Heat Wave

  ‘I’ve never killed anything more substantial than a wasp,’ he observes. ‘Maybe one should try it sometime. Obviously one’s missing out on a basic human experience.’

  ‘Plenty of experiences I’d prefer to pass up,’ says Pauline drily. ‘If the people in this room thought about the implications of what they’re looking at they’d be a bit more squeamish. Which includes us. Sanitized violence, this is.’

  ‘Of course. A necessary ingredient of the heritage industry. The torture chamber cleaned up into a museum display. Colourful anecdotes supplied by tour leaders and guide books. Worth an entire chapter, I’ve decided. Nice remote violence – no more upsetting than something you see on the telly. Most of these people would throw a wobbly if they came across a road accident. Including you and me.’

  Teresa has joined them. ‘Luke’s getting a bit fed up with this. I’m going to have to speed up the house part and get him out into the gardens.’

  ‘Right,’ says Maurice vaguely. ‘You do that.’ He crosses the room to examine a huge dark oil painting in which a young woman in floating garments aims a bow and arrow at a fleeing stag. Next to it a muscular figure struggles with a lion. Diana, thinks Pauline. Hercules. She follows Teresa through the next room, and the next, at a smart pace now. An immense tapestry depicting the birth of Venus. Portraits of eighteenth-century owners of the house dressed as Roman dignitaries. It occurs to Pauline that for those unfamiliar with the codes of classical mythology the reference system of this place must acquire a further dimension of obscurity.

  Pauline and Teresa complete their accelerated tour of the house and emerge on to the terrace at the back, where Luke can be released to potter around. They are joined eventually by the others.

  ‘Which way was the loo, Teresa?’ says James.

  ‘That way … No, not the first path, the second.’ James sets off, hesitates.

  Carol says, ‘James has a wonderful capacity for getting lost. He gets lost a hundred yards from our flat.’

  ‘Teresa,’ says Maurice, ‘do James a kindness and show him.’

  ‘OK,’ says Teresa equably. ‘Hang on, James – I’ll come with you.’ She goes after James, with Luke astride one hip. Pauline wanders a few yards along the terrace, admiring a flower border, preparing to wait for their return. After a minute she looks round for Maurice and Carol. They are no longer there. They are not waiting, it seems. They were a few yards away, apparently stationary, and now they are not.

  Pauline continues to patrol the flower border. It is some while before James and Teresa appear. Teresa has called in at the café to buy Luke some biscuits. ‘Where are the others?’ she asks.

  ‘They must have gone on,’ says Pauline. ‘Maybe they thought they’d missed you. Probably they’re looking for us. These gardens are vast.’ She consults the plan in the brochure. ‘Water garden … yew walk … fountain court.’

  ‘No problem,’ says James. ‘We’ll meet up with them sooner or later.’

  The gardens are a crafty manipulation of landscape. The lawn forms a plateau which ends in a long balustrade, below which the hillside tips downwards in a sequence of grassy terraces and flower borders. At the bottom is the water garden, and the terraced hillside is flanked by high hedges which screen further enclosures. Pauline, James and Teresa pause at the end of the lawn to lean on the balustrade and get their bearings.

  ‘We should go down there,’ says James. ‘Incredible great lily things – you can see them from here.’

  The path at the side is very steep and looks slippery. Teresa points out that it will be hard to get the buggy up again.

  ‘Maybe there’s an easier way at the other side,’ says Pauline. ‘I’ll have a look.’

  She walks off. Luke has devised a game which involves dropping sticks through the balustrade. James is telling Teresa that Maurice has suddenly decided to rewrite a chapter, which is going to hold things up a bit, but no matter, Maurice is his own sternest critic and if that’s the way he sees it …

  Pauline reaches the far end of the balustraded terrace. The route down to the water garden does indeed seem easier here. She pauses to look over into a hedged space to one side, a grassy enclosure with a spreading maple tree under which a man and a woman are standing, face to face.

  Maurice and Carol. They are distant. Expressions cannot be seen. But there is a stillness, a tension. Maurice is speaking – his hand sketches something. Carol has taken off her sunglasses and stands looking intently up at him. And then he puts his hands on her upper arms, one at each side, holding her, and they stand thus for a few seconds before he lets her go.

