Damage (14 page)
A tired air of practised vivacity hung about her. I guessed that it was habit that produced the falsely bright smile, the too-quickly friendly response.
Yes, her journey had been exhausting. But she had something wonderful to look forward to. She answered my queries concerning her flight. Then she turned to Ingrid.
‘Do you like travelling, Ingrid?’
‘No, not a lot.’
‘Wilbur is flying in on Thursday.’ He’d told her all about Martyn and his marvellous family. Patting Anna’s hand, she said, ‘Anna doesn’t write often enough — do you, Anna?’
‘No.’
‘Phone calls are less personal, contrary to what people think. I always reveal myself more in letters. But Anna never reveals herself much anyway. She was always very secretive, weren’t you, dear?’ She patted Anna’s hand again. ‘Do you know, when you and Aston’ (she pronounced the name as though she was in some way unfamiliar with it) ‘were small, you were always secretive.’ Turning to Martyn, ‘You know about Aston, I’m sure, Martyn. You look a little bit like him. Did Anna tell you that?’ It now seemed an innocent remark. Elizabeth gave Martyn a quick nervous smile.
‘Yes, indeed. Anna did mention it.’ Martyn’s voice was full of kindness.
‘When they were small I felt sure that Aston and Anna had formed a little secret society. They had code words, strange signals — all designed to make it very difficult for parents.’ She beamed at Anna. ‘You were very naughty really, weren’t you?’
‘Naughty!’ Martyn laughed. ‘I can’t imagine it.’
‘Oh yes. Very, very naughty. I like to think of those times. Though they lead me to much sadder thoughts.’
I could see there was a vulnerability about her, a sweetness which was still attractive. Two very clever men had married her. Her vivacity, her prettiness, the chic little body must have had the power to dazzle in years gone by. I guessed her face had gone from the prettiness of youth to a faded version of itself years later, without the self-knowledge or wisdom which might have made her beautiful in her maturity. She was, I thought, a not very intelligent woman, who had been wholly out of her depth with her children. I conceived a sudden dislike of Aston, and I did not warm to Elizabeth’s picture of Anna as a child. Perhaps that is her mother’s great strength, I thought — she elicits pity. As she chatted on, happily undermining her daughter, it was Anna sitting quietly beside her who seemed the malevolent one.
‘But this is a marvellous time,’ she continued. ‘I’m so happy for Anna. Now tell me, have you decided on a honeymoon?’
‘We’re going to Paris for a week.’
Her mother looked concerned.
‘Yes. Well, Paris has always been your favourite city. You like it too, Martyn?’
‘Very much. It’s Anna’s idea. I must say I’m looking forward to it. We went there some time ago. It was all rather unfortunate because Anna wasn’t too well. We had to come back early.’
‘Oh dear, oh dear. And Paris holds such happy memories for you, Anna, doesn’t it?’ She looked at Anna, who now betrayed a sullen anger.
‘Mm.’
‘Why?’ asked Ingrid.
‘Anna’s first romance’ (she seemed to select the word carefully) ‘was in Paris. We left Rome after … the tragedy, and spent some time in Paris. Peter had just started his studies, indeed he still lives there. He’s married now … poor boy, it was a hopeless failure. His mother tells me he used often to come to London. He recently sold the little flat he kept here. Have you seen him at all? I think it’s so nice when a friendship remains after the romance is over. Don’t you agree?’ She turned to Ingrid.
‘Mother … please,’ Anna interjected.
‘Oh dear! Am I being indiscreet again? Anna, you look rather angry with me.’
‘No, Mother, not angry.’
‘Martyn, I’m sure you had romances before Anna.’
‘One or two.’
‘All blondes,’ said Sally, who had just arrived. ‘Hundreds of blondes paraded through this very room. My darling brother was a real Don Juan.’
‘But those days are over. I assure you.’ Martyn smiled at Elizabeth. ‘We are very happy.’
‘I can see that! Anna, you’re a very lucky girl. Oh, Anna, now stop being cross with me. Peter’s mother and I keep in touch. It was a perfectly innocent remark.’
‘What does Peter do?’ I asked.
‘After three generations of civil servants, he surprised everyone and became a psychiatrist. He has a very successful practice in Paris. French is his second language, and he says sometimes the discipline of another language reveals the truth more clearly.’ She laughed, then she said, ‘I sound like Wilbur.’
