In fact, he felt proud to be part of such a family and above all, of course, proud of Claire. He liked being part of this massed and candle-lit spectacle of Jenkinses. And he’d captured her now; unbelievably, she wanted him. Him, Geoff.
He gazed down at her engagement ring; £220’s worth of diamonds there. Still, diamonds didn’t depreciate and a girl like Claire deserved them. The best for her. He’d always liked to do things properly.
On impulse he covered her hand with his; who cared who saw? Right there, in front of everyone. Quite bold he felt, all of a sudden.
Claire turned to him and smiled. She was his beautiful girl. He tightened his grip. ‘Really excellent claret,’ he called across the table. ‘Dan.’
By the end of the main course things, aided perhaps by the really excellent claret, were relaxing a little. Laura, to everyone’s surprise, had remained practically silent all evening; but Dan and Mac were actually conversing.
‘To tell the truth, Mac,’ he was saying, ‘I’m rather glad to meet someone who’s not a student. They’ve had such a bad press recently – you know, sit-ins for higher grants and so forth. Politically very confused, I think.’
‘Are they?’
‘Seem to be. Disrupting every institution yet making a fearful fuss if those same institutions don’t get them their money on time. That sort of thing. I’m glad you’re not political.’
‘How do you know?’ challenged Laura. ‘Actually, Mac’s a Marxist.’ I think, she added to herself.
‘Tell me about Marxism,’ her father said. ‘I’d like to know.’
‘Well,’ mumbled Mac. ‘Bit complicated.’
‘In the thirties, you know, it was rather different. Chap in my office lost a leg in the Spanish war. Compare that to your –’
‘Ah, the trolley!’ Rosemary’s gay voice interrupted them. Dan was getting on to one of his hobby horses and she liked to keep things harmonious. ‘Do let’s choose a pudding!’
‘Yes, but Dad –’ began Laura. She wanted to carry on, to have a proper discussion. Real talk at last. She had a feeling, too, that her silence was arousing attention. Besides she was proud that, whatever had happened since, her father had actually once been a Communist; she wanted Mac to know that. She didn’t know much about politics but what she did know was that she should admire the Left.
But her weak urge faltered at the sight of the sweets trolley, a truly kitsch wonderworld of snowy peaks, drenched valleys and layers of ooze. Drab politics were forgotten. For a moment, everything was. ‘Bags the last rum baba!’ she said.
Holly cast a swift professional eye over it. ‘You can keep it. Not enough juice. I want some of that pie, please, and an eclair. Can I have both?’
‘I’ll swop half your baba, Laura,’ said Claire, ‘for half this cheesecake. Done?’
‘Done.’
‘Girls!’ cried their mother. ‘You’re behaving like babies.’
‘Heavens, I’ve just spotted the trifle,’ sighed Laura. How she craved sweet things, just lately!
‘Have it as well,’ said Holly. ‘Go on, ask the waiter. If you’re sissy I will, but only if you give me a mouthful of your rum thingummy.’
‘Think about your guests,’ said their mother.
But Geoff and Mac liked it. All at once they felt more comfortable. What a relief, nobody being polite any more! It pleased them, this wearing away of the formality; this glimpse of the family underneath, as the veneer on a table might be worn away to reveal the no-nonsense pine. They liked a bit of bad manners.
Dinner was over. Brandies were poured. Even Holly was given a tiny glass of something green. Dan took a packet from his pocket and leant over to Laura. He always offered her a special Black Sobranie after a grand meal.
‘Er, no thanks awfully,’ she said.
‘Given up? Goodness, Laura, you used to smoke like a chimney.’
‘Er, yes, well I’ve stopped.’
‘Don’t be ashamed of it girll Congratulations!’
Claire’s eye was on Laura; Laura looked out of the window. Dan passed the cigarettes round to the men.
They settled back. Wreathed together in aromatic smoke, the three of them became drawn into the ageless and masculine spell of after-dinner contentment and fine brandy. Black cigarettes were tapped over ashtrays, amber liquid was tilted in its balloon glass and inspected as if it held all the secrets; upon them a timeless air descended.
