Nine Lives (15 page)

He showed me his recent paintings. Seascapes again. One featured a lighthouse, another a clutch of fishing boats. I noticed that none of his paintings included people. But then he drew out a small sketch from the bottom of the pile.

‘This is the latest,' he said, and with a little pride. It was a self-portrait. He was barefoot, with trousers rolled up, and his back was framed in a tranquil sea. It was Donald's dream of freedom. It was this picture he saw in the small sad hours of his waking, and as the darkness enveloped his cell. It was an image that gave him hope, that when and if he were ever free, the sea would still be there and would welcome his ageing trouser-rolled paddle. I leaned over the table and I kissed him. ‘When you come out, we'll go to the sea again,' I told him.

The bell that marked the end of the visiting hour was well-timed. I was leaving with a conscience miraculously cleared of doubts, and I would hurry back to the bus and comfort Mrs Cox.

And, as I expected, there she was, crouched on the back seat of the bus, her head in her hands. I put my arm around her. I thought that gesture would be better than words. In any case, I had none to offer her. She let herself cry, and thus we travelled to the ferry. ‘We'll go on deck,' I said. ‘Get some fresh air.' I took her arm and guided her up the stairs. It was cold out there, but refreshing. We sat close to each other. And shivered. And I was glad of it because
the cold was something positive to be concerned about. We withstood the nipping air for about ten minutes and then she made a move to go downstairs where there was warmth and a positive comfort. She cheered up a little as she settled herself into a window seat and I went to the bar and bought us a whisky each. By the time we reached Portsmouth, she was herself again.

‘I'm going to take that holiday,' she said. ‘Whatever he thinks.'

They were the first words she had spoken since we had left the prison.

‘Where will you go?' I said.

‘I've got a friend in Florida. A close friend. She was good to me during the trial. Came over especially to support me. She wants me to stay with her for a while. It's too far to go just for a fortnight. And too expensive. So I'll stay as long as she'll have me, and bugger Mr Cox.'

‘You can put it all behind you for a while,' I said, ‘and when you come back, you'll have the strength to carry on.'

‘
If
I come back,' she said. And smiled.

But I knew she would come back. And in time for her visit. Indeed I wondered whether she would go away at all.

We parted at Waterloo, wishing each other well, and I returned home and started to make preparations for my holiday. The next day, I visited the nearest travel agent and brought home a collection of holiday brochures. I was looking for sun, a beach, music and a bar. My needs could have been satisfied by almost any one of the holidays on offer. So I picked out one brochure and opened a page at random. It fell on a ten-day break in a resort on the south coast of Turkey. I returned forthwith to the travel agent and booked a package holiday to the resort that left a couple
of days later. I could return in good time for my prison visit. On my way home I kept saying ‘Verry' to myself, pleased with the unfamiliar assertiveness that that name implied. I've grown into my name at last, I thought. I'll never let it trouble me again.

I had a good summer wardrobe, so preparations for travel took little time. I hesitated about informing the boys of my plans. They might interpret them as a change of heart, which they certainly were not. On the contrary, they were a confirmation of what my heart still held. Uncertainty and pity. But above all, love. I decided I would simply send them a postcard from my Turkish hotel.

I was glad that I was able to organise a holiday so quickly. Barely three days after my prison visit. It allowed me no time for hesitation or change of mind. I would be settled by the Turkish seaside before I could entertain second thoughts. And then it would be too late.

I was excited and almost ashamed of my excitement. I gave a thought to Mrs Cox and wondered how far she was on her way to Florida. I had a vision of her sitting alone in her house, thinking about her mother. But I banished such a thought. I was going to enjoy myself, to see for once to my own welfare, to ‘Verry' myself, and to find it natural.

