Little Bits of Baby (16 page)

Robin stood and slouched, hand in pocket, to the dresser where he picked up an apple and bit into it.

‘When does she get back from choir practice?' he asked, through his mouthful.

‘Lateish. She does insist on taking the bus so she can read. About ten-thirty, usually.'

‘You'll be OK then?'

‘What an extraordinary thing to ask! Of course I'll be OK.' Peter laughed. ‘Do I look as if I wouldn't?' The question was rhetorical but when Robin merely chuckled in reply, it felt less so. ‘I was planning on having a session on the clarinet when I got fed up with this,' Peter continued.

‘When are you going to find another orchestra to join?'

‘I'm not all that sure I could face it.'

‘Well, a wind band, then.'

‘But I'm always so tired in the evenings.'

‘No, you're not.'

‘After hours of toddlers? I'm knackered. And anyway, I'm not back to that level yet.'

‘Yes, you are. I heard you playing yesterday. It was fine.'

‘I've forgotten half the fingerings. They come automatically on pieces I already know, but if someone gave me something to sight-read, I'd probably squawk like a beginner.' This was a lie; his technique was coming back more rapidly each day. ‘Do you want a drink of something? Keep me company in my alcohol-free lager?'

‘No. I must get going. See you.'

‘I'll leave the chain off the back door so you can get in again. You know what a locker-up your mother is,' Peter said. The last words came out in a near-shout as Robin was already outside and closing the door between them.

Peter took another of the powerless beers from the fridge, flicked off the cap with an opener and gulped from the bottle. This, the eating of an unaccompanied pork pie (bought after a walk with Brevity, in a local pub that wasn't
their
local) and the devotion of an entire evening to the day's crossword were things peculiar to Andrea's choir nights, along with radio plays and long, mid-evening baths. None of these activities was especially hateful to Andrea or cherished by Peter but, initiated as consolation for his evenings without her, they had come to assume all the intimate witchery of sin. He returned to the table and was delighted to find that the three words inserted by Robin had made the crossword suddenly much easier. He entered ‘Steerage', ‘Trug' and ‘Edict' before the bottle was finished. He took another from the fridge, opened it, threw Brevity a Doggy Roll to stop her feeling left out, filled in ‘Corpse' and felt very pleased with himself.

There were rapid footsteps on the gravel. Brevity gave her single friends-and-family bark, knowing it was Andrea before the door had opened. Peter had no time to snatch a glass for his beer.

‘Whatever's the matter?' she asked then pointed and laughed, ‘Your face!'

‘You were back quickly,' he said. Brevity was snuffling and turning circles. Andrea gave her a quick pat so that she could stop.

‘I know,' she said, ‘I took a taxi.'

‘Good grief!'

‘Just what I thought.'

‘But you'd have been early even in the bus. What happened?'

‘I've run away,' she said and sat on his lap. She sat carefully, as though worrying about the unusual move. She was still light; he couldn't imagine why she fussed so about her weight. She kissed his forehead. She was wearing a scent he hadn't smelled before. He liked the way it mingled with the faint, gingery tang she gave off whenever she had run or was hot. He chuckled, holding her round the waist.

‘What? You've skipped the second half?'

‘More than that,' she said proudly, ‘I've skipped for good.'

‘But why?'

‘I wanted to be with you!'

‘No, but really?'

‘It was horrid, actually. There was a sort of uprising and they voted me out of carrying on as voice rep and suddenly I thought, Well if that's the game you're at, then I don't want to play any longer. I just jumped in a cab instead of going to the pub with the rest. I was in a panic at first, but then that sort of taxi comfort spread through me and I sat back and was all relieved and free. Oh, Pete, I'm so glad to have left! All those silly opinionated men and lone, lost females. Are you very horrified at having me back?'

‘What do you think?' he asked her. ‘Look at me. I was going to spend the evening drinking beers and doing the crossword.'

‘Sounds lovely.'

‘Not two nights a week, every week,' he said and kissed her. She kept her lips together, giving him a soft peck.

