first person I've been able to talk to about her.'

Then abruptly he got up. ‘Anyway, it all happened a long time ago. I've no business sitting here pouring our old woes on you. We've let the coffee stew and our glasses are empty. That won't do. Let's have some more brandy and talk about something else.' He crossed over and pressed a bell-push by the fireplace. He threw more logs on the fire and poked them into a blaze.

Rosa watched him. She didn't speak. The kiss burned on her cheek. What she was doing seemed cheap and shameful. He'd trusted her with his feelings … and she'd been genuinely moved.

He came and stood looking down at her. ‘I'd like to make love to you,' he said. ‘Will you think about it?'

‘Yes,' Rosa answered. ‘Yes, I will.'

‘Then let's enjoy the rest of our evening. Do you play backgammon?' She shook her head. ‘Then I'll teach you.'

It was growing light when Rosa finally drifted into an uneasy sleep. He hadn't come up to her room. He taught her to play the gambling game and used matchsticks for money. He seemed a different man from the one who had spoken of his dead wife. The mask was back in place; he was teasing and self-assured, emanating the sexual attraction that disturbed her so much. But not as much as his grief.

He hadn't played for sympathy to get her into bed when her emotions were involved. That confirmed her view that he had his own code and stuck by it.

Everything about him was a contradiction. The callous egotist who'd abandoned his wife was the same man who'd spoken so movingly of his dead love. Loneliness and despair, the escape into what he called his ‘work'. Into violence, risk and death. And finding no peace in any of it.

She couldn't sleep and she couldn't get the situation into perspective. Parker described him as a killer by trade. A dangerous maverick without commitment to society. But he'd been motivated by patriotism, nobody denied him that. The orders he carried out came from men like Jim Parker, who was setting the bloodhounds on him now. The Cold War had been fought without any rules on either side. The enemy had been ruthless and pitiless. Men like Harry Oakham had turned their weapons against them. She tossed to and fro, got up, stood by the window to watch the light creeping up from the horizon and turning a delicate tinge of pink. Then back to bed, wooing the sleep that wouldn't come.

I'd like to make love to you. Will you think about it?
She was thinking about it because she wanted it for herself, not to help Parker trap his quarry. And when sleep came, she woke exhausted. There was an envelope on the carpet by her door.

The note said simply, ‘Thank you for last night. If you like oysters I know a place we could go for lunch today. H.'

The phone rang beside her bed. His voice said, ‘Hello, Rosa. Did you get my note?'

‘Yes, I did. I love oysters.'

He laughed. He sounded happy. ‘So do I. I'll meet you outside at twelve. It's a little drive, about fifteen miles. We don't have to hurry.'

Rosa put the receiver down. There was no turning back. She had to find out about Oakham for herself now. In every sense, her life and her future would depend on it.

It was a lovely drive; they idled through the country lanes. He was happy; he hummed ‘Nessun dorma' as he drove. ‘You must be a football fan,' Rosa teased him.

He laughed. ‘The only time in my life I watched football was the World Cup because of that song. Do you like music?'

‘Yes, I love it.'

He grinned mischievously at her. ‘Then I'd better stop. I've been told I'm tone deaf.'

‘I wouldn't disagree,' Rosa smiled at him.

He reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘You were so nice to me last night, I'll forgive you for that crack. Here we are, Orford, and the best oysters in East Anglia.'

He pulled in by the little shop-fronted restaurant, jumped out of the car and helped her out. He came very close for a moment.

‘You look very pretty,' he said. ‘You know what oysters do to people.'

They ate a dozen oysters, sharp and salty, followed by salad and cheese; wine kept coming to the table. Oakham knew the proprietor; they joked about the drop in summer visitors, although the little place was full. Rosa felt physically drawn to him, as if she was on the end of a line, and he was slowly reeling her in. It was profoundly sexually exciting and it frightened her. For the first time in any relationship with a man, she felt she was in his control. And she didn't want to resist. She wanted to submit and let it happen.

