Boys and Girls (52 page)

‘They have a lot in common?'

‘They always did. I didn't know how much … but now I would say – everything. I saw it most clearly just after I had injured one of them, you know, and they bled together. In the hospital … Alan, he leant over. While Black was still asleep. Kissed him. Just once. On the brow. So … tender, it seemed. What they were meant to have in common, of course, was me. Me, yes. That was the, oh God –
idea
. What they now have in common – one of the many things – is still me, in a way … in that now I am no longer there. Funny. To some that might seem funny, I suppose. Maybe my presence was the sole reason, once, that there was always so much, um – sympathy …
empathy, is it? Between them. I was the thing that had to be mutually borne. And then I no longer felt a part.'

‘When did you begin to feel that?'

‘When I ceased to have … control, I think. When they went their own way. Their own
joint
way, I might say. They spent a lot of time in Alan's room. Secret room. I've never been allowed into it. Never really wanted to – never been interested in any of Alan's little escapades. Can't imagine what goes on in there. I suppose … nothing. What goes on in any room? Once, Alan was struggling in with a big box marked ‘cornets'. Cornets, yes. Which struck me as strange. Well I don't know – maybe they have an entire brass band, or something. Wouldn't know. I've never been allowed into it. Never really wanted to. Though I must say I doubt the band idea. Not remotely musical, those two. No coordination, you see. And then there were the jokes …'

‘The … sorry? The jokes?'

‘Mm. All the time. Not there was an Irishman and an Englishman in a bar sort of jokes, not that. But suddenly, one of them would say something that I thought frankly rather silly, rather – childish, yes. Just like little schoolboys. But the other would always be hugely amused. And then reciprocate.'

‘I see. Do you recall an example? A particular instance?'

‘Oh … so many of them, really. Well one I remember … Alan, yes it was Alan. He said that as all the members' clubs in London were only open from Monday to Saturday, why didn't they start one up that would be in business solely on the Sabbath? And call it the Sunday Joint. Yes. Well that seemed to tickle Black terribly. Laughing away. And I just found myself going Oh good
Lord
, Black – what's wrong with you? It's not
that
funny – in fact it's not funny at
all
. It's not, is it, Doctor Atherby? Not funny, is it?'

‘Black, he evidently thought so.'

‘Well yes I know. That's what I mean. And then another time I remember Alan asking him, um – what did he say …? Oh yes – he said: Blackie – he always calls him Blackie, Alan. I don't, but he does. Blackie, he said, what are you doing to save the planet? And Black, he says: I'm not saving the planet, Alan – I don't collect
anything
. Well. That was just
riotous
, seemingly. Laughing away into their whiskies …'

‘Susan. Are you … sad?'

‘I think I must be, don't you? Of course you won't answer that. You people never do. But I suppose I am. Although I don't yet feel it. Maybe it won't come over me. In one way I'm quite – light. Less, well – luggage now.'

‘But you did feel … excluded.'

‘I did, yes. I suppose so, mm. But that's not why I … I mean I didn't go actually
looking
, you know. I didn't seek out another man in order to upset them. Not even for the company. It just … happened. Everyone says that, I expect.'

‘What was your … husband's opinion of that?'

‘I don't know what their opinion was. I've never asked. I've never even properly talked to them about it. I think they still believe it's the boy I went with – you know, Amanda's little shit, the little shit who … And I'm not sure that any longer they even
care
. Well actually, that isn't true.'

‘No?'

‘No. I
am
sure – perfectly sure. They don't care a bit. I don't mean they don't care
about
me – or even
for
me, because I think they do. They're both of them very … kind. Black is more than generous. And, thinking about it … even that isn't right.

Because I was saying, wasn't I, that they don't now care if I'm there or I'm not. But no, not true. The awful thing is … they care very much that I …
mustn't
be. And I just don't think I
deserve
that …'

‘Do you … do you need a tissue? Susan?'

