Blue Skies (10 page)

I looked along his bookshelves and took out any interesting-looking books I could see. I carried them into his bedroom and piled them on his bed. I opened his wardrobe door and removed a pair of rich-looking dark leather boots and a thick natural-wool cable-stitched jumper, and put them on the bed with the books. Behind the kitchen door was a canvas hold-all hanging on a hook. I carried it through to the bedroom and put the books, the boots and the jumper into it, adding two bottles of red wine and one of white that were left on the kitchen shelf. Then, thinking such wanton waste of good food wicked, I went back into the kitchen and collected a dozen deserted eggs and some cold cooked sausages in a brown paper bag. I hoped Ben would like the boots and jumper—that they would fit him and that he would be pleased with me for bringing them to him.

I took a last sentimental look around the flat. Wishing to leave it all neat and tidy, I straightened the crumpled bed and plumped up the pillows. My hand closed on the handle of a leather whip—quite a small one, the plaited leather handle not more than six inches long, but the thongs, the regulation nine, much longer. They curled nastily inwards as I whisked them through the air. I wound them neatly round the handle and put the whip into the bag, taking care not to break the eggs. Everything has its uses. I picked up the bag, now unpleasantly heavy, and left.

I walked back through the town to the Museum and Art Gallery, down the main shopping block, through the square with the fountain and up the stone steps to the main entrance. The building was in two parts, the museum on the left, the art collection on the right, the two joined by a large foyer complete with potted plants in large plastic tubs, a cloakroom, toilets and a small shop selling postcards and souvenirs. I left my canvas bag in the cloakroom and turned into the public rooms of the art gallery.

The paintings blazed bright and brazen, along the walls of the ground-floor gallery. I stood looking down the length of the room. They shone forth like windows looking out on landscapes full of rare surrealistic vegetation—rich, glittering acrylic jewels.

I walked to the first picture. A lagoon shimmered: blues, greens, yellows and edges of violet. Lily pads floated on the surface. A tall waterbird picked its way fastidiously across the thickly textured paint solidity. The wavering figure of a pale white girl with straw hair was reflected on the waters, wading into them. My toes curled inside my shoes, feeling sympathetic terror at unknown slimy things wriggling buried in the mud—hidden nastinesses, waiting to be disturbed, waiting to attack that perfectly smooth white body, tearing lumps from it, staining the pretty water crimson.

I escaped to the next picture. And to the next. And so round the room. Each held one of these vulnerable white bodies—a soft centre exposed in its beautiful landscape beneath the flawless blue skies. Like shell-less crabs they were, edging their way cautiously through Eden to destruction—sideways, through one picture and into the next.

I turned to leave, bracing myself to cover that vast yardage of polished wood-block floor. I felt exposed. Something might jump out of its frame and grab me, and I would join those poor soft white slugs in their alien country in the sunshine.

There was a new painting. Large Aboriginal figures stood staring out from a background of native grave-posts and ritual totems. Somewhere, out beyond the tightly knit group and the grave-post barricade, the landscape burned and glowed. In its place, in proportion. There was a message in all this somewhere, but today was not the day to get it. I made it to the door.

I collected my bag from the cloakroom and walked out into the cheerful, never-ending sunshine with a head full of foreboding. I walked into the square with the fountain, sat on one of the wooden seats and ate the cold sausages.

It seemed simplest to go home. I caught the bus, intending to go straight round to collect Angelica, but changed my mind. I had to get rid of the heavy bag first. I got off the bus a stop earlier and walked down the road towards my house.

The street was quiet, and it felt like three o'clock. All the women were down at the beach, except me and my neighbour. I could see her crouching on her lawn staring at one of the bald patches. She looked up as I approached and waved cheerfully.

‘Gooday. Back early, aren't you?'

‘Yes, I am. I didn't feel well. So I came home.'

‘Shame, that. Anything I can do?'

‘No, thanks. I think I'll just go inside and lie down for a bit.' As I said it, I started to feel sick.

‘Yes, you do that. It's the heat getting you down, I expect. Been doing a bit of shopping by the looks of it.' She looked at the bag. ‘Bit hot to be lugging heavy stuff about.'

‘Yes, it is.' Pains were shooting up my arm. I dropped the bag and ran into the house. I just made it to the bathroom to be sick; the shaking and sweating subsided. Maybe it was the sausages. I washed my face and cleaned my teeth and went back outside to pick up the bag. My neighbour was standing guard over it.

‘You poor thing. You do look terrible. Now you just get along in out of this heat. I'll give you a hand in with this bag.'

Feeling too weak to protest, I led her through the squeaking door and into the sitting room. ‘This is really very kind of you. Just leave it in here. It's full of books. I'll put them on the shelves later.'

‘Books, is it? Feels more like a ton of bricks, I must say.'

‘Yes, they are rather heavy. Sorry about that. Well, I think I'd better go and lie down for a bit.'

‘You do that, dear. I'll see myself out. That's if you're sure there's nothing else I can do for you.' She was looking intently round the room. ‘Do a lot of reading, I see. I haven't got the time meself. Always on the go, I can tell you. Well, I'll be seeing you, pet. Just sing out if there's any little thing you need.' She left.

