Colouring In (27 page)

Very slowly, cautiously, we offered up little bits of information about each other. I can’t remember in what order, but I learnt that Henry was a widower, had been for ten years, so we had that in common. He’d a married daughter in Canada, and a mongrel dog called Arthur who was a good companion. I guessed we were about the same age. He liked going to films, he said, especially James Bond, and he took his holidays every year in the Lake District, where he enjoyed the walking. For my part I told him a little about my job, and my children. We didn’t speak of the mugging, but discovered we lived only two streets apart.

I eked out the drink he had brought me even more slowly than the first one, terrified of the effect it might have. But, strangely, my head began to clear. I heard myself speaking firmly and fast, his kind eyes upon me, friendly crinkles all round them. Almost two hours must have passed in what I felt was lively conversation. Unable to believe this was happening to me, I was: and how my heart was beating. Eventually I said I must be getting back if I was to get to work on time in the morning. He said he was up at five every morning, and what a pleasure it had been meeting such a brave lady.

I pushed back the table and stood up, feeling fine. But the gin had tricked me. Although my head was clear, my legs were awash with the alcohol. I took a step, stumbled. At once Henry’s strong arm was under mine, and we both laughed. He came to the door with me – there I was, part of a couple in a public place, such a strange and wonderful feeling – and offered to walk me home. But I insisted I’d be all right on my own. The last thing I wanted was for him to think me forward. If you’re sure, he said. We shook hands, and he said let’s have another drink some time. How about Friday?

How about Friday, Gwen Bishop? I asked myself as I walked home, swaying as if a wind was pushing me. I know he was watching me till I turned the corner, but I didn’t look back.

Home – and I have to say I had a little trouble opening the front door – I caught sight of myself in the hall mirror.
Flushed.
But eyes all a-sparkle, I’d say. Funny how such a simple thing, talking to a nice man, can do that to you. Once I’d got my cup of tea, I took paper and pencil and began to work out how many hours there were till Friday evening. Gwen Bishop, I said to myself, don’t get too excited. You’re a mature woman in a late decade of life, not a young girl. But who knows? Maybe this gentle Henry will become a friend.

I sat there watching the three of them. I had the strange feeling I was looking at a play, and yet I was also one of the actors. I was taking part, and yet I was at a distance. Every now and then, in a silent flash, I pictured the next morning up in my studio trying to finish rather a wild and I think rather extraordinary mask of purple ostrich feathers. I looked forward to that. – Apart from the food, I made little contribution, though I joined in the laughter. Bert was being very funny about his ‘affair’ with the old lady in Norfolk: self-depreciation is one of his many
fortes
, not least because he always knows exactly when to stop.

Conversation turned – I don’t know why, or how – to whether parents should encourage children in their obsession with pop music. It was Carlotta who brought it up, which was strange considering she has no children and isn’t much interested in them. At some point she turned on me and said, with a sneer that was possibly meant to be funny, that she supposed I encouraged Sylvie to listen to the Beatles, and old has-beens like Cole Porter and Ruth Etting. – Dan and Bert turned to look at me. I hesitated only for a moment. Then I admitted that’s exactly what I did, and Sylvie loved them.

I can imagine, Carlotta said quietly.

Well I’d never profess to be a middle-aged pop expert like you, I said, furious. As someone who doesn’t know the difference between Brahms and Mozart, I went on, I don’t think you‘ve any reason to be superior about your musical opinions -

Dan interrupted by saying he was going to get the cheese. He got up noisily. I rose too, began to gather the pudding plates. Carlotta was scarlet in the face which matched her dress. I think she’d had a good deal to drink. I don’t know how she’d managed to ruffle me so, and I was annoyed by my response to her sniping. But also I didn’t care. There’s an old tie of deep affection between us, but also a top coat of irritation, some kind of indefinable competition. What was she trying to do? Score off me in front of Bert? Whatever her motive, she’d brilliantly succeeded in spoiling the evening for me. Stacking plates in the machine, my back to the table, I felt strangely tearful. Although Bert had reverted to more ease-making Norfolk stories, I sensed the tension in the room had risen to high tide, as if something was going to break or explode. I wished Carlotta would go away forever.

