This Is All (58 page)

Edward, walking in front of me, clutched at himself, as if suddenly afflicted with a cramp in the stomach. Mr Client, splashing along behind me, let out a hearty guffaw.

‘What,’ I continued, ‘can the occasion be? Is there a festival of some kind and we are missing the fun?’

‘If there is,’ boomed out Mr Client, and he did possess what is sometimes called a stentorian voice, otherwise known as a loud mouth, ‘if there is, dear girl, it must be the festival of the golden rivets.’

Very droll!

‘Really?’ said I, flashing him a wide-eyed rearward glance and flicking the beam from the light attached to my helmet in his eyes, temporarily mazing him so that he stumbled and almost fell. ‘Really? I’ve never heard of that.’

‘You must allow me,’ he boomed, having recovered his footing, unfortunately without taking a header into the swill, ‘to add to your knowledge of the world by showing you my own golden rivet and demonstrating its use.’

‘How kind you are,’ I said, with coy innocence.

‘It would be my pleasure, I assure you, sweetheart.’

‘But I think,’ I added in dulcet tones, ‘that Edward said we must get back home as soon as we’ve finished the survey. What a pity!’

‘Another time, sweetie. Any time, in fact.’

And he patted me on the bum.

You turd! I thought. You should be extinct. You should be flushed down the pan with the other stinking detritus.

‘So it was in the sewer that you took a fancy to me as well?’ I said to Edward.

‘Not in the sewer, no. And not
as well
, if you mean the way the client fancied you.’

‘Where, then, and how?’

‘On the way home. We stopped at the view point. Remember?’

‘I remember.’

‘We’d had a rotten time. You were in a foul mood, saying nothing.’

‘I’d hated it. Not the sewer, which was bad enough, but
that man
. And I wasn’t pleased with you for using me like that.’

‘We needed a breather to clear the stench from our noses. As soon as we stopped you got out of the car and walked up the road.’

‘I wanted to get away from you. Wanted to be on my own.’

‘I know. I knew. There was a gate into the field.’

‘I climbed onto it and sat on the top bar.’

‘You tucked your feet under the bar below to stop yourself falling off. I remember that very clearly, your feet in their blue shoes tucked under the bar.’

‘It was a gorgeous view and a lovely evening. Mist filled the bottom of the valley.’

‘Cold. A frost.’

‘I liked that. I felt the cold was scouring me clean inside
and out. I’d had a headache when I got out of the car. It cleared up in a few minutes.’

‘And that was when it happened.’

‘Why then?’

‘You’d been so terrific, so unfazed by the sewer, so stalwart. You’d never flinched.’

‘The rats?’

‘Everybody flinches at the rats the first time.
Apart from the rats
, you took it all—’

‘Like a man!’

‘That’s
not
what I was going to say.’

‘But it’s what you meant.’

‘Have it your own way. I just mean you were terrific.’

‘Especially with
that man
.’

‘Especially with him, yes. And I admired you for it and was so grateful and did start to feel guilty.’

‘Good. I’m glad to hear it.’

‘When we stopped I was going to thank you for what you’d done and tell you how much I admired the way you’d handled yourself, and kept your cool with the client, and been so – well – so mature.’

‘For one so young.’

‘Yes, okay, for one so young. But you were out of the car and off up the road before I could open my mouth. And then you climbed onto the gate and sat there, gazing at the view, and there was just something about the look of you, the shape of you, the posture of your body, the set of your head, the way you spread your arms to hold onto the gate, and your feet in the blue shoes tucked under the bar that – well – just made me want you.’

‘But not like
that man
wanted me.’

‘No, not like that, not for raw sex.’

‘What then? I want to know
precisely
.’

‘Hard to explain. Something –
tender
. Wanting you because of what you’d been that day. What you were in yourself. What
you
are
. It came over me suddenly, at that moment as I watched you. Just swept over me. Wanting you. You know what I mean? Has it ever happened to you?’

It had, I knew. With Will. I knew that moment when you look at someone and whatever you’ve thought or felt about them before suddenly comes together, as if magnetised, into one combined overwhelming sensation. As Edward told me about the moment when he ‘saw’ me and wanted me, I remembered the moment I ‘saw’ Will the day we practised the Schumann Romance and the sun shone through the window and spotlighted him playing his oboe, totally absorbed in the music, and I was overwhelmed and wanted him not just for sex but for himself, because of what he was. A moment I treasured and remembered vividly (still treasure and remember vividly). I didn’t think of it then but think of it now as the moment when you see into someone’s soul and recognise what they are and what they mean to you.

