Close Relations (40 page)

She sat in the kitchen, cradling a mug of coffee. Outside, it had started to rain. Her hands shook. Where was her husband now that she needed him?

Finally, she picked up the phone. On the pegboard was pinned up the list of emergency numbers which until now she had never needed to call.

She dialled the number of Beaconsfield Police Station. ‘My daughter hasn't come home. She rode off on her horse – oh, hours ago. This afternoon.' Louise burst into tears. ‘I don't know what's happened to her.'

Jamie had five pounds in his wallet. He stood in the rain in Brixton High Street, waiting for a taxi. Cars sped past, splashing his legs. It was chucking-out time. Gangs of youths sauntered past. They turned to stare at him. Maybe they thought his face was wet from the rain.

His father was somewhere in this city but Jamie had no idea where. How desperate he must be, to want to see his father! Jamie was sobbing now, loud sobs and he didn't care who saw him. He was freezing cold; the rain had soaked through his jacket. He wanted to be home, tucked up in bed. He wanted it so badly he thought he would burst.

Finally, he flagged down a taxi. He told the driver Prudence's address. Aunty Pru would take him in; she would look after him. You could rely on Aunty Pru; she always remembered his birthday, she always stayed the same. Her flat was cosy. As the cab drove towards Clapham he wiped his nose and thought: she'll make me hot chocolate, like she did when I was little and we came back from the pantomime. She'll tuck me up in her sofabed and everything will be all right. He thought: I might even make this into a funny story, omitting the fact that the car was stolen. We can laugh at Trevor and his really sad friends.

The heater warmed his face. For the first time in hours he started to relax. Aunty Pru would understand; she knew what it was like to be lonely.

The taxi stopped in Titchmere Road. Jamie paid the driver; he only just had enough money. The cab sped off into the night.

Jamie rang and rang the bell. There was no reply.

Kaatya was rolling a joint. She did it expertly; Prudence watched her busy fingers. It was 11.30 but they had only just finished supper. Kaatya seemed to have a casual attitude to both the timing and preparation of food; the vegetable risotto had turned into a sort of porridge.

How strange it was to be in Stephen's house! It was like stepping into the most familiar yet strange of dreams, like stepping through the looking-glass. They sat in the kitchen, under bright strip lighting. The room looked like a workshop; half-assembled collages were stacked against the cupboards. Nobody could accuse Kaatya of over-zealous clearing-up for her guests.

Kaatya had dressed up and yet not dressed up at all. She wore a shrunken striped jumper and what looked like a child's pleated skirt. Plastic teddy bears hung from her earlobes. She wore tartan tights on her thin, bony legs; no shoes, just red socks. Prudence found her oddly attractive. Under the bright light there was a pallor to her skin; there were dark smudges under her eyes and her large mouth looked blurred, as if it had been bruised by kissing.

‘I'm glad you came here,' said Kaatya. ‘I know in here –' She pointed to her chest ‘– when I like somebody. I trust my feelings.'

‘I don't.' Prudence laughed. ‘Mine are far too frightening.'

‘You have powerful feelings, I can sense that.' Kaatya licked her Rizla. ‘It's all this English shit. The English, they're so constipated.' She stabbed the joint at Stephen. ‘When I came to England and I meet his friends, they are like schoolboys, schoolboys with grown-up brains, how proud they are of their brains! If they have a feeling, you know what they do? They go to the bookshelves and look up the word in the, the, you know –'

‘Dictionary,' said Stephen.

Kaatya nodded. ‘That thing.'

Stephen said to Prudence. ‘She thinks we're emotional cripples, the walking wounded. Perambulating thesauruses –'

‘You see?' said Kaatya. ‘What's he talking about?'

Stephen was enjoying this. He looked from one woman to the other, urging them on. ‘Go on, Prudence, stick up for me.'

Prudence said: ‘I think words create feelings. Once you have a word for it, you can recognise it and then you can feel it.'

‘Bullshit.' Kaatya lit the joint. ‘So how come you have just one word for love?' She inhaled, deeply, and passed the joint to Prudence. ‘Explain that, please.'

Prudence put the joint between her lips and drew in the smoke. She hadn't done this for twenty years; she had forgotten the sensation. The smoke hit her lungs, for a moment she couldn't breathe. Then she felt her brain shaking loose, like a bunch of flowers released from their rubber band. Maybe Kaatya was right – what use were words, when you thought about it? Maybe she thought too much. Warming to Kaatya, she indicated Stephen. ‘He's not that inhibited. You should have seen him at our office party.' She kicked off her shoes and laughed. ‘Emotional constipation's not the phrase that springs to mind.'