What on earth was Carlotta up to? She’d been rather sweet for a couple of hours, unusually quiet listening to Bert’s stories and laughing. Then suddenly she launched into all this stuff about children and pop music – not a subject of the remotest interest to her, I wouldn’t have thought – and took a lunge at Isabel. It wasn’t so much what she said, but the sneering way she said it. Her message, I suppose, was that she, Carlotta, was an ultra-contemporary woman in tune with whatever’s going on in ephemeral worlds, while Isabel’s bogged down in nostalgia for the past. I was furious.

Even as she sneered, her scarlet mouth twisting, I remembered how wildly that mouth had kissed me, how sinuous her breasts and hips beneath my hands.

Quickly I got up to try to defuse an almost tangible awkwardness that had sprung among us. Noisily, like a town crier in a pantomime, I announced I was going to get the cheese. The thought occurred that some sort of similar scene in Act Two would be good: motives in disguise.

God how I longed to get going: tomorrow morning. I longed equally for Carlotta to disappear, preferably for years.

Suddenly I couldn’t bear it any longer – Isabel sitting there, so smug in her kitchen, looking from Dan to Bert with that irritating intense concentration that she sometimes rains down on people. She laughed so much at Bert, whose stories weren’t
that
funny – putting one hand on her throat and tossing back her head, in the way that she does. It was as if she was on some superior kind of cloud – happily married woman, quite talented at making masks, lovely house, enough money, blah blah blah: friendly, but so self-contained she doesn’t really need friends. And above all so sure of Dan, so bloody sure.

I suppose I’d had too much to drink – amazing claret with the beef. But suddenly fired up with a huge desire to attack my friend, I launched into some rubbish about pop music, knowing this would annoy Isabel: she doesn’t discourage Sylvie in her tastes, but I know she also bangs on about that dreary old music of years ago that she loves. I’m not sure what I was saying, but I hit a target. It all became extremely nasty. Isabel looked at me, white with anger, and Dan tried to diffuse the whole thing by roaring on about cheese in an idiotic manner that I suppose was meant to be funny.

As he stood moving wedges of Camembert and Dolce Latte about the board, I considered whether I should take my chance, go further: I wanted to shout out loud that Isabel should stop being so bloody smug – would she like to know, I wanted to scream, that Dan and I had stood in that doorway
kissing
, and, had not Sylvie come down, we’d willingly have gone further?

But I didn’t. Something about Isabel, bent over the dishwasher, trusting, vulnerable, constant…I couldn’t. But I might one day. – Bert leant towards me with a look I couldn’t quite read. He held a new bottle of wine over my glass. I nodded. He filled it. I drank.

What the hell got into Carlotta? I’d no idea. Until her outburst everything had gone swimmingly. Everyone happy. Delicious dinner and wine. Then her attack on Isabel. Simply a case of too much to drink? I don’t think so.

Dan stepped in fast, brilliantly, risking his own dignity with some charade about the cheese. Isabel stood up, all the colour vanished from her cheeks, eyes splintered with anger, hurt, various things. I could see a hip bone protruding through her blue silk skirt, the same one she’d been wearing when I followed her upstairs to the studio. She was wearing a white tee-shirt, her small breasts sitting on shadows the shape of two new moons. I wanted to carry her off, take her away from the disagreeable scene – somewhere, anywhere, where I could hold her and kiss her eyes. I loved her so much I had to bend over to ease the physical pain, which I hoped to disguise by pouring more wine for Carlotta who was certainly unwise to accept it.

When Dan and Isabel had returned to the table I knew that the only effective deflection from the trouble Carlotta had caused would be the breaking of my news. So I spread a slice of cheese over an organic oatcake, and said I had plans I wanted the three of them to be the first to hear. I sensed a perking of interest, a slight relaxing of the wires. – I had decided on my new life, I said: it was to be in Norfolk. – Yes, Norfolk. My affection for London had vanished very quickly and I’d no desire ever to work in a city again. I’d bought Rosie’s lovely house on the marsh, and although I would come to London from time to time, that was going to be where I lived. I felt Isabel’s eyes hard upon me in the silence that followed.

On the marsh – have you thought about winters? She spoke quietly, brilliantly conveying this was all news to her.

But what about your London house? Carlotta asked before I could answer Isabel. (I knew that would be her concern) All that effort …

But not for nothing, I assured her. Her wonderful work on it ensured that I’d get an even better price when I sold it, as soon as possible, and she would certainly be due for a percentage.

