The Ex-Wives (28 page)

While he lay dreaming, India and Nyange were emerging from the Subterranean Club. It was a smoky basement near the Charing Cross Road, its floor slippery with beer and flyers. They emerged, their eardrums singing. Downstairs the music thumped; muffled, now, like heartbeats.

They met occasionally in the West End, when India finished work at the cinema. They were fond of each other; after all, they were sort of family.

‘Your Dad's been very strange recently,' said India.

‘Which dad?'

‘Your real one.'

‘Oh. Him.'

‘He's obsessed with somebody half his age.'

‘Not with me though. Oh, no.' Nyange tossed her head. ‘He hasn't even come to see the show.'

‘How could he, when you've never told him about it?' They stood at the stop, waiting for the night bus. ‘It's up to you, too,' said India.

Men, passing, turned to stare at Nyange. She turned her head away. An empty Marks and Spencer's carrier bag bowled along the pavement, its handles raised like arms. A gust of wind blew it into the air, up, up above the parked cars.

‘What're you doing for Christmas?' India asked.

‘Mum's going to Kingston, but I can't go because I'm working.'

‘Kingston's not far.'

‘Kingston Jamaica, peabrain. Visiting the grandparents. Doing some consciousness-raising amongst the women. She's really boringly political now.'

‘Go and see Buffy.'

‘I can't,' said Nyange. ‘I haven't seen him for years. Last time it was really depressing.'

‘Why?'

‘He smoked all through Christmas dinner.'

‘Perhaps he was nervous,' said India.

‘Mum had to cook him pheasant, yuk. He bit on a shotgun pellet and cracked his tooth, blimey he made a fuss. We said poor little bird, it didn't want to get shot. It would rather be flying round the woods and things, wouldn't it? And then he gave half of it to his dog.'

‘Maybe you'd put him off. Maybe it was disgusting.'

‘Then his dog was sick on the carpet.'

‘Exactly.' India's bus hove into sight, its interior blazing with light. ‘Actually, I like him better than my real parents.'

‘That's because he's not your real parent,' said Nyange.

The bus slowed down. India rummaged for her purse. ‘It's the season of forgiveness. Whatever your Mum's been saying about him, all these years, that's not to do with you. He's in quite a state.'

‘I
can't
.'

The bus doors folded open with a hiss. ‘Come and have Christmas with us then,' said India. She hugged her and stepped on the bus. ‘I wish you would. It'll be much more fun if you're there.'

The doors closed, with a sigh. India sat down. The bus was empty. DO NOT SPEAK TO THE DRIVER, said the sign.

As the bus carried her home, India dozed. She dreamed it was Buffy up there, sitting at the wheel. The bus wasn't empty now, it was crammed with children and ex-wives. DO NOT SPEAK, it said, but they were all speaking at once, their voices deafening. They were shouting that he hadn't a clue where he was going, he hadn't passed his test and how
could he take them home when he didn't live there anymore?

O Come, All Ye Faithful . . .

Three days to go. When Buffy went into the shop, Celeste was on the phone. She muttered something into the receiver and put it down quickly.

‘Who was that?' he asked, a pleasant smile stretching his lips.

‘Nobody.'

He tried to rally. ‘Let me take you out tonight.
The 39 Steps
is on at the Everyman.'

‘Oh, dear.' She reddened. ‘Sorry, I can't.' She stood behind the counter, gnawing her fingernail.

‘Know what Picasso said? One starts to get young at the age of sixty, and then it's too late.'

‘Don't be silly,' she said, smiling.

He paused, then he said casually: ‘Would you believe, I don't even know your address! What happens if I want to send round a little Christmas something?'

‘How lovely!' She told him her address. ‘I'm up on the second floor.'

When the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even . . .

Three days to go . . . but no snow lay. The weather was mild. The ground was soft, perfect for digging.

In the dark, solitary figures toiled. The moonlight caught the flash of their spades. One on Dartmoor; one in a field just outside the glow of Basingstoke. All over England people were digging for treasure.

In Bockhangar Wood, in deepest Kent, two figures were digging, side by side. They weren't digging for treasure; they were planting, hoping for their own miracle.

