Blue Bedroom and Other Stories (17 page)

“You're going to
marry
her?” asked those same astonished friends. “One thing, marrying a widow. Another, marrying a ready-made family.”

“That's a bonus.”

“Glad you think so, old boy. Ever had anything to do with children?”

“No,” he admitted, “but it's never too late to start.”

*   *   *

Clodagh was thirty-three; Bill was thirty-seven. A confirmed bachelor. That's what he was known as. A handsome, cheerful sort of fellow, good for a game of golf, and a useful player at the local tennis club, but definitely a confirmed bachelor. How would he manage?

He managed by treating the two small girls like grown-ups. They were called Emily and Anna. Emily was eight and Anna was six. Despite his determination not to be intimidated by them, he found their straight stares unnerving. They were both fair, with long hair and blue eyes of startling brightness. These two pairs of eyes watched him incessantly; moved around the room as he moved, showed neither affection nor dislike.

They were very polite. From time to time during his courtship of their mother, he gave them small presents. Tubes of sweets, puzzles, or games to play. Anna, the less complicated child, was pleased by these, opened them at once, and showed her delight in smiles and the occasional hug of appreciation. But Emily was a different kettle of fish. Politely, she would thank him, then disappear with the parcel unwrapped, to deal with her loot in private, and presumably decide, on her own, to give or withhold approval.

Once, he was able to mend Anna's Action Man—she did not play with dolls—and after that there was a certain rapport between them, but any affection that Emily had to show was bestowed only on her pets. She had three. A hideous torn cat, which hunted ferociously and had no conscience about stealing any food he could get his brazen claws into; a smelly old spaniel who could not go for a walk without returning home filthy; and a goldfish. The cat was called Breeky, the dog was called Henry, and the goldfish was called Gilbert. Breeky, Henry, and Gilbert were three of the many good reasons why Bill moved into Clodagh's house. One could not imagine these three demanding creatures being domiciled anywhere else.

Emily and Anna came to the wedding in pink and white dresses with pink satin sashes. Everybody said that they looked angelic, but all through the ceremony, Bill was uncomfortably aware of their cool blue eyes boring holes in the back of his neck. When it was over, they dutifully flung a bit of confetti and ate some wedding cake, and then departed to stay with Clodagh's mother, while Clodagh and Bill went off on their honeymoon.

He took her to Marbella, and the sun-drenched days slipped by, each a little better than the one before, enriched by laughter and shared experiences and starlit nights when, with the windows open wide to the warm velvety darkness, they made love to the sound of the sea whispering on the beach below the hotel.

By the end, though, Clodagh was missing her children. She said a sad goodbye to Marbella, but Bill knew that she was looking forward to getting back. When they drove up the short approach to her house, Emily and Anna were there, waiting for them, with a homemade banner held aloft, proclaiming, in wobbly capitals, that they were
WELCOME HOME.

Welcome home. Now, it was his home. Now, he was not only husband, but father as well. Now, when he drove to the office, he had two small girls in the back of his car, to be unloaded out onto the pavement in front of their school. Now, at weekends he did not play golf, but cut grass and planted out lettuces and mended things. A house without a handyman can slide into disrepair, and this house had had no man in it for nearly three years. There seemed no end to the squeaking hinges, defunct toasters, and balky lawnmowers. Out of doors gates sagged, fences collapsed, and sheds demanded creosote.

As well, there were Emily's animals, which seemed to thrive on emergency and drama. The cat disappeared for three days and was given up for dead, only to reappear with a torn ear and a hideous wound in his side. No sooner had he been wheeled off to the vet than the old dog ate something unspeakable and was sick for four days, lying in his basket and gazing at Bill with red-rimmed, reproachful eyes, as though the whole thing were his fault. Only Gilbert the goldfish remained boringly healthy, swimming around his tank in aimless circles, but even he needed constant care and attention, his tank cleaned, and special food purchased from the pet shop.

