Half Broken Things (15 page)

Then she began to imagine that he had had an accident. She saw the van mangled and overturned, blood streaming from Michael's mouth, his lips trying to say her name. He would die trapped in the van, and she would never have heard him say that he liked to hear her voice. He had left her forever and he had never ever said it. Steph began to cry. She wished again that they had mobile phones. She wished she had heard him say it. She wished she had not been left alone. When he got back this evening she would tell him that. He would come back. It was stupid, wishing. She collapsed on the sofa and sobbed. Strange, because she had been alone before, and she did not cry easily.

Darkness came earlier on that overcast and rainy afternoon, and it seemed to Steph that as the day was wearing away outside, here in the flat time was suspended. Michael's absence had stopped the clocks; ambient fear, for him and for herself, would fill all the space until his return. She had meant to buy food, but she began to feel a superstitious reluctance to go out to the shops. She tried to tell herself it was because of the dark and the weather. Then she considered that she simply did not like the thought that Michael might return before she did and come back to find the flat empty, even though he must have done so countless times in the past. And in any case, he could not possibly be expected back in Bath at a quarter to five when he would only just have arrived for tea, an hour's drive away, at four o'clock. Unless there had been some disaster. This renewed the disturbance in her mind enough to halt for a while her fretful tidying and fiddling round the sitting room, and she stood gazing out the window at the sky, her arms folded over her bump, while in her head she played out new and lurid catastrophes that could befall him. Finally, she turned from the window, accepting that she simply wanted him home.

But she definitely did not cry easily, so perhaps it was the baby that was making her want to again. Whatever it was, it was important that she stop thinking about Michael and the surprising and awful discovery that she missed him. It was then that she had roused herself and gone to the kitchen to tackle the Bolognese sauce with a third of the proper ingredients, so that there would be something nice waiting for him when he finally did come home.

Again, I think it was something instinctive that had caused me to make up a bed in Michael's room long before I had met him, or even quite dreamed of his existence. It's the little practicalities, the things we choose to pay attention to, that so often reveal the desires beneath, desires that are so huge that they really must be concealed if life is to go on in any recognisable form. My life has never been big enough for epic emotions, I now see. I have kept them small, knowing that my life just could not accommodate longing and hope and rage on the kind of scale I could have felt them. I have domesticated my feelings so that I tend them in the little daily observances: making up bedrooms, cooking, gardening. And lighting fires.

On the day back in January when I chose and aired the best white linen with lilac piping for that room and made up the bed, I couldn't have known that Michael would be needing it that very first night. But there was no question of his driving back to Bath so late and after so much wine. I found men's pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers in one of the other wardrobes in my own dressing room, as well as shaving and washing things. Michael did not ask where they had come from but accepted them as his own. I recall that he did not thank me effusively for them, or for anything else, when he left the next morning. Not that he was rude, certainly not. Just that he took it somewhat for granted that his room and everything he needed for the night would be available in his mother's house. He took his leave a little abstractedly after breakfast, in a complete set of different clothes that were all rather better than the things he had arrived in, and I did not mind that, either. Nor did I worry that we did not arrange another visit. Without its being said, we knew that from now on it was his spells of absence from this house that would be temporary, not his presence in it. Besides, what son behaves as a house guest, or thinks his mother needs to know when he might be coming back? He assumes, rightly, that she will be there when he does choose to return, and all a mother needs to know is that he will. But over and above that I felt sure it would be soon.

———

Michael found Steph huddled and spent on the sofa. She was wrapped in her blankets and half dressed, rigid with cold and with the fatigue of a night spent drifting between fits of crying and shaking and patches of exhausted sleep. Her face was ghastly, smeared with wrecked makeup. Strands of her fair hair stuck darkly to her head where her anxious hands had pasted it down with tears, sweat and mucus.

‘Steph? What's the matter? Bloody hell, what's the matter?'

Steph shook her head slowly from side to side. ‘You—you didn't come back . . . you . . . I thought . . . I thought you were . . . I thought you wasn't ever . . .'

Her eyes were tight shut, so she did not see but only felt Michael's arms coming round her shoulders and pulling her towards him on the sofa. She heard his moan of incomprehension and dismay, and his saying of her name over and over as he enveloped her and held her. As he rocked her against him, she began to quieten.

‘You didn't come back, you bastard . . . you bastard, I thought you'd gone. You went for
tea,
you never said you'd be away all fucking
night
. . . you might've been
dead
. . .' She tried to take a breath, but began to gulp. Michael held tighter, taking in the truly puzzling idea that someone else had cared enough about where he was to be frantic with worry. It had not crossed his mind that he should let her know he was staying over for the night. Not that he would have been able to—except, he thought guiltily, he could have phoned Ken, who might have been able to wheel himself along and knock on the door. But he had not thought of it. He felt ambushed by two astonishing feelings: grateful joy that she could weep with concern for him, and overwhelming remorse that he had caused her to suffer. He also found that he had an erection. Holding her close and stroking her back, he whispered her name.

‘I'm fucking freezing and all,' she said. ‘The gas ran out and I didn't have any coins.'

Michael rose, fed the meter and turned on the fire. He returned to her and wrapped her close to him again. After several minutes, she pulled in a deep shuddering breath, and then another. There were several crumpled tissues on the floor. Michael reached for one, lifted it to her face and dried her eyes. She took it from him and wiped her nose, and then buried her face in his chest, but did not cry.

‘Are you getting a bit warmer now?'

‘Yeah, I suppose.'

‘I'm really, really sorry—'

‘I thought you'd just gone off, walked out. Just gone.'