‘No. No thank you. I'm fine. I'm perfectly fine. There are now, after all, other things. Well – I told you, didn't I, about Amanda and everything. It's quite a challenge she has set us. Already though, if I'm not dreaming it … all this, it has, oh – that dread phrase: brought us
together
. It has, though. We two girls. Three soon, I hope: don't want a boy. Then there's the house to see to – redecoration. I enjoy that. Used to, anyway. And the garden. The garden I shall do all on my own, I've decided. So it's not all awful. Not by any means. Unfortunate, though, that the sensualist within me has been so very thoroughly … roused. What to do? Without, I suppose: just do without. Managed it before. Years and years. Strange, though – I ought to have been so utterly sated with it, the sex … but I never really was. Is the oddness here. Feasting daily, and always I was left with a hunger. Why, I suppose – it's the only reason I can think of … well maybe it isn't – why I did go back to him, that one rainy day. Harry, I mean. The long-limbed shit with the eyelashes of a fawn. In that dirty and hateful little garage he worked in, we briefly impacted – I remember only his sheen, and the tang of diesel. Is that awful? Maybe it is. Paid him to keep his mouth shut – and he has done apparently, which I hardly expected. I also repeatedly made him swear to me that he would never again see Amanda and, well … the little lying shit. Didn't know or care what he
thought
of me. Is that awful? Who cares, actually? On the way home, I rehearsed my gentle surprise, a gesture of the hand, when Alan or Black
would remark upon the smear of engine oil along my forearm. Neither of them did. I think I had already entered the realm of the invisible. Never mind that. That was just nothing. But with Herb, you know … it's not even his love that I miss, because in truth he, well – he never gave me any. Had none. What I miss is … having him to love. I love him still, but I don't, you see, any more … have him. As to the future … I can only hope that my heart has chambers yet uncharted. A vain hope, very probably. Yes. And so … after all this … I now have to get a divorce. Two, in a way.'

‘Why do you feel that?'

‘Oh because it's
right
, you see. It's the right thing to do. In the eyes of God. You have to be seen to be together properly, I believe, or else, well – just not at all. I tried to shore it up, my first marriage – didn't I? To enhance it, to make it into something, oh God …
noble
 … and this is where it has led me. I just can't do it again. I am exhausted. I am also excised. You see. And of course I shall have to work again. Eventually. Can't go on just
taking
, can I? Have to get a, you know – job of some sort. The very thing I … well. And that, Doctor Atherby, is where I now stand. I just must confront the truth.'

‘Which is …?'

‘Oh. Simple. It's terribly simple. I was ignorant of everything, really. And now … it's over. All of it. I've just run out. It's terribly simple. They are gone from me. I don't have a single husband to my name. Nor even, now, a married one.'

‘Time's up, Susan …'

‘Yes, Doctor Atherby. I know.'

I'm sweating like a pig, but still I toss another log on to a fire so thoroughly blazing as to be giving off enough heat I'm sure to
effect a smelt. But Blackie, he just loves it – and I have to admit it's a dazzler to look at. Huge and very handsome mantel in the drawing room, don't know if I ever mentioned – original to the house, shouldn't wonder: fluted Corinthian, egg-and-dart, you get the picture. It's been quite a day – I think we're both a bit tired; I said to him – Blackie, you're close to overdoing it, you know. Nonsense, dear boy! Life, it's for the living – yes yes? Well, can't argue with that – but it's me, of course, who's doing all the pushing. He just sits there like some sort of imperial pasha, while I have to negotiate all the ramps and kerbs and things – things you don't even notice if you're not out and about and humping a wheelchair: I don't mind. Rather like it. Blackie, he says I visibly
thrive
on it: there you are, he says – Alan Peacock, and you're actually
strutting
. He once said he thought of us forming a limited company (Lord knows with what intention) – Peacock & Leather, or Leather & Peacock – but he abandoned the idea almost immediately because it sounded, he said, like a purveyor of sexual aids to a bunch of shirtlifters.

Since he's been out of hospital, he insists that every day we go out, if only for a short time – and the weather's just lovely at the moment, so it's really no hardship. Today we went to lunch in a splendid old restaurant – very cosy and panelled, little brass sconces, speckled glass shades … it's a famous restaurant – heard of it, never been there, damned if I can remember the name. Anyway, the food was prime and we were terribly well looked after. He ordered the most wonderful claret – no, don't know what it's called; he's much more into that side of things than I am – he's actually a bit of a connoisseur, on the quiet (and he made me laugh: what sort of water do we want, Alan? Still or troubled? Or shall
we not bother with it? Boring muck anyway). Seems that Blackie used to go there all the time in his publishing days and the head waiter, he made an awful fuss of him. Name of Smales, apparently – amazing I remember that, but Blackie, Christ, he said it often enough: Good man, Smales, he kept on saying, and I could only agree. We talked of this and that: how the police, predictably were absolutely nowhere in terms of apprehending and nailing to the wall and preferably with a rusted riveting gun the band of fucking hoodlums who hurt me so badly and left me in pieces. We are aware, the Inspector I spoke to had said – in that unblinking, atonal and perfectly maddening drone that they're maybe taught at Hendon – of a teenage gang answering to your description who are known to operate in the area. To which, of course, I said the obvious: so pick them up – nail them to the wall, and preferably with a rusted riveting gun. And he said it was not so straightforward as that (although you would, wouldn't you honestly? Think it bloody was) and that the situation was being monitored. Which meant what? They were keeping a tally of all their daily and nightly victims? I would, he said, be kept informed. Which – and here's a surprise – I haven't been. I think they work on the principle that eventually you become bored, fed up with pursuing it all, and then just forget it. And they're right in a way: I am bored, I am fed up with pursuing it all: but Jesus, I'll never forget it.