‘It dawned on me on the way home,' she said, pulling back and arranging herself differently on his lap, ‘That most of the people there were there for some painful reason. They're bored, frustrated, lonely, things like that. Of course they love music, and they may even tell themselves that that's why they go there – I know I did – but deep down they go for sad reasons.'

‘Kiss me properly,' he said. ‘You hardly ever kiss me properly nowadays.'

‘I … oh,' she said and he pulled her against him, slipping his tongue between her parting lips. Her mouth always felt deliciously fresh inside, as though she had been eating snow. Still kissing, he slid her more firmly onto him, with her skirt up. They bumped the table and the beer bottle fell to the floor. It didn't smash but Andrea pulled back, startled and made housekeeping noises. The ginger in her scent made him tug her down into another kiss. Then she slid round and leant her back against his shoulder, staring up at the ceiling as he slid a hand round inside her blouse to cup one of her breasts. The nipple was rigid beneath his touch and he gently teased it with a fingertip, moved to see how hotly she blushed. There was a quiet, slapping sound from somewhere in the room.

‘Brevity's drinking your low-alcohol lager,' she said.

‘I know,' he told her. ‘Don't you dare clear it up.'

‘All right. I won't,' she promised and settled more heavily against him with a sigh.

‘And don't you dare change your mind and go back to that choir next week,' he went on.

‘I promise,' she said, and he remembered the leaflet he had seen in the reference library about auditions for a new amateur wind ensemble; remembered, and let it fall.

‘Where's Dob?' she asked.

‘Out for the whole evening,' he said.

‘Where?'

‘Faber Washington's.'

‘Faber? But I …'

‘… Why don't we go upstairs and change?' he cut in. She gave a dirty chuckle at this dusted-down code phrase from early marriage.

‘Yes,' she said. ‘Why ever not?'

‘Then I'll call a cab and we'll go to
Les Pavoines
and drink a bottle of Bollinger and eat all the favourite things we never get to eat at home because the other one hates them.'

‘A true celebration,' she sighed. ‘But let's go upstairs and change first.'

Eighteen

He lived, they lived, in a converted chapel off the South side of the common, a long, totally symmetrical red-brick building with high windows, not unlike a Victorian schoolhouse. There was a small space at the front. One would hesitate to call it a garden; it was nothing but box hedge and dustbin. A sign, neatly painted in electric blue paint on yellow, announced,

This is no longer the Elim Temple

of the Pentecost but a

PRIVATE HOUSE.

There was a small ship's bell dangling from the lintel so Robin rang it once and waited.

He had tried to see Faber on the evening of the christening – Luke having abandoned him for the security of Whelm – but Faber said it was impossible. Robin rang the next day and suggested a film, but he found some excuse. Robin left him in peace for a while then asked if he'd like to come round to The Chase for supper but again Faber had an excuse. He was very kind about it; they laughed and chatted about nothing in particular, Robin asked him to supper and he said,

‘That would be lovely, Robin, but I've got a meeting with Iras's tutor.' He said it without a moment's hesitation, so Robin knew it was a lie. The other excuses had been about Iras too. Then, the morning after that Robin had a brainwave. He simply rang him up, very business-like, soon after breakfast, and spoke to his answering machine.

‘I'm coming round for supper this evening,' he said. ‘Eight o'clock.'

So here he was.

He stood there for a while with lorries crashing by in the road behind him and sparrows chattering crossly in the dirty hedge. Then a little, sliding panel shot sideways in the door and a girl's voice asked,

‘Who is it?'

‘It's Robin,' he said. ‘I've come for supper.'

‘Oh,' she said. ‘You. Hang on.'

The panel slid shut again and the door opened. She stood to one side to let him in. She had on a pair of dark-blue cotton dungarees over a white tee shirt. She was wearing black lace-up plimsolls like the ones he remembered wearing for gym classes at school.

‘Well? Come inside,' she said and he realised that he had been staring. He came in and she shut the door with a bang behind him. ‘You're a bit early.'

‘I told him eight.'

