The Love Object (4 page)

‘It’s all …’ I groped for the word. I had meant to say ‘meaningless’ but ‘cruel’ was the word that came out.

‘And your boys,’ he said. ‘What about your boys?’ He had seen photographs of them, and once I’d read him a letter from one of them. The word ‘cruel’ seemed to be blazing in my head. It screamed at me from every corner of the room. To avoid his glance, I looked down at the sleeve of my angora jersey and methodically began picking off pieces of fluff and rolling them into a little ball.

There was a moment’s pause.

‘This is an unlucky road. You’re the third,’ he said.

‘The third what?’ I said, industriously piling the black fluff into my palm.

‘A woman further up, her husband was a bandleader, used to be out late. One night she went to the dance hall and saw him with another girl; she came home and did it straight away.’

‘Gas?’ I asked, genuinely curious.

‘No, sedation,’ he said, and was off on another story about a girl who’d gassed herself and was found by him because he was in the house treating dry rot at the time. ‘Naked, except for a jersey,’ he said, and speculated on why she should be attired like that. His manner changed considerably as he recalled how he went into the house, smelt gas and searched it out.

I looked at him. His face was grave. He had scaled eyelids. I had never looked at him so closely before. ‘Poor Michael,’ I said. A feeble apology. I was thinking that if he had abetted my suicide he would then have been committed to the memory of it.

‘A lovely young girl,’ he said, wistful.

‘Poor girl,’ I said, mustering up pity.

There seemed to be nothing else to say. He had shamed me out of it. I stood up and made an effort at normality – I took some glasses off a side – table and moved in the direction of the kitchen. If dirty glasses are any proof of drinking, then quite a lot of it had been done by me over the past few days.

‘Well,’ he said and rose and sighed. He admitted to feeling pleased with himself.

As it happened, there would have been a secondary crisis that day. Although my children were due to return to their father, he rang to say that the older boy had a temperature, and since – though he did not say this – he could not take care of a sick child, he would be obliged to bring them to my house. They arrived in the afternoon. I was waiting inside the door, with my face heavily made up, to disguise my distress. The sick boy had a blanket draped over his tweed coat and one of his father’s scarves around his face. When I embraced him he began to cry. The younger boy went around the house to make sure that everything was as he had last seen it. Normally I had presents for them on their return home, but I had neglected it on this occasion, and consequently they were a little downcast.

‘Tomorrow,’ I said.

‘Why are there tears in your eyes?’ the sick boy asked as I undressed him.

‘Because you are sick,’ I said, telling a half-truth.

‘Oh, Mamsies,’ he said, calling me by a name he had used for years. He put his arms around me and we both began to cry. He was my less favourite child, and I felt he was crying for that as well as for the numerous un-guessed afflictions that the circumstances of a broken home would impose upon him. It was strange and unsatisfying to hold him in my arms when over the months I had got used to my lover’s size – the width of his shoulders, the exact height of his body which obliged me to stand on tiptoe so that our limbs could correspond perfectly. Holding my son, I was conscious only of how small he was and how tenaciously he clung.

The younger boy and I sat in the bedroom and played a game which entailed reading out questions such as ‘A River?’ ‘A Famous Footballer?’, and then spinning a disc until it steadied down at one letter and using that letter as the first initial of the river or the famous footballer or whatever the question called for. I was quite slow at it, and so was the sick boy. His brother won easily although I had asked him to let the invalid win. Children are callous.

We all jumped when the heating came on, because the boiler, from the basement just underneath, gave an almighty churning noise, and made the kind of sudden erupting move I had wanted to make that morning when I stood at the bedroom window and tried to pitch myself out. As a special surprise and to cheer me up the plumber had called in two of his mates and between them they got the job finished. To make us warm and happy as he put it, when he came to the bedroom to tell me. It was an awkward moment. I’d avoided him since our morning’s drama. At tea-time I’d even left his tea on a tray out on the landing. Would he tell other people how I had asked him to be my murderer. Would he have recognized it as that? I gave him and his friends a drink, and they stood uncomfortably in the children’s bedroom and looked at the little boy’s flushed face and said he would soon be better. What else could they say!