Bill coped with all this as best he could, remaining deliberately patient and cheerful. When tantrums blew up and there were quarrels and fights, usually ending with cries of “It's not fair!” and an earthshaking slam of a door, he kept out of the way, leaving the necessary arbitration to Clodagh, terrified of getting involved and saying or doing the wrong thing.

“What was all that about?” he would ask, when Clodagh returned to him, looking exasperated, amused, exhausted, but never cross, and she would try to explain, and then stop explaining, because after about one minute of her explanation he would probably have put his arms around her and started kissing her, and it is almost impossible to explain and be kissed at the same time. He found himself amazed that despite all these domestic ups and downs, the magic they had discovered in Marbella was not lost to them. Things still seemed to get better with each passing day, and he loved his wife to the very extent of his being.

*   *   *

And now it was Sunday morning. Warm sun, warm bed, warm wife. He turned his head and buried his face in her neck, smelled her silky, fragrant hair. As he did this, a warning chord struck. He was being watched. He turned his head back and opened his eyes.

Emily and Anna, in their nightdresses, and with their long straight hair tousled from sleep, sat on the brass rail at the end of the bed, observing him. Eight and six. Was that too young to start sex education at school? He hoped so.

He said, “Hello there.”

Anna said, “We're hungry. We want breakfast.”

“What time is it?”

She spread her hands. “
I
don't know.”

He reached out and found his watch. “Eight o'clock,” he told them.

“We've been awake for ages, and we're starving.”

“Your mother's still asleep. I'll cook you breakfast.”

They did not move. He eased his arm from beneath Clodagh's shoulders and sat up. Their faces showed disapproval of his naked state.

He said, “You go and get your clothes on, and clean your teeth, and by the time you're ready, I'll have breakfast on the table.”

They went, their bare feet pattering on the polished floor. When they were safely out of sight, he climbed out of bed, pulled on a towelling robe, closed the door of the bedroom silently behind him, and went downstairs. In the kitchen, Henry snored in his basket. Bill stirred him awake with a toe, and the old dog yawned, had a good scratch, and finally deigned to climb out of his bed. Bill led him to the back door and opened it onto the garden, and Henry made his way out of doors. As he did this, Breeky appeared from nowhere, looking more like a battered old tiger than ever, and shot past Bill's bare legs into the kitchen. In his mouth was a large, dead mouse, which he laid in the middle of the floor and then settled down to devour.

It was too early in the day for such cannibalism. At risk to life and limb, Bill removed the mouse and dropped it into the trash can under the sink. Breeky was furious and set up such a caterwauling that Bill was forced to calm him with a saucer of milk. Breeky drank this as messily as he could, splashing milk all over the linoleum, and then, when the saucer was emptied, leapt up onto the window seat, closed his eyes to yellow slits, and started to wash himself.

After he had wiped up the milk, Bill put on a kettle, found the frying pan, the bacon and eggs. He put the bread in the toaster and laid the scrubbed pine table. When this was done, the two little girls had still not appeared, so he went back upstairs to dress. As he pulled on an old cotton shirt, he heard them going down to the kitchen, chattering in their high-pitched voices. They sounded happy, but a moment later there floated up to him a wail of despair that chilled his heart.

With his shirt still unbuttoned, he shot out onto the landing. “What is it?”

Another wail. Imagining every sort of horror, he bolted downstairs and into the kitchen. There Emily and Anna stood with their backs to him, staring into the goldfish tank. Anna's eyes brimmed with tears, but Emily seemed too stricken to weep.

“What's happened?”

“It's
Gilbert!
”

He crossed the floor, and over their heads, peered into the tank. At its bottom, on his side, with one round lifeless eye staring upwards, lay the goldfish.

“He's dead,” said Emily.

“How do you know?”

“Because he is.”

He certainly looked dead. “Perhaps he's having a sleep?” Bill suggested, without much hope.

“No. He's dead. He's
dead.
”

With that, the two of them burst into tragic tears. With an arm for each, Bill tried to comfort them. Anna pushed her face into his stomach and wound her arms around his thigh, but Emily stood rigid, sobbing uncontrollably, her skinny arms crossed over her bony chest, as though she were trying to hold herself together.

