J (10 page)

‘I don’t go anywhere,’ she said, ‘I just draw what I see.’

She knew she was lying. She did go somewhere. She didn’t have a name for it, that was all.

And she didn’t know why she went there or what it was a memory or a foreboding, or just an idle fantasy, of.

The paper flowers were a sort of peace offering to her adoptive mother. Something nice to show how much she loved her, how grateful she was, how protected and at home she felt. But even the paper flowers looked as though they’d been picked from some other planet.

Kevern had wondered, when he’d first discovered his depraved inheritance, whether it would put him off sex. That it
should
put him off sex, he didn’t doubt. But would it?

The answer was no. Or at least not entirely. He knew he had to take precautions. He couldn’t bring into the world a being who might show recessive symptoms of a kind which he – so far, at least – had not. And this meant not only being particular when it came to contraception, but going about coitus gently and considerately. Restoring to the act, maybe, something of the sacred. As it happened, such conscientiousness was not difficult for him: it accorded well with his precise, reluctant nature. He had not been put on earth to fling his seed around.

Ailinn didn’t mind that he didn’t pile-drive himself into her. It made a change.

‘Sleepin’ with you is like sleepin’ with a woman,’ she told him.

Though a clean enunciator out of bed, she made a habit of dropping her gs when verbalising sex. Sleepin’, screwin’, fuckin’, even makin’ love. He didn’t know why. To rough herself up a bit, perhaps. Or perhaps to rough up him.

‘Is that northern speech?’ he had asked her.

‘Nah. It’s
my
speech.’ With which she made a triumphant, tarty little fist.

So yes, it was her way of communalising their sex, taking what was special out of it, making it less fragile, putting them both on a more ordinary footing with each other.

Did she find him overscrupulous? Would she have liked him to swear? (Pog mo hoin?)

He unwound himself and sat up. They were in his bed. She had invited him to hers, an altogether more sweetly smelling chamber now that she had got rid of all the spiders and repainted it, with giant paper sunflowers everywhere, but he was uneasy about staying away from his cottage all night. And besides, he lived alone and she didn’t.

‘So “sleepin’” with me is like “sleepin’” with a woman . . . I’m guessing you mean that as a compliment, though to me, of course, it isn’t. Unless you prefer sleeping with women.’

‘Never done it,’ she said.

‘So how do you know it’s like sleeping with me?’

‘Because sleepin’ with you isn’t like sleepin’ with other men.’

Men
! Couldn’t she have spared him that?

‘How isn’t it like sleeping with
other men
?’

‘Well you don’t seem as though you want to hurt me, for a start.’

‘Why would I hurt you? Do you want me to hurt you?’

‘No I do not.’

‘Then what’s the nature of your discontent?’

She slipped out of bed, as though she needed to be upright when he questioned her as hard as this. He tried not to look at her feet.

‘I’m not discontented at all,’ she said. ‘It’s hard to describe what I feel. It’s as if you don’t care, or at least your first care isn’t, whether I feel you’ve entered me.’

‘Oh! Would you like me to signal when I have? I could wave a handkerchief.’

He made jokes, she noticed, when he was hurt.

‘No, I don’t mean that way. I’m really not complaining. It’s lovely. I’m not putting this very well but I don’t think you care whether you make a difference to me, sexually –
inside
– or not. Most men make a song and dance about it. “Can you feel that? Do you like that?” They want to be sure the conquest of your body is complete. They would like to hear you surrender. It’s as though you don’t mind whether I notice you’re visiting or not.’

‘Visiting?’

She took a moment . . . ‘Yes, visiting. It’s as though you’re on a tourist visa. Just popping in to take a look around.’

‘That’s not how it feels to me. I’m not planning being somewhere else. You need to know that.’

‘Good.’

‘But it doesn’t sound very nice for you.’

‘Well it is and it isn’t. It’s a change not to feel
invaded
. It’s nice to be left alone to think my own thoughts.’

‘Thoughts! Should you be having
thoughts
at such a time?’

‘Feelings, then. You know what I mean – not having to go along with what someone else wants. Not having to be issuing periodic bulletins of praise and satisfaction. But what are yours?’