‘No. No, no, I never would . . . never. I never would. Honest, I never would.' His arms tightened round her and with one hand he caressed her shoulder. The neck of her sweatshirt was wide, and his hand met her skin and dipped under the edge of the material. The warmth and softness of her seemed to flood him with other sensations; she became not just warm skin beneath his fingers but also taste, a smell. She was almost a sound, both in and of his own head, filling every cell of him with an incredible, compulsive music that his body recognised and wanted to move to. He pulled the sweatshirt from her shoulder and buried his face in her neck, kissing, breathing her in, and with a burst of courage he moved his hand and placed it lightly on one breast. One of Steph's hands was moving up his thigh. Whether he was more terrified than excited, more embarrassed than elated, he simply did not know. As her hand roamed closer Michael pressed the round breast beneath his palm. It could have been made of bread for all he could tell, under the thick sweatshirt, but he was unsure if he was allowed to do more, and now something close to panic washed through him in case it was all going to stop. Her hand had left his thigh and was removing his hand. He would explode, surely, if it had to stop. Steph pulled his hand away and drew it under her clothes, and as he touched her bare breast, she gasped.

‘Sorry!' Michael blurted, withdrawing his hand.

She replaced it gently and kissed him, pushing her tongue into his mouth. It was only when she stood up and pulled him to his feet that he remembered properly that she was pregnant. He stared at her stomach, trying and failing to conceal his erection, not knowing what to say or do, even less what she wanted. She reached round his neck with both arms and whispered, ‘Michael. Michael, it'll be all right. Come on, it's all right,' and there was silence. Michael's hands reached under the sweatshirt and pulled it off over her head. He gazed at the white-skinned, blue-veined breasts, so lopsided and heavy, while both hands lifted and cupped them and his fingers played over her brown nipples. He searched her face to see if he was getting this right, if his hands being here, doing this to her breasts, really could be what she wanted. He took one nipple in his mouth and she moaned and stroked his head. It was incredible; he was almost unable to believe it, but she was unzipping him now. He felt afraid. He had slept with people, of course, perhaps half a dozen, and with one of them, on and off, for several months, but not for ages. And never with anyone pregnant. He did not know how or even if it were possible. What if he hurt her, or the baby?

‘Come on,' Steph whispered. ‘It's fine. Come on, it'll be fine.'

Michael allowed himself first to be led to his bedroom, then to be undressed, and to undress her. She was beautiful. With the sight of her naked round body came a burst of hope that entering her would be as easy as it was necessary. It was, she made it so. It was easier than he would have believed possible and, beyond that, infinitely happier. She lay on her side and let him travel her with his hands and tongue, moving as and where he wanted. When he began to understand that he had more than her permission and that she was as frantic as he was, he grew bolder, and when he finally parted her legs and found her so wet that he thought he would die from need of her, she reached down and drew him inside her. She showed him how to glide and twist in her. He delighted in the way she instructed and he followed. For ever afterwards he would remember how his delight seemed to please her as much as her own, which she also knew how to take from him. She showed him how, but it was he who delighted her. He touched, pushed and slid and waited, withdrew, touched again as she pulled him back between her legs. For as long as she wanted he sank in and out of her, entering and leaving her, until with her legs gripping him round his waist he felt her tug and tighten over him and she gasped and swore happily. He was long past speech himself.

In a state of amazed exhaustion they lay together through the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. The bedroom was freezing. Under the covers, they could believe themselves just about warm enough if they did not move. Lying face to face, they laughed because their noses, when they touched, were both so cold. Above them the dog barked, and feet pounded. They dozed. Hours passed and they watched darkness come, the time of day an irrelevance. Then Michael wanted her again, and afterwards Steph fell asleep while Michael lay looking at the ceiling, trying to place himself in this new, re-ordered scheme of things. From his bare past, which already he was thinking of in the way that a freed man thinks of prison, it was like stepping through an archway. It almost eclipsed the finding of his mother but was also part of the same thing, marking the beginning of his life as a person who had other people. He turned and looked at Steph's face. Her eyes, so large, seemed smaller when she was asleep. The eyelids were thin-skinned and bluish and reminded Michael of a baby bird. Her lips had relaxed and seemed fuller. They were still wet. His eyes wandered down to the swell of her stomach over the duvet, the line of her splayed legs. He placed a hand gently on her and let it climb her curve, barely touching. He could hardly bear the distance her sleeping put between them, but he would not dream of waking her. There was no hurry. They had each other. And soon there would be a baby, and all of them, they would all belong to one another. A voice in his head declared it.

When Steph woke she looked even more tired than before, and she had a headache. When she told Michael that she had eaten hardly anything since he had left the house, he went into the kitchen, where he found her frankfurter spaghetti in a coagulated mess. He brought her tea and biscuits, feeling slight consternation because he was out of aspirin. Then Steph said she wanted a bath, so he switched on the immersion heater. It only produced enough water for one bath, so he washed in cold water and got dressed. Later he returned to the bathroom and ran a bath for her, fetching a clean towel and placing an old one on the floor. It had occurred to him that the wet floor might be dangerous. What if she were to slip while he was out? He explained all this solemnly, warning her to be very careful and to step onto the towel on the floor, while Steph lay propped up on his pillows and drank her tea, listening and nodding, rather stunned. Michael could have laughed aloud with the pleasure of spoiling her. He still had not told her about Jean, and she had not asked. Things had happened too quickly, and even now he was in a hurry to get her the aspirin. Suddenly he was so busy, life was so full.