Carlotta sniffed. I don’t know what she was thinking. She seemed put out, deflated, a touch sad – or maybe she was suffering an attack of post-attack remorse. I repeated several times how grateful to her I was for all her efforts, and how lovely the house was, but she took no comfort from these assurances. She shrugged. Blinked very slowly looking down at her plate. For a moment I thought she might cry.

But her melancholy fled as quickly as it came. She looked up, jaunty, her old teasing self.

I’ll take a bet you don’t last more than a month on some dreary old marsh, she said.

Oh, I think he might, said Isabel. I knew she didn’t want to appear too knowing in her understanding. But of course she understood.

Dan was the practical one. What do you think you’re going to
do
, stuck out there, old thing? he wanted to know. I began to explain my plans – still a little vague – about putting money and expertise into local causes which would be of benefit to the community. Carlotta briefly raised her eyes to the ceiling. Dan looked equally incredulous. Only Isabel gave me a small nod of approval.

Feeling I was being hopelessly bad at describing my new ambitions, I fell silent. Perhaps I’d left my announcement too late in the evening. I’d made a real cock-up, I thought: hadn’t done it well. And what did they think, Dan, Isabel, Carlotta? What did they care? I couldn’t be sure, but I don’t think their reaction was as strong as I’d thought it might have been. Isabel was turned from me, busy making coffee. Dan gave an audible sigh. Carlotta, shoulders hunched, head cupped in her hands, appeared to be in deep thought. But whether it concerned my future, or matters of more interest to her, I had no idea.

Christ, what an evening. Different kind of tears threatened. I hurried over to the kettle. – Bert really going. I thought he might have changed his mind. Can’t quite believe it. Does he know what he’s doing?

The room moved. I could feel a sea-swell beneath us: invisible waves rising and falling. A sense of danger. I couldn’t speak for the constriction in my throat. And there was Dan, eyes down, hands on the edge of the table, fingers playing scales. It’s his warning signal. I knew without doubt he was gearing himself up for some announcement, too. – Perhaps to meliorate Bert’s news. Perhaps to relieve himself of something that that been lurking for a long time. Bert passed me the cheese board, kindly eyes. I paid acute attention to slicing a piece of Camembert, trying to deflect a feeling of faintness.

From a long way off I heard Dan’s voice.

Well, I have a small piece of news, too, he said. And everyone turned to him.

My overriding feeling was that nobody would be much interested in what I had to say. I had to put it to them in a quiet and modest fashion and hope, at least, it would deflect further speculation about Bert’s future in Norfolk. I was sure he’d had enough of gloomy prognostications.

My very small piece of news, I said, is that I’ve ditched the play I’ve been struggling with for so long, and I begin a new one tomorrow morning.

There was an intake of breath from Isabel, but she said nothing. Carlotta turned to me, blinking slowly like an owl in headlights. She, too, said nothing. Bert stirred. I knew I could count on him, at least, for real interest. Tell us more, he said.

I began to explain. It was to be a play about betrayal. Carlotta quickly laughed. Called
Betrayal
, suppose? she said. You’ve been rather beaten to it there, haven’t you?

I turned on her, irritated by her interruption. Not that sort of betrayal, I snapped. Not the full blown kind. – No: what I’m going to try to explore is something far less explicit than full blown adultery – something that scarcely exists. But does exist.

Christ, I thought. I’d only just begun and already I was struggling for words to make myself clear. So foolish of me to have thought I could find them. But it was too late to stop, now

Like what? asked Carlotta. Sarcastic, sneering, challenging, she was. I’d often seen her in this mood after too much to drink. I decided to be patient. And considering the general reaction to my news was hardly elated, I wouldn’t tell them much more. I pushed my chair away from the table, leant one arm over its back. With my free hand I slowly turned the stem of my wine glass

Just suppose, I said, there was a very happily married couple: loving, trusting, been together a good many years, no apparent threats. Then along came – let’s say, a man, and he and the woman recognise a kind of…well, you know, a kind of lightness of being, whatever, between them. They never do much about it. Oh no. They’re not potential adulterers, you see. But they feel something mutually unnerving. – They don’t talk about it, either. Don’t need to. And nothing much happens: a single kiss, perhaps. A touching of hands.