The Diviners (38 page)

Harold handles the car with reckless zeal. Morag curses herself.

Jesus, lover of my soul, get me out of this. Please please please.

“For God’s sake, Harold, don’t drive so fast.”

“I’m okay. I always get there safely. Just relax, relax.”

Through some miracle, he does indeed pilot the car to Begonia Road. Then things become all at once strange. He takes Morag’s hand and sits quietly for a moment. This gesture surprises her, so she waits, wondering if he is all right. Should she suggest black coffee?

“Know something, Morag?” he says finally.

“What?”

His grip tightens on Morag’s hand.

“I really love that woman,” he says. “And it was always great, in bed. And then, you know what she said to me when
I moved out? She said it had never been any good for her. Never. Not even once. That’s what she told me.”

What is there to say? Who hurts whom?

Harold puts his head down on the steering wheel and cries. Morag holds his hand. That is all she can think of, to do. At last he raises his head and takes off his glasses. Dries them with a Kleenex. It is only when she sees his determined hands mopping the surface of his glasses with the flimsy white tissue that Morag wants also to cry.

“Sorry about that,” he says brusquely.

“It’s all right. Really. It’s okay.”

“Well–goodnight.”

He does not phone her again, of course, but she knows he has got back safely to his apartment because she hears him reading the news the next day.

Even if he had called, she would not really have wanted to see him again. Sadness is everywhere.

Memorybank Movie: Chas

Snapshot:
Pique, age three and a half, clad in overalls and a T-shirt, her dark and now-long hair in a ponytail, grins gleefully as she sits on the new swing in the back yard of the house on Begonia Road. This is all that the picture shows–a small girl, who looks like both her parents and like neither, smiling over a new swing. When Pique grows up, will she have any memory of the other things from this time, the things which the snapshot doesn’t show?

“Tell another story, Mum.”

“One more, and then you go to sleep, and
no argument
, okay?”

“Okay.” Laughter.

“You’re a monkey, Pique.”

“No, I’m not. I’m full of beans.”

“You sure are. All right–settle down.”

Pique is still at the small-animal type of story. Once upon a time there was a robin, etcetera. Later on, will Morag tell her the old tales of Piper Gunn who led his people on the long march up north, and Rider Tonnerre the buffalo hunter? Will Pique want to hear the stories, or only be bored?

The story over, Pique still tries.

“I feel sick, Mum.”

“Listen,” Morag says with chagrin, “you were fine five minutes ago. Where do you feel sick?”

“Here.” Hand on stomach.

The old problem. Is Pique play-acting or not? Is this guile or the beginning of appendicitis? How to tell? Morag goes by the theory that the kid will either get better or will get worse, perceptibly, and if the latter, then it will be time enough to phone the doctor. In practise, however, Morag worries incessantly at such times and often phones the doctor unnecessarily.

“Well, listen, honey, you just try to sleep now and I’ll come in after a while and see how you are.”

Morag reads in the livingroom for an hour, and then goes into the child’s bedroom. Pique is asleep.

The doorbell. Morag flies downstairs to stop whoever it is from ringing again and waking Pique. It is Chas, one of Fan’s occasional men. He is never called Charles or Charlie, just Chas. He is bone-thin, with a cadaverous face which is nonetheless handsome, or at least sexy, perhaps owing to the insolence of his eyes, a quality which both repels and attracts Morag.

“Fan’s gone to work, Chas.”

“I know. I came to see you.”

“You might have phoned,” Morag says, instantly realizing that this can be taken as a sign of interest on her part.

“I was driving by,” Chas says, “so I thought I’d drop in. I saw your light.”

Yeh, well it wasn’t a red one, buddy.

“Pique’s not very well. I don’t think I can ask you to stay for a drink.”

“We won’t disturb her,” Chas says. “We can go in Fan’s livingroom. She won’t mind. I brought a bottle.”

You did, eh? Well you can just take it and you know what you can do with it.

This is not what Morag says.

“Well, just one drink, Chas, and then I have to get back to work.”

Why does she say this? Which self is talking this time? She’s tired. She’s exhausted. She’s been working every minute possible on the new novel. She’s gone for days speaking to no one except Fan, Pique and the milkman–for months, probably. These reasons parade themselves obediently through her head as she pours the drinks in Fan’s kitchen.

