(1990) Sweet Heart

  Mr Budley nodded. ‘If there’s anything you are interested in I’m sure a price could be discussed.’

  Behind them was a tiny door through which even Mr Budley had to duck. ‘The ensuite bathroom is one of the features of the house,’ he said. ‘Wonderful taste, quite what you’d expect of a woman like Nancy Delvine.’

  It was in hideous bright pink with gold-plated taps. There was an unpleasant carbolic stench, and mildew on the carpet.

  ‘Here we have the airing cupboard and the upstairs lavatory. And this is the smallest spare room, ideal for a young child.’ Mr Budley walked on ahead. ‘This one is a much better size,’ he said as he went into a room at the end of the landing. ‘Miss Delvine’s workroom,’ He announced. ‘To think she made garments for royalty actually here in this —’

  His voice stopped suddenly. His eyes darted round at the treadle sewing machine, at the work surface under the window covered in cuttings of fabrics, bits of chalk and a pattern weighted down by large scissors, at the desk with a sketchpad and a vase full of crayons. There were two tailor’s dummies, one bare with ‘Stockman 12’ stencilled on its midriff, the other partly covered in tattered black taffeta. Sketches were pinned haphazardly around the walls. A showcard of a model in a boa-trimmed hat, white gloves and an elegant dress had a large printed caption at the top: ‘CHOSEN BY VOGUE’.

  The room felt cold, icily cold. Charley pulled her jacket around her. A bunch of brown paper pattern cards swung gently on a butcher’s hook hanging from the picture rail.

  ‘This would make a good study, Tom,’ she said. She went to the window. Her eye was drawn to the patch of scrub grass on the bank behind the barn. ‘Were there stables here, Mr Budley?’

  ‘Stables?’ Mr Budley said. ‘No, I — I don’t believe so. You could build some, of course.’ Hurriedly he ushered them out.

  The kitchen was in custard yellow, the ceiling stained uneven ochre with nicotine and the light shade was full of dead flies. There was an Aga. Blackened and ancient in an ugly tiled recess, but an Aga.

  ‘Nice to have breakfast in here,’ Mr Budley said.

  There was a deep enamel sink, a wooden draining board and dreary fitted cupboards. The floor was brick, which Charley liked. A slatted clothes rack was suspended from the ceiling on a pulley and cord system, a ragged tea towel draped over it. She pulled the cord. There was a creak and the rack wobbled precariously.

  ‘Saves you hanging the laundry out on a wet day,’ said Mr Budley.

  ‘It might be nice to keep some of these old things, mightn’t it, Tom? Make a feature out of them.’

  ‘Keep the whole house as it is and save a fortune.’ Tom winked at Mr Budley, and blew his nose.

  ‘You could,’ Mr Budley agreed. ‘You could indeed.’ He threw open the dining room door with a weary flourish. ‘The mill owner was an important man in the community. This is reflected in the size of the reception room.’

  It was larger than she expected, with a refectory table that had ten chairs and could have seated more. The beamed walls were wattle and daub, they were informed. There was a recess by the fireplace with a kneehole writing desk and chair. It would be good to have friends for dinner in this room. She pictured them around the table, the fire roaring.

  They crossed the hallway. ‘The drawing room,’ Mr Budley said. His ebullience seemed to have left him.

  The room must have been a fine one once and was dominated by the huge inglenook. The curtains across the French windows at the far end diffused the sunlight, and the rich warm glow masked much of the grime and faded colour. There was a peach-coloured sofa with shell-shaped cushions and several matching chairs, a cocktail cabinet that could have come from a state room of an ocean liner and an elegant chromium magazine rack.

  It felt strange walking across the floor. Very strange. She had a curious sense of familiarity, and as she opened the curtains of the French windows she felt she had seen the same view before. The bank rose up to the right, the grass rippling in the wind. A chestnut horse was grazing in the paddock beyond the wooden fence. The feeling faded and left her wondering where it reminded her of.

  Mr Budley was studying his watch, ‘I — ah — have clients waiting at another property. Would you think me terribly rude it I left you to see the grounds on your own? Or do you wish to go around the house again?’

