A Touch of Love (12 page)

‘If you don’t mind me saying so,’ he said, pushing towards her the white wine and soda which he had, without asking, already ordered, ‘you don’t look too good. I’d say you’d been losing out on sleep. Am I right?’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I wasn’t aware of feeling tired.’

‘Got a lot on at the moment?’

‘No, not much. We’ve been getting through it all quite steadily.’

‘And –’ he shot her an intrusive glance ‘– how are things at home?’

‘So-so,’ she said defiantly.

‘I see, you don’t want to talk about it. Fair enough. We’ve got other things to talk about, I suppose. Did you bring the story back?’

‘Yes, I’ve got it here.’

She took the notebook out of her case, and it lay on the table between them. Emma realized that she could remember very little about the story and secretly scanned the first page, like a child about to be tested on the contents of an essay.

‘You see what I mean about this, then, do you? You see why it throws a totally new light on the kind of man you’re defending?’

‘Not really. It’s just a story.’

‘No it isn’t, though. That’s precisely what it isn’t. For a start, the hero bears a great deal of similarity to Grant himself. The same occupation, the same lifestyle, the same homosexual tendencies.’

‘Now wait a moment –’

‘Just let me have my say, Emma, let me have my say.’ She sipped her drink, shocked by the readiness of his impatience. ‘Not only that, but it puts forward a system, a philosophy of life, which many ordinary people would find offensive and irresponsible. The hero of this story abdicates all responsibility for his actions and even for his sexual behaviour. Furthermore he is rewarded for it, since no harm comes to him and he ends up in the arms of a woman who loves him. The police are treated as laughable and no effort is made to argue that one should face up to the consequences of the way in which one treats other people. The story accepts a perverse sexuality as being normal and even goes so far as to celebrate the confusion and unpleasantness which it brings about. On top of that, it projects a cavalier attitude towards terrorism.’

Emma fingered her glass and tried to think hard before speaking.

‘There are things about it I don’t understand,’ she said, ‘but I don’t think you’re giving it a chance. I think it’s meant as a bit of a joke.’

She was going to have to try harder than this, she knew.

‘Does he strike you as someone who has much to joke about at the moment?’ Alun asked.

‘Of course he hasn’t, at the moment. But I thought this was written some time ago, wasn’t it? Anyway, when I say it’s a joke… I don’t just mean that he’s trying to be funny. I mean some of it’s serious. Isn’t there a bit – about halfway through, where somebody says… I mean, there are these two people talking, aren’t there? And one of them says – well, I can’t quite remember what, it’s somewhere in the middle, though…’

She began to flick through the notebook, panic having frozen her voice; but Alun took it firmly from her hands.

‘Why should we argue about the story, anyway, especially if you can’t remember it very well? There’s no point in quibbling over details. The point is this – what does it tell us about the person who wrote it? Is it written by a person who seems trustworthy, or attractive, or well balanced, or… normal? Are those words you would use about the writer of this story?’

Emma admitted, reluctantly, ‘Not the first words, no.’

‘Quite. And yet
you
trust him.’

‘Yes,’ said Emma, ‘I do.’

‘I don’t understand you, sometimes. I really don’t.’

‘You still want me to get him to plead guilty, don’t you?’

‘You know the advantages.’

‘Yes, I know the advantages.’

‘But you won’t do it?’

‘Don’t think you can scare me, Alun. I like to make up my own mind about these things.’

‘You mean you haven’t made up your mind?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

And yet she knew that when Alun excused himself and left after only another five minutes, it was because he had already begun to sense victory. She could not understand why she was starting to give in, why Robin now seemed so unimportant, why she had come so badly out of an argument with a lawyer who she knew (or would have known, until recently) was no match for her. For a while she felt angry with herself; and from within this anger a thought, a forbidden thought, arose and, before she was able to suppress it again, had made itself very clear: she wished that she had never agreed to take Robin’s case on, in the first place.

∗

A small Anglican church in suburban Birmingham; Saturday morning, getting on for noon; drizzle; the blazing July weather nothing but a memory.