I went into the bedroom and closed the blinds. I lay on the bed in the gloomy heat of the endless afternoon, wondering what time had been used for before my loss of resources, congratulating myself on my withering friendships. The day after next was Thursday. By not looking past that, I started to feel better. I got up and unpacked the bag. The whip was a problem, and I chucked it under the bed. It could stay there for years, slowly buried in drifts of curly white dust; no questions asked. The boots and jumper I left in the bag ready for Thursday. I shoved them down behind a pile of old magazines in the bottom of the wardrobe, in case James saw it and wanted to keep the things for himself. Then I went round to collect Angelica.

I must still have looked ill, for Mother-in-law ushered me in, sat me down with a cup of tea, stood over me and said: ‘You should get out in the fresh air more. It's not good for you to sit in that house all day. Why don't you take Angelica down to the beach in the afternoons? She loves it so, and it would do you both the world of good. You might make friends. They're an awfully nice crowd of girls. It's rather a shame, don't you think, when you have such a beautiful beach so near at hand, not to use it?'

‘I do go to the beach. But I don't like it when it's crowded.'

‘But you really should try to get out and make friends, my dear. Such nice girls. And they all have tiny babies, bless them, so you would have such a lot in common.'

‘Well, perhaps I will. I'll go down one afternoon soon.'

‘That's good, my dear. I only want to see you happy, you know. And James. It worries me to see you brooding by yourself all the time.'

‘I do go out, you know. I've been out today. And I'm going out on Thursday. I do have friends of my own.' I decided not to tell her about Jonathan. I also decided, at that moment, not to give Tuesdays up. I would go up to town anyway.

‘Yes, I know that, my dear.' She sat down opposite me in a large floral-covered armchair. ‘But perhaps it would be better for you to make new friends round here. With girls you have something in common with. Circumstances do change, you know.'

The phone rang, which was most convenient. I felt sick again. When she came back into the room I said that I had to go. She stood on her moody concrete and waved us down the road. We squeaked straight down to the beach in search of fresh air to do me good. A few of the older children were whooping over the sand and playing on the swing. I lifted Angelica and carried her in my arms along the edge of the water. She wove her fingers into my hair and breathed her soft rabbit-breaths into my ear. We stood a long time staring into the waves. The shrieks of the chasing children sounded echoing and empty across the darkening beach. As the darkness deepened, they slunk home in quiet huddles. The narrow strip of depleted scrub and bush grew black—an even, deep black. At the far end of the beach away from the suburb, the bush was thicker and stretched away unbroken, racing away from the houses, gaining strength as the gap widened, building up like a breaking wave, in a thick foaming black line against the darkening sky. I snuggled Angelica's damp warmth against me. As I watched, two tall black shapes peeled away from the wall of blackness. They flitted from the shadows and picked their way over the rocks at the end of the beach down on to the sand. Long slivers of black. Each figure held a long, tapering spear poised at shoulder height. A flashlight clicked on. Murmuring voices drifted on the air. They were local men out fishing for flounder. Each wore long wading boots. Each carried a powerful torch to transfix the flat fish in a circle of light on the sandy shallow sea bottom. They carried spears with which to stick them. They came on in stealth and silence, their lights moving slowly through the shallows towards us. We turned and walked back to the pram. I tucked Angelica in and squeaked off up the road. The house was dark and uninviting. But there was nowhere else to go. We were home. Angelica had gone to sleep and I didn't wake her. She would wake in the night to be fed. No matter. It helped pass the time.

Wednesday drifted by. I mooned, preoccupied about the house, and watched my neighbour through the slats of the blind. She was scattering little grey pellets on the bald bits.

I read the books I had taken from Jonathan's. There was nothing about his disappearance in the daily paper. I supposed it was of little general interest.

In the evening James phoned.

‘How are you, love?'

‘I'm fine thank you, James. How are you?' It was hard to form words after a speechless day. I didn't talk much to Angelica. She would probably grow up deprived.

‘I'm fine too, darling. Tired, of course. Been bloody busy. Sorry not to have phoned before. I didn't get a chance until late last night and then I was scared I'd wake you or something. Listen, darling, I know it's a drag, but it doesn't look as if I'll get home again tonight. We're still flat out finishing off a bit of film we need tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll try to be home at a reasonable hour. All right?'

‘All right. But you know I won't be home till late. It's Thursday tomorrow. Couldn't you come home this evening instead, and work tomorrow? It would be so nice.'

‘I'm sorry, darling, but I've made all my arrangements now. Besides, I told you I've got to have this film ready for tomorrow. Can't you cancel Thursday? I mean, it's only one of many. There's always next week. If you can put it off that long, that is.'

‘I'm sorry, James. They're expecting me, you see. I couldn't let them know in time.'

‘No, I suppose not. Never mind. At least we'll see each other for a bit tomorrow night. And we'll have a lovely weekend, I promise you. We might borrow the car and go for a picnic. I could use a bit of fresh air and a day away from all this carry-on. What do you say? Would you like that?'

‘Yes, James. That will be lovely.'

We played our word games for a little longer, told each other that we loved us, and hung up.

I could safely begin anticipating tomorrow—but not quite. As I sat in the dark on the floor by the phone, a scrambling began at the fly-wire door.