Facing the Tank (26 page)

‘You’re too young to be doing this.’

‘What?’ She was stretching up for some sprays of philadelphus.

‘So kind of you to be doing this.’

‘Nonsense. It’s a special occasion.’ She draped the philadelphus across a now full basket. ‘It would be silly if Lydia spent a fortune in a florist’s when these are going to waste here.’

‘All the same … It’s …’ He took the basket from her. ‘Oh. Thanks. I’ll bring it straight back. I only wish we could invite you but, you see, Tobit doesn’t want any fuss.’

‘Of course he doesn’t. Do give him my love, though.’

‘No,’ Clive thought. ‘Anyone but him. Give it to me. Run into the streets and give it. Give it all out.’

‘If he remembers me, that is,’ she continued. ‘Time stands so still here. It’s quite a shock to have him grow up all of a sudden and she … I … Sorry, I can’t remember her name.’

‘Gloire.’

‘Yes, Gloire. Lovely name. There are no coloured people here, so I think it’s a good thing.’ She licked the sweat off her lips with a little darting movement of her tongue and pushed a pin more firmly into her hair. ‘So lovely.’

Clive was uncertain what to say next so he left and hurried to the Tatham’s chantry. Twelfth-century, set amid cloisters of distinction, the interior of the little building had been wrecked by the agents of the Gothic Revival. The effect of sitting on the bottom of an unwashed fishtank was made doubly eerie by clamorous rumours that a School of Night among Tathamites held regular black masses in the place. The sunnier main chapel however was too large for a quiet wedding and, as Lydia had implied, the use of the chantry was a rare privilege worthy of abject gratitude.

With two Victorian columns and a quantity of Oasis, brought in the back of the car, Clive did his skilful utmost to make the chantry festive but only succeeded in elevating it from Satanic crypt to Los Angelic funeral parlour. He stood back, scowled and set about rearranging. A small scholar walked in who, on second glance, proved to be female.

‘Sorry, sir,’ she said. ‘Is it all right if I have my piano practice?’

‘Fine, er …’ He remembered her name. ‘Fine, Jermyn. Go ahead.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

The diminutive creature, typically spidery and repressed, carefully took off her gown then clambered on to the piano stool and launched unexpectedly into a furious Scarlatti sonata. Clive wound flowers around a column and thought of the son he was not to lose and the daughter he was rather going to gain.

He had been surprised at the news of the impending marriage but not shocked as Lydia had been, just as he had been surprised but not shocked when Tobit had embarked on simultaneous careers of uranism and
haute couture
. The boy had always faintly bored him, however, and this he did find shocking. A child who shone could stir one’s pride. A child who rebelled could be fought with. A child born crippled could be loved. A child born plain could be sent to expensive schools. But a child who bored one? The thought was appalling, the prospect of this day on which a father must show pride, love and interest in generous quantities, not less so.

Gloire. He must concentrate on Gloire. Her febrile charms and subsequent sly behaviour had captivated him. Were their lives differently placed, her warmth and intelligence might have held him in thrall. Were it not unutterably bourgeois, were it not perilously close to a demonstration of paternal interest, he would say that Tobit had managed to arouse his passionate envy.

After slicing off its skin with her knife, Josephine bore the last morsel of peach to her mouth on her fork. She patted her chin with the corner of a napkin then gently scraped Mr DelMonica’s calf with a crocodile toe.

‘What you say we skip the big Norman church and go back upstairs to change?’ she said.

A stray drop of juice glistened on one of her plumper pearls.

‘If it’s a choice between some old building and my wife,’ he replied, meeting her stare, ‘I’ll go settle up then see her in her room.’

Soon after noon, Madeleine slunk down from her bedroom where she had been lurking with old magazines all morning and with a portable television most of last night. Mum had left for work soon after breakfast so that she could drop in at the hospital to see a friend of hers who had just had a stroke. She had told Madeleine that Evan was out to lunch with Goody Goody Hamilton and leaving either tonight or first thing tomorrow morning. Last night she had also told her about his professional tragedy and it was this which had scared her away rather than any embarrassment over her loss of temper in the car. What did one say to someone whose worst nightmare had just come true? While writing her thesis she had shut each page in a drawer as she finished it in case she dropped a mug of coffee or spilled a glass of wine. Madeleine sympathized, therefore, but found the victim of such a crisis none the less unapproachable. At school she had choked a beautiful friendship by refusing to talk about a friend’s bereavement. It was not that she was selfish, only that she was easily awed.