I had never been on an aeroplane before, and the fear heightened my excitement. I would pretend that I was a seasoned traveller and still the butterflies inside me. I decided that for the duration of the flight, I would be a hairdresser, a career that did not necessarily involve a great deal of specialised knowledge, and, if called for, I could divert the conversation to tales of my clients. But such a plan was scotched when my neighbour on the plane, a very
friendly and direct type, introduced himself by name and profession. Mark Digby, he was, and a hair-stylist and he was very pleased to meet me. I had quickly to fashion a new career for myself. The idea of a kennelmaid flashed through my mind. I knew a little about dogs and their care, having owned a Scotch terrier as a child. But, as it turned out, I was not called upon to announce a pursuit of any kind, nor even my name, which I could have pronounced with no hesitation. My companion spent the whole four-hour flight talking about himself, with just one break for a short nap after lunch, for which I was very grateful. In any case, I wasn't too keen on the kennelmaid idea and I decided to use it only as a very last resort. Nevertheless, I was still in high spirits when we landed and I realised that, since leaving home, I hadn't given Donald a thought. This worried me a little, and made me wonder about the present fragility of our partnership. Then pity intervened and confirmed that it was indestructible. However, for ten days, I would try to put him out of my mind.

My spirits rose when we reached the hotel. My room sported a balcony that overlooked the sea, a blue-green sea, unlike the Margate variety and the colours of Donald's recall. There were still two hours to go before dinner, so I rested a little, then showered and dressed. As I took myself down to the bar, I felt very ‘Verry' and faintly brazen.

Our courier was already ensconced at the counter, and he offered me the free welcome drink that the brochure had promised. Others of our party – we were about twenty in all – were gathered around the bar and seemed to be keeping themselves to themselves. Most of them gave the appearance of being in couples, glued to each other's side in silence. But there were a handful of lone travellers shifting
uncertainly from one foot to the other. I found that I was doing the same, like a visual advertisement for singleness. Someone had to make a move, and it was little me, the non-Verry of old, who went over to a single woman to halt her shifting.

Her name was Penny, and she admitted to being nervous. ‘It's the first holiday I've taken on my own,' she said. And then, as if to explain herself, she added that she had been recently widowed. I gave her my sympathies, though these seemed not to be required. He'd been ill for a long time, she was saying. It was a blessing when he went. I refrained from celebrating her blessing and I said, ‘Yet you must miss him.'

She nodded. ‘But life goes on.'

I thought the same for myself.

‘And what about you?' she asked.

‘Oh I'm married,' I protested. ‘Just having a break. He's away, anyway. He's a portrait painter and he's been commissioned to do a portrait of the Queen of Jordan.' And I'm the Queen of Sheba, I thought to myself. Yet I was pleased with my invention. It kept Donald the painter by my side. Moreover, I didn't have to be anything in my own right. It was enough to be the helpmeet of a successful artist and I could spend my holiday promoting Donald the painter.

Penny was clearly impressed. I hoped I hadn't gone too far. It was a story I would have to maintain the length of my holiday and to all those of the party who sought to enquire. I prayed that there was no portrait painter among them.

In a short while, we were invited to take our places for dinner. Penny waited for me to move in order to follow me and no doubt to sit by my side. There were five tables
reserved for our party. The couples walked boldly to their seats. The singles lagged behind, so that they ended up seated at the same table and although we were together, our unity seemed to heighten our otherness from the main party. Penny seemed glued to my side. Next to me sat a gentleman who introduced himself to me as Carruthers. ‘Call me Jim,' he added.

‘I'm Verry.' He'd have to do without my surname.

He took my hand. ‘I'm glad to make your acquaintance.'

I was unused to such formality and especially when he picked up my napkin and spread it over my lap. This man will take care of me, I thought, and I shall allow it without any scruple.

I am reasonably familiar with Turkish food. Donald and I would often visit a Turkish restaurant. It is an intimate cuisine, unsuitable for sharing with strangers. Yet I was happy to share it with my neighbour.

‘I always come to Turkey for my holidays,' he said. ‘I just love the food.'

I asked him what he did, safe in the knowledge that my own response, if called for, was ripe and ready.

‘I'm retired,' he said. ‘From the army. I'm doing an Open University course in botany. Must keep the old cells active. And you?'

I pulled out my Donald portfolio and recounted the tale that had so impressed Penny.

‘You're obviously very proud of him,' Jim said.

