Girl Reading (30 page)

These are good arguments against, but she can refute it entirely with a mere statement of fact: I am not prepared to share. There are
aspects of my life that you may not be a part of; I shall not allow it. And I am not leaving Arnault. Arnault is mine, and there is nowhere I would rather be. This clinches it.

She hums a little to herself. Pinpricks of yellow light are visible in buildings across the fields.

Alec’s hypothesis is flawed, and it took Cynthia only half an hour to prove it. Now she must devise a method of conveying her conclusions.

She has gone past the need for sleep and is feeling adventurous. She could walk through the night, has some money in her pocket for a train or a bus back. Cynthia should get a bicycle. What a good idea, why has she never thought of it before? Yes, she will definitely look into buying one, and this decision makes her sure she will not kill herself tonight. A walk will suffice, to a place that is unfamiliar, but she will definitely come back for breakfast.

Cynthia.

She is being called—she has been followed. She does not reply because it annoys her to have her privacy invaded and he is coming over to her anyway, clasping her body through her clothes, is kissing her.

Thirsty and hot. Gwen kicks off the covers. It is early, the sun has risen with the amber glow of arid morning. There is no water by her bed; she will have to go to the kitchen to get some. Her head throbs. She slips her dress over her and attempts the buttons with sleepy fingertips. She pushes her feet into shoes without stockings, and because it is habit, because she is not thinking about what makes sense, only about the dryness that needs to be quenched, because the kitchen seems at this moment miles not yards away, she hangs her faithful bag across her the way she does on any expedition.

Arnault is still asleep. She tries to avoid the squeaking parts of
the landing, which will be audible to people in their bedrooms. She takes the stairs one at a time, step-stop, step-stop, cautious of tumbling. At the kitchen sink she forces the tap and swallows a whole glass of water without rest, wipes her mouth, forces the tap again to refill it. This is worse than having the flu.

She is quite awake now, even though it is some two hours before she would normally get up. Like a present. Gwen, here you are with two extra hours in the day, what are you going to do with them? Nice, really. She could go out, would be curious to see how different the world looks at this time of day. She drinks the rest of the water, then pauses at a sound—

—or was it? Does Arnault make different noises while its occupants are in bed?

She ignores it, then hears it again, or one similar. It is like nothing, like a bird trapped in a room. Sound, no sound.

Gwen leaves the glass on the draining board and retraces her steps with care. The disturbance, a flutter, draws her through the house toward the music room, where instinct makes her hesitate outside the door. (If it is a burglar, she will shout.) It is open a fraction, and human rustling emanates through it. She peers in.

It is a pile of cushions, rugs, hair—Cynthia’s hair, Cynthia’s arm, Cynthia’s hand wearing Cynthia’s sapphire ring. She is sleeping here on the floor, among the fabric textures, her head tucked into her elbow. She stirs, brings her other arm up to her chin, and a third embraces her, the arm of the man she is with, and Gwen discerns two separate breathing rhythms, a male and a female, the signal to her sensitive ears that something unexpected has occurred. Their intimacy is mammalian, their entwined limbs have not the curves of poetry but the angles of prose. Gwen decides she must leave, and in the time it takes for this conclusion to form, he moves protectively toward Cynthia in his sleep and shows his face.

It is shame making, creeping away, hoping not to be discovered—but
for the best. Gwen goes out into the garden, turns toward the sky, inhales the air sweet with pollen, and sneezes.

She has a handkerchief in her bag and dabs her eyes out of formality because one does so when one is brokenhearted, and this is betrayal, if ever Woman was betrayed. The life she pictured them sharing has been stolen by a rogue to whom she gave the flower of her regard. Yes, here are the shoots of her anger, they are pale and weak but they will grow and spread and harden into resentment. (Won’t they?)

Surprisingly, this is not how she imagined it would feel. Where is the misery? Where is the despair? Where is the crying out of his name, and the beating of her breast? Gwen does not feel them. She is
miffed.
She is thoroughly
put out.
Apparently, a love spurned feels about as painful as finding out Emily Dibner has been named hockey captain. Pretty bad, but not too bad.

