Boys and Girls (36 page)

‘Harry, isn't it? Is there somewhere we could talk? I am Amanda's mother.'

Harry looked happy, and then rather wary.

‘Is she – all right?'

‘Well that rather depends, you see, upon exactly what you mean. Doesn't it really? Is there? Anywhere? We can talk? Yes?'

Harry looked about him helplessly. There was an ancient 3.4 Jaguar jacked up on to a tilted ramp, and practically eviscerated. Black and sticky parts were laid out on a work-bench. All around was hard and rusted apparatus that Susan was eager to be far away from.

‘Not really … this is where I work.'

‘Yes – I see that. Not an office? Shed? Something?'

‘Not really … I'm due for a break, though. We could go and have a coffee, if you … but she's OK though, is she? Amanda?'

‘That is what I am here to discuss. Will it take you long to – clean yourself? A year, by the look of you. No – let's just do it here then, shall we? I shall be brief. You know of her state. You know she is underage. What are you intending to do about it? And before you answer, you may care to consider what it is
I
intend to do about it.'

Harry's eyebrows were low in concentration. He sat down upon what could have been an anvil.

‘I'm sorry, I …
underage
? I don't know what you mean. She's the same age as I am.'

‘I think not. You are, what? Eighteen? Nineteen? Twenty?'

‘Seventeen. I'm seventeen. Yes.'

‘Oh really? You look more … mature. Well I have to tell you that Amanda is just fifteen. Yes. And, when you first … met
her, rather younger. I don't for one minute believe you didn't know that.'

Harry was standing now, and Susan could have sworn that what she saw, alive and fidgety all over his face, was a genuine consternation.

‘Oh my God – no, you've
got
to believe me. I had no – idea. I'm shocked. I'm, I'm – just amazed. She looks so—! Please – honestly, if I'd known, I never would have … I mean, that's just disgusting, frankly. I'm not like that. I never knew. I'm really, really sorry. Listen, look – I'll never see her again, if that's why you're here. I mean – I don't want to, frankly. Man – I'm not into …
children
. Jesus. And if there's anything I can do to, you know … I don't know. If there's anything I can do, or anything …'

And Susan, she had to admit, was rather thrown by all of this. She had been intending to convey to him her fathomless repulsion – to forbid him to even so much as lay eyes upon Amanda again – and so now the ground beneath her, it had all gone soft and marshy.

‘Well … that is as may be. But still you should have taken the most basic, God –
precautions
, shouldn't you? Harry. Now of course she will have to undergo an abortion, that's understood, but still—!'

‘What? Wait a minute.
What
? You mean she's—!'

‘You mean to tell me you didn't know?'

‘But she can't be. Jesus. We've only done it a couple of times, few times, and – oh Jesus, sorry sorry sorry, I forgot you're her Mum, I didn't mean it to come out like that. Sorry. Sorry. But what I … well I
do
, you see. I do use stuff. Didn't the first time, but that was ages ago.'

Susan felt giddy, and just a little nauseous.

‘Well. Something or someone evidently failed. And you mean she didn't tell you?'

‘Tell me? God no. No. First I've heard of it. Jesus. I just can't believe it. Oh God. Oh
God
 …'

Susan watched the flicker of his dark thick eyelashes as he stared at the ground. His worried face was active with energy and his lean long limbs were twitching. Her voice, when she heard it, was steady and a good deal calmer.

‘There is also the question, Harry, of whom I involve. Your parents? The police? You are, Harry, guilty of –
rape
 …'

His eyes were searching and frantic now as they darted with nerves all over her face. Twice, he nearly spoke.

‘Maybe,' said Susan, ‘we ought to. Go and have that coffee. Shall we?'

And yes – we did that, it astounds me to remember. Not at all the scenario I had envisioned during my endless and spitting, furious journey over to the garage, agitated fingers banging on the steering wheel, determined upon blood and at the very least the cruellest sort of vengeance. And in that awful coffee place, I became convinced of his sincerity. And his pitiable uselessness, cluelessness, his general and inept confusion, I found so very familiar. Are such people – men – really up to it, one has sometimes to ask oneself. The shouldering of blame. Assuming responsibility. They're not, are they? They are boys, you see – that's all. It is beyond their capabilities.