‘Why did he come to London so much?’
‘Work, I suppose. I don’t really know. It’s on my mind because of my last letter from his mother. She mentioned he’d sold his little flat quite suddenly and —’
Anna stood up. With a quiet ‘Excuse me’ she left the room. There was an embarrassed silence.
‘Oh dear! I wish I’d never started this conversation. It’s of no importance whatsoever. Anna’s secrecy never ceases to amaze me.’
‘Maybe it’s a defence,’ said Martyn.
‘A defence against what?’
‘I can’t imagine,’ replied Martyn.
Clever Martyn. Now you see through her too — this lethal mother slowly revealing herself. No wonder Aston and Anna had closed themselves up against her in their own secret world. And after Aston’s death no wonder they all separated — unable to avoid the bloodletting or to cleanse the guilt, to face up to their individual culpability. So silence, separation, and sadness had become a way of life. There were new marriages, new lives, new loves, to take them away, away from everything that went before. Yet they were still trapped — each of them — in the unresolved agonies of long ago.
The evening came to an end, with everyone less happy than when it had begun. As Martyn started the engine, and Anna held the door open for Elizabeth, I walked Anna’s mother down the short path to the iron gate and to the car. ‘What’s Peter’s second name?’ I asked quietly, carefully judging the distance to Martyn and Anna. ‘I have a friend in Paris who has a serious problem.’
‘Calderon. Dr Peter Calderon. He’s in the book. Don’t let Anna know I’ve told you. She’d be incensed. Wilbur sent a writer friend of his to Peter once. He was very helpful.’ We were at the car. We said our goodbyes. ‘Until next Saturday.’
They sped away.
‘Strange woman. She’s a complete contrast to Anna. Isn’t she?’ asked Ingrid.
‘I rather liked her,’ said Sally. ‘She’s more open and chatty than Anna.’
‘Well, that’s putting it mildly,’ said Ingrid. ‘So now we’ve met them all. Mother, father, stepfather — not the stepmother yet. I suppose I’ve got a bigger family now. It certainly doesn’t feel like it. Probably never will. Not with this family anyway.’ She sighed. ‘It will be different with Jonathan. We already know the Robinsons. Do we see another wedding looming on the horizon?’ Ingrid teased Sally.
‘Well, I certainly haven’t been asked yet.’
‘You will be, you will be. And let me tell you now, I want a large white wedding followed by a conventional reception at Hartley. Promise me.’ Ingrid hugged the blushing Sally.
‘I promise, Mum, I promise.’
With thoughts about weddings and children, mothers and fathers, we put the day down. We went our separate ways to our rooms, and to sleep.
‘D
R
P
ETER
C
ALDERON?
’
‘
Oui.
’
‘I’m a friend of Anna Barton’s. I’d like to come and see you.’
‘Why?’
‘I think it would be helpful.’
‘To whom?’
‘To me.’
‘Did Anna tell you to ring me?’
‘No.’
‘What kind of friend are you?’
‘I’m Martyn’s father.’
There was a short silence.
‘Ah yes, Martyn. Anna has told me of her decision to marry.’
The words ‘decision to marry’ seemed awkward and strangely formal.
‘This is clearly not a professional call. I would simply like to say that I wish Anna and Martyn a most happy marriage. I feel we should draw this conversation to an end.’ He paused. ‘I do not go to London any more. Anna rarely visits Paris.’
‘Is Anna a patient of yours?’
‘I don’t have to answer that, but I will. No.’
‘But you understand her in a different way from most people — because of your training.’
‘Not quite. I would say the person who best understands Anna is the man she is going to marry. Your son. I gather he allows her mysteries, her secrets, and perhaps her other loves.’
‘Other loves?’
‘Yes, always.’
There was silence.
‘Anna has never spoken of you to me.’
‘Why should she? I’m just Martyn’s father.’
‘Clearly, you are a most unusual father. But then you also have a most unusual son. And this is a very strange conversation.’ He sighed. ‘Anna provokes strange conversations.’
‘Why didn’t you marry Anna?’
‘Oh, God. Shall I answer that? I could not give her what she needed.’
‘Which is what?’
‘Freedom. Freedom to be bound always to those she loves, to all of those whom she loves. It requires great reserves of character and intelligence, and of course great love, to be able to give her that.’