  Pauline turns away. She walks back and meets James and Teresa coming towards her. ‘No,’ she says, ‘it’s just as steep this side. Why don’t we leave the buggy here and carry Luke down?’

  The water garden has creamy lilies floating amid shiny great leaf-pads. There are blue bulrushes and huge clumps of iris and interesting striped dragonflies. James and Teresa enjoy all this and Pauline apparently shares their appreciation. She too exclaims at the plant with gigantic leaves like some science fiction apparition. She shows Luke the pond skaters and the red gleam of goldfish coasting among the water-lily leaves.

  And now here are Maurice and Carol, appearing from the path that leads to the terrace above. ‘There you are …’ exclaims Carol. ‘We couldn’t think where you’d got to. We were hunting for you up there.’

  ‘Hi!’ says Teresa. ‘Look at these amazing dragonflies.’

  ‘Like miniature helicopters,’ says James. He puts his arm round Carol. She leans up against him, squinting into the sun, smiling. She fishes the sunglasses from the pocket of the oversized green shirt that she is wearing over white jeans and puts them on again. The shirt engulfs her as do the sunglasses, making her look like a child who has borrowed adult gear. Pauline stares at her. Oh, I know you, she thinks, I recognize you. You are neither here nor there in the long run, but right now you are very much here, and I see you, and those who will come after you, and I am sick to my stomach.

  Teresa is squatting by the side of the pond, holding Luke by the back of his trousers so that he will not fall in. ‘Da!’ says Luke, indicating the dragonflies, the fish, the lilies, this entire glinting flashing quivering experience. ‘He’s loving this,’ says Teresa to Maurice, who is looking down at them. She is wearing her straw hat, which throws chequered shadow on her face – her cheeks and nose are meshed in sunlight. She beams up at Maurice. ‘Can you take him a minute?’ she says. ‘I want to get that stick.’ Maurice stoops to hold Luke. Teresa picks up a stick and reaches out to nudge gently a clump of grass in which crouches a brown stone. The stone jumps into the water. Luke gazes in astonishment. Teresa laughs delightedly. ‘His first frog,’ she says. ‘Toad, surely?’ says Maurice. ‘Aren’t frogs green?’ ‘Frog, toad, whichever …’ Teresa is aglow, happy, seized by one of those sudden surges of contentment to which she is prone. ‘I’m glad we came here,’ she goes on. ‘It’s a great place. Don’t you think so?’ ‘Great,’ agrees Maurice. ‘Look! Your frog’s under that lily leaf now,’ says Carol. ‘I can see its foot.’ And there they all are, gathered in this benign place on this exquisite blue summer day, looking at a frog in a pond.

  ‘I swear to you,’ says Harry. ‘It’s over.’ He is gazing very directly at her, biting his lip – a look that is uncompromising and unflinching and which suggests compunction and apprehension. A complex look. A look that Pauline has not before experienced. This is in itself unnerving. She is unnerved.

  She says nothing.

  ‘Finished. Kaput. Next term she won’t even be here. She’s got a lectureship at Leeds.’

  ‘Why?’ says Pauline at last. ‘Why her? Why anyone?’

  Harry looks down. He pulls a face that implies shame, embarrassment, perplexity, take your pick. ‘I’m susceptible, I suppose.’

  Silence. Harry’s hand creeps towards Pauline’s. He lays a finger on her wrist. One finger. She does not move. The finger tentatively strokes.
br />   Harry and Pauline are walking in the woods. Teresa is riding on Harry’s shoulders, her short legs clenched round his neck, her hands clasping his forehead. Her face is alight, this treat does not often come her way, outings like this one are rare, such are the demands on Harry’s time. But today he is theirs, the family man, and this is the family outing, in these late autumn woods with the smouldering leaves hanging still from the trees. This is one of those times that will seem even better much later, thinks Pauline. It is perfect now, but it will be more perfect yet when it is stowed away in the head. Harry is holding her hand. Teresa is singing – a tuneless chant with jumbled mumbled words. Pauline laughs.

  ‘What’s she singing?’ asks Harry.

