To Have and to Hold

  She waited, as everyone else waited, to go home to their own lit rooms. But when her bus came she stepped aside and, after a moment’s pause, walked back towards the salon.

  ‘Oh, he was a laugh,’ said her mother. Her voice had softened. ‘Above the Gaumont they served teas, and you could dance. I’d go with my friends from the depot and he’d give them all a whirl but he always came back to me.’ She touched her own cheek. ‘He called me Petal because of my skin.’

  The salon lights were off. People passed in the street, unaware of the two women sitting on the styling chairs. They were drinking, out of salon mugs, some liqueur that Irene had brought back from Venice.

  ‘What did he look like?’ asked Ann, her voice still cool.

  ‘Lovely hair. Springy. Lots of it.’

  ‘What colour?’

  ‘Stubborn though, like yours. Chestnut.’ She lifted up the bottle to pour some more. ‘Sambucca, only you’re supposed to put in a coffee bean and light it. It’s an Italian custom.’ She sighed. ‘It does take me back.’

  ‘Did you love him?’

  Irene looked at her daughter. ‘Oh pet,’ she said. ‘Think I didn’t?’

  Ann paused. ‘What was his job?’

  ‘Toys. He was a representative for what’s-its-name, you know.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Ann. Her mother tried to offer her more drink, but she shook her head. ‘I don’t know anything.’

  ‘Anyway. Something or other. He used to wind up these silly little ducks and make them walk across the floor.’ With her fingers she demonstrated on the shelf. Her pointed red nails walked past the laid-out combs.

  ‘Did he know about me?’ Ann asked.

  Irene shook her head. ‘He changed his job, Archie did, and went up north.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Stockport.’

  ‘What was the firm?’

  ‘Something.’ Irene frowned, trying to remember.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cobbs. That’s right. Cobbs Brothers. I thought of going with him but he’d never said anything, and the morning he left, he brought me round this silly rubber monkey and I knew it was no good.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Wouldn’t have worked. He was like a child, Annie.’

  ‘So he doesn’t know I exist? And you don’t know if he does?’

  ‘Thirty-five years, pet,’ said her mother. ‘He might be dead.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Probably got grandchildren now.’

  There was a silence. The street noises seemed muted, as if they came from far away. Ann ran her hand along the chrome rim of the styling trolley. Finally she looked up: ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘It was Doug’s idea. See, he knew I was in the club when he proposed, but he was so good about it. I mean, in those days it was different. It would’ve been a scandal. But he said he’d take you on.’

  ‘He didn’t really,’ said Ann.

  ‘Didn’t what?’

  ‘Take me on.’ She turned back to the chrome and rubbed it with her finger. ‘He hated me and I never knew why. And you never told me.’

  All week Viv tried to speak to Ann, but her sister had retreated. Yes, she said, she had talked to their mother but she didn’t want to go over it all again. No, it would be better if Viv didn’t come round. Not just now.

  Ever since childhood Ann had been capable of doing this – curling up in a corner and pulling down the blinds, all the while staying extra polite. Viv had tried all her ploys, from teasing to shock treatment, and experience now told her that none of them would work, they would only upset Ann all the more, and there was nothing to do but wait.

  Besides, she had problems of her own. It’s unnerving how small London can be once things are going wrong, as if an unseen hand, against all your wishes, moves you in the direction you least want to take. Summer term had started and on the Thursday, after school, she drove into Covent Garden to pick up some posters from the printer’s. Surely it was just chance that she happened to park in one particular street, some distance from Ollie’s office.

  One can recognize lovers by the way they sit. When they are side by side it’s easy. But when they sit opposite each other it is unmistakable too – not just by the way they hold their gaze but by their mirrored gestures. Ollie and the blonde girl both sat with their heads resting on one hand, while their other hands rested on the table. If she were closer she could have seen that their fingers did not quite touch. It was a sunny afternoon, and they were having tea and cakes.