It was terrible. His first instinct was to free himself and go to the foot of the stairs and yell for help. Clodagh would know what to do …

And then he thought, No. Here was a chance to show his mettle. Here was a chance to break down the barriers; to cope on his own, and earn their respect.

He calmed them down at last. Found a clean tea towel to use as a handkerchief, led them to the window seat, and sat them down, one on either side of him.

“Now,” he said. “Listen.”

“He's dead. Gilbert's dead.”

“Yes, I know he's dead. But when people, or pets, that we're fond of, die, what we do is to bury them decently, give them a beautiful funeral. So why don't the pair of you go into the garden and find a really peaceful spot, where you can dig a nice hole. And I'll see if I can rustle up an old cigar box or something to use as a coffin for Gilbert. And you can make wreaths to put on the top of his grave, and perhaps a little cross.”

The two pairs of blue eyes, watchful as ever, slowly showed some interest. Tears were still wet on their cheeks, but drama and high tragedy had great appeal, and were too attractive to resist.

“When Mrs. Donkins in the village died, her daughter wore a black veil on her hat,” Emily remembered.

“Perhaps your mother can find a black veil for your hat.”

“There's one in the dressing-up box.”

“There you are. You can wear that!”

“What am I going to wear?” Anna wanted to know.

“I'm sure Mummy will find something for you.”

“I want to make the cross.”

“No. I do.”

“But…”

He interrupted quickly. “The first thing to do is decide on a good place. Why don't you both nip off and do that, while I cook you some breakfast. And then after breakfast…”

But they did not listen for more. On the instant, they were up and away, not able to wait. At the back door, Emily stopped.

“We'll need a spade,” she said, in her most businesslike manner.

“You'll find a trowel in the toolshed.”

They sped across the garden, brimming with enthusiasm, all sorrow forgotten in the excitement of a real, grown-up funeral, with black veils on their hats. With mixed feelings, he watched them go. The little scene had left him drained, and ravenously hungry. Grinning wryly to himself, he went back to the stove and began frying up the bacon.

As he did this, there came the sound of soft footsteps on the stair, and the next moment his wife appeared through the door. She wore her nightdress and a loose cotton dressing gown. Her hair was all over her shoulders, her feet bare, her eyes still cloudy with sleep.

“What was all that about?” she asked, through a yawn.

“Hello, my darling. Did we wake you?”

“Was somebody crying?”

“Yes. Emily and Anna. Gilbert is dead.”

“Gilbert? Oh, no. I don't believe it.”

He went to kiss her. “I'm afraid it's true.”

“Oh, poor Emily.” She drew away from his embrace. “He's really dead?”

“See for yourself.”

Clodagh went to the fish tank and peered inside. “But
why?
”

“I don't know. I don't know much about goldfish. Perhaps he ate something that disagreed with him.”

“But he wouldn't just die, like that.”

“You obviously know more about goldfish than I do.”

“When I was Anna's age, I had goldfish of my own. They were called Sambo and Goldy.”

“Original names.”

They fell silent while she observed the lifeless Gilbert. Then she said, thoughtfully, “I remember Goldy once behaving like that. And my father gave him a tot of whisky, and he started swimming around again. Besides, when fish are dead, they float to the top of the water.”

Bill ignored this last observation. “A tot of
whisky?
”

“Have you got any?”

“Yes. I have one precious bottle which I keep for closest friends. I suppose Gilbert qualifies, and if you want you can certainly try a reviver, but it seems rather a waste to pour the stuff over a dead fish. Like casting pearls before swine.”

Clodagh did not reply to this. Instead, she rolled up her sleeve, put her hand into the tank, and touched Gilbert's tail with a gentle finger. Nothing happened. It was hopeless. Bill went back to the pan of sizzling bacon. Perhaps he was being a bit mean about the whisky. He said, “If you want, you can…”

“He's waggled his tail!”

“He has?”

“He's all right. He's swimming … oh look, darling.”

And, indeed, Gilbert was. Had righted himself, shaken out his little golden fins, and was once more on his regular circuit, right as rain.