Last winter I went down to my native town
, wrote Dr Johnson,
where I found the streets much narrower and shorter than I thought I had left them, inhabited by a new race of people, to whom I was very little known. My playfellows were grown old, and forced me to suspect that I was no longer young
.

Added to that, thought Buffy, a drowsy numbness brought on by duplicity and drink. At his age it was hard to stay awake until the small hours. He managed to, until two in the morning. Then he went downstairs and hailed a cab.

It was a tired-looking street. His darling angel lived here; his darling, treacherous angel. There was nobody about. He got out, telling the taxi-driver to wait, and crossed the road.

There was a junk shop, at street level. Up above
music thumped. Pink light glowed through a torn blind. But on the second floor, Celeste's floor, the room was dark. The curtains hadn't even been closed. Nobody was there. And by this time of the night, nobody would be.

He stood there, shivering in his bedroom slippers. There was a note stuck with sellotape to the front door.
Liam, I'm at Chog's.
Behind, the
mutter-mutter
of the taxi-engine.
Mutter-mutter, cuckold-cuckold, that'll be £3.50 squire, from Heathrow ho-ho, mutter-mutter, bit of a wally aren't you? Always have been, eh?

God rest ye merry gentlemen, Let nothing you dismay . . .

The Three Fiddlers was festooned with streamers, the ceiling practically groaned with them. The lunchtime roar was swelling in volume; beside the fire the two old girls, Kitty and Una, were singing. Behind the bar the impossibly young Australian was wearing a Santa Claus hat.

Buffy was having a drink with Celeste. Men leered at her – even more so with the new haircut. Oh, my God, did
he
look at her like that?

‘Who're you seeing?' he asked.

‘Who?'

‘What's his name?'

‘Buffy, I told you!' She patted his knee. ‘He doesn't exist.'

‘Is it Liam?'

‘Who's Liam?' she asked.

‘Or Chog?'

‘Who're you talking about?'

She got up and went out to the loo. Or was she making a phone call? While she was gone he rummaged inside the pockets of her coat. The things he had discovered, in his previous lives! Train tickets to Bristol Temple Meads; a screwed-up note, in unfamiliar writing, saying
Bell broken, bang on door, xxx.
No actual love letters, he had never slept with a woman that stupid.

He pulled out her darling woollen gloves and a packet of Polos. He felt around in the bottom and pulled out some empty, earthy polythene bags and a plant tag.
Cypripedium calceolus,
it said.
Lady's Slipper Orchid
.

He bundled all the stuff back. Who was she having an affair with – a gardener? She returned.

‘I am coming for Christmas, aren't I?' he bleated.

‘Of course. I said so.'

‘I've bought the turkey.' He had insisted on this. He hadn't bought one for years; it made the whole thing seem more domestic – more possible, somehow.

‘I'll come and fetch it on the morning,' she said.
‘Then you can come to my flat. I'm cooking us all Christmas dinner.'

‘What do you mean,
all?
'

She blushed. Whoops, a slip-up there. What was she envisaging, some ghastly show-down?

‘Who're you talking about?' he asked.

She said: ‘I've got a lot of rabbits.'

‘Why?'

‘I'll tell you some day.'

He put his arm around her. ‘Let's have lunch tomorrow. It's Christmas Eve. Let me take you out somewhere swish.'

She stroked his knee, running her finger down the lines of the corduroy. ‘I can't,' she said. ‘I'm getting off work early.'

‘When?'

‘One o'clock' she said.

‘Why?'

‘I've got to go somewhere,' she said.

CHRISTMAS EVE AND
the streets were crammed. People were leaving, their cars piled with gifts.
Better fill up now, no petrol tomorrow.
People were going home, gathering in their children, battening down the hatches. People were rushing out making last minute forays – cranberry sauce, paper napkins. Oh, God, some Ferrero Rocher chocolates for Thingy. The rustling of wrapping paper behind closed doors, whispers, giggles. In heated rooms trees silently dropped their needles, and unwatched TVs announced that snow was forecast.