And simultaneously the four women drew together, silently marvelling how some lost clannish spell, or perhaps just booze, was accomplishing before their eyes the very state of affairs they’d been striving to achieve all evening. And, cosy and clannish themselves, they talked about the wedding, its little details, all the dull and practical things which they would be selfconscious about mentioning in the company of men but which, just because it was Claire’s wedding, were surprisingly absorbing. Bridesmaids? Canapés? How many invitations had been answered? Even Laura, who believed she frowned at such things, found herself caught up and leant forward, quickened into discussion about the number of glasses and should they have one usher or two? It helped to keep her mind off what she had disclosed as yet to nobody. No time could be more inappropriate than the present, and anyway she was still unsure. Nothing was definite.
Just then Holly stifled a yawn and Rosemary, with her alert mother’s eye, stopped. ‘Dan darling,’ she said, ‘isn’t it time to make a move? It’s long past Holly’s bedtime.’
‘It’s not!’ protested Holly.
With twenty years of whiny bedtimes behind her, Rosemary didn’t bother to reply but just stood up. They all four stood up and looked at the men.
Mac had taken off his jacket and looked definitely cheerful. He was showing the other two some complicated – too complicated – trick with matches and they, fingers busy trying it out, were carrying on with their conversation. Murmurs could be heard. ‘Sound year,’ was one; ‘investment,’ was another. ‘How about clubbing together on a crate of the ’69?’ Claire heard. She smiled.
Standing by the coat rail, all three men were very gallant at helping the ladies into their coats – all except Holly, that is, who struggled into her anorak alone and would have tautened, affronted, if anyone had tried to come to her aid. Geoff held out Claire’s enduring Harris Tweed affair; with a blush and a smile she slipped into it as if slipping into his arms. Dan helped his wife, with rather too much of a flourish, into her powder blue number that exactly matched her dress. Even Mac, Mac, felt prompted to lift Laura’s ratty fur and hoist it round her shoulders. It was no good pushing her arms into it because the lining was all holey, so she could only wear it draped around her shoulders, the parody of a mink.
After this Geoff and Mac disappeared in their different directions and the Jenkinses squashed into the Rover. Holly, who a year ago would have sunk herself, sleepy and fragrant, into the nearest arms, now sat up, stiffish but slightly swaying. She was too old for such soppiness.
Or so she thought; but slowly she was toppling. By the time they had passed Regent’s Park she was truly asleep and breathing into the comforting Harris Tweed of Claire. Dreams later the car stopped. Holly woke with a jolt. Doors were being opened, skirts gathered together. Tumbling out, she found herself standing on the pavement outside her house in her bright red tights. No shoes. She had to wait until everybody else got out and then scrabble amongst the collapsed Kleenex boxes, battered maps and moulted Badger fur for them. At last she found her stylish slipons; slightly less convenient, perhaps, than her babyish ones which at least stayed on. Still, a small price to pay for growing up.
Laura lay in her bed and waited. Claire was still in the bathroom; she could hear the mumbling of the hot water pipes deep in the walls. ‘As if the house had indigestion,’ her father used to say. She heard the rush and thump of the lavatory. With Claire here her memories were stirred; stirred too by the sinking knowledge that this must be the last time they would sleep together. They had always shared this room, right up until Claire’s
move to Clapham, even though there were two other rooms next door to it. But they preferred to sleep together because it was more fun. Their midnight murmurs were fun, so were their muffled giggles, only temporarily stilled by the sound of a footstep on the stairs.
With a click the bathroom light was turned off. Laura lay gazing at that familiar mark on the ceiling which, when she was horsey, had seemed like a thoroughbred’s head and when she was older just seemed abstract again. She turned and gazed at the Sellotape marks where her Beatles photos had been, most of them of George, whose gentle shagginess she’d loved the best. She looked at the fan-shaped brown smear above the gas fire where in spiritual adolescent moments she’d lit joss sticks. And she looked out of the window and remembered countless evenings when, gazing out at the Harrow swallows swooping, elastic, against the ribbed sunset, she’d dreamt of future lovers and a happiness impossible to put into a shape. Had it any shape yet? Ominous clouds, that was all.
