The Pull of the Moon (19 page)

You’re not scared, are you, Katy?

Leaving the door wide open, I scuttled across the room. It was cold next to the open window and the shiny fabric of the curtains felt like ice. The material had snagged on the outside brickwork,
but it came away easily and there didn’t appear to be any actual damage. I lifted the curtain inside then pulled the window shut. The movement created a sudden draught which made the door
slam so violently that it shook the whole room. It seemed much darker in there now that I was facing away from the window. I stumbled back across the floor with the bang echoing in my ears. I
almost fell over the rolled-up rug and then my bare feet sent the jar which had held the joss sticks skittering across the lino. When I reached the door I rattled at the handle frantically. Why
wouldn’t the bloody thing open?

‘Danny,’ I tried to yell, but a strangled sound came out instead: something between a gurgle and a sob.

In the midst of my panic I remembered that the door opened inwards. I yanked it towards me so violently that it scraped over my big toe, then all but ran across the landing and scrambled into
bed, shivering like a wet dog. I pulled the blankets over me and huddled under them in my dressing gown, welcoming their warmth and weight. I thought I would lie awake and wait for Danny, but
within a few minutes I had fallen asleep.

I must have slept deeply that night, because I didn’t hear Danny come to bed. When I woke next morning he was sleeping soundly beside me, lying perfectly still except for the motion of his
breath. The novelty of sharing a bed had yet to pall, but whereas the sight of him sleeping usually brought a smile to my lips, this morning it was an irritant. He smelled of stale beer and I slid
myself away from him, as if to avoid contamination. He didn’t stir as I climbed out of bed, straightened my dressing gown, then headed downstairs with an armful of dirty laundry.

There was no one in the kitchen, but evidence of the previous night’s jollifications cluttered the table. I hauled the twin tub across the floor, fitted the rubber hose on to the tap and
waited while the machine filled. Simon had said something about an early start, but the kitchen clock was already approaching ten, belying their good intentions. When the machine was full I set the
temperature and bundled the washing in. It wouldn’t hurt it to soak while the water was warming up.

I had just finished when Danny ambled into the room. He had evidently come straight from bed, pausing only to pull on a pair of jeans. His hair was tousled and he looked half asleep.

‘Hey,’ he greeted me with a stifled yawn, approaching for a kiss, then registering surprise when I ducked aside, putting the table between us. ‘What’s wrong?’ he
asked.

‘Your mother, that’s what,’ I said. Now the moment had arrived, I scarcely knew where to begin.

‘My mother? What’s she done to freak you out?’

‘Do you know what she said to me, yesterday afternoon? She told me that she and your dad are very pleased about us getting married.’

To my utter amazement, Danny’s face broke into a grin. ‘Well, that’s nice to know,’ he said.

‘What?’ I exploded.

‘Well, that’s good, right? I mean, imagine how awkward it would be if they didn’t like you.’

‘Danny, this is not some kind of joke. Have you told your parents we’re getting married – without even consulting me? You – you can’t do things like
that.’

‘But baby . . .’ He advanced, still smiling, ready for an embrace.

I dodged again, moving across towards the pantry. If anything his whole demeanour only served to increase my fury. ‘How dare you,’ I spluttered. ‘How dare you just assume
I’ll marry you – and talk to them about it, before talking to me.’

He stopped smiling. ‘Just because you have a problem with your parents, doesn’t mean everyone else does. I’m close to my folks, so I tell them stuff, savvy?’

‘Not stuff about you and me.’ I was yelling now. ‘Not stuff that hasn’t been decided. How can you say we’re getting married? How can you possibly say that when you
haven’t asked me?’

‘I always get what I want.’ He tried to reassert the smile, but it didn’t quite come off. He was annoyed because I was shouting at him.

‘Don’t be so fucking arrogant,’ I yelled.

‘Don’t swear at me, you bitch.’

Simon appeared in the doorway, his face anxious. ‘What gives?’

I folded my arms defensively around my dressing gown: standing half naked in front of Simon would do nothing for my dignity. Inwardly I was reeling. Danny and I had never really quarrelled
before. I had expected understanding and contrition. I hadn’t anticipated that he would bite back.

‘A lovers’ tiff,’ said Danny. ‘It’s nothing. Katy has got herself upset over something. Wrong time of the month, I guess.’

‘I’m going upstairs,’ I snapped.