  ‘ “The Teddy Bears’ Picnic”. “If you go down to the woods today …” Her version. They’ve got a record of it at the nursery school.’

  Teresa breaks off. ‘I want a teddy bear,’ she proclaims from up there above their heads.

  ‘You shall have a teddy bear,’ Harry tells her. ‘A big brown American teddy bear. I’ll bring you one.’

  ‘American?’ says Pauline after a moment.

  ‘I’m going to Washington after the end of term.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘I thought I told you, sweetie. It’s only for a week.’ Harry squeezes her hand. He joins in the song. ‘ “If you go down to the woods today,” ’ he sings, ‘ “you’re sure of a big surprise …” ’

  ‘You’re Harry Carter’s wife?’ says the visiting professor from Stanford. He is looking at her rather closely.

  ‘I’m Pauline Carter.’

  ‘I met your husband briefly at the American Studies Association conference. The man of the moment, he was. Having himself a ball.’ The professor seems to be recalling something that amuses him. He quells the lurking smile and again looks at Pauline as though she were a possibly useful item in a window display. ‘But I don’t seem to see him around the campus.’

  ‘Harry’s having a sabbatical this term,’ says Pauline. ‘He’s working up in London a lot of the time.’

  ‘Is that so? Too bad. I’d hoped to see something of him. Maybe you and I could meet up for a drink one evening then?’

  ‘Maybe not, I think,’ says Pauline.

  ‘Christ!’ says Harry. ‘Thirty-six! Thirty-six! What’s going on?’ He stands naked in front of the bathroom mirror, inspecting himself. He does not seem, on the face of it, displeased.

  ‘Time is going on,’ says Pauline. ‘I thought that was your trade. History.’

  ‘I’d prefer it didn’t get so personal. Thirty-six is pushing forty, and by forty I have to have a Chair.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ Pauline observes. ‘You’d like to. Different.’

  ‘Oh, sweetie …’ says Harry, ‘you are such a very accurate girl. Some might say literal-minded. But I dote on you anyway. By the way, I’ve asked some extra people to the party.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The new guy in French and his wife. A couple of research students. Oh – and a girl called Alice who works in the Vice-Chancellor’s office.’

  10

  ‘I did wonder a bit about dragon’s breath setting fire to a tree,’ says Pauline. ‘Would it?’

  ‘I tried with a blow-torch,’ says Chris Rogers. ‘I borrowed my neighbour’s and had a go at some old fencing. It started smouldering, and I reckon dragon’s breath would be more powerful still.’

  ‘In that case I stand corrected,’ says Pauline.

  ‘The problem really is whether or not the reader will accept dragons or unicorns at all,’ Chris continues. ‘And whether anyone’s going to be interested in a story about undying passion. Bit of an unfashionable concept.’

  ‘I think the setting is a distinct advantage. The fantasy helps you suspend disbelief. It’s merely a quibble – the dragon’s breath.’

  ‘What about the death of the Lady?’ asks Chris anxiously. ‘Talusa’s suicide. Does that work? I hope so. I sweated my guts out over that bit.’

  ‘Oh, it’s very powerful. Unbearably sad.’

  ‘Are you sure? You sound a touch doubtful.’

  ‘Oh no. You’ve done it just right. It’s me reacting inappropriately.’

  ‘Inappropriately?’

  ‘Oh, well … she shouldn’t have done it, of course.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because in the fullness of time she would have recovered. She’d have ceased to give a hang about the Knight. Maybe she’d have got herself another Knight. Or found that she could get on quite well without one.’

  ‘That is a very cynical view,’ says Chris sternly. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure,’ Pauline tells him. ‘I’m fifty-five. I know about this sort of thing.’

  There is a pause. ‘Well, that’s one way of looking at it, but it won’t do for an allegory about romantic love, will it?’

  ‘Of course not. Actually I rather prefer your version, even if it does mean killing off the Lady. It’s a much stronger story.’

  ‘Stronger than what?’ enquires Chris, again after consideration. He seems to be a person who takes conversational exchange seriously. Pauline approves of this.

  ‘Stronger than disillusion, I suppose. Not much of a story there – just a kind of fading away. Passion isn’t supposed to do that. Good thing they didn’t have any children, incidentally.’