For the remainder of the evening the boys and I played the quiz game over and over again, and just before they went to sleep I read them an adventure story. In the morning they both had temperatures. I was busy nursing them for the next couple of weeks. I made beef tea a lot and broke bread into it and coaxed them to swallow those sops of savoury bread. They were constantly asking to be entertained. The only thing I could think of in the way of facts were particles of nature lore I had gleaned from one of my colleagues in the television canteen. Even with embellishing, it took not more than two minutes to tell my children: of a storm of butterflies in Venezuela, of animals called sloths who are so lazy they hang from trees and become covered with moss, and of how the sparrows in England sing differently to the sparrows in Paris.

‘More,’ they would say. ‘More, more.’ Then we would have to play that silly game again or embark upon another adventure story.

At these times I did not allow my mind to wander, but in the evenings when their father came I used to withdraw to the sitting-room and have a drink. Well that was disastrous. The leisure enabled me to brood, also I have very weak bulbs in the lamps and the dimness gives the room a quality that induces reminiscence. I would be transported back. I enacted various kinds of reunion with my lover, but my favourite one was an unexpected meeting in one of those tiled, inhuman, pedestrian subways and running towards each other and finding ourselves at a stairway which said (one in London actually does say), ‘To central island only’, and laughing as we leaped up those stairs propelled by miraculous wings. In less indulgent phases, I regretted that we hadn’t seen more sunsets, or cigarette advertisements, or something, because in memory our numerous meetings became one long uninterrupted state of love-making without the ordinariness of things in between to fasten those peaks; The days, the nights with him, seemed to have been sandwiched into a long, beautiful but single night instead of being stretched to the seventeen occasions it actually was. Ah, vanished peaks. Once I was so sure that he had come into the room that I tore off a segment of an orange I had just peeled, and handed it to him.

But from the other room I heard the low, assured voice of the children’s father delivering information with the self-importance of a man delivering dogmas, and I shuddered at the degree of poison that lay between us when we’d once professed to love. Plagued love. Then, some of the feeling I had for my husband transferred itself to my lover, and I reasoned with myself that the letter in which he had professed to love me was sham, that he had merely written it when he thought he was free of me, but finding himself saddled once again, he withdrew, and let me have the postcard. I was a stranger to myself. Hate was welling up. I wished multitudes of humiliation on him. I even plotted a dinner party that I would attend having made sure that he was invited and of snubbing him throughout. My thoughts teetered between hate and the hope of something final between us so that I would be certain of his feelings towards me. Even as I sat in a bus, an advertisement which caught my eye was immediately related to him. It said,
’DON’T PANIC WE MEND, WE ADAPT, WEA REMODEL.’
It was an advertisement for pearl-stringing. I would mend and with vengeance.

I cannot say when it first began to happen, because that would be too drastic and anyhow I do not know. But the children were back at school, and we’d got over Christmas, and he and I had not exchanged cards. But I began to think less harshly of him. They were silly thoughts really. I hoped he was having little pleasures like eating in restaurants, and clean socks, and red wine the temperature he liked it, and even – yes, even ecstacies in bed with his wife. These thoughts made me smile to myself, inwardly, the new kind of smile I had discovered. I shuddered at the risk he’d run by seeing me at all. Of course the earlier injured thoughts battled with these new ones. It was like carrying a taper along a corridor where the draughts are fierce and the chances of it staying alight pretty meagre. I thought of him and my children in the same instant, their little foibles became his: my children telling me elaborate lies about their sporting feats, his slight puffing when we climbed steps and his trying to conceal it. The age difference between us must have saddened him. It was then I think that I really fell in love with him. His courtship of me, his telegrams, his eventual departure, even our lovemaking were nothing compared with this new sensation. It rose like sap within me, it often made me cry, the fact that he could not benefit from it! The temptation to ring him had passed away.