And we talked of Susan, of course, and Amanda. Turns out she's pregnant – Amanda I mean, thank Christ. Amazing – don't know what to feel; seems only yesterday she was playing with her dollies and Play-Doh and so on. And here's the extraordinary thing – she's quite determined to have it, which completely bloody amazes me: she can barely look
after herself – as I think we have seen – let alone a baby boy (which yes, would be quite nice, I suppose). But
Susan
, I said to her: she's only a little
girl
. Oh yes, Susan explained to me, but she's really changed – her situation, the new tutor: she's come on leaps and bounds. Maybe, maybe – but what about me? I'll become a bloody
Grandad
 …!

‘Yes well,' chortled Black, dabbing his lips with a napkin. ‘Join the, ah … Do you know, Alan – talking of one's children and all the rest of it … club, yes, join the, ah … I had the most extraordinary phone call.'

‘You did? When? I must say these profiteroles are quite sinfully good. How's your crème brûlée? All right? Excellent. What phone call, Blackie?'

‘Yesterday afternoon – forgot to mention it. While you were out, that time. Accidentally bumping into your Jezebel – Helen, is it? In that perfectly frightful old pub you seem to love so very much. Can't understand it. Anyway, yes – didn't even recognise him at first – you know, the voice. Can't remember the last time I spoke to him. And he had the nerve to say to me—'

‘Who, Blackie? Who? I haven't the slightest idea who you—'

‘Oh. Didn't I say? Thought I did. Tim. My son, you know.'

‘Good Lord.'

‘Well quite. And even the phone, you know – I thought it was odd when it rang. You know – my ghastly little mobile thing. Hasn't rung in months. Only had it for work. Bought it under duress – around the time in history when the perfectly unassuming oblique stroke became a forward fucking slash, I ask you. They even wanted me to get one of these, what are they? Pod things, is it, that everyone seems to have stuffed into their ears. Christ – I want music drilled into my skull, I ring up a bank. Good though, was she …? Your little Helen?'

‘As ever, Blackie – as ever. Fell for my charms, and the author in me. So what did he want?'

‘Who …?'

‘Your … Tim … Your …'

‘Oh yes, course. Tim, yes yes. Well they were my very first words: Oh, I said – Tim. Well what do
you
want?'

‘And …?'

‘Well – most extraordinary thing. He'd got wind, don't ask me how, of our, um – situation. Amazing, really. Of course he'd got it all wrong – thought I was cohabiting with a married woman … which of course I was, in a way, short while. But it's so very strange, isn't it? How he would have heard anything at all. The phone call of course had nothing to do with his concern for my welfare, no matter how he tried to couch it. It's
you
I'm thinking of, Dad – kept on saying that. Balls, of course. He was just worried that I'd fritter my fortune on some gold-digging fancy woman and there'd be bugger all for him when eventually I pop off. I didn't actually tell him that it had long been my resolution that there'd be bugger all for him when eventually I pop off. He probably would have wept, or maybe had me assassinated, who knows? And as to frittering my fortune … well it's rather fun, isn't it really? I like a good fritter. They do them here, you know – apple and banana. Very tasty indeed. Bit late though, I thought, for him to be suddenly taking an interest in anything I might be doing. Barely exchanged a word since the day I killed his mother. Suspicions, you see, they're still very much there, but of course he can't prove it. If he could, he'd have the police on to me like a shot, no question about it. I did him a favour, if only he knew it. She only would've knifed us all in our beds. You having coffee, Alan? Armagnac, conceivably …?'