To Have and to Hold

‘Not too much of a whizzkid,’ she said.

  Ann smiled. Then Viv suddenly sat down.

  Ann swiftly put down the phone. ‘What is it?’ she asked, alarmed.

  Viv reached for her sister’s hand and laid it on her stomach.

  ‘Must be all that sea air,’ she murmured.

  Both sisters stayed quite still. The baby was moving.

  Ten minutes after Ann had gone there was a sound on the stairs. Viv froze, mid-way through loading the washing machine. It was Ollie. He looked rumpled and bleary.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Why aren’t you at work?’

  ‘Been watering the plants.’

  She sniffed the air. ‘You’ve been boozing.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Where’ve you been sleeping?’ she asked.

  ‘In the study.’ He looked around. ‘Where are they?’

  She gestured outside. ‘With their friends.’

  ‘I’ll just say hello to them, then I’ll be off.’ He moved towards the door and paused on the threshold. ‘Can I – I assume you don’t mind if I sleep in the study tonight? See the kids?’

  ‘Course not. They miss you.’

  He looked at the chart on the pegboard. She thought, with fear, how quickly her best friend had become her enemy, and neither of them had quite been able to stop it. How simple to call it either the baby’s or Ken’s fault. But it wasn’t that easy.

  What little time it took. She thought: I can’t even tell him about our holiday, it’s too sad that he wasn’t there. She realized that the range of safe topics had shrunk so much that there was very little they could say. And they had always talked so much. Talk, talk! he had shouted that day.

  ‘Good,’ he said, and cleared his throat. ‘Ellie’s away and –’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ she said crisply. ‘Can’t face being on your own.’

  Ollie slammed out of the house. She sat down, hopelessly, on the pile of clothes. She shouldn’t have spoken like that.

  Then she caught her breath as, within her, the baby moved again.

  Viv is dreaming of a beach. The tide is out and the sand lies flat in the sun. The sand seems to stretch for ever, right to the horizon. She herself is sitting there, trying to bury a baby. Flustered, she scoops out the sand, but as fast as she does it the hollows fill with water. Beside her the baby lies quite still. It doesn’t seem to mind any of this, even the fact that it is smeared with mud. Not sand, but mud. She can’t get her brain to work out why.

  She is pondering this, quite calmly, when she wakes up and finds that, in fact, her face is wet with tears. She feels her cheeks curiously.

  There’s a movement in the bed. She reaches over. But it is Daisy, who has climbed in beside her. She puts her arms around her daughter.

  _____Eighteen_____

  IT WAS THE end of August: Douglas and Vera’s wedding day. The reception was in full swing and the house packed; people bent their heads under Viv’s drooping streamers. By now it was generally known, and indeed evident, that she was pregnant; that was all. As in all weddings, there were long-forgotten faces and small jolts of recognition: Douglas’s brother, Uncle Phil, grown more portly; Ollie’s Sloany sister Caroline, with her glossy black hair and big English limbs. The party had spilled into the garden. Between the bodies Rosie and Daisy threaded their way, nibbling food and sipping champagne from stray glasses. They wore Vera’s new leaf dresses; Daisy’s sash had come undone.

  Ann filled the glass of a large, lugubrious man who nodded towards the happy couple. ‘They met at our club, you know,’ he said. ‘I could see they were strongly attracted during our home-made wine and cheese evening.’

  They were joined by another man. ‘It’s not a singles club, mind. It’s for people with interests.’

  The lugubrious man said: ‘She’s a handsome woman.’

  Ann looked at Vera, who wore a creamy suit with flowers in the lapel. ‘She is.’

  ‘So you’re Doug’s eldest?’ the man asked.

  She nodded.

  He looked at Irene, who stood nearby, munching quiche. ‘But you take more after your mum.’

  She nodded again. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, and carried the bottle away.

  Uncle Phil went up to Ollie and nudged him. ‘See you’ve been busy,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  Phil pointed to Viv.

  Ollie smiled thinly.

  Viv was moving from one guest to another, offering the vol-au-vents. Her Auntie Ree popped one into her mouth and said in a muffled voice: ‘Expect you’ll be wanting a little boy this time.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ said Viv. ‘Have another. Ann made them.’

