The Rachel Papers (15 page)

While doing this I thought how lucky I was to be out of action. In Dr Thorpe's queer words: 'Don't go sticking it up any pretty ladies for a bit, now will you? Come back next Monday, all right? and we'll take another peep at it.' Lucky because there was no chance of me getting 'worked up', of getting
carried away,
I believed was the phrase ? ? ? There was no danger of me thinking about anyone's pleasure but Rachel's. I made polite groans, naturally, but with the professional sincerity of the wine-taster as opposed to the candid slavering of the alcoholic.

My rig, of course, wouldn't know. And yet, to give it its due, that organ had behaved immaculately the day before. As I stood beside Thorpe's white-sheeted chaise-longue, about as relaxed as a drainpipe, trousers frilling my shins, baggy but spotless Y-fronts midway down trembling thighs: as Thorpe cruised towards me, as he reached out his manicured hand, head down, saying 'Well let's just take a look at the old codger then, shall we?' I was
convinced
he'd set off some awful glandular button, that my prick would spring to life joyfully in his fingers, that he would lift up his face to mine in eager recognition. But it couldn't have been better. I had wanted to buy it a bag of sweets or something afterwards.

Now. I completed a really very complicated set of manoeuvres. It featured, among other things, the worrying of her hip-bone with my elbow, stroking her eyelashes, and kissing her ears with dry-tongued care. I did some talking, too -shameless flattery most of it, but circumstantial and disinterested, which, I find, makes it far less embarrassing, since during their delivery compliments are borne and only in retrospect are they enjoyed.

'You know, you're looking straight at me and I can still see the whites of your eyes all round your pupils. Look at mine. The brown always joins the edge at some point. But yours are amazing. I suppose that's why they're so striking - the first thing I noticed about you. Why do you ever wear sunglasses?'

And again:

'What's this stuff on your lips ? It doesn't taste like make-up. It's difficult to tell where your lips stop and your face starts. Your skin's such an absurd colour, like damp sand; very nice.'

Rachel, for her part, said at one point: 'You've got such sweet breath. Not sickly.' She laughed. 'Just sweet.'

Although utterly inexplicable, this was true enough, often pointed out to me by girls ('cucumber and peppermint' is the best description I've ever screwed out of them). That tasty liquefying gook in my lungs? Rachel's remark impressed me deeply all the same. I wished I could, so to speak, come off duty, surrender to this experience as something related not to the past nor to Deforest nor to trichomonas nor to the future. But I had to get her first, then there would be time.

To signal this promise, I abandoned the tactile skirmishes. I lifted both hands to her face, held it with my palms resting flat against her cheeks, and kissed her lightly on the lips. Sometimes, in this sort of situation, in a sexual context, girls look sad when they are not sad. This was how Rachel looked: frowning, beautiful, clear-eyed, pained.

We had been at it for thirteen minutes. I knew because the record had come to an end (I timed it later, for the books: four tracks' worth). But the record didn't go on to automatic reject like any normal record; those cheeky Beatles had indented the final groove, so that it went

Cussy Anny hople - wan

Cussy Anny hople - wan

ad infinitum, until you could be bothered to go and lift up the needle. (Geoffrey said it was 'I'll fuck you like a superman' backwards. 1 had never checked.)

Pretended not to notice for half a minute or so. Then: 'Oh, Christ.' 1 let my body go limp and swivelled over. I sat facing away from Rachel. The record had been hardly more than a murmur, intended to drown the muffled snorting and wincing of the pass. Without it, the room seemed hollow.

Tour jacket's awfully creased,' said Rachel, as if from a great distance.

1 bunched a fistful of the material in my hand. It was creased. I stared at the rug. 'Where is DeForest, anyhow?' I thought this would sound more powerful with my back to her.

'Oxford. Getting interviewed.'

'Oh really?' I said in a tight voice. Why wasn't I getting interviewed? 'When's he coming back?'

Tomorrow. But then he's going shooting in Northamptonshire.'