  Her second reaction followed swiftly on the shock: she was thankful that the children were not there. They didn’t have to see their father. Nor would she have to keep chatting to them brightly as they went up the street, as if she was perfectly all right.

  It took Ann days to dare phone Directory Enquiries. Finally she did it from work. For some reason the bright normality of the office made it marginally easier.

  It was no good. There was no such firm as Cobbs Brothers in Stockport. If there had been, it no longer existed. The reedy voice of the British Telecom girl tried to be helpful – ‘Cobbetts Limited?’ she said. ‘Electronics Engineers? Or there’s a Cobbs, Hawkins and Colefax, Solicitors?’ Thirty-five years ago; no wonder.

  Ann thanked her and put down the phone. She knew now why she had not dared before.

  ‘Have I told you,’ asked Derek, ‘how much I like the hair?’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Ann. They were sitting in his inner sanctum. He was looking greyer than ever nowadays. In the mornings his hands trembled; when he passed sheaves of papers to the girls, they exchanged grimaces.

  ‘Don’t know what I’d do without you, Annie,’ he said. ‘You’re not like the others. You’re reliable.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  He looked at her in suprise. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Just don’t.’ She stopped, then added: ‘Please don’t rely on me.’

  He paused. ‘Anything the matter?’

  She shook her head.

  He shifted the pencils on his desk, laying them beside his golfing trophy. ‘Annie, this might not be the time to ask, but . . .’ He stopped.

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Well, I know that you quite properly . . . give me my marching orders. But what I was wondering was, well . . .’ He coughed, and neatened up his biros. ‘Well, do you just think of me as some sort of a father figure?’

  She stared at him. ‘Of course not!’ she said, louder than she meant.

  Everyone considers themselves a coward, in one way or another. Ken had flunked the dinner with Viv and Ollie but, as was observed at the time, he would be the first over the trenches. Ann remembered coming home to find the broken ironing board, teapot and kitchen cupboard fixed, his own mute way of making amends. He refused to let her thank him.

  Her own cowardice dismayed her. All weekend she put off making a decision, and by Sunday night she felt as brittle as glass. She snapped at Ken; she felt an impatient disappointment with herself, like a headmistress looking at a pupil more in sorrow than in anger.

  On Monday she made up her mind. Douglas worked at the Gas Board headquarters, and she left work early to wait outside, like a grieving spy.

  He appeared on the steps, soon after 5.30, and walked down the road. She followed his familiar back. He went into a greengrocer’s shop.

  He waited in the queue, pulling a carrier bag out of his pocket. She went up to him.

  ‘Hello,’ she said.

  ‘Well, well!’ He swung round. ‘Caught in the act.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Being domestic.’ He lowered his voice: ‘I’m learning, see.’ He looked at her, his head on one side. ‘You’ve done something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your face looks different.’

  ‘It’s my hair,’ she said.

  ‘Ah. And very nice too.’ He gestured at the piles of fruit. ‘Want to give me some advice?’

  She shook her head. ‘I want to talk.’

&nbs
p; They sat in a café opposite the greengrocer’s. A bun lay untouched on Ann’s plate. The café owner, a beefy Italian, was quarrelling with the waitress, who looked like his daugher. His voice was so loud that for a moment Ann couldn’t hear what Douglas said.

  He repeated it. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that,’ she replied.

  ‘We thought it better, your mother and I –’

  ‘That you’d pretend to be my father?’

  ‘I was!’ he said. ‘I brought you up. It’s that that counts.’

  ‘You think so?’ She thought she could challenge him by holding his gaze. Instead she looked down at the table. It was a chequered formica.

  ‘Look Annie,’ he said, ‘you’re going to bring up somebody else’s baby. You’re going to call yourself its mother.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ll tell it.’

  ‘You so sure?’ His half-smile maddened her.

  ‘I’ll tell it the truth.’

  ‘When?’ he asked.

  ‘When it’s old enough.’