  Tom looked at Charley, then turned back to the estate agent. ‘How much interest have you had? You mentioned someone might be offering this week, didn’t you?’

  Mr Budley glanced over his shoulder as if worried he was being spied on. ‘Confidentially, I think an offer of two hundred and thirty would secure this.’

  ‘It needs everything doing,’ Tom said.

  ‘Oh yes. No denying.’ Mr Budley raised his hands. ‘But with everything done it would be worth four to five hundred thousand, at least, with development potential — so much potential. Where can you find a property like this, so close to London yet so quiet? It’s really very underpriced. If my wife and I were younger we’d buy this, no hesitation. How often can you buy beauty?’ His eyes darted nervously again.

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ Tom said.

  ‘You’ll make the right decision. I can tell you are people who make right decisions.’

  They followed the agent down the steps and Charley held on to Ben as he hurried off up the drive.

  Tom puffed out his stomach and covered his mouth with his hand. ‘Nancy Delvine lived here!’ he said, mimicking Mr Budley.

  ‘Gosh? Really?’ she mimicked back.

  ‘Have you ever heard of her?’

  ‘No.’

  Charley let Ben go. He bounded towards the stream. A crow swooped down low over him.

  ‘But you used to be in the rag trade.’

  ‘So I don’t think she can have been very famous.’

  ‘Well,’ Tom said, ‘what do you think?’

  ‘I think Mr Budley’s a creep.’

  ‘I don’t imagine he comes with the house.’

  Charley was silent for a moment. ‘It’s a wreck.’

  ‘We wanted a wreck!’

  ‘Do you like it?’ she said.

  ‘I love it! It’s absolutely wonderful. I want to live here!’

  ‘I like it too. It’s just —’

  ‘Just what?’

  ‘I’m not sure about being so isolated.’

  ‘Christ, we’re much safer here than living in the middle of London.’

  ‘I’ll probably get used to it,’ she said.

  ‘We’ve got those people interested in Wandsworth so now’s the chance. This place is a terrific buy, and if we end up not liking it we’ll sell it at a profit in a year or two’s time. But we’re going to love it.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘It’s what we need — a new beginning.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said uncertainly.

  A shadow flitted on the ground in front of her. For a fleeting moment she thought it was the crow. Then she heard Tom’s shout, saw him leap towards her, saw his hands raise up, felt them shove her sharply backwards. There was a crash on the ground beside her as though a table had been dropped, and a stinging pain in her leg.

  She turned, white-faced, shaking. A large slate tile lay where she had been standing, shattered like a pane of glass. Blood dribbled out of the gash in her jeans leg and ran towards her ankle. Tom grabbed her wrist and pulled her further away from the house, out into the middle of the drive.

  ‘You OK?’ he said, tugging out his handkerchief and kneeling down.

  She looked at the roof, then at the slate, her heart hammering. She winced as Tom pressed the handkerchief over the wound.

  ‘Lethal,’ he said. ‘Christ, if that had hit you …’

  She nodded silently, staring up again. ‘Just the wind,’ she said. Another shadow zigzagged towards her and she stepped back out of its path. But it was a sparrow, coming down to take an insect from the lawn.

  Chapter Four

  Charley opened the door of the cubicle and carried
out the two small specimen jars. They felt warm and slightly tacky. Tom followed sheepishly, his cheeks flushed.

  The row of people sitting in the low leatherette chairs looked up from their magazines and murmured conversations. Couples, husbands and wives in their twenties, thirties, even in their forties, with nervous faces, anxious faces, desperate faces, clutching their empty jars, waiting their turn, hopefuls all.

  She walked selfconsciously down the carpeted corridor and knocked on the door marked ‘Laboratory’.

  ‘Come in.’

  A young woman sat behind a small desk, writing on a pad with a fountain pen. The name on her lapel said Dr Stentor. She had short blonde hair, was about twenty-six years old and rather hearty. Charley handed her the jars.

  ‘Well, these look jolly good, don’t they?’ she said in a booming voice. ‘Did you manage the split ejaculate?’

  Tom gave a single embarrassed nod. He hated this. He had turned up today, reluctantly dutiful, the way he might have attended a distant relative’s funeral.