“You’re a good-looking gal, Morag,” Chas says cornily, with minimum effort to be subtle. “Some people think you’re stand-offish, though.”

Stand-offish. Little does he know.

He shortly finds out.

This is insanity. Morag’s flesh and her self are two separate entities. She is her own voyeur. She decides that if she is about to go ahead, it will be better to suspend thought for a while. Play now, think later.

“Don’t go upstairs to fix yourself,” Chas moans, searching for the condom which he has prudently stashed away somewhere. “I can’t wait.”

“All right.”

She wishes he would shut up. She does not want to hear his voice. This is not related to making love with a lover or even a friend. They screw like animals all over Fan’s living room, and it is, quite truthfully, fine. When they are both exhausted, Morag pulls away and scrambles back into her clothes. Chas laughs.

“Why the hurry?”

She doesn’t know. She usually feels at home with herself and with a man, when naked. Yes, she doesn’t know, though. He is getting dressed now, too.

“Chas, you better go now. I have to get back upstairs.”

“I’m coming with you. I’ll stay the night.”

“No, you won’t.”

Chas’s hands are long and slender, and they do not look all that strong, but are. He holds her arm and bends it slowly backward.

“Am I coming upstairs with you, Morag?”

She realizes now that she knows absolutely nothing about him. She does not even know his last name. She is alone in this house with Pique and this lunatic. Maybe he gets his kicks this way. What if he breaks her arm? What if he strangles her? It happens. No one could ever say she hadn’t asked for it. Seldom has Morag been as frightened as she is this minute.

What if he goes upstairs and does something to the child?

Morag twists around to lessen the pain. No use appealing to him. Words won’t reach him. As soon appeal to a rabid dog. She does not say anything. She is fairly strong, physically, but not nearly as strong as Chas. She is thinking very quickly and she knows that it is better not to do anything precipitous. (Fan’s ma used to knee her husband in the groin–ugh.) Unless he heads for that staircase. Morag knows something she did
not know before. She is capable of killing, at least under this one circumstance. Fan keeps the butcher knife in the second drawer on the left in the cupboard beside the sink. The fact registers on her mind almost visually.

They struggle without noise or words for another second or two. Then their eyes meet. Chas’ pale hazel eyes are alight with a hatred as pure as undiluted hydrochloric acid. And Morag realizes that he may well be seeing the same thing in her own eyes.

He drops her arm.

“Did I scare you, Morag?”

“Get out.”

“I just wanted to see how you’d react, that’s all. It was just a joke. Can’t you take a joke?”

“Get out.”

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll go quietly.”

He brings up one hand, and before she can move away, he hits her with full force across the breasts.

He walks out while she is still paralyzed with pain. Morag breathes deeply and forces herself to walk to the hall and lock the front door. She checks the back door. It is locked. She goes back into Fan’s kitchen. Chas has left the bottle. She takes it and pours the rest of the rye down the sink. She then goes into Fan’s bathroom and throws up.

Only then does she start to shake. She goes upstairs quietly and looks at Pique, almost expecting her not to be there. She is there, and peaceful. Morag takes a scalding bath and after several hours the trembling stops.

He’s sick. And I half knew it all the time. Why did I do it? Because I needed a man. It seems a fairly simple thing. Why isn’t it? Why the hatred in his eyes? Because he thinks I’m a whore? I don’t feel like a whore. Maybe a whore doesn’t feel like a whore, either.

Pique continues sleeping. Her forehead is still cool. Her breathing is normal. She is not restless. Is she, perhaps, too quiet?

I know it doesn’t work that way, God. I know it but I don’t believe it. My head knows perfectly well that retribution is unreal. But my blood somehow retains it from ancient times.

Pique does not become ill. What happens is that Morag is more than a week late with her period that month. She stops work on the novel. She becomes absentminded, except in looking after Pique, which she does with exaggerated care.

“Whatsamatter, sweetheart?” Fan asks. “You’re awfully quiet these past few days.”

Morag, against her will and judgement, explains. The point has been reached when she has to talk to someone.

“Holy mackerel,
him
,” Fan says. “Well, I wish you had of asked me about him first. You needn’t apologize to me that it was him. I wouldn’t touch him with a barge pole. Don’t worry, sweetheart. It’s probably just the worry that’s delaying you. But if not, I know where you can go.”