Danny turned his back, affecting to be busy with something by the sink.

‘Danny, come upstairs, please.’

‘Don’t order me around, okay?’ He tossed the words over his shoulder. ‘I’ll come up when I’m ready.’

I stood in the doorway a moment longer, but neither of them were looking my way so I returned to our room to wait him out. I thought he would have to come upstairs for some clothes and shoes,
but after a while I realized he and Simon must have gone outside to work. The boots they wore in the garden were kept in the back porch, but even so Danny must have put his on without any socks, in
order to avoid coming back upstairs. I hope he gives himself blisters, I thought.

After half an hour or so I was driven downstairs again by hunger. I remembered the strawberries Mrs Ivanisovic had brought the day before and wondered if the others would mind me taking my share
for a late breakfast; but when I looked in the fridge there was no sign of them. Then I spotted the empty punnets, tossed alongside the plastic pedal bin which was overflowing as usual. Trudie
chose this moment to enter via the back door.

‘Where have all the strawberries gone?’ I asked.

‘We ate them last night,’ Trudie said. ‘After you’d gone to bed.’

She didn’t even bother to say sorry.

‘You rotten greedy pigs.’ The words emerged much louder than I had intended.

Simon had appeared behind Trudie. ‘Now what’s wrong?’ he asked.

‘Katy’s got a strop on, because we didn’t save her any strawberries,’ said Trudie.

‘For God’s sake,’ muttered Simon. ‘Here, Trudie, you take the bottle opener and I’ll carry the beer.’

They left me on my own in the kitchen. After a moment I resumed my search for something to eat, eventually resorting to bread and jam: slamming the jam pot and knife down on the table and
deliberately not bothering to clear up after myself. The washing machine had already finished, so once I had swilled the jam from my fingers, I transferred my first lot of washing into the
spin-dryer and started the second lot in the wash tub. Only now did a fresh problem occur to me: I couldn’t go and hang the washing out in my dressing gown, because reaching up to peg things
on the line was absolutely out of the question. Moreover I had burnt my boats – I couldn’t slip into some dirty knickers just for the duration of a trip to the washing line, because
every stitch of clothing I had with me was now in one or other half of the twin tub.

As I hauled the tangle of clothing out of the spin-dryer, unravelling the socks and bras, shaking the worst creases out of the larger items, I was all but crying with frustration. My bikini
bottoms emerged somewhere around the middle of the load. That was it. I would put on my bikini. It didn’t really matter that it was damp – it would only be the same as getting out of
the sea after a swim.

Once outside, I discovered there was a cool breeze which didn’t particularly favour swimwear. The washing line was strung between two metal posts in clear view of the pond, but far enough
away to make conversation impractical. Danny was at work inside the hole, but I deliberately avoided looking in his direction, keeping my back to him while I steadily worked my way through the
basket of damp clothes.

When everything was pegged out I returned to the house. I reckoned the sun combined with the breeze wouldn’t take too long to dry some of the lighter things. In the meantime, I decided to
make myself another snack and a cup of tea to have sitting up in bed, where I could abandon the damp bikini in favour of my dressing gown, while I read
Frenchman’s Creek
. My discussion
with Danny would just have to go on hold until I was in a more favourable position to conduct it on my terms.

I peeled off the bikini as soon as I got upstairs. The dressing-table mirror was flanked by two wooden poles topped with circular finials, and I hung my bikini top and bottoms one from each of
them. I was back in my dressing gown and about to hop into bed, when it came to me that with the laundry mountain gone I could greatly enhance the appearance of our bedroom by effecting one or two
other minor improvements. I collected up the pages of an old Sunday newspaper which Danny and I had discarded sheet by sheet after reading them in bed, balled the whole lot and tossed it on to the
landing, ready to be taken downstairs. Between bites of jam sandwich and sips of tea, I gathered up my hairdryer and various scattered shoes, then tidied the top of the dressing table, which I
dusted with a paper tissue. I was just pausing to survey the results when a footfall on the landing made me jump.

‘Hey there,’ said Danny. He advanced across the room and hugged me, before I could say or do anything. ‘Better now?’ he asked.

I twitched his arms away. ‘What do you mean? Better now?’

‘I mean tantrum over. Ready to make love not war.’ The impish smile, which normally melted me, only contrived to make me feel a whole lot madder.

‘Danny,’ I said, ‘this is not over. You have done something wrong here and you have to acknowledge it.’