Another click; the landing went dark. Claire crept into the bedroom and closed the door behind her. The end of an era, Laura thought. In August this room is to be redecorated and everything – the ceiling mark, the Sellotape ones, the joss stick smear – they’ll all be painted over. In August Claire will be lying alongside her own husband, and I? What about me?
Claire switched off the bedside light; the bed creaked, sheets rustled; she was in.
‘Wow,’ Laura sighed loudly. ‘I’m glad that’s over.’
‘Why?’
‘So painful. What an ordeal.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t that bad.’ For some reason Claire felt prickly. ‘It was a lovely meal, anyway.’ Perhaps it was that to criticize the evening was to criticize Geoff, who was at its centre.
‘But such a vulgar place! The whole business would have been much better at home.’
‘Daddy wanted to make a thing of it.’
‘Yes, but Daddy’s things always embarrass me.’
Claire pulled the cool sheet up to her chin. ‘Anyway, Geoff enjoyed it.’ It was her and Geoff from now on. She gazed at the darkness into which she was placing her words. Much easier to send them into the black than to speak them to another face. For even with a sister one could be shy; especially when the subject was Geoff, as surely it would be. She dreaded this but it couldn’t be avoided. How often were they alone like this? They must talk.
‘You’re lucky,’ came Laura’s voice. ‘They seem to like Geoff. I wish they’d like Mac.’
Ah, we shall talk about Mac, thought Claire with relief. That was easier, the whole thing was definable with Mac. ‘Mac’s so different,’ she said. ‘They just don’t understand him. Anyway, they just think he’s another of your boyfriends. If they knew you were living with him …’
Words failed both of them. ‘But Geoff,’ said Laura, ‘they can understand what he’s about.’
Was there wistfulness there, or condescension? Difficult to tell. ‘I just hope,’ said Claire, ‘there are other things they like about him too.’ She was edging nearer and nearer to what she really wanted to ask; even in this room steeped in past confidences she couldn’t quite ask it outright. Are you pleased about Geoff?
‘They seemed to be getting along fine, anyway,’ said Laura. ‘All that talk about what stereo to buy and what wine to lay down.’
‘Oh dear, it sounds awfully boring.’
‘Count your blessings, my girl. It’s good that they talked at all. Nobody except you and Holly can ever think of anything to say to Mac. Not that he helps much.’
Laura relapsed into silence. A silence thinking of Mac or one thinking of Geoff? Or a silence comparing them both? Claire waited, then gave up and started explaining into the blackness: ‘The thing about Geoff is that he’s adult. Capable, you know, not like most of the people I’ve met. You know, narrow-shouldered youths you have to mother –’ She stopped. Narrow-shouldered youths sounded just like Mac. ‘Er, you know, hopeless ones like that flapping overcoat one in Bristol. Not nice ones like Mac.’ She thought for a moment. Shame having to choose one’s words with a sister, of all people. ‘Or else unhappy existential ones you have to be careful with, ones who keep you awake all night while they chain smoke and talk about their complexes, and analyse just what you said to them all day and did you really mean it – you know, sensitive ones who’re not really sensitive, just touchy.’ She stirred her toes clockwise round the cool tucked corners of the sheets, searching for words. ‘Or else sad middle-aged schoolmasters who live in bedsits and somehow missed out on a wife. You see, Laura, I’m not beautiful like you, or even amazingly intelligent –’
‘Don’t be stupid! Honestly, don’t feel you have to explain Geoff or apologize for him. I think he’s very nice. He’s the sort of person who gets things done. I saw that at the Zoo.’
Oh dear. Claire stared into the dark. It was as she dreaded; Laura was choosing her words. Mac and Geoff had entered this room now and altered everything. There they lay, two sisters in their parallel beds, miles apart.
A long silence. Staring into their separate darknesses they lay there. Behind them stretched the past, the shared midnight murmurings, the electric crackle and cling of the winceyette nighties as they squirmed with muffled laughter, the secret words whose meaning was known only to themselves, the wickedly late chime from the clock downstairs, the mystery of their parents’ closed bedroom door and what went on behind it – all that was over. It had become the Past and now they lay in limbo, for what was to replace it? A far horizon faced Claire, a misty landscape of marriage whose actual stones and grass her feet had not yet felt. Soon they would be stepping there.