Kaatya said: ‘He was drunk, right? He gets sorry for himself when he's drunk, you find that?'

Prudence nodded. ‘Maudlin's the word.'

‘Maudlin?' snapped Kaatya. ‘There you go again. What's maudlin?'

‘I was unhappy!' said Stephen. ‘I'd just left my wife!'

He was drunk, of course. They all were. He looked flushed and excited by the two women in his life, sitting there opposite him. ‘Nobody understands me,' he said.

‘Don't be maudlin,' said Prudence. ‘Some people would envy you.'

Throughout the evening, Prudence had felt her position shifting. Sometimes she felt like an eavesdropper, listening to Stephen and Kaatya's well-worn complaints. Stimulated by her presence, the two of them re-enacted their old battles. Sometimes she felt that it was Stephen who was the onlooker and that she and Kaatya were confidantes, giggling together.
They're ganging up on me!
her father used to say. Ah, but the voltage tonight! She felt dizzy with it.

Kaatya leaned through the smoke. She touched Prudence's wrist. ‘I'm glad you came here. All this time I've been thinking what do you look like.'

‘Did you?'

With her finger, Kaatya traced the veins in Prudence's wrist. ‘See, we're just flesh and blood. That's all.'

Prudence took another drag of the joint. ‘When I was little, me and my friend Janine said we'd cut ourselves and mingle our blood. She did, but then I copped out.'

‘Copped out?' asked Kaatya.

‘I didn't dare.'

‘Ah, but you dared to come here tonight. What did you want? To see if I was flesh and blood, too?' She took Prudence's finger and laid it on her own wrist. ‘We must know each other and love each other. Only then will we all be happy. We can be like sisters – blood sisters.' She pointed to Stephen. ‘He's the blood between us. In us, here.' She moved Prudence's finger against her vein. ‘It doesn't separate us, you understand? It brings us together.'

‘You've always been there,' said Prudence. ‘All this time, since I've known him, you've been there.'

‘Is that true?' asked Stephen.

They ignored him. ‘I'm a woman, just like you,' said Kaatya. She put Prudence's hand on her breast. ‘See? Just the same.'

‘Steady on, Kaatya!' said Stephen.

Prudence's hand cupped the breast; she felt it through the matted wool of the jumper. She blushed and took her hand away.

‘We have pains each month,' said Kaatya, ‘we have suffered childbirth –'

‘I haven't,' said Prudence.

‘– we know things he knows nothing about.'

Stephen stood up unsteadily. ‘I think we should go. She's getting carried away.'

‘You can't drive,' said Kaatya. ‘Stay here.'

The boys were away for the night. They had the house to themselves.

‘Let's go to bed,' said Kaatya.

‘Kaatya!' Stephen exclaimed.

Prudence's heart hammered.

Kaatya turned to Stephen. ‘You can stay here.' She laughed. ‘Can't he Pru? I can call you that?'

‘My sisters do.' Prudence stood up in a trance. Kaatya's fingers laced through hers; they were thin and strong.

‘We leave him to wash up,' whispered Kaatya, leading Prudence to the door.

‘Wait!' Stephen stubbed out the joint and followed them.

The rain bucketed down. Imogen rode blindly through the darkness. She was soaked to the skin. She felt no sensation except terror; she was no longer even capable of crying.

They were trotting along some lane. No lights through the rain, nothing. She had no idea where Skylark was heading, she had long ago lost her way. Her hands were frozen to the reins; she rose up and down on the sodden saddle, somebody had wound her up like clockwork, soon all life would expire from her but still she would rise and fall, thudding on the wet leather. Images swooped close and fell away . . . her primary school playground in Chelsea, blazing sun . . . the pebbles on the beach at Brighton . . . She was riding up into the sky, through dissolving bands of the past, she was on her rocking-horse, rocking across the heavens in a Chagall painting . . . how bright the suns were, twin suns, how dazzling in the darkness!

The noise grew louder, the lights bloomed. Something huge was approaching from behind. The ground shook. For a second, the lane ahead was lit as brightly as day – a fence either side, the startled faces of cows. Behind, the thing thundered up like a black tidal wave, rising to engulf her . . .