Emma, who did not see Helen nearly as often as she would have liked, had been looking forward to the wedding for some weeks. She had bought a new hat and a new dress especially for the occasion, but as soon as she stepped inside the church (wondering, from the complete absence of people outside the porch, whether she had come to the right one) she realized that she was overdressed. She had forgotten that Helen was not popular with her own family, most of whom now lived in Wales and could not be bothered to make the journey down. As for the groom’s relatives, they were a sorry-looking bunch; some were clearly sulking at the fact that they were having to wear suits and ties on a Saturday morning and were looking crumpled and hung-over. So far less than twenty people had turned up. Emma ignored the attentions of the usher and went to sit by the first familiar figure she could see, a great-aunt of Helen’s whom she had once met at a birthday party. They said hello to one another but she could tell that the aunt did not remember who she was, and they had no further conversation. At least this way, not knowing anyone, she did not have to apologize for Mark’s non-appearance.

As she sat there waiting for Helen to arrive, Emma became aware of increasing depression. Partly, she knew, it was to do with the poverty of the occasion itself. She recognized the pieces the organist was playing, and could tell that Helen had chosen them: subtle, melancholy music which she remembered from their days at law school together. But she was also in a position to catch glimpses of the organist, up and to the right of the choir stalls, and she could see that he was a frail and very old man whose fingers were slipping clumsily on the keys. Emma knew that when the hymn-singing started it would be ragged and thin. Also, there was no escaping it, she could never attend a wedding without being reminded of her own, which had taken place six years before that summer. Helen had been there, too. Emma had felt very smug at the time; yet perhaps her friend had done the smart thing by leaving it so late to get married. She realized, now, that she was going to find it hard to congratulate her.

When she turned to watch Helen come up the aisle, she found her pale and nervous: but their eyes met and they exchanged a quivering smile.

As the service progressed, she felt her strength slowly leave her. She wished that she had an arm to cling onto, even her husband’s. Fortunately the aunt sitting next to her was letting slip the occasional tear, so Emma felt less bad about having to keep dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief; but finally, just when she thought she was going to make it safely through the entire ceremony, something gave way, and she broke. It was during the last hymn, which happened to have been, once (in the days when she used to go to church), one of her favourites. She liked the tune, apart from anything else, but it had a special significance for her because it had been sung at her wedding, too. Now, after only the first two lines, the rhythm dragging beneath the organist’s ancient hands, the notes shrill and unsteady, a terrifying sorrow rose within her:

Dear Lord and father of mankind
Forgive our foolish ways

Suddenly she was sobbing loudly, louder than anyone was singing, and then people were turning to look at her, and she sank to her knees, and the aunt was laying a bony hand on her arm; smiling sweetly in wrong-headed sympathy.

∗

At the reception, which was held at Helen’s parents’ house, the first thing Emma said to her old friend was:

‘Helen, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened. I spoiled everything for you.’

‘Of course you didn’t. Don’t be silly.’ She was still wearing her wedding dress. ‘Look, shall we go away and talk somewhere? I haven’t seen you in ages.’

They went out into the garden and threaded their way through those guests who were prepared to put up with the grey skies and the threat of rain. These included the groom, Tony, and a group of his friends.

‘Hello, Emma,’ he said. ‘You’re looking good.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Mark not with you today?’

‘No, not today. He couldn’t make it.’

Tony kissed his wife, and the two women moved on. As they left, Emma heard one of the group asking, ‘Who’s Mark?’, and Tony answered, ‘Her husband.’ His friend shook his head, and said, wistfully, ‘Lucky man.’

The garden backed on to Edgbaston reservoir, and by passing through a little wicket gate they could get out onto the footpath and sit almost by the water. The ground was very damp, but they didn’t mind.

‘Emmy,’ said Helen, ‘tell me what’s wrong.’

Emma cried in her friend’s arms for a while and the she started to talk.

‘Oh Helen, what am I going to do?’ she said, when she had told her everything. ‘What can I do?’

‘Well, what do you feel like doing?’

‘I don’t know. I hate being with him. I hate being in the house.’