  He paused, then he scratched at his whitening sideboards. he looked up at her, and said: ‘You think that’ll make it happier?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It makes you happier to tell the truth, because you’re that kind of person. But you’ve got to think of the child.’

  ‘You just thought of the scandal.’

  ‘Ann!’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ he said. ‘Please,’ He pushed the bun towards her, but she shook her head. ‘Think the truth does you any good?’ She didn’t reply. He began again: ‘Look, we had our ups and downs, but so does anybody.’

  ‘Call them that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ups and down? You always favoured Viv, you were always nicer to her.’ Her voice rose. ‘She was the one you made the little chair for, remember, and it was me who’d always wanted one, she hardly ever sat in it. And she was the one you let push the lawnmower, you never let me, and I was the oldest, and you were always shouting at me.’ She stopped for breath.

  ‘Annie –’

  ‘And all those years I never realized the reason. You hated me because I wasn’t yours.’

  ‘No,’ he said. He sighed and inspected the table. He hadn’t touched his cup of tea. He looked up at her directly: ‘No, I loved you. I always considered you mine. But if I favoured Viv it was because . . .’

  ‘Because what?’

  ‘Because she made me happy.’

  There was a pause. Then Ann said: ‘I didn’t?’

  ‘Life’s not fair, love, and it’s nothing to do with who your parents are. Some people . . . life smiles on them because, well, they make people smile around them.’

  ‘And what was wrong with me?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He leant over and put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Come on, lovey. Let’s put the past behind us.’

  ‘I can’t forget it.’

  ‘Forget Archie,’ he said. ‘He’s not your dad.’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Not really.’ He squeezed her shoulder. She didn’t move. Then he said: ‘He’s given you nothing. Not even the shouting.’

  At the greengrocer’s he bought a bunch of flowers, chrysanthemums, and gave them to Ann. She went home.

  Ken wasn’t back yet. She went into the kitchen. Her little house seemed so quiet. Outside stood the skeleton of the extension, forever half-built.

  She unwrapped the flowers from their damp paper and found a vase. She ached with self-disgust.

  She was just about to put the flowers in the vase when she stopped. Instead she threw them away, jamming them into the swing-bin. Their silly heads got caught, so she pushed them down.

  _____Fifteen_____

  IT WAS THE third week of the summer term. School had finished for the day and Viv and Harold were waiting in the staffroom; they were supposed to be having a meeting with Alan, their Head of Department.

  Viv looked at her watch; she glanced out of the window. The sky was blue; her car waited in the empty car park. In the heat, the school railings shimmered. ‘Wish he’d hurry up,’ she said.

  Harold leered. ‘Off somewhere exciting?’

  ‘Mmmm.’ She nodded, closing her eyes.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘My cabbages.’

  He laughed.

  She added: ‘Got to pick up the kids first.’

  ‘You’re a strange woman.’ He leant over to pat her knee. ‘Half siren, half earth-mother. Think I’ll set you as a special topic.’

  She asked: ‘How’s Louise?’

  He sighed. ‘You’re a woman. Tell me, Viv, what is it they want?’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Can’t keep them happy.’ He sipped his tea. ‘Trouble is, you see, she wants another child.’

  ‘Another one?’

  He nodded. ‘Just when we’re getting on our feet. She’s gone all funny again.’

  The door opened and Alan came in. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, and sat down. He looked from one of them to the other. ‘I wanted to fix a time for our planning meeting. Got to sort out the autumn curriculum, and which of you’ll be taking the Lower Sixth.’

  Harold groaned.

  Alan asked: ‘You two worked it out yet?’

  Harold replied: ‘I have broached the subject but . . .’

  ‘But what?’ asked Alan.

  Harold pointed to Viv. ‘This lady is prevaricating.’

  Viv felt herself blushing. ‘Sorry,’ she stammered, ‘I didn’t mean . . .’

  Harold laughed and turned to Alan. ‘I think she’s planning on doing a bunk.’

  There was a pause. Alan turned to Viv. ‘You’re not leaving?’