‘Well he's not ready, anyway. He's dressing,' she went on. ‘Please sit down.' He sat on one end of a large sofa.

‘I suppose it helps to know where people are in a room,' he said.

‘Fairly,' she replied, ‘although I can usually tell that from the way sound bounces off them. You were feeling nervous, though, and sitting down seems to make people more relaxed. I often make people nervous. Faber says it's because I don't remember to smile enough. Dot – that's my tutor – Dot says that too. She says that people smile when they're nervous as well as when they're happy, which is why smiles make nervous people feel at home. Would you like a drink?'

‘Well …'

‘He had a glass of cold wine upstairs earlier, so there's probably an open bottle in the fridge.'

‘Yes, please.'

She disappeared through a door behind him. The chapel had been converted simply. The main space was stripped of pews, except for a couple which had been left on either side of a long dining table, their hymn book shelves stuffed, as was every available surface, with newspapers, much-read paperbacks and paint-stained pieces of cloth. The original stairs ran up to the gallery on which two rooms had been built, leaving a landing the width of the building. Below the gallery were two more doors. Iras emerged from one of them, clutching a glass of white wine.

‘The kitchen used to be where they arranged flowers and made tea,' she said, holding out his drink until he took it from her. She had not spilled a drop. ‘And the bathroom's next door, where the priest used to dress up.'

‘The vestry.'

‘That's right,' she said. ‘Don't worry. I'm going out with my best friend Peggy in a minute and I'll leave you alone.'

‘I'm not worrying,' Robin said. ‘How long have you been blind?' She sat on the other end of the sofa as one who has been told to keep a visitor amused.

‘I'm not blind,' she corrected him, ‘And I'm not visually disadvantaged, either. I'm just an eyeless person. Blind also means “Lacking in intellectual, moral or spiritual perception”, which I'm not.'

‘Sorry.'

‘Would you like some music?'

‘Yes.'

‘Good. I'd put it on myself, but my hand always shakes and that scratches the record. The player's over there. My favourite album's on it at the moment.'

‘Fine,' he said and went to put on the record. He noticed each in the pile of albums scattered by the machine had a small piece of punctured paper stuck to the sleeve. ‘Nina Simone?' he checked.

‘Yes,' she said. ‘Put it on the third track. I want to test your hearing.'

Wondering why it was taking Faber so long to dress, Robin set the record playing as she asked and went back to the sofa. It was ‘He's Got the Whole World in His Hands'. Robin had been made to join in performances of it at primary school, where it was sung in a jolly cotton-picker sort of way with much hand-clapping and a tambourine or two. Nina Simone sang it slowly, with only steady piano chords for accompaniment; a kind of solemn march. Robin felt he was hearing it for the first time.

They sat through it in silence then Iras turned to him in the way that she had obviously been taught in some ‘natural behaviour' class.

‘What would you say it was about?' she asked, her pale, sleepwalker's face sharp with curiosity.

‘Well, I was always taught to think it was about God. That's what most people think. They sing it in church, sometimes. In some churches.'

‘Yes, but what do
you
think?'

‘Well, I would have said it was about God, too, but now I'm not so sure.'

‘It's about death,' she said. ‘Sung like that it is, anyway. It makes much more sense. Shall we hear it again?'

‘If you like. Yes. But what about Faber?'

‘I told you. He's dressing. Go on. Put it on again.'

So Robin put it on again and she fetched him another glass of wine. While Nina sang, he looked at the big canvasses that were dangling from the beams overhead, broad examinations of human decay in the form of three barely-gendered down-and-outs. In the most finished, one stared at her/his empty bottle, stared at herself by the second, while the third bared a withered breast and grinned broadly out at the room. Robin wondered how much Iras knew about Faber's work.

This time she turned to him at the end of the song and asked,

‘Now, think carefully and tell me what Death has in his hands in between the gambling man and everybody here.'

He thought a moment, running through the words in his head.

‘The baby,' he told her. ‘The little bits of baby.'

She crowed with triumph just as a door opened on the gallery and Faber appeared.