  She was so tense that her dress stuck to her backbone. Every now and then she glance across to Ollie, or Ken, whom she hadn’t seen for some weeks, or her children, willing them to be discreet. Now she was holding this party, she longed for it to be over.

  She passed Ann. They smiled confidentially at each other.

  ‘OK?’ whispered Ann.

  ‘Touch and go,’ said Viv.

  Ann gave her the thumbs-up sign and moved on.

  Caroline was talking to Uncle Phil. ‘I’m Oliver’s sister,’ she said. ‘We met at their wedding, remember?’

  ‘How could I forget?’ he said gallantly, ‘So how’re you keeping?’

  ‘I’m working in Brussels.’

  ‘You’ve come over for this?’

  She shook her head. ‘Flat trouble. Got to find a new tenant.’

  Ollie, overhearing this, asked: ‘New tenant?’

  Auntie Dot was sitting next to Vera. ‘Have you ever been to Ventnor?’ she asked.

  ‘Ventnor?’

  Rosie was passing by, on the hunt for food. Auntie Dot patted her absently on the head. ‘They played all day on the beach, didn’t you, pet?’

  Rosie said: ‘I can’t find my pebbles.’

  Irene wandered past her ex-husband and paused, raising her eybrows. ‘You look like the cat that’s found the cream.’

  Douglas replied: ‘I have.’

  Ollie veered towards Ann, as she passed, and spoke behind his hand. ‘Could plant a crop of marrows in the lies I’m telling,’ he whispered.

  We’re like a ballet, thought Viv, who was starting to feel dizzy: graceful, evasive action. She should stop drinking, for the sake of the baby. She must feel extra responsible for it. Through the heads, her eye caught Ken’s. He was wearing an unfamiliar pale suit. He himself looked pale. He turned away.

  Caroline was tying up Daisy’s sash. ‘At your age,’ she said, ‘I was at boarding school.’

  ‘I want to go to boarding school!’

  ‘You’d never see your parents.’

  Viv was passing. She stopped. Caroline turned to her. ‘I was just saying, what with Nanny Roberts and boarding school, we never saw our parents.’

  ‘Lucky pigs,’ said Daisy.

  Caroline went on: ‘Ollie always said they’d given us away.’

  ‘Did he?’ asked Viv with interest.

  ‘What’s the point of children? he used to say, if you just give them away?’ Caroline took a slice of pizza. ‘But it was what one did, wasn’t it?’

  Douglas patted Ollie on the back. ‘Decent of you to put this on.’

  ‘Thank Viv and Ann.’

  ‘Better than a hotel.’

  ‘Oh, she likes to be in control,’ said Ollie, his voice slurred.

  Viv stood at the kitchen sink, flicking water over herself. She felt weak with strain; her muslin dress stuck to her like cling film. The draining board was cluttered with empty quiche dishes. Ken hadn’t spoken to her. Nor, indeed, had Ollie, except for the occasional ‘where’s the napkins?’ She watched her husband; he was tall, one could always spot him in a crowd. Could anyone guess that something was wrong? He stood in the garden. Above his head pears were suspended from next door’s tree. They gave him a look of poised insecurity. She remembered last year, the four of them picking the pears under the cover of dark
ness, and Ollie saying they tasted like the wooden offcuts from his school carpentry class. It had been fun. Not perfect, their marriage, but fun.

  She moved away from the sink and smiled at the nearest unknown guest. This year none of them had even picked the pears.

  Irene nudged Vera. ‘You planned this?’ she asked, half joking.

  ‘Pardon?’

  Irene lifted her arm; her dress had ripped. Frank was standing nearby; Irene turned to him. ‘She made this for me and now look.’

  Vera said: ‘I told you it was too tight.’

  Frank guffawed: ‘So am I.’

  Viv found herself next to Ken. ‘More champagne?’ He shook his head. ‘Tell me about your garden centre,’ she said.

  After a moment he said: ‘You’re looking –’

  ‘Fat.’

  ‘Beautiful.’ He moved away.

  Douglas, maudlin now, sat on the rabbit hutch. Ollie sat down beside him.

  ‘This is the happiest day of my life.’

  ‘Have another drink,’ said Ollie, refilling his glass.

