Cuckoo (25 page)

She went downstairs again, prowled through all the rooms. She couldn't eat. Books and music were impossible. Crazy schemes darted through her head. She'd rush to the airport and take the next plane to Nassau. But even then, it would be too late. The flight took at least eight hours, and by the time she'd waited for a plane and hung around for Charles at his hotel … She could hardly drag him screaming from the court room. ‘Beg leave, m'Lud, for your honourable witness to fertilize an egg.'

Strange, how remote he felt. Not just on the other side of the Atlantic, but wafer-thin and dwindling on another planet. It was Ned who filled the room, sneaking up between the floorboards or grinning from the frames of the self-important pictures of Charles' ancestors. Ned felt real and solid – the only thing that was. She should never have put him off. Perhaps she ought to phone him and just say something casual and conversational – her headache was better, the rain had stopped.

She picked up the phone and began to dial … put it down again. It wasn't Ned she needed, it was Charles. And anyway, she'd always refused to see Ned in the evenings. She was Frances in the evenings, not Franny, and Frances was composed and self-sufficient. If she couldn't control herself enough to read or work, then at least she'd settle down and do a little cooking. They had an important dinner party later in the month and she could prepare a rum and orange soufflé in advance, and put it in the freezer. She stood at the kitchen table and set herself to grate the peel from seven oranges, a long and fiddly task. A man was talking on the radio in a plump, brandied voice about Balanchine's collaboration with Stravinsky. She tried to concentrate. She squeezed the orange juice and mixed it with a generous sloosh of rum. The long-case clock struck ten, echoed by the high bray of the chiming Delander, and, at the same instant, the spring door of the Victorian cuckoo-clock burst open and his absurdly smug cuckoo-ooo coughed across the hall. Ten cuckoos, ten chimes, ten peals, ten booms, ten …

All the clocks were so bloody obedient; none of them late or slow or out-of-time. How could they be, when they were Charles' property? She flung the pile of carefully grated orange peel into the sink, gulped down the tumblerful of rum and orange juice, and rummaged for the car keys. Sod the soufflé! Damn the rules! She needed air and space and action.

It was a soft summer night. The scent of stocks lassooed her as she walked across the garden to the garage. The grass looked grey and smoky. Tendrils of clematis reached out to touch her face as she edged along the wall. She was gulping air like rum.

The car knew where to go. It turned out of Richmond and along the Kew Road, over the bridge, past the old Brentford market. She hardly noticed the route. She was only out for a drive, a change of scene. She had no plans. If the car wanted to take itself to Acton, well, why not? It was as good a place as any. She cruised along the Vale, turned right, then right again.

The house looked taller and shabbier than she'd remembered it. There were no stocks in the front garden, only dandelions. A grey cat whisked round the side of the house and disappeared. She leaned against the cold stone steps. She'd drive off again in a moment. She was only getting a breath of air. Ned would be out, in any case. Or entertaining a girl, a young kid from Southmead Polytechnic with hair like Magda's. Why shouldn't he? He was young and unattached and bound to have a yes-girl. Frannys spent the whole time saying no.

It wouldn't hurt to knock. If they'd gone to bed, they simply needn't answer. And, if they hadn't, she could always say she was just passing and could she borrow a …

‘I was … er … just passing …'

His legs were bare under the dirty towelling dressing-gown, his hair rumpled and on end. She'd obviously disturbed him with a girl. He'd be furious, embarrassed. She tried to back away.

‘I'm sorry, Ned, I should have phoned. I …'

‘Franny.' His voice was soft like fudge, an off-guard, sleepy voice without its usual banter.

Suddenly, her chin was grazing against his dressing-gown and she was drowning in rough brown towelling.

‘I wondered … if I could borrow a …'

‘Borrow anything, my darling.'

He pushed her down again. Her head was underwater. She clung to him. He was a buoy, a lifeboat. He was rescuing her, dragging her from the waves and setting her down in the cool green shores of his bedroom.

She was quite safe. It was only a continuation of the week. She'd lain beside him almost every day, on picnics and in parks, and nothing had happened. She hadn't let it happen. So it made no difference, really, that they were lying on his bed now, and his dressing-gown had slipped apart, and he was taking off her clothes. She was chilled – that was all – and she needed his hot nakedness to stop her catching cold.