But I didn’t say this to Edward. I didn’t want to bring Will into the conversation. He meant too much to me and the thought that I’d lost him still hurt too much.

Instead, I said, ‘But you didn’t try anything. Not then.’

‘I couldn’t allow myself to.’

‘Because?’

‘I was married, you were only sixteen—’

‘Seventeen. Two days before.’

‘And I was thirty-nine.’

‘Twenty-two degrees of separation.’

‘Old enough to be your father.’

‘You still are.’

‘I know.’

‘But?’

‘Yes.
But!
’

‘When did the but butt in?’

‘You know the answer to that.’

‘But I want you to tell me.’

‘You’re playing with me, you tease! You want me to rehearse it for your solipsistic pleasure.’

‘Yes. You know how egocentric teenagers are. So go on, indulge me. Or I shall refuse you any more of my feminine favours. Right now,’ I said, getting off the bed and reaching for my clothes.

‘Pax, pax! Come back. I give in.’

‘Go on, then,’ I said, returning.

‘The day after your seventeenth birthday.’

9

Will’s present for my seventeenth birthday was a Nine Men’s Morris board. Remember the ancient game, which he drew on the seat in the arboretum and made us play that day at the beginning of our friendship? He had made the board out of a piece of wood he’d cut from a tree when being taught ‘tree surgery’. The ‘men’ were pegs made from shaved twigs and coloured according to their team: red for one, green for the other. They slotted into holes drilled into the board.

Dad gave me a bottle of expensive scent of the heady kind that draws attention to anyone who wears it along with an expensive box of make-up, both of which I guessed he’d bought at a duty free shop at an airport on one of his foreign trips, and a cheque attached to a picture postcard of Rome, where he’d been recently, on which he’d written, ‘For books or clothes or whatever. I never know what to give you these days.’

Doris gave me two piano scores, the complete Sonatas by Bartók and the Nocturnes by John Field. Her card said, ‘I think you’re ready for these,’ and had a picture of forget-me-nots on it.

What Julie gave me I’ll tell you later.

Edward sent me a necklace made of white gold, framing lozenges of thinly cut stones in many different subtle colours. It seemed chunky and yet was delicate, primitive and yet elegant. The moment I put it on and every time I wore it I felt – what? – I want to say charmed, but that’s too banal – I mean I felt I was charmed and could cast spells and do magic – no, that’s silly – and yet not silly – I felt sexy in a powerful way – but that’s over-blown – certainly I felt grown up and confident. That’s it, I suppose, the most important thing: it made me feel confident and grown-up. And it came over me then, the first time I put it on, that that was how I always felt when I was with Edward: confident and grown up and, yes, sexy. And I enjoyed the feeling. I wanted to feel like that. He never treated me like a teenager or an inferior or as anything but an equal.

The necklace came with a note which said, ‘Please accept this for your birthday and as a thank-you for your work in the office and especially for your help last Saturday with a denizen of the underworld. (If it isn’t to your taste, I’ll change it for something you prefer.)’

As I took it out of its box and held it up for them to see, Dad and Doris exchanged raised eyebrows.

‘Isn’t that a bit over the top?’ Dad said.

‘Why?’ I said, but I knew what he was insinuating. ‘I think it’s very generous.’

‘Your father means,’ Doris said, oozing patience, ‘it’s a tad personal. An expensive necklace isn’t exactly what you’d expect an employer to give a part-timer who’s only worked for him for a few weeks.’

‘I don’t see why not,’ I said, determined to be contrary. ‘If he wants to. He can afford it. He’s only showing his appreciation. What’s wrong with that?’

‘A
young female
member of staff,’ Dad said.

‘
So?
’ I said, the tetch-quotient and temperature rising between us.

‘It’s not
appropriate
,’ Dad said. ‘I wouldn’t
dream
of giving such a thing to any of my staff, not even to Pat, and she’s worked for me for ten years.’

‘Well,’ said I, riding my high horse now, ‘at least he
thought
about it and didn’t
fob me off
with a
boring
cheque and a couple of
prepacked
items hawked out of a
dump-bin
at a
duty-free shop
on his way through an airport.’