  ‘Remember your do? That weird little bloke playing the thingummy.’

  ‘Sitar.’

  ‘The fur really flew.’

  Ollie said: ‘You know my parents.’

  Caroline joined them. ‘I think they’ve got used to Viv by now,’ she said. ‘Got more broadminded in their old age.’

  ‘She was a tearaway,’ smiled Douglas. ‘Always up to mischief.’

  ‘Telling me,’ said Ollie.

  Rosie went up to Auntie Dot. She was carrying a hamster. ‘Bertie died,’ she said. ‘This is the new one.’

  Ollie whispered to Caroline: ‘Listen, sis. You really want a new tenant?’

  ‘Why?’

  Douglas sat alone on the rabbit hutch. He had taken off his tie and loosened his shirt. The sky had darkened and there was a rumble of thunder. The guests raised their heads.

  Ann sat down next to him. ‘All the best, Doug.’

  ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Call me Dad. Just for today.’

  ‘Dad then.’

  He patted her knee. A drop of rain fell. Beneath them the rabbits shifted restlessly.

  The lugubrious man, whose name nobody had caught, was less lugubrious now. He tapped Auntie Ree on the shoulder and pointed to the bride. ‘Makes you believe in divorce,’ he said.

  Uncle Phil squatted down beside Daisy and messed up her hair.

  ‘You’re pleased you’re having a little brother or sister?’ he asked.

  Ann was near. She froze.

  ‘Daisy said: ‘Yes.’

  A moment later, when Uncle Phil had gone, Ann bent down. ‘Well done,’ she whispered.

  Heavier drops of rain fell. The sky was threatening. The guests started murmuring and moved into the house. Irene dabbed at her eyes; she was crying.

  ‘What’s up ducks?’ asked her friend Frank, putting his arm around her.

  ‘Weddings,’ she sobbed.

  Drops splashed on the rabbit hutch. The garden was emptying, but Ken still lingered by the compost heap. Ollie went up to him.

  ‘Long time no see,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  Ollie, by now, was drunk. ‘Let’s have a little talk,’ he said.

  Ken tried to move away.

  ‘Don’t desert me,’ said Ollie. It was raining heavily and the garden was empty. Ollie steadied himself on the brickwork of the compost heap. ‘That’s what my editor said to me – let’s have a talk.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘The creep.’

  ‘We’d better go in,’ said Ken.

  ‘Maybe there’s an opening for me in the dry-rot business,’ said Ollie. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think we should go in,’ said Ken, who was soaking. ‘They’re staring at us.’

  In the living room it was so dark that Viv had put on the spotlights. Nobody could move; bodies were packed together. Outside the rain was pouring down, sluicing down the windows. There was a flash of lightning, the spotlights flickered; thunder cracked as if the sky were splitting.

  Viv stood on a chair. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. Quiet please’ She was interrupted by more thunder. Her audience tittered.

  ‘Well, we’re starting with a bang,’ Douglas said.

  Uncle Phil bellowed: ‘Haven’t you had one already?’

  ‘Shut up!’ shouted Viv. She raised her glass. ‘Here’s to Dad and Vera.’

  People toasted the couple. Vera cut the cake. Outside, it was the kind of tropical downpour that stirs, rather than depresses, the spirits. At the end of the garden the pears bobbed in the wind.

  Vera cleared her throat. ‘I just want to say,’ she began, and started again, more clearly. ‘I’d just like to say thank you to Vivien and Ann for this wonderful day . . .’

  There were murmurs of agreement.

  ‘I know it is the custom for the man to speak,’ she went on, ‘but . . .’

  Douglas touched her arm. ‘You say what you like, Vee, we’re in a liberated household here.’

  ‘I just want – you must excuse my English, but I am very moved.’ She looked nervous but determined. Douglas nodded benignly as she spoke. ‘This lovely home, this family. It is all very precious. I was only eleven years old when my parents hid me in the country, outside Vienna, with a Gentile family. So I had two childs, er –’

  ‘Childhoods,’ said Viv.

  ‘Childhoods, yes. And my own family, I lost them all – Father, Mother, my beautiful Aunt Helga, so full of life, and her two babies. All gone.’