‘Or perhaps just a refusal to face the truth about her.’
‘Oh, I feel your son has quietly faced many truths about Anna. In fact I’m certain of it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Martyn and I have met.’
‘When?’
‘I will not say more.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me in the beginning?’
‘Who knows where a conversation may end? As ours is doing now, with another mystery, which will, on investigation, reveal yet another concealed truth. No wonder I am fulfilled in my profession. Now goodbye. Good luck to you and to your son. Please do not ring me again.’
Martyn, my brilliant boy, so you got to Peter Calderon before me. And what has all your cleverness, and all your love, brought you? Not all of Anna. I have all of Anna when she comes to me. Perhaps in truth I do not want the rest of her life and time. Why ask for more? Peter asked for more and lost everything. The flat in Welbeck Way had been his, of course. I understood that now.
It should have mattered. It didn’t matter.
I
DO NOT HAVE
an elegant body. I am too powerfully built for grace. I dress with care. I present myself to the world in my dark grey flannel suits, white shirt, and wine tie (I order in bulk), in the guise of an elegant man. I have always dressed in this way. My leisurewear also tends to a tasteful correctness that has been helpful in formalising the distance I like to keep from others. I am not casual, easy, or particularly approachable.
On the day before the wedding, as I too walked towards my new life with Anna (for that was how I saw it), I knew the burden which had weighed so heavily on my heart had now become bearable. I had accepted that my life would continue on a dangerous edge.
At the flat, Anna was waiting for me. A suitcase sat like an ornament on the glass table.
‘I told Martyn I wanted this afternoon and night to myself. I will arrive at the registry office from my secret place. After you leave —I hope you can stay longer than we planned — I shall lie here in this room and dream of all my lives. I am happy. I simply cannot believe it. I am happy. I have never been happy, not since childhood. Now I am. It’s an extraordinary feeling. Have you been happy?’
‘I just don’t know. Perhaps I was. It’s sad, but I really can’t remember.’ I sighed. ‘It seems so unimportant.’
She opened the small suitcase. Carefully she took out a cream dress and a tiny hat. She put them into an empty cupboard.
‘That is for tomorrow,’ she smiled. ‘This afternoon, and this evening, is for you.’
As her dress fell from her, I knew her tribute in the way the dark silken cord passed between her legs, and the way in which its undulating colour wove itself around her breasts. She pointed to a dark bruise and whispered, ‘ “Giving herself a voluntary wound, here in the thigh.” You see, I too can prove my strength and my fidelity.’
I eased her gently to the floor. Leaving my elegant disguise on the sofa I became myself.
I told her dreams in language she alone could understand. A powerful goddess, she whispered yes, yes, through the hours of her imprisonment. In her omnipotence she ruled her enslaved master. I found in her suitcase hand-embroidered ribbon and wound it round and round until she could not see. Then I wanted silence. I found soft cotton nuggets of withdrawal, and once they were in place we moved in a world of absolute silence.
A pulse in her stomach seemed to beat a soundless rhythm on her skin as she lay on the floor. My mouth, in predatory pursuit, pressed down, and with my tongue I tried to catch its butterfly movements. In vain.
My fist kneaded the self-inflicted dark blue bruise on her thigh. Powerless to erase it, I forced its darkness to spread like a stain towards the clotted hair parted by the silken cord between her legs.
As the door gave way to him, for a second I was the only one who saw Martyn. With frantic fingers, I tore the silence from our ears. Anna cried, ‘What is it? What is it?’ I pulled the ribbon from her eyes, and in a second we both could hear him whisper: ‘Impossible. Impossible. Possible.’
Framed in the doorway he seemed to rock forwards and backwards on the narrow landing.
I rose to help him. He raised his arms above his head as if to ward off a terrible blow. Then, like a child moving backwards, robotically, step by step from undreamed-of evil, and gazing at the face that had destroyed him, he fell silently over the banisters to his death on the marble floor below.
The power of my body as I held him in my arms, his neck as awkward as a broken stem, was useless in its strength. Where, where is the softness that could have cradled him? Breasts are needed, and roundness and softness, for the dead bodies of our children, as we hold them to us in the wild truthfulness of our grief. The hardness of my chest gave his face no place to hide. My muscled arms felt obscene and threatening, as they tried to gather and shape the brokenness of his body to me.