'Shooting ? What do you mean ?'

'Hunting. You know, with guns.'

'Oh. He does all that, does he?' Elitism
and
butchery. Ought to be some milage there.

'Not really.' I heard her stifle a yawn. 'A friend invited him for the weekend.'

She stressed 'weekend' on the first syllable. DeForest's influence. I turned, smiling.

That means you can come to a film tonight.
La Rupture is
on at the Classic.'

She closed her eyes and nodded, seemingly in regret. I stole a worried kiss.

Suddenly there was clamour from the direction of the stairs, as if a victorious Cup Final team were running down them. Rachel and I had only just enough time to sit up and look startled and guilty before the door swung open. Norman's beachball head loomed over us. It ignored Rachel.

'Come on. Upstairs. Your dad's here.'

'What?
Here?'

'Yeah, come on.' He turned to leave.

'Look, Norman, slow down,' I said. 'Can't you tell him I'm ill or something, or out? What the hell's he doing here, anyway?' I was making little allowance for Rachel's presence, having explained to her that my sister had gone and married, quite unaccountably, this mad cockney - perfectly harmless, something of a character, totally off his head of course, don't be alarmed by
anything
he says or does, and so on.

'No, you've got to come up. Jenny said. She thinks I'll nut him or something unless you're there. This Rachel?' He looked her up and down in insolent appraisal.

'Yes. Rachel, this is Norman.'

'Hi,' said Rachel chirpily. She had sat up, arms wrapped round her knees.

'Tsuh.' Norman threw his eyebrows and head back with disgust or envy - I couldn't tell which. Nor could I tell how anyone could be so offensive and give so little offence.

'Come on, then,' he said, 'both of you.' He frowned and gestured towards the door encouragingly. 'His tart's here, too,' he added, as if they had arrived independently.

'You mean his
mistress?'

Half after: right Charlie

A moment ago mother came in and asked me if I wanted any supper. I said no, of course, and added that I would appreciate not being disturbed again. That sort of thing can put you right off your stride. Now I have to lie on the bed for a few minutes and let the solitude gather round me once more.

I assumed that for all her social varnish Rachel must have been feeling rather overwhelmed, so I was relieved when we were hailed outside the kitchen door by an unkempt, hurriedly made-up Jenny. She was making a big tea. I introduced them, and Rachel immediately started to help, assembling trays, grilling toast, transferring milk and sugar into genteel containers.

'What
does
he think he's doing here?' I asked.

'Gosh,' said Jenny. 'Norman must be up there. Oh Charles, do go up.'

I wanted to know how long they'd be. Jenny said not long. I disappeared.

My father, arms folded and needly legs crossed, was at the far end of the room. To my right: a small blonde in white shirt and black velvet trouser-suit. To my left: Norman, back to the window, in brick-jawed relish of the uncomfortable silence.

Gordon Highway was startled but, all in all, quite pleased to see me. He stood up and held out an arm towards his tart. She was called Vanessa Arnold. I leaned down and shook her jewelled hand. Vanessa was a midget, and had a drawn, over-tanned face, but she wasn't unattractive.

'No, I don't believe we
have
met.' I sat down beside her.

'Yes, I was just telling Norman here,' said my father in a declamatory voice, 'Vanessa has just flown in from New York.

It's topping ninety there! It's hot, dirty, expensive, bad-tempered - the blacks are going crazy, everyone's striking, the students are restless again...' He laughed. 'What a God-awful country!'

He continued, exchanging the odd political or ecological platitude with Vanessa, until the deliverance of 'Ah, here we are.' The girls placed both trays on the drinks-table between the windows. I introduced Rachel, with some pride.

My father told Jenny and Rachel what he had just been telling Norman and Charles here. Rachel said she had been there the year before ... oh really? lot worse now what's going to happen mugging Nixon riots Central Park pollution even in the day-time.