And yes she did feel a mite foolish after her little display yesterday. She could so easily have explained that he had misunderstood and that it was not an abortion she sought but professional reassurance as an unfit chainsmoker on the brink of maternity. Instead she had chosen to take umbrage at his ‘typically male’ attitude to the sanctity of the womb. It was only when she had been half way back to Barrowcester that she had replayed their exchange in her mind and found traces of his having said that he cared for her. She had singled out this portion and re-run it in her head several times both last night and this morning and had now dismissed it as being pseudo-paternal, protective posturing of a piece with his attitude towards whatever she was incubating.

She was ready to be on her way. The trouble was that there was nowhere to go but back to London and, as always after a few days of pretty, peaceful, loathsome Barrowcester, it required a good deal of auto-hypnosis to convince herself that Earls Court was a more desirable residence than her mother’s. Lying in a pleasant stupor in the bath just now, she had brewed up a delightful scenario in which one of her colleagues at the Warburg, or some beneficent old Barrowcester trout telephoned to offer her the use of an isolated cottage near the sea for the duration of her pregnancy. She would recklessly give up her room in the flat in Earls Court, pack a case full of books, divert her magazine subscriptions and retire to the sea to knit baby clothes and write a book about eroticism, shamelessly cashing in on her recent ordeal. Sadly, most of her colleagues were as unlikely as she to own cottages by the sea, and the beneficence of old trouts in Barrowcester never stretched beyond their infernal ‘little somethings’ which conveyed so much and cost so little. Also she had never learned to knit. The book, however, was not a bad idea. There had already been two telephone calls from high priests of trash offering obscene sums for the exclusive rights to her story. She had turned these all down since her animosity towards Edmund was tempered with affectionate memories of a scandalous good time. A certain wily foresight, which she was quite content to have misread as high-minded restraint, told her that her notoriety, however bankable, would feed her longer if she invested it steadily and in small portions.

Perhaps she would remain in Barrowcester for a time and write the book here. She could pay her mother rent and possibly move into the granny flat to give the two of them a modicum of independence. The thought was thrilling in a way, because so dangerous. She might be a far cry from a Goody Goody Hamilton now, but what if she were still here in a year’s time? Earls Court, while the respirational equivalent of thirty a day for her growing baby, was at least safer from her own point of view. So, she would do her packing (throw things into a holdall), take her mother out for lunch then catch an evening train back to London. She would be brave and return to a flat full of fading yuccas, curling Venice carnival posters and Georgene’s motorbike gear. But first she meant to leave Evan a propitiatory note.

She pushed open the door to the granny flat. He had splashed himself with aftershave before keeping his appointment with Goody Goody Hamilton; its tang still hung on the air. She cast around in the mess for some paper and a pen and saw his paperwork – or what remained of it – on the desk by the garden window of the bedroom. She strolled over, with a frown at the savaged curtains, and took a seat. There was a pad of file paper in his briefcase. She pulled it out and started to write on the top sheet.

‘Dear Evan,

‘Mum has just told me about yesterday’s horror. There’s not a great deal one can say, but I exclaim in sympathy and …’

No. That was altogether too facetious. She tore off the first sheet and started afresh.