  ‘Out of the question. Or if they had they would have been irrelevant. The children, I mean.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ says Pauline. ‘They tend to have an awful relevance. But I’m being very literal-minded. An occupational hazard. And entirely inappropriate in this context.’

  ‘You’re the editor. You’re supposed to raise objections.’

  ‘Copy editor,’ she corrects. ‘I deal in nuts and bolts, not large aesthetic judgements. That’s been done elsewhere.’

  ‘Hugo. Yes. Actually he had a problem with the Lady’s death. He made me rework it in some places.’

  ‘Well, it reads very well now,’ says Pauline. ‘Is your new book along the same lines?’

  ‘No way. I’m through with that sort of thing. This one’s sci-fi. Mainstream sci-fi for the devotees. But it’s going slowly. I’ve just climbed to the top of our local mountain in search of inspiration.’

  ‘Successfully?’

  ‘Frankly, no. All I got was a blister, but the view was good.’

  ‘Well,’ says Pauline, ‘I’ll leave you to it. Send me the chapter you’re rewriting once you’ve squared it with Hugo, and I’ll go through it.’

  ‘You’ll be glad to see the back of me – chopping and changing like this.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ says Pauline. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing what you’ve done with the flight through the forest. Please don’t get rid of the werewolves.’

  She puts down the telephone and looks out of the window. Teresa is on the track in front of the house, entertaining Luke, who weaves his way from one object of interest to another – a puddle, a clump of grass, a lichen-covered fence post. The wheat is no longer dark green but pale, the ears beginning to bend and seethe. The year has turned. That uprush of growth is done with. The place is full to the brim and somehow static. The trees droop over pools of shade. The fields have dusky margins of nettle. There are still the ochre rectangles of set-aside, but there are also occasional glimmering lakes of sky-blue flax, which like the flaring oilseed rape seem to have southern overtones, but more congenial ones. When a rash of poppies floats against the blue it is as though the hand of an impressionist painter is at work here in the English landscape.

  And it is hot. The summer is by now becoming legendary, a news item in its own right. Toppling records, incipient drought. Swarms of jellyfish in the Channel, basking sharks off the Cornish coast. Ice-cream sales at an all-time high, melanoma warnings with the weather forecast. One summer’s day rolls into the next, indistinguishable days in which it is light still at ten o’clock, then the sky starts to drain and within a short while is a
strange dark electric blue, and the trees and hedges are shadows in a monochrome landscape.

  Teresa and Luke are fifty yards away along the track now. Teresa picks Luke up and sits him on the crossbar of the fence. Together they contemplate the wheat. Teresa glances at her watch. She is checking by how much the day has inched ahead, hitched as she is to infant time, that unique dictation of needs and moods, when an hour or a day can seem motionless, spun out into an interminable now. Pauline remembers exactly how it was, and feels as though in one crucial sense she inhabits a different time zone from Teresa, one in which the hours trip over themselves instead of stalking past.

  Back then in the cathedral town she was an expert on child time. She knew with precision just how many hours could be consumed by an excursion to the park, by the shopping, by sleep, by a visit to a friend. Now she wants to explain to Teresa that it is all an illusion, that in fact the months are racing by and Luke with them, an irretrievable succession of Lukes, but she knows that this would make no sense to Teresa, who is in the thick of it. She inhabited then a different time zone from Harry. Her days were long, and one day mirrored another. Harry’s days – well, Harry’s days were a helter-skelter progress of seminars and meetings and sudden dashes up to London for a broadcast and unexplained sorties in all directions because there was a conference he must sample or someone he must talk to about an article or a grant or a job opportunity. The notion that academic life is an orderly and contemplative affair is quite misguided, Pauline came to realize. Harry bounded about the place and occasionally withdrew to his study for a few hours of feverish work, during which he must not be disturbed. The turbulence of his own existence was reflected by the life on the university campus, which seemed to be in a condition of permanent uproar. The students were always demonstrating or protesting, either about the state of the world or about what they perceived as their own unjust treatment at the hands of the authorities. Harry and his colleagues were forever locked into excited negotiations which would spill over into the house as the phone rang late at night or little posses of stern-faced students arrived to deliver ultimatums.