She tried to keep talking, then she needn't think. It was just an ordinary evening, and they were relaxing together, putting their feet up.

‘I was out for a drive, and …'

‘Mmmmmm …' He was kissing the inside of her elbow and down along her forearm.

‘So I thought I'd just drop by and say hello …'

His mouth was wet and open and had moved against hers. She dodged it.

‘You taste of rum, darling. Delicious.'

She tried to fix her attention on the ceiling. ‘I … hope I didn't wake you up.'

‘Hush, my love, don't talk.'

It was so much worse in silence. All the guilts rushed in to fill the empty spaces where the words had been. Yet, it couldn't be entirely wrong. Rathbone had suggested it himself – well almost. Worse still to do it with the milkman and produce a bald, gingery infant, in a strawberry yoghurt carton. At least Ned was literate.

She mustn't enjoy it, that was the key. So long as she regarded it merely as a duty in the larger cause of procreation, a cold, sterile procedure like dilatation or laparotomy, then it couldn't be wicked. She must dispense with the kissing and the cuddling, cut out everything which smacked of pleasure. Ned was still nuzzling her neck. She rolled over on top of him, shut her eyes, put out her hand and groped down.

It felt different from Charles', smaller and more pliable. She tried to slot it in, still not daring to look down. It keeled over and slipped out. She tried again, closing her legs and squeezing. She wanted it to fill and overwhelm her, like Charles' did, to grind her into pieces, so that she couldn't think of Charles, or anything, to whiplash her out of her head, into harbour. But the small soft thing was oozing out again, shrinking away from her. She mustn't let it go. Whatever happened, they must continue with this medical procedure. It was crucial day fourteen.

Ned crawled out from underneath her and stroked a hand along her breasts. ‘I'm sorry, love, don't rush me. Let me kiss you first.'

She hadn't time for kissing. There was an egg more or less bursting to be fertilized, and every demon in hell ready to pounce if she wavered for a moment. Why were men so damned perverse, Charles dallying in Nassau, and Ned dawdling in Acton, still slowing down the pace.

‘Hey, Franny …'

‘What?' She wished he wouldn't talk, or use her name. She didn't want to remember who she was. Even Frannys wouldn't go this far. Safer to be just a body on Mr Rathbone's couch. She closed her eyes again, tried to steer and coax him in.

‘Look, darling, just relax. You seem so tense, on edge, and it's affecting me, as well. There's no rush. Let's just cuddle.'

No rush! How could she relax when she was terrified he'd go completely limp, and her one chance of conceiving would peter out in cosy (barren) cuddles. They were already losing contact. She tensed her muscles and moved her body against him, the way Charles had taught her, circling her thighs and gripping. She could feel Ned stiffen a little, but he was still only a mollusc, compared with the mast that Charles was, and hardly moving at all. They were stranded, becalmed, but they must go on – it would be crazy to stop now. She needed Ned, his kiss of life, life not for her, but for her baby. She rocked backwards and forwards against him, slower, then quicker, using Charles' own tuition to betray him. Ned suddenly gasped and shouted underneath her. There was a shudder, a tin-pot explosion, and, as he slithered out, she felt sperm trickling down between her thighs.

She rolled over, bent her knees up right against her chest. She had to harvest every drop of sperm. Ned was kissing her and kissing her. She turned her face away.

‘I'm sorry, love. I was lousy, but you took me by surprise. I like a bit of preparation first. Anyway, you've been saying no so long, I've begun to see you as a sort of Virgin Mary, and screwing Blessed Virgins puts me off. Give me half an hour and I'll recover.'

She felt rigid with embarrassment. Now she had his sperm safe inside her, the whole thing seemed shameful. How ever could she have got into his bed, a squalid hole with crumpled sheets that had never seen an iron, threadbare blankets, half a cheese roll mouldering on the bedside table, an outboard engine in pieces on the floor, the smell of naked, sweaty male? He was lying half on top of her, his nose jammed against hers. He didn't even seem mortified, just sleepy. She longed to creep away, but Mr Rathbone's instructions precluded it. She had to lie there a full thirty minutes on her back, and by that time, he'd be stiff again. Or fast asleep. He already had his eyes closed and was murmuring silly, sleepy things into her hair. His body felt damp and sticky against her own cool, dry one. She fought a strong temptation to push him off, alarmed by her own anger. She should be grateful, not vindictive. He had saved her, hadn't he, kindled the Clomid, serviced her egg. But she wanted Charles' baby, not a yellow-eyed pygmy who'd be born with an instant grin and a dandelion between its teeth. And, if it had to be Ned's, why couldn't it have been a beautiful encounter, an immaculate conception? Hot-house flowers blooming in a five-star bedroom, romantic music sobbing through a languorous night, not that sordid, five-minute shipwreck which had beached them on a wasteland.