Norm and I grimaced at each other. He hadn't spoken yet, I only once. The tea got round, then the toast, which my father refused. He wanted neither milk nor sugar. Was there a lemon? Jenny would run down, occupied as she was. No, Rachel would. Where were they kept ? She left the room.

'They aren't going to put up with it much longer,' Vanessa was saying. 'Nixon is up to here' (neck-high) 'in bullshit.' She blew on her tea. For someone who hated America so much she had a very mid-Atlantic accent. 'Soon the students and the Panthers are going to get together, and then ...' She shook her head.

There was a pause.

'And what do you think of this frightful situation,' said Norman in a pontifical voice. 'Charles, I mean what's it all coming to?'

Rachel broke the stillness. She bore a saucer on which lay a single slice of lemon.

'Ah, thank you so much.' My father held out his cup, a smile fossilized on his face.

'I'll tell you, Norman,' I said. 'I think it's got very little to do with the government. It's the people.'

'Ah, now what do you mean by "the people"?' my father queried. 'Aren't "the people" and the government, in effect, the same -'

'I'll tell you, Norman. Americans will always be hell no matter who's governing them. They're —'

'Okay, so you don't like Americans,' said Vanessa.

'No, I don't like Americans.'

Rachel sat down in a straight-backed chair to Norman's left.

'Ah, but why ? Has that got anything to do with the matter at hand?' My father lifted his cup, watching his weight and watching me.

Stop saying 'ah' like that every time you open your fucking mouth. I felt hot. I didn't think much. I said: 'Because they're violent. Because they only like extremes. Even the rural people, the old reactionaries in the farms, go out blowing niggers' heads off, roast a Jew or two, disembowel a Puerto Rican. Even the hippies are all eating and mass-murdering each other. The generations of T-bone steak and bully-beef, as if they're doing a genetics experiment on themselves. No wonder they're so violent, with bodies like theirs. It's like being permanently armed.' The room sighed. 'And I hate them because they're so big and sweaty. I hate their biceps and their tans and their perfect teeth and their clear eyes. I hate their—'

I was interrupted by Vanessa (abusively), her boyfriend (magisterially) and Rachel (with amused dismissiveness). I let them ride over me without protest. The tirade hadn't been contrived wholly for Rachel's benefit. I had, in fact, before even meeting DeForest, written a sonnet on this theme - of whose sestet the speech was, in part, a prose paraphrase. It had not seemed such limelit nonsense in verse form.

Jen finally took time out from serving tea and toast. She sat on the floor at her husband's feet. Norman, staring at me with curiosity and some affection, laid a palm the size of a violin on her head. Jenny frowned when she felt Norman's hand, but looked grateful. It was the first time I had seen them touch since the night of my arrival. Two and a half weeks.

The argument continued. I was unable to see how the three of them could have disagreed with me so fervently and yet go on disagreeing among themselves. Vanessa had decided that it would be more swinging partially to come round to my view (she blamed the system, and 'genocide-guilt'). Rachel was taking a conventional stand against 'this kind of generalization'. My father umpired. I listened for a few minutes, then went downstairs.

After some words with Valentine ('Fuck off and get Mum') and a new au pair ('Yes, I'm terribly sorry,
would
you mind waking her up, it is rather important - I do hope I'll see you next time I'm there'), I got mother. I let her scale the lurching rope-ladder first to consciousness, then to recognition, and, at last, to intelligibility.

'Er, no dear, yes. I wanted ... I wanted just to know how many people your father was bringing. There's Pat and Willie French, I know, but I wondered if they were bringing ... someone else. Because I shall then have to move Gita out of the green room and put Sebastian's things ...'

I looked for a connection. 'Who are Willie and - Pat, is it?'

'Willie French, the journalist, and his ... Patty Reynolds. She's a very old friend of mine. She...'

Reynolds. I put my hand over the receiver and shouted, 'Father?' The conversation above ceased, and then, more quietly, resumed. I listened. Mother was still lost in monologue when my father's head appeared over the banisters. I held up the telephone for him to see.