‘What are my thoughts and feelings?’

‘Yes. What do you want?’

‘Ah, now you’re asking.’

‘You won’t tell me?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Don’t know whether you’ll tell me?’

‘Don’t know what I want.’

But he made her a lovespoon in which the two of them could be recognised, entwined, inseparable, carved from a single piece of wood.

In return for which she made him a pair of exquisitely comical purple pansies, a paper likeness of his face in one, hers in another. She arranged them in a vase on his dressing table, so that they stared at each other unremittingly.

‘When you dust them, do it lightly,’ she advised.

‘I will sigh the dust away.’ He pursed his lips and let out the softest emission of air, as though blowing a kiss to a butterfly.

‘I love you,’ she told him.

Why not, he thought. Why ever not? ‘I love you,’ he said.

As he’d told her, he wasn’t planning to be somewhere else.

He should not have judged his parents their sin. When the love thing is upon you there’s no one who can break you up. And he wasn’t even absolutely sure the love thing was upon him – yet.

She moved in. Or at least she moved her person in. He cleared space for her to make her flowers in his workshop but she couldn’t function in the noise and dust his lathe threw out. So she kept her studio, along with the majority of her possessions, in Paradise Valley. There was an argument on the side of sensible precaution for this anyway, though Ez said she wouldn’t take it personally if Ailinn moved out. ‘Follow your heart,’ she said. But Ailinn thought it was still early for that. She’d been alive long enough to know that hearts were fickle.

Didn’t her own jump?

She wanted her mail to go on being delivered to Paradise Valley as well. She had her own letter-box neurosis which she didn’t want to clash with Kevern’s. She feared letters being lost, postmen being careless about their delivery, just tossing them over the wall into Kevern’s little garden, or not pushing them properly through the flap. She wasn’t waiting for any communication in particular but believed something, that should have reached her in an envelope, was missing from her life: a greeting, an offer she couldn’t have said what of, an advantage or an explanation – even terrible news, but terrible news, too, needed to be faced and not forever dreaded – and the idea that she would not discover it when it came, that Kevern would treat it as junk, or that it would blow away, be blown about the world unknown to her, and leave her waiting, never knowing, was one she found deranging. As a little girl she’d read in comics about a time when people wrote to one another by phone but wrote such horrid things that the practice had to be discouraged. She was glad, at least, that she didn’t have to ‘angst’, as they called it in those comics, about losing phone letters as well. So for the time being, at least, her postal address remained Beck House, Paradise Valley.

If she didn’t return to collect what was waiting for her for more than two or three days at a time, however, the weight of expectation and dread oppressed her more than she could bear.

Most mornings, after breakfast, she accompanied Kevern to his workroom, kissed him, breathed in the lovely fresh smell of sawdust – it reminded her of the circus, she said – and either went back to bed with a book or walked down into the valley, singing to herself, alone. But occasionally they would leave the cottage together in order to wander the cliffs or just sit side by side on his bench. She had made the mistake, the first time, of straightening his rug after he’d rumpled it. She saw him wince and then, without saying anything, rumple it again. Thereafter she simply stood by, expressionless, her arms beside her sides, as he locked up, confirmed that he had locked up, knelt to look inside the letter box, stood up, knelt down again to confirm that what he had seen he had seen, put his hand inside the flap, took it out, and then put it back again, looked one more time, then put his keys in his pocket. Sometimes he would send her on ahead so that he could do all this again.

‘Don’t ask,’ he said.

And she tried not to. But she loved him and wanted to relieve him of some of the stress he was obviously under.

‘Couldn’t I?’ she asked once, meaning couldn’t she make sure
for
him that everything was OK. Share the burden, whatever it was. Pour the tea, rumple the runner, double-lock and then double-lock again, kneel down and lift the flap of the letter box, peer through (check to see if there was anything for her while she was at it) . . . she knew the routine well enough by now.

‘Unthinkable,’ he said.

‘Just try thinking it.’

He shook his head, not liking her suddenly, not wanting to look at her. She knew. And was glad she was wearing trousers so he could not see her ankles.

