The Shifting Fog (54 page)

She ran a washcloth over his hand. ‘It’s Teddy. He has guests from America for the next fortnight and I’m expected to play the good wife. Take them places, entertain them.’

‘I hate to think of you like that,’ he said. ‘Fawning all over him.’

‘I certainly don’t fawn all over him. Teddy wouldn’t know what was happening if I did.’

‘You know what I mean,’ said Robbie. ‘Living with him, sleeping with him.’

‘We don’t,’ said Hannah. ‘You know we don’t.’

‘But people think you do,’ said Robbie. ‘They think you’re a pair.’

She reached to take his fingers in the soapy water that was fast becoming cool. ‘I hate it too,’ said Hannah. ‘I’d do anything so that I never had to leave you.’

‘Anything?’

‘Almost anything.’ She stood, shivered when the cold air hit her wet skin. She climbed out of the bath and wrapped herself in a towel. Sat on a wooden seat by the window. ‘Arrange to see Emmeline sometime next week; let me know when and where we can meet, after New Year?’

He slid deeper beneath the water so that only his head was visible. ‘I want to break it off with Emmeline.’

‘No,’ said Hannah, looking up suddenly. ‘Not yet. How will we see each other? How will I know where to find you?’

‘Wouldn’t be a problem if you lived with me. We’d always be able to find one another. We wouldn’t be able to lose each other.’

‘I know, I know.’ She pulled her slip over her head. ‘But until then . . . how can you think of breaking it off?’

‘You were right. She’s becoming too attached.’

‘No,’ said Hannah. ‘She’s ebullient. It’s just her way. Why? What makes you say that?’

Robbie shook his head.

‘What is it?’ said Hannah.

‘Nothing,’ said Robbie. ‘You’re right. It’s probably nothing.’

‘I know it’s nothing,’ said Hannah firmly. And in that moment she believed it. Would have said it even if she didn’t. Love is like that. Urgent and insistent; it conquers easily one’s sense of satisfaction. She was dressed now, and it was his turn to sit on the chair wrapped in a towel. She knelt before him, slipped his left shirt sleeve up over his arm. ‘You’re cold,’ she said. ‘Here.’ He shrugged his right arm into the shirt and Hannah started on the buttons. She didn’t look at him when she said, ‘Teddy wants us to move back to Riverton.’

‘When?’

‘March. He’s going to have it restored, build a new summer house.’ She spoke dryly. ‘He imagines himself quite the country squire.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I didn’t want to think of it,’ she said helplessly. ‘I kept hoping he’d change his mind.’ She reached the top button, slipped it through and ran her hand down the middle of his chest. ‘You have to keep contact with Emmeline. I can’t invite you to stay, but she can. She’s bound to have friends up for weekends, country parties.’

He nodded, wouldn’t meet her eyes.

‘Please,’ said Hannah. ‘For me. I have to know you’re coming.’

‘And we’ll become one of those country-house couples?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘We’ll play the same games as countless couples before us. Sneak around in the night, pretend to be distantly acquainted in the day?’

‘Yes,’ she said quietly.

‘They’re not our rules.’

‘I know.’

‘It’s not enough,’ he said.

‘I know,’ she said again.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘But only for you.’

One evening in early 1924, with Teddy away on business and Deborah visiting friends, they arranged to meet. It was a part of London Hannah had never entered. As the taxi wended its way deeper into the tangled East End, she watched out the windows. Night had fallen and for the most part there was little to see: grey buildings; horse-drawn carts with lanterns suspended over their top; occasional red-cheeked children in woollen jumpers, tossing jacks, rolling marbles, pointing at the taxi. Then, down one street, the shock of coloured lights, people thronging, music. Hannah leaned forward, rapped on the screen behind the driver.

‘What is this? What’s happening here?’

‘New Year festival,’ he said in a heavy cockney accent. ‘Bloody barmy, the lot of ’em. Middle o’ winter; should be inside.’

Hannah watched, fascinated, as the taxi crawled down the street. Lights had been strung between buildings so that they zigzagged right the way along. A band of men playing fiddles and a piano accordion had gathered quite a crowd, clapping and laughing. Children wove between adults, dragging streamers and blowing whistles; men and women mingled around great metal drums, roasting chestnuts, drinking ale from mugs. The taxi driver had to hit his horn and call out at them to clear the way. ‘Mad, the lot of

’em,’ he said as the taxi emerged at the other end of the street and turned the corner into a darkened road. ‘Stark raving.’