I nodded. Though I was anything but proud. You cannot sustain pride in a myth, and already it was losing its credibility. The reality was so different and called for nothing but humiliation. I was ashamed of Donald. Deeply ashamed. Innocent or guilty, there was no denying his location, and
it was a far cry from the palaces of Jordan. But I was stuck with the story, and I hoped I wouldn't be called upon to spin it again, lest my own qualms betray me.

It was while Jim was helping me to wine that I felt his leg pressing on my own. I hoped my astonishment did not show on my face, or indeed my pleasure. For pleasure it was, I must confess, and I made no move to discourage him. Verry Dorricks, I said to myself, what are you doing here, away from the prison gates, on your own, with a stranger's leg pressing against yours, and all with your pleasurable permission. I couldn't understand myself. Never in all my years with Donald had I experienced an illicit thrill nor, more importantly, had I made myself available to one. I already saw myself as an adulteress, but I had no sense of betrayal. I'm forty-seven years old, I told myself, and I'm still entitled to happiness. I knew it was a dangerous thought and God knew where it would lead but I would follow it with pleasure.

The meal was over. It was late and I was tired, not so much as the result of the long journey, but because of the unaccustomed but wondrous battering of my senses. I made to rise. Jim was already standing. He held the back of my seat so that I could rise in comfort. I was feverish with his chivalry.

‘A little nightcap?' he suggested, and he took my arm and led me towards the bar. As we walked, I noticed that he was limping.

‘Have you hurt your foot?' I asked. That question signalled the dissolving of my euphoria.

‘No,' he said. ‘War wound. I've got a wooden leg.'

I checked that it was the very leg that had rubbed against mine. I tried to hide my shame. I had misread. I had misunderstood. Misconstrued.

‘I'm tired,' I said. ‘I think I'll just go to bed.'

I had to be alone. I had to unravel myself. The fact that the lecherous leg was wooden, unfeeling and without intent, that fact was irrelevant. It was
my
leg that starred in the role, my yielding and inviting leg that was clearly asking for more. By the time I reached my bedroom, I was crumbling with shame. I could have done without knowing that aspect of myself, and its discovery frightened me, for it pointed to what I was capable of, and to the inevitable break-up of my marriage. I thought of Donald sleeping in his cell, and I couldn't bear the pity and the love of it. I wanted very much to go home. But I had another nine days of the fabled palaces of Jordan and myself as a woman of virtue, worthy of praise. But I weathered it, and tried to enjoy myself. As the days passed, I gradually withdrew into my old Verry, or rather non-Verry, self. That assertiveness of mine was a mere passing phase. And a dangerous one, for it opened up avenues of excitement of which I had been unaware. I must not risk such a phase again. I must keep within those boundaries that I had fashioned for myself, and which my Donald had confirmed. I felt safe within them. Donald was innocent, because he said so, and he had never lied to me. He would be on his best behaviour in prison and he would earn an early parole. Then we would spend our days at the sea together and I wouldn't have to pity him any more. These were not cloud-cuckoo thoughts. They were within the realms of possibility.

On the last day of my holiday, I took a walk along the shore. Fallen stone pillars were strewn at intervals along the sand: torsos; broken stone heads; remains of temples where people had once worshipped; monuments to the glory of the past. All that was gone, and in its stead, a marketplace
of carpets, saffron and sponges. I picked my way through Turkey's broken history and I decided that I was not a holiday person. I belonged at home, non-Verry within its walls. I would take my non-Verry self to Parkhurst, and comfortably believe in Donald's innocence.

I can't seem to get going again. I want to hold on to the power, that power I felt at the Manor House. I don't want to let it go. I want to keep Wilkins waiting. I want to see him pacing his room, itching for my next sortie. I want to hear him curse me aloud, unable to give a name to his target. I want him at my mercy for a little longer. But why? Wilkins is not my enemy. He has done me no harm. Why should I want to punish him? This is an ill trait in me and I must put it aside, for it sullies my crusade. In any case, in clinging to this sense of power, I might well lose my appetite for my mission, and that in the long run is far more important to me than Wilkins-baiting. Besides, it's quite a while since I polished off Dr Fortescue.