He got the bill; they were the last couple in the place. ‘I've had a lot of wine,' Rosa said.

‘We both have,' he answered. ‘Why don't we walk down to the beach? A breath of sea air might clear the head.'

He took hold of her hand as they came out into the street. ‘Down here; it's not far.' The street was cobbled, and she smelt the tang of the sea before they came out on to the shingled beach. A few boats rocked at anchor, and the sun glowed like a child's balloon in a hot sky. They paused for a moment, and Rosa thought, If I don't turn back now, it'll be too late. Oakham didn't speak.

He turned her towards him and looked down at her.

‘Have you really had too much wine?'

‘No,' Rosa answered.

He said, ‘I haven't either.'

He pulled her firmly towards him and began to kiss her face and eyes, the side of her neck, and finally he brushed her mouth, very gently, and then probed between her lips. She put her arms up and clasped him round the neck and the back of his head, and opened her mouth to receive him.

They walked along the beach; he stopped and threw stones into the water, skimming and skipping them along the surface.

‘I could never do that,' Rosa said. ‘My brother used to make them go for miles.'

‘It's easy,' he told her, ‘I'll show you. You take a flat stone, here, this'll do, and you hold it between your thumb and fingers like this …' But she let the stone drop and they were holding each other and kissing again as soon as he touched her. ‘I don't want to go back to the hotel,' Oakham said. They had gone to the car and were driving aimlessly. She touched her lips with a finger. They were bruised from the fierce pressure of his mouth. Her breasts were heavy, her body was pressed against him. Her face burned from the wind that came off the sea.

‘Where can we go?' she asked him.

‘I don't know,' he said. ‘I'd like to take you into a field and make love to you. It's wonderful in the open. Let's just drive till we find somewhere.'

She laid her hand on his thigh. I have no shame, she thought. I'd go into a ditch with him. I'm out of my mind …

‘Don't drive for too long,' she whispered. ‘I don't want to wait.' He laid his hand on hers and pressed it hard against him.

‘I don't either. Let's try up here.' He swung the car up a single-track lane with a dead end sign. They bumped along between high hedgerows and then he saw a gap and he stopped. He turned to her.

He didn't kiss her. He laid both hands on her breasts and held them. ‘You're sure about this, Rosa?'

She gave a little cry of urgency as he pressed harder. ‘Come on then,' he whispered. They stumbled through the gap.

It was a field of golden stubble. ‘You let me do everything,' he said. ‘Just let me do it for you.' He stripped off her clothes and brought her down gently on her back; the corn stalks pricked her skin. She watched him as he shed his own clothes and his shadow fell on her as she held out her arms. It was over very quickly for both of them. There was no foreplay, no subtlety. They exploded together and lay gasping on the rough stubble, with the sun going down and a slight chill touching their bodies.

Rosa opened her eyes. He was lying beside her. He seemed to be asleep. She looked upward at the sky; a few clouds straggled, turning dusky grey as the sun began to slide towards the horizon. She was aching, scratched by the needles of harvested corn. She was so happy she felt like laughing out loud. He had turned his head and was looking at her.

‘Hello, darling,' he said gently.

‘Hello,' she answered.

‘That was the most wonderful thing,' he said.

‘You said it would be,' Rosa murmured. ‘Out in the open.'

‘You'll catch cold,' he whispered to her, and helped her up. He held her close against him. For a moment they didn't speak. ‘I'll dress you,' he said. ‘I don't want you to get cold.'

Then it was Rosa who pulled the shirt over his head, and buttoned it, and paused to kiss his throat at the nape, before she let him go. Holding hands, they went back to the lane and the car.

‘I haven't felt so bloody marvellously happy for years,' he told her.

‘I haven't felt so bloody marvellously happy in my whole life,' she corrected him. He switched the engine on, and they reversed very slowly down the lane, swerving a little from side to side.