And Laura? Claire tried a question. ‘By the way, how come you had no wine? Or cigarettes? Do tell me, please.’ She slid her toes about, blushing into the blackness. ‘Are you by any chance pregnant?’
A quick laugh. ‘Oh heavens no! ’Course not! I’m just being healthy, aren’t I, cutting down the booze, saving money on fags …’
‘Thank goodness! I thought, just for a moment, at dinner …’
‘No no.’
‘That’s all right then.’
Laura relaxed. That was over. No, she would tell her fears to nobody, not even her darling sister who just lately seemed so far away.
Downstairs there was a familiar whirr and ting as the clock struck one; outside the door there was a scrape and a sigh as Badger, who had moved upstairs to guard his girls, shifted himself in his sleep.
‘Night-night, Laura.’
‘Night-night.’
Laura stayed awake the longest.
twenty-seven
THE DOCTOR TOOK off his spectacles and by the way he did it, rather carefully, Laura knew it was all over.
‘Do sit down, Miss Jenkins.’
The large expanse of leather-topped desk and the framed diplomas on the wall reinforced his authority and gave the words she knew he was going to say, when he said them, a weightier significance – as if they needed any more of it.
‘Yes, your test was positive, I’m afraid.’
Funnily enough this didn’t flood her with realization and emotion. Perhaps it was that the whole room spoke of this little scene endlessly repeated; a past procession of girls like herself creeping here to be confronted by the same calm words, the same routine with the spectacles. He was polishing them now. The hygienic surroundings emphasized that she was a statistic, though a regrettable one.
‘Goodness,’ she said, and closed her mouth again. That was all she could think of saying. It did sound polite and extraordinarily feeble, but still. The rubber domes on the tray looked smug. Bad luck, they said. Too late, weren’t you? Should have used us from the beginning, shouldn’t you?
The doctor, being kind, put on his spectacles, shuffled some papers and gave her no lecture. Probably he was tired of giving lectures. He did ask what she intended doing and he gave her an address in London, but as she had never been absolutely sure, she had thought out nothing. He did mention that by her calculations she must be nearly three mont
hs pregnant and therefore any, ah, decisions, should be made swiftly. No mention was made of the young man, for which she was thankful. Mac’s face in the midst of it all could only confuse her.
She went out. Faced with a streetful of shoppers, she felt suddenly transparent, as if not only the embryo inside her but all her emotions just beginning to cluster round it were visible. She paused a moment outside a shop and tried to arrange her face. Behind the glass rose tier upon tier of shoes, single shoes, shiny and virginal. She gazed at them, each one new, each one as yet un-mated, and so hopefully displayed. Through them, spectral, her reflection faced her.
She turned off the main road and started climbing the hill towards Clifton. The summer holidays had begun; there were few students about and the streets were empty. Tall and noble houses stared down at her. What, what shall I do? How on earth am I going to tell my parents? How am I going to tell him? Will I want to marry him? Christ.
She turned the corner into Jacob’s Crescent, her thoughts reeling. What should she do? At the word abortion, black wings flapped in her head.
Just then the sun came out and swept down the street, stunning her with its brilliance and lighting up the pitted old brickwork. The long slender windows of the houses winked down at her, suddenly confidential. In an instant all was radiance.
She stopped and leant against a lamp post, for now she thought of it this way she felt heavily ripe, a pregnant woman in need of rest. It was the fact that her body actually worked. It had changed. It felt different. No longer was it that well-inspected shape she saw in the mirror, nor that warm bearer of pleasure, nor that web of veins she felt at the blood clinic or the prickling, aching skin she felt in illness. None of these. Now, suddenly, she felt its central reason.
Ah, that was very fine, but across the road stood number 18 and what was she doing to do? Mac was in there. Didn’t she know in her heart what should be done? Despite leaning like this against the lamp post, glamorous with fertility. Wasn’t the decision made? All she had to do was to tell him; hadn’t she?