Hannah felt as if she’d passed through a sort of fairyland. When the driver pulled up finally at the address she’d given him, she ran breathlessly to find Robbie. To tell him what she’d seen. Robbie was resistant but Hannah pleaded, convinced him finally to accompany her back to the festival. They got out so little, she said, and when might they have opportunity again to visit a party together? No one would know them here. It was safe. She led the way from memory, half convinced she’d be unable to find it again. Half convinced the festival would have disappeared like a fairy ring in a children’s tale. But soon enough, the frenetic strains of the violin band, children’s whistles, jovial shouts, and she knew it lay ahead.

Moments later they turned the corner into wonderland, began to wander down the street. The cool breeze brought with it mingling wafts of roasting nuts, sweat, and good cheer. People hung out of windows, calling to those below, singing, toasting the new year, farewelling the old. Hannah watched wide-eyed, held tightly to Robbie’s arm, pointing this way and that, laughing with delight at the people who’d started dancing on a makeshift floor. They stopped to watch, joined the growing crowd, found seats together on a plank of wood stretched across timber boxes. A large woman with red cheeks and masses of dark curling hair perched on a stool by the fiddlers, singing and slapping a tambourine against her padded thigh. Whoops from the audience, shouts of encouragement, flowing skirts whipping past. Hannah was enthralled. She’d never seen such revelry. Oh, she’d attended her fair share of parties, but compared to this they seemed so orchestrated. So tame. She clapped, laughed, squeezed Robbie’s hand vehemently. ‘They’re wonderful,’ she said, unable to shift her eyes from the couples. Men and women of all shapes and sizes, arms linked as they swirled and stomped and clapped. ‘Aren’t they wonderful?’

The music was infectious. Faster, louder, seeping through each pore, flowing into her blood, making her skin tingle. Driving rhythm that tugged at her core.

Then Robbie’s voice in her ear. ‘I’m thirsty. Let’s go, find something to drink.’

She hardly heard, shook her head. Realised she’d been holding her breath. ‘No. No, you go. I want to watch.’

He hesitated. ‘I don’t want to leave you.’

‘I’ll be fine.’ Vaguely aware as his hand held firm a moment, then detached from hers. No time to watch him go, too much else to see. To hear. To feel.

She wondered later whether she should have noticed something in his voice. Whether she should have realised then that the noise, the activity, the crowds were pressing in on him so that he could hardly breathe. But she didn’t. She was captivated. Robbie’s place was soon filled, someone else’s warm thigh pressed against hers. She glanced sideways. A short, stocky man with red whiskers; a brown felt hat.

The man caught her eye, leaned close, cocked his thumb toward the dance floor. ‘Take a spin?’

His breath was tinged with tobacco. His eyes were pale, blue, trained on her.

‘Oh . . . No,’ she smiled at him. ‘Thank you. I’m with someone.’

She looked over her shoulder, scanned for Robbie. Thought she saw him through the darkness on the other side of the street. Standing by a smoking barrel. ‘He won’t be long.’

The man tilted his face. ‘Come on. Just a little one. Keep the both of us warm.’

Hannah peered behind again. No sign now of Robbie. Had he said where he was going? How long he would be?

‘Well?’ The man. She turned back to him. Music was everywhere. It reminded her of a street she’d seen in Paris years before. On her honeymoon. She bit her lip. What would it hurt, just a little dance? What purpose life if not to seize at opportunity? ‘All right,’ she said, taking his hand. Smiling nervously. ‘Though I’m not sure I know how.’

The man grinned. Pulled her up, dragged her into the centre of the swirling crowd.

And she was dancing. Somehow, in his strong grip, she knew the steps. Knew them well enough. They skipped and turned, swept up in the current of the other couples. Violins sang, boots stomped, hands clapped. The man linked an arm through hers, elbow to elbow, and round they spun. She laughed, couldn’t help herself. She’d never felt such rushing freedom. She turned her face toward the night sky; closed her eyes, felt the kiss of cold air on her warm lids, warm cheeks. She opened them again, looked for Robbie as they went. Longed to dance with him. Be held by him. She stared into the sea of faces—surely there hadn’t been so many before?—but she was spinning too fast. They were a blur of eyes and mouths and words.

‘I . . .’ She was out of breath, clapped her hand to her bare neck.

‘I have to stop now. My friend will be back.’ She tapped the man’s shoulder as he continued to hold her, continued to spin. Said, right into his ear: ‘That’s enough. Thank you.’