‘Dear Evan,

‘I’m so very sorry. I had been going to apologize for my ridiculous rudeness to you yesterday – you were only trying to help, I know – when Mum told me about your manuscript. Suddenly I realize that I must be the last thing on your mind. At least when someone dies, one can share their memories; with a “dead” book that no one else has read, you are so alone. I hope you managed to salvage something, and have no doubt that, with your brain, it will be more an irritation than a labour to rewrite the thing. I shall be in London most of the summer. Will leave you my numbers and address in hope that you’ll get in touch when you’re back there. It would be good to meet for a …’

Madeleine stopped writing as her eyes caught sight of her name written several times over in his shrunken, academic hand on a scrap of paper that seemed to serve as a bookmark in a small hardback exercise book. Naturally she had no hesitation in pulling the rubber band off the book, just to see if the inscriptions of her name continued all the way up. It was a diary of sorts. Her first, weak, noble impulse was to shut it at once and finish her message. Her second, stronger, base one was to flip back a few pages and see if her name were mentioned.

Not only was she mentioned by name, she was examined, eulogized even, at great length and the text was illustrated here and there with a clever cartoon of what she realized must be her in a dressing gown in a high wind. The cartoon was repeated over and over and was evidently a stereotype which he sought to perfect. The most recent one was marred by a pair of horns and a pointed tail.

For ten minutes the flat was utterly silent except for the hum of the fridge, Madeleine’s occasional deep intakes of breath and the rustle when she turned a page forward or back. The silence was broken by her oath when the cigarette burning uninhaled in her hand singed her fingers. Then she stubbed it out, closed the diary and stuffed both her notes into her dressing gown pocket. She emptied the ashtray into the waste bin in the kitchenette then slipped upstairs to find some clothes.

‘Clive?’

‘Mmh?’

‘I can’t bear it.’

Lydia and Clive had arrived early, as she wanted to inspect his flower arrangements in the chantry and felt that if she stayed any longer in the house the temptation to change out of the frock she had made into an old one that she knew to be flattering, might have proved unendurable. They were now pacing anxiously in the entrance to the cloisters. A small black cloud bank was drifting across the sun.

‘I just know Dawn’s going to spill paint,’ she said.

‘What paint? What would she want with paint? She’s cooking.’

‘White paint. That revolting American drunk last night put grafitti on our porch. Didn’t you see it when you left?’

‘No,’ said Clive. ‘There’s going to be another storm,’ he went on.

‘Shut up.’

‘Don’t be so bloody tense. In three hours it’ll all be over.’

‘Three hours can be a very long time.’

‘Well what’s the worst that could happen?’ he asked as she tidied his hair with her comb.

‘They might be shocked. They
will
be.’

‘What at?’

‘For pity’s sake, Clive, they’re West Indian. Oh, it’s just that I feel so,’ Lydia pulled off her gloves and stuffed them into her handbag, ‘so very …’

‘What?’

‘
Will
you let me finish?’

‘OK. OK. So very what?’

‘Rich.’

‘Rich?’

‘Yes. Rich and comfortable and smug and, well, white.’

‘If they could afford the flight to Europe, I scarcely think they’ll have come from a shanty town.’ Clive lit a cigarette and thought of Gloire washing pans in a river, wearing nothing but a long, wet, muslin shift.

‘They’ve probably had to sell all their goats or something. Tobit didn’t tell me what they do which is bound to mean that they don’t do very much. He was being considerate in front of Gloire. Oh God. Why did it have to happen so fast?’

‘They told you. It was convenient because the DelMonicas were coming over anyway.’

‘Well I didn’t believe that for a moment, did you?’

‘If they’re so broke, how come their daughter went to Vassar and is now living in London, buying dresses off Tobit and studying medicine at Barts?’

‘Oh darling, she probably got a scholarship. She’s a very, very bright girl.’

‘Brighter than Tobit anyway.’

‘Don’t say that.’

‘Quick. Smile. Geoff Dixon’s coming.’

‘Oh God.’

‘Leave God alone and have a Valium.’

‘Shut up.’ Lydia threw a smile at the school chaplain as he crossed the quadrangle. ‘Hello, Geoff,’ she called out.

Geoff Dixon had sideburns and his hair lay slightly over the top of his dog collar. He had a pretty wife, was tone deaf, quoted Bob Dylan in his sermons and encouraged the boys to call him Geoff to his face. Behind his back they called him the Ark, as in went out with. According to Clive, he had recently applied to work at a youth crisis centre in Liverpool and been turned down. If only Tobit had been content to wait and do the thing in style, Lydia might have been able to secure the services of Mr Gavin Tree.