  Dr Stentor tilted one of the jars so the grey fluid slid down the side. ‘You got the first spurt in here?’

  ‘I’m afraid some of it’ — Charley blushed — ‘got spilt.’

  Dr Stentor squinted in the jar. ‘Well, gosh, don’t worry. There’s enough here to fertilise half of England.’ She gave an accusatory glance at Tom. ‘That’s if they’re all right, of course. Jolly good, have a seat.’

  They sat down while she went into another room. The telephone rang, three warbles in succession, then stopped. The office was bare, functional, greys and reds. A framed certificate hung on the wall.

  ‘Is it today, your regression hypnosis thing?’ Tom said.

  ‘Yes.’ Charley saw his smirk. ‘Laura —’ she began.

  Tom raised his eyebrows. ‘Laura what?’

  ‘She knows someone who was having problems conceiving. She went to a regressive hypnotist and discovered she’d seen her children murdered in a previous life. She got pregnant very soon afterwards.’

  ‘Tosh!’

  ‘No harm in trying it.’

  Tom took out his diary and checked a page. ‘No. No harm.’

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  ‘What do you feel about the house, Tom?’

  ‘Positive. You?’

  ‘I like it, but it’s a big undertaking and I’m still worried about it being so remote.’

  ‘I think it’s great it’s remote. Peace and quiet! Who the hell wants neighbours?’

  She looked at him uncertainly.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘if we lose our buyer it could be months before we get another chance of anything. At least let’s make an offer.’

  ‘OK.’

  Dr Stenor returned and sat opposite them. ‘Well, it’s gone up. Around forty million. Perhaps the boxer shorts are helping.’

  ‘I’m …’ Tom gritted his teeth, ‘I’m still dunking them in cold water every day.’

  ‘That’s obviously helping too. It is possible for you to conceive with this sperm count. You only have one tube open, Mrs Witney, and it’s not brilliant, but there is a chance. If you want to try an implant again we’d be very happy to do it, though we’re booked until November. I’ll send a report through to your doctor,’ she went on. ‘I wish there was some magical solution I could offer. Good luck.’

  They took the lift down, the smart, plush, carpeted lift. ‘It’s encouraging isn’t it?’ Charley said, trying to break the awkward silence between them.

  ‘Encouraging?’

  ‘At least your count’s gone up.’ She took his hand and squeezed it. ‘I feel fine about the house. I’m sure I’ll like it. Will you call the agent?’

  ‘Yes,’ he snapped, pulling his hand away and digging it into his jacket pocket, ‘I said I would.’

  ‘I’ll call him if you’d prefer.’

  ‘I said I would.’ He hunched up his shoulders and leaned against the wall of the lift like a sulking child. ‘I’m not so sure about it now.’

  ‘Why? Two minutes ago you couldn’t wait.’

  He shrugged, ‘I have people come to me every day who’ve moved house because they thought it would save their marriages.’

  ‘What’s that meant to mean?’

  He said nothing and she wished she had not asked the question, because she knew exactly what it meant.

  Chapter Five

  The engine roared gruffly as they accelerated. The black bonnet sloped upwards in front of her, its chromium radiator cap glinting coldly in the moonlight. The exhaust biffed twice as he changed gear, and the note of the engine became smoother.

  The dull white lights of the instruments flickered and the thin needle of the speedometer jerkily moved past sixty … seventy … seventy-five. The thrills of the speed, of the night, tingled insider her. She felt indestructable as the car raced past sentinel hedgerows, the headlights unfurling a stark chiaroscuro world of light and shadow through the narrow windscreen.

  It was like being in the cinema, except it was happening, she was part of it. She could feel the vibration of the car, the inky cold of the wind thrashing her hair around her face, could see the steely dots of the stars above, and smell the tang of wet grass that hung in the air, the perfume of the night.

  She was afraid there would be a click, the ride would stop and she’d have to put another penny in the slot. She chewed the gum; the minty flavour had gone, but she still chewed … because he had offered it to her … because the girl in the film they had just seen had chewed gum … because …

  ‘Who is in the car with you?’

  The voice was American, a long way away. It belonged to another time.