  Everyone was listening intently to this unexpected speech. Viv looked across at her husband, who was frowning. His hair was wet. He caught her eye and looked away. She thought: I’ve spent this whole wedding avoiding people’s eyes. She thought how sober Vera looked compared to the rest of them.

  Vera went on: ‘I was the only one. Sometimes I felt I should not be alive. But I was loved by my new family and I learned that life has to go on, and that it is most precious. And that a family, any family, is a wonderful thing and is to be treasured.’ She had been looking down at the cake, its icing cracked by her knife. Now she looked up and met Viv’s eyes. ‘It is to have people who love you whatever you do, even if they sometimes do not understand.’ She was looking at everyone now, from one face to another. ‘And I just need to say – I’m sorry for taking up all this time . . . I am so happy, to be part of something again, and such lovely people. And I hope we can have many more bottles of champagne together.’

  She sat down. There was a silence, then a rumble of thunder. A few people hesitantly clapped, and then the rest joined in.

  _____Nineteen_____

  THE PLACE STILL looked as if he had only just arrived. In fact, it was now October and Ollie had lived in his sister’s flat for six weeks. His disorder, however, had a transient, bachelor air – he had never unpacked his suitcase and the wastepaper basket was full of lager cans.

  The flat was in a mansion block near the Albert Hall, an area of London he had always found boring and over-upholstered. The other inhabitants appeared either to be Arabs, or girls as well-bred as his sister, whose daddies had bought the flat for them and who had boyfriends with the sort of braying laughs that made his skin pucker. He lived with the curtains closed, in perpetual twilight, telling himself that out of suffering at least he could hammer out his masterpiece. His typewriter sat on the table, surrounded by scattered notes. He had never been so lonely in his life.

  It was disorientating how many hours there were to the day when one was not at home. He had even started playing the piano again – Caroline was a gifted musician and had installed the old family Bechstein in the living room.

  In fact, he was in the middle of ‘Riders on the Storm’ when there was a knock at the door and she came in.

  ‘Hi, sis,’ he said, swivelling round on the stool.

  She put down her suitcase. ‘Haven’t heard you playing that for yonks.’

  ‘Haven’t played for yonks. That’s wh
y my songs are so dated.’

  ‘You were awful in the sixties,’ she said. ‘You smelt of very old carpet and you smiled all the time. Must’ve been the drugs.’

  He revolved slowly. ‘I just found more things to smile about.’

  ‘How’ve you been? Can I spend the night?’

  ‘It’s your flat,’ he said.

  ‘You’re not expecting anyone?’

  He nodded as he spun around. ‘She’s blonde and Finnish with long tanned thighs. She doesn’t talk at all but just gazes at me in mute adoration. She demands nothing but my diminished, though still faintly pulsating, masculinity.’

  Caroline smiled, like a sixth-former who has found a junior in her study. ‘Shall I make us a cup of tea?’

  ‘None left.’

  ‘You are hopeless. Coffee then.’

  She went into the kitchen. He heard her make a noise of disgust, loud enough for him to notice.

  ‘Sorry,’ he called. ‘Ran out of bin-liners.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ she said, reappearing. She held out three empty whisky bottles.

  He nodded. ‘I’m learning to be an alcoholic. It’s a new life experience.’

  She sighed and went back into the kitchen. He played the piano softly, thinking how if Caroline weren’t his sister he’d have nothing in common with her at all. Yet he was fond of her. She had been a no-nonsense, middle-aged little girl; sometimes she reminded him of a more privileged version of Ann.

  She came back with two mugs of coffee. ‘Never seen so many take-away boxes in all my life,’ she said. ‘I thought you were supposed to be liberated.’ She passed him a mug. ‘Bet you can’t even boil an egg.’

  ‘Look, Caro, you must realize something about my wife.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We were supposed to have a sharing marriage but you can’t share anything with Viv.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She wants – she wanted to be in control. Cooking, sex, life. And she was. Nothing very liberated about that for either of us. We just used the vocabulary.’ He ran his finger down the keys, playing a descending scale for effect. He felt full of self-pity today.

  ‘Can I be frank, Ollie?’

  ‘I hate it when people say that.’

  ‘You’re well rid of her. She sneered at us. She had a bad influence on you. You were always weak and she made you weaker –’