Yet it was she who had made it sordid, by insisting on sperm instead of sensations. She had outlawed all ecstasy by setting up some pleasure-guilt ratio – if the one diminished, so would the other. But it hadn't proved the case. There was a different, harsher ratio – the more torpid it was, the more reprehensible. She couldn't even excuse herself on the grounds that she had been swept away by passion, or overruled by Ned's tempestuous feelings.

She was still surprised at Ned. After Brighton, she had expected something wilder, more akin to the last occasion she'd made love – well, hardly love, that time, the way Charles had forced her head against the floor and then rammed Magda into it. She had loathed his brutishness, yet there was something about it which now attracted her. Ned's passive, flaccid, rudderless performance had made her realize that Charles' thrust and vigour were not simply to be taken for granted as the norm.

Ned was leaning over her, his hair dripping in her eyes. ‘I want you, Franny. I've wanted you ever since I found you in my front garden. Hold me, love. I want to have you properly.'

She couldn't say no. It was his bed, his sperm. She'd woken him up and she could hardly tell him to go back to sleep and forget it ever happened. Yet she didn't want him near her, especially not that part of him coiling damp and soft against her thigh. She'd never thought much about size before. She'd taken Charles as her gauge and her yardstick, and assumed most men more or less matched up. But now she found they didn't, it disturbed her.

Ned grew an inch or two as she used her hands to fondle him. She had to repay him for the sperm. She only hoped he'd come on top of her – Rathbone had made it clear she mustn't move. The egg had the best chance of being fertilized if she lay on her back with her legs drawn up. She drew them up still further, pretending she was excited by his mouth. The mouth moved lower down, rough chin scratching between her breasts, across her belly, and still on down. Suddenly, it had reached her thighs, his reckless tongue dipping and squeezing between them. She closed herself against him. That was not allowed. But, by drawing up her legs, she'd more or less encouraged him. He'd taken it as an open invitation, not just a practical procedure for retaining his sperm. Well, at least she needn't move, just stay on her back and pretend it wasn't happening.

His face had almost disappeared between her legs, his fair hair shading off into her darker, coarser thatch, his nose squashed sideways against her thighs. She mustn't look, or he'd think she was enjoying it. She
was
enjoying it. He was doing exquisite things with his teeth. His tongue felt barbed and dangerous. He was turning her inside out, adding pain to ecstasy, as he teased and nipped with his teeth and grazed his unshaven chin back and forth across her thighs. Part of her held back still, worrying and analysing in the prison of her head – she shouldn't be enjoying it; he'd expect her to do it back; supposing he licked away all his own semen and lessened the chance of conception. No, the sperm were already in her, rushing for the egg like lemmings, all four hundred million of them. She could almost feel them plunging and shoving deeper into her womb, an exhilarating feeling, somehow connected with what Ned was doing deep between her legs. His chameleon tongue changed shape and speed and texture from minute to minute. He was licking secret, shameful places which had nothing to do with sex, cul-de-sacs which had been closed and private all her life. She spread her legs wider. Everything was opening for him, the sensations taking her over. She could feel her own mouth imitating his, her tongue searching for him, restless.

‘Ned,' she shouted. ‘Ned!' Her voice came from somewhere deeper than her mouth.

He let his head move slowly up her belly. His face looked damp and crumpled, and his lips tasted strange when they fumbled against her own. No good recoiling – that was her own taste and smell – one she tried to drown with soap and douches. His tireless mouth was repeating what it had done further down. He had slipped his little finger between her lips, as well as his deft tongue, and there were incredible, tangled sensations she could only submit to. She had moved out of her head and into her mouth. She was no longer Frances, not even Franny, but just an object and an orifice. It was a shattering relief. All her life, sex had been monitored through her consciousness and conscience, obeying rules, observing boundaries, but now it had rebelled. She was suddenly a body – mouth, bowels, belly, arse – messy, sweaty, open.