Yes, well – that was then. But by the time I had driven home – swung the car into the drive, left it just anywhere – anger and sickness were back within me: he was a shit, just a shit, nothing but the most ridiculous and impudent little shit – of course he was a shit. No more than a careless invader, no matter how charming his smile or demeanour – and now
Amanda was spoiled, and it is I, of course it is I, who must now press forward for a resolution.

‘And so, Amanda. No please – don't argue: just listen. There is no
debate
. I shall tomorrow make an appointment, This – situation of yours will have to be terminated. No discussion.'

‘But listen! Listen! There
isn't
a situation. There isn't – there isn't. I'm
not
, I tell you …!'

‘Enough. You are becoming hysterical. We will both now go downstairs and attempt to have a civilised dinner – over which poor Black and Alan have been slaving, little dears. Not a word to either of them, please. I shall take care of this alone. Oh yes – one more thing, Amanda.'

‘
God
 …!'

‘Harry. Name ring a bell? Yes. He asked me to tell you that he never wants to see you again. Never. I said I would. All right? Plain enough for you?'

Amanda's eyes were immediately blazing, and glassy then as she blinked at the pain. She wanted to rush her, attack her mother, tear at her eyes, or else just be welcomed into her arms, to be stroked and cooed at throughout the coming hours of sobbing. Instead she just stood there, her face quite taut and jerking in the terrible effort to look, at least, cool.

‘I don't
believe
you …!'

‘No. Well. I think you do. Now come along. Dinner.'

Amanda nearly spat and nearly wept and then just clumsily scooped up her jacket and bag and rushed out of the room. Susan smiled in a lemony way and quietly followed her down the stairs. She had not yet reached the hall when the thunder of the front door slamming caused the house to tremble in the aftershock.

‘Bloody hell,' said Alan, walking quite quickly and wiping his hands on a cloth. ‘Thought it was World War Three.'

‘One less for dinner, I think,' said Susan calmly. ‘Smells divine.'

Alan fell into a low and courtly bow, flapping the tea towel as if it were a coloured silk.

‘A humble thing, but our own. What's wrong with her? Isn't she hungry? Where's she gone?'

Susan touched his cheek.

‘Don't know, don't know and don't know. Is it nearly ready? I'm hungry anyway. Have you both been working so terribly hard, you poor little drones?'

‘When you are naturals, as Blackie and I have surely become, the art of cooking is surely just that: an art. It is not work – just the instinctive and inspirational fusion of variables, sprinkled by the dust of creative genius.'

‘Fool. And I am not so sure one can
become
a natural, but never mind. So what is the result of the labours? No, not labours:
inspirations
of two such Renaissance gentlemen? Food, surely, fit for the gods?'

‘Mm, well – fit for us, anyway. It's only pasta and meat – few vegetables. Sauce should be good, though. Been licking the spoon for ages.'

‘More than one wished to know. I'm glad it's you who does the sauce, else it'd be covered in all of Black's fag ash. Well let's eat, God's sake. Starving. So you don't use recipes any more? Just wing it?'

‘Oh Christ no. Follow them religiously. Swill, otherwise. But seriously, Susan – about Amanda. What's going on? What were you two screaming about? Is she OK?'

‘She is what she is, Alan. Leave it at that. Now – enough. Why don't you just say to me those three little words? The words that every woman longs to hear …'

‘Uh-huh. And they might be …? Not, I am presuming, the obvious?'

Susan giggled, and kissed the very tip of his nose.

‘Dinner. Is. Served.'

Alan smirked, offered her the crook of his elbow, and armin-arm they swaggered away, and really quite chummily.

‘One thing that pleases me about you, Alan …'

‘Mm, well – there had to be
one
, I suppose …'

‘… is that you don't pretend to be mad any more.'

‘No. Well I ceased to consult the doctor who professes to help the mad ones – has to be a cure in itself, really.'

‘But it's not that, is it?'

‘No. Not really. I suppose, Susan – and I shouldn't really be saying it, should I? Tempting, what is it …? That thing? Providence. But at the moment – currently, the way we are now … I just don't find anything maddening.'