And
Cynthia . . .

Cynthia is different. Gwen cannot be mad with Cynthia in the same way she is mad at Laurence (and Emily Bloody Dibner). Cynthia is not a rival in love, but practically family. Gwen has known her all her life. Cynthia is a spinster . . . who has cut herself a peculiar existence and is not undeserving of companionship when she finds it. Cynthia got to Laurence first, plain and simple.

Tough toads on me.

Gwen grasps her handkerchief in case she sheds her tears—the grass surrounding her rustles and she sneezes loudly, abruptly, blows her nose like a bugle.

Bless you. Alec is beside her, groomed and dressed.

From behind her mask of hand and hanky Gwen stares at him, certain he must have seen what she saw, yet his dapper demeanor suggests not: neat, genial,
untroubled.
You’re up early, Alec.

Always am.

Er, is anyone else about?

I expect they’re still in bed, nursing their hangovers. We got tight last night, didn’t we? (He seems to mean it, seems at ease.) Something the matter?

Gwen falters, fights the instinct to blurt what she knows because this is what she would normally do. She grows aware of a new pressure, the urge to protect, to stand in front of a human heart and spare it suffering. The subtle navigation of human relations. Gwen has been aggrieved, but it would be much the worse for Alec if he knew. Why does she think this? Yes, for his attentions upon Cynthia, for their dancing and because he found reasons to be close to her, for the journey to Arnault, which is out of his way, and which his schedule of work does not strictly permit. That he wants continually to know about Cynthia’s welfare and finds the driest details of her research riveting, that he tries in his way to intrigue and impress her. And Laurence . . . ? There is history between Alec and Laurence, even Gwen knows that.

She swallows the unfairness, as bitter as it is, and says, You won’t tell Mummy I got squiffy, will you?

Alec laughs and assures Gwen her secret is safe.

She thanks him profusely, telling him he is a good man—and adds in a flash of inspiration. Does the bakery open early, I wonder?

I’m sure I don’t know.

Shall we find out? We can bring back a loaf for the others, and I could really do with a cream cake.

At this hour?

Yes!

If you say so. I’ll fetch my wallet.

No, let me buy it, I would very much like to.

That wouldn’t be proper of me.

I
insist.
(I hate it when I sound like Mummy!) I’m sure I’ve got my purse with me, at least I thought I did. Hold these, will you? She takes a hairbrush out of her bag and some yarn and her notebook
with pages curled back over the spine and some hair slides . . . roots around for her purse at the bottom.

I say, that’s rather good. It’s Cynthia reading, isn’t it?

What is . . . ? Oh, that. (Alec is referring to a drawing on the top page.) Supposed to be. I made it to show Laurence but I never got around to it.

I like the title.

It’s a sort of joke and a sort of wish for her. I don’t know. It’s silly.

It’s terrific. May I buy it from you?

No need to buy it; you can have it if you want, not that I understand why you would.

Because it will remind me of Cynthia, and of my stay here, and of you.

Then it’s yours, and I’m glad. Look, here it is (Gwen holds up the purse). I say, it’s such a beautiful morning, why don’t we go
this
way.

So Gwen leads Alec away from Arnault, and any risk of discovering that the people he loves best have done him wrong.

A shouting woman, like a murder is happening, and a man shouting back.

Alec and Gwen can hear it before they see Arnault. They stop by the gate and he murmurs, Trouble in paradise.

It is Laurence and Sinclair.

Laurence: It’s all in your mind, Joanna.

Sinclair: It is not in my fucking mind.

You’re just upset.

Yes, I am fucking upset. Get out of my way, you fucking dandy.

Sinclair appears with her case and dumps it on the path.

Laurence comes after her: Just stay for an hour or two and let me explain . . . ?

She about-faces and marches back in, though not because he wants her to.