There would certainly be no alternative. Morag detests the whole idea of having a living creature torn out of her body. But there is no way she is going to bear a child to a man she despises. She imagines it growing in her flesh, totally unknowing, a human which cannot be permitted its life under any circumstances.

Why hadn’t she at least put in her diaphragm? The condom was probably faulty. What if Fan’s contacts have moved and she cannot find anyone? What about payment? What if she hasn’t got enough money? What if she is forced to bear it? It happens all the time. No way out. Trapped irrevocably. No say in the matter. And to look after it until it is an adult? Every day seeing Chas’ cat-eyes burning at her? Eighteen
years. She would have to try to love it. It would be part hers, and its own person. But could she?

“Come on, Pique–eat your dinner.”

“You aren’t eating yours,” Pique points out.

“I’m just going to.” But how?

When she puts Pique to bed, she has to go through the story-telling.

“About the robins, Mum. Tell that one.”

“Okay. Well, once upon a time there was this mother robin, see, and she laid four blue eggs in a nest very high up in the dogwood tree in our back yard–”

“That very same tree?”

“Yep. That very same tree.”

Morag suddenly bends over the bed and holds Pique, hugging her too tightly, unable to stop crying now that she has unfortunately begun.

“Mum!” Pique is frightened.

Morag puts the child back again and applies Kleenex to her own eyes. This display she must not do. She must
not
. Will Pique retain this memory, years later?

“It’s okay, honey. I’m not feeling very well today, that’s all.”

“Want me to tell
you
a story?”

“Okay. That would be nice.”

So Pique tells the robin story, hardly garbling it at all.

Morag wakens next morning with cramps. She has begun to menstruate. Relief. She feels as though she has fought the Crimean War singlehanded, and won. She might not have won, though. It was good luck more than good management.

It may not be fair–in fact, it seems damned unfair to me–but I’ll never again have sex with a man whose child I couldn’t bear to bear, If the worst came to the absolute worst.

She hopes she means this. It is not morality. Just practicality of spirit and flesh.

The dark bruises on her breasts last only for a couple of weeks.

Dear Ella–

I knew you could do it, and I’m not at all surprised that the collection of poems has been accepted. Well, hallelujah! When does it come out?

The novel progresses, slowly. It’s done in semi-allegorical form, and also it has certain parallels with
The Tempest
. Maybe I’m an idiot to try this, but it’s the form the thing seems to demand, so I’ve quit fighting it. I’ve got the first draft nearly done now, so don’t mind saying a bit about it, although it’ll take a lot of rewriting. It’s called
Prospero’s Child
, she being the young woman who marries His Excellency, the Governor of some island in some ocean very far south, and who virtually worships him and then who has to go to the opposite extreme and reject nearly everything about him, at least for a time, in order to become her own person. It’s as much the story of H.E. I’ve always wondered if Prospero really would be able to give up his magical advantages once and for all, as he intends to do at the end of
The Tempest
. That incredibly moving statement–“What strength I have’s mine own, Which is most faint–” If only he can hang onto that knowledge, that would be true strength. And the recognition that his real enemy is despair within, and that he stands in need of grace, like everyone else–Shakespeare did know just about everything. I know it’s presumptuous of me to try to put this into some different and contemporary
framework and relevance, but I can’t help it. Well, hell, maybe it’s not so presumptuous, at that.

Enough of this. Fan put on a display with Tiny (her python, if you recall) the other day, for Pique and me. I’ve always refused before. That snake is no friend of mine, although I admit it’s never damaged anyone. Pique, however, is totally unafraid. Fan put on her Princess Eureka outfit, which is a few gauzy bits of chiffon (mauve), some gold lace and a sprinkling of sequins. Also some mauve feathers stuck in a small turban-like concoction, which on Fan’s flaming hair looks pretty strange. So there she is, winding Tiny around her wrists and neck, and meantime gyrating her hips and belly, all the time complaining we aren’t getting the full effect because the oriental music on the record player doesn’t give the same atmosphere as the band at The Figleaf. Pique thought it was sublime. It
is
kind of impressive, too. Fan loved having such an appreciative audience. I think she’s actually quite fond of Pique now. I worry sometimes about Fan, though. Her nerves are terrible and her age is beginning to show. She says she never gives a thought to the future. I wonder.