Imogen yanked the reins, pulling her horse into the side. The noise was deafening now, the lights blinding. Skylark reared up. Imogen felt her body loosening from the saddle, in slow motion. Her foot was caught in the stirrup. She slid over Skylark's shoulder.

Skylark reared again, skittering backwards. Imogen was
thrown into the ditch. The Tesco lorry roared past and was swallowed up into the darkness.

Later, when she sobered up, Prudence could scarcely believe what she had done. That night in their bed existed in a separate dimension, as lurid and weightless as a pornographic film. You stepped into the street, into daylight, and behind you the door swung shut, closing away the secrets you had shared with strangers so briefly in the dark.

It was Kaatya's matter-of-factness that took her by surprise. The woman was so earthy, so straightforward. She took off her clothes and climbed into bed.

‘We sleep, we have fun. Whatever you want, you're the guest.'

‘Are you always so hospitable?' asked Prudence. She sat on the bed. ‘Have you done this before?'

‘Kaatya's done everything,' said Stephen, emerging from the bathroom. ‘Not all of them with me.' He was wearing pyjamas. ‘I'm keeping my jim-jams on.' He laughed, but Prudence could tell he was excited. His eyes glittered as he looked from one of them to the other.

He's thinking: timid old Prudence, she won't dare. Prudence smiled at him and unbuttoned her blouse. She thought: even my sisters have never done this. Swiftly she pulled off her tights and skirt and climbed under the duvet. She kept her bra and knickers on.

‘You are cold?' asked Kaatya, plumping up a pillow for her. ‘You want me to make the electric blanket?'

‘I'm fine.'

‘Here – you sleep next to me.' Kaatya moved over, to give her room. ‘In my home village, when I was small, I snuggled like this with my brothers and sisters.'

‘What about me?' Stephen stood beside the bed.

‘You sleep next to Pru. She's your woman now.'

Stephen climbed into bed. It was a king-size bed but it was still a tight fit. Prudence lay sandwiched between them. She
hardly dared breathe. Kaatya switched off the light. They lay there in the darkness.

Kaatya laced her feet around Prudence's. ‘Mmm, your feet are so warm. Stephen's, they were always like ice.'

‘They still are.'

‘All the blood is in his brain, you see,' said Kaatya, ‘busy making new words.'

‘Come on, warm me up then,' said Stephen. His cold foot joined theirs.

‘Ugh, take it away!' yelped Kaatya.

‘Come on, girls, look after me.'

‘We're not girls,' said Kaatya. ‘He still never learns, even with you?'

‘He's been cosseted by women all his life.'

‘Hey, I am here,' said Stephen.

‘Tell me something, Pru,' said Kaatya. ‘His secretary, what was her name –'

‘Monica?'

‘Yes, Monica. She buyed the boys' birthday presents for him?'

Prudence nodded. ‘Once or twice.'

‘You know how I guessed?' said Kaatya. ‘Because they were so good.'

Prudence laughed. Stephen said: ‘Want to start telling each other about my inadequacies in bed?'

‘I'm just talking to my new friend,' said Kaatya. ‘I like women. Oh, I wish they had dicks.'

‘My sister's a lesbian,' said Prudence. ‘She seems to manage all right without them.'

‘I try, several times,' said Kaatya, ‘but it's not the same. Even a dick like his is better than nothing.'

‘Hey!' said Stephen.

‘She's only joking.'

‘Kaatya doesn't know how to make jokes,' he said. ‘They don't teach them in Holland.'

Kaatya kicked him. She missed.

‘Ouch!' cried Prudence.

‘Oh, I'm sorry.' Kaatya stroked Prudence's cheek.

The three of them lay there in silence. The rain flung itself at the window. The school-dorm playfulness vanished as abruptly as it had begun. Prudence felt Kaatya's warm skin, her jutting hip-bone, pressed against her on one side. On the other side she felt Stephen's familiar bulk, but how strange in this bed, in unfamiliar pyjamas! She wondered what he was feeling; she had no idea. Aroused? Disturbed?

Stephen's hand stroked her belly. ‘I'm so sorry for everything,' he murmured. Prudence wondered: who is he speaking to, me or Kaatya? Which of them was the odd one out? He shifted close; his hand moved over, she could feel his arm moving as he stroked Kaatya's belly. ‘I never wanted to hurt either of you,' he said. ‘You're both wonderful women.'