He follows after her. Joanna? Joanna?

More shouting within, then Sinclair comes back out with her handbag, coat slung over her arm, scarf draped about her shoulders, carrying her hat.

Laurence appears at the doorway, hands at the back of his head like a man watching his house on fire.

Sinclair strains to lift her luggage.

Please, Joanna . . . ?

She sways with the weight and the momentum of her rage. I hope your bollocks drop off. And don’t call me Joanna!

Sinclair spins with the suitcase and trots past Gwen and Alec without acknowledgment, away from Arnault and out of their lives.

Laurence watches the space she has left behind, gazes heavenward in disbelief.

Gwen and Alec do not look at each other. Not even when Gwen says, I’m going to eat Sinclair’s cherry tart.

Of course, Alec had no intention of remaining at Arnault for long. Before he goes he spends an afternoon alone with Laurence, and whatever transpires between them makes Laurence decide to leave too. Cynthia is unperturbed by their departure, relieved to have Arnault almost back to herself. She types pages of her book with a pencil between her teeth, has taken to wearing a pair of men’s pince-nez, which she found in one of her professor’s boxes.

Keep working, keep thinking, keep being—

Cynthia’s ghosts. She never shares them, they are hers to tame or to be consumed by. Her life is her mind, it is the superior part of her, the best and the most fragile.

To Gwen, she has become quite as dull as before, leaving the
girl to puzzle over whether the incident in the music room was an anomaly or had been taking place constantly beneath the surface. She cannot ask without revealing how she knows. It frustrates her, God how it frustrates her. Not because Gwen once loved Laurence, although she did, and not because Cynthia misled her, although she has. It is a separate problem that needs to be solved: the way Cynthia is blasé about love, the way she isolates herself from the warmth of intimacy, rejects the stirrings and urges (surely within her) as juvenile and superfluous.

Gwen follows the route to the Lagoon, mulling it over.

Indeed, Cynthia chose Laurence and not Alec because Laurence is expendable. Laurence is a physical being, which does not count for much to Cynthia. And she would fight any deep feelings she had for Alec because he is more her equal; because she would have a responsibility toward him, toward herself; because it might be more than just
intercourse,
and to Cynthia that detracts from—

From what, Cynthia? From work? From loneliness?

Gwen decides it makes no sense at all, and it will not be good enough for her.

My man will be an Alec
and
a Laurence; he will have the best attributes of both, and nothing shall keep me from him.

She arrives at the pond and watches the flecks of sun on the surface.

Even if he is not . . . if he is a safe and regular soul, I demand that he loves me passionately and treat me like a queen . . . or at the very least, I want him to be a kind and entertaining fellow—then we shall be one of those couples who are still laughing into old age and die within a month of each other . . . but if he turns out to be a tormented genius, I will cure him of his demons . . . unless he is mature and wise and lavishes me with affection, then he can care for me and cure me of
my
manias instead . . . or he could be an honest, decent man with big, strong hands who is content to work all
day and to sit with me by our fire at night. I think he is in a trench at this very moment planning our life together, the prospect of it carrying him through, I hope. Yes, I know he must be somewhere, but I don’t know exactly where or how I shall find him or who he is.

She picks up a pebble and lobs it in—
ker-splash.
She watches the ripples expand in circles, repeat, dissipate.

Then she lifts her bag off her shoulder and drops it on the ground, twists her feet out of her shoes, undoes her buttons, and pulls her dress off until she is wearing only her white slip. She takes some steps backward, inhales a breath, runs, and jumps in—the water a fantastic shock to her body. She comes up for a gasp of air, to see how far she went, and dives into the depths again, where it is cool and shadowy. Weeds and creatures tickle her and retract their tentacles. Beams of light are filtered and split apart. Algae bacteria invertebrates fish mollusks. There is a world under here, and Gwen never knew it. There is a world under here, and it is completely different from how she dreamed it.

Immaterialism

Reader in a Shoreditch Bar, 2008