‘Clive. Lydia. Great to see you,’ said Geoff and shook them warmly by the hand. ‘Groom stood you up has he?’

‘No,’ said Clive, ‘they’re arriving together from London.’

‘Oh right. Great. Nothing like breaking the old rules.’

‘We’re keeping an eye out for Gloire’s parents actually,’ explained Lydia. ‘it’s their first time in England and they may be a bit confused.’ Lydia glanced down and saw that Geoff had brown suede shoes on under his cassock.

‘So she’s French?’ Geoff asked.

‘Half Martiniquaise,’ Clive told him.

‘Ah. And am I right in thinking Tobit wants the King James version?’

‘That’s right,’ said Lydia. ‘Beds and boards.’

‘And with my body I thee worship,’ rejoined Clive, mournfully grinding his cigarette stub into the historic masonry.

‘Clive’s done lovely flowers,’ said Lydia, willing the chaplain to go away.

‘Fantastic,’ said Geoff obediently. ‘Must go and check them out.’ He hushpuppied his way into the chantry.

A horn blared out in Scholar Street and Tobit’s little black Alfa Romeo sped through the gateway and across the cobbles of the quadrangle. The porter ran out of his lodge to stare. The scholars watched less openly, from the battered armchairs and sofas they had dragged into the open air. Gloire sat on the back of her seat and swung her caramel legs over the side of the car. They were bare and had white silk slippers on the end of them. Fully aware of the sensation she was causing, she stalked around to the other side and opened Tobit’s door for him. Her white dress clung almost indecently low before throwing out a skirt that flew out at every turn of her hips. Lydia saw the artfully slashed panel in the back and recognized her son’s handiwork. Clive looked aghast at Tobit’s impeccable morning coat and wished that he had resisted rather more firmly Lydia’s suggestion that he wear ‘just an old suit’ so as to put the DelMonicas at ease.

‘Gloire you look enchanting,’ said Lydia, banging cheeks with her new daughter. ‘That must be a Tobit Hart you’ve got on.’

‘Smile, Dad,’ said Tobit and shook Clive’s hand. ‘Is Geoff in there already?’

‘Yes,’ said Clive.

‘We’ll drift in and say hello, then, ’cause I want him to meet Gloire. Why are you waiting out here?’

‘Well your mother thought that …’

‘I was worried that Gloire’s parents might have trouble finding their way,’ continued Lydia, with a twinkling smile at Gloire.

‘Thank you, Lydia,’ said Gloire. ‘That’s really thoughtful of you,’ and, one hand wound under the tails of Tobit’s coat, she was led to the altar.

‘She smells of vanilla,’ Clive remarked.

‘Have a Valium.’

‘Yes, please.’

Even as they popped pills, they saw the DelMonicas walk gracefully arm in arm under the arch. He was not in a morning coat, but the well-creased charcoal of his suit made Clive feel less
prêt-à-porter
than off the peg and on to the floor. She had not only the porter, but the porter’s best friend, a clutch of gaping tourists and a slavering black labrador in her wake.

‘Chicken sweetcorn patties,’ murmured Lydia. ‘Green bananas. Stuffed christophine. Royal Grenadan bloody icing.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Help me.’

‘What did you say they do?’ asked Josephine, buttoning her gloves as they swung off Scholar Street under the arch.

‘He’s an English teacher in this place.’

‘It’s a school or what?’

‘It’s a sort of university for difficult children, I think. She’s the local success story.’

‘She runs a strip joint?’

‘She writes cookery books and runs some faggoty delicatessen; snails in brine, wild boar pâté, stale German bread that kind of thing. Books, too.’

‘Oh good. I was worried I might have overdressed.’

‘That’s them.’

‘Where? No.
Doudou, tu me moques
.’

‘No. It is. There by the cloisters.’

‘Mais … C’est pas possible!’

‘I bet you.’

‘Sweet Jesus, now I feel gross. You could have told me they were hippies.’

‘Wait till you see the whites of their eyes, Mammee, then smile.’