Susan tugged at him and looked quite earnest.

‘And nor the need to put up defences? Whitewash? Smokescreens?'

‘Could be. Could be. And you no longer seem compelled to call me your sugar or your sweet. Always was your very
sourest
thing …'

Susan nodded her satisfaction.

‘I know. But you though, Alan – it's a bit like Black, but in a different way. I mean – well
you
know: how he doesn't do all those ludicrous things to himself any more. All the – hair and shoes and, well … I don't suppose you ever saw his underwear, did you?'

‘No, Susan. We're just good friends.'

‘And he takes far fewer pills, you know. Mostly he just forgets, it's true – but it doesn't appear to be doing him harm.

He's … well, it's like you said just a minute ago, I suppose. He's a natural now.'

Alan could only smile. It was true, of course, all that Susan was saying. Blackie, he did – he looked and behaved quite differently. What Susan maybe wasn't aware of, though, was all the sweat and horror, the fear and irresolution, the long and rocky road that had led him, poor bugger, to this new-found nirvana. Because yes, dear Susan – I may not be a first-hand party to all of the mysteries of dear Blackie's underpinnings, but I do
know
about them, oh yes I do, and plenty else besides. Because who do you think he talks to? Not you, my dear – no, not you. We both of us, Blackie and I, exchange with you every manner of pleasantry, tidbits and all the day-to-day nonsenses, of course we do, we do – but when it comes to actually
talking
, well … that we do with one another. In private. As consenting adults. It started – properly started, I mean, because we've always had an understanding, rapport, a good deal of substance in common – but I suppose the epiphany, the defining moment when we became to one another true and trusting confidants was the very day following your romantic betrothal. That time of sweet memory. Because I had ages before divined that that evening, at truly the end of the day, his first and blissful night of marital warmth and harmony … well, the very thought of it had him practically deranged – though not I fear, dear Susan, in the way of a lusty young buck driven so close to the edge by the fevered agonies of anticipation, a just barely reined-in and salty libido. Well no, be realistic – this is Blackie now who is under discussion, let us not forget. His tensions were all of a different kind, that much at least I was aware of, and the very next day, well – he told me all about it. How it had
gone. All the, as it were, ins and outs. Would this shock you? I wonder if it would. When you conjured it up, this ménage, this extended union – when I not so much agreed to it (for I wasn't, was I, asked?) as, well … succumbed to its apparent inevitability – did you know how things would turn? Or have you been as frankly amazed as the rest of us? How far down the route into the future did your scheme and imagination lead you? Were we all from the start to be co-dependent? I suppose so – or else why not a coming and going between two quite separate households? But to what degree, though? Equals? Not possible, is it? In any family, really, and certainly not in this one. You, of course, were to be the common (sorry) denominator – a phrase with which you would surely have a bone to pick – but were Blackie and I intended to exist within our own and quite distinct vacuums, intercommunicating only during the moments when the common (sorry) wife was shared and sharing? Is, in short, what has come about no more or less than a happy accident? An agreeable fluke? Or are you really so terribly brilliant, Susan – your insight into nature and personality as keen as a twinkling scythe – as to have not just foreseen the development and outcome, but to have selected the ingredients for so rich and surprising a confection with flair and the surest touch, the hand of an impresario? I will never know the answers to this welter of questions, and not just solely for the reason that they will never be posed. The only idea I could ever have is by watching, judging your unguarded reaction, if ever I let you know (and I won't, not ever) that the morning after the night before, Blackie had told me all about it. Would it shock you? I wonder if it would. Or, if not by the fact of his telling me, then maybe in the face of the detail and selectiveness of his frank recollection, the
very depth of that initial and unadorned dread. You might wonder too whether I minded – his telling me, my hearing it: how I was feeling about the whole thing. And as he spoke, I wondered it too – quite what shape I was going to be in, once he was over and done with it. And nor was I alone: he, I could tell, was wondering also – how now maybe the two of us might stand, following this … by turns, you know, really impassioned and pathetic outpouring, this literal confession clearly quite vital to him. It was only later, much later, that we both could honestly reflect upon the incipient humour, shy at first, and then coursing through the narrative like a wheezy and more or less preposterous rheum.