  ‘No!’ she said hastily. ‘No, of course, I just –’

  There was a tap at the door. They all stopped.

  ‘Who is it?’ called Alan.

  The door opened. On the threshold stood Ken.

  Children are perverse creatures, possessed of a sixth sense. When you’re trying to do something else, they hang around all the day, whining that they’re bored. The moment you need them beside you for moral support they spring into creative life and dash off elsewhere, engaged in the sort of lengthy imaginative game you longed for them to do at any other time but this.

  Such were Viv’s thoughts as she walked across the allotments. ‘Don’t get your feet muddy!’ she called out helplessly, as Rosie and Daisy rushed off. Though it had rained heavily the night before, this was not the sort of stricture she would normally shout, but she was too flustered to simply let them go. Beside her, Ken trudged along the soft margins of the path. He was wearing his business suit; when she tilted her head slightly she could see the dark blur of his legs. She wished her children were here.

  He said, again: ‘I’m sorry to barge in like that.’

  ‘I told you. It was a relief. I was getting into difficulties.’

  He asked: ‘Can we go into the hut?’

  She searched for her key. The sun was hot, but it seemed too confidential for her to take off her jumper. She opened the door and went in. The place darkened as he stood in the doorway.

  ‘Why won’t you see me?’ he asked.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I must see you.’

  ‘Well, here I am.’ She sat down on a bucket and took off her shoes. He watched her as she started pulling on her gumboots. She paused as he moved in a step, and closed the door behind him.

  He spoke in a low voice. ‘You’ve been avoiding me.’

  She looked up. ‘We’ve all got to meet. When I start looking pregnant we’ve got to decide what to tell people.’

  He fingered his moustache. Then he turned away and inspected the packets on the shelves. ‘At Easter you said . . .’ He paused. ‘You said you’d been unfaithful before.’

  ‘Watch out!’

  ‘What?’

  She pointed to the packet he was holding. ‘Slug bait. They die in glistening heaps, like a horticultura
l Last Judgement.’

  He put the packet back. Still he didn’t turn. ‘Why did you say that?’

  ‘Because it’s true.’

  ‘Were you just trying to tell me I was, well, just like one of the others?’

  ‘You’re not like one of the others,’ she said gently. ‘You’re the father of my child.’

  She willed him to stop. The hut was cramped and so hot. Her heart knocked. She wondered if she should simply pick up her hoe and walk outside.

  ‘Just playing, aren’t you?’ he muttered, with his back to her. He was standing against the window, his head haloed by the cobwebs that hung on the panes of glass.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘Those other men.’

  ‘Ken,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t often.’

  ‘Why then?’

  ‘Because Ollie and I –’ She struggled for the right words. ‘We believe in adventure. Life’s short, it’s to be lived and explored. You may not understand –’

  ‘Why not? Because I’ve got such a boring little marriage?’

  ‘No!’ She paused. ‘Faithfulness . . .’ She pushed away the sight of two people sitting in a street café. She said: ‘Faithfulness is nothing to do with two bodies rubbing together in the dark –’

  ‘Don’t be crude!’ He spoke abruptly; the cobwebs swayed with his breath.

  ‘It’s being honest.’

  ‘You and your honesty,’ he said. ‘That’s just a game, like the rest.’ He turned and stared at her. ‘You play with people, you use them –’

  ‘Think It’s playing when I throw up every morning?’ Her voice rose. ‘When I have to lie to my children about why I’m being sick, and then I’ll be swelling up, and having to give up my job, and saying God knows what to people, and carrying a baby that I know will never be mine? Think that’s playing?’ She stopped, breathing heavily.

  His eyes didn’t move from her face. He gazed at her; then he turned away and spoke to the veiled window. ‘You played with me.’

  ‘You haven’t been listening,’ she said. ‘You’re just like Ollie.’

  ‘You and your striptease.’

  She paused. ‘That was just a joke.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  She tried to steady her voice. ‘Sex is supposed to be fun.’