His phone call came quite out of the blue. It was one of those times when I debated about answering it or not because mostly I let it ring. He asked if we could meet, if, and he said this so gently, my nerves were steady enough? I said my nerves were never better. That was a liberty I had to take. We met in a cafe for tea. Toast again. Just like the beginning. He asked how I was. Remarked on my good complexion. Neither of us mentioned the incident of the postcard. Nor did he say what impulse had moved him to telephone. It may not have been impulse at all. He talked about his work and how busy he’d been, and then relayed a little story about taking an elderly aunt for a drive and driving so slowly that she asked him to please hurry up because she would have walked there quicker.

‘You’ve recovered,’ he said then, suddenly. I looked at his face. I could see it was on his mind,

‘I’m over it,’ I said, and dipped my finger into the sugar bowl and let him lick the white crystals off the tip of my finger. Poor man. I could not have told him anything else, he would not have understood. In a way it was like being with someone else. He was not the one who had folded back the bedspread and sucked me dry and left his cigar ash for preserving. He was the representative of that one.

‘We’ll meet from time to time,’ he said.

‘Of course.’ I must have looked dubious.

‘Perhaps you don’t want to?’

‘Whenever you feel you would like to.’ I neither welcomed nor dreaded the thought. It would not make any difference to how I felt. That was the first time it occurred to me that all my life I had feared imprisonment, the nun’s cell, the hospital bed, the places where one faced the self without distraction, without the crutches of other people – but sitting there feeding him white sugar I thought, I now have entered a cell, and this man cannot know what it is for me to love him the way I do, and I cannot weigh him down with it, because he is in another cell confronted with other difficulties.

The cell reminded me of a convent and for something to say I mentioned my sister the nun.

‘I went to see my sister.’

‘How is she?’ he asked. He had often inquired about her. He used to take an interest in her and ask what she looked like. I even got the impression that he had considered the thought of sleeping with her.

‘She’s fine,’ I said. ‘We were walking down a corridor and she asked me to look around and make sure that there weren’t any other sisters looking and then she hoisted her skirts up and slid down the banisters.’

‘Dear girl,’ he said. He liked that story. The smallest things gave him such pleasure.

I enjoyed our tea. It was one of the least fruitless afternoons I’d had in months, and coming out he gripped my arm and said how perfect it would be if we could get away for a few days. Perhaps he meant it.

In fact we kept our promise. We do meet from time to time. You could say things are back to normal again. By normal I mean a state whereby I notice the moon, trees, fresh spit upon the pavement; I look at strangers and see in their expressions something of my own predicament; I am part of everyday life, I suppose. There is a lamp in my bedroom that gives out a dry crackle each time an electric train goes by and at night I count those crackles because it is the time he comes back. I mean the real he, not the man who confronts me from time to time across a café table, but the man that dwells somewhere within me. He rises before my eyes – his praying hands, his tongue that liked to suck, his sly eyes, his smile, the veins on his cheeks, the calm voice speaking sense to me. I suppose you wonder why I torment myself like this with details of his presence but I need it, I cannot let go of him now, because if I did, all our happiness and my subsequent pain – I cannot vouch for his – will all have been nothing, and nothing is a dreadful thing to hold on to.

M
RS
F
ARLEY WAS SITTING
in a bus when she first saw it. She spotted the price as the bus swerved round the corner and she wondered if it could be possible. A three-piece suite for nine pounds! Perhaps it was nineteen? Or ninety? All day she thought about it.

Next morning she walked there on her way to work. Nine pounds it was. Quite a good three-piece suite covered in dark-green tapestry. Second-hand of course but not so shabby that you’d know. After all, it could be one that she’d had in her house for years, ever since she married. She’d buy it.

Luckily she had a pound in her bag which served as a deposit. While the man wrote out a receipt she sat on the armchairs, then on the couch, moving along the seat to make sure it was thoroughly sprung. How well it would fit into her front room. In the evenings, she and Mr Farley would have an armchair each. In May when Mr Farley went on the boiler-maker’s outing she and her friend would share the couch. It would be perfect. May … the sun through the windows shining on the castor-oil plant, and the couch a darker shade of green with antimacassars to protect it from sun and greasy hair. There would be a cushion for behind his back, and with a bit of luck some things would be in bloom, disguising the creosote-soaked fence. He would see what a good gardener she was.