‘
That
,’ said Doris ablaze, ‘is quite enough of
that!
’

‘I haven’t got started yet,’ said I, fuelling the flames. ‘And I don’t see what it’s got to do with you anyway,
Aunty
.’

Dad made for the drinks cupboard.

‘Now you listen to me, young lady,’ Doris said, squaring up. ‘I don’t know what’s come over you lately. We’ve always got on well, you and me. You were always a pleasure to be with. I was proud of you. But you’ve changed. I know you didn’t like your father and me getting married. And I know you’re upset about Will going away to college. But none of that explains the way you’ve been treating us recently. The rude things you’ve said and your arrogant behaviour. I’m fed up of excusing it as teenage growing pains. I’ve had enough with growing pains, thank you. You’re seventeen now, you’ve had an easy life, we do all we can for you, you’ve nothing whatever to complain about. But you’re always criticising, always looking down your nose at us. Not that we see much of you these days. You’re never here. You’re always closeted with your precious Ms Martin. And now you’ve added Edward Malcolm to your clique. So what is it? Aren’t we good enough for you any more? Well, I don’t know about your father, but I’m not going to tolerate another minute of your disgusting behaviour. I’m not going to stand around and listen to you slagging us off, even if it is your birthday. So until you’re ready to behave like a civilised human being I’d rather not hear another word from you. Good night!’

And off she went, slamming the door behind her and stomping up the stairs.

I was mortified. Poleaxed. Lordy, lordy, what on earth was she talking about? Whatever had I done? I’d only defended myself against
insinuations
, against
interference
with my friends, my life. I’d hardly said
anything
rude. Had I?

Now, I don’t blame Doris one bit. She was quite right. But then, I couldn’t see it.

By the time I came to, Dad was sitting at the kitchen table nursing a large scotch.

‘Daddy?’ I said, when I could speak again. I hadn’t called him Daddy for years. ‘Daddy?’

He shrugged and didn’t look at me. But a flicker of a smile widened his mouth before it set in its tight-lipped melancholy bow again.

I sat down opposite him. ‘Dad?’

He drained his glass and said, ‘Doris is right. You’ve been a bit of a pain in the arse lately.’ He turned his empty glass between his fingers. ‘Not quite my old Cordelia.’

‘But I am. I’m your even older Cordelia,’ I said, trying to wheedle by being coy. ‘What have I done? Tell me, Daddy. I’ve done nothing bad, not that I know of, have I?’

He pushed his glass away and stood up and smiled his regretful smile, which from long experience I knew meant he didn’t want to pursue the conversation, and said, ‘Nothing will come of knowing nothing, my love,’ and left the room and slowly and without stomping climbed the stairs and joined Doris in their bedroom.

Do our patterns of behaviour ever change? How early in our lives are they set? If I’m anything to go by, they are set quite early and don’t ever change. New ones are added but the old ones stay very much the same. Perhaps we change as we get old(er) and learn from experience? I’m not old enough yet to know. But for as long as I can remember I’ve reacted in one of two ways when I’m severely ticked off. Either I accept the rebuke, don’t try to excuse myself,
whether I think the criticism is justified or not, go silent, withdraw into myself and sulk for a while until something lifts me back into good spirits again, when I forget about it. Or I fight back, even if I know I’m in the wrong, argue my case quite vehemently, demand chapter and verse, examples and instances of my misdeeds, and then, if it’s obvious that this is an open and shut case and there’s no denying it, I apologise and feel horribly guilty and do something to try to restore myself in the good books of my accuser.

I don’t know what causes me to behave in one way or the other. Perhaps it depends on the person ticking me off – whether I like them or not – and how it’s done – with sympathy or aggression. Perhaps it depends on the state of my hormones. I’m much more vulnerable and apt to give in and withdraw and sulk if it happens a day or two before my period, whereas a day or two after my period I’m much more in the mood to fight back. Perhaps it depends on the weather or what I’ve just eaten or how well I’ve slept or any of a catalogue of possibilities. We often like to think we know why we behave as we do but in my opinion most of the time the reasons are far too tangled and complicated and intricate for anyone to sort out. We can only try to, as I do in my mopes and as I’m doing here, right now, for myself and for you. But we also know we can only fail. There isn’t really anything else to do. Except give ourselves up to ignorance.