‘Come on, Katy.’ He advanced a step forward, as I took a step back. ‘We know how this is going to end. Come to Danny. You know you want to . . . Coming into the garden like
that, flaunting yourself in front of me.’

‘I was not!’ I burned with indignation. I had never flaunted myself in my life.

‘Come off it.’ He took hold of the bikini bottoms between finger and thumb. ‘They aren’t even dry.’

‘I didn’t have anything else to wear,’ I said coldly.

‘You were coming on to me. Trying to get me to follow you upstairs.’

‘I was not. But since you are here, you can start by apologizing for the various things you’ve done – like calling me a bitch this morning – and telling your parents
I’m going to marry you – which incidentally I am not.’

His composure snapped abruptly. ‘What is wrong with you today?’ he yelled. ‘You’re just not making sense, Katy. All you want to do is fight with me. I don’t
understand what’s got into you. I thought you loved me. You’re right. This isn’t over.’ With that he turned and walked out of the room.

I watched him go in silence. As I listened to him descending the stairs I found that I was shaking. In my idealized vision of our rural love nest, I had not troubled to anticipate what might
happen if we had a major row: I was unexpectedly adrift without coordinates to steer by. I heard the sound of his feet along the hallway and the dull thud of the kitchen door. In the silence which
followed I fell on to the unmade bed and wept.

NINETEEN

Danny had scarcely been gone more than a minute before Trudie arrived in the room. She immediately sat next to me on the bed and put her arms around me. She was wearing the
cut-down denims and bikini top of the day before, and she smelled of sunshine and crushed rose petals.

‘He’s made you cry, the bastard,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t cry, darling. He’s not worth it. You’re too good for him, far, far too good.’

She stroked my hair and kissed the top of my head, which was rather more demonstrative than would have been the norm between Cecile and me, but didn’t seem odd coming from Trudie.

‘He told his parents we were getting married,’ I sobbed. ‘I couldn’t believe it. He’s never even asked me. Then when I told him off about it, he called me a
bitch.’

‘Don’t cry over him; he isn’t worth it. You’ll never marry him,’ said Trudie, using the tone of certainty she employed for all her predictions.

I realized that my dressing gown had come adrift at the front; one of Trudie’s hands had wandered inside, comforting and caressing.

‘Tru-die,’ I murmured. ‘My dressing gown . . .’ I got no further. She kissed me full on the lips and I don’t know what surprised me more – the fact that she
had done so, or how much I liked it.

When she drew back, her eyes were full of mischief, like we were engaged in some massive practical joke. Her hands were still inside my dressing gown.

‘Look, Trudie,’ I said. ‘I’m not – I mean – I’m Danny’s girlfriend – and – and you’re Simon’s.’

She actually laughed at this – a warm sound – not mocking, but rather inviting me to join the fun. ‘Simon’s friend,’ she corrected. ‘Not his girlfriend. Simon
doesn’t like girls. Not in that way.’

I gaped at her. My knowledge of homosexuality was restricted to an almost comic-book perception of mincing, effeminate men. There had been rumours, no more, about a bachelor schoolteacher once
– but I hadn’t believed them, vaguely assuming that homosexual men inhabited some other, utterly separate parallel universe. The idea that such a man might have been living right under
my nose was astonishing – and yet, as soon as she said it, I knew instinctively that she was right.

‘Wouldn’t it be convenient if Danny felt the same way Simon did,’ she said. ‘Then you and I . . .’ Her words trailed off as she bent forward to kiss my neck.

‘No,’ I said. ‘You see, I’m not.’

Trudie looked up. ‘Not what? Not a lezzie, do you mean? It’s not an exclusive club, you know,’ she chided, gently. ‘You don’t have to get a certificate or anything
– to say you can join in.’

I thought of the splash patch on her shorts.
Try it, you’ll like it.

Trudie shrugged out of her top in a single movement. Her bare skin was against mine. I let my hands delve into her thick soft hair. It didn’t feel wrong. In some vague sense, it
didn’t seem to count as cheating on Danny – how could you cheat with a girl? My dressing gown had fallen away completely and next thing I knew, Trudie was sliding out of her shorts.
There was something incredibly graceful about the way she removed her clothes – and underneath she was so very beautiful, golden brown all over, except for the pale, delicate areas which
never saw the sun. I made no further protests.