‘Have you anywhere else to go?’

‘No. I don’t know. Home, I suppose.’

‘Perhaps you should do that, just for a while. Take a holiday. Can you afford to? Are things very busy at work?’

Emma sat up and began to dry her eyes.

‘Not very. There’s only really one case that needs much doing on it at the moment.’

‘What’s that?’

She told her the story of Robin, and explained about how she was being advised to change his plea.

‘Well, why don’t you? Are you so sure that he didn’t do it?’

‘I was fairly sure, yes.’

‘But look, it would make life so much easier for him if he pleaded guilty, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t it mean a lighter sentence? Saving the boy from the ordeal of having to go to court, and all that? You can get him to understand, surely. That’s what I’d do.’

‘Maybe.’

‘If you did that, would you be able to take some time off?’

‘Probably. A week or so.’

‘Then do it, Emma, for heaven’s sake. Be selfish for once in your life. When was the last time you were selfish?’

Emma summoned a small, grateful smile, and looked out over the cloudy water of the reservoir as it started to swell with the rising wind. Her mind was already searching for the words with which to break the news to Robin.

PART THREE
The Lovers’ Quarrel

Friday 18th April, 1986

Forces would seem to be conspiring against me, Robin had thought, as he sat on the park bench and watched Ted disappear from view.

I have all these theories, all these theories about literature, and I can’t for the life of me write them down. I have all these stories, all these stories which by some miracle I do actually manage to get written, and nobody will read them. I spend my evenings traipsing from house to house, distributing leaflets for unilateral disarmament and world peace, and the so-called leader of the so-called free world wakes up one morning and decides to slaughter a few hundred Libyans because he’s lost a bit of face. The only person I respect, the only one I feel capable of loving, in this whole city, is so bitter and angry at the way people have treated her that she rounds on me at the slightest provocation. I plan a restful holiday in the Lake District, and wind up stuck in Coventry, playing host to some idiot who claims he used to be a friend of mine at Cambridge.

Actually I don’t dislike Ted. The indifference he inspires in me is really rather exhilarating. Five minutes out of his company and already I have almost forgotten what he looks like. Some faces fade the minute they leave the room. And some faces never fade. Never, never. At least – what am I, a man of twenty-six – I assume they never fade. Perhaps when I am forty-six I shall have forgotten, completely forgotten, what she ever looked like. Perhaps Kate and I will pass in the street somewhere or other, Bradford or somewhere, and we shan’t even recognize each other. I doubt it, though. I can’t see it happening somehow. I hope I don’t live to be forty-six, for one thing.

Or anyway, I hope that if I live to be forty-six I will by then have left behind all this stuff, all these ideals, whatever you want to call them, these hopes that I carry around my neck like a sack of potatoes; or failing that, that I will perhaps have made something of them, that it will all have paid off, all this waiting, and I will after all be a famous writer or something, and then one night the lights in some studio will be shining bright in my face, and some television presenter on some late-night chat show will smile at me and say:

‘Perhaps you can tell us something about your years in Coventry. Looking back, now, does it not seem that this was a particularly formative time for you, in terms of your writing and the development of your theoretical ideas? Can you tell us something about the so-called “Coventry group”, and the form your meetings used to take?’

And I will scratch my head, or rub my nose, or cross mylegs, and answer, in a tone of detached reminiscence:

‘Well, by and large, our meetings used to take the form of us all sitting around in some tacky coffee bar spouting off about a load of books that none of us had read properly. We did our best to turn Coventry into a centre of intellectual and cultural debate, but frankly a lot of the time it felt as though we were fighting a losing battle. Naturally we modelled ourselves on the Parisian intelligentsia of the 1920s and 30s, but whereas Jean-Paul Sartre and friends had cafés like The Dôme to meet at, we tended to drink our coffee out of paper cups in the local Burger King, opposite the bus station, or, if we were feeling flush, we’d go to Zuckerman’s, a mock-Viennese patisserie just down the precinct from British Home Stores. Anyway, I finally got browned off with the whole business, and effectively I had nothing more to do with them after April 1986.’