But that night, in bed, after exhaustively locking the house from the inside, he tried explaining why she couldn’t help him.

‘If anything happens it has to be my responsibility. I want at least to know I did all I could. If it happens because of something I have omitted to do, I will never forgive myself. So I make sure.’

‘Happens to the house?’

‘Happens to the house, happens to me, happens to you . . .’

‘But what can happen?’

He stared at her. ‘
What can happen
. What
can’t
happen.’ Neither was a question. Both were statements of incontrovertible fact.

They were lying on what she took to be a reproduction Biedermeier bed. He hung his clothes, as now she hung hers, in a fine mahogany wardrobe, two doors on either side of a full-length bevelled mirror, also imitation Biedermeier. It was far too big for the cottage, some of the beam had had to be cut away to make room for it, and she did wonder how anyone had ever succeeded in getting it upstairs. She knew about Biedermeier – it had come back into style. Everyone wanted reproduction Biedermeier. There was a small factory knocking it out in Kildromy, not far from where she grew up. Kildromy-Biedermeier – there was a growing market for it. But she did wonder whether Kevern’s furniture wasn’t reproduction at all. It looked at once far grander and more worn than anything that came out of Kildromy. Could it be the real thing? Everyone cheated a bit, keeping a few more family treasures than they knew they should. And this the authorities turned a blind eye to. But if these pieces were genuine, Kevern was cheating on a grand scale. She tried asking him about it. ‘This Kildromy-Biedermeier?’ He stared at her, lost for words. Then he gathered his wits. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Kildromy. Spot on.’

So he was lying. She didn’t judge him. If anything, it thrilled her to be a silent party to such delinquency. But it explained why he went to such lengths to protect his privacy. No one was ever going to come to so remote a place, so difficult of access, to steal a wardrobe; but what if it wasn’t thieves he feared but, she joked to herself, the Biedermeier police?

Once, although she hadn’t mentioned her suspicions, he explained that property wasn’t the reason he was careful.

‘
Careful
!’

‘Why, what word would you use?’

‘Obsessive? Compulsive? Disordered?’

He smiled. He was smiling a lot so she shouldn’t take fright. He liked her teasing and didn’t want it to stop.

‘Well, whatever the word, I do what I do because I hate the idea of . . . what was that other word you used once, to describe my lack of sexual attack? –
invasion
.’

‘I didn’t accuse you of lacking sexual attack.’

‘OK.’

‘I truly didn’t. I love the way it is between us.’

‘OK. Invasion, anyway, is a good word to describe what I fear. People thinking they can just burst in here, while I’m out or even while I’m in.’

‘I understand that,’ she said. ‘I am the same.’

‘Are you?’

‘I always locked my bedroom door when I was a little girl. Every time the wind blew or a tree scratched at my window I thought someone was trying to get in. To get
back
in, actually. To reclaim their space.’

‘I don’t follow. Why
their
space?’

‘I can’t explain. That was just how I felt. That I had wrongly taken possession of what wasn’t mine.’

There was something temporary about her, Kevern thought. Of no fixed abode. Tomorrow she could be gone.

A great wave of protectiveness – that protectiveness he knew he would feel for her when he first saw her and imagined rolling her in his rug – crashed over him. Unless it was possessiveness. Protectiveness, possessiveness – what difference? He wanted her protected because he wanted her to stay his. ‘Well you don’t have to feel that here,’ he said.

‘And I don’t,’ she said.

He kissed her brow. ‘Good. I want you to feel safe here. I want you to feel it’s yours.’

‘Given the precautions you take,’ she laughed, ‘I couldn’t feel safer. It’s a nice sensation – being barred and gated.’

But she didn’t tell him there was safe and
safe
. That all the barring and gating couldn’t secure her peace of mind. That she kept seeing the pig auctioneer, for example, who had known both their names.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll keep battening down the hatches.’

She laughed. ‘There’s a contradiction,’ she said, ‘in your saying you want me to think of your home as mine, when you protect it so fiercely.’

‘I’m not protecting it
from
you. I’m protecting it
for
you.’