For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to stop, was going to continue, round and round, never letting her go. But then she felt a loss of momentum, a rush of dizziness, and they were near the bench again.

It was full now of other spectators. Still no Robbie.

‘Where’s your friend?’ said the man. He’d lost his hat in the dance, ran his hand through a mat of red hair.

‘He’ll be here,’ said Hannah, scanning strange faces. Blinking to rid herself of giddiness. ‘Soon.’

‘No sense sitting out in the meantime,’ said the man. ‘You’ll catch a chill.’

‘No,’ said Hannah. ‘Thank you but I’ll wait here.’

The man gripped her wrist. ‘Come on. Keep a fellow company.’

‘No,’ said Hannah, firmly this time. ‘I’ve had enough.’

The man’s grip loosened. He shrugged, ran his fingers over his whiskers, his neck. Turned to leave.

Suddenly, out of the darkness, movement. A shadow. Upon them.

Robbie.

An elbow in her shoulder and she was falling. A shout. His? The man’s? Hers?

Hannah collapsed into a wall of onlookers.

The band continued; the clapping and stomping too. From where she fell she glanced upward. Robbie was on the man. Fist pounding. Pounding. Again. Again. Again. Panic. Heat. Fear.

‘Robbie!’ she called. ‘Robbie, stop!’

She pushed her way through endless people, grabbing at anything she could.

The music had stopped and people had gathered to the fray. Somehow she pressed between them, made her way to the front. Clutched at Robbie’s shirt. ‘Robbie!’

He shook her off. Turned briefly toward her. Eyes blank, not meeting hers. Not seeing hers.

The man’s fist met Robbie’s face. And he was atop. Blood.

Hannah screamed. ‘No! Let him be. Please, let him be.’ She was crying now. ‘Somebody help.’

She was never sure exactly how it ended. Never learned the fellow’s name who came to her assistance, to Robbie’s assistance. Pulled the whiskered man off; dragged Robbie to the wall. Fetched glasses of water, then of whisky. Told her to take her old man home and put him to bed.

Whoever he was, he’d been unsurprised by the evening’s events. Had laughed and told them it wouldn’t be a Saturday night—or a Friday, or a Thursday, for that matter—if a couple of lads didn’t set one against the other. And then he’d shrugged, told them Red Wycliffe wasn’t a bad sort—he’d seen a bad war, that was all, hadn’t been the same since. Then he’d packed them off, Robbie leaning on Hannah for support.

They attracted hardly a glance as they made their way along the street, leaving the dancing, the merriment, the clapping behind them.

Later, back at Robbie’s flat, she washed his face. He sat on a low timber stool and she knelt before. He’d said little since they’d left the festival and she hadn’t wanted to ask. What had overcome him, why he’d pounced, where he’d been. She’d guessed he was asking himself the same sorts of questions, and she was right.

‘What might have happened?’ he said eventually. ‘What might have happened?’

‘Shhh,’ she said, pressing the damp flannel against his cheekbone.

‘It’s over.’

Robbie shook his head. Closed his eyes. Beneath his thin lids, his thoughts flickered. Hannah barely heard him when he spoke.

‘I’d have killed him,’ he whispered. ‘So help me God, I’d have killed him.’

They didn’t go out again. Not after that. Hannah blamed herself; berated herself for not listening to his protestations, for insisting they go. The lights, the noise, the crowds. She had read about shell shock: she should have known better. She resolved to care better for him in future. To remember all he’d been through. To treat him gently. And never to mention it again. It was over. It wouldn’t happen again. She’d make sure of it.

A week or so later they were lying together, playing their game, imagining they lived in a tiny isolated village at the top of the Himalayas, when Robbie sat up and said, ‘I’m tired of this game.’

Hannah propped herself on one side. ‘What would you like to do?’

‘I want it to be real.’

‘So do I,’ Hannah said. ‘Imagine if—’

‘No,’ Robbie said. ‘Why can’t we make it real?’

‘Darling,’ said Hannah gently, running a finger along his right cheekbone, across his recent scar. ‘I don’t know whether the fact had slipped your mind, but I’m already married.’ She was trying to be light-hearted. To make him laugh, but he didn’t.

‘People get divorced.’

She wondered who these people were. ‘Yes, but—’

‘We could go somewhere else, away from here, away from everyone we know. Don’t you want to?’

‘You know I do,’ said Hannah.