  The note of the engine changed again, the road dipped then rose and her stomach rose with it. Trees, telegraph poles, road signs flashed past. He braked harshly, the wheels locking up, the car snaking, the tyres yowling as they came into a sharp left-hander. She gripped the grab handle on the door, then relaxed as he accelerated again and sank back deep into the seat. Her body and the car and the road and the night seemed fused into one; the pit of her stomach was throbbing and she could not stop the smile on her face. She turned away, embarrassed, not wanting him to see, wanting to keep her excitement private. His hand left the wheel and squeezed her thigh, and she felt the wetness deep inside her.

  Tonight. It would be tonight.

  His hand lifted away and there was a grating crunch as he changed gear, then the hand came back, bolder, began to slide her skirt up until she felt his cold fingers on her naked flesh above her stockings.

  ‘Oh,’ she breathed, feigning shock, and wriggled slightly because she felt she should react, that she should not seem too keen.

  Tonight. She was ready.

  ‘Do you know his name? Can you tell me his name? Can you tell me your name?’

  They squealed through a bend and the road widened into a long straight stretching out ahead like the dark water of a canal. The engine was straining and there was a loud protesting whine from somewhere beneath her as his fingers slid about her wetness and pulled away reluctantly as he put both hands back on the wheel. She heard the clunk of the gears and the note of the engine soften. The thrill was accelerating within her, some wild animal instinct aroused, a careless abandon.

  His hand came back, one finger probing deep, and she parted her legs a little to give him more room, pressing against the leather seat, blinded by her hair in her eyes. She changed the angle of her head and her hair whipped away behind her.

  ‘Where are you? Do you know where you are?’

  The finger slid out and they went into a long curve that threw her against the coarse tweed of his jacket, the tyres squealing like piglets, then the road straightened and she wanted the finger back in again.

  She was intoxicated with a raw energy. They snaked through another bend, almost flying now; a rabbit sat in the beam of the lights and the car thudded over it.

  ‘Stop, please stop!’

  ‘You what?’
r />   ‘Stop. You hit a rabbit.’

  ‘Don’t be a stupid cow!’ he shouted.

  ‘Please. It may be in pain.’ She imagined the rabbit lying in the road, its head twitching, legs and back smashed into the tarmac, fur and blood spread out. ‘Please stop.’

  He stood on the brakes and she lurched forward, her hands slamming against the dash, the tyres howling, the car snaking crazily. They stopped with a jerk, then reversed. She stared at the black lane behind them, and could see nothing.

  ‘It were just a stone, yer silly cow,’ he said. ‘Just a stone. We didn’t hit no rabbit.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ she said.

  He turned towards her, kissed her, his hand slid up her thigh, the fingers probed inside, parting her, opening her wider. She smelled burnt rubber, leather, heard the rumble of the exhaust, the knocking rattle of the engine, felt the tweed of his sleeve brush her face. Their lips pressed together, their tongues duelling hungrily, the rubbery ball of her chewing gum rolling around. She tilted her head away, dug her fingers in her mouth and plucked it out. As their lips met again she reached with her left hand towards the window, scrabbling to find the winder. The finger thrust even deeper and she moaned softly, her hand finding the dashboard, the glove locker, and she pushed the gum hard under it out of sight.

  The finger worked up and down and strange sensations of pleasure exploded through her body. Her left hand was now on the flannel of his trousers, feeling the heat of his leg. It slid slowly across into the dip that was even warmer, and squeezed the bulging stiffness.

  She fumbled for the metal tag of his zipper, pulled it. It stuck. She tugged at it and it opened and she slipped her hand inside, felt the soft cotton, something damp, then she was holding his hard flesh, large, huge, smoother than she’d imagined. She ran her thumb over the top, felt something slimy, slippery, traced her finger along the shaft.

  He blew air down her neck and rolled over on to her, tugging her knickers down. She lifted her bottom, helped him, heard the buckle of his belt free.

  The thingie.

  No time.

  His hands slid up her bare skin, under her bra, fondled her breasts clumsily, then gripped her ribs and began pushing his hardness inside her, shoving, thrusting it in, forcing it in. Too big for her; it wasn’t going to fit. She thought it was going to split her apart, then it went deeper, rising right in her, thrusting up and down. Her stomach was juddering.