It is not just what you wear, it's the way you wear it. This was Buffy's profession, of course. Still he was taking no chances. Shaving off the beard was the
obvious thing but he couldn't bear to do that. God knew how many chins lurked under there by now; that was one of the reasons he had grown it in the first place. But he wore a black trilby hat; he had purloined it, long ago, from the BBC costume department and nowadays he only wore it to visit his bank manager. He wore dark glasses. Christmas Eve had dawned cold but sunny too, so they didn't look too ridiculous. He had wrapped a black scarf around his face; as he hid in the bushes, waiting, his hot breath breathed back into his face, dampening it with the condensation of his anxiety. His coat – well, Penny had given it to him, say no more. Charcoal-grey, satin-lined, from Aquascutum.
Her
sort of thing, like all her presents. One look at the coat and you could see why his marriage had failed. He hadn't worn it for years; Celeste, of course, had never seen it.

Through the sooty leaves he could see the corner shop. At one o'clock sharp Celeste emerged, putting on her coat. She called ‘Happy Christmas!' as she closed the door and hurried into the Edgware Road, crossing when the green man was lit.

His old heart was thumping. He sidled out, through the shrubbery. A bus was approaching. He crossed the road, saunteringly, like a stockbroker. Or was he a bit of a spiv, with the shades? Whatever, she didn't notice because she had shuffled in, with
the rest of the queue, and by the time he climbed in she had gone upstairs.

She liked sitting on the top of buses. How painful it was, to remember her childish confidences now! He mustn't think of that, it was too upsetting; he had to keep alert and keep in character. His skin tingled with the old actor's adrenalin – it had been so long since he had done any proper work. Down here he was in a good position to see her leave. The woman next to him had a pile of parcels on her knee. ‘They all want those Nintendo things, don't they?' she said.

Celeste got out at Victoria Station. He got out, following her through the crowds. The place was packed. Everyone was fleeing the city; they carried suitcases and Christmas presents. Just for a moment he lost sight of her, then he glimpsed her standing in line for a ticket. She stood motionless, her face blank. What was she thinking? He felt uncomfortable, watching her. When people are amongst strangers they revert to themselves, they look smaller. Her breathless charm, her very Celesteness, had drained away; she was just a slim, abstracted girl consulting her watch. She could be visiting an aged aunt, instead of setting off to meet her lover.

She got her ticket and hurried across the concourse. On the way she stopped at W H Smith; he
watched her buy a magazine. She had no luggage; she must be returning that night. Besides, she had to cook him dinner the next day. She had said she would come round in the morning to fetch the turkey.

All of a sudden, such domesticity seemed utterly unlikely. She was leaving him for ever. She was taking the boat train; she was travelling to Gatwick. She was going to fly away and he would never see her again.

She hurried towards the platforms. Blithering hell, he hadn't bought a ticket. He didn't know where to buy a ticket
for
. Too late now. Too late to go to the ticket office and ask the man her destination. He should have thought of this, but his own boldness in this enterprise and his growing sense of unreality had paralysed him. Quick! Action stations! He hurried after her. He would have to pay on the train. He was swept up in a hurrying surge of people; thank God he had told the porter to take the dog around the block, if he wasn't home by six.

‘But it's Christmas Day!' Miles stared at her.

‘Not till tomorrow.'

‘It's Christmas Day tomorrow. All your family's coming!'

‘We'll be back by then. Come on.' Brenda already had her coat on.

‘But it's miles!' he said. ‘It's hundreds of miles. It's East bloody Kent!'

She was trembling – actually trembling. He had never seen anything like it. The woman was mad. ‘If we don't get there first, somebody else'll find it.' She switched off the Christmas tree lights. She dashed to the window and checked the catch. ‘Don't you see, nobody'll go out tonight!'

‘No, because they're not totally insane.'

She switched off the light in the little crib above the fireplace. She turned round to face him. ‘I've found it, Miles. I've worked out the place where the treasure is. If you're not coming, I'll just go by myself.'

Celeste was in the next carriage. Through the interconnecting door, Buffy could see the top of her head. He had bought the
Standard
; he pretended to read it, but he had forgotten his spectacles. Outside the suburbs slid past. The sun was already sinking; poplars cast long shadows across a wintry sports field. Next to him, a woman nudged her child: ‘Stop that, Lottie, or there'll be tears tomorrow.'